Romany of the Snows, Continuation of "Pierre and His

People", v1

Gilbert Parker

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#8 in our series by Gilbert Parker

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Across The Jumping Sandhills

A Lovely Bully

The Filibuster

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A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS

BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE"

AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 1.

CONTENTS

MALACHI

THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE

THE RED PATROL

THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN

AT BAMBER'S BOOM

Volume 3.

THE BRIDGE HOUSE

THE EPAULETTES

THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER

THE FINDING OF FINGALL

THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR

Volume 5.

THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE"

THE PLUNDERER

To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE.

MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM,

To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of "Pierre

and His People" should be inscribed to one whose notable career is

inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far

North.

But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this

dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by

your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of

distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known

as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature.

Believe me,

DEAR SIR WILLIAM,

GILBERT PARKER.

INTRODUCTION

It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories.

There never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the

thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows

series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of the

stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People

appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of

the Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and

America. All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one

Pierre were published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and A

England as An Adventurer of the North. I was persuaded to reject the

title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English publisher, and I have never

infallible instinct for these things he would not be a publisher--

everybody else, the average of his hits will be far higher than the

average of his misses in such things. The title, An Adventurer of the

North, is to my mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth.

Compare it with some of the stories within the volume itself: for

instance, The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber's Boom,

At Point o' Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the Puma, A

Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall. There it was, however;

I made the mistake and it sticks; but the book now will be published in

this subscription edition under the title first chosen by me, A Romany of

the Snows. It really does express what Pierre was.

Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the

sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His

People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize

the general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years,

I feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my

material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things.

There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in

A Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately

enough published originally in Scribner's Magazine, has had an

extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of

reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O'Groat's to Land's

America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive to-day

than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost the

same may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue.

to-day, had its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only

is the vehicle of expression, and in race and character, which are the

media of human idiosyncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one

may write, except the outer and visible variation of race, character, and

country, which reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its scena.

Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a matter

of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for the thing

which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess atmosphere.

This has often been said when criticism has been more or less acute upon

other things; but I think that in all my experience there has never been

--melodramatic episodes merely. The truth is, that while the episode,

meant infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was always the

consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but apart from

which make what are called "human situations" are, in most instances, the

in motion. As I realise it now, subconsciously, my mind and imagination

were controlled by this point of view in the days of the writing of

Pierre and His People.

In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think,

to a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with

the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its

dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring

true. If I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I

have not wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories

would seem to show.

ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS

"Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I've seen along the sayshore,

and up to me half-ways I've been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the

rope to pull me out; but a suckin' sand in the open plain--aw, Trader,

aw! the like o' that niver a bit saw I."

"Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three miles from Fort

O'Glory. The Company's--[Hudson's Bay Company]--men don't talk about it

silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the

paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my treat

--that's the game!"

"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy reproachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to

the roof o' yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that's wid

Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe."

Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he

did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the

three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment

the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in the

So I was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black

as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs

what to do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime

bride waiting her husband for the first time."

Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit,

and his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on

his conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many.

But that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he said

coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart's goin' like a trip-

hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre."

"Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air.

At night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little

brown brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same

old game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine,

always fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me.

I had a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little

girl. We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had

never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and

understand without words. A face was a book to her.

"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post,

when we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes.

I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut

something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of

the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at

the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a

Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that

way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly;

but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem

luxuriously.

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and,

cherishing his cigarette, presently continued:

"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly

once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and she reached out

but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was like the

rest. She must get the secret first; then the men should know. We had

The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch of Hilton's wife

not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were words and music.

Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that

fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the

real story--for how she slept there does not matter--but it was good to

see when we knew the story."

The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this

romantic mood. A woman's hand--it was the game for a boy, not an

adventurer; for the Trapper's only creed was that women, like deer, were

spoils for the hunter. Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above

petty anger. He merely said: "If a man have an eye to see behind the

face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good

woman, and that is much. Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two

hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty

miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of

her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover's

name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company's

post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him,

for a woman's name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew

first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the

end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word

had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were

love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against

the one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and

started away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon

"There were only two horses of use at Hilton's Post then; all the rest

chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on

him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is

the good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man:

she must have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife

and me at the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a

he was a Company's man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for

adventure, I had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to

the toes, my heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs

were straightening as if I was in the saddle.

yet a woman will trust him, comme ca!"

agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a

heart--a heart, Hilton's wife, aw yis!"

Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. "The girl waked after three hours

staring at us, 'I thought that they had come!' A little after she and

Hilton's wife went to another room. All at once there was a sound of

horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and four men come in.

They were the girl's hunters.

"It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the

best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house.

