Kitabı oku: «The Huntress», sayfa 12

"What way?" asked Sam.

"There's a trail from the back of our house direct to Grier's Point. It is never used except when they bring supplies to the store in the summer. We keep very early hours. Everything is quiet by nine. I could slip out of the house and walk down the trail to meet you. We could talk a while, and I could be in again before dark."

Sam felt a little dubious, but how can a young man hold back in a matter of this kind? "All right, if you wish it," he agreed.

"I am only thinking of you," she said.

"I'll be there."

No better place for a tryst could have been found. No one ever had any occasion to use the back trail, and it was invisible for its whole length to travellers on the main road. After issuing from the woods of Grier's Point it crossed a wide flat among clumps of willows, and, climbing over the spur of a wooded hill, dropped in Beattie's back yard.

They met half-way across the flat in the tender dusk. The fairy light took away ten years of her age, and Sam experienced almost a bona fide thrill of romance at the sight of her slender figure swaying over the meadow toward him.

In his gratitude for her kindness he really desired to feel more warmly toward her, which is a perilous state of mind for a young man to be in. He spread his coat for her to sit on, and dropped beside her in the grass.

"Smoke your pipe," she said. "It's more cosy."

He obeyed.

"I wish I had a cigarette myself," she added with a giggle.

"Do you smoke?" asked Sam, surprised.

"No," she confessed; "but all the girls do, nowadays."

"I don't like it," said Sam bluntly.

"Of course I was only joking," she returned hastily.

Their conversation was not very romantic. Sam, with the best intentions in the world, somehow frustrated her attempts in this direction. He was propped up on one elbow beside her.

"How thick and bright your hair is!" she murmured.

"You've got some hair yourself," returned Sam politely.

She quickly put both hands up. "Ah! don't look at it. A hair-dresser spoiled it. As a child it hung below my waist."

Sam not knowing exactly what to say to this, blew a cloud of smoke.

"What a perfect night!" she breathed.

"Great!" said Sam. "That near-horse of mine, Sambo, picked up a stone on the beach this morning. I didn't discover what was making him lame until we were half-way round the bay. I wish I knew more about horses. I pick up all I can, but you never can tell when these fellows are giving it to you straight."

"It's a shame the way they plague you!" she exclaimed warmly.

"Oh, it's nothing, now," replied Sam. "I can stand anything now that I've got a man's job. I'll make good yet. I think I can see a difference already. I think about it day and night. It's my dream. I mean, making good with these fellows. It isn't that I care so much about them either. But after what's happened. I've got to make them respect me!"

And so on, in entire innocence. Sam was aware of no feelings toward her save gratitude and friendliness. Nevertheless, it would not have been the first time it happened, if these safe and simple feelings had suddenly landed him in an inextricable coil. Men are babies in such matters.

But nothing happened this night. Sam walked back with her to the foot of the hill, and they parted without touching hands.

"Shan't I see you through the wood?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Some one might see from the house. There's plenty of light yet. To-morrow night at the same time?"

"All right," said Sam.

She stood watching until he disappeared among the willows, then turned to mount the shallow hill. Down among the trunks of the big pines it was gloomier than she had expected. The patches of bright sky seemed immeasurably far overhead. The wood was full of whispers. She began to be sorry that she had let him go so soon, and hastened her steps.

Suddenly, as she neared the top of the hill, a human figure materialized in the trail before her. She was too much startled to scream. She stopped, petrified with terror, struggling to draw her breath. Its shadowy face was turned toward her. It was a very creature of night, still and voiceless. It blocked the way she had to pass. Her limbs shook under her, and a low moan of terror escaped her breast.

Finding a little strength at last, she made to dart among the trees so that she could encircle the apparition.

"Stop!" It commanded.

Miss Mackall fell half fainting against a tree.

The figure came closer to her, and she saw that it was a woman. A horrible prescience of what was coming still further demoralized her. Women do not require explanations in words. Miss Mackall recognized the adventuress of Musquasepi, and knew what she had come for. She sought to temporize.

"What do you want?" she faltered.

"I want kill you," said Bela softly. "My finger is hungry for the trigger."

She moved slightly, and a spot of light caught the barrel of the rifle over her arm. Miss Mackall moaned again.

"What did I ever do to you?" she wailed.

