THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
Two men moved about slowly, deliberately. They were examining, with
the closest scrutiny, every object that might afford a clue to the
devastation about them. A third figure, in the distance, was engaged
similarly. He was dressed in the buckskin so dear to the Indian heart.
The others were white men.
The scene was complete in horror. It was the incinerated ruins of a
recently destroyed Indian encampment, set in the shadow of a belt of
pine woods which mounted the abrupt slopes of a great hill. The woods
on the hillside were burnt out. Where had stood a dense stretch of
primordial woodland, now only the skeleton arms of the pines reached up
towards the heavens as though appealing despairingly for the vengeance
due to them.
The day was gray. The air was still, so still. It reeked with the
taint of burning. It reeked with something else. There were bodies,
in varying stages of decomposition, lying about, many of them burned,
many of them half eaten by the wild scavengers of the region. All were
mutilated in a dreadful manner. And they were mostly the bodies of
women and children.
Not a teepee remained standing. The mud walls of one or two huts still
stood up. But all of them that were destructible had been devoured by
hungry flames.
After half an hour's search the two white men came to the edge of the
burnt-out forest. They paused, and John Kars' eyes searched amongst
the charred poles. Presently he shrugged his shoulders.
"No use going up this way. We can't learn more than we've read right
here. It's the work of the Bell River outfit, sure. That's if the
things we've heard are true." He turned to his companion. "Say, Bill,
it makes you wonder. What 'bug' is it sets folk yearning to get out
and kill, and burn, all the time? Think of it. Just think if you and
me started right in to holler, an' shoot, an' burn. What would you
say? We're crazy, sure. Yet these folk aren't crazy. They're just
the same as they were born, I guess. They weren't born crazy, any more
than we were. It gets me beat. Beat to death."
Bill Brudenell was overshadowed in stature by his friend. But his wit
was as keen. His mental faculties perhaps more mature. He might not
have been able to compete with John Kars in physical effort, but he
possessed a ripe philosophy, and a wonderful knowledge of human nature.
"The craziest have motives," he said, with a whimsical smile in his
twinkling eyes. "I've often noticed that folk who act queer, and are
said to be crazy, and maybe get shut up in the foolish-house, generally
have an elegant reason of their own for acting the way they do. Maybe
other folks can't get it right. I once had to do with a case in which
a feller shot up his mother, and was made out 'bug,' and was put away.
It worried me some. Later I found his ma made his life miserable. He
lived in terror of her. She'd broken bottles over his head. She'd
soused him with boiling water. She'd raised the devil generally,
till--well, till he reached the limit. Then I found she acted that way
because her dandy boy was sparking around some tow-headed female, and
guessed he intended marrying her, and setting her to run the home his
mother had always run for him. There's some sort of reason to most
crazy acts. Guess we'll need to chase up the Bell River outfit if
we're looking for the reason to this craziness."
"Yes."
Bill turned away and picked up a stained and rusted hatchet of
obviously Indian make. He examined it closely. John Kars stared about
him with brooding eyes.
"What do you think lies back of this?" he inquired presently. His
manner was abstracted, and his eyes were watching the movements of the
third figure in the distance.
Bill glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. It was a swift,
speculating glance. Then he continued his examination of the hatchet,
while he talked.
"Much of what lies back of most desperate acts," he said. "Guess the
Bell River folk have got something other folk need, and the other folk
know it. I allow the Bell River folk don't figger to hand over to
anybody. Maybe it's hunting grounds, maybe it's fishing. Can't say.
But you see this crowd are traveling Indians, or were," he added drily.
"We're within twenty miles of Bell River. If they were traveling,
which the remains of their teepees make them out to have been, then I
guess they weren't doing it for health. More than likely it was
robbery of some sort. Well, I guess they were up against a
proposition, and got it--plenty. It's going to snow. What are you
figgering?"
Kars searched the gray skies.
"We'll make Bell River."
"I guessed you would. Maybe some folks would say it's you that's
crazy. Ask Peigan."
Bill laughed. His clever face was always at its best when his
twinkling eyes, as it were, bubbled over.
