CHARACTER
The old hunter stood by the table, with a slow smile breaking upon his
thin face as he looked upon the grovelling, snake-like figures at his
feet. Then he sniffed at the atmosphere, and began to comprehend.
'Sit here,' he said to the girl, whose head was covered in a flowing
blanket, pushing a chair into the corner. 'I'll have to sort some order
out of this crowd.'
Then he pulled at a leg which wriggled from beneath the table. It
belonged to McAuliffe, and its owner bellowed fearfully at the clutch.
'It's got me, Captain. Hold on to my arm, Davey. It's going to drag me
off.'
'Come out, Alf. Don't you know an old pard?'
It was ineffectual. The Factor only raved and struggled the more. So
Sinclair turned his attention to the others, who proved more amenable.
'It is you, Billy?' said the awe-stricken Captain. 'There's no foolery?
You're not a pesky spirit come to scare us for our sins?'
'Get up and put your arms round me,' said the hunter, a trifle testily.
'I never had much flesh to carry; what I've got now is solid, though, I
reckon.'
Then Dave peered up, a queer object with stains of liquor and sodden
tobacco down his cheeks. 'We reckoned you were fixed, Billy. 'Way up the
Saskatchewan by the _nitchies_.'
'Well, I wasn't. Pull Alf up, and I'll give you the yarn.'
Captain Robinson shook the prostrate figure. 'Git up, Alf. It's the
square thing. Old Billy's here, skin and all.'
'I didn't drink much. Captain--only a few glasses. There was a lot of
water in that last lot. You saw me mix it. Captain.'
'Didn't take you for a coward, Alf,' said Sinclair. 'I'm here, good as
ever, with Menotah as well.'
'Where?' blurted forth Dave. 'My gal! Darned if there isn't my gal!'
He would have shambled off towards her, but the hunter stopped him. 'Let
her alone, poor girl. She's had more than enough trouble.'
'She's next thing to being my wife, though. Guess she's wanting me.'
'You bet,' said Sinclair, smiling ironically.
'It's hard on a fellow not being able to speak to his gal.'
'Well, have a drink; that's pretty near as good,' said the Captain.
'Come on, Billy. Lord! it makes me feel queer down to the knee bones, to
see you standing upright there.'
The hunter laughed. This well-remembered sound almost entirely removed
McAuliffe's fear. Slowly and cautiously he dragged his head from the
matting, then gazed fearfully upward. 'That was Billy's laugh,' he
muttered. 'I don't reckon any ghost could raise such a racket.'
'Yes, Alf; you're scared of me, eh?'
'No, I'll be darned.' He clambered ungracefully to a sitting posture. 'I
never was afraid of old Billy not when he was alive; so it sha'n't be
said I'm scared of his ghost.'
'Well, shake, then,' said the hunter.
McAuliffe was still distrustful. 'Let's see you put down a dram first,'
he said. 'If you can still drink whisky, you're Billy. If you can't,
you're his ghost.'
'I was just waiting to be asked,' said the hunter, filling himself a
glass. 'Here's to you, Alf.'
The latter was up in a second, grabbing at his hand. 'Sit light there,
Billy,' he cried, forcing him into a chair. 'Tell us the yarn from start
to finish. Darn it, I'm glad it wasn't the whisky. This is the second
time you've scared me, Billy. I tell you, boys, straight, I thought I'd
got 'em a terror. As there's no danger of the jumps, I reckon we'd
better drink Billy's health, eh?'
A fresh bottle of spirit was cracked, and the glasses charged. 'I'm real
glad to drink to you again, Billy,' continued the Factor, sniffing
appreciatively the ascending aroma. 'Though, I tell you, you've
shortened our lives by suddenly returning to yours. You haven't dealt
square, Billy. Why didn't you turn up before? See here, now; there's got
to be no more larking off to the grave, and rising again to drive your
pards to total abstinence. Yes, Billy, if you'd been a ghost to-night, I
should have turned temperance orator. I tell you straight I should.'