So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in

the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not

giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy,

wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the

other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the

game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word

for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told

why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first;

but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt

me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There

was one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to

me. They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them

at the first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind

what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something

shaped.

"They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife come into the room.

Her face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the

men; and then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they

she told me something else--that the girl had slipped out as the last man

spring, a quarter of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of

the men knew the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with

other sentences.

"Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said,

and the others can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to

where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the

corral.

"Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his

same. We rode on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs

of a Divide about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with

ten minutes' rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We

An' all I'll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o' the pack

little scrawney rats as y'are, too many o' yees wad be in me way." He

wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently.

"He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader? There'll be fun in front of

the Fort to-night. For he's only bragging, of course--eh?"

The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a

parting word: "You'll be there, of course--only four av ye!" and hurried

out after Macavoy, humming to himself--

"For the King said this, and the Queen said that,

But he walked away with their army, O!"

So far Pierre's plan had worked even better than he expected, though

Macavoy's moods had not been altogether after his imaginings. He drew

alongside the giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy turned

and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, and his voice

was very low:

"It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin'," he said, "since I lost me frinds--

ages an' ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an' that makes a

man old. But I'll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles his back."

like a catapult. "It's all right," he added, very softly, "an', Half-

breed, me b'y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I'm thinkin' me

inimy has turned frind, for that I'm sure you were, an' this I'm certain

"I'll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill," he said, as

tent. Presently he laughed out loud. "It's manny along day," he said,

"since--"

Then he changed his thoughts. "They've spoke sharp words in me teeth,"

he continued, "and they'll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it?

"Are you sure you'll not run away when they come on?" said Pierre, a

little ironically.

"Is that the word av a frind?" replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his

The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth,

reply. "What for should anny man run from a woman?"

"When the furniture flies, an' the woman knows more of the world in a day

than the man does in a year; and the man's a hulking bit of an Irishman--

bien, then things are so and so!"

Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. "Come into the shade of

these maples," said Pierre, "for the sun has set you quaking a little,"

and he put out his hand to take Macavoy's arm.

The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face

seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. "What's this y'are

sayin' to me?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you know av--av that woman?"

"Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre, "but when one travels why

shouldn't the other?"

Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. "Mother o'

saints," he said, "has it come to that, after all these years? Is she--

tell me where she is, me frind, and you'll niver want an arm to fight for

ye, an' the half av a blanket, while I have wan!"

"But you'll run as you did before, if I tell you, an' there'll be no

fighting to-night, accordin' to the word you've given."

"No fightin', did ye say? an' run away, is it? Then this in your eye,

that if ye'll bring an army, I'll fight till the skin is in rags on me

bones, whin it's only men that's before me; but woman--and that wan!

he had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his fingers

she is at Fort Ste. Anne--or was when I left there."

Macavoy groaned. "Does she know that I'm here?" he asked.

"I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear."

"What--what is she doing?"

"Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's green." Then Pierre told him

somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy.

"Come away with me where she'll not find you."

"I'll tell you that when to-night's fighting's over. Have you a mind

he said, "by priest an' by book; an' I can't forget that, though the

woman's to me as the pit below."

Pierre looked curiously at him. "You're a wonderful fool," he said, "but

I'm not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M'Gann--but

it is no matter." He sighed and continued: "When to-night is over, you

shall have work and fun that you've been fattening for this many a year,

and the woman'll not find you, be sure of that. Besides--" he whispered

in Macavoy's ear.

"Poor divil, poor divil, she'd always a throat for that; but it's a

horrible death to die, I'm thinkin'." Macavoy's chin dropped on his

breast.

When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta's

tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never

quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way,

followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly.

Behind them again, with head shaking from one side to the other,

travelled Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. "Well,"

said Pierre to Wonta, "he is amusing, eh?--so big a coward, eh?"

brave. He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them

all when--"

reached the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him.

A great change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more

firmly, and running himself up finely to his full height, he looked no

longer the lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and

chuckled to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat,

He beckoned to Pierre.

"Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said. "Now and after," said

Pierre.

Will ye have a drop av drink--cold water, man--near, an' a sponge betune

the trouble, an' we'll settle accordin' to a, b, c."

forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were

bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded.

"I said two of you," he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett

stepped forward also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the

ground at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to

carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank

from it lightly, and waited. None other of his opponents stirred.

"There's three Injins," he said, "three rid divils, that wants showin'

the way to their happy huntin' grounds. . . . Sure, y'are comin',

ain't you, me darlins?" he added coaxingly, and he stretched himself,

as if to make ready.

Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped

forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the

instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy's

double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort

O'Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out

of the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard

all torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder

went up from the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and then Macavoy,

whose blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him.

