THE DEPUTATION
Kars was asleep. He was in the deep slumber of complete weariness in
the shanty which had been erected for his quarters, and was shared by
Bill. The bed was a mere pile of blankets spread out on a rough log
trestle which sufficiently raised it from the ground.
It was a mean enough habitation. But it was substantial. Furthermore,
it was weather-proof, which was all these men required. Then, too, it
was set up in a position on the higher ground whence it overlooked the
whole camp, with a full view of the sluices, and the operations going
on about them. Adjacent were the stores, and the kitchens, all
sheltered by projections of the rocky foreshore, so that substantial
cover against hostile attack was afforded them.
While Kars slept the defensive preparations he had designed were being
carried out feverishly under the watchful eyes of Bill and Abe Dodds,
with Joe Saunders a vigorous lieutenant. He had planned for every
possible emergency. Embankments of pay dirt were erected and
strengthened by green logs. Loopholes were arranged for concentrated
defence in any one direction. The water supply was there open to them,
direct from the river, which, in its turn, afforded them a safeguard
from a purely frontal attack. The Bell River Indians were no great
water men, so the chief defences were set up flanking along the shore.
Kars had spent a day and two nights in unceasing labor, and now, at
last, the claims of nature would no longer be denied. He had fallen
asleep literally at his work. So the watchful doctor had accepted the
responsibility. And the great body was left to the repose which made
so small a claim upon it.
There was no man who could fight harder than John Kars, there was no
man who could fight more intelligently. Just as no man could fight
fairer. He accepted all conditions as he found them, and met them as
necessity demanded. But all that was rugged in him remained untainted
through the years of his sojourn beyond the laws of civilization.
There were a hundred ways by which he could have hoped to survive. But
only one suited his temperament. Then he had closed the doors of
civilization behind him. He had metaphorically burnt his text-books,
if he ever really possessed any. He viewed nothing through the
pleasantly tinted glasses such as prevail where cities are swept and
garnished daily, and bodily comfort is counted more to be desired than
God-fear. He forgot that law and order must be paid for by a yearly
toll in currency. But he never failed to remember that a temple had
been raised in the human heart, erected firmly on the ashes of savagery.
"Now for Mister Louis Creal!"
It was the situation as he saw it. He by no means underrated the
threat of the Indians. But he drove straight to the root of the
matter. He believed the Indians had been bought body and soul by this
bastard white for his own ends. And his own end was the gold of Bell
River. It was his purpose to destroy all competition. He had murdered
one partner, or perhaps employer. He hoped, no doubt, to treat the
other white man similarly. Now he meant a similar mischief by this new
threat to his monopoly. Kars felt it was characteristic of the bastard
races. Well, he was ready for the fight. He had sought it.
With that first enemy attempt on the plateau events moved rapidly.
But they so moved on Kars' initiative. It was not his way to sit down
at the enemy's pleasure. His was the responsibility for the eighty men
who had responded to his call. He accepted it. He knew it would
demand every ounce of courage and energy he could put forth. His wits
were to be pitted against wits no less. The fate of Allan Mowbray, a
man far beyond the average in courage and capacity among men of the
long trail, told him this. So he had worked, and would work, to the
end.
"The play's started good, boys," he had said to his white companions on
his return to the camp. "The gold can wait, I guess, till we've wiped
out this half-breed outfit. It's a game I know good, an' I'm going to
play it for a mighty big 'jack-pot.' It's up to you to hand me all I
need. After that the gold's open to all."
Then he detailed the various preparations to be made at once, and
allotted to each man his task. He spoke sharply but without urgency.
And the simplicity of his ideas saved the least confusion. It was only
to Bill that his plans seemed hardly to fit with that cordial
appreciation which he had given expression to on the plateau. "Now for
Mister Louis Creal." So he had said. Yet all the plans were defensive
rather than offensive.
Later this doubt found expression.
"What about Louis Creal?" Bill asked in his direct fashion.
And Kars' reply was a short, hard laugh.
"That feller's for me," he replied shortly.
That night a second trip was made across the river. This time with a
canoe laden with a small party of armed men. It was Kars who led,
while Bill remained behind in command of the camp.
This mission was one of remorseless purpose. It was perhaps the most
difficult decision that Kars had had to force himself to. It hurt him.
It was a decision for the destruction of the things he loved. To him
it was like an assault against the great ruling powers of the Creator,
and the sin of it left him troubled in heart and conscience. Yet he
knew the necessity of it. None better. So he executed it, as he would
have executed any other operation necessary in loyalty to the men
supporting him and his purpose.
