THE LAP OF THE GODS
He looked like a disreputable image carved in mahogany, and arrayed in
the sittings of a rag-picker's store. He was seated on the earthen
door-sill of the hut where Kars was sleeping. He was contemplating
with a pair of black, expressionless eyes the shadows growing in the
crevices of the far side of the gorge. The occasional whistle of a
bullet passing harmlessly overhead failed to disturb him in the
smallest degree. Why should he be disturbed? They were only fired by
"damn-fool neche."
He sat quite still in that curious haunch-set fashion so truly Indian.
It was one of the many racial characteristics he could not shake
off--for all his boasted white habits--just as his native patience was
part of his being. Nothing at that moment seemed to concern him like
the watching of those growing shadows of night, and the steady
darkening of the evening sky.
The defences were alive with watchful eyes. The movement of men was
incessant. The smell of cooking hung upon the evening air blending
with the smoke of the cook-house fire. Only the sluices stood up still
and deserted, and the dumps of pay dirt. But, for the moment, none of
these things were any concern of his. He had been detached from the
work of the camp. His belly was full to the brim of rough food, and he
was awaiting the psychological moment when the orders of his boss must
be carried out. Peigan Charley was nothing if not thorough in all he
undertook.
It mattered very little to him if he were asked to cut an Indian's
throat, or if he were told by Kars to attend Sunday-school. He would
do as his "boss" said. The throat would be cut from ear to ear, if he
had to spend the rest of his days in the penitentiary. As for the
Sunday-school he would sing the hymns with the best, or die in the
attempt.
Half an hour passed under this straining vigil. He had stirred
slightly to ease his lean, stiffening muscles. The rough buildings of
the camp slowly faded under the growing darkness. The activity of the
camp became swallowed up, and only his keen ears told him of it. The
pack ponies at their picketings, under the sheer walls beyond the
cook-house, abandoned their restless movements over their evening meal
of grain. The moment was approaching.
At last he stirred. He rose alertly and peered within the darkened
doorway. Then his moccasined feet carried him swiftly and silently to
the side of the bunk on which his "boss" was sleeping.
Kars awoke with a start. He was sitting up with his blankets flung
back. The touch of a brown hand upon his shoulder had banished
completely the last of his deep slumber.
"Boss come. Him dark--good."
The Indian had said all he felt to be necessary. He stood gazing down
at the great shadowy figure sitting up on the bunk.
"You're an infernal nuisance," Kars protested. But he swung himself
round and stood up. "Everything ready?" he went on, strapping a
revolver belt about his waist. "Boss Bill? He ready?" He picked up
his heavy automatic lying on the table at the head of his bunk, and
examined it with his fingers to ascertain if the clip of cartridges was
full. He reached under the bunk for some spare clips. Then he drew on
his pea-jacket and buttoned it up.
"Boss Bill all ready. Him by hospital."
"Good. Then come right on. Go tell Boss Bill. I go to the river."
The dusky Indian shadow melted away in the darkness. Kars watched it
go. Then he filled up a brandy flask and thrust it into his pocket. A
moment later he passed down to the water's edge, only diverging to
exchange a few parting words with Abe Dodds who was in charge of the
defences.
Bill Brudenell sat in the middle of the canoe, a smallish, thickly
coated figure with a beaver cap pressed low down on his iron gray head.
Kars and the Indian were at the paddles, kneeling and resting against
the struts. Kars was in the bow. He was a skilled paddle, but just
now the Indian claimed responsibility for their destination and the
landing. Charley, in consequence, felt his importance. Besides, there
was the praise for his skilful navigation yet to come.
The rhythmic pressure of the paddles was perfectly muffled. The stream
was with them. It was a swift and silent progress. For all his
knowledge and experience Kars had difficulty in recognizing their
course. Then there were possible submerged boulders and other "snags"
and their danger to the frail craft. But these things were quite
undisturbing to the scout. His sight seemed to possess something of
feline powers. His sense of locality, and of danger, were something
almost uncanny on the water. He had made their present journey once
before, and his sureness was characteristic of his native instincts.
