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32X

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE

TALES OF THE FAR NORTH

GILBERT PARKER

TORONTO
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED

1821

'^^^/^ H ir is ie\ O

Entered •rooidlngr to Act of the Parliament of Canada, In the
year one thousand ei^fht hundred a;id ninely-seven, by
GiLBRRT Farkkr, Londou, EnKland, in tiie Ottice of tb«
Minuter of AKriuulture.

I-

MY BROTH P:RS,
FREDERICK, LIONEL, HAKRV, AND ARTHUR,

AND
BLISS CARMAN, MV COMRADE.

CONTENTS.

THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS Hrr [.S

GOD'S GARRISON -

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH

A PRAIRIE VAGABOND

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHKVRON

THRFE OUTLAWS -

SHON MCGANN'S TOBOGAN RIDI-

PftRE CHAMPAGNE -

THE SCARLET HUNTER

THE STONE

THE TALL MASTER

THE CRIMSON FLAG

THE FLOOD

IN PIPI VALLEY

ANTOINE AND ANGELIQUE

THE CIPHER

A TRAGEDY OF NOBODIES -

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS

PAcn
I

126

135

for

169

192

201

222

231

-'42

265

273

292

NOTE.

•I

It is possi])lc that a Note on the country
pourtraycd in these: stories may be in keeping.
Until 1870, the Hudson's Bay Company —
first granted its charter by King Charles II. —
practically ruled that vast region stretching
from the fiftieth parallel of latitude to the
Arctic Ocean; — a handful of adventurous
men entrenched in Forts and Posts, yet
trading with, and mostly peacefully con-
quering, many savage tribes. Once the sole
master of the North, the H. B. C. (as it is
familiarly called) is reverenced by the Indians
and half-breeds as much as, if not more than,
the Government established at Ottawa. It
has had its Forts within the Arctic Circle ;

it has successfully exploited a country larger

a NOTE.

than the United States. The Red River
Valley, the Sackatchewan Valley, and British
Columbia, are now belted by a great railway,
and ^nven to the plough ; but in the far north,
life is much the same as it was a hundred
years ago. There the trapper, clerk, trader,
and factor, are cast in the mould of another
century, though possessing the acuter energies
of this. The voyageitr and courier de bois still
exist, though, generally, under less picturesque
names.

The bare story of the hardy and wonderful
career of the adventurers trading in Hudson's
Bay, — of whom Prince Rupert was once
chiefest, — and the life of the prairies, may be
found in histories and books of travel; but
their romances, the near narratives of in-
dividual lives, have waited the telling. In
this book I have tried to feel my way to-
wards the heart of that life ; — worthy of
being loved by all British men, for it has
given honest graves to gallant fellows of

NOTE. XI

our breeding. Imperfectly, of course, I have
done it ; but there is much more to be
told.

When I started Pretty Pierre on his travels,
I did not know — nor did he — how far or wide
his adventures and experiences would run.
They have, however, extended from Quebec in
the east to British Columbia in the west, and
from the Cypress Hills in the south to the
Coppermine River in the north. With a less
adventurous man we had had fewer happen-
ings. His faults were not of his race, — that is,
French and Indian, — nor were his virtues; they
belong to all peoples. But the expression of
these is affected by the country itself. Pierre
passes through this series of stories, connecting
them, as he himself connects two races, and
here and there links the past of the Hudson's
Bay Company with more modern life and
Canadian energy pushing northward. Here
is something of romance ''pure and simple,"
but also traditions and character, which

'^^ NOTE.

are the single pn.pcrty ol this austere but
not cheerless heritage oi our race.

All of the talcs have appeared in Magazines
and Journals-naniely, The A alio na I Observer^
Macmillcms, The Nalional Review, and The
^n^hsh Illustrated; and The Im/rfieudent of
N(iw York. By the courtesy of the proprietc^rs
ol these I am permitted to republish,

G F

Harpkndkn,

Hekifordshike,
July 1892.

PIERRE A\D IIIS PEOPLE

^bc patrol of tbc (T^preeo Ibillo.

•' ITk's too ha'sh," said old Alexander Windsor, as he
shut the crcakiii<^ door of the store after a vanishing
figure, and turned to the big iron stove with out-
stretched hands ; hands that were cold both summer
and winter. He was of lean and frigid make.

" Sergeant Foncs is too hi'sh," he rc[)eatcd, as he
pulled out the dam[)cr and cleared away the ashes
with the iron poker.

Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of
cigarette smoke into the air, tilted his chair back,
and said : " I do not know what you mean by ' ha'sh/
but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than
one devil made sometime in the North West." He
laughed softly.

"That gives you a chance in history. Pretty Pierre,"
said a voice from behind a pile of woollen goods and
buffalo skins in the centre of the floor. The owner
of the voice then walked to the window. He scratched
some frost from the pane and looked out to where the
trooper in dog-skin coat, and gauntlets, and cap, was
mounting his broncho. The old man came and stood
near the young man, — the owner of the voice, — and
said again : " He's too ha'sh."

IMI -KIO'", ANr) MIS VV.OVIM.

*' Ifiirsh ynii iiK .III, f'alliri," .iddfl llif" ollirr.

" Y('«, /Mr»// yitii iiuMii, ( )l(l lin»wri Wiiidsui, f|iiitc
liarsli," .said ridic.

AI«\.nidri Wind .01. '.luickrrpci and {M'licial dfairr,
w.is soinctinH's railed "( )ld hmwii Windsor" and
soincliincs " < )ld A I(m1<," In dr. I nr/iiili liini (loni his
.'.'>n, wliM W.I . known .r. " \'Mini{; Alrrl<."

As lh«' old in;m w.dkcd l>.i< l< ajsun lo tlu .(<iv(^ lo
warm Ins li.md., N'oinij; Al(<l< < (tiil inn* d : "lie floes
his <lnly : Ih.il's all. If h<" d<Msn'l wear l<i<l ;dov(s
while al il, it's lii . < Iiok e. I le doe n'l {;o l»eyon«l his
dniy. \ on < .ui l)atd< on that. Il would Ixj hard to
c\« eed thai W.I)' onl here."

"True. Yoini;; /Meek, '.o Irne; hul then he \\<-,»is
jdoves ol iion, nl i( e. Ih-il is n(»l [mmkI. SonH-lime
the I'Jitve will he too h.nd and lold on a ni.ni's
shonld<"r, and (hen ! W<ll, I shot, Id hke to he

ll»( le." s.iid I'lene. showni^; his while tc'elh.

( )ld Al(«lv sliivi led, .iiid held hi. liniM-rs where th(;
slove was r( (I hoi.

1 he yonn;.; ni.m «lid not heai this speech ; Ik; was
W.dthini; S<ij;e.iiil Ioik , as lie rode lovvai<l the Ih;.;
l)ivide. I'resintly \w. said: "lie's };oin;; toward
I Inmphrey's pl.u '•. I -" lie stopped, JKiit his
blows. (Miiidit one corner of his sli'dit monstacht!
1)1 Iweeii his teeth, and ditl not stir .1 ninscle until the
Ser^jeant h.ul passed ov(M K\\v. I)ividc.

Old Aleck was me.mwhile <hl.itin}^; upon his theme
belore a |)a"sive lisltMier. Ihit I'lerre was only passive
outw.irdlw HesicUvs hearkeiiini' to the father's com-
plaints he was closely watching; tin; sou. Pierre w.is
clever, and a j.;ood actor. He had learned the power
of reserve and outward immobility. The Indian in

i' 1

Till I'A I POI, (»!• I III. ' . I'lM.SS Nfl.I.S.

Ic
Ic

Is
lr

liitii li'l|»»'l liiiii ill' If II' li.ifl li'.u'l wli;it \''i\\t)\*
/\lr f I; li.ifj jir.t limit' I' 'I , IhiI I'. Ill' III. Ill '»! tli«- r(.lr|
fini-'f; he s;ii'l : " Y'Hi I.''|» ';'.'.'! vln Uy in .\>\\r (,i
flw l.iw ;iii'l 111'- ii'»ii i'.l'»v, Old Al''l;.'' To thr
V'-iiiii', iii;iii : " Ari'l y'»ii ',iii 'ImiiI< iI ';o fi'-r, rli,
Y'HiiiM Al'-k''" III'- hall I. f "I l','.l,'f| oiil of tl»n
(oiii'-r. i>\ III. '••/'••. at til'- y'Hiii!; iriaii, liiil lir rlid not
rar.r llic |.fal, ')l In. Iin '.i)> in donij; so, ,in(l hi.';
yliiwci'. a'.l':aii' '• wi'' ii'*t .'•' n

Y'»iin;; Ah'l< h;i'l Ix' ii .vtitiri;^ ';')nirlhin{^ witfi his
fin^^'T nail '»n flif liof "f fhf pan'-, <>vct and over
a'/ain. WIi'Mi I'l'iif .|)'<!':'- fo hiin tliir. \\r .'ratfhrd
<»iit III'" woid he ha'l wiiltrn, '.vith a hat srf:fnfd uri-
n(«'-.'..iiy for'C!. I'lif in on*- f '>rnf'r it rr:in;iinf:(l :
"Mab "

i'icrr'- addrd : "That i.s what th'y '^,'iy at Ifiifri-
j>hify' . I ail' li."

" Wh(^ '.ay. that at llnniphrry'', r' Ti'Trc, yoi. ikj I '

K.aricf:

•|''y

n'.

I this last slatcni' tit had h'M ri 'iftcn attc.tcd f>ri thn
|)iaiiirs by IIm: pi'M iir; firij)ha'.i'. ol a, six rharnhf!rf:fl
I'volvfT. It was 'vi'i'iit that Y'<iin!' Al<:<;k was in
(Silliest, ri'irc's cy s '/lovv'l m tlif: shadow, hut hf:
idly replied :

ff/on

a)n

I do n'»t icrrifMiih'r 'jiiite v.li'> ;;iid if. Wf:ii,
/, |)'ih;:|)s I lie; p'rli;i|>s. Soni'tirnrrs wf; rircarn

■>. '»

mil's, and these dream . ar'' true

on rail it a lie —

hii'n I Sei;;eant I'one., he dreams j>erhaps Oh!
Aleck sells whi .ky ;if;;iin t th': law to men you eall
whisky rnmier ., s'Mnelime , to Iti'lians and half breeds
- h.ilf-breefis like I'letty I'i' ires 'J h.il was a Irearn
of Ser}.Mant I'oncs ; but yon see \\v. be-lievcs it true.
It is j^ood sport, iA\t Will y^i not take — what is it?

PIKkkK ANI> HIS IM.Ol'i.E.

— a silent partner ? Yes ; n silent partner, T^M Air* 1<.
Pielty lMi*rrc lias spare time, a liltie, lo in il.c money
for his friends and for liiinscif, eli ? "

When did not Pierre have time tf) spare? He was
a j^.'iinbler. Unlike the majori.y of halt-hreeds, he
had a pronounced French niamicr, nonchalant and
debonair. The Indian in him <;ave him coohiess and
nerve. His cheeks had a tinj^e of dehc ate red under
tlieir whiteness, like tliose of a woman. That was
why he was called Pretty Pierre. The country had,
however, lelt a kind of weird menace in the name.
It was used to snakes whose rattle <.;ave notice of
approach or sij^nal of danj^er. ]>ut Pretty Pierre was
like the death-adder, small and beautiful, silent and
deadly. At one time he had made a secret of his
trade, or thou<;ht he was doinj^ so. In those days he
was often to be seen at David Humphrey's home, and
often in talk with Mab Humphrey ; but it was there
one night that the man who was ha'sh gave him
his true character, with much candour and no com-
ment.

Afterwards Pierre was not seen at Humphrey's
ranch. Men prophesied that he would have revenge
some day on Sergeant Fones ; but he did not
show anything on which this opinion could be
based. He took no umbrage at being called Pretty
Pierre the gambler. But for all that he was pos-
sessed of a devil.

Young Aleck had inherited some money through
his dead mother from his grandfather, a Hudson's Bay
factor. He had been in the East for some years, and
when he came back he brought his "little pile" and
aa impressionable heart with him. The former

f ■

TMK PATROL OF TIIK CYl'KKSS HILLS.

Pretty Pierre and his fri' nds set about to win ; the
latter, Mab Huinplircy won without the tryinpj. Yet
Mab ^ave Youn;^ Aleck as much as he gave her.
More. Because her love sprarij; from a simple,
earnest, and uncoiitaminatcd life. Ilcr purity and
affection were bein^ pla)* d a^^ainst Pierre's designs
and Young Aleck's weakness. With Aleck cards and
liquor went together. Pierre seldom drank.

But what of .Sii^^eant F*ones ? If the man that
knew him best — tlie Commandant — had been asked
for his history, tiie reply would have been : " P'ive
years in the Service, rij^id disciplinarian, best non-
commissioned officer on the Patrol of the Cypress
Hills." Tiiat was all the Commandant knew.

A !5oldier-f)oliceman's life on the frontier is rough,
solitary, and severe. Active duty and res{)onsibility
are all that makes it endurable. To few is it fascinat-
ing. A free and thourjhtful nature would, however,
find much in it, in spite of great hardships, to give
interest and even pleasure. The sense of breadth and
vastness, and the inspiration of pure air could be a
very gospel of strcn;4th, beauty, and courage, to such
an one — for a time. But was Seri'eant P\>nes such an
one ? The ommandant's scornful reply to a questi( n
of the kind would have been: " lie is the best soldier
on the Patrol."

And so with hard gallops here and there after the
refugees of crime or misfortune, or bolh, who fled be-
fore them like deer among the j)assrs of the hills, and,
like deer at ba\', often fou.</ht like demons to the death-
with border watchings, Hud protection and care and
vigilance of the Indians; with hurrird marches at
suiirjse, the tlicrmunicLcr at hliy ue^;iceb below zero

6 PIKKRK AND HIS PEOPLK.

often in winter, and open camps beneath the stars,
and no camp at all, as often as not, winter and sum-
mer ; with roui^h barrack fun and paratle and drill
and fjuard of prisoners ; and with chances now and
then to pay homa^^c to a woman's tace, — the Mounted
Force grew full of the Spirit of th.e West and became
brown, valiant, and hardy, w ith wind and weather.
Perhaps some of them longed to touch, oftener than
they did, the hands of cliildren, and to consider
more the faces of women, — for hearts are hearts even
under a belted coat of red on the Fiftieth Parallel, —
but men of nerve do not blazon their feelings.

No one would have accused Sergeant Fones of
having a heart. Men of keen discernment would
have seen in him the little Bismarck of the
Mount ^d Police. His name carried farther on the
Cypress Hills Patrol than any other ; and yet his
officers could never say that he exceeded his duty or
enlarged upon the orders he received. He had no
sympathy with crime. Others of the force might
wink at it ; but his mind appeared to sit severely
upright upon the cold platform of Penalty, in behold-
ing breaches of the Statutes. He would not ha^
rained upon the unjust as the just if he had had the
directing of the heavens. As Private Gellatly put
it : " Sergeant Fones has the fear o' God in his heart,
and the law of the land across his saddle, and the
newest breech-loading at that!" He was part of the
great machine of Order, the servant of Justice, the
sentinel in the vestibule of Martial Law. His inter-
pretation of duty worked upward as downward.
Officers and privates were acted on by the force
known as Sergeant Fones. Some people, like Old

THt PATROL OF THE CYPKKSS HILLS.