'But the yarn, Billy,' cried Dave. 'Didn't the _nitchies_ try to fix
you?'
'No,' replied the hunter. 'Somebody did their best to shoot me, but it
wasn't a _nitchi_.'
'Who?' they all asked with a single voice.
'Lamont.'
A faint sound--it might have been a groan--came from the dark corner.
The Factor tilted his glass in his amazement, until the liquor splashed
upon the scattered cards. The Captain was shouting, 'Who's he?'
The hunter's spare face appeared almost frightened. '_The White Chief_,'
he said slowly.
McAuliffe growled like a bear, and dropped the glass outright; the
Captain sat upright, with the ash end of the cigar in his mouth; Dave
gave a deep cry.
'I mind it now,' the latter shouted. 'Was dead sure I'd seen his face,
but couldn't fix it nohow. Now I mind it. 'Twas one night I came upon
him sudden at the Lower Fort, without his paint.'
McAuliffe collapsed into a chair. 'Goldam!' he exclaimed weakly, 'to
think I should have lived with him. You're wrong though, Billy. He
fought for us that night. If it hadn't been for him, we'd all have been
fixed--'
'Lamont goes on the strong side. He knew it was all over with the Riel
racket. If he'd been taken up there, it was all up with him. He knew
that.'
To remove the veil of mystery which so far has environed the 'White
Chief':--
Riel was not, never had been, the prime factor of the revolution.
Himself a dull man of irregular habits, yet one whose mind might easily
be moulded; in unscrupulous hands, he was powerless to act as sole
leader; he could not forecast future chances without assistance. Left to
himself, he would never have struck the blow for right and liberty. But,
when sitting outside his shanty one summer evening, a young man came to
him. His sudden arrival was in itself mysterious, and from the first he
cast a powerful glamour over the great half-breed. The darkness came up,
night gathered round, and still Riel talked with the young Canadian, who
was, on his own confession, the finest rifle shot in the Dominion,
perhaps in the world at that time. Proofs of this were not wanting. The
heavy-featured man became delighted with the skill and flattery of the
fascinating white, who soon began to pour into his ears a vividly
painted word picture where his own name recurred frequently, in
conjunction with such expressions as power and wealth unbounded. He was
aware of Riel's intentions--his desire to reclaim the land from the
oppressor. To be brief, he had come to aid him.
The next scene represents the revolt from authority itself. Riel was
nominal leader, but in all things he was guided by the cunning brain and
persuasive voice of his white subordinate. This latter kept disguised as
a blood Indian, with the paint, feathers, buckskin and bead work of the
native warrior. For long none suspected the true identity, except, of
course, the Indians themselves, to whom he was known generally as the
'White Chief,' or the 'Father's Friend.'
While this disguise remained, Riel triumphed. In every struggle Lamont's
unerring rifle accomplished its pitiless work, until police and soldiers
grew to dread the report of the Indian marksman's weapon. He kept
himself always in a place of safety, well out of the direct flight of
hostile bullets.
But an Indian traitor--there were many of them--who entertained a grudge
against him, narrated the tale to hunter Sinclair of St Andrews one day
while tracing up a moose. Lamont had formerly been an acquaintance.
After learning this story he found a means of coming upon him suddenly,
to prove the truth of the Indian's word. The name, of course, had been
changed, but Sinclair penetrated to the identity by the report of his
wonderful shooting powers. In his surprise visit, attended though it was
by considerable risk, he was successful. The meeting was a dramatic one.
After an appeal had been wasted, the hunter threatened to capture and
hand him over to the Government. Lamont replied by snatching a revolver
and firing at him. The hunter had moved quickly aside when he saw the
intention, so escaped the bullet. In the dark night he escaped without
further risk. Later the story became known widely, while a reward was
offered for the apprehension of the White Chief. Yet Sinclair alone held
the knowledge of his actual personality. To all others he was merely a
name and a marvellous shot. Lamont suspected that Sinclair would not
open his mouth, in the hope of himself obtaining the reward, coupled
with the _kudos_ of having, unaided, captured the Indian auxiliary. His
only chance now was to follow up his former friend and kill
him--especially as he now began to understand that Riel was doomed, that
the Rebellion must fail inevitably.