"Must this go on?" he said; "haven't you had your fill of it?"

Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended

there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear.

Soon after, two of the best fighters of the Company's men stood forth.

the heads aff these."

Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made

a rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was

not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he got

which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and stunned.

Pierre called over to him swiftly: "Remember Malahide!"

This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered

your spines."

breeds running away across the plains.

Trader.

Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl

he hurried into the clothing.

The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have

none of it.

"I've only wan frind here," he said, "an' it's Pierre, an' to his shanty

I go an' no other."

"Come, mon ami," said Pierre, "for to-morrow we travel far."

"And what for that?" said Macavoy.

Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a king, my lovely bully."

Pierre had determined to establish a kingdom, not for gain, but for

conquest's sake. But because he knew that the thing would pall, he took

would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he feared a

him. And the fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world.

But though his heart went out to women, and his tongue was of the race

that beguiles, he stood to his "lines" like a man, and people wondered.

Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent him, she could not

was on the day when all Fort O'Angel conspired to prove Macavoy a child

and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, and that the

giant was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and hung a dead

coyote at Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt.

she'll not follow us?"

where we go, is far north."

chuckled.

The other shook his head. "Says Father Nolan to me, says he, "tis till

death us do part, an' no man put asunder'; an' I'll stand by that, though

I'd slice out the bist tin years av me life, if I niver saw her face

again."

"But the girl, Wonta--what a queen she'd make!"

"Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be damned to you! For

she, like the rest, laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day whin

I--"

"That's nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my door. You don't know

women. There'll be your breed and hers abroad in the land one day."

Macavoy stretched to his feet--he was so tall that he could not stand

upright in the room. He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him.

"I've another word for your ear," he said darkly. "Keep clear av the

likes o' that wid me. For I've swallowed a tribe av divils. It's

fightin' you want. Well, I'll do it--I've an itch for the throats av

men, but a fool I'll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat

A sob clutched him in the throat.

the child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin'

agin' the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her

bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan midnight, she gives a little

cry an' snatched at me beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!'

An' thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips."

uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death

unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a mere

counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand over

the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. "Poor little waif!" he said.

suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a

Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke

slowly: "Yes, once."

"And she died?" asked the other, awed.

"We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, "and there are worse

things than death. . . . Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other

things. To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I

want. I have ammunition and dogs."

A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the

Fort he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the

south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs.

Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find,

one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last.

She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off.

"She was comin'," she said, "to her own darlin' b'y, from whom she'd been

parted manny a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched

hand o' hers."

The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the

Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold

his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's lodge. He found her with her

father alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked

up sharply, and added a sharp word also.

face, and laughed at him. Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself

great. That is something. He will be greater still, if the other woman

does not find him. She should die, but then some women have no sense."

dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman.

Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy's life; for he knew that she

loved the man after her heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted.

"I do not care for that," she said, when he had finished; "it is

die. I would kill her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives,

or a rifle, or a pinch at the throat--she should die!"

"Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free of her."

see each other's faces till dawn. They were guided by Pierre's voice;

When they came to recognise each other, they shook hands, and marched on.

In good time they reached that wonderful and pleasant country between the

Fort Comfort, which they had come to take. Macavoy's rich voice roared

O'Angel. Pierre had diverted his mind from the woman who, at Fort

O'Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth to witness that "Tim

Macavoy was her Macavoy and no other, an' she'd find him--the divil and

darlin', wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an' a chest you could build a

house on--if she walked till Doomsday!"

Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to muscle, blowing through

his beard, puffing his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But now that

they were facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft and

gentle, as it did before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two by two

and three by three, and wrung them out. In his eyes there was the thing

which counts as many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads in battle.

As he said himself, he was made for war, like Malachi o' the Golden

Collar.

Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians would be away for the

summer hunt, and that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score

of braves, who, however, would fight when they might easier play. He had

no useless compunctions about bloodshed. A human life he held to be a

trifle in the big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when a

man went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his creed, for he had

might drop.

He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, for there was one

on the Coppermine River for a long time, and at length had come down

Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake in their canoes, at

a point about five miles from the Fort, and, so far as they could tell,

without being seen. Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon

the Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy--measured him, as it were, for what he was

beard. Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a pine, and put his

ear to it. Pierre understood. He had caught at the same thing. "There

is a dance on," said Jose, "I can hear the drum."

Pierre thought a minute. "We will reconnoitre," he said presently.

feasting. He had crept near, and had learned that the braves were

The Fort stood in an open space, with tall trees for a background. In

plans immediately, and gave the word to move on. Their presence had not

might easily be theirs. They made a detour, and after an hour came upon

the Fort from behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leaving

Macavoy in command. When he came again he said:

"It's a fine sight, and the way is open. They are feasting and dancing.

