I
Behind the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post at Fort Hearne, they were
wrestling for wives. Forgotten were the words of Catholic priests
on the sanctity of marriage, forgotten the precepts of Episcopal
missionaries. In the twinkling of an eye those high-flown, newfangled
notions had been swept aside by the deep rooted usage of ancient days.
The Indians had been peaceably playing at “Button, button, who has the
button?” with half the spectators staking shirts and blankets on the
issue of the game. The real fun started when drunken Ramsay MacCrae
reeled into the crowd and hugged Blanche Lecouvreur. Her husband sent
him staggering to the ground, but the toper rose and, thrusting his
fingers into Lecouvreur’s face, challenged him to an old-time combat
for his spouse.
There was no more guessing game after that, there was genuine sport.
Ramsay was laid low, but he had set the example and another young
swashbuckler fell foul of Casimir; and so it went on. There was
nothing riotous about the affair, it was as nicely regulated as a
prize fight. There was never more than one contest at a time for no
one would miss part of the spectacle by engaging in a side show of
his own. The wrestlers pulled each other about by the hair and ears,
after the approved Athabaskan fashion before attempting other holds.
What amusement when Angus had thrown the gauntlet to little Gordon and
was on the point of carrying off buxom Peggy by default! But there was
still more laughter when the crafty wag of the camp, supposed to be
cowering in a hiding-place, popped out of his tent, his skull cropped,
ears and body glistening with grease, and, seizing his handicapped
adversary by his long locks, dragged him to the ground. Cries of
encouragement and admiration filled the air. One wagered his gun on a
friend’s victory, another staked his net or tent. The women fought for,
looked on stolidly while the battle was waging, but when Ramsay had
fallen, Blanche heaved a sigh of relief, and Peggy could not suppress
a sneer at her would-be captor. Others were hauled away whimpering,
but with Marie every one knew that she was wailing only to satisfy the
proprieties, for she was well rid of her brute of a husband who had
nearly beaten her to death after his last journey.
But the climax came when big Douglas thrust his paw in Pierre
Villeneuve’s face. To be sure, Louise was as comely as any young matron
in or near the settlement, yet until now the bullies had refrained
from challenging her husband. Every one respected her for her virtue
and her kindness; and every one, too, was fond of Pierre. He was such
a harmless, easy-going, good-natured chap, so handy with packstrap
and toboggan, a prime companion after a two days’ trip without food,
keeping up his blithe old ditty about “_ma belle patrie_” or warbling
some native melody, when every one else was ready to sink down from
exhaustion. But what was all that to crazy Douglas when he was in drink
and lusting for a woman? He had the advantage of four inches in height,
and of at least two stone in weight,—good enough reason for trying for
a prize. Still, Pierre was no mean antagonist with his sinewy, agile
frame and his widely famed strength of grip. Nor was it long before
Douglas discovered that he had caught a tartar. Twice he was on the
point of scoring, only to have Pierre wriggle unhurt from his grasp.
At last a cry of anguish from Louise as the inevitable was about to
happen. Douglas had lifted her husband and was about to hurl him to the
ground. But then things happened quickly, no one knew how, and Douglas
lay stretched out on the ground panting. He limped off with a sprained
ankle, amidst the mocking and jubilations of Pierre’s friends, while
even his backers had sportsmanship enough to congratulate the conqueror.
Then through the laughing, shouting, gesticulating crowd a Titanic
figure elbowed his way. In the midst of the din and excitement the
strange half-breed’s approach had passed unnoticed. He had arrived only
yesterday, with a letter of credit from the Company of Gentlemen and
Adventurers’ Trading into Hudson’s Bay. His name was George MacDonald;
beyond that nothing was known about him. What a frame was his! Beside
it, huge Douglas looked puny. Pierre seemed a mere babe. MacDonald was
not a man of many words. He strode towards Louise, lightly touched
her arm and said, “I want you.” She shrank back shrieking, and Pierre
rushed at the giant in a blind fury, only to be firmly grasped and
gently deposited on the ground. Once more he leaped at his conqueror
but was caught in a vise-like grip and laid low again, raging and
impotent. In his madness he unsheathed his knife, but now Casimir and
Gordon pinioned his arms and the crowd shouted, “Peace, peace! The
stranger has won fairly!”
MacDonald stood there calm and supercilious. “I have won,” he said to
Louise, “come.” Without looking back he walked towards his tent, and
the woman followed sobbing. That was the last wrestling bout that day.