During the next quarter of an hour David was as silent as the old
Indian doctor. He was conscious of no pain when Nepapinas took off his
bandage and bathed his head in the lotion he had brought. Before a
fresh bandage was put on, he looked at himself for a moment in the
mirror. It was the first time he had seen his wound, and he expected to
find himself marked with a disfiguring scar. To his surprise there was
no sign of his hurt except a slightly inflamed spot above his temple.
He stared at Nepapinas, and there was no need of the question that was
in his mind.
The old Indian understood, and his dried-up face cracked and crinkled
in a grin. "Bullet hit a piece of rock, an' rock, not bullet, hit um
head," he explained. "Make skull almost break--bend um in--but
Nepapinas straighten again with fingers, so-so." He shrugged his thin
shoulders with a cackling laugh of pride as he worked his claw-like
fingers to show how the operation had been done.
David shook hands with him in silence; then Nepapinas put on the fresh
bandage, and after that went out, chuckling again in his weird way, as
though he had played a great joke on the white man whom his wizardry
had snatched out of the jaws of death.
For some time there had been a subdued activity outside. The singing of
the boatmen had ceased, a low voice was giving commands, and looking
through the window, David saw that the bateau was slowly swinging away
from the shore. He turned from the window to the table and lighted the
cigar St. Pierre's wife had given him.
In spite of the mental struggle he had made during the presence of
Nepapinas, he had failed to get a grip on himself. For a time he had
ceased to be David Carrigan, the man-hunter. A few days ago his blood
had run to that almost savage thrill of the great game of one against
one, the game in which Law sat on one side of the board and Lawlessness
on the other, with the cards between. It was the great gamble. The
cards meant life or death; there was never a checkmate--one or the
other had to lose. Had some one told him then that soon he would meet
the broken and twisted hulk of a man who had known Black Roger
Audemard, every nerve in him would have thrilled in anticipation of
that hour. He realized this as he paced back and forth over the thick
rugs of the bateau floor. And he knew, even as he struggled to bring
them back, that the old thrill and the old desire were gone. It was
impossible to lie to himself. St. Pierre, in this moment, was of more
importance to him than Roger Audemard. And St. Pierre's wife,
Marie-Anne--
His eyes fell on the crumpled handkerchief on the piano keys. Again he
was crushing it in the palm of his hand, and again the flood of
humiliation and shame swept over him. He dropped the handkerchief, and
the great law of his own life seemed to rise up in his face and taunt
him. He was clean. That had been his greatest pride. He hated the man
who was unclean. It was his instinct to kill the man who desecrated
another man's home. And here, in the sacredness of St. Pierre's
paradise, he found himself at last face to face with that greatest
fight of all the ages.
He faced the door. He threw back his shoulders until they snapped, and
he laughed, as if at the thing that had risen up to point its finger at
him. After all, it did not hurt a man to go through a bit of fire--if
he came out of it unburned. And deep in his heart he knew it was not a
sin to love, even as he loved, if he kept that love to himself. What he
had done when Marie-Anne stood at the window he could not undo. St.
Pierre would probably have killed him for touching her hair with his
lips, and he would not have blamed St. Pierre. But she had not felt
that stolen caress. No one knew--but himself. And he was happier
because of it. It was a sort of sacred thing, even though it brought
the heat of shame into his face.
He went to the door, opened it, and stood out in the sunshine. It was
good to feel the warmth of the sun in his face again and the sweet air
of the open day in his lungs. The bateau was free of the shore and
drifting steadily towards midstream. Bateese was at the great birchwood
rudder sweep, and to David's surprise he nodded in a friendly way, and
his wide mouth broke into a grin.
"Ah, it is coming soon, that fight of ours, little coq de bruyere!" he
chuckled gloatingly. "An' ze fight will be jus' lak that, m'sieu--you
ze little fool-hen's rooster, ze partridge, an' I, Concombre Bateese,
ze eagle!"