"You know," replied Bela grimly. "You tried tak' my man."

"How r-ridiculous!" stuttered Miss Mackall. "He isn't yours."

"Maybe," returned Bela. "Not yet. But no ot'er woman goin' get him from me."

"It isn't my fault if he wants me."

"Want you!" cried Bela scornfully. "An old woman! You try catch him lak he a fish!"

Miss Mackall broke into a low, hysterical weeping.

"Shut up!" said Bela. "Listen to w'at I say."

"Let me go! Let me go!" wept the other woman. "I'll scream!"

"No, you won't," said Bela coolly. "You not want Gilbert Beattie know you run out at night."

"I won't be murdered in cold blood! I won't! I won't!"

"Shut up!" said Bela. "I not goin' kill you jus' yet. Not if you do what I want."

Miss Mackall stopped weeping. "What do you want?" she asked eagerly.

"You got go 'way from here," said Bela coolly.

"What do you mean?"

"Bishop Lajeunesse goin' back down lake day after to-morrow. If you here after he gone I kill you."

A little assurance began to return to Miss Mackall. After all, it was not a supernatural, but a very human enemy with whom she had to deal.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded with quavering dignity.

"Yes," replied Bela calmly. "So they say."

"Oh!" sneered Miss Mackall. "Do you think I shall pay any attention to your threats? I have only to speak a word to my brother-in-law and you will be arrested."

"They got catch me first," said Bela. "No white man can follow me in the bush. I go where I want. Always I will follow you – wit' my gun."

The white woman's voice broke again. "If anything happened to me, you'd be tried and hung for murder!"

"What do a crazy woman care for that?" asked Bela.

Miss Mackall commenced to weep again.

Bela suddenly stepped aside. "Run home!" she said contemptuously. "Better pack your trunk."

Miss Mackall's legs suddenly recovered their function, and she sped up the trail like a released arrow. Never in her life had she run so fast. She fell into her room panting and trembling, and offered up a little prayer of thankfulness for the security of four walls and a locked door.

Next morning she was unable to get up in time to see Sam pass. She appeared at the dinner table pale and shaky, and pleaded a headache in explanation. During the meal she led the conversation by a round-about course to the subject of Indians.

"Do they ever go crazy?" she asked Gilbert Beattie, with an off-hand air.

"Yes, indeed," he answered. "It's one of the commonest troubles we have to deal with. They're fanatics by nature, anyway, and it doesn't take much to turn the scale. Weh-ti-go is their word for insanity. Among the people around the lake there is an extraordinary superstition, which the priests have not been able to eradicate in two hundred years. The Indians say of an insane man that his brain is frozen. And they believe in their hearts that the only way to melt it is by drinking human blood – a woman's or a child's by preference. That is the real explanation of many an obscure tragedy up here."

Miss Mackall shuddered and ate no more.

Late that afternoon she managed to drag herself down to the road. She waited for Sam at the entrance to a patch of woods a little way toward the French outfit.

"What's the matter?" he exclaimed at the sight of her.

"Ah, don't look at me!" she said unhappily. "I've had an awful night. Sick headache. I just wanted to tell you not to come to-night."

"All right," said Sam. "To-morrow night?"

She shook her head. "I – I don't think I'll come any more. I don't think it's right."

"Just as you say," said Sam. "If you feel all right to-morrow afternoon, you might get a horse and ride around the bay."

"I – I'm afraid to ride alone," she faltered.

"Well," said Sam, ever quick to take offence, "if you don't want to see me again, of course – "

"I do! I do!" she cried. "I've got to have a talk with you. I don't know what to do!"

"Very well," he said stoutly. "I'll come up to the house to-morrow night. I guess there's no reason why I shouldn't."

"Yes, that is best," she agreed. "Drive on now."

Sam clucked to his team, and they started briskly down the trail. "Lord, she looks about seventy!" he was thinking. Miss Mackall stood watching until they rounded the first bend. When she turned around, there stood Bela beside a big tree, a few feet to the side of the road. Evidently she had been hidden in the underbrush behind. Miss Mackall gasped in piteous terror and stood rooted to the spot.

Bela's face was as relentless as a high priestess's. "I listen if you goin' tell him 'bout me," she said. "If you tell him, I ready to shoot."

The other woman was speechless.

