MURRAY TELLS HIS STORY
For a whole week Ailsa Mowbray was given no further opportunity of
dwelling upon the possibilities of the situation between Jessie and
Murray McTavish. John Kars pervaded the Mission with a personality too
buoyant to allow of lurking shadows. On the mother he had an effect
like the voice of hope urging her to a fuller appreciation of the life
about her, an even greater desire for the fulfilment of those
responsibilities which the passing of her husband had thrust upon her.
His great figure, his strong, reliant face, his decision of manner, all
combined to sweep any doubt from the path of the simple folk at St.
Agatha's Mission.
The only person who escaped his cheering influence, perhaps, was Murray
McTavish. Father José yielded Kars a friendship and liking almost
equal to the friendship which had sent him to Leaping Horse in the
depths of winter on behalf of Allan Mowbray's widow. This man was a
rock upon which the old priest, for all his own strength of character,
was not ashamed to seek support. To Alec he was something of a hero in
all those things for which his youthful soul yearned. Was he not the
master of great wealth? Did he not live in Leaping Horse, where life
pulsated with a rush, and no lagging, sluggish stream of existence
could find a place? Then, too, the instinct of the trail which the
youth had inherited from his father, was not John Kars endowed with it
all?
But the week of this man's stay had more meaning for Jessie than for
any one else. Her frank delight in his presence found no denial.
Every shadow was banished out of her life by it. Her days were
rendered doubly bright. Her nights were illuminated by happy dreams.
His kindness to her, his evident delight in her company, were sources
of unspeakable happiness.
He had brought presents for them all, he had reserved the best and
costliest for Jessie. Yet no word of love passed his lips, no act of
his could have been interpreted as an expression of such by the most
jealous-minded. Nor had the girl any thought but of the delight of the
moments spent with him, and of the shadow his going must inevitably
leave behind.
The mother watched. She understood. And, understanding, she dreaded
more than she admitted even to herself. She felt that her child would
awaken presently to the reality, and then--what then? Would John Kars
pass on? Would he come again, and again pass on? And Murray. Murray
was always in the back of her mind.
The last day came. It was a day of labor and preparation at the
landing. Under the supervision of Kars and Bill the work went forward
to its completion, with a precision and care for detail which means
perhaps the difference between safety and disaster on the long trail.
Nothing was too small for the consideration of these men in their
understanding of the fierce wilderness which they had made their own.
Their spirits were high. It was the care-free spirit which belongs to
the real adventurer. That spirit which alone can woo and win the
smiles of the wanton gods of the wilderness. The landing was alive
with activity. Father José found excuse for his presence there. Even
Ailsa Mowbray detached herself from the daily routine of her labors to
watch the work going forward. Nor was there a moment when a small
crowd of the Indian converts of the Mission were not assembled in the
hope that the great white hunter might be disposed to distribute at
least a portion of tobacco by way of largesse. Murray, too, found his
way thither. And his mood seemed to have improved. Perhaps it was the
knowledge of the going of these people on the morrow which stirred his
spirits to match their own.
And Jessie? Jessie found every excuse she desired to add her presence
at the bank of the river. The day for her was all too short. For her
it was full of the excitement of departure, with the regret at the
going looming like a shadow and shutting out her sun. She concealed
nothing from herself, while her smile and happy laughter banished every
sign of all it really meant.
So the day wore on till the last of the evening light found everything
ready for the morning's departure. All stores were bestowed under
their lashed coverings, and the canoes lay deep in the water. Then
came the evening festival planned by Ailsa in her hospitable home. A
homely supper, and a gathering of all the white folk of the post. It
was all so simple. But it was just such as these people understood and
appreciated. It was the outward sign of the profound bond which held
them all in a land that is eternally inhospitable.
It was nearly midnight when the party broke up. Farewells were said
and the men departed. Jessie, herself, closed the heavy door upon the
last of them. Alec bade his mother and sister good-night, and betook
himself to his belated rest. Mother and daughter were left alone.
The mother's knitting needles were still clicking busily as she sat
beside the great stove, whose warmth was a necessity in the chill of
the spring evenings. Jessie came slowly over and stood gazing down at
the fierce glow radiating beneath the iron door, where the damper had
been withdrawn.
No word was spoken for some moments. Then a sound broke the quiet of
the room. It was the sound of a stifled sob, and the mother looked up
anxiously.
"Why, child!" she cried, and sprang to her feet.
The next moment her protecting arms were about the pretty figure of the
girl, and she drew her to her bosom, with a world of tender affection.
For some moments Jessie struggled with her tears. The mother said no
word. It was the gentle hand stroking the girl's beautiful hair which
spoke for the lips which sympathy had rendered dumb.
Then came the half-stifled confession which could no longer be denied.
"Oh, mother, mother!" the girl cried, through her sobs. "I--I can't
help it. I--I love him, and--and he's gone."
Dr. Bill had gone on with Father José. To Murray's surprise, John Kars
expressed his intention of accompanying him up to the Fort, which was
the former's sleeping quarters. Murray was astonished. Nor was it a
companionship he in the least desired. The prospect even robbed him of
some of the satisfaction which the departure on the morrow inspired.
