JACK FRENCH OF THE NIGHT HAWK RANCH
A map of Western Canada showing the physical features of the
country lying between the mountains on the one side and the Bay
and the Lakes on the other, presents the appearance of a vast
rolling plain scarred and seamed and pitted like an ancient face.
These scars and seams and pits are great lazy rivers, meandering
streams, lakes, sleughs and marshes which form one vast system of
waters that wind and curve through the rolls of the prairie and
nestle in its sunlit hollows, laving, draining, blessing where
they go and where they stay.
By these, the countless herds of buffalo and deer quenched their
thirst in the days when they, with their rival claimants for the land,
the Black Feet and the Crees, roamed undisturbed over these mighty
plains. These waterways in later days when The Honourable the Hudson's
Bay Company ruled the West, formed the great highways of barter. By
these teeming lakes and sleughs and marshes hunted and trapped Indians
and half-breeds. Down these streams and rivers floated the great fur
brigades in canoe and Hudson's Bay pointer with priceless bales of
pelts to the Bay in the north or the Lakes in the south, on their
way to that centre of the world's trade, old London. And up these
streams and rivers went the great loads of supplies and merchandise
for the far-away posts that were at once the seats of government
and the emporiums of trade in this wide land.
Following the canoe and Hudson's Bay boat, came the river
barge and side-wheeler, and with these, competing for trade,
the overland freighter with ox train and pack pony, with Red
River cart and shagginappi.
Still later, up these same waterways and along these trails came
settlers singly or in groups, the daring vanguard of an advancing
civilization, and planted themselves as pleased their fancy in
choice spots, in sunny nooks sheltered by bluffs, by gem-like
lakes or flowing streams, but mostly on the banks of the great
rivers, the highways for their trade, the shining links that held
them to their kind. Some there were among those hardy souls who,
severing all bonds behind them, sought only escape from their
fellow men and from their past. These left the great riverways
and freighting trails, and pressing up the streams to distant
head waters, there pitched their camp and there, in lonely, lordly
independence, took rich toll of prairie, lake and stream as they
needed for their living.
Such a man was Jack French, and such a spot was Night Hawk Lake,
whose shining waters found a tortuous escape four miles away by
Night Hawk Creek into the South Saskatchewan, king of rivers.
The two brothers, Jack and Herbert French, of good old English
stock, finding life in the trim downs of Devon too confined and
wearisome for their adventurous spirits, fell to walking seaward
over the high head lands, and to listening and gazing, the soft
spray dashing wet upon their faces, till they found eyes and ears
filled with the sights and sounds of far, wide plains across the
sea that called and beckoned, till in the middle seventies, with
their mother's kiss trembling on their brows and on their lips,
and their father's almost stern benediction stiffening their backs,
they fared forth to the far West, and found themselves on the black
trail that wound up the Red River of the North and reached the
straggling hamlet of Winnipeg.
There, in one of Winnipeg's homes, they found generous welcome
and a maiden, guarded by a stern old timer for a father and four
stalwart plain-riding brothers, but guarded all in vain, for
laughing at all such guarding, the two brothers with the hot
selfishness of young love, each unaware of the other's intent,
sought to rifle that house of its chief treasure.
To Herbert, the younger, that ardent pirate of her heart, the
maiden struck her flaming flag, and on the same night, with fearful
dismay, she sought pardon of the elder brother that she could not
yield him like surrender. With pale appealing face and kind blue
eyes, she sought forgiveness for her poverty.
"Oh, Mr. French," she cried, "if I only could! But I cannot give
you what is Herbert's now."
"Herbert!" gasped Jack with parched lips.
"And oh, Jack," she cried again with sweet selfishness,
"you will love Herbert still, and me?"
And Jack, having had a moment in which to summon up the reserves
of his courage and his command, smiled into her appealing eyes,
kissed her pale face, and still smiling, took his way, unseeing
and unheeding all but those appealing, tearful eyes and that
pleading voice asking with sweet selfishness only his life.
Three months he roamed the plains alone, finding at length one sunny
day, Night Hawk Lake, whose fair and lonely wildness seemed to suit
his mood, and there he pitched his camp. Thence back to Winnipeg a
month later to his brother's wedding, and that over, still smiling,
to take his way again to Night Hawk Lake, where ever since he spent
his life.
He passed his days at first in building house and stables from the
poplar bluffs at hand, and later in growing with little toil from
the rich black land and taking from prairie, lake and creek with
rifle and with net, what was necessary for himself and his man,
the Scotch half-breed Mackenzie, all the while forgetting till he
could forget no longer, and then with Mackenzie drinking deep and
long till remembering and forgetting were the same.
