THE END OF THE TERROR
Kars stood on the embankment watching the receding form of the aged
chief, Thunder-Cloud, taking his departure with his escort. It was an
outfit to inspire ridicule, were it not for the seriousness lying
behind the human passions governing the situation. Kars understood.
Those with him understood. Peigan Charley alone lacked appreciation.
He regretted the old man's coming under a truce. He even more
regretted his departure--whole. But then Peigan Charley was a savage,
and would never be otherwise.
The old man tottered along over the rough foreshore which had been
cleared of its human debris. His blanket-clad shoulders, though gay
with color, were bowed with senility, a mockery of the vaunting
splendor which glared out in vivid stripes. His escort, too, was
mostly elderly. There were no fighting men in it. They were the
counselors, who worked overtime with inadequate brains, and delivered
the result by word of mouth with all the confidence of their kind.
It had been an interesting moment for the leaders of the camp. For
Kars it had been something in the nature of a triumph. It had yielded
him his reward for a superlative effort of reckless daring, in which
the loyalty of his companions had helped him.
The old man had talked. He had babbled on through his interpreter at
great length. His talk had been a rambling declaration of friendship
for the white man. He had assured Kars that he, Kars, was held in
great personal esteem by the Indians. The last thing in any Indian
mind was a desire to shed his blood, or the blood of any of his
"braves," who fought so magnificently. He assured him that he had come
to say that all the Indians, even those who had been so very fierce,
and were now so no longer, would gladly smoke the pipe of peace with
their white brothers, and bury the hatchet now and forever.
Nor did he inform his audience of the events which had led up to this
desire, and of which he believed they must be ignorant. He failed to
mention that their own white leaders had vanished, literally in smoke,
that all supplies necessary to carry on the war had been completely cut
off by the destruction by fire of the magazine in which these things
were stored. On these matters he was discreetly reticent, and Kars was
satisfied that it should be so. On his part he had no desire to
enlighten him to the fact that, at that moment, Murray McTavish was
lying in the extemporized hospital in the camp with a shattered arm,
and that the half-breed, Louis Creal, was slowly dying with a bullet
through his lungs, under the same primitive shelter.
Kars had listened. And his whole attitude was one of clear-eyed
wisdom. He assured the crafty old man that he was certain of the Bell
River Indians' good faith. He was furthermore convinced that the men
of Bell River were the finest Indian race in the world, with whom it
was the whole object of a white man's life to live in peace. He was
certain that the recent events had been inspired by powers of evil
which had now been destroyed, and that he saw no obstacle to cementing
a lasting friendship with the Indians, which he was sure would lead to
happy days of plenty for the noble red man.
And so the farce had gone on to its end with truly Indian ceremonial.
But it did not come to a close until Kars had elicited from the old
rascal a complete story of the murder of Allan Mowbray. To him this
was of far more importance than all the rest of the old sinner's talk.
The story was extracted piecemeal, and was given in rambling, evasive
fashion. But it was given completely in the end, and with a veracity
which Kars had no reason to doubt.
It was a long enough story, which became a record of perfidy and crime
laid entirely at the doors of Murray McTavish and Louis Creal.
The Indians had known Allan Mowbray for many years. They were good
friends. Allan Mowbray clothed and fed them in return for furs. Then
came a time when the white man found yellow dust on the river bank. He
liked it. He told the Indians so, and showed them how to find it, and
promised them, if they would collect all they could, and trade it with
him, they would never want for anything. He sent the half-breed, Louis
Creal, to see they did the work right, and fitted him out a store.
Louis Creal was a servant of Allan Mowbray. He was not a partner.
A great prosperity set in for the Indians, and they were very pleased
and very contented. Then came a time when the other white man
appeared, Murray McTavish. He made great changes. The Indians had to
work harder, but they got more trade. They got whisky. They grew more
and more prosperous. The new white man was always smiling and
pleasant, and the young men liked him very much, because he made the
squaws and old men do most of the work, while they were given rifles,
and allowed to practice the arts of war which had died out in their
tribe for so long.