Still he was left with no choice. To refuse him on any pretext would
only be to show his hand, and bring into active expression all the
bitter feeling which lay smoldering behind his exterior of cordiality.
He knew what John Kars meant to his hopes with regard to Jessie
Mowbray. He had admitted that he feared him. The past week had only
confirmed those fears beyond all question. He realized, surely enough,
that, whatever Kars' feelings, Jessie's were unmistakable. He knew
that time and opportunity must inevitably complete the destiny before
them. Just now it seemed to him that only something in the nature of a
miracle could help him.
Reluctantly enough he led the way up to the grim old Fort. The path
lay through the woods, which only extended to the lower slopes of the
bald knoll upon which it stood. The moonless night made no difference
to him. He could have made the journey blindfolded.
At the summit Murray led the way round to the gateway of the stockade,
and passed within. He was still speculating, as he had speculated the
whole way up, as to the purpose of this visit. He only saw in one
direction, at the moment, and that direction was the girl he desired
for wife. If she were to be the subject of their talk, well, he could
match any words of this man, whom he knew to be his rival.
Inside the room, which served him as an office, Murray lit an oil lamp
on his desk. Then he set a chair for his visitor so that he should
face the light. Kars flung himself into it, while the trader took his
place before the desk, and tilted his swivel chair back at a
comfortable angle, his round smiling face cordially regarding his
companion.
Kars bulked large in the light of the lamp. The chair under him was
completely hidden. He was of very great size and Murray could not help
but admire the muscular body, without a spare ounce of that burden of
fat under which he labored. Then the keen eyes under the strongly
marked brows. The well-shaped nose, so suggestive of the power
expressed in every line of his features. The clean-shaven lips and
chin, almost rugged in their suggestion of purpose. And above all the
curling dark hair, now bared by the removal of his beaver cap.
Kars permitted not a moment's delay in announcing the purpose of his
visit.
"I waited till now to have this talk, Murray, because--why, because I
don't think I could have helped things for you folks waking memories
before. I got to talk about Allan Mowbray, about the Bell River
neches. And I take it you're wisest on both subjects."
His eyes were grave. Nor did Murray fail to observe the sternness
which gravity gave to the rest of his face.
"I've had the story of these things as the trail knows it. An' as the
gossips of Leaping Horse figgered it out. But I don't reckon I need to
tell you Ananias didn't forget to shed his old wardrobe over the north
country gossips when he cashed in. Do you feel like saying some?"
Murray's reply came without hesitation.
"Why, sure," he replied. "All I know."
Neither by look, nor tone, did his manner convey his dislike. His
smile was amiability itself. Yet under it his feelings were bitter.
He stooped abruptly and groped in a small cupboard beside his desk. A
moment later he set a whisky bottle and two glasses in front of him,
and pushed one of the latter towards his visitor. Then he reached the
water carafe and set it beside them.
"It's Scotch," he said invitingly.
"Thanks."
Kars helped himself and watered it down considerably.
"It needs strong water in the stomach of the feller who's got to raise
the ghosts of Bell River. Gee, the thought makes me weaken."
Murray's smile had vanished. He had by no means exaggerated his
feelings. The truth of his words was in his mysterious eyes. It was
in the eagerness of his action in raising the glass of spirit to his
lips. Kars watched him gulp down his drink thirstily. The sight of it
prepared him. He felt that he had done more than well in thus delaying
all reference to the murder of Allan Mowbray. If this were its effect
on Murray, what would it have been on Jessie, or her mother?
The glasses were set back on the desk in silence. Kars had something
of the waiting attitude of a great watchful dog. He permitted no word
or action of his to urge the man before him. He wanted the story in
Murray's own way, and his own time. His own reasons for requesting it
were--his own.
"It's an ugly story," Murray announced, his eyes regarding his
companion with a stare that passed through, and traveled far beyond
him. "I don't just see where to start." He stirred in his chair with
a nervous movement. "Allan was a pretty big man. I guess his nerve
was never really all out, even in this hellish country. It was as
strong as chilled steel. It was a nerve that left danger hollerin'
help. He didn't know fear--which isn't good in this land. You need to
know fear if you're to win out. There's times in this latitude you
need to be scared--badly scared--if you're to make good all the time."
Kars nodded.
"I'm scared most all the time."
Murray's eyes became alert. A shadow of his smile returned to his
lips. It was gone again in a second. He replenished his glass and
produced cigars. Both men helped themselves, and, in a moment, the
fragrant smoke clouded about the globe of the oil lamp.
"Allan was 'mushing' the long trail, same as he'd done years in the
open season," Murray said, drawing a deep sigh as he opened his story.
"I don't rightly know his itinerary. Y'see Allan had his trade secrets
which he didn't hand on to a soul. Not even his partner. But," he
leaned forward impressively, and Kars caught the full glow of his
earnest eyes, "Bell River wasn't on his schedule. We'd agreed to leave
it alone. It's fierce for a white man. It's been so years. The trade
there isn't worth the chances. He knew it. I knew it. We'd agreed to
cut it out."
