THE WAY OF THE NORTH
"Oh, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" half sobbed old Marquette. "They will kill
one the other! Another time it matters not. But to-night, here! . . .
Stop; I forbid it!"
One blow had been struck and already the compact circle about the two
men had squared as those who watched drew back along the walls leaving
the centre of the room clear. They had jerked tables and chairs away
with them. One table, the one at which Drennen and George had sat a
moment ago, with its load of virgin gold and minted coins, was now
against the further counter, young Frank Marquette guarding it, that
the gold upon it might go to Drennen when the fight was over. . . .
"If he is alive then," he muttered, his eyes narrowing as they took
note of the black rage distorting the big Canadian's face. "If George
does not kill him it is a miracle of Satan."
"You are come to-night for trouble." Slowly Kootanie George slipped
his heavy coat from his shoulders. His deep, hairy chest, swelling to
the breath which fairly whistled through his distended nostrils, popped
a button back through a frayed button hole and stood out like an
inflated bellows. "I just say, 'Damn you.' That is nothin' for a man
to fight. You look for trouble, an' by God, I am ready!"
He flung the coat from him and lifted his big hands. Drennen was
standing waiting for him, his own hands at his sides, his steely eyes
filled with an evil light. He made no answer beyond the silent one of
a slight lifting of his lip, like a soundless wolfish snarl.
"I forbid!" screamed Père Marquette again. "Another time it is
nothing. To-night it is to insult Mamma Jeanne. Stop it, _chiens_!"
But Mamma Jeanne had her own word to say. Her plump arms were about
her indignant spouse, dragging him back.
"Let them be," she commanded. "Is not George a guest and has he not
the right to put his heel upon an evil serpent? It is just," she
cried, her eyes all fire. "It will be but a little minute and, _pouf_!
it is all over. Let them be!"
She had great faith in the prowess of her man, had Mère Marquette. Had
there been a thunder storm outside, had Père Marquette wished it to
stop while Mère Marquette wanted it to continue, she would have put her
arms about him and pleaded, "Let it be."
"There shall be fon, _mes enfants_," whispered the old prophet from
Moosejaw.
Slowly, but light footed enough, lifting his great hands still a little
higher, Kootanie George came forward. Drennen waited, his lip raised
in the bitter snarl which seemed frozen upon his dark face, his grey
eyes malevolent. He had fought with many men, he was not afraid to
fight; all men there knew that. But they wondered, looking at him and
then at the other, if he understood the thing standing unhidden in
Kootanie George's eyes.
Yes, he understood. For, just the wee fraction of a second before the
Canadian struck, Drennen jerked up his own hands, ready for him. And
the two struck at the same instant. There was to be no finesse of
boxing; these men had no knowledge of fistic trickery. All that they
knew was to fight, to strike hard and straight from the shoulder,
opposing strength with strength, swiftness with swiftness, merciless
hatred with a hatred as merciless. And so it happened that both blows
landed, two little coughing grunts following close upon the impact
telling how mightily, and both men reeled back. There was blood upon
Drennen's lower lip. The upper was still lifted snarlingly from the
red-stained teeth.
Ramon Garcia, watching with an interested smile, nodded his head as
though in approval and glanced at Ernestine Dumont upon the table above
him. Much of the colour had gone out of her cheeks, leaving them drawn
and pallid. Her parted lips too showed the whiteness of her hard set
teeth.
"I," meditated Ramon Garcia as his eyes returned to the two men, "I
should be less frightened of George than of her. Her eyes are like a
devil."
A bare fisted, relentless, give and take fight such as this promised to
be is common enough wherever hard men foregather, dirt-common in a
country where the fag end of a long winter of enforced idleness leaves
restless nerves raw. The uncommon thing about the brief battle or in
any way connected with it lay in the attitude of the onlookers. Rarely
is a crowd so unanimous both in expectation and desire. George would
kill Drennen or would nearly kill him, and it would be a good thing. A
man of no friends, Drennen had no sympathiser. No man who watched with
narrowed eyes, no woman on table or chair or hiding her face in her
hands, but asked and looked for the same ending.
Though from the first it was apparent that George was the bigger man,
the heavier, the stronger, it was silently conceded that these
qualities though they mean much do not count for everything. It became
clear almost as they met for the first blows that the slenderer was
quicker and that if Kootanie George was confident Drennen was no less
so. And, when they both reeled backward, a many-voiced murmur of
surprise was like a reluctant admission: Drennen had done two things
which no other man had ever done before him; he had kept his feet
against the smashing drive of that big fist in his face and he had made
George stagger. For the moment it looked as though the two would fall.
