THE COMING OF NO-LUCK DRENNEN
All sorts and conditions of men come to the North Woods; some because
they want to, some because they have to. Some because they are drawn
by the fine lure of adventure and the urge of the restless spirit, some
because they are driven by that bloodhound which is the law. All
types, all classes. And yet now, standing jauntily upon Père
Marquette's threshold, was a type of which as yet the Settlement had
had no knowledge.
He was young and wore his black mustaches with all of the fierceness of
youth. His boots were at once the finest and the smallest which
MacLeod's had ever seen upon a man's feet. He wore gloves, and when in
due time the hands came out of the gloves, they were little like a
woman's and white and soft. He was a handsome young devil-of-a-fellow
with all of the soft, graceful beauty of the far southland. His mouth,
smiling now, was red lipped, his teeth a glistening white. Eyes very
big, very black, very soft, very tender, smiling too. From the crown
of his wide black hat to the tall heels of his dainty boots he was such
a dandy as demanded more than a casual glance.
"_Amigos_," he cried, the door closed now, his back to it, his wide hat
describing a slow, graceful arc as he raised it gallantly from his
black hair, "I have the thirst of a lost soul. Who will drink with me?"
He whipped the glove from his right hand, caught his hat under his arm
and brought from his pocket a shining gold piece which he tossed to one
of Père Marquette's counters. A few of the men laughed, seeing his
mistake, while others murmured, "Dago," a little disgustedly and
returned their attention to their drink, gaming or talk. Père
Marquette came forward briskly.
"M'sieu," he said graciously, offering his hand, "your presence honours
Mamma Jeanne an' me. We are to-night fifty year marry . . . you shall
put your money in your pocket, m'sieu. One does not pay to drink at
the place of Père Marquette to-night."
The young fellow looked at him in surprise, then turned wondering eyes
about him, even peering through the open door into the further rooms as
though asking himself what manner of place was this where men drank and
did not pay. Then he laughed softly.
"Your pardon, señor," he said politely, taking the old man's proffered
hand and bending over it gracefully. "Outside I was athirst like a man
in hell . . ."
A queer change came over his smiling face as his eyes, journeying
beyond the thin, black coated figure of Père Marquette, rested upon a
secluded corner of the room where in the nook by the fireplace a quiet
game of cards was in progress.
"Señorita! Señorita!" he cried softly, pushing by Père Marquette and
coming forward swiftly. "_Dispensame_! Forgive me, señorita!"
It was Ernestine, the one woman remaining in the room, Ernestine
Dumont, who had come from over the ridge with big Kootanie George, her
latest lover. She was sitting close to Kootanie's side now, whispering
occasionally in his ear as a hand was dealt him, for the most part
contentedly sipping at her little glass of sweet wine as she sat back
and watched. She, with the others, had turned toward the entrant, her
eyes remaining upon him until now. She smiled, no doubt pleased at his
notice, while Kootanie George, wide-shouldered, mighty limbed, the
biggest man within a hundred miles of the Settlement, glared at him in
frowning wonder.
"Forgive you?" laughed Ernestine, after a quick glance at George upon
whose shoulder she laid her hand lightly. "What for?"
"I did not know that a lady was here," explained the young fellow
eagerly. He was almost standing over her, his eyes for her alone as he
turned up his mustaches more fiercely yet and his eyes grew the more
tender. "I speak roughly and not guarding my tongue which should
suffer and not taste wine for a week, señorita. I am ashamed."
Ernestine blushed; again several men had laughed. He had said "hell"
and had apologised to her . . .
"We'll let it go this time," she laughed a trifle awkwardly. "And as
for not drinking anything. . . . Look out or you'll spill what Papa
Marquette is bringing you now."
"We are all frien's, m'sieu," said Papa Marquette courteously, offering
a brimming glass. "You, too. And it is wrong that one should thirst
to-night."
The other took the glass with another of his graceful bows.
"May you have other fifty years of happiness with your señora," he said
warmly. "Your health and her health, señor." The glass, at his lips,
halted and came away for a moment while he thought to introduce
himself. "I am Ramon Garcia."
He said it as one might have said, "I am the King of Spain." Simply
enough but with a proud simplicity. Then he put back his head and
drank.
After that Ramon Garcia needed no coaxing to remain. He fitted into
the throng as he seemed to do all things, gracefully. Since he could
not spend his money to-night for wine and since spend it he must he
ventured it pleasantly at the table where the dice rolled. Between
throws he made many slender cigarettes of fine tobacco and thin white
papers; winning, he forgot to note how much in turning his eyes with
tender admiration upon Ernestine Dumont, whose glance more than once
met his; losing, he hummed languid snatches of Mexican love songs in a
remarkably pure tenor voice.
Before he had been with them an hour it was evident to many, not last
of all to big Kootanie George, that the "Mex" was flirting openly with
the yellow haired Ernestine. It was equally evident that his notice
did not embarrass her as his apology had done. She curved her red lips
at him when George was not looking, she glanced down as demure as a
bashful school girl when her big lover was watching her. George began
to lose at his cards and when he swore at his luck did not apologise.