The journey occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then a low spoken
order came from the Indian.
"Charley tak' him," was all he said, and Kars, obediently, shipped his
paddle.
Then came an exhibition of canoeing which rewarded the white men for
their faith in their disreputable henchman. Charley played with the
light craft in the great volume of stream as a feather might yield to a
gentle breeze. The canoe sidled in to the shore through a threatening
shoal of rocky outcrop, and the first stage of the journey was
completed.
The second stage began after the little craft had been lifted and
placed high above the water's level. Scarcely a word was spoken as the
various articles were taken out of it, and matters were adjusted.
There was nothing slipshod in the arrangements. Every precaution was
taken. These men knew, only too well, the hazard of their undertaking,
and the necessity for provision against emergency.
The profound darkness was their cover. It was also their danger.
There was no light anywhere under the clouded sky. The northern lights
were hidden, and not even a star was visible. It was what they
desired, what they needed. But the gaping jaws of the profound gorge
might easily form a trap for their undoing.
Charley led the way over the rocks, and the murmur of cascading waters
greeted the white men's ears. It was another of those draining
waterways which scored the rock-bound river. The sound of the water
grew as they approached its outlet. Then, in a moment, it seemed they
were swallowed up by an inky blackness.
Charley came to a halt and uncoiled the rawhide rope which he had taken
from the canoe. He paid it out, and passed one end of it to his boss.
He fastened the other end about his waist. Half-way down its length
Bill took possession of it. It was a guiding life-line so that those
behind him should not lose the trail. Then the upward struggle began.
It was a fierce effort, as Charley's information had indicated. It was
a blind climb surrounded by every pitfall conceivable. The white men
had recollections of a climb of lesser degree, in full daylight, on the
far shore of the river. It had taken something like an hour of
tremendous effort. The difficulties and danger of it had been
incomparable with their present task. Not once, but a dozen times the
life-line was the saving clause for these men who had studied nature's
book in the northern wilderness from end to end. And none realized
better than they how much reliance they were placing in the hands of
the untutored Indian who was guiding them.
Never for a moment was Charley at a loss. His movements were precise,
definite. He threaded his way amongst tree-trunks and a tangle of
undergrowth with a certainty that never faltered. He surmounted
jutting, slippery crags as though broad daylight marked out for him the
better course. There were moments when he stood on the brink of a
black abyss into which heavy waters fell to a depth of thirty or forty
feet. But always he held the life-line so that the course lay clear
behind him for those who had to follow.
So the struggle went on. Higher and higher; up, up to what seemed
immeasurable heights. Always was there the threat of the water at
hand, a warning and a constant fear, as well as the main guide. There
was not a moment when life and limb were not threatened. It was only
the pliability of the moccasins, which each man was wearing, that made
the journey possible. It gave them foothold at times where no foothold
seemed possible. It was, as Charley had warned them, "much climb."
But the task had been contemplated by minds tuned to great purpose.
Nor was there anything in the nature of the northern world that could
daunt that purpose. Bill might have found complaint to offer in the
cool contemplation of his philosophic mind, but the nature of him
defied all better sense, and drove him to a resolution as stubborn and
invincible as that of Kars himself. And Kars had no other thought but
of the objective to be gained. Only physical disaster could stop him.
So his whole strength was flung into the melting pot of achievement.
The Indian had no other feeling than the pride of a brief leadership.
The aboriginal in him was intensely stirred. Here he was in his native
element. Here he could teach the great man who was, in his curiously
warped mind, far above all others. Besides, was there not at the end
to be a satisfaction of all the savage instincts in him? He knew the
Bell River neches, whom he hated so cordially in common with all others
of his race, were to be outwitted, defeated. And his share in that
outwitting was to be a large one, and would only go to prove further
what a contemptible thing the neche really was.
So he brought to his aid all those faculties which he owed to his
forebears, and which had been practised in the purposes of his crooked
youth. Nor had he the wit to understand that the "contemptible" Indian
in him was serving him to the limit in this effort he was putting forth.