The anticipation in the half-breed's eyes reflected itself for an
instant in David's. He turned back into the cabin, bent over his pack,
and found among his clothes two pairs of boxing gloves. He fondled them
with the loving touch of a brother and comrade, and their velvety
smoothness was more soothing to his nerves than the cigar he was
smoking. His one passion above all others was boxing, and wherever he
went, either on pleasure or adventure, the gloves went with him. In
many a cabin and shack of the far hinterland he had taught white men
and Indians how to use them, so that he might have the pleasure of
feeling the thrill of them on his hands. And now here was Concombre
Bateese inviting him on, waiting for him to get well!
He went out and dangled the clumsy-looking mittens under the
half-breed's nose.
Bateese looked at them curiously. "Mitaines," he nodded. "Does ze
little partridge rooster keep his claws warm in those in ze winter?
They are clumsy, m'sieu. I can make a better mitten of caribou skin."
Putting on one of the gloves, David doubled up his fist. "Do you see
that, Concombre Bateese?" he asked. "Well, I will tell you this, that
they are not mittens to keep your hands warm. I am going to fight you
in them when our time comes. With these mittens I will fight you and
your naked fists. Why? Because I do not want to hurt you too badly,
friend Bateese! I do not want to break your face all to pieces, which I
would surely do if I did not put on these soft mittens. Then, when you
have really learned to fight--"
The bull neck of Concombre Bateese looked as if it were about to burst.
His eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets, and suddenly he let
out a roar. "What!--You dare talk lak that to Concombre Bateese, w'at
is great'st fightin' man on all T'ree River? You talk lak that to me,
Concombre Bateese, who will kill ze bear wit' hees ban's, who pull down
ze tree, who--who--"
The word-flood of his outraged dignity sprang to his lips; emotion
choked him, and then, looking suddenly over Carrigan's shoulder--he
stopped. Something in his look made David turn. Three paces behind him
stood Marie-Anne, and he knew that from the corner of the cabin she had
heard what had passed between them. She was biting her lips, and behind
the flash of her eyes he saw laughter.
"You must not quarrel, children," she said. "Bateese, you are steering
badly."
She reached out her hands, and without a word David gave her the
gloves. With her palm and fingers she caressed them softly, yet David
saw little lines of doubt come into her white forehead.
"They are pretty--and soft, M'sieu David. Surely they can not hurt
much! Some day when St. Pierre comes, will you teach me how to use
them?"
"Always it is 'When St. Pierre comes,'" he replied. "Shall we be
waiting long?"
"Two or three days, perhaps a little longer. Are you coming with me to
the proue, m'sieu?"
She did not wait for his answer, but went ahead of him, dangling the
two pairs of gloves at her side. David caught a last glimpse of the
half-breed's face as he followed Marie-Anne around the end of the
cabin. Bateese was making a frightful grimace and shaking his huge
fist, but scarcely were they out of sight on the narrow footway that
ran between the cabin and the outer timbers of the scow when a huge
roar of laughter followed them. Bateese had not done laughing when they
reached the proue, or bow-nest, a deck fully ten feet in length by
eight in width, sheltered above by an awning, and comfortably arranged
with chairs, several rugs, a small table, and, to David's amazement, a
hammock. He had never seen anything like this on the Three Rivers, nor
had he ever heard of a scow so large or so luxuriously appointed. Over
his head, at the tip of a flagstaff attached to the forward end of the
cabin, floated the black and white pennant of St. Pierre Boulain. And
under this staff was a screened door which undoubtedly opened into the
kitchenette which Marie-Anne had told him about. He made no effort to
hide his surprise. But St. Pierre's wife seemed not to notice it. The
puckery little lines were still in her forehead, and the laughter had
faded out of her eyes. The tiny lines deepened as there came another
wild roar of laughter from Bateese in the stern.
"Is it true that you have given your word to fight Bateese?" she asked.
"It is true, Marie-Anne. And I feel that Bateese is looking ahead
joyously to the occasion."
"He is," she affirmed. "Last night he spread the news among all my
people. Those who left to join St. Pierre this morning have taken the
news with them, and there is a great deal of excitement and much
betting. I am afraid you have made a bad promise. No man has offered to
fight Bateese in three years--not even my great St. Pierre, who says
that Concombre is more than a match for him."
"And yet they must have a little doubt, as there is betting, and it
takes two to make a bet," chuckled David.