The new white man then told them that they must not let any other
Indians come near Bell River. These traveling Indians were a great
danger. Finding the Bell River folk prosperous and happy they would
become envious. They would come in the night and burn and massacre.
The young men realized the danger, and they went on the war-path. All
who came near were killed. Then the young men scoured the country
around, and burned the homes of all Indians they found, and killed
their fighting men. The new white man was very pleased.
After a very long time Murray McTavish and Louis Creal held a big
council with the young men. The white man told them they were in very
great danger. He said that Allan Mowbray was no longer to be trusted.
He was a traitor. He assured them that Allan Mowbray was going through
the country telling the Indians and white folk of the yellow dust on
the river. This was betraying the Indians. For now all people would
come along in such numbers they would sweep the Bell River Indians
away, they would kill them all, and burn their homes, and they would
kill the white men, too, so that they could get all the dust that
belonged to the people of Bell River. The only way to save themselves
was by killing Allan Mowbray.
The young men were very angry, and very fierce. And the white man
offered them council and advice. He showed them how they could trap
Allan Mowbray and kill him. And Louis Creal would help them.
This the young men did on the banks of the river, led by Louis Creal.
But the old villain was careful to explain that now, now, at last--of
course since the ruin of their prospects through the destruction of
their sources of supply--all the Bell River tribe was sorry that Allan
Mowbray had been killed. They understood that he was not a traitor.
It was the others who were traitors. Allan Mowbray was killed because
they wanted all the yellow dust themselves, and he, Thunder-Cloud,
personally, as well as the young men, was very glad that they had both
been found out by the Indians. They were very, very bad men who had
wanted Kars and his people killed, too, but fortunately the Indians had
found out that Kars was a good man, and a friend of the Indian, and so
it was the desire of all to live in peace. In fact the Indian would be
very pleased to trade yellow dust with him.
As the old chief vanished in the region of the Indian workings Kars
turned back to his camp. For some moments he surveyed the scene with
serious eyes. It was all over. Already the persistent energy of Abe
Dodds was making itself apparent. The pumps had been restarted. The
sluices were awash, and gangs were starting to demolish the embankments
of auriferous pay dirt. The armed camp was vanishing before the breath
of peace, and the change brought him a measure of relief he remained
wholly unaware of.
It had been a desperate time while it had lasted. A desperateness
quite unrealized until it was over, and complete victory had been
achieved. And, curiously enough, by far his most anxious time had been
the safe return from his raid on Louis Creal's store, with his
prisoners. Peigan Charley had been unfailing. The Indian had reached
the camp and found it secure. There had been no attack in his absence.
He had explained the situation in his own lurid but limited language to
Abe Dodds, and the assistance needed had been promptly forthcoming.
The whole enterprise, the capture of the prisoners, the burning of
Louis Creal's store, had been carried out without the Indian's
obtaining an inkling of that which was going forward. And
unquestionably it was due largely to this absolute secrecy in the
operation that the present peace offer had been so promptly forthcoming.
But in the midst of his triumph Kars had little enough rejoicing. He
had been shocked--shocked beyond words. And the shock left a haunting
memory which dominated every other feeling. It was Murray McTavish's
share in the villainies of the sombre river.
It was incredible--almost. But the worst feature of the whole thing
lay in the man's callous display. This murderer, this murderer of her
father, this man who was her father's friend, had dared to contemplate
marriage with Jessie. He had asked her to marry him while the memory
of his crime must still have been haunting, almost before the red blood
of his victim had dried upon his ruthless hands. It was unspeakable.
The smiling, genial Murray. The man of bristling energy and apparent
good-will. The man who had assumed the protection of the women-folk
left defenceless by his own crime--a murderer. The horror of it all
left Kars consumed by a cold fury more terrible than any passion he had
ever known. With his whole soul he demanded justice. With his whole
soul he was resolved that justice should be done.
He remembered so many things now. He remembered the shipment of arms
with which, he had assured Bill, he believed Murray intended to wipe
out the Bell River scourge. And he remembered Bill's doubtful
acceptance of it. Now he knew from bitter experience the meaning of
that shipment. It was the murder of himself. The massacre of his
"outfit." An added crime to leave Murray free to wallow in his gold
lust. Free to possess himself of Jessie Mowbray. He wondered how long
Louis Creal would have survived had Murray achieved his purpose.