Brown Windsor, spoke hardl)' and openly of this
force. There were three people who never did —
Pretty Pierre, Younf^ Aleck, and Mab Humphrey.
Pierre hated him ; Youncr Aleck admired in him a
quality l\in[4 dormant in himself — decision; I\Iab
Humphrey spoke unkiwdly of no one. Besides —
but no !

What was Sergeant Fones's country ? No one
knew. Where had he come from ? No one asked
him more than once. He could talk French with
Pierre, — a kind of French that sometimes made the
undertone of red in the Frenchman's cheeks darker.
He had been heard to speak German to a German
prisoner, and once, when a c^ang of Italians were
making trouble on a line of railway under construc-
tion, he arrested the leader, and, in a few swift, sharp
words in the language of tiie rioters, settled the busi-
ness. He had no accent that betrayed his nationality.

He iiad been recommended for a commission.
The officer in command had hinted that the Sergeant
might get a Christmas present. The officer had
further said : *' And if it was something that both
you and the Patrol would be the better for, you
couldn't object. Sergeant." But the Sergeant only
saluted, looking steadily into the eyes of the of^cer.
That was his reply.

Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Ser-
geant Fones say, as he passed into the open air,
and slowly bared his forehead to the winter sun :

" Exactly."

And Private Gellatly cried, with revolt in his
voice : " Divils me own, the word that a't to have
been full o' joy was like the clip of a rifle breech."

1 1

PIERRK AM) HIS TKOFLK.

Justice in a new country is aciministcrcfl with
I)ronii)titucie and vi.i;our, or else not administered at
all. Where an officer of the Mounted Police-Soldier)-
has all the powers of a niaj^ist rate, the law's delay and
the insolence of office has little space in which to
work. One of the commonest slips of virtue in the
Canadian West was sellin<^ whisk\' contrar\' to the
law of prohibition which prevailed. Whisky runners
were land smu<r<rlcrs Old Brown Windsor had,

•t)fc>

.somehow, L;ot the reputation of heinj; coimectcd with
the whisky runners ; not a very respectable business,
and thought to be dan<;erous. Whisk)- rumiers were
inclined to resent intrusion on their privac)'', with a
touch of that bitini; inhospitableness which a moon-
lighter of Kentuck)'" uses toward an inquisitive, un-
.sympathetic marshal. On the C)q)ress Hills Patrol,
however, the erring .servants of Bacchus were having a
hard time of it. Vigilance never slept there in the
days of which these lines bear record. Old Brown
Windsor had, in words, freely espoused the cause of
the sinful. To the careless spectator it seemed a
charitable siding with the suffering ; a [)roor th;it the
oUl man's heart was i.ot so cold as his hands. Ser-
geant Fones thought differently, and his mission had
just been to warn the store-keeper that there was
menacing evidence gathering against him, and that
his friendship with Golden Feather, the Indian Chief,
had better cease at once. Sergeant Fones had a way
of putting things. Old Brown Windsor endeavoured
for a moment to be sarcastic. This was the brief
dialogue in the domain of sarcasm :

'■ I s'pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of
way, hopin' that I'd kenoodie with you later."

^»

THE FATKOL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS,

• Exactly."

There was an unpleasant click to the word. The
old man's hands got colder. He had nothing more
to say.

Before leaving, the Sergeant said something quietly
and quickly to Young Aleck. Pierre observed, but
could not hear. Young Aleck was uneasy ; Pierre
was perplexed. The Sergeant turned at the door, and
said in French : " What are your chances for a Merry
Christmas at Pardon's Drive, I*rctty Pierre ? " Pierre
said nothing He shrugged his shoulders, and as the
door closed, muttered: "// est le dtabie." And he
meant it. What should Sergeant Fones know of that
intended meeting at Pardon's Drive on Christmas
Day? And if he knew, what then? It was not
against the law to play euchre. Still it perplexed
Pierre. Before the Windsors, father and son, how-
ever, he was, as we have seen, playfully cool.

After quitting Old Brown Windsor's store, Sergeant
Fones uri^ed his stout broncho to a quicker pace than
usual. The broncho was, like himself, wasteful of
neither action nor affection. The Sergeant had caught
nim wild and independent, had brought him in,
broken him, and tauc^ht him obedience. They under-
stood each other ; perhaps they loved each other.
But about that even Private Gellatly had views in
common with the general sentiment as to the
character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point : " Sarpints alive ! the heels of the
one and the law of the oiher is the love of them.
They'll weather together like the Divil and Death."

The Sergeant was brooding ; that was not like him.
He was hesitating ; that was less like him. He

I'IKKKK AND HIS i'KOi'LE.

tiirnofl his hroncho round as if to cross the ]V\^ Divide
and to*^o b.ick to Windsor's store ; hut he changed his
mind aijain, and rode on toward David Humphrey's
ranch. Mc sat as if he had been born in tlie saddle.
I lis was a face for the artist, strong and clear, and
having a dominant exprcssioti of force. The eyes
were deep-set and watchful. A kind of disdain might
be traced in the curve of the short upper lip, to which
the moustache was clipped close — a good fit, like his
coat. The disdain was more marked this morning.

The first part of his ride had been seen by Young
Aleck, the second part by Mab Humi)hrcy. Iler
first thought on seeing him was one of apprehension
for Young Aleck and those of Young Aleck's name.
She knew that people s[)()ke of her lover as a ne'er-
do-wccl ; and that they associated his name freely
with that of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a
dread of Pierre, and, only the night before, she had
determined to make one last great effort to save
Aleck, and if he would not be saved — strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure
on horseback coming nearer, her mind should swerve
to what she ha I heard of Sergeant Fones's expected
promotion. Tlien she fell to wondering if anyone
had ever given him a real Christmas present ; if he
had any friends at all ; if life meant anything more
to him than carrying the law of the land across his
saddle. Again he suddenly came to her in a new
thought, free from apprehension, and as the champion
of her cause to defeat the half-breed and his gang, and
save Aleck from present danger or future perils.

She was such a woman as prairies nurture ; in
spirit broad and thoughtful and full of energy ; not

TMK TATKOI, ()|< TIIK < VI'KKSS HILLS.

In
d

so deep as llio nioiit t.n'ii wrxinii. not so iinapjinative,
but with iimrc pcrsiviciicy, iiKirc darini;. Youth to
h(M- was a warmth, a ^'lors'. Shir hated excess and
lawlessness, l)ut she Cfuild understand it. She felt
sometimes as if siie must ^o far away into the un-
peopled spaces, and shriek out her soul to the stars
from the fulness of too much life. She supposed
men had feelini^^s of that kind too, but that tliey fell
to playin^j cartls and drinkinjjj instead of crying to
the stars. Still, she prefeiied lier way.

Once, Serjeant I'ones, on hNiviiii,^ the house, said
ijrimly after his fashion: "Not Mab but Ariadne —

excuse a soldier's l)luntness (jood-bsc I " and

with a brus(pie salute he had ridden away. What he
meant she did not know and could not ask. The
thouf^ht instantly came to her inind : Not Scrj^eant
Fones ; but — who? She wondered if Ariadne was
born on the prairie. What knew she of the ^drl wiio
helped Theseus, her lover, to slay the Minotaur?
Wh it c^uessed she of the Slopes of Naxos ? How old
was Ariadne? Twenty? — For that was Mab's a^^e.
Was Ariadne beautiful ? — She ran her fingers loosely
throuf^h her short brown hair, waving softly about
her Greek-shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne
must have been presentable or Sergeant Fones
would not have made the compari.son. She hoped
Ariadne could ride well, for she could.

But how white the world looked this morning ! and
how proud and brilliant the sky I Nothing in the
plane of vision but waves of snow stretching to the
Cypress Hills ; far to the left a solitar)- house, with
its tin roof flashing back the sun, and to the right the
Big Divide. It was an old-fashioned winter, not one

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

in which bare ground and sharp winds make life out-
doors inhos[)itable. Snow is hospitable — clean, im-
pacted snow ; restful and silent. • But there is one
spot in the area of white, on which Mab's eyes are
fixed now, with somethinjr different in them from
what had been there. Ai^ain it was a memory with
which Serj^eant Fones was associated. One day in
the summer just past she had watched him and his
company put away to rest under the cool sod,
where many another lay in silent company, a prairie
wanderer, some outcast from a better life gone by.
Afterwards, in her home, she saw the Serj:^eant stand
at the window, lookinf^ out toward the spot where
the waves in the sea of grass were more regular and
greener than elsewhere, and were surmounted by a high
cross. She said to him — for she of all was never shy
of his stern ways :

" Why is the grass always greenest tJiere, Sergeant
Fones ? "

He knew what she meant, and slowly said : " It is
the Barracks of the Free."

She had no views of life save t!mse of duty and
work and natural joy and loving a ne'er-do- .veel, and
she said : " I do not understand that."

And the Sergeant replied: ''Free among the Dead
like unto them that are ivouiided and lie in the grave ^
who are out of reuii'mbrancc!*

But Mab said again : " I do not understand that
either."

The Sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped
to the docjr and gave a short command to some one
without, and in a moment his com[jaii\' was mounteil
in line, hanu.Mjiue, dashing fellows; one the son of

lat

led

|ne

lea

THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS iilLLS.

an KnG^lish nobleman, one the brother of an eminent
Canadian politician, one related to a celebrated
English dr.iinatist. He ran his eye alonj^ the line,
then turned to Mab, raised his cap with machine-like
precision, and said : " No, I suppose you do not
understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from Pretty
Pierre and his gang. Good-bye."

Then he mounted and rode away. Every other
man in the company looked back to where the girl
stood in the uonrway ; he did not Private Gellatly
s.iid, with a shake of the head, as she was lost
to view : " Devils bestir me, what a widdy she'll
mc)ke!" It was understood that Aleck Windsor and
Mab Humphrey were to be married on the coming
New Year's Day. What connection was there be-
tween the words of Sercreant Fones and those of
Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.

Mab thinks upon that day as she looks out, this
December morning, and sees Sergeant Fones dis-
mounting at the door. David Humphrey, who is
outside, offers to put up the Sergeant's horse ; but he
says : " No, if you'll hold him just a moment, Mr.
Humphrey, I'll ask for a drink of something warm,
and move on. Miss Mab is inside, I suppose?"

" She'll give }ou a drink of the best to be had on
your patrol, Sergeant," was the laughing reply.

"Thanks for that, but tea or coffee is g-^od enough
for me," said the Sergeant. Entering, the coffee was
soon in the hand of the hardy soldier. Once he
paused in his drinking and scanned Mab's face
clor.ely. Most people would have said the Sergeant
had an affair of the law in hand, and was searching
the face of a criminal ; but most people are not

PIKRkK AND HIS IM:0I'I,E.

i;()()'l at interpretation. Mah was spcMkini; to the
ch')rc-Lrirl at the same time and ditl not see the look.
If she eould iiave defined iier thoujj^iits when she, in
turn, i^hinced into the Seri^eant's feiee, a moment
afterward-, she would have said : " Austerity fills tliis
man. Isoliition marks him for iis own." In the e\ es
were only purjjose, decision, and command. Was
that the look that had been fixetl U[)on. her face a
moment ago ? It must have been. His features had
not changed a breath. Mab began tlieir talk.

*' Tliey say you are to get a Cliristmas present of
promotion Sergeant Fones."

" I have not seen it gazetted," he answered enig-
matically.

" You and your friends will be glad of it."

" I like the service."

" You will have more freedom with a commission.'

He made no reply, but rose and walked to the
•window, and looked out across the snow, drawing on
his gc'untlets as he did so.

She saw that he was looking where the grass in
summer was the greenest!

He turned and said :

"I am going to barracks now. I suppose Young
Aleck will be in quarters here on Christmas Day,
Miss Mab?"

" I think so/' and she blushed.

" Did he say he would be here ? "

" Yes."

" Exactly."

]1'2 looked toward the coffee. 1 hen

" Thank you Good-bye."

" Sergeant ? "

THR PATROL OF THE CYPKKSS HILLS.

ig on

"Miss Mab!"

" Will you not come to us on Christinas Day ? "

His eyelids closed swiltiy and opened aj^ain.

" I shall be on duty."

"And promoted ? "

« Perhaps."

"And merry and happy?** — she smiled to herself
to think of Serjeant Fones being merry and happy.

" Exactly."

The word suited him.

He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch,
and turned round as if to speak ; pulled off his
gauntlet, and then as quickly put it on again. Had
he meant to offer his hard in good-bye? He had
never been seen to tak'e the hand of anyone except
with the might of the law visible in steel.

He opened the door with the right hand, but
turned round as he stepped out, so that the left held
it while he faced the warmth of the room and the face
of the girl.

The door closed.

Mounted, and having said good-bye to Mr. Hum-
phrey, he turned towards the house, raised his cap
with soldierly brusqueness, and rode away in the
direction of the barracks.

The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of
Young Aleck, and of Christmas Day, now near. The
Sergeant did not look back.

Meantime the party at Windsor's store was broken
up. Pretty Pierre and Young Aleck had talked to-
gether, and the old man had heard his son say ;

" Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time."

Then they talked alter this fashion :

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

"Ah, I know, ntnn ami; for the last time! Eh,
bien ! You will spend Cliristmas Day with us too —
No ? You surely will not leave us on the day of good
fortune ? Where better can you take your pleasure
— for the last time ? One day is not enough for fare-
vv-ell. Two, three; that is the magic number. You
will, eh ? no ? Well, well, you will come to-morrow
— and — eh, mon ami, where do you go the next day ?
Oh, pardofty I forgot, you spend the Christmas Day —
I know. And the day of the New Year ? Ah,
Young Aleck, that is what they say — the devil for
the devil's luck. So ! "

" Stop that, Pierre." There was fierceness in the
tone. " I spend the Christmas Day where you don't,
and as I like, and the rest doesn't concern you. I
drink with you, I play with you — bien t As you say
yourself, bien / isn't that enough ? "

" Pardon ! We will not quarrel. No ; we spend
not the Christmas Day after the same fashion, quite ;
then, to-morrow at Pardon's Drive ! Adieu I"

Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction
between his white teeth, and Aleck went out of an-
other door with a malediction upon his gloomy lips.
But both maledictions were levelled at the same person.
Poor Aleck !

" Poor Aleck ! " That is the way we sometimes
think of a good nature gone awry ; one that has
learned to say cruel maledictions to itself, and against
which demons hurl their deadly maledictions too.
Alas, for the ne'er-do-weel 1

That night a stalwart figure passed from David
Humphrey's door, carrying with him the warm
atmosphere of a good woman's love. The chilly

rilK PAIKOL OF Till'. cvrkKss IIIM.S.

Eh,
too —
good
asure
• fare-

You
orrow

day?
Day—
' Ah,
vil for

in the
I don't,
^ou. I
'ou say

spend
quite ;

iiction
of an-
ly lips.
)erson.

letimes
it has
Lgainst
is too.

iDavid
warm
chilly

outer air of the world seemed not to touch him,
Love's curtains were drawn so close. Had one stood
witliin '* tlic Hunter's Room,'' as it was called, a little
while before, one would have seen a man's head bowed
before a woman, and her hand smoothini; back the
hair from the handsome brow where dissipation had
drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand raised
the head until the eyes of the woman looked full into
the eyes of the man.

" You will not go to Pardon's Drive again, will you,
Aleck?'

" Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I
must go to-morrow. I have given my word."

" I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and
for what ? Oh, Aleck, isn't the suspicion about your
father enough, but you must put this on me as well?"

" My father must sutfci for his wrong-doing if he
does wrong, and I for mine."