"You not goin' be here to-morrow night," Bela went on quietly. "Bishop Lajeunesse leave to-morrow morning."

Miss Mackall turned and flew up the trail.

The trader's house was built bungalow style, all the rooms on a floor. Miss Mackall's room was at the back of the house, her window facing the end of the back trail, where it issued from the woods. The nights were now mild and fragrant, and doors and windows stood wide. Locks are never used north of the landing. Or if they are, the key hangs hospitably within reach.

Miss Mackall, however, insisted on locking the doors and securing her window. There were no blinds, and she hung a petticoat inside the glass. Laughing at her old-maidish precautions, they let her have her way. As a further safeguard against nervousness during the night, she had one of her nieces to bed with her.

There was no sleep for her. In every little stir and breath she heard the footfall of her enemy. She was tormented by the suspicion that there was something lurking outside her window. She regretted leaving the petticoat up, for it prevented her seeing outside. She brooded on it until she felt as if she would go out of her mind, if she were not reassured.

Finally she mustered up sufficient courage to get out of bed and creep to the window. Holding her breath, she gathered the petticoat in her hand and smartly jerked it down. She found herself looking into the face of the native girl, who was peering through the glass. There was a little light in the sky behind her.

Bela sprang back, and Miss Mackall saw the gun-barrel. She uttered a piercing scream and fell fainting to the floor. The whole family rushed to her door. Hysterics succeeded. They could make nothing of her wild cries. When she recovered she was mum.

In the morning Gilbert Beattie and his wife discussed it soberly. "Nerves," said the man. "We'd best let her go out with the bishop, as she wants. This is no country for her. We might not get another chance this year to send her out with a proper escort."

"It's too bad!" sighed his wife. "I thought she would make such a good wife for one of the new men that are coming in now. They need wives so badly!"

"H-m!" said Gilbert.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE "RESTERAW"

Gilbert Beattie, driving home by way of the French outfit, after having seen his sister-in-law embark, found that another party of settlers had arrived. Many of the natives, attracted by news of these events, had also come in, and the settlement presented a scene of activity such as it had never known.

It gave the trader much food for thought. Clearly the old order was passing fast, and it behooved an enterprising merchant to adjust himself to the new. Beattie was no longer a young man, and he felt an honest anxiety for the future. Would he be able to maintain his supremacy?

When he reached his own store he found a handsome native girl waiting to see him. He had seen her before, but could not place her. He asked her name.

"Bela Charley," she answered.

"O-ho!" he said, looking at her with a fresh curiosity. "You are she, eh?" Whatever they might be saying about this girl, he commended the calm, self-respecting air with which she bore his scrutiny. "Do you want to trade?" he asked. "One of the clerks will wait on you."

She shook her head. "Want see you."

"What can I do for you?"

"Company got little house beside the road down there. Nobody livin' there."

"Well, what of it?"

"You let me live there?" she asked.

"You'd better go home to your people, my girl," he said grimly.

"I have left them," she returned coolly.

"What would you think of doing?" he asked curiously. "How could you make your living?"

"Plenty people here now," she said. "More comin'. I goin' keep stoppin'-house for meals."

"Alone?" he asked, frowning.

"Sure!" said Bela.

He shook his head. "It wouldn't do."

"Why?"

"You're too good-looking," he replied bluntly. "It wouldn't be respectable."

"I tak' care of myself," averred Bela. "Anybody say so."

"How about that story that's going the rounds now?"

"Moch lies, I guess."

"Very like; but it can't be done," he said firmly. "I can't have a scandal right in front of my wife's door."

"Good for trade," suggested Bela insinuatingly. "Mak' the new people come up here. Now they always hangin' round Stiffy and Mahooley's."

This argument was not without weight; nevertheless, Beattie continued to shake his head. "Can't do it unless you get a chaperon."

"Chaperon?" repeated Bela, puzzled.

"Get a respectable woman to come live with you, and I'll say all right."

Bela nodded and marched out of the store without wasting any further words.

In an hour she was back, bringing Mary, Bateese Otter's widow. Mary, according to the standards of the settlement, was a paragon of virtue. Gilbert Beattie grinned.

"Here is Mary Otter," said Bela calmly. "She poor. She goin' live with me. I guess she is respectable. She live in the mission before, and scrub the floors. Père Lacombe tell her come live wit' me. Is that all right?"