The men moved on towards their camp.
The threat of the sky added to the gloomy nature of the crudely rugged
country. On every hand the hills rose mightily. Dark woodlands
crowded the lower slopes, but the sharply serrated crests, many of them
snow-clad, left a merciless impression upon the mind. The solitude of
it all, too, was overpowering.
The long summer trail lay behind them, all its chances successfully
taken, all its many dangers surmounted. The threat of the sky was real
and they had no desire now to fall victims to a careless disregard of
ordinary climatic conditions.
Kars' calculation had been carefully made. His plans were laid so that
they should reach the upper stream of the Snake River, where his river
depot had been established, and his canoes were awaiting them, with at
least three weeks to spare before the ice shut down all traffic. The
outfit would then have ample time in which to reach the shallows of
Peel River, whence the final stage of the journey to Leaping Horse
would be made overland on the early winter trail.
Peigan Charley joined them at the camp. The man came up with that
curiously silent, almost furtive gait, which no prairie Indian, however
civilized, ever quite loses. It comes from long years of moccasin use,
and an habitual bent knee walk. Peigan Charley considered himself
unusually civilized. But it was for his native abilities that Kars
employed him.
His broad, bronze face and dark eyes were quite without expression, for
all he had searched closely and probed deeply into the horrors of that
desperate camp. Perhaps he had no appreciation of horror. Perhaps he
saw nothing outrageous in the dreadful destruction.
He was carrying a broken modern rifle in his hand, and with a word
promptly offered it to his chief.
Kars took the weapon. He examined it closely while Bill looked on.
Then the white chief's eyes searched the Indian's face.
"Well?" he demanded.
The copper-hued expressionless features of the man underwent a change.
They became almost animated. But it was with a look of awe, or even
apprehension.
"Him Bell River," he stated bluntly.
"Yes."
John Kars had learned all he wanted from the scout. His own opinion
was corroborated. So he handed the useless weapon back and pointed at
it.
"Allan Mowbray's outfit," he said. "Bell River neche steal 'em."
The scout nodded.
The smell of cooking pervaded the camp. For some moments no one spoke.
Bill was watching his friend, waiting for that decision which he knew
had long since been taken. The Indian was silent, as was his habit,
and Kars appeared to be considering deeply.
Presently he looked up at the sky.
"That snow will be--rain," he said. "Wind's got south. We'll make Big
Butte to-night. Bell River to-morrow. Noon."
Bill was observing the Indian. Peigan Charley's bovine stare changed
swiftly as the white chief whom he regarded above all men gave his
decision. Its stolidity had given way to incredulity, and Bill found
in it a source of amusement.
Suddenly Charley thrust up one hand. The long, tawny fingers were
parted, and he counted off each one.
"One, two, tree, four," he enumerated, bending each finger in turn.
"Him all big fool pack neche. No good. Plenty 'fraid. Plenty eat.
Oh, yes, plenty eat. One, two." Again he told off his fingers. "Good
neche. Fight plenty. Oh, yes. Peigan Charley." He held up one
finger. "Heap good feller," he commented solemnly. "Big Chief, boss.
Big Chief, Bill. Two." Again the inevitable fingers. "Shoot plenty
much. No good. Five hundred Bell River devils. Mush gun. Shoot bad.
Big Chief boss all kill up. Boss go Bell River. Boss crazy--sure."
Bill was thoroughly enjoying himself. Nor did Kars resent his smiles.
He, too, laughed in spite of the Indian's growing concern.
"We make Bell River to-morrow," he said finally. "See the boys get
busy with food. We mush in half an hour."
The Indian had made his protest. There was nothing further to add. So
he went off and the white man watched him go.
"Guess there'll be something doing around the camp when he gets amongst
the boys," Kars observed. Then he added, after a smiling pause, "That
feller thinks me crazy. Guess Murray McTavish would think that way,
too. Maybe that's how you're thinking. Maybe you're all right, and
I'm all wrong. I can't say. And I can't worry it out. Y'see, Bill,
my instinct needs to serve me, like your argument serves you. Only you
can't argue with instinct. The logic of things don't come handy to me,
and Euclid's a sort of fool puzzle anyway to a feller raised chasing
gold. There's just about three things worrying the back of my head
now. They've been worrying it all summer, worse than the skitters.