After five years he returned to Winnipeg to stand by her side whose
image lived ever in his heart, while they closed down the coffin
lid upon the face dearest to her, dearest but one to him of all
faces in the world. Then when he had comforted her with what
comfort he had to give, he set face again toward Night Hawk Lake,
leaving her, because she so desired it, alone but for her aged
mother, bereft of all, husband, brothers, father, who might guard
her from the world's harm.
"I am safe, dear Jack," she said, "God will let nothing harm me."
And Jack, smiling bravely still, went on his way and for a whole
year lived for the monthly letter that advancing civilization had
come to make possible to him.
The last letter of the year brought him the word that she was
alone. That night Jack French packed his buckboard with grub for
his six-hundred-mile journey, and at the end of the third week,
for the trail was heavy on the Portage Plains, he drove his
limping broncho up the muddy Main Street of Winnipeg.
When the barber had finished with him, he set forth to find his
brother's wife, who, seeing him, turned deadly pale and stood
looking sadly at him, her hand pressed hard upon her heart.
"Oh, Jack!" she said at length, with a great pity in her
voice,--"poor Jack! why did you come?"
"To make you a home with me," said Jack, looking at her with eyes
full of longing, "and wherever you choose, here or yonder at the
Night Hawk Ranch, which is much better,"--at which her tears began
to flow.
"Poor Jack! Dear Jack!" she cried, "why did you come?"
"You know why," he said. "Can you not learn to love me?"
"Love you, Jack? I could not love you more."
"Can you not come to me?"
"Dear Jack! Poor Jack!" she said again, and fell to sobbing bitterly
till he forgot his own grief in hers. "I love my husband still."
"And I too," said Jack, looking pitifully at her.
"And I must keep my heart for him till I see him again." Her voice
sank to a whisper, but she stood bravely looking into his eyes, her
two hands holding down her fluttering heart as if in fear that it
might escape.
"And is that the last word?" said Jack wearily.
"Yes, Jack, my brother, my dear, dear brother," she said,
"it is the last. And oh, Jack, I have had much sorrow, but none
more bitter than this!" And sobbing uncontrollably, she laid
herself on his breast.
He held her to him, stroking her beautiful hair, his brown hand
trembling and his strong face twisting strangely.
"Don't cry, dear Margaret. Don't cry like that. I won't make you weep.
Never mind. You could not help it. And--I'll--get--over it--somehow.
Only don't cry."
Then when she grew quiet again he kissed her and went out, smiling
back at her as he went, and for fifteen years never saw her face again.
But month by month there came a letter telling him of her and her
work, and this helped him to forget his pain. But more and more
often as the years went on, Jack French and his man Mackenzie sat
long nights in the bare ranch house with a bottle between them,
till Mackenzie fell under the table and Jack with his hard head and
his lonely heart was left by himself, staring at the fire if in
winter, or out of the window at the lake if in summer, till the
light on the water grew red, to his great hurt in body and in soul.
One spring day in the sixteenth year, in the middle of the month of
May, when Jack had driven to the Crossing for supplies, an unexpected
letter met him, which gave him much concern and changed forever the
even current of his life. And this was the letter:
'My dear Jack,--You have not yet answered my last, you bad boy,
but you know I do not wait for answers, or you would seldom hear
from me.' "And that's true enough," murmured Jack. 'But this is a
special letter, and is to ask you to do a great thing for me, a very
great thing. Indeed, you may not be able to do it at all.' "Indeed!"
said Jack. 'And if you cannot do it, I trust you to tell me so.'
"Trust me! well rather," said Jack again.
'You know something of my work among the Galicians, but you do not
know just how sad it often is. They are poor ignorant creatures, but
really they have kind hearts and have many nice things.' "By Jove!
She'd find good points in the very devil himself!" 'And I know you
would pity them if you knew them, especially the women and the children.
The women have to work so hard, and the children are growing up wild,
learning little of the good and much of the bad that Winnipeg streets
can teach them.' "Heaven help them of their school!" cried Jack.
'Well, I must tell you what I want. You remember seeing in the
papers that I sent you some years ago, the account of that terrible
murder by a Russian Nihilist named Kalmar, and you remember perhaps
how he nearly killed a horrid man who had treated him badly, very
badly, named Rosenblatt. Well, perhaps you remember that Kalmar
escaped from the penitentiary, and has not been heard of since.