It was midnight when the paddles dipped again for the return to the
camp, and the return journey was made under a light which had no origin
in any of the heavenly bodies, nor in the fantastic measure danced by
the brilliant northern lights. It was the blaze of a forest fire which
lit the gorge from end to end, and filled the air with a ruddy fog of
smoke, which reeked in the nostrils and set throats choking.
It had been deliberately planned. The wind was favorable for safety
and success. It was blowing gently from the west. The fire was
started in six places, and the resinous pines which had withstood
centuries of storms yielded to the devouring flames with an ardent
willingness that was pitiful. The forests crowning the opposite walls
of the gorge were a desperate threat to the camp. They had to be made
useless to the enemy. They must be swept away, and to accomplish this
fire was the only means.
Kars watched the dreadful devastation from the camp. His eyes were
thoughtful, troubled. He was paying the price which his desire for
achievement required.
The dark of night was swept away by a furnace of flame. The waters of
the river reflected the glare, till they took on a suggestion of liquid
fire. The gloom of the gorge had passed, and left it a raging furnace,
and the fierceness of the heat beaded men's foreheads as they stood at
a distance with eyes filled with awe.
Where would it end? A forest fire in a land of little else but forest
and waste. It was a question Kars dared not contemplate. So he thrust
it aside. And herein lay the difference between Bill Brudenell and
himself. Bill could contemplate the destruction from its necessity,
while a sort of sentimental terror claimed his imagination and forced
this question upon him. He felt that only the wind and Providence
could answer it. If the links were there, beyond those frowning
crests, between forest and forest, and the wind drifted favorably, the
fire might burn for years. It would be impossible to say where the
last sparks would burn themselves out. It was another of the tragedies
to be set at the door of man's quest of gold.
"Makes you feel Nature's score against man's mounting big," he said, in
a tone there could be no mistaking. "Seems that's going to hurt her
mighty bad. She'll hit back one day. Centuries it's taken her
building that way. She's nursed it in the hollows, and made it strong
on the hills. She's made it good, and set it out for man's use. And
man's destroyed her work because he's got a hide he guesses to keep
whole. It's all a fearful contradiction. There doesn't seem much
sense to life anyway. And still the scheme goes right on, and I don't
guess a single blamed purpose is lost. Gee, I hate it."
The truth of Bill's words struck home on Kars. But he had no reply.
He hated it, too.
The roar of flame went on all night. The boom of falling trees. The
splitting and rending. The heat was sickening. Those who sought sleep
lay bare to the night air, for blankets were beyond endurance. Then
the smoke which clung to the open jaws of the gorge. The night breeze
seemed powerless to carry it away.
With the outbreak of fire the Indian workings further up the river
awoke, too. A few stray figures foregathered at the water's edge.
Their numbers were quickly augmented. Long before the night was spent
a great crowd was watching the fierce destruction of the haunts which
it had known for generations. Fire is the Indian terror. And in the
heart of these benighted creatures a superstitious awe of it remains at
all times. Now they were panic-stricken.
Towards morning the fire passed out of the gorge. It swept over the
crests of the enclosing hills and passed on, nursed by the fanning of
the western breeze. And as it passed away, and the booming and roaring
became more and more distant, so did the smoke-laden atmosphere begin
to clear. But a tropical heat remained behind for many hours. Even
the northland chill of spring failed to temper it rapidly.
Kars had achieved his purpose. No cover remained for any lurking foe.
The hills across the river were "snatched" bald. Charred and
smoldering timbers lay sprawling in every direction upon the red-hot
carpet. Blackened stumps stood up, tombstones of the splendid woods
that once had been. There was no cover anywhere. None at all. No
lurking rifle could find a screen from behind which to pour death upon
the busy camp across the waters. The position was reversed. The
watchful defenders held the whole of those bald walls at the mercy of
their rifles. It was a strategic victory for the defenders, but it had
been purchased at a terrible cost.
Kars' dreamless slumber was broken at last by the sharp voice of Bill
Brudenell, and the firm grip of a hand upon his shoulder. He awoke on
the instant, his mind alert, clear, reasoning. He had slept for ten
hours and all sense of fatigue had passed.
"Say, I've slept good," was his first exclamation, as he sat up on his
blankets. Then his alert eyes glanced swiftly into the face before
him. "What's the time? And what's--doing?"
"It's gone midday. And--there's visitors calling."
Kars' attitude was one of intentness.
"They started attacking?" he demanded. "I don't hear a thing."
He rose from his bed, moved down to the doorway and stood gazing out.