There was a moment's silence. He bowed his head
airain.

" And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me,
Mab."

She leaned over and fondled his hair. " I forgive
you, Aleck."

A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through
him. Yet this man had given his word to do that for
which he must ask forgiveness of the woman he loved.
But to Pretty Pierre, forgiven or unforgiven, he would
keep his word. She understood it better than most
of those who read this brief record can. Every sphere
has its code of honour and duty peculiar to itself

" Vou will come to me on Christmas morning,
Aleck ? "

PIKKRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

" I will come on Christmas morninj^."

"And no more after that of Pretty Pierre?"

•* And no more of Pretty Pierre."

Sh ) trusted him ; but neither could reckon with
unknown forces.

Scri^cunt Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with
Private Gellatly, said at that moment in a swift
silence, — " Kxactly."

Pretty Pierre, at Pardon's Drive, drinking a glass of
brandy at that moment, said to the ceiling:

•' No more oi" Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night,
monsieur! Bten ! If it is for the last time, then it is
for the last time. So .... so ! "

lie smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.

The stalwart figure strode on under the sars, the
white night a lens for visions of days of rejoicing to
come. All evil was far from him. Tlie dolorous tide
rolled back in this hour from his life, and he revelled
in the light of a new day.

" When I've played my last card to-morrow night,
with Pictty Pierre, I'll begin the world again," he
whispered.

And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then,
in response to a further remark of Private Gellatly,—
'Exactly."

Young Aleck is singing now:

*' Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild ;

Hire will we make our home,—
Father, mother, and child ;

Come, my love, to our home,—
Father, mother, and child.
Father, mother, and — *'

THE PATROL OF THE CVl'KlvSS IHLLS.

with

with
swift

ass

nif^ht,
n it is

vs, the
:ing to
lis tic^e
ivellcd

night,
n," he

then»

He fell to thinking aj^^iin — " atirl child- atuI (hild,"
— it w.is ill his ears and in liis heart.

Hut Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in
the room at Pardon's Drive :

** Three good friends with the wine at nij,dit —
Vive la comj)aj^nie !
Two good fri(Mids when the sun ;^rows bright — ''
Vive l.i coinp.i^^nie !
Vive la, vive la, vive I'aniour 1
Vive la, vive la, vive I'aniour I
Three good friends, two good friends —
Vive la compagnie I "

What did it mean ?

Private Gcllatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and
Idaho J.ick disliked Pretty Pierre, though he had been
f one of the gang. The cousins had seen each other
I lately, and Private Gellatly had had a talk with
^ the man who was ha'sh. It may be that others
"^ besides Pierre had an idea of what it meant.

In the house at Pardon's Drive the next night sat
eight men, of whom three were Pretty Pierre, Young
Aleck, and Idaho Jack. Young Aleck's face was
flushed with bad liquor and the worse excitement of
play. This was one of the unreckoncd forces. Was
this the man that sang the tender song under the
stars last night ? Pretty Pierre's face was less pretty
than usual ; the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were
hard and cold. Once he looked at his {)artner as if
to say, " Not yet." Idaho Jack saw the look ; he
glanced at his watch ; it was eleven o'clock. At that
moment the door o[)ened, and Sergeant Fones entered.
All started to their feet, most with curses on their
lips ; but Sergeant Phones never seemed to hear any

riEKKF AND HIS PKOPLK.

tln'ii;^ tliat could m.ikc a feature of his fare alter.
Pierre's hand was on his hip, as if feelin,^ for sonic-
thin^^ Serjeant Fones saw that ; but he walked to
where Aleck stood, with his unplayed cards still in
his hand, and, laying a hand on his sh(nil(ler, said,
" Come with me."

*' Why should I go with you ? " — this with a drunken
man's bravado.

" You are my prisoner."

Pierre stepped forward. " What is his crime?" he
exclaimed.

" How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre?"

*' He is my friend."

" Is he your friend, Aleck ? "

What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that
forced the reply, — " To-night, yes ; to-morrow, no? "

" Exactly. It is near to-morrow ; come."

Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre's
hand went to his hip ; but he was looking at the
prisoner, not at the Sergeant. The Sergeant saw, and
his fingers were at his belt. He o{)ened the door.
Aleck passed out. He followed. Two horses were
tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck was mounted.
Once on the way his brain began slowly to clear, but
he grew painfully cold. It was a bitter night. How
bitter it might have been for the ne'er-do-weel let the
words of Idaho Jack, spoken in a long hour's talk
next day with Old Brown Windsor, show. ** Pretty
Pierre, after the two were gone, said, with a shiver of
curses, — * Another hour and it would have been done,
and no one to blame. He was ready for trouble.
I lis money was nearly finished. A little quarrel easily
made, the door would open, and he would pass out

- I

THE PA'ikOL OF TIIK ("VPRESS HILLS.

the
and

loor.
rere

\Ud.
but
[ow
the

Italk

|etty
irof

|one,
ible.
Lsily
lout

Ill's horse would be ^^oiie, he could not come back;
he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold ;
and the snow is a soft bed. lie would sleep well and
sound, havinc^ seen Pretty Pierre for the last time.
And now!' The rest was French and furtive."

From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre
parted company.

Ridincj from Pardon's Drive, Younf^ Aleck noticed
at last that they were not ^^oin<^ toward the barracks.

He said : " Why do you arrest me? "

Th(2 Ser;:(eant re[)lied : " You will know that soon
cnouL,di. You arc now f^oin^^ to your own home.
To-morrow \ou will keep your word and ^o to David
Hi'mphrey's place ; the next day J will come for you.
Which do )'ou choose : to ride with me to night to
the barracks and know why you are arrested, or go,
unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with
the girl?"

Through Aleck's fevered brain, there ran the words
of the song he sang before :

" Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild ;
Here will we make our home, —
Father, mother, and child."

He could have but one answer.

At the door of his home the Sergeant left him with
the words : " Remember you arc on parole."

Aleck noticed, as the Sergeant rode away, that the
face of the sky had changed, and slight gusts of wind
had come up. At any other time his mind would
have dwelt ui)on the fact. It did not do so now.

Christma.^ Day came. People said that the fiercest

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

night, since the blizzard day of 1863, had been
passed. But the morning was clear and beautiful.
The sun came up like a great flower cxpntiding.
First the yellow, then the purple, then the red, and
then a mighty shield of roses. The world was a
blanket of drift, and down, and glistening silver.

Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a
smile as only springs to a thankful woman's lips. He
had given his word and had kept it ; and the path of
the future seemed surer.

He was a prisoner on parole ; still that did not
depress him. Plans for coming days were talked of,
and the laughter of many voices filled the house.
The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind.
In the Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the
heart of a re; entant prodigal.

In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was
posted, announcing, with such technical language as
is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was promoted to
be a lieutenant irf the Mounted Police Force of the
North West Territory. When the officer in command
sent for him he could not be found. But he was
found that morning ; and when Private Gcllatly,
with a warm hand, touching the glove of " iron and
ice " — that, indeed, now, said : " Sergeant Fones,
you are promoted, God help you I" he gave no sign.
Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse,
beside a stunted larch tree. The broncho seemed to
understand, for he did not stir, and had not done so
for hours ; — thev could tell that. The bridle rein was
still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the
face.

A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones.

:•

;ign.

)rse,
to
so

was

the

THE I'ATKUL Oh THE CVI'KESS HIl.LS. 23

I'crhaps he smiled that he was going to the
Barracks of the Free.

''Free amoii^ the Dead like unto them that are
wounied and lie in the grave ^ that are out of remem-
brance !*

In the wild night he had lost his way, though
but a few miles from the barracks.

He had done hi^ duty rigidly in that sphere o'' life
where he had lived so much alone among his many
comrades. Had he exceeded his duty once in arrest-
ing Young Aleck ?

When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the
barracks, over him the flag for which he had sworn to
do honest service, and his promotion papers in his
quiet hand, the two who loved each other stood beside
him for many a throbbing minute. And one said to
herself, silently : " I felt sometimes " — but no more
words did she say even to herself.

Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the
Sergeant slept, wrapped close in that white frosted
coverlet which man wears but once. He stood for a
moment silent, his fingers numbly clasped.

Private Gellatly spoke softly: "Angels betide me, it's
little we knew the great of him till he wint away ; the
pride, and the law, — and the love of him."

In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas
morning one at least had seen " the love of him."
Perhaps the broncho had known it before.

Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never
touched when it had life. " He's — too — ha'sh/' he
said slowly.

Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly.

But the old man's eyes were wet

(5oVe Garriooiu

! I

Twenty years ai^o there was trouble at Fort o' God.
"Out of this [)l;ice wc get betwixt the suus," said
Gyng the Factor. " No help that falls abaft to-
morrow could save us. Food dwindles, and ammuni-
tion's nearly gone, and they'll have the cold steel in
our scalp-locks if we stay. We'll creep along the
Devil's Causeway, then through the Red Horn
Woods, and so across the plains to Rupert House.
Whip in the dogs, Baptiste, and be ready all of you
at midnight."

"And Grab the Idiot — what of him?" said Pretty
Pierre.

" He'll have to take his chance. If ht can travel
with us, so much the better for him ; " and the Factor
shrugged his shoulders.

"If not, so much the worse, eh?" replied Pretty
Pierre.

"Work the sum out to suit yourself. We've got
our necks to save. God'll have to help the Idiot if
we can't."

"You hear, Grab Hamon, Idiot," said Pierre an
hour afterwards, " we're going to leave Fort o' God
and make for Rupert House. You've a dragging leg,
you're gone in the savvey, you have to balance your-
self with your hands as you waddle along, and you
slobber when you talk ; but you've got to cut away

24.

GODS GARRISON.

itty

)tif
an

rod

lur-

''OU

fay

with us quick across the Beaver IMains, antl Christ'li
have to lielp )'ou if we can't. That's what the b'actor
says, and that's how the case stands, Idiot — bien ?"

"Grab want pi}3e -babble — bubble — wind blow/
muttered the dale one.

Pretty Pierre bent over and said slowly: "If you
stay here, Grah, the Indian get your scalp; if you fjo,
the snow is deep and the Irost is like a badger's tooih
and you can't be carried."

" Oh, Oh! — my mother dead — poor Annie — by God !
Grah want pipe — poor Grah sleep in snuw — butoic,
bubble — Oh, Oh ! — the longf wind, fly away."

Pretty Pierre watched the great head of the Idio*.
as it swung heavily on his shouldjrs, and then said ;
" Mais, like th^t, so !" and turned away.

When the party were about to sally forth on their
perilous path to safety, Gyng stood and cried
angrily: "Well, whv hasn't some one bundled u]'
that moth-eaten Caliban ? Curse it all, must I dc
everything myself?"

•' But you see," said Pierre, **the Caliban stays at
Fort o' God."

*' You've got a Christian heart in you, so he!p me,
Heaven !" re}>h>d the i>thcr. '* No, sir, we give lilm «•
chance, — and his Maker too for that maticr, to shr>v
what He's willing to do for His misfits."

Pretty Pierre rejoined : " Well, I have thought
The game is all agnmst Grah if he go ; but there arc
two who stay at Fort o' God."

And that is how, when the Factor and his h.iif-
breeds and trap^jers stole away in silence towards the
Devil's Causeway, Pierre anl the 1- iot rcn..»i;\cd be-
hind. And that is why the flag of the H. B. C. still

PIERRE AND HTS PEOPLE.

flew above Fort o' God in the New Year's sun just
twenty years ago to-day.

The Hudson's Bay Company had never done a
worse day's work than when they promoted Gyng to
be chief factor. He loathed the heathen, and he
showed his loathing. He bad a heart harder than
iron, a speech that bruised worse than the hoof of an
anjrry moose. And when at last he drove away a
band of wandering Sioux, food! ess, from the stores,
siege and ambush took the place of prayer, and a
nasty portion feii to Fort o' God. For the Indians
found a great cache of buffalo meat, and, having sent
the women and children south with the old men, gave
constant and biting a-surances to Gyng that the
heathen hath his hour, even though he be a dog
which is refused thase scraps from the white man's
table that make for life in the hour of need. Besides
all else, there was in the Fort the thing which the
gods made last to humble the pride of men — there
was rum.

And the morning after Gyng and his men had
der ^rted, because it was a day when frost was master
of the sun, and men grew wild for action, since to
stand still was to face indignant Death, they, who
camped without, prepared to make a sally upon the
wooden gates. Pierre saw their intent, and hid in the
ground some pemmican and all the scanty rum.
Then he looked at his powder and shot, and saw that
there was little left. If he spent it on the besiegers,
how should they fare for beast and fowl in hungry
days ? And for his rifle he had but a brace of
bullets. He rolled these in his hand, looking upon
them with a grim smile. And the Idiot, seeing, rose

GODS GARRISON.

n
e

ind sidled towards him, and said : " Poor Grab want
pipe — bubble — bubble." Then a light of childish
cunning came into his eyes, and he touched the
bullets blunderingly, and continued: " Plenty, plenty
b'longs Grah — give poor Grab pipe — plenty, plenty,
give you these."

And Pretty Pierre after a moment replied : " So
that's it, Grah ? — you've got bullets stowed away ?
Well, I must have them. It's a one-sided game in
which you get the tricks ; but here's the pipe, Idiot—
my only pipe for your dribbling mouth — my last
good comrade. Now show me the bullets. Take
me to them, daft one, quick."

A little later the Idiot sat inside the store wrapped
in loose furs, and blowing bubbles ; while Pretty
Pierre, with many handfuls of bullets by him, waited
for the attack.

" Eh," he said, as he watched from a loophole,
" Gyng and the others have got safely past the
Causeway, and the rest is possible. Well, it hurts an
idiot as much to die, perhaps, as a half-breed or a
factor. It is good to stay here. If we fight, and go
out swift like Grab's bubbles, it is the game. If we
starve and sleep as did Grab's mother, then it also
is the game. It is great to have all the chances
against and then to win. We shall see."

With a sharp relish in his eye be watched the
enemy coming slowly forward. Yet he talked almost
idly to himself: " I have a thought of so long ago.
A woman — she was a mother, and it was on the
Madawaska River, and she said : * Sometimes I
think a devil was your father ; an angel sometimes.
You were begot in an hour between a fighting and a

^ I

PIERRF AND HIS PEOPLE.

mass : between blood and heaven. And when you
were born you made no cry. 'Ihey said that was w
si[^m of evil. You refused ihe bn ast, and drank only
of the milk of wild cattle. In baptism you flun^
your ha'^d before your face that the watf.'r mi^ht not
touch, nor the jjriest's finder make a cross upon the
water. And th;.y said it were better if y<ju had been
born m idiot than witii an evil spirit ; and that your
hand would be against the loins that bore you. But
Pierre, ah Pierre, you love your mother, do you

not ? ' " And he stand in^^ now, his eye closed

with the f^ate - chink in front of I^'ort o' God, said
quietly : " She was of the race that hated these — my
mother ; and she died of a wound they ^ave her at
the TeJ:e Blanche Ili'l. Well, for that you die now,
Yellow Arm, if this yun has a bullet cold enough."

A bullet phii^ed throu'i^h the sharp air, as the
Indians swarmed towards the gate, and Yellow Arm,
the chief, fell. The bcsier^ers paused ; and then, as if
at the command of the fallen man, they drew back,
bearing him to the camp, where they sat down and
mourned.

Pierre watched them for a time ; and, seeing that
they made no further move, retired into the store,
where the Idiot muttered and was happy after his
kind. "Grah got pi[)e— blow away — blow away to
Annie — i)r(tty so )n."