If we can enter without being seen, we are safe, except for food; we must

trust for that. Come on."

When they arrived at the margin of the woods a wonderful scene was before

them. A volcanic hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but the

reflection of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver--the rock

itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all round,

and in the open space, turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians swayed

in and out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and painted in

strange colours. The earth itself was still and sober. Scarce a star

peeped forth. A purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the sky,

though here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian lodges were

empty, save where a few children squatted at the openings. The seven

stood still with wonder, till Pierre whispered to them to get to the

ground and crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. They

did so, Macavoy breathing hard--too hard; for suddenly Pierre clapped a

hand on his mouth.

They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen an Indian come from the

gate. The brave was within a few feet of them. He had almost passed

them, for they were in the shadow, but Jose had burst a puffball with his

them to lie still. They saw the terrible game played out within arm's

Indian ceased: "Beast! You had Father Halen's life. I have yours."

There was one more wrench of the Indian's limbs, and then he lay still.

They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the shadows and the grass.

enter the Fort before they were discovered. They got to their feet, and

ran with wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. They had just

reached it when there was a cry from the walls, on which two Indians were

sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and lunged at the

seven as they entered. One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as he

had the place, but could they hold it? What food and water were there

up to the hilt. An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong avenged.

and they'll come on like a flood."

"To wait," said Pierre, "and dam the flood as it comes. But not a bullet

till I give the word. Take to the chinks. We'll have them soon."

He was right: they came soon. Someone had found the dead body of Young

Eye; then it was discovered that the gate was shut. A great shout went

up. The Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, though the

weapons of many were within the Fort, and soon they were about the place,

shouting in impotent rage. They could not tell how many invaders were in

the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, their ancient enemies.

But Young Eye, they saw, had not been scalped. This was brought to the

old chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They had not seen one

man of the invaders; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even the

two torches which had been burning above the gate were down. At that

moment, as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly through

the fires, and, passing not far from the bewildered Indians, plunged into

the trees behind the Fort.

The caribou is credited with great powers. It is thought to understand

all that is said to it, and to be able to take the form of a spirit. No

Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of

season is supposed to bring down all manner of evil.

their faces in their arms--that the caribou had done this thing. For a

moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no

mark on the body of Young Eye.

the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds standing

by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians without drew

back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. Macavoy had

uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed the song into a

shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the place and then

"Sure, that's a poor game, Pierre," he whispered; "an' I'd rather be

pluggin' their hides wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It's

fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin."

ran among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were

not great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a

toime? Seven fut three on me bare toes--but Father o' Sin! when she

"On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre; "by the book av the Mass?"

Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the cobwebs between the

rafters, the wild indignation of a child in his eye. "D'ye think I'm a

thafe to stale me own word? Hut! I'll break ye in two, ye wisp o'

straw, if ye doubt me word to a lady. There's me note av hand, and ye

shall have me fist on it, in writin', at Freddy Tarlton's office, wid a

blotch av red an' the Queen's head at the bottom. McGuire!" he said

again, and paused, puffing his lips through his beard.

Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his fingers idly, said, "So,

my straw-breaker! Then tomorrow morning at ten you will fetch your

wedding-gift. But come so soon now to M'sieu' Tarlton's office, and we

will have it all as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your fist

--yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world, and sometimes we see

strange things, and no two strange things are alike--no; there is only

one Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon McGann. Shon McGann

was a fine fool, but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy,

perhaps, will do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder!"

He felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm musingly, and then laughed up in

the giant's face. "Once I made you a king, my own, and you threw it all

along, for M'sieu' Tarlton."

Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's shoulder. "'Tis hard to be a

you, and I will burn your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the

Irishman--truly!"

"Bedad, ye'll have more earth in yer hands then, Pierre, than ye'll ever

earn, and more heaven than ye'll ever shtand in."

the Little Big Swan, which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of the

early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, entered into the

spirit of the thing, and treated it seriously; but in vain did he protest

that the large red seal with Her Majesty's head on it was unnecessary;

Macavoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large

limitless stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was a

day for God's creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown

of home on the large plateau between the sea and the stars. Gathered

miles. In the large front room all the presents were set: rich furs from

the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made by hand,

knives, cooking utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the

Protestant missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of gold from

the Long Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton's own present

to his wife, on which was put Pierre's saddle, with its silver mounting

and Ida's name branded deep on pommel and flap. When Macavoy arrived,

a cheer went up, which was carried on waves of laughter into the house

to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening to the first words of the

brief service which begins, "I charge you both if you do know any just

cause or impediment--" and so on.