His wife and children have somehow come under the power of this
Rosenblatt again. He has got a mortgage on her house and forces
the woman to do his will. The woman is a poor stupid creature, and
she has just slaved away for this man. The boy is different. He is
a fine handsome little fellow, thirteen or fourteen years old, who
makes his living selling newspapers and, I am afraid, is learning a
great many things that he would be better without.' "Which is true of
more than him," growled Jack. 'Of course, he does not like Rosenblatt.
A little while ago there was a dance and, as always at the dances, that
awful beer! The men got drunk and a good deal of fighting took place.
Rosenblatt and a friend of his got abusing the girl. The boy flew at him
and wounded him with a knife,' "And served him jolly well right," said
Jack with an oath. 'and then Rosenblatt nearly killed him and threw him
out in the snow. There he would have certainly died, had not Dr. Wright
happened along and carried him to the hospital, where he has been ever
since. The doctor had Rosenblatt up before the Court, but he brought a
dozen men to swear that the boy was a bad and dangerous boy and that he
was only defending himself. Fancy a great big man against a boy thirteen!
Well, would you believe it, Rosenblatt escaped and laid a charge against
the boy, and would actually have had him sent to jail, but I went to the
magistrate and offered to take him and find a home for him outside of
the city.' "Good brave little lady! I know you well," cried Jack.
'I thought of you, Jack,' "Bless your kind little heart," said
Jack. 'and I knew that if you could get him you would make a man of
him.' "Aha! You did!" exclaimed Jack. 'Here he is getting worse and
worse every day. He is so quick and so clever, he has never been to
school, but he reads and speaks English well. He is very popular
with his own people, for he is a wonderful singer, and they like him
at their feasts. And I have heard that he is as fond of beer as any
of them. He was terribly battered, but he is all right again, and
has been living with his sister and his step-mother in the house
of a friend of his father's. But I have promised to get him out
of the city, and if I do not, I know Rosenblatt will be after him.
Besides this, I am afraid something will happen if he remains.
The boy says quite quietly, but you can't help feeling that he
means it, that he will kill Rosenblatt some day. It is terribly
sad, for he is such a nice boy.' "Seems considerable of an angel,"
agreed Jack. 'I am afraid you will have to teach him a good many
things, Jack, for he has some bad habits. But if he is with you
and away from the bad people he meets with here, I am sure he will
soon forget the bad things he has learned.' "Dear lady, God grant
you may never know," said Jack ruefully.
'This is a long letter, dear Jack. How I should like to go up
to Night Hawk Ranch and see you, for I know you will not come
to Winnipeg, and we do not see enough of each other. We ought to,
for my sake and for Herbert's too.' "Ah God! and what of me?"
groaned Jack. 'I cannot begin to thank you for all your kindness.
And, Jack, you must stop sending me money, for I do not need it
and I will not use it, and I just keep putting what you send me
in the bank for you. The Lord has given me many friends, and He
never has allowed me to want.
'I shall wait two weeks, and then send you Kalman--that is his
name, Kalman Kalmar, a nice name, isn't it? And he is a dear good
boy; that is, he might be.' "Good heart, so might we all," cried
Jack. 'But I love him just as he is.' "Happy boy." 'Wouldn't it
be fine if you could make him a good man? How much he might do for
his people! And if he stays here he will get to be terrible, for
his father was terrible, although, poor man, it was hardly his
fault.' "I surely believe in God's mercy," said poor Jack.
'This is a long rambling letter, dear Jack, but you will forgive
me. I sometimes get pretty tired.' And Jack's brown lean hand
closed swiftly. 'There is so much to do. But I am pretty well and
I have many kind friends. So much to do, so many sick and poor
and lonely. They need a friend. The Winnipeg people are very kind,
but they are very busy.
'Now, my dear Jack, will you do for Kalman all you can? And--may
I say it?--remember, he is just a boy. I do not want to preach to
you, but he needs to be under the care of a good man, and that is
why I send him to you.
'Your loving sister,
'Margaret.'
There was a grim look on Jack French's face as he finished reading
the letter the second time.
"You're a good one," he said, "and you have a wise little head as
well as a tender heart. Don't want to preach to me, eh? But you
get your work in all the same. Two weeks! Let's see, this letter
has been four weeks on the way--up to Edmonton and back! By Jove!
That boy ought to be along with Macmillan's outfit. I say, Jimmy,"
this to Jimmy Green, who, besides representing Her Majesty in the
office of Postmaster, was general store keeper and trader to the
community, "when will Macmillan be in?"
"Couple of days, Jack."
"Well, I guess I'll have to wait."
And this turned out an unhappy necessity for Jack French, for when
the Macmillan outfit drove up to the Crossing he was lying incapable
and dead to all around, in Jimmy Green's back store.