"Yes, Grail, there's chance enough that you'll blow
away to Annie pretty soon," remarked the other.

"Grah have wluteea;4les — fly, fly on the wind — Oh,
Oh, bubble, bubble!" ar\d he sent the filmy globes
floating from the pip(! that a camp of river-drivers
had given the half-breed winters before

:■%.

r.OD'S (iARRISON.

Pierre stoorl h!i,1 looked at the waiidcrinp eyes, be-
liiid wiiirh were the toiturin^^s of an immense and
confused intelligence: a life that fell (!erf)rm(Ml before
the w('i<,dit of too mnch brain, so that all tottered
from the womb into the putters of fo(jlishness, and
the ton^^ue mumbled of chaos wlien it slK)iild have
told marvellous thin^^s. And the half-breed, the
thought of this coming upon him, said: "Well, I
think the matters of hell have fallen across the
things of heaven, and there is storm. If for one
moment he could thinic clear, it would be great!"

lie bethought him of a certain chant, taught him
by a medicine man in childhood, which, sung to the
waving of a torch in a place of darkness, caused
evil pirits to pass from those possessed, and good
spirits to reign in their stead. And he raised the
Idiot to his feet, .and brought him, maunde; ing, to a
room where no light was. He kneeled before him
with a ligl.tcd torch of bear's fat and the tendons
of the (1( cr, and waving it gently to atid fro, sang the
ancient rune, uitil the eye of the Idiot, following the
torch at a tangent as it waved, suddenly became fixed
upon tlie flame, whc^n it ceased to move. And the
words of the chant ran through Gra! s cars, and
pierced to the remote parts of his being ; and a
sickening trouble came upon his face, and the lips
ceased to drip, and were caught up in twinges of i)ain,
.. The chant rolled on : " Go fort/i, ^o forth upon
til em, tknn, the Scarlet Hunter ! Drive thrm forth
into the wilds, drive them cryins^ forth ! Enter in^ O
etit^r in, and lie upon the conch of peace, the couch of
peace ivitldn my wigwam, thou the wise one / Bthold^
I call to thee ! "

PIERRK AND HIS PEOPLE.

' i

And Pierre, looking upon the Idiot, saw his fact
glow, and his eye stream steadily to the light, and he
said : " What is it that you see, Grah ? — speak ! "

All pitifulness and struggle had gone from the
Idiot's face, and a strong calm fell upon it, and the
voice of a man that God had created spoke slowly :
"There is an end of blood. The great chief Yellow
Arm is fallen. He goeth to the plains where his wife
will mourn upon his knees, and his children cry, be-
cause he that gathered food is gone, and the pots are
empty on the fire. And they who follow him shall
fight no more. Two shall live through bitter days,
and when the leaves shall shine in the sun again,
there shall good things befall. But one shall go upon
a long journey with the singing birds in the path of
the white eagle. He shall travel, and not cease until
he reach the place where fools, and children, and they
into whom a devil entered through the gates of birth,
find the mothers who bore them. But the other
goeth at a different time — " At this point the light
in Pretty Pierre's hand flickered and went out, and
through the darkness there came a voice, the voice of
an idiot, that whimpered : " Grah want pipe — A.nnie,
Annie dead."

The angel of wisdom was gone, and chaos spluttered
on the lolling lips again ; the Idiot sat feeling for the
pipe that he had dropped.

And never again through the days that came and
went could Pierre, by any conjuring, or any swaying
torch, make the fool into a man again. The devils
of confusion were retiirned forever. But there had
been one glimpse of the god. And it was as the
Idiot had said when he saw with the eyes of that

GODS GARRISON.

3»

her

Ted
the

ind

^otl : no more blood was shed. The pjarrison of this
fort held it unmolested. The besiefjcrs knew not
that two men only stayed within the walls ; and
because the chief begged to be taken south to die,
they left the place surrounded by its moats of ice and
its trenches of famine ; and they came not back.

But other foes more deadly than the angry heathen
came, and they were called Hunger and Loneliness.
The one dcstroyeth the body and the other the brain.
But Grab was not lonely, nor did he hunger. He
blew his bubbles, and muttered of a wind whereon a
useless thing — a film of water, a butterfly, or a fool —
might ride beyond the reach of spirit, or man, or
heathen. His flesh remained the same, and grew not
less ; but that of Pierre wasted, and his eye grew
darker with suffering. For man is only man, and
hunger is a cruel thing. To give one's food to feed a
fool, and to search the silent plains in vain for any
h'ving thing to kill, is a matter for angels to do and
bear, and not mere mortals. But this man had a
strength of his own like to his code of living,
which was his own and not another's. And at
last, when spring leaped gaily forth from the grey
cloak of winter, and men of the H. B. C. came to
relieve Fort o' God, and entered at its gates, a gaunt
man, leaning on his rifle, greeted them standing like
a warrior, though his body was like that of one who
had lain in the grave. He answered to the name of
Pierre without pride, but like a man and not as a sick
woman. And huddled on the floor beside him was
an idiot fondling a pipe, with a shred of pemmican
at his lips.

As if in irony of man's sacrifice, the All Hail and

I'lllRRF. AM) IMS \']:()V].K.

ihf MMstcr (jf 'riiitif.;s pcrmiacd the fnc.-I to (ulfil hf.s
own prophecy, and (h'e of a sudden sickness in tlic
conninf^-on of summer. lUit he of (ied's Garrison
that remained repcjUed not of his deed. Such men
have no repentance, neither of ^^ckxI nor evil.

ulfil bis
; in the
Harrison
4<:h men

H IbasarD of tbe IWortb*

Nobody except Gregory Thome and myself knows
the history of the Man and Woman, who lived on the
Height of Land, just where Dog Ear River falls into
Marigold Lake. This portion of the Ilright of Land
is a lonely country. The sun marches over it dis-
tantly, and the man of the East — the braj.(gart — calls
ft outcast ; but animals love it ; and the shades of
the long-gone trapper and voyageur saunter without
mourning through its fastnesses. When you are
in doubt, trust God's dumb creatures — and the
happy dend who whisper pleasant promptings to
us, and whose knowledge is mighty. Besides, the
Man and Woman lived there, and Gregory Thorne
says that they could recover a Lost Paradise. But
Gregory Thorne is an insolent youth. The names of
these people were John and Audrey Malbrouck ; the
Man was known to the makers of backwoods history
as Captain John. Gregory says about that — but no,
not yet ! — let his first meeting with the Man and the
Woman be described in his own words, unusual and
flippant as they sometimes are ; for though he is a
graduate of Trinity College, Cambridge, and a brother
of a Right Honourable, he has conceived it his duty
to emancipate himself in point of style in language ;
and he has succeeded.
** It was autumn," he said, " all colours ; beautiful

3J c

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

and nippy on the Hcip^ht of Land ; wild ducks, the
which no man could number, and bear's meat abroad
in the world. I was alone. I had hunted all day,
leaving my mark now and then as I journeyed, with
3. cache oi s\di\x\^\\tQr here, and a blazed hickory there.
I was hungry as a ^ircus tiger — did \'OU ever eat
slippery-elm bark ? — yes, I was as bad as that. I
guessed from what I had been told, that the Malbrouck
show must be hereaway somewhere. I smelled the
lake miles off — oh, you could too if you were half the
animal I am ; I followed my nose and the slippery-
elm between my teeth, and came at a double-quick
suddenly on the fair domain. There the two sat in
front of the house like turtle-doves, and as silent as a
middy after his first kiss. Much as I ached to get
my tooth into something filling, I wished that I had
'em under my pencil, with that royal sun making a
rainbow of the lake, the woods all scarlet and gold,
and that mist of purple — eh, you've seen it ? — and they
sitting there monarchs of it all, like that duffer of a
king who had operas played for his solitary benefit.
But I hadn't a pencil and I had a hunger, and I said
^How!^ like any other Injin — insolent, wasn't it? —
and the Man rose, and he said I was welcom.e, and
she smiled an approving but not very immediate
smile, and she kept iier seat, — she kept her seat, my
boy — and that was the first thing that set me think-
ing. She didn't seem to be conscious that there was
before her one of the latest representatives from
Bclcjravia, not she ! But when I took an honest look
at her face, I understood. I'm glad that I had my
hat in my hand, polite as any Frenchman on the
threshold of a blancJiisserie ; for I learned very soon

A IIAZAKI) OF THE NORTH.

ucks, the
it abroad
1 all day,
ycd, with
ory there,
ever eat
^ that. I
/[albrouck
idled the
re half the
; slippery-
ublc-quick
[WO sat in
silent as a
led to get
that I had
1 making a
and gold,
—and they
uffer of a
ry benefit,
and I said
asn't it? —
come, and
immediate
r seat, my
me think-
there was
ives from
onest look
I had my
an on the
very soon

'if

rliat the \\^)man had been in Rf-lgravia too, and
knew lar more tlian I did about what was what.
When she did rise to array the supper table, it struck
me that if Josrphine Bcauharnais had been like her,
she might have kept her hold on Napoleon, and saved
his fortunes ; made Europe France ; and Trance the
world. I could not understant' it. Jimmy Haldane
had said to me when I was asking for Malbrouck's
place on the compass, — * Don't put on any side with
them, my Greg, or you'll take a day ofi for penitence.'
They were both tall and good to look at, even if he
was a bit ruL^^gcd, with nek all uire and muscle, and
had big knuckles. But she had hanris like those in a
picture of Velasquez, with a warm whiteness and
educated — that's it, educated hands !

" She wasn't vounsf, but she sec mod so. Her eves
looked up and out at you earnestly, yet not inquisi-
tively, and more occupied with something in her mind,
than with what was before her. In short, she was a
lady ; not one by virtue of a visit to the gods that
rule o'er B 'ckingham Palace, but by the claims of.
good brecd'ng and long descent. She puzzled me,
eluded me — she reminded me of someone; but who?
Someone I liked, because I felt a thrill of admiration
whenever I looked at her — bui it was no use, I
couldn't remember, I sooii found mvself talking" to
her according to St. James — the palace, you know —
and at once I entered a bet with my beloved aunt,
the dowager — who never refuses to take my offer,
though she seldom wins, and she's ten thousand miles
away, and has to take my word for it — that I should
find out the history of this Man and Woman before
another Christmas morning, which wasn't more than

PIEKKK AND HIS Vt.OVLK.

two months off. You know whelher or not I won it,
my son."

1 had frequently hinted to Gregory that I was old
enough to be his father, and that in calling me his
son, his language was misplaced ; and I repeated it
at that moment. He nodded good-humouredly, and
continued :

" I was born insolent, my s — my ancestor. Well,
after I had cleared a space at the supper table, and
had, with permission, lighted my pipe, I began to
talk. . . • Oh yes, I did give them a chance occasion-
ally; don't interrupt. ... 1 gossip-d about England,
France, the universe. From the brief comments they
made i saw they knew all about it, and understood
my social argot, all but a few words — is there any-
thing peculiar about any of my words ? After having
exhausted Europe and Asia I discussed America;
talked about Quebec, the folklore of the French
Canadians, the voyageurs ixom old Maisonneuve down.
All the history I knew I rallied, and was suddenly
bowled out. For Malbrouck followed my trail from
the time I began to talk, and in ten minutes he had
proved me to be a baby in knowledge, an emaciated
baby ; he eliminated me from the equation. He first
tripped me on the training of naval cadets ; then on
the Crimea ; then on the taking of Quebec ; then
on the Franco-Prussian War ; then, with a sudden
round-up, on India. I had been trusting to vague
outlines of history ; I felt when he began to talk
that I was dealing with a man who not only
knew history, but had lived it. He talked in the
fewest but directest words, and waxed eloquent in a
blunt and colossal way But seeing his wife's eyes

".V

A HAZARD OF THK NORTH.

won it,

/as old
me his
iated it
ly, and

Well,
)le, and
igan to
;ca.sion-
ngland,
its they
erstood
re any-
having
pnerica ;
French
down,
ddenly
lil from
he had
ciated
e first
len on
then
judden
vague
talk
only
im the
It in a
IS eyes

fixed on him intently, he suddenly pulled up, and no
more did I get from him on the subject. He stopped
so suddenly that in order to help over tiie awkward-
ness, though I'm not really sure there was any, I
began to hum a i^ong to myself. Now, upon my soul,
1 didn't think what I was humming ; it was sonic
subterranean association of tilings, I suppose — but
that doesn't matter here. I only state it to clear
myself of any unnecessary insolence. These were
the words I was maundering with this noble voice of
mine :

tt t

The news I bring, fair Lady,
Will make your tears run down—-

Put off your rose-red dress so fine
And doff your satin gown !

Monsieur Malbrcuck is dead, alas I
And buried, too, for aye ;

I saw four officers who bore
His mighty corse away.

We saw above the laurels.
His soul fly forth amain.

And each one fell upon Is face
And then rose up again.

And so we sang the glories,

For which great Malbroutk bled ;

Mironton. Miro?jfon, MirontainCy
Great Malbrouck, he is dead.'

"I felt the silence grew peculiar, uncomfortable.
I looked up. Mrs. Malbrouck was rising to her feet
with a look in her face that would make angels sorry

3«

ril KUK AND HIS PEOPLE.

— a startled, sorrowful thinrr that comes from a
sleeping pain. What an ass I was! Why, the Man's
name was Malbrouck ; her name was Malbrouck
(awful insolence !). Hut surely there was something
in the story of the son<^ itsrlf that had moved her.
As I afterward knew, that was it. Malbrouck sat
still and unmoved, thouy^h I thought I saw .something
stern and masterful in his face as he turned to me ;
but again instantly his eyes were bent on his wife
with a comf(-)rting and affectionate exi)ression. She
disappeared into the hou.se. I, hoping to make it
appear that I hadn't noticed anything, dropped m}
voice a little and went on, iutenaing, however, tc
stop at the end of the verse :

* 'Malbrouck has ^one a-fijrhtiTigf,

Mironton^ Mironion^ MirontuintV

I ended there ; because Malbrouck's heavy hand was
laid on my shoulder, and he said : If you please, not
that song.'

** I s«spcct ] acted like an idiot I stammered out
apologies, went down on my litanies, figuratively
speaking, and was all the same confident that my
excuses were making bad infernally worse. But
somehow the old chap had taken a liking to me.
(No, of course you couldn't understand that.) Not
that he was so old, you know ; but he had the way of
retired royalty abuut him, as if he had lived life up
to the hilt, and was all pulse and granite. Then he
began to talk in his quiet way about hunting and
fishing ; about stalking in the Highlands and tiger-
hunting in India ; and wound up with some wonder-

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

om a

Man's
jrouck
cthinj;
:d her.
ck s;it
ethin^
to me ;
is wife
. She
lake it
ed m}
ver, tc

nd was
•se, not

'cd out
atively
lat my
But
o me.
Not
way of
life up
len he
g and
ti^er-
onder-

ful stuff about moose-hunt in!:;, ///^ sport of Canada.
This made nic itch like sin, just to ^et my fingers on
a trigger, with a full moose-yard in view. I can feci
it now -the bound in the bio .d as I caught at
.Malbrouck's arm and said: ' By George, I must kill
moose; that's sport for Vikiofys, and I was meant to
be a Viking — or a glad :^t(>r.' Malbrou "k at once
replied thar he would give me some moose-hunting in
December if I would come up to Marigold Lake. I
couldn't exactly reply on the instatU, because, 3 ou
see, there wasn't much chance for board and lodging
thereabouts, unless — but he went on to say tnat I
should make his hou my ' public,' — perhaps he
didn't say it quite in those terms, — that he and his
wife would be glad to have me. With a couple of
Indians wc could go north-west, where the moose-
yards were, and have some sport both exciting
and prodigious. Well, I'm a mi ff, I know, but I
didn't refuse that Besides, I began to see the safe
side of the bet I had made with my aunt, the
dowager, and I was more than pleased with what had
come to pass so far. Lucky for you, too, you yarn-
spinner, that the thing did develop so, or you wouldn't
be getting fame and shekels out of the results of my
story.

