IN THE SPRINGTIME
So the day came when the outfit of John Kars "pulled out." There had
been no change in his plans as the result of Alec Mowbray's murder.
There could be no change in them, so long as hundreds of miles divided
this man from the girl who had come to mean for him all that life
contained. The old passion for the trail still stirred him. The
Ishmaelite in him refused to change his nature. But since his manhood
had responded to natural claims, since the twin gray stars had risen
upon his horizon, a magnetic power held him to a definite course which
he had neither power nor inclination to deny.
The days before the departure had been busy indeed. They had been
rendered doubly busy by the affairs surrounding Alec Mowbray's death.
But all these things had been dealt with, with an energy that left a
course of perfect smoothness behind as well as ahead.
Everything, humanly possible, would be done to hunt down the instigator
and perpetrator of the crime, and a small fortune was placed at the
disposal of Kars' trusted attorneys for that purpose. For the rest he
would be personally responsible. In Bill Brudenell he had a willing
and sagacious lieutenant. In Abe Dodds, and in the hard-living expert
prospector, Joe Saunders, he had a staff for his enterprise on Bell
River beyond words in capacity and loyalty.
But the "outfit." It was called "outfit," as were all such
expeditions. It resembled an army in miniature, white and colored.
But more than all else it resembled a caravan, and an extensive one.
The preparations had occupied the whole of the long winter, and had
been wrapped in profound secrecy. The two men who had carried them
out, under Bill Brudenell's watchful eye, had labored under no
delusions. They were preparing for a great adventure in the hunt for
gold, but they were also preparing for war on no mean scale. Their
enthusiasm rejoiced in both of these prospects, and they worked with an
efficiency that left nothing to be desired.
The dispositions at departure were Kars' secret. Nor were they known
until the last moment. The warlike side of the expedition was
dispatched in secret by an alternative and more difficult trail than
the main communication with Fort Mowbray. It carried the bulk of
equipment. But its way would be shorter, and it would miss Fort
Mowbray altogether, and take up its quarters at the headwaters of Snake
River, to await the coming of the leaders. Abe and Saunders would
conduct this expedition, while Kars and Bill traveled via Fort Mowbray,
with Peigan Charley, and an outfit of packs and packmen such as it was
their habit to journey with.
The start of the expedition was without herald or trumpet. It left its
camp in the damp of a gray spring morning, when, under cover of a
gradually lightening dawn, it struck through a narrow valley, where
feet and hoofs sank deep into a mire of liquid mud.
To the west the hills rose amidst clouds of saturating mist. To the
east the rolling country mounted slowly till it reached the foot of
vast glacial crests, almost at the limit of human vision. The purpling
distance to the west suggested fastnesses remote enough from the
northern man, yet in those deep canyons, those wide valleys, along
creek-bank and river bed, the busy prospector was ruthlessly
prosecuting his quest for the elusive "color," and the mining engineer
was probing for Nature's most deeply hidden secrets.
This was the Eldorado John Kars had known since his boyhood's days,
when the fierce fight against starvation had been bitter indeed. Few
of the secrets of those western hills were unknown to him. But now
that his pouch was full, and the pangs of hunger were only a remote
memory, and these hills claimed him only that he was lord of properties
within their heart which yielded him fortune almost automatically, his
eyes were turned to the north, and to the hidden world eastwards.
It was a trail of mud and washout. It was a trail of landslide and
flood. It was a dripping land, dank with melting mists, and awash with
the slush of the thaw. The skies were pouring out their flood of
summer promise, those warming rains which must always be endured before
the hordes of flies and mosquitoes swarm to announce the real open
season.
But these men were hard beyond all complaint at physical discomfort.
If they cursed the land they haunted, it was because it was their habit
so to curse. It was the curse of the tongue rather than of the heart.
For they were men who owed all that they were, or ever hoped to be, to
this fierce country north of "sixty."
Spring was over all. The northern earth was heaving towards awakening
from its winter slumber. As it was on the trail, so it was on Snake
River, where the old black walls of Fort Mowbray gazed out upon the
groaning and booming glacial bed, burying the dead earth beyond the
eyes of man. The fount of life was renewing itself in man, in beast,
even in the matter we choose to regard as dead.
Jessie Mowbray was watching the broken ice as it swept on down the
flooding river. She was clad in an oilskin which had only utility for
its purpose. Her soft gray eyes were gazing out through the gently
falling rain with an awe which the display of winter's break up never
failed to inspire in her.