Once more George came forward slowly while Drennen waited for him,
again they met, Drennen leaping forward just as the Canadian's sledge
of a clenched hand was lifted. Each man threw up a guarding left arm
only to have his brawny guard beaten through as again the two
resounding blows landed almost like one; this time there was a trickle
of red from the Canadian's mouth, a panting, wheezing cough from the
American as he received the other's blow full in the chest. For a
dizzy moment they stood separated by the very fury of their onslaught,
each balancing.
"They are men!" murmured Garcia in delight. And Ernestine, leaning far
out from her table, cried breathlessly:
"George! If you love me . . ."
George glanced at her, a slow smile upon his battered lips. He ran the
back of his hand across his mouth and again moved forward, slowly. And
again Drennen snarling, awaited him.
This time George crouched a little as he made his attack, and as he
drew closer he moved more swiftly, bunching his big muscles, fairly
hurling his great body as he leaped and struck, reckless of what blows
might find him, determined by his superior weight alone to carry the
other back and down. And as though Drennen had read the purpose in the
smouldering eyes he too leaped forward so that the two big bodies met
in mid air. Like one blow came the sounds of the two blows given and
taken as the impact of the two bodies gave out its soft thud. And as
one man the two went down together, fighting, beating brutally at each
other, all rules of the game forgotten save that one alone which says,
"He wins who wins!"
For a little they clenched and rolled upon the floor like two great,
grim cats. Through the sound of scuffling came the noise of
short-armed jabs, the deep throated curses of Kootanie George and once
. . . his first vocal utterance . . . one of Dave Drennen's laughs. It
was when he had again driven his fist against George's mouth, drawing
blood from both lips and hand cut by breaking teeth.
Kootanie George's left arm was flung about the neck of the man at whose
body his white knuckled fist was driving like a piston; the American
had craned his neck and in order to protect his face held it pressed
close to George's breast. Drennen's right arm was about George's body,
caught against the floor as they fell, Drennen's left hand with thumb
sunken deep was already at the Canadian's throat. The snarl upon
Drennen's face was the more marked now, more filled with menace and
hate as his body experienced the torture of the other's regular blows.
For a little they were strangely silent, Kootanie having given over his
ripping oaths, strangely quiet as they lay with no movement apparent
beyond the ceaseless rhythmic striking of George's arm. Even those
blows ceased in a moment as George's hand went hurriedly to the wrist
at his breast. The thumb at his throat had sunk until the place where
it crooked at the joint was lost; George's face from red had gone to
white, then to a hectic purple. Now they strove for the mastery of the
hand at the throat, George dragging at it mightily, Drennen's fingers
crooked like talons with the tendons standing out so that they seemed
white cords in the lamplight. George's breath came in short, shorter
gasps, he tugged with swelling muscles, his own hand a terrible
wrenching vice at Drennen's wrist. And when the purple face grew more
hideously purple, when the short gasps were little dry sounds, speaking
piteously of agony and suffocation, when still the relentless grip at
his throat was unshaken, men began for the first time to guage the
strength which lay in the great, gaunt frame of Dave Drennen.
And George too had begun to understand. Suddenly his hand came away
from the iron wrist and sought Drennen's throat for which his wide
bulging eyes quested frantically. His hand found what it sought at
last, but Drennen had twisted his head still a little further to the
side, brought his face still lower and closer against the Canadian's
chest, and George could not get the grip where he wanted it, full upon
the front of the throat. He tore at the rigid muscles below the jaw a
moment and the bloody, broken skin of Drennen's neck told with what
fury George had striven.
But George must hasten now and he knew it. Again his right hand sought
Drennen's left, fought at the deadly grip at his own throat. In his
reach a quick cunning came to him and his groping fingers passed along
Drennen's wrist and did not tarry there. Up and up they went, the
great questing fingers of the Canadian, until at last they found the
fingers of the other man. Here they settled. And then those who
watched saw the middle finger of Drennen's hand drawn back from the
flesh of George's neck, saw it bent back and back, still further back
until it was a pure wonder that Drennen held on, back and back. . . .
And then there was a little snap of a bone broken and Drennen's hand
fell away and Kootanie George, drawing a long, sobbing breath, rolled
clear of him and slowly rose to his feet.
Drennen too rose but not so slowly. His left hand was at his side, the
one broken finger standing oddly apart from its fellows, as he ran the
three steps to meet Kootanie George. George threw up his arm, but the
savagery of the blow beating upon him struck the guard aside and
Kootanie George, caught fairly upon the chin flung out his arms and
went down. He brushed against the wall behind him in falling and so
came only to his knees on the floor, his hands out before him. Drennen
stood over him, breathing deeply, gathering his strength for a last
effort. George staggered perceptibly as he got to his feet, a queer
look in his eyes. Drennen struck swiftly, his fist grinding into the
pit of Kootanie's stomach and, as the big man crumpled, finding his
chin again. And as George staggered a second time Drennen was upon
him, Drennen's laugh like the snarl of a wolf, Drennen's hand, the
right this time, at George's throat. . . .