" Well, I got one thing out of the night's experience ;
and it was that the Malbroucks were no plebs. , tiia^
they had had their day where plates are blue and gold
and the spoons are solid coin, But what had sent
them up here among the moose, the Indians, and the
conies — whatever they are ? How should I get at it?
Insolence, you say ? Yes, that. I should come up
here in December, and I should mulct my aunt in the

PI£i<RE AND HIS PEOPLE.

price of a new breech-loader. But I found out no-
thing the pext morning, and I left with a paternal
benediction from Malbrouck, and a smile from his
wife that sent my blood tingling as it hadn't tingled
since a certain season in London, which began with
my tuneful lyre sounding hopeful numbers, and ended
with it hanging on the willows.

*' When I thought it all over, as I trudged back on
yesterday's track, I concluded that I had told them
all my history from my youth up until now, and had
got nothing from them in return. I had exhaust-^d
my family records, bit by bit, like a curate in his first
parish ; and had gone so far as to testify that one of
my ancestors had been banished to Australia for
political crimes. Distinctly they had me at an
advantage, though, to be sure, I had betrayed Mrs.
Malbrouck into something more than a suspicion of
emotion.

" When I got back to my old camp, I could find
out nothing from the other fellows ; but Jacques
Pontiac told me that his old mate. Pretty Pierre, vho
in recent days had fallen from grace, knew something
of these people that no one else guessed ; because he
had let them a part of his house in the parish of St.
Genevieve in Quebec, years before. Pierre had testi-
fied to one fact, that a child — a girl — had been born
to Mrs. Malbrouck in his house, but all further know-
ledge he had withheld. Pretty Pierre was off in the
Rocky Mountains practising his profession (chiefly
poker), and was not available for information. What
did I, Gregory Thorne, want of the information any-
way? That's the point, my son. Judging from after-
developments I suppose it was what the foolish call

I14)

1 1'.

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

find

ise he
)f St.
Itesti-
born
Inow-

the
hiefly
Ivhat
lany-
Ifter-

cai)

■6

occult sympathy. Well, where was thai girl-child ?
Jacques Pontiac didn't know. Nobody knew. And
I couldn't get rid of Mrs. Malbrouck's face; it haunted
me ; the broad brow, deep eyes, and high-bred sweet-
ness — all beautifully animal. Dori't laugh : I find
astonishing likenesses between the perfectly human
and the perfectly animal. Did you never see how
beautiful and modest the faces of deer are; how c/tic
and sensitive is the manner of a hound ; nor the
keen warm look in the eye of a well-bred mare ?
Why, I'd rather be a good horse of blood and temper
than half the fellows I know. You are not an animal
lover as I am ; yes, even when I shoc^t them or
fight them I admire them, just as I'd admire a
swordsman who, in quart, would give me death
by the wonderful upper thrust. It's al! a battle,
all a game of love and slaughter, my son, and
both go together.

" Well, as I say, her face followed me. Watch how
the thing developed. By the prairie-track I went over
to Fort Desire, near the Rockie ,, almost immediately
after this, to see about buying a ranch with my old
chum at Trinity, Polly Cliffshawe (Poiydore, you
know). Whom should I meet in a hut on the ranch
but Jacques's friend, Pretty Pierre. This was lack;
but he was not like Jacques Pontiac, he was secretive
as a Buddhist deity. He had a good many of the
characteristics that go to a fashionable diploniatist ;
clever, wicked, cool, and in speech doing the vanishing
trick, just when you wanted him. But my star of
fortune was with me. One day Silverbottl j, an
Indian, being in a murderous humour, put a bullet in
Pretty Pierre's leg, and would have added another,

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

I' »i

only I stopped it suddenly. While in his bed he told
me what he knew of the Malbroucks.

" This is the fashion of it : — John and Audrey Mal-
brouck had come to Quebec in the year 1875, and
sojourned in the parish of St. Genevieve, in the house
of the mother of Pretty Pierre. Of an inquiring turn
of mind, the French half-breed desired to know con-
cerning the history of these English people, who,
being poor, were yet gentle, and spoke French with a
grace and accent which was to the French Canadian
patois as Shakespeare's English is to that of Seven
Dials. Pierre's methods of inquisitiveness were not
strictly dishonest. He did not open letters, he did
not besiege dispatch-boxes, he did not ask impudent
questions; he watched and listened. In his own way
he found out that the man had been a oldier in the
ranks, and that he had served in India. They
were most attached to the child, whose name was
Marguerite. One day a visitor, a lady, came to them.
She seemed to be the cause of much unhappiness to
Mrs. Malbrouck. And Pierre was alert enough to
discover that this distinguished-looking person de-
sired to take the child away with her. To this the
young mother would not consent, and the visitor
departed with some chillingly-polite phrases, — part
English, part French, — beyond the exact comprehen-
sion of Pierre, and leaving the father and mother and
little Marguerite happy. Then, however, these people
seemed to become suddenly poorer, and Malbrouck
began farming in a humble, but not entirely success-
ful, way. The energy of the man was prodigious .
'.jut his luck was sardonic. Floods destroyed his
first crops, prices ran low. debt accumulated, fore-

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

he told

ey Mal-

?75. and

le house

ing turn

ow con-

le, who,

1 with a

anadian

f Seven

^ere not

he did

ipudent

wn way

r in the

They

ne was

them.

ness to

ugh to

on de-

his the

visitor

, — part

>rehen-

er and

Deople

Drouck

iccess-

ious ;.

:d his

fore-

closure of nnortcraci^e occurred, and Malbrouck and
the wife and child went west.

" Five \ears after, Pretty Pierre saw them again at
Marigold Lake : Malbrouck as agent for the Hudson's
Bay Compan)' — still poor, but contented. It was at
this period that the former visitor again appeared,
clothed in purple and fine linen, and, strange as it
may seem, succeeded in carrying off the little child,
leaving the father and mother broken, but still de-
voted to each other.

" Pretty Pierre closed his narration with these
words : ' Bien, that Malbrouck, he is great. I have
not much love of men, but he — well, if he say, —
" See, Pierre, I go to the home of the white bear
and the winter that never ends ; perhaps we come
back, perhaps we die ; but there will be sport for
men — " Voila ! I would go To know one strong
man in this world is good. Perhaps, some time I will
go to him — yes. Pretty Pierre, the gambler, will go to
him, and say : It is good ^or the wild dog that he live
near the lion. And the child, she was beautiful ;
she had a light heart and .1 sweet way.' "

It was with this slight knowledge that Gregory
Thome set out on his journey over the great Canadian
prairie to Marigold Lake, for his December moose-
hunt.

Gregory has since told me that, as he travelled
with Jacques Pontiac across the Height 01 Land to
his destination, he had uncomfortable feelings ; pre-
sentiments, peculiar reflections of the past, and
melancholy — a thing far from habitual with him.
Insolence is all very well, but you cannot apply it to
indefinite thoughts ; it isn't effective with vague pre-

PILRRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

sentiments. And when Gregory's insolence was taken
away fronm him, he was very like other mortals ;
virtue had gone out of him ; his brown cheek and
frank eye had lost something of their charm. It was
these unusual broodings that worried him ; he waked
up suddenly one night calling, "Margaret! Margaret!"
like any childlike lover. And that did not please
him. lie believed in things that, as he said himself,
"he could get between his fingers;" he had little
sympathy with morbid sentimentalities. But there
was an English Margaret in his life; and he, like many
another childlike man, had fallen in love, and with
her — very much in love indeed ; and a star had
crossed his love to a degree that greatly shocked him
and pleased the girl's relatives. She was the grand-
daughter of a certain haughty dame of high degree,
who regarded icily this poorest of younger sons, and
held her darling aloof. Gregory, very like a blunt
unreasoning lover, sought to carry the redoubt by
wild assault ; and was overwhelmingly routed. The
young lady, though finding some avowed pleasure in
his company, accompanied by brilliant misunder-
standing of his advances and full-front speeches, had
never g van him enough encouragement to warrant
his play-ng young Lochinvar in Park Lane ; and his
cup became full when, at the close of the season, she
was whisked off to the seclusion of a country-seat,
whose walls to him were impregnable. His defeat
was then, and afterwards, complete. He pluckily
replied to the derision of his relatives with multiplied
derision, demanded his inheritance, got his traps to-
gether, bought a fur coat, and straightway sailed the
wintry seas to Canada.

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

His experiences had not soured his temper. He
believed that every dog has his day, and that Fate
was very malicious ; that it brought down the proud,
and rewarded the patient ; that it took up its abode
in marble halls, and was the mocker at the feast. All
this had reference, of course, to the time when he
should — rich as any nabob — return to London,
and be victorious over his enemy in Park Lane.
It was singular that he believed this thing would
occur ; but he did. He had not yet made his for-
tune, but he had been successful in the game of
buying and selling lands, and luck seemed to dog
his path. He was fearless, and he had a keen
eye for all the points of every game — every game
but love.

Yet he was born to succeed in that game too. For
though his theory was, that everything should be treat-
ed with impertinence before you could get a proper
view of it, he was markedly respectful to people.
No one could resist him ; his impudence of ideas was
so pleasantly mixed with delicately suggested ad-
miration of those to whom he talked. It was impos-
sible that John Malbrouck and his wife could have
received him other than they did ; his was the
eloquent, conquering spirit.

II.

By the time he reached Lake Marigold he had
shaken off all those hovering fancies of the woods,
which, after all, might only have been the whisperings
of t'lose friendly and far-seeing spirits who liked the

■i

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

lad as he journeyed through their lonely pleasure
grounds. John Malbrouck greeted him with quiet
cordiality, and Mrs. Malbrouck smiled upon him with
a different smile from that with which she had
speeded him a month before ; there was in it a new-
light of knowledge, and Gregory could not under-
stand it. It struck him as singular that the lad)-
should be dressed in finer garments than she wore
when he last her ; though certainly her purple
became her. She wore it as if born to it ; and with
an air more sedately courteous than he had ever
seen, save at one house in Park Lane. Had this
rustle of fine trappings been made for him? No; the
woman had a mind above such snobbishness, he
thought. He suffered for a moment the pang of a
cynical idea , but the eyes of Mrs. Malbrouck were
on him and he knew that he was a; nothing be-
fore her. Her eyes — how the\' were fixed upon
him! Only two -^vomen had looked so truthfully
at him before; his dead mother and — Margaret
And Margaret! why, how sjangely now at this
instant came the thought that she was like his
Margaret! Wonder sprang to his eyes. At that
moment a door opened and a girl entered the room
— a girl lissome, sweet-faced, well-bred of manner,
who came slowly towards them.

" My daughter, Mr. Thorne," the mother briefly
remarked. There was no surprise in the girl's face,
only an even reserve of pleasure, as she held out her
hand and said : " Mr. Gregory Thorne and I are old

enemies." Gregory Thome's nerve forsook him for

an instant. He knew now the reason of his vague
presentiments in the woods ; he understood why, one

A HAZARD OK THE NORTH.

•leasure
ih quiet
im witli
she had
t a new

under-
he lad)-
le wore

purple
nd with
id ever
:ad this
Mo; the
less, he
ng of a
ck were
ng be-
i upon
ithfully
irgaret.
^t this
Ke his
it that

room
lanner,

Driefly
s face,
ut her
re old
im for

vague
, one

night, when he had been more cliildlike than usual in
his memory of the one woman who could make life
joyous for him, the voice of a I'ovdjreur, not Jacques's
nor that of anyone in camp, sani; :

** My dear love, she waits for me,

None other my world is adorning;
My true love I come to thee,

My dear, the white star of the morning-
Eagles spread out your wings,—

Behold where the red dawn is breaking I
Hark, 'tis my darlin.; sings.

The flowers, the song-birds awaking
See, where she comes to me,

My love, ah, my dear love 1"

And here she was. He raised her hand to his lips,
and said : " Miss Carley — Miss Margaret, you have
your enemy at an advmtage."

"Miss Carley in Park Lane, Margaret Malbrouck
here in my old home," she replied.

There ran swiftiy through the young man's brain
the brief story that Pretty Pierre had told him. This,
then, was the child who had been carried away, and
who, years after, had made captive his heart in
London town ! Well, one thing was clear, the girl's
mother here seemed inclined to be kinder to him than
was the guardian grandmother — if she was the grand-
mother — because they had their first talk undisturb-
ed, it may be encouraged ; amiable mothers do such
deeds at times.

"And now pray, Mr. Thorne," she continued, " may
I ask how came you here in my father's house after
having treated me so cavalierly in London ? — not even

Iii

*»

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

sendin*^ a P. P. C. when you vanished from ;/our
worshippers in Vanity Fair."

" As for my being here, it is simply a case of blind
fate ; as for my friends, the only one I wanted to be
sorry for my going was behind earthworks which I
could not scale in order to leave my card, or — or any-
thing else of more importance ; and being left as it
were to the inclemency of a v/inter world, I fled
from—"

She interrupted him. "What I the conqueror, you,
flying from your Moscow ? "

He felt rather helpless under her gay raillery; but
he said :

**Well, I didn't burn my kremiln behind me."

"Your kremlin?"

** My ships, then : they — they are just the same," he
earnectly pleaded. Foolish youth, to attempt to take
such a heart by surprise and storm !

" That is very interesting," she said, ** but hardly
wise. To make fortunes and be happy in new
countries, one should forget the old ones. Meditation
is the enemy of action."

"There's one meditation could make me conquer the
North Pole, if I could but grasp it definitely."

*' Grasp the North Pole ? That would be awkward
for your friends and gratifying to your enemies, if one
may believe science and history. But, perhaps, you are
in earnest after all, poor fellow I for my father teiis
me you are going over the hills and far away to the
moose-yards, How valiant you are, and how quickly
you grasp the essentials of fortune-making ! "

" Miss Malbrouck, I am in earnest, and I've always
been in earnest in one thing at least i came out

1
I

A HAZARD OF iilL iNOKlli.

from yout

e of blind
ited to be
s which I
r — or any-
left as it
•Id, I fled

leror, you,

llery; but

ne.

same," he
3t to take

it hardly
in new
editation

iquer the
>

iwkward
es, if one

you are
her teiis
y to the

quickly

J always
me out

hcie to maKC money, and I've made some, and shall
mnke more ; but just now the moose are as brands
for the burning, and I have a gun sulky for want of
exercise."

" What an elo(]uent warrior-temper! And to whom
are your deeds of valour to be dedicated ? Before
whom do you intend to lay your trophies of the
chase ? "

" Before the most provoking but worshipful lady
that I know."

" Who is tlie sylvan maid ? What princess of the
glade has now the homage of your impressionable
heart, Mr. Thorne?"