The tremendous power of Nature held her spellbound. It was all so
vast, so sure. She had witnessed these season's changes since her
childhood and never in her mind had they sunk to the level of routine.
They were magical transformations wrought by the all-powerful fairy,
Nature. They were performed with a wave of the wand. The iron of
winter was swept away with a rush, and the stage was instantly set for
summer.
But the deepest mystery to her was the glacier beyond the river. Every
spring she listened to its groaning lamentation with the same feelings
stirring. Her gentle spirit saw in it a monster, a living, moving,
heaving monster, whose voice awoke the echoes of the hills in protest,
and whose enveloping folds clung with cruel tenacity to a conquered
territory laboring to free itself from a bondage of sterility which it
had borne for thousands of years. To her it was like the powers of
Good battling with influences of Evil. It was as though each year,
when the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, these powers of Good
were seeking vainly to overthrow an evil which threatened the tiny
human seed planted in the world for the furthering of an All-wise
Creator's great hidden purpose.
The landing was almost awash with the swollen waters. The booming
ice-floes swept on. They were moving northwards, towards the eternal
ice-fields, to melt or jamb on their way, but surely to melt in the
end. And when they had all gone it would be summer. And life--life
would be renewed at the post.
Renewal of the life at the post meant only one thing for Jessie. It
meant the early return of John Kars. The thought of it thrilled her.
But the thrill passed. For she knew his coming only heralded his
passing on.
She sighed and her soft eyes grew misty. Nor had the mist to do with
the rain which was saturating the world about her. Oh, if there were
to be no passing on! But she knew she could not hope for so much.
There was nothing for him here. Besides, he was wedded to the secrets
of the long trail.
Wedded! Her moment, of regret passed, and a great dream filled her
simple mind. It was her woman's dream of all that could ever crown her
life. It was the springtime of her life and all the buoyant hope of
the break from a dead winter was stirring in her young veins. She put
from her mind the "passing on," and remembered only that he would soon
return.
Her heart was full of a gentle delight as at last she turned back from
the river, and sought her home in the clearing.
Her eyes were shining radiantly when she encountered Father José
passing over to his Mission from his ministrations to a sick squaw.
"Been watching the old ice go?" he inquired, smiling into the eyes
which looked into his from under the wide brim of a waterproof hat.
Jessie nodded.
"It's spring--isn't it?" she said smiling.
Her reply summed up her whole mood. The priest understood.
"Surely. And it's good to see the spring, my child. It's good for
everybody, young and old. But," he added with a sigh, "it's specially
good for us up here. The Indians die like flies in winter. But your
mother's asking for you."
The girl hurried on. Perhaps second to her love for John Kars came her
affection for her brave mother.
Ailsa Mowbray met her at the threshold.
"Murray's asking for you," she said, in her simply direct fashion.
"He's got plans and things he needs to fix. He told me this morning,
but I guess he needs to explain them himself. Will you go along up to
the Fort?"
There was nothing in the mother's manner to invite the quick look of
doubt which her words inspired.
Murray had only arrived from Leaping Horse two days before. Since that
time he had been buried under an avalanche of arrears of work. Even
his meals had had to be sent up to him at the Fort. He had brought
back reports of Alec's well-being for the mother and sister. He had
brought back all that abounding good-nature and physical and mental
energy which dispelled the last shadows of winter loneliness from these
women. Ailsa Mowbray had carried on the easy work of winter at the
store, but she was glad of the relief from responsibility which
Murray's return gave her.
But he had laid before her the necessity of a flying visit up country
at once, and had urged her to again carry on the store duties in his
absence. Furthermore he had suggested that Jessie's assistance should
be enlisted during his absence, since Alec was away, and the work would
be heavier now that spring was opening.
The mother had reluctantly agreed. For herself she had been willing
enough. But for Jessie she had stipulated that he should place the
matter before her himself. She had no desire that the one child
remaining to her should be made to slave her days at the Fort. She
would use none of her influence. Her whole interest in the trade which
had been her life for so long was waning. There were times when she
realized, in the loneliness which had descended upon them with Alec's
going, that only habit kept her to the life, and even that held her
only by the lightest thread. It was coming to her that the years were
passing swiftly. The striving of the days at the side of her idolized
husband had seemed not only natural, but a delight to her. Since his
cruel end no such feeling had stirred her. There were her children,
and she had realized that the work must go on for them. But now--now
that Alec had gone to the world outside her whole perspective had
changed. And with the change had come the realization of rapidly
passing years.
