WHO RULES HIMSELF
"You won your battle the other evening," remarked Father Brochet to
Dunvegan a few days after. "Take care you do not lose this one."
Brochet's finger was levelled on the trail below the Hudson's Bay
Company's store.
The chief trader stared and frowned. The two figures strolling over the
path, Edwin Glyndon to his morning's business as clerk and Desirée
Lazard for small purchases which were now growing very frequent, had
been too much together of late to suit the chief trader's taste.
"Brochet," he spoke darkly, "I'm jealous of that fellow. I hate his
cursed good looks, his woman's eyes, his easy manners! And mark this,
Father, I could have him drafted in a minute to our farthest post. Often
I'm tempted to do it!"
The kindly priest laid a hand on Dunvegan's arm, feeling the chief
trader's muscles tighten under his inward emotions.
"Son," Brochet observed, "these are strenuous hours with the agents of
two great companies striving for the overlordship. But in the midst of
all the conflicts, the defeats, the triumphs, who is the real victor?"
"The Hudson's Bay Company," declared Dunvegan loyally.
The priest laughed. "Not the material conqueror," he explained. "I mean
what sort of spirit holds the real supremacy?"
"The man with the heaviest hand," was the chief trader's practical
answer.
"No," Brochet contradicted, "the man who rules himself! If you sent away
this handsome Edwin Glyndon out of envy, you would be only indulging
your own petty hate. Conquer your passions, my son. That is the true
kingship! If you cannot win a woman's will on your merits, don't win it
at all. No benefit ever came of such a victory gained by nothing but
strength or craft."
Dunvegan paced uneasily in front of his trading room, his eyes glancing
furtively toward the blank doorway of the store through which Glyndon
and Desirée had disappeared.
"Yet I go this afternoon with my men to build Kamattawa, leaving a free
field to him," he brooded. "Is that not giving Glyndon an advantage
which you advise me not to take myself. The rule works both ways it
seems to me."
"That," Brochet declared judicially, "is the natural course of things.
The other is quite different. Have you any objection to his work as a
clerk?"
"None! He handles the books and the pen better than any we ever had."
"Then it would be an injustice," the priest concluded. "Glyndon deserves
his chance. How about his vice?"
"There is no opportunity to pamper his appetite here," laughed Dunvegan.
"If he were alongside the Nor'wester's free rum barrel, I would not
answer for him. But I trust your judgment, Brochet. Things stay as they
are. Now I must finish my trading with the Indians or I shall not get
away on schedule."
"I intend paddling with you a little way to bid you farewell," the
priest announced as he started over the trail. "It may be I shall have
someone with me in my canoe."
His brown eyes twinkled. The suspicion of a smile curved his lips.
Dunvegan, looking sharply at him, flushed, and a hopeful gleam lighted
his countenance.
"Father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. That would
please me very much."
He watched the portly form pass on and wondered at the big heart that
beat under the black cassock.
"Dunvegan!" called the deep voice of Malcolm Macleod.
The chief trader turned about to see the Factor standing on the veranda
of his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "How many
Indians have yet to get their debt?" he asked.
"Twenty," Bruce replied. "Eight Ojibways and a dozen Wood Crees."
"Are they all in?"
"All but Running Wolf's tribe! The other Indian camps are ready to
strike their tepees. The twenty men are waiting outside the yard."
"Run them off as fast as possible," the Factor ordered. "I'll attend to
the preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may be
lacking. Noon should see you started."
Dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh.
"Oh, yes!" shouted Macleod, halting him. "What about Beaver Tail the
Iroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in the
spring?"
"I cut him off the Company's book as you ordered."
"Give him his full debt," the Factor said. "The poor devil has been
sickly, I understand, and not up to his usual prowess as a hunter. We'll
let him have another chance!"
It was an unexpected freak of generosity in Macleod's adamant nature.
The chief trader raised his eyebrows, expressing involuntary surprise,
but he made no comment. From his trading room door he beckoned to the
assembled group of Indian trappers beyond the tall palings enclosing the
yard. A pair of Ojibways stalked forward, Big Otter, the great old
hunter who had been on the Company's list for thirty years, and Running
Fire, on the trail a scant three winters and just beginning to acquire
fame as a trapper. In friendly fashion Dunvegan looked into their spare,
smoky faces and hawk-like eyes which seemed to hold only surface lights.
"Running Fire, my brother," he commenced, "your debt on the Company's
books is three hundred beaver. Here I give you three hundred castors to
trade in what you will. Take them, my brother, and because you are so
faithful on the hunt I add ten castors more. Does it satisfy you,
Running Fire?"