And Gregory Thorne, his native insolence standing
him in no stead, said very humbly:

** You ate that sylv in maid, that princess — ah, is
this fair to me, is it fair, I ask you ? "

"You really mean that about the trophies?" she
replied. "And shall you return like the mighty
khans, with captive tigers arH lions, led by stalwart
slaves, in your train, or shall they be captive moose or
grizzlies ? "

"Grizzlies are not possible here," he said, with cheer-
ful seriousness, "but the moose is possible, and more,
if you would be kinder — Margaret."

** Your supper, see, is ready," she said. " I venture
to hope your appetite has not suffered because of
long absence from your friends."

Ke coUid only dumbly answer by a protesting
motion of the hand, and his smil§ was not remarkably
buoyant.

The next morning they started on their moose-
hunt. Gregory Tiiurne was cast down when he

J»

PIEUKE AND HIS PEOPLE.

crossed the tlircshokl into the winter morning with-
out hand-clasp or ^od-spctd from Margaret Mal-
brouck ; but Mrs. Malbrouck was there, and Gregory,
lookinj;^ into her eyes, thoujiii^lit how good a thing it
would be for him, if some such face looked benignly
out on him every morning, before he ventured forth
into the deceitful day. But what was the use ol
wishing? Margaret evidcnily did not care. And
though the air was clear . nd the sun shone brightly,
he felt there was a cheerless wind blowing on him ; a
wind that chilled him ; and he hummed to himself
bitterly a song of the voyageurs :

** O, O, the winter wind, the North wind,—
My snow-bird, where art thou gone ?
O, O, the wailing wind the night wind,—
The cold nest; I am alone.
O, O, my snow-bird I

•* O, O, the waving sky, the white sky,—
My snow-bird thou fliest far;
O, O, the eagle's cry, the wild cry,—
My lost love, my lonely star.
O, O, my snow-bird I *

He was about to start briskly forward to join Mal-
brouck and his Indians, who were already on their
way, when he heard his name called, and, turning, he
saw Margaret in the doorway, her fingers held to the
tips of her ears, as yet unused to the frost. He ran
back to where she stood, and held out his hand. " I
was afraid," he bluntly said, " that you wouldn't for-
sake your morning sleep to say good-bye to me."

" It isn't always the custom, is it," she replied, " for
ladies to send the very early hunter away with a

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

ing with-
ret Mal-
Grcgory,
thing it
benignly
red forth
e use oi
re. And
brightly,
1 him ; a
) himself

oin Mal-
on their
ning, he
d to the
He ran
nd. " I
dn't for-
le."

ed, « for
with a

tally-ho ? But since you have the grace to be afraid
of anything, I can excuse myself to myself for fleeing
the pleasantest dreams to speed you on your warlike
path."

At this he brightened very much, but she, as if
repenting she had given him so much pleasure, added:
" I wanted to say good-bye to my father, you know ;
and — " she paused.

" And ? " he added.

" And to tell him that you have fond relatives in
the old land who would mourn your early taking off;
and, therefore, to beg him, /or their sakes, to keep
you safe from any outrageous moose that mightn't
know how the world needed you."

" But there you are mistaken," he said ; " I haven't
anyone who would really care, worse luck ! except
the dowager ; and she, perhaps, would be consoled to
know that 1 had died in battle, — even with a moose, —
and was clear of the possibility of hanging another
lost reputation on the family tree, to say nothing of
suspension from any other kind of tree. But, if it
should be the other way ; if I should see your father
in the path of an outrageous moose — what then ? "

" My father is a hunter born," she responded ; "he
is a great man," she proudly added.

" Of course, of course," he replied. " Good-bye.
I'll take him your love. — Good-bye ! " and he turned
away.

" Good-bye," she gaily replied ; and yet, one look-
ing closely would have seen that this stalwart fellow
was pleasant to her eyes, and as she closed the door
to his hand waving farewell to her from the pines, she
said, reflecting on his words.

^1 I

$«

PIKRKK AND HIS I'KOI'LE.

"You'll take hini my love, will yiA\? liiit, Mas'ei
Grrinjory, you carry a frtit^^ht of which you do not
know the measure ; and, perhaps, you never shall,
though you are very brave and honest, antl not so
impudent as you used to be, — and I'm not so sure that
I like you so much better for tJiat either, Monsieur
Grej^ory."

Then she went and laid her cheek against her
mother's, and said : " Thc\''ve gone away for big
game, mother dear ; what siiall be our quarry?"

" My child," the motlicr replied, " the story of our
lives since last you were with mc is my only quarry.
I want to know from your own lips all that you have
been in that life which once was mine also, but far
away from me now, even thou';h you come from it,
bringing its memories without its messaj^es."

" Dear, do you tiiink that life there was so sweet to
me? It meatit as little to }our daughter as to you.
She was always a child of the wild woods. What
rustle of pretty gowns is pleasant as the silken
shiver of the maple leaves in summer at this door?
The happiest time in that life was when we got away
to Holwood or Marchurst, with the balls and calls all
over."

Mrs. Malbrouck smoothed her daughter's hand
gently and smiled approvingly.

"But that old life of yours, mother; what was it?
You said that you would tell me some day. Tell me
now. Grandmother was fond of me — poor grand-
mother ! But she would never tell me anything
How I longed to be back with you ! . . . Sometimes
you came to me in my sleep, and called to me to
come with you ; and then again, when I was gay in

A HAZARD OF THE NOKTII.

loor ?

s it?

1 me
and-
King
imes
e to
ly in

tlio sunshine, you came, aiul only smiled but never
beckoned ; tlioui;!! your eyes seemed to me very sad,
and I wondered if mine would not also become sad
throuL^h looking in them so — arc they sad, mother?"
And she laughed up brightly into her mother's face.

" No, dear ; they are like the stars. You ask me
for my part in that lite. 1 will tell you soon, but not
now. \\(i i)atient. Do >'ou not tire of this lonely life?
Are you truly not anxious to return to — "

" ' To the husks that the swine did eat? ' No, no,
no ; for, see : I was horn for a free, strong life ; the
prairie or the wild wood, or else to live in some far
castle in Welsh mountains, where I should never hear
the voice of the social 7hon must ! — oh, what a must!
never to be quite free or natural. To be the slave of
the c(Kie. I was born — I know not how 1 but so
longing for the sky, and space, and endless woods. I
think I never saw an animal but I loved it, nor ever
louncred the mornings out at llolwood but I wished
it were a hut on the mountain side, and you and
father with me." Mere she whispered, in a kind of
awe : " And yet to think that Holwood is now mine,
and that I am mistress there, and that I must go
back to it— if only you would go back with me . . . ah,
dear, isn't it your duty to go back with me?" she
added, hesitatingly.

Audrey Malbrouck drew her daughter hungrily to
her bosom, and said : " Yes, dear, I will go back, if it
chances that you need me ; but your father and I
have lived the best days of our lives here, and we are
content. But, my Margaret, there is another to be
thought of too, is there not ? And in that Cc^^e is my
duty then so clear ? "

€^-

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

The girl's hand closed on her mother's, and she
knew her heart had been truly read.

III.

The hunters pursued their way, swin^^ing grandly
aiong on their snow-shoes, as they made for the Wild
Hawk Woods. It would seem as if Malbrouck was
testing Gregory's strength and stride, for the march
that day was a long and hard one. He was equal to
the test, and even Big Moccasin, the chief, grunted
sound approval. But every day brought out new
capacities for endurance and larger resources; so that
Malbrouck, who had known the clash of civilisation
with barbarian battle, an-^I deeds both dour and
doughty, and who loved a man of might, regarded
this youth with increasing favour. By simple pro-
cesses he drew from Gregory his aims snd ambitions,
and found the real courage and power behind the
front of irony — the language of manhood and culture
which was crusted by free and easy idioms. Nov^
and then they saw moose-tracks, but they were some
days out before they came to a moose-yard — a spot
hoof-beaten by the moose ; his home, from which he
strays, and to which he returns at times like a
repentant prodigal. Now the sport began. fhe
dog-trains were put out of view, and Big Moccasin
and another Indian went off immediately to explore
the country round about. A few hours, and word
was brought that there was a small herd feeding not
far away. Together they crept stealthily within
range of the cattle. Gregory Thome's blood leaped
as he saw the noble quarry, with their widespread

•I

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

horns, sniffing the air, in which they had detected
something unusual. Their leader, a colossal beast,
stamped with his forefoot, and threw his head back
with a snort.

" The first shot belongs to you, Mr. Thorne," said
Malbrouck. " In the shoulder, you know. You have
him in good line. I'll take the heifer."

Gregory showed all the coolness of an old hunter,
though his lips twitched slightly with excitement.
He took a short but steady aim, and fired. The beast
plunged forward and then fell on his knees. The
others broke away. Malbrouck fired and killed a
heifer, and then all ran in pursuit as the moose made
for the woods.

Gregory, in the pride of his first slaugiiter, sprang
away towards the wounded leader, which, sunk to the
earth, was shaking its great horns to and fro. When
at close range, he raised his gun to fire again, but the
moose rose sucideily, and with a wild bellowing
sound rushed at Gregory, who knew full well that a
straight stroke from those hoofs would end his moose-
hunting days. He fired, but to no effect. He could
not, like a toreador, jump aside, for those mighty
horns would sweep too wide a space. He dropped
on his knees swiftly, and as the great antlers almost
touched him, and he could feel the roaring breath of
the mad creature in his face, he slipped a cartridge in,
and fired as he swurig round ; but at that instant a
dark body bore him down. He was aware of
grasping those sweeping horns, conscious of a blow
which tore the flesh from his chest ; and then his knife
— how came it in his hand ? — the instinct of the true
hunter. He plunged it oi;::"; twice, past a foaming

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

mouth, into that firm body, and then both fell to-
gether ; each having fou^i^ht valiantly after his kind.

Gregory dragc^ed himself from beneath the still
heaving body, and stretched to his feet; but a blindness
came, and the next knowledge he had was of brandy
being poured slowly between his teeth, and of a voice
coming through endless distances : " A fighter, a born
fighter," it said. " The pluck of Lucifer — good boy ! '*

Then the voice left those humming spaces of
infinity, and said : " Tilt him this way a little, Big Moc-
casin. There, press firmly, so. Now the band steady
— together — tighter — now the withes — a little higher
up — cut them here.** There was a slight pause, and
then : " There, that's as good as an army surgeon could
do it. He'll be as sound as a bell in two weeks. Eh,
well, how do you feel now ? Better ? That's right !
Like to be on your feet, would you ? Wait. Here, a
sup of this. There you are . . . Well ? "

*' Well/' said the young man, faintly, " he was a
beauty."

Malbrouck looked at him a moment, thoughtfully,
and then said : " Yes, he was a beauty."

" I want a dozen more like him, and then I shall be
able to drop 'em as neat as you do."

" H'm ! the order is large. I'm afraid we shall
have to fill it at some other time;" and he smiled a
little grimly.

"What! only one moose to take back to the
Height of Land, to — " something in the eye of the
other stopped him.

"To ? Yes, to ? " and now the eye had a suggestion
of humour.

" To show I'm not a tenderfoot."

' t

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

"Yes, to show you're not a tenderfoot. I fancy
that will be hardly necessary. Oh, you will be up,
eh ? Well ! "

" Well, I'm a tottering imbecile. What's the matter
with my le^s ? — my prophetic soul ! it hurts ! Oh, I
see ; that's where the old warrior's hoof caught me
sideways. Now, I'll tell you what, I'm going to have
another moose to take back to Marigold Lake."

« Oh ? "

" Yes. I'm going to take back a young, live moose."

"A significant ambition. For what ?— a sacrifice to
the gods you have offended in your classic existence ? "

" Both. A peace-offering, and a sacrifice to — a
goddess."

" Young man," said the other, the light of a smile
playing on his lips, " * Prosperity be thy page ! ' Big
Moccasin, what of this young live moose ? '*

The Indian shook his head doubtfully.

" But I tell you I shall have that live moose, if I
have to stay here to see it grow."

And Malbrouck liked his pluck, and wished
him good luck. ^ And the good luck came.
They travelled back slowly to the Height of
Land, making a circuit. For a week they saw no
more moose ; but meanwhile Gregory's hurt quickly
healed. They had now left only eight days in which
to get back to Dog Ear River and Marigold Lake.
If the young moose was to come it must come soon.
It came soon.

They chanced upon a moose-yard, and while the
Indians were beating the woods, Malbrouck nd
Gregory watched.

Soon a cow and a young moose came swing: nc

f i

5«

PIERRF. AND HIS PEOPLE.

down to the embankment. Malbrouck whispered :
" Now if you must have your live moose, here's a
lasso. I'll brini^ down the cow. The young one's
horns are not large. Remember, no pulling. I'll do
that. Kce[) your broken chest and bad arm safe.
Now!"

Down came the cow with a plunge into the yard —
dead. The lasso, too, was over the horns of the calf,
and in an instant Malbrouck was swinging away with
it over the snow. It was making for the trees — exactly
what Malbrouck desired. He deftly threw the rope
round a sapling, but not too taut, lest the moose's
horns should be injured. The plucky animal now
turned on him. He sprang behind a tree, and at that
instant he heard the thud of hoofs behind him. He
turned to see a huge bull-moose bounding towards
him. He was between two fires, and quite unarmed.
Those hoofs had murder in them. But at the instant
a rifle shot rang out, and he only caught the forward
rush of the antlers as the beast fell.

The young moose now had ceased its struggles,
and came forward to the deaci bull with that hollow
sound of mourning peculiar to its kind. Though it
afterwards struggled once or twice to be free, it be-
came docile and was easily taught, when its anger
and fear were over.

And Gregory Thorne had his live moose. He had
also, by that splendid shot, achieved with one arm,
saved Malbrouck from peril, perhaps from death.

They drew up before the house at Marigold Lake
on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, a
triumphal procession. The moose was driven, a
peaceful captive with a wreath of cedar leaves around

-}'i

A HAZARD OF THE NORTH.

i--

its neck — the humorous conception of Gregory
Thorne. Malbrouck had announced their coming by
a blast from his horn, and Margaret was standing in
the doorway wrapped in furs, which may have come
originally from Hudson's Bay, but which had been
deftly re-manufactured in Regent Street.

Astonishment, pleasure, beamed in her eyes. She
clapped her hands gaily, and cried : " Welcome,
welcome, merry-men all!" She kissed her father;
she called to her mother to come and see ; then she
said to Gregory, with arch raillery, as she held out
her hand : " Oh, companion of hunters, comest thou
like Jacques in Arden from dropping the trustful
tear upon the prey of others, or bringest thou quarry
of thine own ? Art thou a warrior sated with spoil,
master of the sports, spectator of the fight, Prince, or
Pistol ? Answer, what art thou ? "

And he, with a touch of his old insolence, though
with something of sad irony too, for he had hoped for
a different fashion of greeting, said :

" All, lady, all ! The Olympian all ! The player
of many parts. I am Touchstone, Jacques, and yet
Orlando too."

" And yet Orlando too, my daughter," said Mal-
brouck, gravely ; " he saved your father from the
hoofs of a moose bent on sacrifice. Kad your father
his eye, his nerve, his power to shoot with one arm a
bull moose at long range, so ! — he would not refuse
to be called a great hunter, but wear the title gladly."

Margaret Malbiouck's face became anxious in-
stantly. *' He saved you from danger — from injury,
father?" she slowly said, and looked earnestly at
Gregory ; " but why to shoot with one arm only ? *'

PIERRF ANT) HIS PEOPLE.

" Because in a fij^ht of his own with a moose — a
hand-to-hand figlit — he had a bad moment with the
hoofs of the beast."