The tremendous climb terminated on the wooded crests of the walls of
the great gorge. And the white men paused, thankful enough for the
moment of relaxation, while Charley scouted for his bearings. But the
pause was of the briefest. Charley was back almost before the tired
muscles had relaxed. The briefest announcement in the scout's pigeon
English and the journey was resumed.
"Charley's eye all clear. We go?"
The life-line was recoiled, and the scout wore it over one shoulder,
and across his chest. He had secret hopes for that rope which he
imparted to no one.
The way through the virgin forest was almost brief. In a half hour
they stood clear of it with a dark stretch of open country stretching
out before them. Nor was there the least hesitation. Charley picked
out his way, as a cat will pass through the darkest apartment without
colliding with the furnishings. He seemed to read through the darkness
with a mental torch.
A mile of the way lay over a stretch of attenuated grass along a ridge
that sloped away to the depths of a narrow valley, which converged upon
the river some miles to the north. Then came a drop, a steady decline
which brought them to a wider and shallower part of the valley they had
been skirting. What obstacles might lie in that hollow the white men
were powerless to estimate. They were entirely in the hands of the
Indian, and were content that this was so.
None spoke, and the scout moved on with the swiftness of absolute
certainty. Shadowy bluffs loomed up, were skirted, were left behind.
Once or twice a grunted warning came from the leader as marshy ground
squelched under the soft moccasins. But that was all. Charley's whole
mind was set in deep concentration. Pitfalls, which might trap, were
of small enough importance. The trail was all-absorbing.
A shallow lapping stream crossed their path. The banks were low and
quaking. They plunged into the knee-deep water, and their feet sank
into the bed of soft, reed-grown mud. They crossed the deep nearly
waist high, and floundered out on to the far bank. Then came a further
groping progress through a thicket of saplings and lesser growth. This
passed, they emerged upon an upward slope and firm patchy grassland.
It was at the summit of this that the Indian paused.
He stood staring out in a southwesterly direction. For a while he
remained silent. Kars and Bill squeezed the water from their stout
moleskin trousers.
Suddenly Charley flung out an arm. He was pointing with a lean
forefinger.
"Neche lodge," he said. "Louis Creal him shack."
Kars and Bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. A
light was shining dimly in the distance. Nor did it need much
understanding to realize that it came from behind a primitive,
cotton-covered window.
"Good. How far?"
It was Kars who spoke.
"Piece down. Piece up. So. One mile. Bluff. Small piece. Bell
River neches--plenty teepee."
Charley spoke with his outstretched hand indicating a brief decline,
and the corresponding rise of ground beyond. Again it was the Indian
in him that would not be denied illustration by gesture.
Again they moved forward. Again was the scout's rightness and accuracy
proved. The ground fell away into a short dip. It rose again in the
far side of the moist bottom, and its summit confronted them with a
clean cut barrier of tall pine woods. It was the end of the toilsome
journey. The screening bluff to the northeast, without which no Indian
village, however primitive, is complete.
They were not to pass through it. The scout turned off sharply to the
left, and moved down its length with swift, untiring steps. Nor did he
pause again till the great bluff was passed, and once more the square,
yellow patch of light gazed out at them from the dark vault of night.
With a brief explanation the Indian yielded up his command.
"Him Louis Creal," he said pointing. Then he swung his arm away to the
right. "Him Indian lodge. Much teepee. Much dog." He paused.
"Charley him finish--yes?" he added almost regretfully.
Kars promptly led the way back to the cover of the woods.
"Guess we'll sit around," he said, in a low voice. "I'll hand out the
talk."