Maybe Bell River can answer them all. I don't know. Why are these
Bell River neches always shooting up their neighbors, and any one else?
How comes it Allan Mowbray died worth half a million dollars on a fur
trade? What was he doing on Bell River when he got killed?"
It was a wide flat stretch of grass, a miniature table-land, set high
up overlooking the broken territory of the Bell River forge. It was
bleak. A sharp breeze played across it with a chill bitterness which
suggested little enough mercy when winter reigned. It was an outlook
upon a world quite new to Bill. To John Kars the scene was by no means
familiar.
These men gazed out with a profound interest not untouched by awe.
Their eyes sought in every direction, and no detail in the rugged
splendor was lost. For long minutes they stood silently reading the
pages of the new book opened to them.
It was, in Kars' own words, a "fierce" country. It suggested something
like desperation in the Creator of it all. It seemed as though
imagination must have deserted Him, and He was left only with the
foundations, and the skeleton walls of a vast structure upon His hands.
The horizon was approached by tier on tier of alternating glacier and
barren hill. What lay hidden in the hollows could only be conjectured.
In every direction, except the southeast, whence they had come, the
outlook was the same. Hills, and more hills. Glacial stretch,
followed by glacial stretch. Doubtless the hollows contained vast
primordial woods, and fiercely flooding mountain streams, scoring their
paths through wide stretches of miry tundra, quaking and treacherous.
This was the distance, than which nothing could have been more
desolate. But the nearer view was their chief concern.
The gorge yawned almost at their feet. It was tremendous, and its
vastness set the mind dizzy. Great circling patches of mist rose up
from below and added a sense of infinity to its depths. So wide. So
deep. The broad river in its bowels was reduced to something like a
trickling streamlet. The woodlands crowding the lower slopes, dim,
vague in the distance, became merely a deepening of the shadows below.
Forests of primordial immensity were lost in the overwhelming nature of
their setting.
The air of sterility, in spite of the woodlands so far down below, in
spite of the attenuated grass on which they stood, inspired a profound
sense of repugnance. To the mind of Bill Brudenell, at least, it was a
land of hopelessness, a land of starvation and despair.
He turned to his companion at last, and his voice rang with deep
feeling.
"Fierce? Gee! There's not a word in the whole vocabulary of a white
man that gets nearer than ten miles of describing it," he exclaimed.
"And the neches, here, figger to scrap to hold it. Well, it certainly
needs attractions we can't locate from here."
Kars nodded agreement.
"That's how I've felt all through," he said. "Now? Why, now I'm dead
sure. This is where they murdered Jessie's father. Well, even a
railroad corporation couldn't advertise it a pleasure resort. We'd
best get right on down to the camp. I reckon to locate those
attractions before we're through."
Leaving the plateau they passed down the seemingly endless slope. Bill
cursed the foothold, and blasphemed generally. Kars remained silent.
He was absorbed with the task he had set himself in approaching this
murder-haunted gorge.
The return to the camp occupied the best part of an hour, and the
latter part of the journey was made through a belt of pine wood, the
timber of which left the human figure something so infinitesimal that
its passage was incapable of disturbing the abiding silence. The
scrunch of the springy carpet of needles and pine cones under heavily
shod feet was completely lost. The profoundness of the gloom was
tremendous.
The camp suggested secrecy. It lay in the bowels of a hollow. The
hollow was crowded with spruce, a low, sparse-growing scrub, and
mosquitoes. Its approach was a defile which suggested a rift in the
hills at the back. Its exit was of a similar nature, except that it
followed the rocky bed of a trickling mountain stream. A mile or so
further on this gave on to the more gracious banks of the Bell River to
the west of the gorge.
Kars had taken up a position upon some rolled blankets. He was
smoking, and meditating over the remains of a small fire. Bill was
stretched full-length upon the ground. His philosophic temperament
seemed to render him impervious to the attacking hordes of mosquitoes.