"Surely," spoke the Ojibway. "Strong Father has the kind heart. Behold
when the snows melt will I bring him a pack mightier than ever."
He took the string of wooden castors Dunvegan offered and, nodding his
satisfaction, strode off to the store where he would barter the counters
which represented half-dollars in money value for the supplies he would
require during his winter's hunt. There he would buy powder and ball,
clothing, blankets. He would stock up with sugar, tea, and flour. A
wonderful knife or axe might take his fancy. And what remained of his
purse would be squandered on fascinating, but useless, finery.
Big Otter traded next. The way he leaned over Dunvegan's counter showed
that they were old friends.
"Now comes my weak brother, he of the old limbs, the aged bones, the
waning strength," bantered the chief trader. "For him there is a debt of
one hundred castors recorded."
But Big Otter smiled at Dunvegan's joke, knowing that his limbs were
sound as any young buck's, remembering that his catch ran well over
three hundred.
"Strong Father's tongue makes merry," he returned. "Where is the
youthful brave who can follow my tracks?"
"I don't know him," admitted the chief trader, laughing, "but Running
Fire is making a mighty name. Some fine day he may follow you."
Big Otter sniffed in contradiction. "Let us wait and see," he suggested.
Dunvegan passed over a string of castors longer than the previous one.
"Three hundred and fifty castors is your debt, great one," he smiled,
"and to them I add twenty. Thus you stand high with us. But in return
for the present you must tell me how you manage to keep your peace of
mind, your strength of body."
The unweakened Ojibway chuckled quietly.
"I love not," he answered. "I hate not. I dream not."
Abruptly he strode out.
And Dunvegan, pondering, wondered if ever was born the white man who
could thus get his debt in life.
All the long forenoon the Indian trappers came to get their credit. The
six remaining Ojibways filed up. Appeared the twelve Wood Crees. The
emaciated Iroquois Beaver Tail came humbly and in gratitude. But Running
Wolf's band from the Katchawan failed to arrive. Not a hunter of his
tribe showed face in the palisaded yard. No canoe from his camps touched
prow on Oxford shore.
Although Malcolm Macleod had before boasted his unconcern at such an
issue, the confronting of the stern truth weighed upon his taciturn
spirits. The Cree chief had fallen in with Black Ferguson's party and
joined it, because he had been seen fighting in their ranks but a few
nights earlier. The fact that none of his kind had reported showed that
Running Wolf had reached them by messenger. Doubtless by now the fiery
Three Feathers and his brethren had swelled the Nor'west forces.
This knowledge plunged Macleod in a black mood. He rushed the
preparations for the departure of the brigade. He commanded. He rebuked.
He disciplined. He rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurs
sweated under the yoke. But when the noon hour was come, he had them
marshalled on the beach all ready for their journey.
Loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the big
fleet of canoes pointed over Oxford's waters. The crowd cheered madly,
dinning farewells and firing continual _feu-de-joies_. They thrilled at
the sight of the brawn going forth to build Kamattawa to shut out the
Nor'westers from the Valley. These looked able to do it; brown-armed
white men; swarthy post Indians; the hardy _mètis_; the dashing
voyageurs. The watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for the
indefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countless
brigades on some stern mission for the Company. For him they raised a
stormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men of
the fleet.
But Dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. The last glance he
cast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the face
of Edwin Glyndon. Two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead,
searching the island-dotted expanse of water.
Many miles of silver surface Oxford Lake unrolled before them; many
long, peaceful, shining miles! An intense calm mirrored it. The fiery,
autumn sun glazed the whole. The vivid shores floated double along its
sides. The sky lay down in its depths with great fish swimming among the
white clouds; while so still swooned the water that the very veining and
shading of color in the reflected foliage could be definitely traced.
As over silvered glass was the passing of the brigade. Each blotch of
canoe bottom, each bit of overhanging duffle, each quivering sinew
straining on the paddle flashed up from below.
Lightening the labor of their stroke, the debonair voyageurs broke into
their familiar boating song:
"_En roulant ma boule roulante----_"
And chanting more swiftly, they sang in voices which blended with the
artistic charm nature alone can give:
"_Ah fils du roi, tu es mèchant,
En roulant ma boule,
Toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant._"
By Windy Island they quickened their pace, chorusing loudly:
"_En roulant ma boule roulante,
En roulant ma boule;
Derrière chez-nous y-a-t-un' ètang;
En roulant ma boule._"
So the brigade went. And Oxford House crouched low in the distance.