Under the deep hush of night the village of the Bell River terror
slumbered. The raw-pelt teepees, their doors laced fast, stood up like
shadowy mausoleums with rigid arms stretched high above their sharp
crowns, as though in appeal to the frowning night heavens. In vain
glory an occasional log hut, with flattened reed roof, stood out
surrounded by its complement of teepees to mark the petty chieftainship
of its owner. Otherwise there was nothing to vary the infinite squalor
of the life of a northern race. Squalor and filth, and almost bestial
existence, made up the life of aboriginal man in a land where glacier
and forest vied with each other as the dominating interpretation of
Nature.
Nor was there need for optical demonstration of the conditions. It was
there to faculties of scent. It was there in the swarms of night
flies. It was there in the howl of the scavenging camp dogs, seeking,
in their prowling pack, that which the daylight denied them. Savage as
a starving wolf pack these creatures wallowed in the refuse of the
camp, and fought for offal as for a coveted delicacy. And so the women
and men laced tight their doors that the fly-tormented pappooses might
sleep in security. In daylight these foraging beasts were curs who
labored under the shadow of the club, at night they were feared even by
their masters.
Kars, and those with him, understood the conditions. The night hid no
secrets from them with regard to the village which sheltered their
enemy. They had learned it all in years of the long trail, and
accepted it as a matter of course. But, for the present, the village
was not their concern. It was the yellow patch of light shining in the
darkness that held them and inspired their council.
The light was widely apart from the village. It was on a rising ground
which overlooked the surroundings. It was one of the many eyes of a
low, large, rambling building, half store, half mere dwelling, which
searched the movements of the degraded tribe which yielded something
approaching slavery to the bastard white mind which lurked behind them.
The silence of the place was intense. There was no yap of angry cur
here. There was no sign of life anywhere, beyond that yellow patch of
light. The place was large and stoutly constructed. The heavy
dovetailed logs suggested the handicraft of the white. The dimly
outlined roof pitches had nothing of the Indian about them. But in
other respects it was lacking. There were no fortifications. It was
open to approach on all sides. And its immediate neighborhood reeked
with the native odors of the Indian encampment. It suggested, for all
its aloofness, intimate relations with the aboriginal life about it.
It suggested the impossibility of escape for its owner from the taint
of his colored forebears.
Though no sound broke the stillness about this habitation shadows were
moving under its outer walls. Gliding shadows moving warily, stealing
as though searching out its form, and measuring its vulnerability.
They hovered for moments at darkened window openings. The closed doors
afforded attraction for them. For half an hour the silent inspection
went on.
These movements seemed to have system. No doorway or window escaped
attention. No angle but was closely searched. Yet for all the
movement, it was ghostly in its completeness of silence. Finally the
lighted window drew their whole attention, and, for many minutes,
nothing further interested them.
At last, however, the gathering broke up. One figure passed away
around an angle of the building and disappeared in the direction of a
closed doorway. A second figure, larger than the others, passed on in
the direction of another door. The third, a slim, alert creature,
remained at the window. In one hand he held a long, keen-edged knife.
In the other a heavy pistol loaded in every barrel.
Within the building an equally silent scene was being enacted.
The room was low roofed, with a ceiling of cotton billowing downwards
between the nails which held it to the rafters. No minute description
could adequately picture the scene. It was half living-room, half
store for Indian trade, and wholly lacking in any sort of order or
cleanliness.
One wall was completely covered with shelves laden with merchandise.
There were highly colored cotton prints and blankets. There were
bottles and canned goods. There were tobacco and kegs of fiery rye
whisky. There were packets and bundles, and deep partitioned trays of
highly colored beads. A counter, which stood before this piled up
litter, was no less laden. But that which was under the counter was
hidden from view.
A corner of the room was crowded to the ceiling with valuable furs in
their rough-dried state. Another was occupied by a fuel box stacked
with split cord-wood, for the box stove which stood in the centre of
all. The earthen floor was foul with dust and litter, and suggested
that no broom had passed over it for weeks.