His gaze encountered a group of men clustered together at a short
distance from the hut. He recognized Peigan Charley. He recognized
Abe Dodds, lean and silent. He recognized one or two of his own
fighting men. But there were others he did not recognize. And one of
them was an old, old weazened up Indian of small stature and squalid
appearance.
"Visitors?" he said, without turning.
Bill came up behind him.
"A deputation," he said. "An old chief and three young men. They've
got a neche with them who talks 'white.' And they're not going to quit
till they've held a big pow-wow with the white chief, Kars. They've
got his name good. I'd say Louis Creal's got them well primed."
"Yes."
Kars glanced round the hut. And a half smile lit his eyes at the
meagre condition of the place. Bill's bed occupied one side of it.
His own the other. Between the two stood a packing case on end, which
served as a table. A bucket of drinking water stood in a corner with a
beaker beside it. For the rest there was a kit bag for a pillow at the
head of each bed, while underneath were ammunition cases filled with
rifle and revolver ammunition, and the walls were decorated with a
whole arsenal of weapons. But it lost nothing in its businesslike
aspect, and Kars felt that its impression would not be lost upon his
visitors.
"The council chamber," he said. "Have 'em come right along, Bill.
Maybe they're going to hand us Louis Creal's bluff. Well, I guess
we're calling any old bluff. If they're looking for what they can
locate of our preparations they'll find all they need. They'll get an
elegant tale to hand Louis Creal when they get back."
Five minutes later the capacity of the hut was taxed to its utmost.
Kars was seated on the side of his bed. Bill and Abe Dodds occupied
the other. The earth floor, from the foot of the bunks to the door,
was littered by a group of squatting figures clad in buckskin and
cotton blanket, and exhaling an aroma without which no Indian council
chamber is complete, and which is as offensive as it is pungent.
Peigan Charley, the contemptuous, blocked up the doorway ready at a
moment's notice to carry out any orders his "boss" might choose to give
him, and living in the hopes that such orders, when they came, might at
least demand violence towards these "damn neches" who had dared to
invade the camp.
But his hopes were destined to remain unfulfilled. His boss was
talking easily, and in a friendliness which disgusted his retainer. He
seemed to be even deferring to this aged scallawag of a chief, as
though he were some one of importance. That was one of Charley's
greatest grievances against his chief. He was always too easy with
"damn-fool neches." Charley felt that these miserable creatures should
be "all shot up dead." Worse would come if these "coyotes" were
allowed to go free. There was no such thing as murder in his mind as
regards his own race. Only killing--which was, at all times, not only
justifiable, but a necessity.
"The great Chief Thunder-Cloud is very welcome," Kars responded to the
interpreter's translation of the introduction. "Guess he's the big
chief of Bell River. The wise man of his people. And I'm sure he's
come right along to talk--in the interests of peace. Good. We're
right here for peace, too. Maybe Thunder-Cloud's had a look at the
camp as he came in. It's a peaceful camp, just set right here to chase
gold. No doubt his people, who've been around since we came, have told
him that way, too."
As the white man's words were translated to him, the old Indian blinked
his inflamed eyes, from which the lids and under-lids seemed to be
falling away as a result of his extreme age. He wagged his head gently
as though fearful of too great effort, and his sagging lips made a
movement suggesting an approving expression, but failed physically to
carry out his intent.
Bill was studying that senile, expressionless face. The skin hung
loose and was scored with creases like crumpled parchment. The low
forehead so deeply furrowed. The small eyes so offensive in their
inflamed condition. The almost toothless jaws which the lips refused
to cover. It was a hateful presence with nothing of the noble red man
about it. It was with relief he turned to the younger examples of what
this man had once been.
But the chief was talking in that staccato, querulous fashion of old
age, and his white audience was waiting for the interpreter.
It was a long time before the result came. When it did it was in the
scantiest of pigeon English.
"Him much pleased with white man coming," said the interpreter with
visible effort at cordiality. "The great Chief Thunder-Cloud much good
friend to white man. Much good friend. Him say young men fierce--very
fierce. They fish plenty. They say white man come--no fish. White
man come, Indian man mak' much hungry. No fish. White man eat 'em all
up. Young man mak' much talk--very fierce. Young man say white man
burn up land. Indians no hunt. So. Indian man starve. Indian come.
Young men kill 'em all up dead. Or Indian man starve. So. White man
come, Indian man starve, too. White man go, Indian man eat plenty.
White man go?"
The solemn eyes of the Indians were watching the white man's face with
expressionless intensity. They were striving to read where their
language failed them. Kars gave no sign. His eyes were steadily
regarding the wreck of humanity described as a "great chief."