They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they

themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and

dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by

signs, as the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself,

the half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida together,

for he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine had taught

her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her, until at

last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate precision

of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion, were suited

to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own nature than

those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign of

Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he showed

outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He had

disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from the

More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy

of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to

Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves to the delights of good music, and

there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the

beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the

prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton's voice in strong tones saying,

"I take thee to be my wedded wife," etc.; but when the last words of the

service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband's embrace,

and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty of noise

stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room.

valley, snatchin' the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o'

that! Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word

present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!"

Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down

on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet

knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and he

patted Hilton's shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them

together, hers on top of Hilton's, and shook them in one of his own till

she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded in

reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle, ill-

cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a child

caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped and

touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, "Aw, the

rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o' the

hills! I'd have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!"

A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and the

hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that

Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the

horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written,

and said, "Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't in. 'Tis nothin' I had

to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for

the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin' but meself and me

dirty clothes, standin' seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to

do? There was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and

Ye'd better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a

saddle, or a quart o' brown brandy; but such as it is I give it ye--

I give it to the rose o' the valley and the star o' the wide wurruld."

her woman's heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of

III

and but three people remembered it with any singular distinctness--Ida,

Pierre, and Macavoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind he

knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in its events, there

comes the hour for redemption of all I O U's.

which had ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals

it do the duties of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange.

sister's children; and, by and by, the duck carried messages back and

comfort in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety

of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many a sprightly message and

tales of their good vagrancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and

Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and then to sit with Hilton

beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had

settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which shows man at his best,

as he waits for the time when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood,

he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spreading up the world--

which, all being said and done, is that place called Home. Something

gentle came over him while he grew stouter in body and in all other ways

made a larger figure among the people of the West.

As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted than his general

morality, "It is strange that most men think not enough of themselves

till a woman shows them how. But it is the great wonder that the woman

does not despise him for it. Quel caractere! She has so often to show

him his way like a babe, and yet she says to him, Mon grand homme! my

master! my lord! Pshaw! I have often thought that women are half

saints, half fools, and men half fools, half rogues. But Quelle vie!--

what life! without a woman you are half a man; with one you are bound to

a single spot in the world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is

clipped--you cannot have all. Quelle vie--what life!"

To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer

thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer

at that, me an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, go

"To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh?"

Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's enigmatical tone meant. A wild

light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis, Hilton's

wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye

wasp! Ye'd go stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But

the tongue av ye--but, it's gall to the tip."

"Maybe, my king. But I'd go hunting because I wanted; you because you

must. You're a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal on the

promissory."

Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that! The rose o' the valley--the

river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have

looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: "Aw,

look, look, Pierre--her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!"

They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or

west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view.

Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked,

and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light.

His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an

irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard,

but perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of

his dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and air

and life.

Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon,

and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the

gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were

altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet;

for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton

could be seen running from the store to his house, not far away.

"Something's wrong there," said Pierre.

"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked Macavoy.

Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following.

them.

Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on

floor.

The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A cloud-

burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and a part of

this part had swept down into the path that led to the little house,

having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. It

blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was creeping

waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death below and

above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplicity.

The last words were, "There mayn't be any help for me and my sweet

chicks, but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. But send

soon, for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour."

almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming

interpreted to him this: "I have sent for you. There is no man so big or

strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to

Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you

Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift:

I claim you now."

She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown

paper in Macavoy's hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it

were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush

by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and

said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell her, the slip av a saint she is,

if the breakin' av me bones, or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set all

right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!"

Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty

was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, "like as not,"

her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill came, his

place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink.

In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking

down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even

Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or

minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no question

since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large

seriousness, the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave

which he must leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb wife;

there was in his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from

Hilton's house out into the brilliant day.

without trees.

There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know,

and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having

spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an'

maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int

a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb

Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and

the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of

the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say

to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him;

could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone called

one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting bole of

a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees.

It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged

him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand

clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy

drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was

studying the situation.

He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to

divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it

could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in

the path of the destroying hill.

"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the

darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!"

A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to

pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing

down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men

above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. An

hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a

superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat

dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and

the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round

at the hills-down at the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away from

stirring his big red beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that echoed

through the hills weirdly and solemnly.

fantastic cipher of a soul:

"M'Guire!"

There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split

into the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a

minute afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it

the wild duck "to the rose o' the valley," which, till the message came,

was trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous healer, kept

it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue was

taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple King; who had

redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever.

Fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world

Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them

She valued what others found useless

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