THE HARVEST OF BATTLE
The sun rose on a scene of great activity. It was the garnering of the
harvest of battle. The light of day smiled down on this oasis on a
barren foreshore of Bell River and searched it from end to end. It was
so small in the immensity of its surroundings. Isolated, cut off from
all outside help, it looked as though a deep breath of the Living
Purpose of Life must have swept it away like some ant heap lying in the
path of a thrusting broom. Yet it had withstood the shock of battle
victoriously, and those surviving were counting the harvest.
But there was no smile in the heart of man. A hundred dead lay
scattered on the foreshore. They congested the defences of the camp.
They had even breathed their last agony within the precincts which they
had sought to conquer. Mean, undersized, dusky-skinned, half-nude
creatures sprawled everywhere, revealing in their attitudes something
of that last suffering before the great release. Doubtless the price
had been paid with little enough regret, for that is the savage way.
It was for their living comrades to deplore the loss, but only for the
serious depletion of their ranks.
The victorious defenders had no thought beyond the blessings of the
harvest. They had no sympathy to waste. These dead creatures were so
much carrion. The battle was the battle for existence which knows
neither pity nor remorse.
So the dead clay was gathered and thrown to its last rest on the bosom
of the waters, to be borne towards the eternal ice-fields of the Pole,
or lie rotting on barren, rock-bound shores, where only the cries of
the wilderness awaken the echoes. There was no reverence, no ceremony.
The perils of existence were too near, too real in the minds of these
men.
With the last of the human sheaves disposed of the real work of the day
began under the watchful eyes of the leaders. The garrison was divided
in half. One-half slept while the other half labored at the defences.
Only the leaders seemed to be denied the ease of body their night's
effort demanded. Picks and shovels were the order of the day, and all
the shortcomings of the defences, discovered during battle, were made
good. The golden "pay dirt" which had drawn the sweepings of Leaping
Horse into the service of John Kars was the precious material of
salvation.
The fortifications rose on all sides. The river front was no longer
neglected. None could say whence the next attack would come. None
could estimate for sure the subtleties of the bastard white mind which
had so long successfully manipulated the secret of Bell River.
Not a man but had been impressed by the battle of the night. Not a man
but knew that the losses in defence had been detrimentally
disproportionate. Life to them was sweet enough. But even greater
than the passionate desire to live was lust for possession of the
treasure upon which their feet trod.
So they worked with a feverish effort. Nothing must be spared.
Nothing neglected that could make for security.
The leaders conferred, and planned. And the result was concrete
practice. Kars was the guiding spirit, and Abe Dodds was the
machine-like energy that drove the labor forward. Bill took no part in
the work. His work lay in one direction only, and it was a work he
carried out with a self-sacrifice only to be expected from him. His
hospital was full to overflowing, and for all his skill, for all his
devotion, five times, during the day, bearers had to be summoned to
carry out the cold remains of one of their comrades.
The question in all minds was a speculation as to whether a fresh
attack would mature on the second night. This speculation was confined
to the rank and file of the outfit. The clearer vision of the leaders
searched their own understanding of the position. It was pretty
definitely certain there would be no attack in force. The enemy had
hoped for a victory as the result of surprise and overwhelming odds.
It had failed. It had failed disastrously. The Indians were supposed
to be five hundred strong. They had lost a fifth of their force
without making any apparent impression on the defenders. There could
be no surprise on the second night. It would take longer than twelve
hours to spur the Indians to a fresh attack of a similar nature.
No, there would be no attack of a serious nature--yet. And Kars
unfolded the plans he had so carefully thought out long months ago. He
set them before his three companions late in the afternoon, and
detailed them with a meticulous care and exactness which revealed the
clarity of vision he had displayed in their construction.
But they were not plans such as these men had expected. They were
daring and subtle, and they involved a risk only to be contemplated by
such a nature as that of their author. But they promised success, if
fortune ran their way. And in failure they would be left little more
embarrassed than they now stood.
