THE FALL TRADE
The fall trade of the post was in full swing, and gave to the river,
and the approaches of the Fort, an air of activity such as it usually
lacked. Murray McTavish seemed to blossom under the pressure of the
work entailed. His good humor became intensified, and his smile
radiated upon the world about him. These times were the opportunity he
found for the display of his abounding energies. They were healthy
times, healthy for mind and body. To watch his activities was to
marvel that he still retained the grossness of figure he so deplored.
A number of canoes were moored at the Mission landing. Others were
secured at piles driven into the banks of the river. These were the
boats of the Indians and half-breeds who came to trade their summer
harvest at the old post. A few days later and these same craft would
be speeding in the direction of distant homes, under the swift strokes
of the paddle, bearing a modicum of winter stores as a result of their
owner's traffic.
And what a mixed trade it was. Furs. Rough dried pelts, ranging from
bear to fox, from seal to Alaskan sable. Furs of thirty or forty
descriptions, each with its definite market value, poured into the
Fort. The lucky pelt hunters were the men who brought black-fox, and
Alaskan sable, or a few odd seals from the uncontrolled hunting grounds
within the Arctic circle. These men departed with amply laden canoes,
with, amongst their more precious trophies, inferior modern rifles and
ammunition.
But these voyageurs did not make up the full tally of the fall trade
which gave Murray so much joy. There were the men of the long trail.
The long, land trail. Men who came with their whole outfit of
belongings, women and children as well. They packed on foot, and on
ponies, and in weird vehicles of primitive manufacture, accompanied by
the dogs which would be needed for haulage should the winter snows
overtake them before they completed their return journey.
These were of the lesser class trade. It was rare enough to obtain a
parcel of the more valuable pelts from these folk. But they not
infrequently brought small parcels of gold dust, which experience had
taught them the curious mind of the white man set such store by.
Gold came in shyly, however, in the general trade. Indian methods were
far too primitive in procuring it. Besides which, for all the value of
it, traders in these remotenesses were apt to discourage its pursuit.
It was difficult to understand the psychology of the trader on the
subject. But no doubt he was largely influenced by the fear of a white
invasion of his territory, should the news of the gold trade leak out.
Maybe he argued that the stability of his legitimate trade was
preferable to the risks of competition which an influx of white folk
would bring. Anyway, open trade of this nature was certainly
comparatively discouraged.
But Murray was not alone in the work of the fall trade. Ailsa Mowbray
supported him in a very definite share. She had returned to the work
of the store, such as she had undertaken in the days when her husband
was alive and Murray had not yet made his appearance upon the river.
Then, too, Alec had returned from his summer trail, his first real
adventure without the guiding hand of his father to direct him. He had
returned disillusioned. He had returned discontented. His summer bag
was incomparable with his effort. It was far below that of the average
river Indians.
He went back to the store, to the work he disliked, without any
willingness, and only under the pressure of his perturbed mother and
sister. Furthermore, he quickly began to display signs of rebellion
against Murray McTavish's administration of affairs.
Murray was considering this attitude just now. He was standing alone,
just within the gates of the Fort, and his meditative gaze was turned
upon a wonderful sunset which lit the distant heights of the outspread
glacial field with a myriad of varying tints.
There had been words with Alec only a few minutes before. It was on
the subject of appraising values. Alec, in a careless, haphazard
fashion, had baled some inferior pelts with a number of very beautiful
foxes. Murray had discovered it by chance, and his words to the youth
had been sharply admonishing.
Alec, tall as his father had been, muscular, bull-necked in his
youthful physical strength, bull-headed in his passionate impetuosity,
had flared up immoderately.
"Then do it your darn self!" he cried, the hot blood surging to his
cheeks, and his handsome eyes aflame. "Maybe you think I'm hired man
in this layout, an' you can hand me any old dope you fancy. Well, I
tell you right here, you need to quit it. I don't stand for a thing
from you that way. You'll bale your own darn buys, or get the boys to
do it."
With this parting the work of his day was terminated. He departed for
the Mission clearing, leaving Murray to digest his words at leisure.
Murray was digesting them now. They were rankling. Bitterly rankling
in a memory which rarely forgot things. But his round, ample face
displayed no definite feeling other than that which its tendency
towards a smile suggested.