Since Bela had secured the sanction of the Church upon her enterprise, Beattie felt that the responsibility was no longer his. He gladly gave her her way.

The astonishing news spread up and down the road like lightning. Bela Charley was going to open a "resteraw." Here was a new and fascinating subject for gossip.

Nobody knew that Bela was in the settlement. Nobody had seen her come. Exactly like her, said those who were familiar with her exploits in the past. What would happen when Bela and Sam met again? others asked.

While everybody had helped this story on its rounds, no man believed that Bela had really carried off Sam. Funny that this girl should turn up almost at the moment of the other girl's departure! Nobody, however, suspected as yet that there was anything more than coincidence in this.

The main thing was Bela was known to be an A1 cook, and the grub at the French outfit was rotten. Mahooley himself confessed it.

Within two hours six men, including Big Jack and his pals, arrived for dinner. Bela was not at all discomposed. She had already laid in supplies from the company. Dinner would be ready for all who came, she said, six bits per man. Breakfast and supper, four bits.

To-day they would have to sit on the floor, but by to-morrow proper arrangements would be completed. No, there would be no accommodations for sleeping. Everybody must go home at ten o'clock. While they waited they could cut some good sods to mend the roof, if they wanted.

Some of the guests, thinking of the past, approached her somewhat diffidently; but if Bela harboured any resentment, she hid it well. She was the same to all, a wary, calm, efficient hostess.

Naturally the men were delighted to be given an opportunity to start fresh. Three of them laboured at the roof with a will. Husky, who only had one good arm, cleaned fish for her. The dinner, when it came on, was no disappointment.

Sam, rattling back over the rough trail that afternoon, stamped in his empty wagon-box and whistled cheerfully. Things were going well with him. The long, hard-working days in the open air were good for both health and spirits. He liked his job, and he was making money. He had conceived a great affection for his lively little team, and, lacking other companions, confided his hopes and fears in them.

Not that he had yet succeeded in winning from under the load of derision that had almost crushed him; the men still greeted him with their tongues in their cheeks. But now that he had a man's job, it was easier to bear.

He believed, too, that he was making progress with them. The hated gibe "white slave" was less frequently heard. Sam, passionately bent on making good in the community, weighed every shade of the men's manner toward him, like a lover his mistress's.

He met Big Jack and his pals driving back around the bay in Jack's wagon. They had staked out their land across the bay, but still spent most of their time in the settlement. Both drivers pulled up their horses.

The men hailed Sam with at least the appearance of good nature. As for Sam himself, he had made up his mind that since he was going to live among them, he would only make himself ridiculous by maintaining a sore and distant air. He was learning to give as good as he got.

"Heard the news?" asked Big Jack, glancing around at his companions, promising them a bit of sport.

"What news?" asked Sam warily.

"Your new girl has flew the coop."

"What do you mean?" demanded Sam, scowling.

"Wafted. Vamosed. Fluffed out. Beat it for the outside."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Beattie's wife's sister."

"Miss Mackall?"

"Went back with the bishop this morning."

Sam's face was a study in blank incredulity.

"Didn't you know she was goin'?" asked Jack with pretended concern. He turned to his mates. "Boys, this here's a serious matter. Looks like a regular lovers' quarrel. We ought to have broke it to him more gentle!"

"I don't believe it!" said Sam. "But if it is true, she's got a right to go when she likes without asking me." He made a move to drive on.

"Hold on!" cried Big Jack. "I've got another piece of news for you."

"Spit it out," snapped Sam, scornful and unconcerned.

"Your old girl's come to town. Ring out the new, ring in the old, as the song says. Lucky for you they didn't happen simultaneous."

This affected Sam more than the first item. In spite of him, a red tide surged up from his neck. He scowled angrily at having to betray himself before them. They laughed derisively.

"I suppose you mean Bela," he said stiffly. "The settlement is free to her, I guess. She's no more mine than the other."

"Opened a resteraw in the shack below the company store," Big Jack went on. "We had our dinner there. Six bits a man. Better drop in to supper."

"Not by a damn sight!" muttered Sam.

He shook his reins, and drove on to the tune of their laughter.