Beyond the hum of the flying pestilence the place was soundless.
Near by the Indians were slumbering restfully. It is the nature of the
laboring Indian to slumber at every opportunity--slumber or eat.
Peigan Charley was different from these others of his race. But the
scout had long been absent from the camp on work that only the keenest
of his kind could accomplish successfully. Indian spying upon Indian
is like hunting the black panther. The difficulty is to decide which
is the hunter.
Bill was drowsily watching a cloud of mosquitoes set into undue
commotion by the smoke from his pipe. But for all that his thoughts
were busy.
"Guess Charley isn't likely to take fool chances?" he suggested after a
while.
Kars shook his head at the fire. His action possessed all the decision
of conviction.
"Charley's slim. He's a razor edge, I guess. He's got us all beaten
to death on his own play. He's got these murdering devils beaten
before they start." Then he turned, and a smile lit his steady eyes as
they encountered the regard of his friend. "It seems queer sending a
poor darn Indian to take a big chance while we sit around."
Then he kicked the fire together as he went on.
"But we're taking the real chance, I guess," he said, with a short
laugh. "If the Bell River outfit is all we reckon, then it's no sort
of gamble we made this camp without them getting wise."
Bill sat up.
"Then we certainly are taking the big chance."
Kars laughed again.
"Sure. And I'll be all broken up if we don't hear from 'em," he said.
He knocked out his pipe and refilled it. Once during the operation he
paused and listened.
"Y'see," he went on, after a while, "we're white folks."
"That's how I've always heard. So was--Allan Mowbray."
Kars picked up a hot coal from the fire, rolled it in the palm of his
hand, and dropped it on the bowl of his pipe. Once the pipe was lit he
shook it off again.
"Allan got around here--many times," he said reflectively. "He wasn't
murdered on his first visit--nor his second. Allan's case isn't ours.
Not if I figger right."
"How d'you figger?"
"They'll try and hustle us. If I figger right they don't want folk
around--any folk. I don't think that's why they murdered Allan. There
was more to that. Seems to me we'll get a visit from a bunch of 'em.
Maybe they'll get around with some of the rifles they stole from Allan.
They'll squat right here on their haunches and tell us the things they
fancy, and---- Hello!"
Kars broke off, but made no movement. He did not even turn his head
from his contemplative regard of the white ashes of the fire. There
was a sound. The sound of some one approaching through the trees. It
was the sound of a shod footstep. It was not the tread of moccasins.
Bill eased himself. In doing so his revolver holster was swung round
to a handy position. But Kars never stirred a muscle.
A moment later he spoke in a tone keyed a shade lower.
"A feller wearing boots. It's only one--I wonder."
Bill had risen to his feet.
"My nerves aren't as steady as yours. I'm going to look," he announced.
He moved off, and presently his voice came back to the man by the fire.
"Ho, John! A visitor," he cried.
The man at the fire replied cordially.
"Bring him right along. Pleased to see him."
But Kars had not moved from his seat. As he flung his reply back, he
glanced swiftly at the place where his own and Bill's rifles stood
leaning against the pale green foliage of a bush within reach of his
hand. Then, with elaborate nonchalance, he spread his hands out over
the smoldering ashes of the fire.
A moment or two later he was gazing up smilingly into the face of a man
who was obviously a half-breed.
The man was dressed in a beaded buckskin shirt under a pea-jacket of
doubtful age. It was worn and stained, as were the man's moleskin
trousers, which were tucked into long knee-boots which had once been
black. But the face held the white man's interest. It was of an olive
hue, and the eyes which looked out from beneath almost hairless brows
were coal black, and fierce, and narrow. A great scar split the skin
of his forehead almost completely across it. And beneath the
attenuated moustache another scar stretched from the corner of his
mouth half-way across his right cheek. Then, too, his Indian-like
black hair was unable to conceal the fact that half an ear was missing.
Nor did it take Kars a second to realize that the latter mutilation was
due to chewing by some adversary in a "rough and tumble" fight.