His motive in thus allying himself to Riel must be sufficiently obvious.
He had previously gone over all ground, had reckoned every chance, as he
thought, to finally arrive at the conclusion that an insurrection of
Indians and half-breeds must be successful. He was but an ordinary
adventurer, yet of more than average intellect. He would sway the mind
of Riel, the invaders would be conquered and driven out, the half-breed
leader would be chief of the entire country--nominally only. The reins
of power would actually rest in his own hands. To depose the dull-witted
half-breed and obtain entire leadership would then be a comparatively
simple matter.
But most men omit in their reasonings the single detail of importance.
In this case he had reckoned entirely without the influence of the
Church, and the extraordinary power which it held and could exert over
its ignorant and superstitious children. When the Archbishop with his
assistants first commenced their efforts, he had smiled disdainfully at
the wild fancy of men being such fanatics as to be priest led. But this
gratification endured no longer than a fortnight, by which time he found
many on whom he had confidently relied laying down their weapons,
returning to their homes with the declaration that they would abide by
the command of their religion. The Intrepid Archbishop had conquered.
So he abandoned Riel to his fate and fled, with the price of blood upon
his head, to remorselessly and energetically follow up Sinclair's trail.
He might easily have escaped from the country, but the lust of vengeance
was hot within him. Besides, he fancied himself in love with Marie
Larivière. After the silencing of the hunter, he might be able to fan
the flame of passion into a fiercer and hotter rebellion. So he followed
the trail, even to the forests of the Great Saskatchewan.
'Well, well, Billy,' said the Factor, half an hour later, 'it's a
wonderful experience you've had. I tell you, if you could have seen
young Winton that night, and old Blackey rocketing around, you'd have
reckoned yourself you were dead.'
'What's the matter with drinking Billy's health?' said Dave, thirstily.
'You're a cute lad,' said the Captain; 'fill up and pass the bottle.
It's all right; Alf pays the racket.'
'I mind now,' broke in Dave. 'It was when I was raddled in the fort I
recognised Lamont. Called him White Chief, I did, and he turned a sort
of green colour. I mind it all now.'
'You were full, Dave,' chuckled the Factor; 'what I've said right along.
That's the only time you're sensible, lad. Come on, Billy, drink your
own health.'
The hunter had told his story amid constant interruptions of the above
character. After leaving Winton, he had set forth through the gathering
darkness to bring up the horses. He found them tethered as left, but
when about to depart fancied he could detect--with the sharp hearing
instinct of his profession--sounds of a stirring body in the bush
adjacent. There were no repetitions of these motions, so he got the
animals clear and began to move on the return journey. Then the conduct
of the grey mare aroused fresh suspicion. She refused to approach a
thicket of red willow lying slightly to the right of their path. He
hesitated for a time, then, thinking her fear was probably due to some
passing Indian, placed himself between her and the bush. Still he
advanced with what speed he could muster. The loose rocks were slippery
with dew, and the undergrowth tangling to the feet. He had passed, and
breathed a sigh of relief At the same instant that brushing aside of
bushes sounded again. Then a stone flew from the centre of the bush and
struck the mare full on the side. She broke from him, plunging like a
wild creature, and finally rushed away into the forest.
That same instant a low, vengeful voice broke forth in the gloomy
silence. 'Sinclair,' it said, with a stifled laugh, 'I've fixed you
now.'
That dreaded rifle cracked. There came the shock of the bullet, and he
had fallen unconscious to the ground.
Here McAuliffe had interrupted eagerly, 'Tell now, Billy, was the pain
bad?'