His feelings were much mixed. He felt that he ought in decency to be chiefly concerned on Jennie Mackall's account, but he could not drive Bela out of his head. He was both angry and terrified at her coming. Just when he was beginning to feel free and easy she had to come and start up the old trouble in his breast. Just when men were beginning to forget the story which humiliated him, she came along and gave it new point!

Sam had to get mad at something, and, like young persons generally, he concentrated on a side issue. By the time he got into the settlement he had succeeded in working himself up to a great pitch of indignation against the Beatties, who, he told himself, had sent Jennie Mackall home to part her from him.

Reaching the company reservation, he drove boldly up the hill to ask for an explanation. Mrs. Beattie was on the porch sewing, as ever her bland, capable self.

"They tell me Miss Mackall has gone away," said Sam stiffly.

"She was taken sick last night," replied Mrs. Beattie. "We all thought it best for her to go when she had a good chance."

Sam stood undecided.

Mrs. Beattie arose.

"She left a note to bid you good-bye. I'll get it."

This was what Sam read, written in a well nigh illegible scrawl:

Dear Boy,

I cannot stay here. I am sick. I can't explain further. Can scarcely hold a pen. It's dreadful to have to go without seeing you. But don't try to follow me. I will write you from outside, when I can think more calmly. Oh, it's horrible! Oh, be careful of yourself! Don't let yourself be deceived. I would say more if I dared. Tear this up instantly. Don't forget me.

Ever thine,

Jennie.

Sam bowed stiffly to Mrs. Beattie, and turned away. The letter mystified and exasperated him. The emotion it breathed found no response in his own breast. The phrasing sounded exaggerated and silly. Why on earth should he follow? He understood the veiled reference to Bela. Little need for Jennie to warn him against her!

At the same time Sam felt mean because he experienced no greater distress at Jennie's going. Finally, manlike, he swore under his breath, and resolved again to have no more to do with women. No suspicion of the real state of affairs crossed his mind.

Returning down hill in his wagon, he had to pass the little house where they had told him Bela was. Smoke was rising from the chimney. A great disquiet attacked him; he was not thinking of Jennie at all then. He heard sounds of activity from within the shack. Wild horses could not have dragged his head around to look. Urging his horses, he got out of sight as quick as he could. But out of sight was not out of mind.

"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself irritably. "I'm my own master, I guess. Nobody can put anything over on me. What need I care if she opens a dozen restaurants? One would think I was afraid of the girl! Ridiculous! Lord! I wish she were at the other side of the world!"

There was no escaping her. During the days that followed, Bela was the principal topic of conversation around the settlement. Her place became a general rendezvous for all the white men.

Graves's young men saved the Government their rations, but took it out in horse-flesh riding around the bay to sup at Bela's. The policemen spent their hours off duty and wages there.

Stiffy and Mahooley fired their cook and went with the rest. The shack proved inadequate to hold them all, and Graves sent over a tent to be used as a kitchen annex.

Since Sam was the only white man who did not patronize the place, he had to submit to be held up on the road half a dozen times a day while they forced him to listen to the details of the last wonderful meal at Bela's.

"No bannock and sow-belly; no, sir! Real raised outside bread and genuine cow-butter from the mission. Green stuff from the mission garden. Roasted duck and prairie-chicken; stewed rabbit and broiled fish fresh out of the lake! Pudding with raisins in it, and on Sunday an apricot pie!"

Bela, it seemed, brought everybody under contribution. They told how even Mrs. Beattie, the great lady of the place, was giving her cooking lessons.

It was not only the food that made Bela's place attractive. The men told how agreeably she welcomed them, making every man feel at home. She remembered their likes and dislikes; she watched to see that their plates were kept full.

When the table was cleared they were allowed to smoke and to play cards. Bela was good for a bit of fun, too; nothing highty-tighty about her. She had a clever tongue in her head. But all fair and above-board, you understand. Lord! if any fellow got fresh he'd mighty soon be chucked out by the others. But nobody ever tried it on – there was something about her – A fine girl!

That was how the panegyrics always ended: "A fine girl, sir!" Every man felt a particular gratitude to Bela. It was a place to go nights. It combined the advantages of a home and a jolly club. Up north men were apt to grow rusty and glum for the lack of a little amusement.