"But he went there--why?"
Kars' question was the obvious one, and Murray's fleshy shoulders
answered it. He sat back in his chair moodily puffing at his cigar.
His eyes were on his desk. It was moments before he replied.
At last he reached out and seizing his glass drank the contents at a
gulp. Then he leaned forward. His voice was deep. But his eyes were
steady and questioning.
"That question'll never find its answer," he said. "Anyway he went
there. It was from there we got his call for help. It came by a
runner. It came to his wife. Not to me. He'd sent to me days before,
and it hadn't come through. Guess that call of his was a farewell to
his wife. The game must have been played when he wrote it, and I guess
he was wise to it. Say"--he sat back in his chair and pushed his fat
fingers through his hair--"it makes me sweat thinking of it."
Kars' silent nod of sympathy was followed by a kindly warning.
"Take your time."
"Time?" A mirthless laugh responded to the caution. "It don't need
time. Anyway time's not calculated to make it easier. It's all right
before me now, set out as only the fiend-spawn of Bell River can set it
out." His tone deepened and he spoke more rapidly. "We got that call
in the evening. An hour after I was hot foot down the river with an
outfit of thirty neches, armed with an arsenal of weapons." His tone
grew. His eyes shone fiercely, and a deep passion seemed to stir him.
"Say, they reckon I can drive hard on the river. They reckon I've got
neither mercy, nor feeling when it comes to putting things through. I
proved all they said that trip. I drove those crews as if hades was on
our heels. I didn't spare them or myself. We made Bell River a day
under the time I figgered, and some of the boys were well-nigh dead.
Say, I guessed the clock hands were runnin' out the life of my big
friend, and--well, the life of my fellers didn't weigh an ounce in the
balance. But I was late. Late by a day."
He broke off and dashed more whisky into his glass. He drank it down
neat.
"Do you need more?" His eyes shone, and his voice rose. Then came his
mirthless laugh again. "Yes, best have it all. Oh, it's pretty. As
pretty as if demons had fixed it. We found him. What was left of him.
He was well-nigh hacked to dog meat, and around him were the bodies of
some of his boys. Oh, he'd put up an elegant scrap. He'd fought 'em
at something more than man for man. The Bell River dead lay about
round that bluff on the river bank in heaps. He'd fought 'em to the
last man, and I guess that was Allan. He'd fought 'em as Allan Mowbray
only knew how to fight. And he'd died as just he knew how to die. A
man."
His voice ceased and in the silence John Kars drew a deep breath. A
great sympathy was stirring him. But he had no words to offer, and
presently the other went on.
"We gathered him up, and the frost helped us. So we brought him right
along home. He's buried here inside this old stockade. His grave's
marked. Alec made the cross, I set it up. An' Jessie--why, Jessie
wrote some on it. That's all."
Kars rose to his feet. His cigar was out.
"Thanks," he said, with curious formality.
Then he relit his cigar. He stood for a moment as though debating with
himself. Murray remained in his chair. Somehow his fat figure seemed
to have become huddled. His gaze, too, seemed to have only his
thoughts to dwell upon.
At last Kars went on.
"I didn't ask all this for any sort of curiosity," he said. "I asked
it because I need to know. I'm mushing a long trail myself this year,
an' I guess my way's likely taking me in the region of Bell River,
before I git back here next fall. Guess I've got that yellow streak a
feller needs to make good," he went on, his gravity thawing under a
shadowy smile. "And you figger Bell River's mighty unhealthy for a
white man about now."
While the other was talking the last vestige of Murray's preoccupation
seemed to fall from him. He was alert. He rose from his chair. His
decision was full, and strong, and emphatic, when he replied.
"Unhealthy? It don't say a thing. Avoid Bell River, or you'll regret
it. They're devils let loose. I tell you right here you'll need an
outfit of half a hundred to pass safe through that country. They got a
taste for white man's outfit now. Time was when they fancied only
neche scalps. It's not that way now. No, sir. I'm figgering now how
long we'll be safe here, in this Fort. There's just two hundred and
odd miles between us, and---- Say, when do you figger you're making
that way? Fall?" Kars nodded. "The time they got Allan. Don't do
it. I warn you solemnly. And I guess I--know."
Murray's warning was delivered with urgency. There was no mistaking
its sincerity. He seemed to have risen above his antipathy for this
man. He seemed only concerned to save another from a disaster similar
to that which had befallen his partner.
Kars thanked him and held out one powerful hand.
"I'm obliged," he said, in a sober way as they gripped hands. "I've
had full warning, and, maybe, it's going to save me trouble. Anyway if
my way does take me around that region, and I get my medicine, well--I
guess it's up to me. Good-night, Murray. Thanks again. I'll be off
before you're around to-morrow morning. So long."
Murray McTavish accompanied his visitor to the door. There was no more
to be said. His smile returned as he bade him farewell, and it
remained for a few moments as he stood till the night swallowed up the
departing figure. Then it died out suddenly, completely.