At last Ramon Garcia wearied of the dice. He pocketed his winnings and
pushed back his chair. A guitar in its case in a corner of the room
had caught his roving eye. Standing with his back to the wall, leaning
indolently, he sent his white fingers wandering across the strings and
his eyes drifting bade to find those of Ernestine Dumont. Then through
the discordance of other voices, of clicking chips, rustling cards,
dice snapped down upon the hard table tops, chink of glass and bottle
neck, the voice of Ramon Garcia, liberated softly, filled the room with
its richness as a room is filled with the perfume of flowers. Such
music as he made did not often come into the North Woods, and men . . .
and one woman . . . listened.
He sang it in the Spanish, a tongue which no other man here understood.
Yet they must all guess the meaning of the words. They were love
words, tenderly lilted. And they were being sung to Ernestine Dumont.
There was a little smile upon young Ramon's lips, a hint of gay
laughter in his voice and in his soft eyes a deal of love making.
Kootanie George scowled, Ernestine twirled her glass in her fingers,
one or two men laughed.
When he had done Ramon Garcia swept his fingers across the strings in a
sort of mournful regret. Then, when there was a sudden clapping of
hands, he bowed, smiled and sang again, this time putting the words of
his little song, the same song, into English:
"The perfume of roses, of little red roses;
(Thou art a rose, oh, so sweet, _corazón_!)
The laugh of the water who falls in the fountain;
(Thou art the fountain of love, _corazón_!)
The brightness of stars, of little stars golden;
(_Estrella de mi vida_! My little life star!)
The shine of the moon through the magnolia tree;
I am so sad till thou come, _mi amor_!
_Dios_! It is sweet to be young and to love!
More sweet than wine . . . to be young and to love!"
In the clapping of hands which broke out when he had done Ernestine's
was to be heard above Kootanie George's grunt of disgust.
"No man talk, that," he snorted, careless of who heard. "Dam' slush."
"Your deal, Koot," laughed Blunt Rand, the American trapper from the
headwaters of the Little MacLeod. "Don't let the Mexican gent spoil
your play that-away. Deal 'em up, why don't you?"
Kootanie George glared at Rand and gathered in the cards. He
understood as did Ernestine and the others at the table the gibe which
lay under Rand's words. The American's fancies, too, had run toward
Ernestine Dumont not so long ago, and she had not deigned to take
notice of him after the coming of Kootanie.
"Mexican gent, huh?" said George slowly. "If you mean Greaser why
don't you say Greaser?"
Ramon Garcia had again approached the table. He stopped suddenly as
George's snarl came to him, and his white teeth showed for a quick
flash under his lifted lip. Then, his eyes smiling darkly, he came on
again, bending intimately over Ernestine's chair.
"They are dancing over there," he said softly. "Will you dance with
me, señorita?"
George merely looked at them sidewise. Ernestine glanced up sharply
and for a moment indecision stood easily readable in her eyes. Then
she shook her head.
"Not now," she said quietly. "Maybe after a while. I don't know.
Anyway not now."
"_Gracias_, señorita." He thanked her quite as though she had taken
his proffered arm. And turning away he went back to the game of dice
and his wine glass. Kootanie laughed.
"Better look out for him, Koot," grinned Blunt Rand. "Them kind carry
cold steel sharp on both edges. They get it between your shoulder
blades and then twist it. It's awful uncomfortable."
Rand had drunk his share of toasts to the eternal joy of the Marquettes
and the drinking had given to his tongue a wee bit of recklessness, to
his heart a little venom. Out of a clear sky, his words falling
crisply through the little silence, he demanded of no one in particular
and in all seeming innocence:
"What's happened to No-luck Drennen? I ain't seen him here of late."
Kootanie George turned his head slowly and stared at him. Rand was
fingering his cards, his eyes hastily busied with their corners.
George turned from him to Ernestine. She bit her lips and a spurt of
red leaped up into her cheeks. Her eyes met his a moment, steely and
hard. Then they went to Blunt Rand, as bright and hateful as twin
daggers.
The man upon Rand's right started to laugh. He altered his mind as
Kootanie George's eyes turned slowly upon him and changed the laugh to
a cough behind his hand. Nobody offered to answer the question; it was
accepted as one of those utterances put into the form of an
interrogation merely for rhetorical reasons and requiring no reply.
For it was common talk through the camps that No-luck Drennen had done
the impossible and gotten blood from a turnip; in other words that he
had drawn love out of the heart of Ernestine Dumont. And it was known
that the miracle had been a twin wonder in that Drennen had refused to
see and when he had at last seen had refused to accept. Ernestine's
love had been like Ernestine herself, reckless. And, yes, Drennen had
laughed at her. He had told her brutally that he had no more use for a
woman in his life than he had for a cat. Certainly not for a woman
like her. His words had been given after Drennen's fashion; like a
slap in the face. All this had been less than a year ago.
Elated at the success with which his words had met, Blunt Rand laughed.
Again Kootanie George looked at him steadily.
"What are you lookin' for Drennen for?" he asked quietly.
"Oh, nothin'," rejoined the other lightly. "Only when I come through
Little Smoky the other day an ol' flame of his asked about him. The
Fire Bird they call her. Know her?"
Ernestine Dumont's face grew a shade redder in its mortification even
while she knew that the man was lying to tease her. Then she sat back
with a little gasp and even slow moving Kootanie George turned quickly
as a heavy voice called from the door:
"You're a liar, Blunt Rand."
It was No-luck Drennen just come in and standing now, his hat far back
upon his head, his hands upon his hips, staring across the room at
Blunt Rand.