There were times, even, when she speculated as to how and where she
could set up a new home for her children. A home with which Alec could
find no fault, and Jessie might have the chances due to her age. But
these things were kept closely to herself. The habit of years was
strong upon her, and, for all her understanding of her wealth, it was
difficult to make a change.
"Can't you tell me, mother? I'd rather have you explain!"
The likeness between mother and daughter was very strong. Even in the
directness with which they expressed their feelings. Jessie's feelings
were fully displayed in the expression of her preference.
"Why don't you want to see Murray?"
The mother's question came on the instant. It came with a suggestion
of reproach.
"Oh, I'm not scared, mother," the girl smiled. "Only I don't just see
why Murray should ask me things you don't care to ask me. That's all."
"Is it?" The mother's eyes were searching.
"Nearly."
Jessie laughed.
"Best tell me the rest."
The girl shook her head decidedly.
"No, mother. There's no need. You're wiser than you pretend.
Murray's a better friend and partner--in business--than anything else.
Guess we best leave it that way."
"Yes, it's best that way." The mother was regarding the pretty face
before her with deep affection. "But I told Murray he'd have to lay
his plans before you--himself. That's why he wants to see you up at
the Fort."
The girl's response came at once, and with an impulsive readiness.
"Then I'll go up, right away," she said. Nor was there the smallest
display of any of the reluctance she really felt.
The girl stood framed in the great gateway of the old stockade. The
oilskin reached almost to her slim ankles. It was dripping and the hat
of the same material which almost entirely enveloped her ruddy brown
head was trailing a stream of water on to her shoulders.
Murray McTavish saw her from the window of his office. He saw her
pause for a few moments and gaze out at the distant view. He
remembered seeing her stand so once before. He remembered well. He
remembered her expressed fears, and all that which had happened
subsequently. The smile on his round face was the same smile it had
been then. Perhaps it was a smile he could not help.
This time he made no move to join her. He waited. And presently she
turned and passed round to the door of the store.
"Mother said you wanted to see me about something. Something you
needed to explain--personally. That so?"
Jessie was standing beside the trader's desk. She was looking down
squarely into the man's smiling face. There was a curious fearlessness
in her regard that was not quite genuine. There was a brusquerie in
her manner that would not have been there had there been any one else
present.
She removed the oilskin hat, and laid it aside on a chair as she spoke,
and the revelation of her beautiful chestnut hair, and its contrast
with her gray eyes, quickened the man's pulses. He was thinking of her
remarkable beauty even as he spoke.
"Say, it's good of you to come along. You best shed that oilskin."
He rose from his desk to assist. But the girl required none of his
help. She slipped out of the garment before he could reach her. He
accepted the situation, and drew forward the chair from the desk at
which Alec had been wont to work.
"You'll sit," he said, as he placed it for her.
But Murray's consideration and politeness had no appeal for Jessie.
She was anxious to be done with the interview.
"That's all right," she said, with a short laugh. "The old hill
doesn't tire me any. I got the school in an hour, so, maybe, you'll
tell me about things right away."
"Ah, there's the school, and there's a heap of other things that take
your time." Murray had returned to his desk, and Jessie deliberately
moved to the window. "It's those things made me want to talk to you.
I was wondering how you could fix them so you could hand us a big piece
of time up here."
"You want me to work around the store?"
The girl had turned. Her questioning eyes were regarding him steadily.
There was no unreality about her manner now. Murray's smile would have
been disarming had she not been so used to it.
"Just while I'm--away."
There was the smallest possible twist of wryness to the man's lips as
he admitted to himself the necessity for the final words.
"I see."
The girl's relief was so obvious that, for a moment, the man's gaze
became averted.
Perhaps Jessie was unaware of the manner in which she had revealed her
feelings. Perhaps she knew, and had even calculated it. Much of her
mother's courage was hers.
"You'd better make it plain--what you want. Exactly. If it's in the
interest of things, why, I'll do all I know."
Murray's remarkable eyes were steadily regarding her again. His
mechanical smile had changed its character. It was spontaneous now.
But its spontaneity was without any joy.
"Oh, it's in the interest of--things, or I wouldn't ask it," he said.