'Didn't feel a thing, except an awful sudden shock, same as you might
receive from an extra strong electric battery,' replied the hunter. 'A
fellow couldn't wish for a nicer way out of life. It's a case of alive
one quarter second, dead the next. There's no suffering nor worry. You
just hop out of life and step into eternity. That's what death by
shooting is. 'Course only when it comes sudden and unexpected.'
'Diddled you fine, Captain,' said the Factor, rubbing his hands. 'See
here, Billy, Captain and I had a big argument on that one time. He said
a man couldn't be killed right off by a bullet. Suffered bad he did,
before dying. I told him he didn't know the first thing about it. The
fellow would turn up right away. I'm right again. Yes, Captain, got you
fine. Here's old Billy jumped out of his grave, purpose to let you
know.'
Captain Robinson blew forth a mighty fog of smoke, and remarked that
McAuliffe was talking through his hat.
So, for once in his life, Lamont had made a mis-shot. At the time he
must have been over-excited. Then his enemy was very close, and he was
too confident. Still he had been quite satisfied that his skill could
not fail, for he had gone off at once, without waiting to examine the
body.
Menotah, passing happily from the river pool to the forest encampment,
had come upon him immediately after. Half an hour later, and the triumph
of the White Chief would have been complete, for his victim was rapidly
bleeding to death; but the girl's skill, aided by the advice and
health-giving restoratives of the old Antoine--who of course knew
nothing of the rescue--had brought him back to life and strength. Her
pity had gone out to this wounded man, who was far from home and
friends. She was anxious to save him from suffering, so had cared for
him as he lay for some days and nights beneath the red willow thicket,
and when strength served, had led him to the hut by the swamp. For he
had explained his wish for privacy.
'Say, Billy, where's that hut, anyway?' asked the Factor.
''Way down the swamp. Only she and the old medicine man know of it.'
'Thought I knew all the district. Wonder I never struck it.'
'It's well hidden. Petroleum swamp, too. There's a shining fortune lying
around there.'
'No way of shipping it, and no market. But think of you hiding down
there, and then larking out of the bush that night on me and Kit. You
made me swear off liquor for a month, Billy. Why didn't you come back to
the fort?'
'Didn't dare,' said Sinclair, shortly.
'Don't see what there was to be scared of.'
'Lamont. I tell you straight I was afraid of him. He's a strong will,
while mine after that shot got a bit broken. I was weak and nervous as a
baby all summer. Then, I reckoned, if I lay quiet till I got fixed up, I
might be able to get in a dirty sort of shot at him to level matters.
Yes, I was cowardly mean enough to want a pot at him, same as he put in
at me.'
There was no remark, so the hunter continued,--
'When Lamont made off, last boat in the fall, my idea was to follow.
Menotah helped me again. Through her I got a canoe with a couple of
_nitchi_ boys, who paddled me away across to Horse Island.[1] From there
I was lucky enough to get a passage in a late fishing boat. It was a
terrible risky journey. We were frozen in twice; but it broke and we got
back. Even since then I've kept away from Garry, until I'd got
everything ready fixed. Didn't want Lamont to see me. He's round here,
you know.'
'What's the plan now, Billy?' asked the Captain.
Sinclair smiled. 'A warrant will be out in the morning. We're going to
arrest him in the night.'
'Any trouble getting it?' asked McAuliffe.
'Took time, of course. But, I tell you, the Commissioner took down what
I had to say, as though 'twas a plateful of oysters.'
'There's the reward as well, Billy,' put in the Captain.
'Yes. He said my services would be referred to the Government--'
'Don't you believe it, Billy,' interrupted the Factor. 'I know that sort
of darned business. They'll refer to each other, and this joker will
write to another baldhead. He'll go on to some other fool, and that one
will refer the whole crowd back to first correspondence. Then they'll
start to work over again. By the time your grandchildren are getting
oldish, you'll get a letter to say they won't give you anything, owing
to lapse of time, incorrect information, and a lot of other truck.
That's how they do business in Government offices. They work for
eternity, they do.'