The man's greeting came in the white man's tongue. Nor was it tinged
with the "pigeon" method of the Indian. It smacked of the gold city
which knows little enough of refinement amongst even its best classes.
"Say, you boys are takin' all kinds of chances," he said, in a voice
that had little pleasantness of intonation. "I had some scare when I
see you come over the hills ther'. The darn neches bin out the way you
come, burnin', an' massacrin'. How you missed 'em beats me to death.
But I guess you did miss 'em?" he added significantly. "And I'm glad."
Kars was only concerned with the information of the Indians' movements.
"They're out?" he said.
"Sure they're out." The man laughed. "They're out most all the time.
Gee, it's livin' with a cyclone playin' around you on this
God-forgotten river. But, say, you boys need to beat it, an' beat it
quick, if you want to git out with your hair on. They're crazy for
guns an' things. If they git their noses on your trail they'll git you
sure as death."
The warning received less attention than it seemed to demand.
Kars looked the half-breed squarely in the eyes.
"Who are you?" he demanded. Abrupt as was the challenge the tone of it
had no roughness.
"Louis Creal."
"Belong here?"
Kars' steady eyes were compelling.
A flush of anger surged in the half-breed's mutilated cheeks. His eyes
snapped viciously.
"This ain't a catechism, is it?" he cried hotly. Then in a moment he
moderated his tone. "Fellers on the 'inside' don't figger to hand
around their pedigrees--usual. Howsum, I allow I come right along to
pass you a friendly warning, which kind o' makes it reasonable to tell
you the things folk don't usually inquire north of 'sixty.' Yep. I
live around this river, an' hand the neches a bum sort o' trade fer
their wares. Guess I scratch a livin', if you can call it that way, up
here. But it don't figger any. My ma come of this tribe. I guess my
paw belonged to yours."
"Where d'you get your goods for trade?"
The sparkle of hasty temper grew again in the black depths of the
half-breed's eyes. The man's retort came roughly enough now.
"What in----!" he cried. Then again he checked his fiery impulse.
"Say, that ain't no darn bizness of any one but me. Get me? It's a
fool question anyway. Ther's a dozen posts I could haul from. My
bizness ain't your bizness. I stand pat fer why I traipsed nigh two
miles to reach your darn fool camp. I handed you the trouble waitin'
around if you ain't wise. I guess you're wise now, an' if you don't
act quick it's up to you. If you've the savvee of a buck louse you'll
beat it good an' quick. You'll beat it as if the devil was chasin' you
plenty."
Then it seemed as if urgency overcame his resentment, for he went on
with a sort of desperate eagerness. "Say, I ain't got your names, I
don't know a thing. I ain't no interest if you're alive, or hacked to
small chunks. But if you got any value fer your lives, if you've got
folks to worry fer you, why, git right out o' this just as fast as the
devil'll let you. That's all."
"Thanks--we will." Kars had suddenly abandoned all his previous
assurance of manner. He seemed to be laboring under the influence of
the warning. "Guess we're kind of obliged to you. More than I can
say. Maybe you won't take amiss the things I asked. You see, finding
a white man in this region seemed sort of queer since they murdered
Allan Mowbray. I just had to ask." He turned to Bill, who was
watching him curiously. "We'll strike camp right away. Guess we best
get out west if the neches are southeast. Seems to me we're in a bad
fix anyway." Then he turned again to the half-breed. "Maybe you'll
stop around and take food? We'll eat before we strike."
Kars' changed attitude seemed to please the half-breed. But he shook
his head with a smile that only rendered his expression the more crafty.
"Nothin' doin' that way," he said decidedly. "Gee, no!" Then he added
confidentially: "I come two miles to give you warnin'. That's straight
across as the birds fly. I made nearer five gettin' here. Maybe
you'll get that when I tell you these devils have eyes everywhere.
Since they shot up Allan Mowbray I'm scared. Scared to death. I've
taken a big chance coming around. I ain't makin' it bigger stoppin' to
feed. An' if you'll take white advice you won't neither. Jest get to
it an' set all the darnation territory you ken find between you an'
Bell River before to-morrow. I quit. So long. I've handed you
warning. It's right up to you."