And this youni^ man, who had a reputation for
insolence, blusiicd, so that the paleness which the
girl now noticed in his face was banished; and to turn
the subject he interposed :

" Here is the live moose that I said I should brin^.
Now say that he's a beauty, please. Your father
and I—"

But Majbrouck interrupted :

" He lassoed it with liis one arm, Margaret. He
was determined to do it himself, because, being a
superstitious gentleman, as well as a hunter, he had
some foolish notion that this capture would propitiate
a goddess whom he imagined required offerings of
the kind."

" It is the privilege of the gods to be merciful," she
said. " This peace-offering should propitiate the
angriest, cruellest goddess in the universe ; and lor
one who was neither angr)- nor really cruel — well, sl.c
should be satisfied . . . aliogetiier satisfied," she addeti,
as she put her cheek against the warm fur of the
captive's neck, and let it feel her hand with its hps.

There was silence for a minute, and then with his
old gay si)irit all returned, and as if to give an air not
too serious to the situation, Gregory, remembering
his Euripides, said :

" let the steer bleed,
And the rich altars, as they pay their vows,
Breathe incense to the j^ods : for me, I rise
To better life, and grateful own the blessin^^."

" A pagan thought lor a Christmas Eve," she said

A HAZARD OF THK NORTH.

oose — a
/ith the

tion for
ich the
to turn

d brtn^.
' father

it. He
Deing a
he had
:)pitiate
ings of

il," she
te the
nd lor
ell, slic
added,
of the
I'ps.
th his
lir not
bering

2 said

to him, with lier fin<^ers feeling for the folds of silken
flesh in the throat of the moose ; " but wounded men
must be humoured. And, mother dear, here are our
Ar£,^onauts returned ; and — and now I think I will go."

With a quick kiss on her father's cheek — not so
quick but he taught the tear that ran through her
happy smile — she vanished into the house.

That night there was gladness in tiiis home. Mirth
sprang to the lips of the men like foam on a beaker
of wine, so thnt the evening ran towards midnight
swiftly. All tiie tale of the hunt was given by Mal-
brouck to joyful ears ; for the mother lived again her
youth in the sunrise of this romance which was being
sjjed before her eyes ; and the iather, knowing that
in this world there is nothing so good as courage,
nothing so base as the shifting eye, looked on the
young man, and was satisricd, and told his story
well ; — told it as a brave man would tell it, bluntly as
to deeds done, warmly as to the pleasures of good
sport, directly as to all. In the eye of the young
man there had come the glance of larger life, of a
new-developed manhood. Whrn he felt that dun
body crashing on him, and his life closing with its
strength, and ran the good knife home, there flashed
through his mind how much life meant to the dying,
how much it ought to mean to the living and then
this girl, this Margaret, swam betore his eyes- — and
he had been graver since.

He knew, as truly as if she had told him, that she
could never mate with any man who was a loiterer
on God's highway, who could live life without some
sincerity in his aims. It all came to him a^ain in
this room, so austere in its appointments, yet so

I
1} ■

' k

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

gracious, so full of the spirit of humanity witliout a
note of ennui, or the rust of careless deeds. As this
thought grew he looked at the face of the girl, then
at the faces of the father and mother, and the memory
of his boast carr. ba^ -t. at he would win the stake
he laid, to know w... ;-i.<;ry' of John and Audrey Mal-
brouck before tiiis c >iiiin^^ <^hristmas morning. With
a faint smile at his own past insolent self, he glanced
at the clock. It was eleven. " I have lost my bet,"
he unconsciously said aloud.

He was roused by John Malbrouck rer» irking :
" Yes, you have lost your bet ? Well, what was it ? "

The youth, the childlike quality in him, flushed his
face deeply, and then, with a sudden burst of frank-
ness, he said :

" I did not know that I ha ' spoken. As for the
bet, I deserve to be thrashed for ever having made it ;
but, duffer as I am, I want yon to know that I'm
something worse than duffer. The first time I met
you I made a bet that I should know your history
before Christmas Day. I haven't a word to say foi
m)'self. I'm contemptible, i beg your pardon ; for
your history is none of my business. I was really
inter^-jLed ; that's all ; but your lives, I believe it, as if
it was in the Bible, have been great — yes, that's the
word ! and I'm a better chap for having known you,
though, perhaps, I've known you all along, because,
you see, I've lo — I've been friends with your daughter
— and — well, really I haven't anything else to say,
except that I hope you'll forgive me, and let me
know you always."

Malbrouck regarded him for a moment with a grave
smile, and then looked toward his wife. Both turned

A HA/ARO 01? iiiE .NUKTil.

their glances quickly upon ^^^argaret, whose eyes were

gent)

on tne tire ; tne look upon ner face was very
something new and beautiful had come to reign there.

A mr Ticui, and Malbrouck spoke: "You did
what was youthful and curious, but not wrong ; and
you shall not lose your hazard. I — "

" No, do not tell me," Gregory interrupted ; " only
let me be pardoned."

"As I said, lad, you shall not lose your hazd*^a. l
will tell you the brief tale of two lives."

"But, I beg of you! For the instant I fo.g(^<- I
have more to confess." And Gregory told '^hem in
sub-stance what Pretty Pierre had disclosed Iv .i'm in
the Rocky Mountains.

When he had finished, Malbrouck said : " My tale
then is briefer still : I was a common soldier, English
and humble by my mother, French and noble through
my father — noble, but poor. In Burmah, at an out-
break among the natives, I rescued my colonel from
immediate and horrible death, though he died in my
arms from the injuries he received. His daughter
too, it was my fortune, through God's Providence, to
save from great danger. She became my wife. You
remember that song you sang the day we first met
you? It brought her father back to mind painfully.
^\ hen we came to England her people — her mother —
would not receive me. For myself I did not care ;
for my wife, that was another matter. She loved me
and preferred to go with me anywhere ; to a new
country, preferably. We came to Canada.

" We were forgotten in England. Time moves so
fast, even if the records in red-books stand. Our
daughter went to her grandmother to be brought up

FIKKKK AND HIS I'K> )1'LE.

.nd educated in Kni^^land — thouL^h it was a sore trial
to us both — that she mi^ht fill nobly that place in
life for which she is destined. VV^ith all she learned
she did not forget us. We were happy save in her
absence. We are happy now ; not because she is
mistress of HoKvood and Marchurst — for her grand-
mother and another is dead — but because such as she
is our daughter, and — "

He said no more. Margaret was beside him, and
her fingers were on his li[)s.

Gregory came to his feet suddenly, and with a
troubled face.

"Mistress of Holwood and Marchurst!" he said;
and his mind ran over his own great deficiencies, and
the list of eligible and anxious suitors that Park Lane
could muster. He had never thought of her in the
light of a great heiress.

But he looked down at her as she knelt at her father's
knee, her eyes upairned to his, and the tide of his fear
retreated ; for he saw in them the same look that she
had cist on him, when she leaned her cheek agb.inst
the moose's neck that aitcrnooii.

When the clock struck ' welve upon a moment's
pleasant silence, John Aiiiibrouck said to Gregory
Thorn? :

"Yes, you have won your Christmas hazard, my boy."

But a softer voxe tnan his whispered :

** Are you — content — Gregory ? "

The Spirits of Christmas-tide, whose paths lie north
as well as south, smiled as they wrote his answer on
their tablets ; for they knew, as the man said, that he
would always be content, and — which is more in the
sight of ari<>els — that the woman would be content also.

H pratric IDaoabon^

Little Hammer was not a success. He was a dis-
appointment to the missionaries; the officials of the
Hudson's liay Company said he was "no g-^od ;" the
Mounted Police kept an eye on him ; the Crces and
Blackfeet would have nothing to do with him ; and
the half-breeds were profane regarding him. But
Little Hammer was oblivious to any depreciation of
his merits, and would not be suppressed. He loved
the Hudson's Bay Company's Post at Yellow Quill
with an unwavering love ; he ranged the half-breed
hospitality of Red Deer River, regardless of it being
chrown at him as he in turn threw it at his dog ;
he saluted Sergeant Gellatly with a familiar How!
v/henever he saw him ; he borrowed tabac of the half-
breed women, and, strange to say, paid it back — with
other tabac got by daily petition, until his prayer was
granted, at the H. B. C. Post. He knew neither shame
nor defeat, but where women were concerned he kept
his word, and was singularly humble. It was a
woman that induced him to be baptised. The day
after the ceremony he begged "the loan of a dollar
for the love of God " from the missionary ; and being
refused, straightway, and for the only time it was
known of him, delivered a rumbling torrent of half-
breed prolanity, mixed with the unusual oaths of the
barracks. Then he walked away with great humility.

PIERRE AND HIS TKOPLE.

f. I

There was no swaj^jrcr rbout Little Hammer. He
was simply unquenchable and continuous. He some-
times jTot drunk ; but on such occasions he sat down,
or lay down, in the most convenient place, and, like
C.'t'sar besiilc Pompey's statue, wrapped his mantle
about his face and forgot the world. He was a vaga-
bond Indian, abandoned yet self-contained, outcast
yet (^rc:;rtrious. No social ostracism unnerved him,
no threats of the H. H. C. officials moved him ; and
when in the winter of 187 — he was driven from one
place to another, starving and homeless, and c.une at
last emaciated and nearly dead to the Post at Yellow
Quill, he asked for f(?od and shelter as if it were his
ri<;.it, and not as a mendicant.

One nif^ht, shortly after his reception and restora-
tion, he was sitting in the store silently smoking the
Company's tabac. Sergeant Gellatly entered. Little
Hammer rose, offered his hand, and muttered, ^^IIoivV

The Sergeant thrust his hand aside, and said
sharply: " VVMnn I take y'r hand, Little Hammer, it'll
be to put a grip an y'r wrists that'll stay there till
y'are in quarters out of which y'll come nayther winter
nor summer. Put that in y'r pipe and smoke it, y*
scamp 1"

Little Hammer had a bad time at the Post that
nieht. Lounii-inof half-breeds reviled him; the H. B.C.
officials rebuked him ; and travellers who were coming
and going sliared in tiie derision, as foolish people do
where one is brow-beaten by many. At last a trap-
per entered, whom seeing, Little Hammer drew his
blanket up about his iiead. The traj per sat down
very near Little Hammer, and began to smoke. He
laid his plug-tabac and his knife on the counter beside

A I'KAIKIb: VAOAUONU.

»•

him Litth' IlaintiuM rcachod ovor .ukI took the knife,
piitlitif^ it svvifll) witliiii his blanket. The trajipcr saw
th<' act, and, turning sliai[)lyoti the Indian, called him
a tliicf. Little liannncr cluickled strangely and said
nothiii;^; but his exes peered sharply above the
blanket. A laiij^h went round the store. In an
instant the trap[)er, with a loud oath, caught at the
Indian's throat ; but as the blanket dropped back he
gave a startled cry. There was the flash of a knife,
and he fell back dead. LiltK.* I lamnier stood above him,
smiling, for a moment, and then, turninj^ to Sergeant
GellatK', held out his arms silentlv for the handcuffs.

The next day two men were lost on the prairies.
One was Scr<;e;int Gellatly ; tlic other was Little
Hanuncr. The horses they rode travelled so close
that the leg of the Indian crowded the leg of the
white man ; and the wilder the storm grew, the closer
still they rode. A pondrc day, with its steely air and
fatal frost, was an ill thing in the world ; but these
entangling blasts, these wild curtains of snow, were
desolating even unto d ath. The sun above was
smothered ; the earth beneath was trackless ; the
compass otood for loss all round.

What could Sergeant Gellatly expect, riding with a
murderer m his lelt hand : a heathen that had sent a
knife throu'j:h the heart of one of the lords of the
North ? Wtiat should the gods do but frown, or the
elements be at, but howling on their path? What
should one hope for but that vengeance should be
taken out of the hands of mortals, and be delivered to
the angry spirits ?

But if the gods were angry at the Indian, why
should Sergeant Gellatly only sway to and fro, and

iii

? !

iiif

1 -

li I

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

;1(

ily forward

now laugh recklessly, and now trill sleepily lorwai
on the neck of his horse ; while the Indian rode
slraii^ht, and neither wavered nor wandered in mind,
but at last slipped from his horse and walked beside
the other? It was at this moment that the soldier
heard, "Sergeant Gellatly, Sergeant C-'^llatly," called
through the blast ; and he thought it came from the
skies, or from some other world. "Me darlin','* he
said, "have y' come to me?" But the voice called
again : " Sergeant GelLitly, keep awake ! keep
awake! You sleep, you die; that's it. Holy. Yes.
Hozv!" Then he knew that it was Little Hammer
calling in his ear, and shaking him ; that the Indian
was dragging him from his horse ... his revolver,
where was it ? he had forgotten ... he nodded . . .
nodded. liut Little Hammer said : " Walk, hell! you
walk, yes;" and Little Hammer struck him again
and again ; but one arm of the Indian was under his
shoulder and around him, and the voice was anxious
and kind. Slowly it came to him that Little Hammer
was keeping him alive against the will of the spirits —
but why should they strike him instead of the Indian ?
Was there any sun in the world ? Had there ever
been ? or fire or heat anywhere, or anything but wind
and snow in all God's universe ? . . . Yes, there v/ere
bells ringing — soft bells of a village church; and there
was incense burning — most sweet it was ! and the
coals in the censer — how beautiful ! how comforting!
He laughed with joy again, and he forgot how cold,
how maliciously cold, he had been , he forgot how
dreadful that hour was before he became warm ; when
he was pierced by myriad needles through the body,
and there was an incredible aching at his heart.

,..

t''^*

A PRAIRIE VAGABOND.

« ►-•

And yet something kept thundering on his body,
and a harsh voice shrieked at him, and there were
many hghts dancing over his shut eyes ; and then
curtains of darkness were dropped, and centuries of
obHvion came, and his eyes opened to a comforting
silence, and some one vv?.s putting brandy between
his teeth, and after a time he he ird a voice say : " Bien,
you see he was a murderer, but he save his captor.
Voilh, such a heathen ! But you will, all the same,
bring him to justice — you call it that. But we shall see."

Then someone replied, and the words passed
through an outer web of darkness and an inner haze
of dreams. "The feet of Little Hammer were like
wood on the floor wlien you brous^dit the two in.
Pretty Pierre — and lucky for them you found them.
. . . The thing would read right in a book, but it's
not according to the run of things up here, not by a
damned sight ! "

" Private Bradshaw," said the first voice again,
"you do not know Little Hammer, nor that story of
him. You wait for the trial. I have something to
say. You think Little Hammer care for the prison,
the rope? — Ah, when a man wait five years to kill —
so! and it is done, he is glad sometimes when it is all
over. Sergeant Gellatly there will wish he went to
sleep forever in the snow, if Little Hammer come to
the rope. Yes, I think."

And Sergeant Geilatly's brain was so numbed that
he did not grasp the m-'aning of the words, though
he said them over and over a;.;ain. . . . Was he ilead?
No, for his body was beating, beating . . well, it
didn't matter . . . nothing m.ittcred ... he was
sinking to forgetfulness . . . sinking.

111:

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

So, for hours, for weeks — it might have been for
years — and then he woke, clear and knowing, to
*' the unnatural, intolerable day " — it was that to him,
with Little Hammer in prison. It was March when
his memory and vigour vanished ; it was May when
he grasped the full remembrance of himself, and of
that fight for life on the prairie : of the hands that
smote him that he should not sleep ; of Little
Hammer the slayer, who had driven death back
discomfited, and brought his captor safe to where his
own captivity and punishment awaited him.