His discovery had been incredible--_almost_. But not quite.
Subconscious doubts of Murray had always been his. Bill Brudenell's
doubts of the man had been more than subconscious. The growth of his
own subtle antagonism towards the trader had always disturbed him. But
its growth had gone on while he remained powerless to check it. He had
set it down to rivalry for a woman's love. He had accepted it as such.
But now it possessed a deeper significance. He believed it to have
been instinctive distrust. But a murderer. No. The reality was
beyond his wildest imaginings.
He left the embankment and passed back to the shanty where the council
of peace had been held.
Bill was within. He was seated on his bunk contemplating the automatic
pistol which Kars had taken from Murray McTavish. It was lying across
his knee, and one hand was gripping its butt. The Indian reek still
permeated the atmosphere, and Kars exhaled in noisy disgust as he
entered.
"Gee! It's a stinking outfit," he exclaimed, in tones that left no
doubt of his feelings, as he flung himself on his bunk and began to
fill his pipe.
Bill glanced up. His gaze was preoccupied.
"Neches do stink," he admitted.
Kars struck a match.
"I wasn't worrying about the neches. The neches don't cut any ice with
me. It's Murray."
Bill shook his head while he watched Kars light his pipe.
"Then it's more than a stinking outfit. Maybe I should say 'worse.'"
His eyes were twinkling. It was not with amusement. It was the nature
of them.
But Kars denied him with an oath.
"It couldn't be."
Bill turned his gaze towards the doorway. He was watching the blaze of
spring sunlight, and the hovering swarms of flies which haunted the
river bank.
"But it could. It is," he said deliberately, and his eyes came back to
the weapon in his hand. Then he added with some force:
"There'll need to be a hanging--sure."
"Allan was murdered at his instigation. He'll certainly hang for it,"
Kars agreed.
"I wasn't thinking that way."
"How then?"
"This." Bill held up the gun.
"That? It's Murray's gun. I----"
"Yes," Bill interrupted him, a fierce light leaping into his eyes and
transfiguring them in a manner Kars had never before beheld. "It's
Murray's gun, and it's the gun that handed death to young Alec Mowbray
at the Elysian Fields."
"God!"
Kars' ejaculation was something in the nature of a gasp. Renewed
horror was looking out of his eyes. His pipe was held poised in his
fingers while it was allowed to go out. A curious feeling of
helplessness robbed him of further articulation.
The two men were gazing eye to eye. At last, with an effort, Kars
flung off the silence that held him.
"How--how d'you know?" he demanded in thick tones.
Bill held up a nickel bullet between his finger and thumb. Then he
displayed the half empty cartridge clip he had extracted from the
weapon.
"They're the same make, and--this is the bullet I dug out of poor
Alec's body."
Kars breathed deeply. He regarded the various articles, held
fascinated as by something evil but irresistible. He watched Bill as
he replaced them on the bunk beside him. Then, for a few seconds, the
sounds of activity outside, and the buzz of the swarming flies alone
broke the silence.
But the moment of silence passed. It was broken by a fierce oath, and
it came from Bill. A hot flush stained his tanned cheeks. His anger
transformed him.
"God in Heaven!" he cried. "I've suspected right along. Guess I must
have _known_, and couldn't believe. I'm just mad--mad at the thought
of it. Say, John, he's had us beaten the whole way. And now it's too
late. I could cry like a kid. I could break my fool head against the
wall. The whole darn thing was telling itself to me, way back months,
down in Leaping Horse, and I just wouldn't listen. And now the boy's
dead."
He drew a deep breath. But he went on almost at once. And though his
tones were more controlled his emotion was working deeply.
"D'you know why I brought that bullet along? No," as Kars shook his
head. "I guess I don't quite know myself. And yet it seemed to me it
was necessary. I sort of felt if we got behind things here on Bell
River we'd find a link between them and that bullet. Now I know. Say,
I've got it all now. It's acted itself all to me right here in this
shack. It was acting itself to me up there in that ruined shack across
the river, when you handed me your talk of Murray's purpose, only I
guess I wasn't sitting in the front row, and hadn't the opera glasses
to see with.