'Near shifting time,' said the Captain. 'I'll be finishing my smoke
presently, then we'll make. Wake up, Dave.'
The latter gentleman was lolling over the table, breathing deeply.
McAuliffe poured some water down his neck with instant result.
'It's your ante, Dave; hustle yourself. There's going to be a picnic
round here. We're going to have Lamont arrested and strung up at Regina.
We'll go there together, Dave, and cut a dido.'
It took yet another half hour for Captain Robinson to finish his cigar,
so the others filled in the interval by much loud conversation, heedless
of time, or peace of others in the little wooden building.
Ever since her entrance, Menotah had sat quietly in the dark corner
allotted to her, without motion or speech. Frightened by the busy motion
and numerous faces of Fort Garry, she had followed Sinclair with an
almost dog-like submission, obeying his every word, yet only keeping
silence on the matter that lay nearest her heart. Night and day she
carried in the warmth of her bosom a black substance enwrapped in dry
grass. It was of the appearance and consistency of solid glue. This was
Antoine's last gift--a drug, which, when introduced into the blood, cast
the body into a consumptive shivering no human art could cure. The time
for its use had almost come, but she said nothing. They must not suspect
her object.
But she was not to be left altogether to the quiet her soul desired. As
the time for departure arrived, Dave, who was far from sober, suddenly
caught sight of her. At once he lurched across the room.
'Here's my gal waiting here for me all this time,' he said. 'Darn it,
boys, you've left my gal out of the fun. Come along with me, Menotah,
and have a sit on my knee.'
He caught at the blanket and pulled it from her head. The beautiful
unbound hair flowed down over her shoulders, framing the pale face,
which looked up so pathetically at her tormentor. Hunter Sinclair
thought of the deer fever when he saw those mournful eyes.
'Come on, gal,' cried Dave, coarsely. 'No moping when I'm around.'
She held out a little hand to him. 'Ah! leave me,' she pleaded
pitifully.
'I brought you across the lake. You're going to be my wife, ain't you?
No going back on your word now.'
'Come on, Davey,' cried the Factor, in a ripe voice, 'I'm waiting to see
you home. No drunks allowed in Garry after nightfall.'
'My gal's asking for a drink. You're a mean dirty crowd finishing up the
whisky, and not giving my poor gal a drop.' He lurched to her side, and
took her cold little face between his hot greasy hands. 'Never mind,
Menotah; I'll give you a good kissing instead. That'll be better than
liquor, eh?
She struggled with deep panting breath, and weak little cries for pity.
Poor stricken girl! her cup of misery was very full indeed. She was a
woman and weak, but an Indian. They were men and white, therefore cruel.
This distinction was wide and sufficient.
'Ah! let me go, if you are man and have a heart,' she wailed, with
broken sobs. 'You made me promise you would leave me to myself for a
time. Will you keep that promise thus? If you have pity, leave me.'
The others stood around with loud laughter and coarse jests as Dave put
his amorous designs into execution. And these were men, loyal-hearted
Canadians, who loved their queen and flag. The life of one of them had
been preserved by the struggling girl he now refused to aid. True, they
were all over-mastered by liquor, otherwise McAuliffe would certainly
have interfered, probably also Sinclair on the lowest grounds of
gratitude. But let it be remembered far worse things have been done, are
done to-day, by such men, in full possession of their faculties, with
sober and deliberate intent to ruin.
'You blasted gal!' shouted Dave. 'Can't you give decent kisses to the
man you're going to hitch on to?'
'Wants harnessing, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Here, I'll hold her, while
you smack her on the lips. Ain't she got a pretty little kissing mouth,
too?'
He did hold her, careless of her moans and choked sobs. Dave twisted his
hand into her silken hair and dragged her small head back, then pressed
his dirty, liquor-tainted face across hers. She cried from her bleeding
heart to the Great Spirit that he would aid her, and judge between her
and these. And doubtless the Spirit heard that cry.
'I'm going, Dave,' stammered the Factor. 'B'lieve I'm nearly full. Must
have some fresh air before bed.'