The lines went out of Marie-Anne's forehead, and a half-smile trembled
on her red lips. "Yes, there is betting. But those who are for you are
offering next autumn's muskrat skins and frozen fish against lynx and
fisher and marten. The odds are about thirty to one against you, M'sieu
David!"
The look of pity which was clearly in her eyes brought a rush of blood
to David's face. "If only I had something to wager!" he groaned.
"You must not fight. I shall forbid it!"
"Then Bateese and I will steal off into the forest and have it out by
ourselves."
"He will hurt you badly. He is terrible, like a great beast, when he
fights. He loves to fight and is always asking if there is not some one
who will stand up to him. I think he would desert even me for a good
fight. But you, M'sieu David--"
"I also love a fight," he admitted, unashamed.
St. Pierre's wife studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "With these?"
she asked then, holding up the gloves.
"Yes, with those. Bateese may use his fists, but I shall use those, so
that I shall not disfigure him permanently. His face is none too
handsome as it is."
For another flash her lips trembled on the edge of a smile. Then she
gave him the gloves, a bit troubled, and nodded to a chair with a deep,
cushioned seat and wide arms. "Please make yourself comfortable, M'sieu
David. I have something to do in the cabin and will return in a little
while."
He wondered if she had gone back to settle the matter with Bateese at
once, for it was clear that she did not regard with favor the promised
bout between himself and the half-breed. It was on the spur of a
careless moment that he had promised to fight Bateese, and with little
thought that it was likely to be carried out or that it would become a
matter of importance with all of St. Pierre's brigade. He was evidently
in for it, he told himself, and as a fighting man it looked as though
Concombre Bateese was at least the equal of his braggadocio. He was
glad of that. He grinned as he watched the bending backs of St.
Pierre's men. So they were betting thirty to one against him! Even St.
Pierre might be induced to bet--with HIM. And if he did--
The hot blood leaped for a moment in Carrigan's veins. The thrill went
to the tips of his fingers. He stared out over the river, unseeing, as
the possibilities of the thing that had come into his mind made him for
a moment oblivious of the world. He possessed one thing against which
St. Pierre and St. Pierre's wife would wager a half of all they owned
in the world! And if he should gamble that one thing, which had come to
him like an inspiration, and should whip Bateese--
He began to pace back and forth over the narrow deck, no longer
watching the rowers or the shore. The thought grew, and his mind was
consumed by it. Thus far, from the moment the first shot was fired at
him from the ambush, he had been playing with adventure in the dark.
But fate had at last dealt him a trump card. That something which he
possessed was more precious than furs or gold to St. Pierre, and St.
Pierre would not refuse the wager when it was offered. He would not
dare refuse. More than that, he would accept eagerly, strong in the
faith that Bateese would whip him as he had whipped all other fighters
who had come up against him along the Three Rivers. And when Marie-Anne
knew what that wager was to be, she, too, would pray for the gods of
chance to be with Concombre Bateese!
He did not hear the light footsteps behind him, and when he turned
suddenly in his pacing, he found himself facing Marie-Anne, who carried
in her hands the little basket he had seen on the cabin table. She
seated herself in the hammock and took from the basket a bit of lace
work. For a moment he watched her fingers flashing in and out with the
needles.
Perhaps his thought went to her. He was almost frightened as he saw her
cheeks coloring under the long, dark lashes. He faced the rivermen
again, and while he gripped at his own weakness, he tried to count the
flashings of their oars. And behind him, the beautiful eyes of St.
Pierre's wife were looking at him with a strange glow in their depths.
"Do you know," he said, speaking slowly and still looking toward the
flashing of the oars, "something tells me that unexpected things are
going to happen when St. Pierre returns. I am going to make a bet with
him that I can whip Bateese. He will not refuse. He will accept. And
St. Pierre will lose, because I shall whip Bateese. It is then that
these unexpected things will begin to happen. And I am wondering--after
they do happen--if you will care so very much?"
There was a moment of silence. And then, "I don't want you to fight
Bateese," she said.
The needles were working swiftly when he turned toward her again, and a
second time the long lashes shadowed what a moment before he might have
seen in her eyes.