"Say, it's the same darn story over again," he went on with passionate
force. "It's the same with a different setting, and different
characters. It's the same motive. Just the rotten darn motive this
world'll never be rid of so long as human nature lasts. We've both
seen it down there in Leaping Horse, and, like the fools we were,
guessed the long trail was clear of it. We're the fools and suckers.
God made man, and the devil handed him temptation. I'll tell you the
things I've seen floating around in the sunlight, where the flies are
worrying, while I've been sitting around here looking at that gun you
grabbed from Murray. It's a tough yarn that'll sicken you. But it's
right. And you'll learn it's right before the police set their rope
around Murray McTavish's neck. I don't think Murray's early history
needs to figger. If it did, maybe it wouldn't be too wholesome. Where
Allan found him I don't know, and Murray hasn't felt like talking about
things himself. Maybe Allan knew his record. I can't say. Anyway, as
I said, it doesn't figger. There's mighty few folks who hit north of
'sixty' got much of a Sunday-school record, and they're mostly out for
a big piece of money quick. Anyway, in this thing Allan found Murray
and brought him along a partner in a gold stake. He brought him
because the proposition was too big, and too rich for him to handle on
his own. Get that. And Murray knew what he was coming to. That was
Allan's way. He handed him the whole story because he was a straight
dealing feller who didn't understand the general run of crookedness
lying around. It was no partnership in a bum trading outfit. It was a
big gold proposition, and _it had to be kept secret_.
"Murray came along up. Maybe he had no thought then of what he was
going to do later. Maybe he had an eye wide open anyway. He got a
grip on things right away. He found a feller who didn't know how to
distrust a louse. He found two white women, as simple as the snow on
the hilltops, and a boy who hadn't a heap of sense. He found an old
priest who just lived for the love of helping along the life of those
around him. And he found gold, such as maybe he'd dreamed of but never
thought to see. Do you get it? Do I need to tell you? Murray, hard
as a flint, and with a pile set out in front of him for the taking.
Can you hear him telling himself in that old Fort that he's there on a
share only, while he runs the things for a simple feller, and his
folks, who haven't a real notion beyond the long trail? I can hear
him. I can hear the whole rotten story as he thinks it out. It's the
same, always the same. The mania for gold gets men mad. It drives
them like a slave under the lash. But Murray is cleverer than most. A
heap cleverer. This thing is too big for any fool chance. It wants to
go so no tracks are left. So no one, not even those simple women, or
that honest priest, can make a guess. So there isn't a half-breed or
Indian around the Fort can get wise. There's just one way to work it,
and for nigh ten years he schemes so the Bell River terror under Louis
Creal gets busy. We've seen the result here. We heard his yarn from
old Thunder-Cloud, and to fix things the way he needed he only had to
buy over a dirty half-breed, which is the best production of hell
walking the earth.
"With the murder of Allan, _by the Indians_, his whole play begins. He
goes up with an outfit. There's no fooling. His outfit sees the
result. There's nothing to be done. So he gets right back with the
mutilated body, and mourns with the folk he's injured. Yes, it's
clever. That's the start. What next? Murray keeps to the play of the
loyal friend and protector. It's all smooth to him, and only needs the
playing. The store and its trade, and his fortune are left by Allan to
his widow. He's completed his first step without a snag cropping up.
Meanwhile you come along.
"Murray's quick to see things. Louis Creal tells him you've been
around Bell River. He tells him you've found the Indian workings. He
tells him he nearly got you cold. Besides that Murray figgers around
you and Jessie. It's the first snag he's hit, and it's one to be
cleared. But it's just incidental to his scheme, which has to be put
through. And his scheme? It's so easy--now. He's got to marry Jessie
and so make himself one of the family. The widow'll be glad to hand
over her fortune to be administered by Jessie's husband. And, in the
end, the whole outfit'll come into Jessie's hands, and so into his.