'Give us a show, Dave,' shouted the excited Captain. 'It's my turn, I
reckon.' He pushed Dave aside, then tried to kiss the trembling,
miserable girl.
But Dave was at him in an instant, with a dim idea that his rights were
in danger of infringement. 'You'll insult my gal, will you? Darned if I
won't fight you, Captain. I tell you, you don't know Dave Spencer. He's
terrible tough when roused.'
He pulled off his canvas jacket, and danced like a figure on wires round
the Captain. The other two interfered, and soon the whole four were
quarrelling together noisily.
In the midst of this tumult, Menotah rose and quickly slipped to the
closed door. Dave immediately wheeled round and lurched after her. She
struggled with the handle, which she could not understand. He caught her
by the arm just as the door came open. She clenched her teeth, then, as
a spark of the old fire shot into her lustrous eyes, she struck him with
all her strength full in the face with her free hand. Half dazed, he
dropped to the floor, while she disappeared--out into the hot, clear
night, beneath the kind gleam of the stars she knew and loved.
The quarrel ended. Dave was raised by jocular arms, swearing fearfully.
He announced his intention of going at once after the girl and smashing
every bone in her body. McAuliffe offered to join him, so the two
tumbled heavily down the narrow stairway. The Captain and Sinclair
lurched off in an opposite direction.
The former couple forgot all about Menotah, even before reaching the
outer air. They stumbled along cheerily for a short distance, only
intent upon their own happiness.
'Say, Alf, where are we anyhow?' asked Dave, thickly.
'We're all right, Dave. Straighten up, now; this is New York City,' came
the confident reply.
'Don't say. Well, well, sort of thought I was in Fort Garry to-day.
Couldn't have been, Alf, eh?'
'Course not. Ever been in New York before, Davey?'
'First visit, Alf. Fine place, ain't it?'
'Bet your life. First-class saloons, I'm told. We'll sample 'em, eh?'
Dave sniggered. 'I reckon.'
More he might have said, but at that instant they came upon a log lying
across the road. Without the least hesitation they both took a header,
then lay sprawling on the other side in the dew-wet dust.
They sat up, more pleased with themselves than damaged by the fall. 'Was
it a cyclone, Alf?' asked Dave, blankly.
'Whist, Dave. Don't make a racket, or we'll have the police on us.
They'll say we put that thing across the sidewalk. Disgraceful in a
great big city like this, ain't it?'
Dave sympathised, then the Factor's note changed to anger. 'Goldam! I've
split up my right boot and half smashed a toe. I shall go to a lawyer's
office first thing, and sue the corporation of this darned city.
Sticking obstacles on the sidewalk to smash the toes of honest citizens.
Sha'n't be able to walk in Central Park to-morrow, now my boot's broken
up.'
'Never mind, Alf. You can get boots half price from the Company. Nothing
at all, if you cook the books.'
'Davey,' said the Factor, reproachfully. 'I couldn't do it. I'd like to
cheat, but dern it, Davey, I can't. I'm too high-minded.'
For some time longer they talked from their respective dust heaps, while
mosquitoes sang in the air, and frogs chirped in the grass around them.
Then they climbed to their feet to continue aimless peregrinations.
'I know, Davey,' said the Factor, suddenly, as they came to a corner
house. 'There's a nice little saloon right up here. Come on, and I'll
drink your health, lad.'
'Isn't it next turning?' said the other, merely for sake of argument.
''Course not. That 'ud take us down to Broadway. Think I don't know my
way about?'
'Long time between drinks, ain't it, Alf?'
'You're right, Davey. Wonderful fine place New York, ain't it? We'll
have a drink, then I'll take you around on a car, while we take in the
show.'
'I'm right on,' hiccoughed Dave. 'Come on, Alf.' They linked together,
and staggered up the byway in the darkness. The road and themselves soon
ended in a ditch.
[1] Geographically known as Selkirk Island, though wrongly placed on all
maps.