"Y'see," he went on, "I got right back home here to get news of things
happening north that want looking into. I've got to pull right away
before summer settles down good, and get back again. That being so it
sets everything on to your mother's shoulders--with Alec away. Your
mother's good grit. We couldn't find her equal anywhere when it comes
to handling this proposition. But she doesn't get younger. And it
kind of seems tough on her." He sighed, and his eyes had sobered to a
look of real trouble. "Y'see, Jessie, she's a great woman. She's a
mother I'd have been proud to call my own. But she's yours, and that's
why I'm asking that you'll weigh in and help her out--the time I'm
away. It's not a lot when you see your mother getting older every day,
is it? 'Specially such a mother. She's too big to ask you herself.
That's her way. It makes me feel bad when I get back to find her doing
and figgering at this desk when she ought to be sitting around at her
ease after all she's done in the past. It's that, or get white help in
from down south. And it don't seem good getting white help in, not
while we can keep this outfit going ourselves. There's things don't
need getting 'outside,' or likely we'll get a rush of whites that'll
leave us no better than a bum trading post of the past. It wouldn't be
good for us sitting around at this old post, not earning a grub stake,
while other folks were eating the--fruit we'd planted."
The girl had remained beside the window the whole time he was talking.
But her eyes were on him, and she was filled with wonder, and not
untouched by the feeling he was displaying. This was a side to his
character she had never witnessed before. It astounded. But it also
searched every generous impulse she possessed.
Her answer came on the instant.
"You don't need to say another word," she cried. "Nothing matters so I
can help mother out. I know there's secrets and things. I've every
reason to know there are. The good God knows I've reason enough. We
all have. What those secrets are I can only guess, and I don't want
even to do that--now. I hate them, and wish they'd never been."
"Your mother would never have been the wealthy woman she is without
them."
"No, and I'd be glad if that were so."
There was a world of passionate sincerity in the girl's denial. It
came straight from her heart. The loss of a father could find no
compensation in mere wealth. She understood the grasping nature of
this man. She understood that commercial success stood out before
everything in his desires.
Her moment of more kindly feeling towards him passed, and a breath of
winter chilled her warm young heart.
"Would you?"
The man's smile had returned once more. His questioning eyes had a
subtle irony in their burning depths.
"Sure. A thousand times I'd have us be just struggling traders as we
once were. Then I'd have my daddy with us, and mother would be the
happy woman I've always remembered her--before those secrets."
The man stirred with a movement almost of irritation.
"There's things I can't just see, child," he said, with a sort of
restrained impatience. "You're talking as if you guessed life could be
controlled at the will of us folk. You guess your father could have
escaped his fate, if he'd left our trade on Bell River alone. Maybe he
could, on the face of things. But could he have escaped acting the way
he acted? Could any of us? We all got just so much nature. That
nature isn't ours to cut about and alter into the shape we fancy. What
that nature says 'do,' we just got to do. Your nature's telling you to
get around and help your mother out. My nature says get busy and see
to things up north. Well, a landslide, or a blizzard, or any old thing
might put me out of business on the way. A storm, or fire might cost
you your life right here in this Fort. It's the chances of life. And
it's the nature of us makes us take the chances. We just got to work
on the way we see, and we can't see diff'rent--at will. If we could
see diff'rent at will, there's a whole heap I'd have changed in my
life. There's many things I'd never have done, and many things I
figger to do wouldn't be done. But I see the way I was born, and I
don't regret a thing--not a thing--except the shape Providence made me.
I'm going to live--not die--a rich man, doing the things I fancy, if
Life don't figger to put me out of business. And I don't care a curse
what it costs. It's how I'm born, and it's the nature of me demands
these things. I'm going to do all I've set my mind to do, and I'll do
it with my last kick, if necessary. Do you understand me? That's why
I'm glad of those secrets we're talking of. That's why I'll work to
the last to hold 'em. That's why I don't mean to let things stand in
my way that can be shifted. That's why I'm asking you to help us get
busy. Our interests I guess are your interests."
It was another revelation of the man such as Jessie had had at
intervals before, and which had somehow contrived to tacitly antagonize
her. Her nature was rebelling against the material passion of this
man. There was something ruthlessly sordid underlying all he said.
"I'm glad it doesn't need those feelings to make me want to help my
mother," she said quietly. "Interests? Say, interests of that sort
don't matter a thing for me. Thought of them won't put an ounce more
into the work I'll do to help--my mother. But she counts, and what you
said about her is all you need say. The other talk--is just talk."
"Is it?" The man had risen from his chair. Jessie surveyed him with
cool measuring eyes. His podgy figure was almost ludicrous in her
eyes. His round, fleshy face became almost contemptible. But not
quite. He was part of her life, and then those eyes, so strange, so
baffling. So alive with an intelligence which at times almost
overwhelmed her.