The meeting terminated as it was bound to terminate with Kars guiding
its council. Joe Saunders, whose mentality limited him to a good
fight, and the understanding of a prospector's craft, had neither demur
nor suggestion. Bill admitted he had no better proposition to offer,
and only stipulated that his share in the scheme should be completely
adequate. Abe protested at the work imposed upon him, but admitted its
necessity.
"Sit around this layout punchin' daylight into the lousy carcases of a
bunch of neches, while you an' Doc here get busy, seems to me a sort o'
Sunday-school game I ain't been raised to. It's a sort of pie that
ain't had no sweetenin', I guess. An' my stomach's yearnin' for sugar.
That play of yours has got me itching to take a hand. Still, I guess
this darn ol' camp needs holding up, an' if you need me here you can
count me in to the limit."
Kars nodded unsmilingly. He knew Abe, second only to his knowledge of
Bill Brudenell. That limit was a big one. It meant all he desired.
"It had to be you or Bill, Abe," he said. "I fixed on you because you
got the boys of this camp where you need them. You'll get all the
fight out of them when you want it. The Doc, here, can dope 'em all
they need, but he hasn't spent half his days driving for gold with an
outfit of scallawags same as you have. Hold this camp to the limit,
boy, and when the work's through I don't guess your share in things'll
be the least. I'm going to bank on you as I've never banked before.
And I don't worry a thing."
It was a tribute as generous as it was diplomatic, and its effect was
instantaneous.
"It goes, chief," exclaimed the engineer, with the nearest approach to
real enthusiasm he ever permitted himself. "The limit! An' they'll
need a big bank roll of fight to call my hand."
Half an hour later Peigan Charley was surprised into wakefulness under
the southern embankment, where he had fallen asleep over his pipe. His
boss was standing over him, gazing down at him with steady, gray,
unsmiling eyes. The scout was sitting up in a moment. He was not yet
certain what the visitation portended.
"Had a good sleep, Peigan?" Kars demanded,
"Him sleep plenty, boss."
"Good."
Kars turned and glanced out over the great volume of water passing down
the river in a ponderous tide. Peigan Charley waited in mute,
unquestioning fashion for what was to come.
Presently Kars turned back to his trusted henchman. He began to talk
rapidly. And as he talked the scout thrust his pipe away into a pocket
in his ragged coat, which had once formed part of his boss's wardrobe.
He stood up. Nor did he interrupt. The keen light in his big black
eyes alone betrayed any emotion. There was no doubt as to the nature
of that emotion. For the sparkle in them grew, and robbed them of the
last shadow of their native lack of expression.
Following upon his boss's words came the Indian's brief but cordial
expression of appreciation. Then came a few minutes of sharp question,
and eager reply. And, at last, came Kars' final injunctions.
"Well, you'll get right up to the cook-house and eat your belly full.
Get fixed that way good. Maybe you'll need it. Then start right in,
when it's dark, and don't pass word to a soul, or I'll rawhide you.
Get this good. If the neches get wise to you the game's played, and
we've lost."
The Indian's reply came on the instant, and it was full to the brim of
that contempt which the mention of his race never failed to arouse.
"Damn fool neche not know," he said icily.
Kars watched him set out for the cook-house. Then he moved over to the
hospital where Bill was at work.
He passed within the crude storehouse. He had not come out of any
curiosity. He had not come to contemplate the havoc wrought on the
bodies of this flotsam of dissolute life. He had come for the simple
purpose of offering some cheer in the darkness of suffering.
For all the ruggedness of exterior displayed by this man when the call
of the northern wilderness claimed him, deep in his heart there were
warm fires glowing which the bond of loyal comradeship never failed to
fan. These Breeds and scallawag Indians were no less to him for their
color, or their morals. They were fighters--fighters of the trail like
himself. It was enough.
A desultory rifle fire played over the camp. It was the signal of
passing day. It was a reminder that the day's cessation of hostilities
marked no abatement in the enemy's purpose. The defence was at its
post. A long line of rifles held their vicious muzzles searching for a
target that would repay. Wastage of ammunition was strictly forbidden.
The night, like its predecessor, was obscure. The targets were far
off, and, as yet, invisible. So the defence remained unanswering, but
ready.