But there's a further snag. Alec is to get the business at his
mother's death. And Alec hasn't any use for Murray, and, if foolish,
is hot-headed. Alec has to be got rid of. How? The father's murder
can't be safely repeated. How then? Alec is yearning for life. He's
yearning to wallow in the sink of Leaping Horse. Murray encourages
him. Murray persuades his mother. Murray takes him down there, and
flings him into the sink. But Murray hasn't forgotten you. Not by a
lot. He's going to match your outfit. He's going to measure his wits
against yours. He's going to get you done up on Bell River the same as
Allan Mowbray, and the play will be logical for all who hear of it. So
he ships in the supplies and makes ready. Meanwhile the boy plays into
his hands. He gets all tied up with the woman belonging to Shaunbaum.
And Shaunbaum figgers to kill him. Murray needs that. It'll save him
acting that way himself. But he's taking no chances. He watches all
the while. He locates everything, every move Shaunbaum makes. How I
can't guess, but it's easy to a feller like Murray. Well, the gunmen
get around. Maybe you'll say this is just a guess. It don't seem that
way to me. I sort of see it all doing. The day Alec's to be shot up
by Shaunbaum's gunmen gets around. That morning Murray pulls out
north. Then comes night. He sneaks back. I seem to see Murray
sitting around in one of the boxes opposite us. Maybe he came in
quietly amongst the crowd. He keeps close in that box, hidden. He
watches. His eye is on the gun-men. If they do their work right, why,
he'll clear out free of the blood of the boy. If they don't----?
"But the boy had a dash of his father in him. He knew trouble was
hitting his trail. When it caught him up he was ready. He was quicker
than the gun-men. And Murray was watching and saw. His gun was ready
behind the curtains of that box, and it spoke, and spoke quick. The
gunman was dead. Alec was dead. There was no trail left. Only the
bullet I dug out of the poor kid's body. Murray cleared on the
instant, and didn't have to _pass through the hall_. The rest----"
Bill finished up with a comprehensive gesture indicating the camp about
them.
The work going on outside sounded doubly loud in the silence that
followed the rapidly told story. Kars' brooding eyes were turned on
the sunlit doorway. His pipe had remained cold.
It was almost a visible effort with which he finally bestirred himself.
"You guess he quit his outfit and returned to Leaping Horse," he said.
"You can't prove it."
Bill shrugged.
"It'll be easy. His outfit can prove it. He either quit it or didn't
join it in the morning. The p'lice'll get it out of them. When they
learn what's doing they won't be yearning to screen Murray. Specially
Keewin."
"No. Keewin was Allan's best boy. Keewin would have given his life
for Allan."
Kars drew a deep breath. He sat up and struck a match. His pipe began
to glow under his deep inhalations. He stood up and moved towards the
door.
"It's the foulest thing I've ever heard. And--I guess you've got it
right, Bill," he admitted. "I allow we've done all we can. It's right
up to the p'lice." He abruptly turned, and his steady eyes stonily
regarded his friend. "He's got to hang for this. Get me? If the law
don't fix things that way, I swear before God I'll hunt his trail till
I get him cold--with my own hands."
Bill's reply was a silent nod. He had nothing to add. He knew all
that was stirring beyond that stony regard, and his sympathies were in
full harmony. The bigness of these two men was unlimited by any of the
conventions of human civilization. They were too deeply steeped in the
teachings of the long trail to bow meekly to the laws set up by men.
Their doctrines were primitive, but they saw with wide eyes the justice
of the wild.
Kars stood for a few moments lost in profound thought. Then he stirred
again and moved to depart.
"Where you going?" Bill demanded, recalling himself from his own
contemplation. Kars turned again.
"I'm going to hand over to Abe and the boys," he said. "They're
needing this thing. Guess I'm quit of Bell River. There's a wealth of
gold here'll set them crazy. And they can help 'emselves all they
choose. You and I, Bill, are going to see this thing through, and our
work don't quit till Murray's hanging by the neck. Then--then--why
then," a smile dawned in his eyes, and robbed them of that frigidity
which had so desperately held them, "then I'll ask you to help me fix
things with Father José so Jessie and I can break a new trail that
don't head out north of 'sixty.'"