But the quality of the place was of less interest than its human
occupants. There were two. Both were clad in the thick, warmth-giving
garments characteristic of the north. One stood behind the counter
leaning over an account book of considerable proportions and was
absorbed in its perusal. The other was seated with his feet resting on
the steel rail of the stove, basking in its warmth. His back was to
the lamp and the cotton-covered window, and he was gazing in the
direction of the man at the counter through a haze of smoke from his
pipe. He was lounging in the only piece of furniture the room boasted,
except for the table on which a large glass of spirits stood adjacent
to the oil lamp. Not once, but several times he plied himself with the
ardent spirits, while the man absorbed in his ledger turned the pages
before him. The man in the chair continued to drink without stint. He
drank with the abandon of one who has long since done with the
restraint imposed by civilization.
The man at the counter worked on silently. He, too, had a charged
glass beside him. But, for the moment, it was neglected. His figures
absorbed his whole attention.
At last he looked up. His yellow skin was shining. His wicked black
eyes were twinkling, which, with the scars distorting his features,
gave him a look of curiously malevolent triumph.
"Guess they're kind of rough figgers," he apologized. "But they're
near enough to make good readin'."
"What's the total?" The demand was sharp and masterful.
"Just under ten thousand ounces since last reckoning. That's the last
half of last summer's wash-up. There's nigh a thousand tons of dirt to
clean still. It's the biggest wash we've had, an' it's growing. When
we've cleaned out this gang we won't need to do a thing but shout.
There ain't no limit to the old gorge," he added gleefully. "When
we've passed the bones of John Kars to the camp dogs, why, we can jest
make up our bank roll how we darn please."
"Yes."
The man at the stove emptied and replenished his glass, and sat
handling it like one who treasures its contents. But there was a
frowning discontent in his eyes.
"We need to pass those bones along quick," he demurred. "We haven't
done it yet."
The half-breed at the counter searched the discontented face with
speculative eyes.
"You guessin' we can't?"
There was incredulity in his tone.
"I don't guess a thing. We've just--got to." The surly determination
was unconvincing.
"An' why not?" The half-breed's eyes were widely questioning. "It
don't worry me a thing. We fixed Mowbray all right. He was no blamed
sucker. I tell you right here there's no white outfit goin' to dip
into my basket, an' get away with it. We'll hammer 'em good and
proper. An' if that don't fix 'em, why, I guess there's always the
starvation racket. That don't never fail when it's backed by winter
north of 'sixty.' Them curs'll get his bones all----"
But the man at the stove was no longer paying attention. He had turned
in his chair, and his eyes were on the door. His glass was poised in
the act of raising it to his lips. It remained untouched.
"I thought----" Nor did he complete that which he had been about to
say.
The door was thrust wide with a jolt. There was the swift clash of a
knife ripping the cotton window behind him. Then came an incredulous
ejaculation, as two guns were held leveled in the doorway.
"God! Murray McTavish!"
The movements of those moments were something electrical. Everything
seemed to happen at once. Every man playing his little part in the
drama of it was accustomed to think and act in the moment of emergency.
These men owed their present existence to their capacity for survival
where danger was ever lurking.
Seconds counted on the fingers on one hand were sufficient to decide
the issue. A shot sung in through the uncovered window which carried
back no "spat" to the man who fired it. But the eyes which had guided
it beheld the half-breed at the counter sprawl across the account book
which had yielded him so much satisfaction. Almost at the instant of
his fall a lean, agile, dusky, disreputable figure leaped into the room
through the aperture which his knife had freed of its covering.
Kars in the doorway had been no less swift. His automatic spoke, but
it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of Murray
McTavish.
It was a situation pregnant with possibilities. The bulky body of the
trader of Fort Mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of
lightning. His glass had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and
its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an
eye. He was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in
the doorway in the space of time elapsing between John Kars' startled
exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on
the instant.
With deadly purpose and skill Murray had taken no aim. He had fired
for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. Perhaps it
was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. His shot
tore its way through Kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his
side below his ribs. The second and third shots, as the automatic did
its work, were even less successful. There was no fourth shot, for the
weapon dropped from Murray's nerveless hand as Kars' single shot tore
through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones.
The injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other
hand. But no chance remained. A dusky figure leaped upon his back
from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the
lamplight.