He turned abruptly away and moved off. To the dullest it was obvious
he was anxious to escape further interrogation. And these men were not
dull.
Bill followed him a few steps and stood watching his slim, lithe figure
vanish amongst the close-growing spruce. Kars, too, watched him go.
But he had not stirred out of his seat. They waited until the sound of
his footsteps had died out. Then Kars bestirred himself. He passed
from the camp to where his Indians were sleeping. When he returned
Bill was standing over the fire.
"I've set a boy to trail him to the edge of the woods," he said. Then
he returned to his seat.
Bill nodded.
"Well?"
Kars laughed.
"An elegant outfit," he said with appreciation. "I guess he's more
scared of us than the Bell River devils. We're not to get the bunch of
neches I guessed."
"No. He's a crook and--a bad one. When do we pull out?"
Kars looked up. His eyes were steady and keen. His jaws were set
aggressively.
"When I've nosed out the secret of this darned layout."
"But----"
"Say, Bill," Kars' manner became suddenly alive with enthusiasm, "we've
chased a thousand miles and more this summer, nosing, and scratching,
and worrying to find some of the secrets of this mighty big land.
We've sweated and cussed till even the flies and skitters must have
been ashamed. I figger we've lit right on top of a big secret here,
and--well, I don't fancy being bluffed out of it by any low-down bum of
a half-breed. That feller wants to be quit of us. He's bluffing.
We've hit the camp with the neches _out_. Do you get that? If they'd
bin around we wouldn't have seen any Louis Creal. We'd have had all
the lead poisoning the neches could have handed us. Wait till Charley
gets back."
Peigan Charley was squatting on his haunches holding out the palms of
his lean hands to the warming blaze of the fire.
Darkness had shut down upon the gloomy world about them. The air was
chill. The fire was more than welcome. Kars was sitting adjacent to
his faithful servant, and Bill was on the other side of him. The
Indian was talking in a low voice, and in a deliberate fashion.
"I mak him," he said, in his quaint, broken way. "Neche all out. Only
squaws, an' pappoose by the camp. Old men--yes. Him all by river.
Much squaws by river. Charley not come by river. No good. Charley
him look by camp. Him see much teepee, much shack. Oh, yes, plenty.
One big--plenty big--shack. Squaws mak go by shack. Him store.
Charley know. Yes, Breed man run him store. Charley, him see Breed
woman, too. All much plenty busy. So. Charley him come. Yes?"
Kars smoked on for some silent moments.
"You didn't risk the river?" he inquired presently. "Just where were
they working?"
"No. Charley him all get kill up dead by river. No bush. No
nothing." He made a gesture that was unmistakable. Then he went on.
"Charley, him go up dis way." He pointed at the hill directly behind
him. "Him go up--up. Much walk, oh, yes. Then Charley, him go down.
Plenty big piece. Heap down. So. Come by river. Much bush.
Charley, him go on. Quiet. Oh, yes. Quiet--much quiet. Then no bush
any more. Big rock. High. Much high. Wide. Dis way." He spread
his arms out to their full extent, indicating the gorge. "Water so."
He narrowed his hands together. "Squaws, him plenty much work by
water. So."
Again the men smoked on in silence. Bill made no comment at all. He
was looking to Kars. This was entirely Kars' affair.
Presently Kars looked round.
"Charley made good--very good," he said. "Charley good man."
Then he looked across at Bill. He was smiling, and the light of the
fire made his smile queerly grim.
"That's all I need, Bill," he said. "The rest I'll do myself. I'm
going to quit you for the time. Maybe I won't join you till nearly
morning. I can't say. I want you to strike camp right away. Get on
the move down to the river bank--above the gorge. Then follow it along
for a few miles. Maybe ten. Then wait around, and keep an eye wide.
Then send Charley back to wait for me on the river bank--just above the
gorge. Get that, Charley?" He turned to the Indian. "I need you to
know just where Boss Bill is waiting, so you can guide me."
"Charley git him plenty. Charley him wait."
"Good. You get it, Bill?"
Bill nodded.
"Right. Then I'll be moving."