His own work was finished. Though he would not have admitted it he was
tired, weary of the chaffer of it all. But his weariness was only the
result of a day's labor, mental and physical, from sunrise to sunset.
The scene before him seemed to hold him. His big eyes never wavered
for a moment. There was something of the eagle in the manner in which
they stared unflinchingly at the radiant brilliancy of the western sky.
He stood thus for a long time. He displayed no sign of wearying of his
contemplation. It was only an unusual sound which finally changed the
direction of his gaze.
It was the soft shuffle of moccasined feet that reached his quick ears.
It was coming up from the wooded slopes below him, a direction which
came from the river, but not from the landing. His questioning eyes
searched closely the sharp cut, where the pine trees gave way to the
bald crown on which the Fort stood. And presently two figures loomed
out of the shadow of the woods, and paused at the edge of them.
They were Indians in beaded buckskin, and each was laboring under a
burden of pelts which seemed unusually heavy for its size. They were
armed, too, with long rifles of a comparatively modern type.
Some moments passed while they surveyed the figure at the gates. Then,
after the exchange of a few words between themselves, they came
steadily on towards the Fort.
Murray waited. The men approached. Neither spoke until the men halted
in front of the trader and relieved themselves of their burdens. Then
it was that Murray spoke, and he spoke fluently in an Indian tongue.
The men responded in their brief spasmodic fashion. After which the
white man led the way into the store.
The incident was one such as might have occurred any time during these
days of busy trading. There was certainly nothing peculiar about it in
its general outline. And yet there was a subtle suggestion of
something peculiar in it. Perhaps it was in the weight of the bales of
pelts these men carried. Perhaps it was that Murray had addressed them
in a definite Indian tongue first, without waiting to ascertain whence
they hailed, or to what small tribe they belonged. Perhaps it was the
lateness of the hour, and the chance that Murray should be waiting
there after the day's work was completed, when it was his eager custom
to seek his evening meal down at Ailsa Mowbray's home, and spend his
brief leisure in company of Alec's sister.
It was nearly an hour before the two Indians reappeared. When they did
so the last of the splendid sunset had disappeared behind the distant
peaks. They left the Fort relieved of their goods, and bearing in
their hands certain bundles of trade. They hurried away down the slope
and vanished into the woods. And some minutes later the sound of the
dipping paddles came faintly up upon the still evening air.
Murray had not yet reappeared. And it was still some time before his
bulky form was visible hurrying down the short cut to the Mission
clearing.
The evening meal at Ailsa Mowbray's house was more than half over when
Murray appeared. He bustled into the little family circle, radiating
good humor and friendliness. There could be no doubt of his apparent
mood.
The comfort and homeliness of the atmosphere into which he plunged were
beyond words. The large room was well lit with good quality oil lamps,
whose warmth of light was mellow, and left sufficient shadow in the
remoter corners to rob the scene of any garishness. The stove was
roaring under its opened damper. The air smelt warm and good, and the
pungent odor of hot coffee was not without pleasure to the hungry man.
Mrs. Mowbray and Jessie retained their seats at the amply filled table.
But Alec rose from his and departed without a word, or even a glance in
Murray's smiling direction. The rudeness, the petulance of his action!
These things left his mother and sister in suspense.
But Murray took charge of the situation with a promptness and ease that
cleared what looked like the further gathering of storm-clouds.
"Say, ma'am," he cried at once, "I just deserve all you feel like
saying, but don't say, anyway. Late? Why, I guess I'm nearly an hour
late. But I got hung up with some freight coming in just as I was
quitting. I'm real sorry. Maybe Jessie here's going to hand me some
words. That so, Jessie?"
His smiling eyes sought the girl's with kindly good nature. But Jessie
did not respond. Her eyes were serious, and her mother came to her
rescue.
"That doesn't matter a thing, Murray," she said, in her straightforward
fashion, as she poured out the man's coffee, while he took his seat
opposite Jessie. Then she glanced at the door through which Alec had
taken himself off. "But what's this with Alec? You've had words.
He's been telling us, and he seems mad about things, and--you. What's
the matter with the boy? What's the matter between you, anyway?"
The man shrugged helplessly. Nor would his face mold itself into a
display of seriousness to match the two pairs of beautiful eyes
regarding him.
"Why, I guess we had a few words," he said easily. "Maybe I was hasty.