All of which evidenced a new side of Bela's character. She was coming on. In such a favourable atmosphere she might well develop. It seemed that she moved like a queen among her courtiers. They scrambled to do her behests.

Poor Sam, after listening to these tales, was obliged to drive past the house of entertainment eyes front, and cook his supper in solitude at Grier's Point. He could no longer count on even an occasional companion, for nowadays everybody hurried to Bela's.

The plain fact of the matter was, he suffered torments of lonesomeness. Lying in his blankets waiting for sleep, perhaps in a cold drizzle, in his mind's ear he could hear the sounds of merriment in the shack three miles away. As his heart weakened, he was obliged to batter himself harder and harder to keep up his rage against the cause of all his troubles.

One afternoon returning from around the bay earlier than usual, in a straight stretch of the road between the two trading posts, he saw her coming. No mistaking that slender, skirted figure with a carriage as proud and graceful as a blooded horse.

His heart set up a tremendous thumping. There was no way of avoiding a meeting, unless he turned tail and fled before her. That was not to be thought of. It was the first time they had come face to face since the unforgettable morning in Johnny Gagnon's shack.

Sam steeled himself, and commenced to whistle. He would show her! Exactly what he meant to show her he could not have told, but it necessitated a jaunty air and a rollicking whistle. It was his intention to hail her in a friendly off-hand way like any of the men might – provided his heart did not leap out of his breast before he reached her.

It did not. But as they passed he received the shock of his life. Whatever it was he expected from her, an angry scowl maybe, or an appealing look, or a scornfully averted head, he did not get it. She raised calm, smiling eyes to his and said provokingly:

"Hello, Sam!"

That was what he had meant to do, but it missed fire. He found himself gaping clownishly at her. For something had leaped out of her eyes into his, something sweet and terrible and strange that threw him into a hopeless confusion.

He whipped up his horses and banged down the trail. All night he tossed in his blankets, hungry and exasperated beyond bearing. Cursing her brought him no satisfaction at all. It rang hollowly.

As the days passed, stories of another kind reached Sam's ears. It appeared that many of Bela's boarders desired to marry her, particularly the four settlers who had first arrived. They had offered themselves in due form, it was said, and, much to the satisfaction of the company in general, had been turned down in positive terms.

Whether or not this was precisely true, Husky Marr suddenly sold out his outfit and went out on a York boat, while Black Shand Fraser packed up his and trekked over to the Spirit River. Later word came back that he had built himself a raft, and had gone down to Fort Ochre, the farthest point that white men had reached.

The other two stuck it out. Big Jack Skinner philosophically abandoned his pretensions, but Joe Hagland would not take his answer. He continued to besiege Bela, and the general opinion was that he would wear her out in the end. All of which did not help smooth Sam's pillow.

Another piece of news was that old Musq'oosis had come to live with Bela and help her run her place. That night on his way back Sam saw that a teepee had been pitched beside the road near the stopping-house. In the end, as was inevitable, Sam began to argue with himself as to the wisdom of his course in staying away from Bela's.

"Every time they see me drive past it revives the story in their minds," he told himself. "They'll think I'm afraid of her. She'll think I'm afraid of her. I've got to show them all. I'm just making a fool of myself staying away. It's only a public eating-house. My money's as good as anybody else's, I guess. I'll never make good with the gang until I can mix with them there as if nothing had happened."

Thus do a young man's secret desires beguile him. But even when he had persuaded himself that it would be the part of wisdom to eat at Bela's, Sam did not immediately act on it. A kind of nervous dread restrained him.

One afternoon he was delayed across the bay, and as he approached the "resteraw" the fellows were already gathering for supper. Sam listened to the jovial talk and laughter coming through the door with a sore and desirous heart.

"Why can't I have a good time, too?" he asked himself rebelliously. But he did not pull up. A few yards beyond the shack he met Stiffy and Mahooley riding to supper.

"Hey, Sam!" cried the latter teasingly. "Come on in to supper. I'll blow!"

"Much obliged," said Sam good-naturedly. "My horses' feed is down at the Point. I have to be getting on."

"There's plenty feed here," said Mahooley.

Sam shook his head.

"I believe you're afraid of the girl."

The shaft went home. Sam laughed scornfully and pulled his horses' heads around. "Oh, well, since you put it that way I guess I will eat a meal off you."