A thin scream from Ernestine Dumont quivering with a strange blend of
emotions, a spit of flame, a puff of smoke hanging idly in the still
air of the room, the sharp bark of a small calibre revolver, and
Drennen's hand dropped from Kootanie's throat. He swayed unsteadily a
moment, stepped toward her, his eyes flecked with red and brimming with
rage, his hand going to the wound in his side.
"Cat," said Drennen deliberately.
As he fell back, a sudden weakness upon him, settling unsteadily into a
chair, Ramon Garcia struck up the barrel of the smoking gun in
Ernestine's hand and the second bullet ripped into the papered ceiling.
Then Kootanie George turned slowly, his eyes full upon Ernestine's, and
said as Drennen had said it,
"Cat!"
"You are one big brute!" cried Mère Jeanne angrily. "You, to call her
that when she shoot because she love you! I should do like that for
Marquette here."
"She has put me to shame, made me a man for men to laugh at," said
George heavily. "What, am I no man but a little baby that a woman must
fight my fight? I am done with her."
Drennen's face had gone white; the fingers gripping his torn side were
sticky and wet and red. He rose half way from his chair only to drop
back, the rigid muscles along his jaw showing how the teeth were hard
set. He had seemed to forget Ernestine, George, all of them, his gaze
seeking and finding the table where his gold lay, then lifting to Frank
Marquette's face suspiciously. Then it was that he noted and that
others marked for the first time how again the outer door had opened
that night to admit tardy guests. A little flicker of surprise came
into his eyes, and small wonder.
Three persons had entered before Ernestine had cried out and fired the
first shot, two men and a girl. The men would come in for their share
of attention later; the girl demanded hers now, like a right and a
tribute. She stood a little in front of her companions. Her eyes
widened, growing a little hard as they watched the end of the fight,
passed from Drennen and Kootanie George to Ernestine Dumont, came
slowly back to George, rested finally upon Drennen as though their
chief interest lay with him. She did not show fear as a woman of her
appearance might be looked upon to show it; there were interest and
curiosity in her look and, finally, when after a long time she looked
again from Drennen to Ernestine, a high contempt.
In spite of the heavy white sweater whose collar was drawn high about
her throat, in spite of the white hood concealing all but one stray
wisp of brown hair, her loveliness was unhidden, looking out in all of
the splendid glory of youthful health and vigour. Her eyes were as
grey as Drennen's own, but with little golden flecks seeming to float
upon sea-grey, unsounded depths. She might have been seventeen, she
could not have been more than twenty, and yet her air was one of
confidence and in it was an indefinable something which was neither
arrogance nor yet hauteur, and which in its subtle way hinted that the
blood pulsing through her perfect body was the blood of those who had
known how to command since babyhood and who had never learned to obey.
When later men learned that that blood was drawn in riotous, converging
currents from unconquerable fighting Scotch highlanders and from a long
line of French nobility there came no surprise in the discovery. Men
and women together, Kootanie George and Ernestine, Garcia and Drennen,
Père Marquette and Mère Marquette, felt the difference between her and
themselves.
"We seem to interrupt," she said coolly, her voice deeply musical, as
she turned to Père Marquette. He, looking a little dazed and stupid
from all that had taken place, but never forgetful of his duties as
host, had come toward her hesitantly, his lips seeking to form a new
phrase of greeting. "We are tired and need food. Everything seemed
closed but your place. So we came in."
"You are welcome, mam'selle," he said hurriedly. "Mos' welcome. It is
unfortunate . . ."
"Captain Sefton," went on the girl quite calmly, "will you see what you
can do for that man? He is losing a great deal of blood."
Captain Sefton, a thin, hawk-eyed man with a coppery Vandyke beard,
shrugged his shoulders distastefully but passed her, drawing near Dave
Drennen. The girl turned toward the second of her companions, a
younger man by half a dozen years, who brought the stamp of the cities
in his fashionable clothes, the relentless marks of a city's
dissipation about his small mouth and light eyes and, in air and
features, a suggestion of the French.
"Marc," she said, drawing at her gauntlets, her back upon Sefton and
Drennen, "if you can arrange for a room for me I shall go to it
immediately."
Marc obeyed her as Captain Sefton had done, turning to Marquette with
an inquiry. Drennen's eyes were only for a fleeting moment upon Sefton
whose quick fingers were busy at the wound. Then they returned to the
table at which he had diced. Frank Marquette, seeing the look, poured
the gold all into the canvas bag and brought it to him.
The eyes of one man alone did not waver once while the girl was in the
room, black eyes as tender as a woman's, eloquent now with admiration,
their glance like a caress. Ramon Garcia spoke softly, under his
breath. Ernestine Dumont looked down at him curiously. She had nor
understood the words for they were Spanish. They had meant,
"Now am I resigned to my exile!"