"White man burn the land because neche try to kill white man," he said
after a moment's consideration, in level, unemotional tones. "White
man come in peace. He want no fish. He want no hunt. He want only
gold--and peace. White man not go. White man stay. If Indian kill,
white man kill, too. White man kill up all Indian, if Indian kill
white man. Louis Creal sit by his teepee. He say white man come Louis
Creal not get gold. He say to Indian go kill up white man. White man
great friends with Indian. He good friend with Louis Creal, if Louis
Creal lies low. Indian man very fierce. White man very fierce, too.
If great Chief Thunder-Cloud not hold young men, then he soon find out.
Louis Creal, too. Much war come. Much blood. White man make most
killing. So."
He waited while his reply was passed on to the decrepit creature, who,
for all his age and physical disability, was complete master of his
emotions. Thunder-Cloud listened and gave no sign.
Then he spoke again. This time his talk was briefer and the
interpreter's task seemed easier.
"Great Chief say him sorry for white man talk. Him come. Him good
friend to white man. Him old. Him very old. White man not go. Then
him say him finish. Him mak' wise talk to young men. Young men
listen. No good. Young men impatient. Young men say speak white man.
Speak plenty. Him not go? Then young man kill 'em all dead. So.
Thunder-Cloud sorry. Heap sorry."
A shadowy smile flitted across Kars' rugged face. It found a
reflection in the faces of all his comrades. Even Charley's contempt
found a similar expression.
Kars abruptly stood up. His great size brought him within inches of
the low, flat roof. His eyes had suddenly hardened. His strong jaws
were set. He no longer addressed himself to the aged chief. His eyes
were directed squarely into the eyes of the mean-looking interpreter.
Nor did he use any pigeon English to express himself now.
"See right here, you neche," he cried, his tones strong, and full of
restrained force. "You can hand this on to that darn old bunch of
garbage you call a great chief. The play Louis Creal figgers on is
played right out. He murdered Allan Mowbray to keep this gold to
himself. Well, this gold ain't his, any more than it's mine. It's for
those who got the grit to take it. If he's looking for fight he's
going to get it plenty--maybe more than he's needing. We're taking no
chances. We're right here to fight--if need be. We're here to stop.
We're no quitters. We'll go when we fancy, and when we do the news of
this strike goes with us. Louis Creal tried to murder me here, and
failed, and took a bath instead. Well, if he's hoss sense he'll get it
his game's played. If he don't see it that way, he best do all he
knows. You an' this darn old scallawag have got just five minutes to
hit the trail clear of this camp. The whole outfit of you. Guess you
wouldn't get that much time only for the age of this bunch of the
tailings of a misspent life. Clear. Clear quick--the whole darn
outfit."
All the dignity and formality of an Indian pow-wow were banished in a
moment. The interpreter conveyed the briefest gist of the white man's
words, even as he hastily scrambled to his feet. Kars' tone and manner
had impressed him as forcibly as his words. He was eager enough to get
away. The old man, too, was on his feet far quicker than might have
been expected, and he was making for the door with ludicrous haste,
which robbed his going of any of the ceremony with which he had entered
it.
Charley stood aside, but with an air of protest. He would willingly
have robbed the old man of his last remaining locks.
The hut was cleared, and the white men emerged into the open. The air
which still reeked of burning was preferable to the unwholesome stench
which these bestial northern Indians exhaled.
They stood watching the precipitate retreat of their visitors. The
whole camp was agog, and looked on curiously. Even the Indian packmen
were stirred out of their usual indifference to things beyond their
labors.
Bill laughed as the old man vanished beyond the piles of pay dirt,
which had been converted into defences.
"Guess he's worried some," he said.
Abe Dodds chewed and spat.
"Worried? Gee, that don't say a thing--not a thing. Guess that old
guy ain't had a shake up like that since he first choked himself with
gravel when his momma wa'n't around. I allow Louis Creal, whoever he
is, is going to get an earful that'll nigh bust his drums."
But Kars had no responsive smile.
"They'll be on us by nightfall," he said quietly. "We need to get
busy." Then he suddenly called out. His voice was stern and
threatening. "Quit that, Charley! Quit it or by----!"
His order came in the nick of time. All the pent-up spleen and hatred
of Peigan Charley had culminated in an irresistible desire. He had
seized a rifle from one of the camp Indians standing by, and had flung
himself on the banked up defences. Even as his boss shouted, his eye
was running over the sights, and his finger was on the trigger.
He flung the weapon aside with a gesture of fierce disgust, and stood
scowling after the hurrying deputation, his heart tortured with the
injustice of his chief in robbing him of the joy of sheer murder.