"It isn't just talk, Jessie," he said approaching her, till he, too,
stood in the full light of the window. "Maybe you don't know it, but
your interests are just these interests I'm saying. It'll come to you
the moment you want to do a thing against 'em. Oh, I'm not bullying,
my dear. I'll show you just how. If a moment came in your life when
you figgered to carry out something that appealed to you, and your
sense told you it would hurt your mother's proposition right here,
you'd cut it out so quick you'd forget you thought of it. Why?
Because it's you. And you figger that no hurt's going to come to your
mother from you. There isn't a thing in the world to equal a good
woman's loyalty to her mother. Not even the love of a girl for a man.
There's a whole heap of women-folk break up their married lives for
loyalty to a--mother. That's so. And that's why your interests are
surely the interests I got back of my head--because they're the
interests of your mother."
But the girl was uninfluenced by the argument. His words had come
rapidly. But she saw underneath them the great selfish purpose which
was devouring the man. Her antagonistic feeling was unabated. She
shook her head.
"You can't convince me with that talk," she said coldly. "I wouldn't
do a thing to hurt my mother. That's sure. But interests to be
personal need to be backed by desire. I hate all that robbed me of a
father."
The man shook his head.
"We most always get crossways," he said. "And it's the thing I just
hate--with you." Suddenly he laughed aloud. "Say, Jessie, I wonder if
you'd feel different to my argument if I didn't carry sixty pounds too
much weight for my size? I wonder if I stood six feet high, and had a
body like a Greek statue, you'd see the sense of my talk."
The girl missed the earnestness lying behind the man's smiling eyes.
She missed the passionate fire he masked so well. She too laughed.
But her laugh was one of relief.
"Maybe. Who knows," she said lightly.
But, in a moment, regret for her unguarded words followed.
"Before God, Jessie, if I thought by any act of mine I could get you to
feel diff'rent towards me, I'd rake out all the ashes of the things
I've figgered on all these years, to please you. I'd break up all the
hopes and objects, and ambitions I've set up, if it pleased you I
should act that way. I'd live the life you wanted. I'd act the way
you chose.
"Say, Jessie," he went on, with growing passion, "I've wanted to tell
you all there is in the back of my head for months. I've wanted to
tell you the work I'm doing, the driving towards great wealth, is just
because I've sort of built up a hope you'd some day help me spend it.
But you've never given me a chance. Not a chance. I had to tell you
this to-day. It's got to be now--now--or never. I'm going away on
work that has to be done, and I can't just wait another day till I've
told you these things.
"If you'd marry me, Jessie," the man continued, while the girl remained
mute, dumbfounded by the suddenness with which the passionate outburst
had come, "I'd hand you all you can ever ask in life. We'd quit this
God-forgotten land, and set up home where the sun's most always
shining, and our money counts for all that we guess is life. Don't
turn me down for my shape. Think of what it means. We can quit this
land with a fortune that would equal the biggest in the world. I know.
I hold the door to it. Your mother and I. I just love you with a
strength you'll never understand. All those things I've talked of are
just nothing to the way I love you. Say, child----"
The girl broke in on him with a shake of the head. It was deliberate,
final. Even more final than her spoken words which sought for
gentleness.
"Don't--just don't say another word," she cried.
She started. For an instant her beautiful eyes flashed to the window.
Then they came back to the dark eyes which were glowing before her. In
a moment it seemed to her they had changed from the pleading, burning
passion to something bordering on the sinister.
"I don't love you. I never could love you, Murray," she said a little
helplessly.
There was the briefest possible pause, and a sound reached them from
outside. But the man seemed oblivious to everything but the passion
consuming him. And the manner of that seemed to have undergone a
sudden change.
"I know," he broke out with furious bitterness and brutal force. "It's
because of that man. That Kars----"
"Don't dare to say that," Jessie cried, with heightened color and eyes
dangerously wide. "You haven't a right to speak that way. You----"
"Haven't I?" There was no longer emotion in the man's voice. Neither
anger, nor any gentler feeling. It was the tone Jessie always knew in
Murray McTavish. It was steady, and calm, and, just now, grievously
hurtful.
"Well, maybe I haven't, since you say so. But I'm not taking your
answer now. I can't. I'll ask you again--next year, maybe. Maybe
you'll feel different then. I hope so."
He swung about with almost electrical swiftness as his final words came
with a low, biting emphasis. And his movement was in response to the
swift opening of the door of the office.
John Kars was standing in its framing.