Then came Kars' fierce tones.
"Push your hands up, blast you!"
Peigan Charley's arm was crooked about the trader's neck. There was no
mercy in his purpose. The fierce joy of the moment was intoxicating
him. The knife. He yearned, with savage lust, to drive it deep into
the fat body struggling under his hold. But Murray understood. One
hand went up. The other made an effort, but remained helpless at his
side. Instantly Kars stayed the ruthless hand of the savage.
"Quit it, Charley!" he cried. "Loose your hold and see to the other.
I got this one where I need him."
The Indian yielded reluctantly. He looked on for a moment while Kars
advanced and secured the trader's fallen weapon. Then he passed across
to the counter.
The half-breed was badly wounded. But the Indian had neither pity nor
scruple. He turned him over where he lay groaning across his counter.
He searched him and relieved him of a pair of loaded revolvers. Then,
standing over him, he waited for his chief.
Nor had he to wait long. Kars completed his work in silence. For the
time words were unnecessary. Murray was suffering intensely, but he
gave no sign. His great eyes, glowing with malevolent fire, watched
his victorious rival's movements, and a growing dread took possession
of him at his silence. He was searched, carefully searched. Then Kars
turned to the Indian as a thin haze of smoke crept in through the jamb
of a door which communicated with some other portion of the building.
"Get him outside," he said. "Pass that rope along."
The Indian uncoiled the rawhide rope from about his chest and brought
it across. Kars pointed at the fat figure of Murray.
"Get it about his feet so he can walk--that's all."
The Indian's appreciation rose. It was displayed in the fashion in
which he secured the trader. He erred generously on the side of
security. When he had finished Murray could hobble. There was no
chance of his escape.
The mist of smoke was deepening. The smell of burning was in the air.
The prisoner suddenly displayed alarm.
"For God's sake get out of here," he cried, in a sudden access of
panic. "The place is afire. The cellars under are full of explosives."
"That's how I figgered."
Kars' rejoinder was calmly spoken. He pointed at the half-breed.
"See to him, Charley," he said. And he waited till the Indian had
roughly dragged the wounded man into the open. Then he turned to the
panic-stricken trader.
"Now you," he commanded, and pointed at the doorway.
The night sky was lit with a dull red glow. A fierce fire was raging
on the rising ground beyond the Indian village. A great concourse of
dusky figures, men, and women, and pappooses were gathered at a safe
distance watching with awe the riot of that terror which haunted their
lives.
The whole village was awake, and had turned out to witness the calamity
which had befallen. Others had joined them. Those others who had
contemplated the destruction of the white invaders down in the river
gorge. Their crude minds held no clue to the cause of the thing which
had happened. Each and all wondered and feared at the non-appearance
of the men who led them. But none dared approach the fire. None
thought to extend help to its possible victims. Fire was a demon they
feared. It was a demon they were ready enough to invoke to aid them in
war. But his wrath turned against themselves was something to be
utterly dreaded. So they stood and watched--from afar off.
There were others watching, too. But they were still farther off.
They were standing on a high ground in the shelter of a bluff of trees.
Their direction was towards the river, where the Indian had led them
earlier in the night.
The fire licked up towards the heavy sky in jagged tongues of flame.
The Indians were held fascinated by their own terror. The others were
waiting for other reasons.
Two figures were on the ground. One was squatting on his heavy
buttocks. The other was stretched prone and helpless. Two men were
standing guard, their eyes wide for that which was to come. The Indian
Charley was absent. He had gone to summon aid from the river.
That which was awaited came when the fire was at its height. It came
with a roar, tossing the licking flames into a wild chaos of protest.
They were swept apart, and a great detonation boomed across to
expectant ears. A pillar of smoke and flame shot up to the heavens.
Then a deluge of smoke partially obscured all vision.
"Good!" Kars' monosyllable was full of intense satisfaction.
"They'll go hungry for fighting fodder," said Bill.
Nor was there any less satisfaction in his comment.