Beyond the new defences on the river front a shadowy figure was
stirring. His movements were stealthy. His moccasined feet gave out
no sound. But there was sound. It was the muffled grating of
something being slid over the gravelly beach at the water's edge. Then
came a gentle splash of water. It was scarcely more than the sound of
a leaping fish. After that came the lapping of the stream against an
obstruction to its course.
The figure stood up, tall and slim. The rawhide rope in his hand
strung taut. A moment later he secured the end of it by the simple
process of resting a small boulder upon its knotted extremity.
The canoe had swung to the stream and lay in against the river bank.
The silent figure stooped over its gunwale and deposited various
articles within its shallow depths. It was the merest cockle-shell of
stoutly strutted bark, a product of the northland Indian which leaves
modern invention far behind in the purpose for which it is designed.
The sound of a footstep on the beach drew the crouching figure to its
full height. Then, at the sound of a familiar voice, all suspicion
died out.
"All fixed right, Charley?"
"Sho', boss. Him fix plenty good."
"Got sow-belly an'--hardtack? Maybe you'll need him. Gun? Plenty
cartridge?"
"Him plenty--all thing."
"Good. Say, you need to get around before daylight. Good luck."
The Indian grunted his reply while he stooped again to release the
rawhide painter. Then, with a nice sense of balance, he sprang lightly
into the shell-like vessel.
John Kars waited only till he heard the muffled dip of the paddle.
Then he withdrew, a sigh escaping him, an expression of pent feeling
which had hope and doubt closely intermingling for its inspiration. He
passed up to the defences for his second night's vigil. He had
arranged that Abe should sleep unless emergency demanded otherwise.
The night passed without incident. Kars was thankful. It was so much
valuable time gained. The labors had been hard following upon the
night of battle. The whole garrison had needed rest. This had been
achieved by systematic relief, which was almost military in its method.
But sleep had been taken at the defences. There had been no relaxing
of vigilance. Nor had the enemy any intention of permitting it. His
loose fire went on the whole time, stirring the echoes of the gorge in
protest at the disturbance of the night.
Towards morning Kars and Bill were at the water's edge, searching the
black distance, while they strained for a sound other than the echoes
of the spasmodic rifle fire.
"Charley'll find a trail, if he hasn't broken his fool neck," Kars
said. "Guess he'd find a trail in a desert of sand that's always
shifting. This darn gorge must be scored with them. If he don't, why,
I guess we'll need to chance it up-stream past those workings."
"Yes."
Bill sat on the boulder Charley had used as a mooring. He had had his
sleep, but a certain weariness still remained.
"You'd stake a roll on Charley," he said, with an upward glance of
amusement that was lost in the darkness.
"Sure." Kars gave a short laugh. "He's a mascot. It's always been
that way since I grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for
splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a Breed gal.
Charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues. But
he's got virtues of a diff'rent sort. They're sometimes found in white
folk."
"You mean he's loyal."
"That's it. Every pocket he's got is stuffed full of it. He'll find a
trail or break his fool neck--because I'm needing one. He's the sort
of boy, if I needed him to shoot up a feller, it wouldn't be sufficient
acting the way I said. He'd shoot up his whole darn family, too, and
thieve their blankets, even if he didn't need 'em. He's quite a
boy--when you got him where you need him. I----"
Kars broke off listening acutely. He turned his head with that
instinct of avoiding the night breeze. Bill, too, was listening, his
watchful eyes turned northward.
The moments grew. The splutter of rifle fire still haunted the night.
But, for all its breaking of the stillness, the muffled sound of a
paddle grew out of the distance. Kars sighed a relief he would not
have admitted.
"Back to--schedule," he said. "Guess it needs a half hour of dawn."
There was no muffle to the sound of the paddle now, and the waiting men
understood. The Indian was up against the full strength of the heavy
stream, and, light as was his craft, it was no easy task to breast it.
For some minutes the rhythmic beat went on. Then the little vessel
grated directly opposite them, with an exactness of judgment in the
darkness that stirred admiration. A moment later Peigan Charley was
giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of
which he considered himself a perfect master.
"Charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "Him mak'
plenty trail. Much climb. Much ev'rything. So."