Maybe he was. It don't figure anyway. And, seeing it's not Alec's way
to lie about things, I don't suppose there's need for me to tell you
the story of it. Y'see, ma'am, I ought to remember Alec's just a boy
full of high spirits, and that sort of thing, but, in the rush of work,
why, it isn't always easy. After supper I figger to get a yarn with
him and fix things up."
Then he laughed with such a ring of genuineness that Jessie found
herself responding to it, and even her mother's eyes smiled.
"I'm not easy when I'm on the jump. I guess nobody is, not even Alec."
Murray turned to Jessie. "It's queer folks act the way they do. Ever
see two cats play? They're the best of friends. They'll play an hour,
clawing and biting. Then in a second it's dead earnest. The fur you
could gather after that would stuff a--down pillow."
Jessie's smile had vanished. She sighed.
"But it's not that way with you two folk. The cats will be playing
around again in five minutes. Alec's up against you all the time. And
you?"
Murray's smile still remained.
"Alec's his father's son, I guess. His father was my best friend. His
mother and sister I hope and believe are that way, too." Then quite
suddenly his big eyes became almost painfully serious. The deep glow
in them shone out at those he was facing. "Say, I'm going to tell you
folks just how I feel about this thing. It kind of seems this is the
moment to talk clear out. Alec's trouble is the life here. I can see
it most every way. He's a good boy. He's got points I'd like to know
I possess. He's his father over again, without his father's
experience. Say, he's a blood colt that needs the horse-breaker of
Life, and, unless he gets it, all the fine points in him are going to
get blunted and useless, and there's things in him going to grow up and
queer him for life. He needs to think right, and we folks here can't
teach him that way. Not even Father José. There's jest one thing to
teach him, and that's Life itself--on his own. If I figger right he'll
flounder around. He'll hit snags. He'll get bumped, and, maybe, have
some nasty falls. But it's the only way for a boy of his spirit,
and--weakness."
"Weakness?"
Jessie's echo came sharply. She resented the charge with all a
sister's loyalty. But her mother took up her challenge.
"I'm afraid Murray's right--in a way," she admitted, with a sigh. She
hated the admission, but she and her dead husband had long since
arrived at the same conclusion. "It worries me to think of," she went
on. "And it worries me to think of him out on the world--alone. I
wish I knew what's best. I've talked to Father José, and he agrees
with you, Murray. But----"
For some moments Jessie had been thinking hard. She was angry with
Murray. She was almost angry with her mother. Now she looked over at
the man, and her pretty eyes had a challenge in them.
"I'll go and ask Alec to come right along here," she said. "You can
talk to him here and now, Murray. Let him decide things for himself,
and you, mother, abide by them. You both guess he's a boy. He's not.
He's a man. And he's going to be a good man. There never was any good
in women trying to think for men, any more than men-folk can think for
women. And there's no use in Murray handing us these things when
Alec's not here."
She started up from her seat. Her mother protested.
"It'll make trouble, Jessie," she said sharply. "The boy's in no mood
for talk--with Murray," she added warningly.
But Murray, himself, became the deciding factor.
"Jessie's right, ma'am," he said quickly.
And in those words he came nearer to the good-will he sought in the
girl than he had ever been before.
"You'll talk to him as you've--said to us?" the mother demanded.
Murray's smile was warmly affirmative.
"I'll do all I know."
Ailsa Mowbray was left without further protest. But she offered no
approval. Just for one second Jessie glanced in her mother's
direction. It was the girl in her seeking its final counsel from the
source towards which it always looked. But as none was forthcoming she
was left to the fact of Murray's acceptance of her challenge.
She turned from the table and passed out of the room.
Ailsa Mowbray raised a pair of handsome, troubled eyes to the factor's
face. Her confidence in this man was second only to the confidence she
had always had in her husband's judgment.
"Do you think it wise?" she demurred.
"It's the only thing, ma'am," Murray replied seriously. "Jessie's dead
right." He held up one fleshy hand and clenched it tightly. "Trouble
needs to be crushed like that--firmly. There's a whole heap of trouble
lying around in this thing. I've got to do the best for the folks
Allan left behind, ma'am, and in this I guess Jessie's shown me the
way. Do you feel you best step around while I talk to Alec? There's
liable to be awkward moments."
The mother understood. She had no desire to pry into the methods of
men in their dealings with each other. She rose from the table and
passed into her kitchen beyond.