When Sergeant Gcllatly appeared in court at the
trial he refused to bear witness against Little Hammer.
" D* ye think — does wan av y' think — that I'll speak
a word agin the man — hay then or no hay then — that
pulled me out of me tomb and put me betune the
barrack quilts ? Here's the stripes aff me arm, and
to gaol I'll go ; but for what wint before I clapt the
iron on his wrists, good or avil, divil a word wir I say.
An' here's me left hand, and there's me right fut, and
an eye of me too, that I'd part with, for the cause of
him that's done «i trick that your honour wouldn't do
— an' no shame to y' aither — an* y'd been where
Little Hammer was with me."

His honour did not reply immediately, but he
looked meditatively at Little Hammer before he said
quietly, — " Perhaps not, perhaps not."

And Little Hammer, thinking he was expected to
speak, drew his blanket up closely about him and
grunted, "How/ "

Pretty Pierre, the notorious half-breed, was then
called. He kissed the Book, making the sign of the
Cross swiftly as he did so, and unheeding the ironical,

the

A PRAIRIE VAGABOND. 71

if hesitating, laughter -in the court. Then he said :

*' Bien, I will tell you the story: the whole truth. I

was in the Stony Plains. Little Hammer was 'good

Injin ' then. . . . Yes, sacre ! it is a fool who smiles

at that. I have kissed the Book. Dam ! . . . He

would be chief soon when old Two Tails die. He
was proud, then, Little Hammer. He go not to the
Post for drink; he sell not next year's furs for this
year's rations ; he shoot straight."

Here Little Hammer stood up and said : " There is
too much talk. Let me be. It is all done. The sun
is set — I care not — I have killed him ;" and then he
drew his blanket about his face and sat down.

But Pierre continued: '* Yes, you killed him —
quick, after five years — that is so ; but you will not
speak to say why. Then, I will speak. The Injins
say Little Hammer will be great man ; he will bring
the tribes together ; and all the time Little Hammer
wa3 strong and silent and wise. Then Brigley the
trapper — well, he was a thief and coward. He come
to Little Hammer and say: ' I am hungry and tired.'
Little Hammer give him food and sleep. He go
away. Bien, he come back and say, — ' It is far to go ;
I have no horse.' So Little Hammer give him a
horse too. Then he come back once again in the
night when Little Hammer was away, and before
morning he go; but when Little Hammer return,
there lay his bride — only an Injin girl, but his bride
— dead! You see ? Eh? No? Well, the Captain
at he Post he says it was the same as Lucrece. — I say
it was Hke hell. It is not much to kill or to die — that
is in the game ; but that other, mon Dieu I Little
Hammer, you see how he hide his head : not because

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

he kill the Tarquin, that Brigley, but because he is a
poor vaurien now, and he once was happy and had a
wife. . . . What would you do, jud^j^e honourable ?
. . . Little Hammer, I shake vour hand — so ! —
Hoivr

But Little Hammer made no reply.

The judge sentenced Little Hammer to one month
in gaol. He might have made it one thousand
months — it would have been the same ; for when, on
the last morning of that month, they opened the
door to set him free, he was gone ! That is, the
Little Hammer whom the high gods knew was gone ;
though an Ill-nourished, self-strangled body was up-
right by the wall. The vagabond had paid his
penalty, but desired no more of earth.

Upon the door was scratched the one word :

Howl

-y

w >

Sbe of tbe (Triple Cbcvron.

Between Archangel's Rise and Paixlon's Drive on
the Canadian Prairie there was but one house. It
was a tavern, and was known as Galbraith's Place.
There was no man in the Western Territories to
whom it was not familiar. There was no traveller
who crossed the lonely waste but was glad of it, and
would go twenty miles out of his way to rest a night
on a corn-husk bed that Jen Galbraith's hands had
filled, to eat a meal that she had prepared, and to
hear Peter Galbraith's talcs of early days on the
plains, when buffalo were like clouds on the horizon,
when Indians were many and hostile, and when men
called the Great North West a wedge of the American
desert.

It is night on the prairie. Jen Galbraith ands in
the doorway of the tavern sitting-room an 1 watches
a mighty beacon of flame rising befr her, a
Hundred yards away. Every night this b-acon made
a circle of light on the prairie, and Galbraith's Place
was in the centre of the circle. Summer and winter
it burned from dusk to daylight. No hand fed it but
that of Nature. It never failed ; it was a cruse that
was never empty. Upon Jen Galbraith it had a
weird influence. It grew to be to her a kind of
spiritual companion, though, perhaps, she would not
so have named it This flaming gas, bubbling up

74 PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

from the depths of the earth on the lonely plains, was
to her a mysterious presence grateful to her ; the re-
ceiver of her thoughts, the daily necessity ir. her life.
It filled her too with a kind of awe ; for, when it
burned, she seemed ncjt herself alone, but another self
of her whom she could not quite understand. Yet
she was no mere dreamer. Upon her practical
strength of body and mind had come that rugged
poetical sense, which touches all who live the life of
mountain and prairie. She showed it in her
rpeech ; it had a measured cadence. She expressed
it in her body ; it iiad a free and rhythmic move-
ment. And not Jc.i alone, but many another dweller
on the prairie, looked upon it with a superstitious
reverence akin to worship. A blizzard could not
quench it. A gale of wind only fed its strength. A
rain-storm made a mist about it, in which it was
enshrined like a god.

Peter Galbraith could not fully understand his
daughter's fascination for this Prairie Star, as the
North-Western people called it. It was not without its
natural influence upon him ; but he regarded it most
as a comfortable advertisement, and he lamented
every day that this never-failing gas well was not
near a large population, and he still its owner. He
was one of that large family in the earth who would
turn the best things in their lives into merchandise.
As it was, it brought much grist to his mill ; for he
was not averse to the exercise of the insitmating
pleasures of euchre and poker in his tavern ; and the
hospitality which ranchmen, cowboys, and travellers
sought at his hand was ot'ten prolonged, ?nd remuner-
ative to him.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

Pretiy Pierre, who had his patrol as gamester
defined, made semi-annual visits to Galbraith's
Place. It occurred generally after the rounding-up
and branding seasr)ns, when the cowboys and ranch-
men were " flush " with money. It was generally
conceded that Monsieur Pierre would have made an
early excursion to a place where none is ever "ordered
up," if he had not been free with the money which he
so plentifully won.

Card-playing was to him a science and a passion.
He loved to win for winnin^^'s sake. After that,
money, as he himself put it, was only fit to be spent
for the good of the country, and th ' men should
earn more. Since he put his philosophy into instant
and generous practice, active and deadly prejudice
against him did not have lengthened life.

The Mounted Police, or as they are more poeti-
cally called, the Riders of the Plains, watched Gal-
braith's Place, not from any apprehension of violent
events, but because Galbraith was suspected of
infringing the prevailing law of Prohibition, and
because for some years it had been a tradition and a
custom to keep an eye on Pierre.

As Jen Galbraith stood in the doorway looking ab-
stractedly at the beacon, her fingers smoothing her
snowy apron the while, she was thinking thus to her-
self: " Perhaps father is right. If that Prairie Star
were only at Vancouver or Winnipeg instead of here,
our Val could be something more than a prairie-rider.
He'd have been different if father hadn't started this
tavern business. Not that our Val is bad. He isn't;
but if he had money ae could buy a rancu,-
something.''

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

Our Val, as Jen and her father called him, was a
lad ol twenty-two, one year younger tlian Jen. He
was prairie-rider, cattle-dealer, scout, cowboy, happy-
go-lucky vagrant, — a splendid Bohemian of the plains.
As Jen said, he was not bad ; but he had a fiery,
wandering spirit, touched withal by the sunniest
humour. He had never known any curb but Jen's
love and care. That had kept him within bounds so
far. All men of the prairie spoke well of him. The
great new lands have codes and standards of morals
quite their own. One enthusiastic admirer of this
youth said, in Jen's hearing : " He's a Christian — Val
Galbraith!" That was the western way of announc-
ing a man as having great civic and social virtues.
Perhaps the respect for Val Galbraith was deepened
by the fact that there was no broncho or cayuse that
he could not tame to the saddle.

Jen turned her face from the flame and looked
away from the oasis of warmth it made, to where the
light shaded away into darkness, a darkness that was
unbroken for many a score of miles to the north and
west. She sighed deeply and drew herself up with
an aggressive n:otion as if she was freeing herself of
something. So she was. She was trying to shake
ofif a feeling of oppression. Ten minutes ago the
gas-lighted house behind her had seemed like a
prison. She felt that she must have air, space, and
freedom.

She would have liked a long ride on the buffalo-
track. That, she felt, would clear her mind. She
was no romantic creature out of her sphere, no exotic.
She was country-born and bred, and her blood had
been ciiarged by a prairie ii inct passing through

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

*>r

three generations. She was part of this life Tier
mind was free and strontr, and her body w?.s free and
healthy. While that freedom and health was genial,
it revolted aj^ainst what was gross or irregular. She
loved hor.ses and do.!;^s, she liked to take a gun and
ride away to the Poplar Hills in search of game, she
found pleasure in visiting the Indian Reservation,
and talking to Sun-in-the-North. tne only good
Indian chief she knew, or that anyone el.se on the
prairies knew. She loved all that was strong and
untamed, all that was panting with wild and glowing
life. Splendidly developed, softly sinewy, warmly
bountiful, yet without the least phy.sical over-
luxuriance or suggestiveness, Jen, with her tawny
hair and dark-brown eyes, was a growth of unre-
strained, unconventional, and eloquent life. Like
Nature around her, glowing and fresh, yet glowing
and hardy. There was, however, just a strain of
pensiveness in her, partly owing to the fact that there
were no women near her, that she had virtually lived
her life as a woman alone.

«»

II.

As she thus looked into the undefined horizon two
things were happening : a traveller was approaching
Galbraith's Place from a point in that horizon ; and
in the house beliind her someone was singing. The
traveller sat erect upon his horse. He had not the
free and lazy seat of the ordinary prairie-rider. It
was a cavalry seat, and a military manner. He be-
longed to that handful of men who patrol a frontier
of near a thousand miks, and are the security of

■

! :

'I i
I 1

7»

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

peace in three hundred thousand miles of territory —
the Riders of the Plains, the North-West Mounted
Police.

This Rider of the Plains was Scr!:;cant Thomas
Gellatly, familiarly known as Ser^i ant Tom. Far
away as he was he could see that a woman was
standing in the tavern door. lie guessed who it was,
and his blood quickened at the guessini^. But rein-
ing his horse on the furthest ed^e of the lighted circle,
he said, dcbatingly : "I've little lime enough to get
to the Rise, and the order was to go through, hand
the information to Inspector Jules, anti be back with-
in forty-eight hours. Is it flesh and blood they think
I am ? Me that's just come back from a journey of
a hundred miles, and sent off again hke this with
but a taste of sleep and hltle food, and Corporal
Byng sittin' there at Fort Desire with a pipe in his
mouth and the fat on his back like a porpoise. It's
famished I am with hunger, and thirty miles yet to
do; and s/ic standin* there with a six month's wel-
come in her eye. . . . It's in the interest of Justice if
I halt at Galbraith's Place for hc..^.f-an-hour, bedad !
The blackguard hid away there at Soldier's Knee will
be arrested all the sconcr ; for horse and man will be
able the better to travel. I'm glad it's not me that
has to take him whoever he is. It's little I like
leadin' a fellow-creature towards the gallows, or puttin'
a bullet into him if he won't come. . , . Now what
will we do, Larry, me boy ? " — this to the broncho —
"Go on without bite or sup, me achin' behind and
empty before, and you laggin' in the legs, or stay
here for the slice of an hour and get some heart into
as ? Stay here is it, me boy ? then lave go me fut

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

with your teeth and push on to the Prairie Star there."
Sosayingf, Ser<^cant Tom, whose language in soliloquy,
or when excited, was more marked by a broqjue than
at other times, rode away towards Galbraith's Place.

In the tavern at that moment, Pretty Pierre was
sitting on the bar-counter, where temperance drinks
were professedly sold, singing to himself. His dress
was singularly neat, if coarse, and his slouch hat was
worn with an air of jauntiness that accorded well with
his slight make and almost girlish delicacy of com-
plexion. He was pufhng a cigarette, in the breaks of
the song. Peter Galbraith, tall, gaunt, and sombre-
looking, sat with his chair tilted back against the
wall, rather nervously pulling at the strips of bark of
which the yielding chair-seat was made. He may or
may not have been listening to the song which had
run through several verses. Where it had come from,
no one knew ; no one cared to know. The number
of its verses were legion. Pierre had a sweet voice, of
a peculiarly penetrating quality; still it was low and
well-modulated, like the colour in his cheeks, which
gave him his name.

These were the words he was singing ac Sergeant
Tom rode towards the tavern :

*' The hot blood leaps in his quivering breast —

Voi/d I 'Tis his enemies near !
There's a chasm deep on the mountain crest —

Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hear !
They follow him close and they follow him fast,

And he flies like a mountain deer ;
Then a mad, wild leap and he's safe at last 1—

Oh, the sweet Saint GHbrielle hear!
A cry and a leap and the darr^er's past —

Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hear !"

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Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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U.i

PIERRE AND HIS PF:0PLE.

'] .

At the close of the verse, Galbraith said ; " I don't
like that song. I — I don't like it. You're not a
father, Pierre."

•' No, I ani not a father. I have some virtue of
that. I have spared the world something, Pete
Galbraith."

" You have the Devil's luck ; your sins never get
you into trouble."

A curious fire flashed in the half-breed's eyes, and
he said, quietly : " Yes, I have great luck ; but I
have my little troubles at times — at times."

"They're different, though, from this trouble of
Val's." There was something like a fog in the old
man's throat.

" Yes, Val was quite foolish, you see. If he had
killed a white man — Pretty Pierre, for instance — well,
there would have been a show of arrest, but he
could escape. It was an Injin. The Government
cherish the Injin much in these days. The redskin
must be protected. It must be shown that at Ottawa
there is justice. That is droll — quite. Eh, bien !
Val will not try to escape. He wail^ too long — near
twenty-four hours. Then, it is as you see. . , . You
have not told her ? " He nodded towards the door of
the sitting-room.

" Notliin;jj. It'll come on Jen soon enough if he
doesn't get away, and bad enough if he does, and
can't come back to us. She's fond of him — as fond of
him as a mother. Alwajs was wiser than our Val or
me, Jen was. More sense than a judge, and proud —
but not too proud, Pierre — not too proud. She
knows the right thing to do, like the Scriptures ; and
she does it too. . . . Where did you say he was hid?"

" I don't
e not a

n'rtue of
ig, Pete

ever get

yes, and
; but I

)uble of
the old

he had
e — well,
but he
rnment
redskin
Ottawa

bien !

—near
You
door of

if he

es, and

fond of

Valor

roud —

She

; and

I hid?"

SHE OF THE TRIFLE CHEVRON.

" In the Hollow at Soldier's Knee. He stayed too
long at Moose Horn. Injins carried the news on to
Fort Desire. When Val started south for the Border
other Injins followed, and when a halt was made at
Soldier's Knee they pushed across country over to
Fort Desire. You see, Val's horse gave out I rode
with him so far. My horse too was broken up.
What was to be done ? Well, I knew a ranchman
not far from Soldier's Knee. I told Val to sleep, and
I would go on and get the ranchman to send him a
horse, while I came on to you. Then he could push
on to the Border. I saw the ranchman, and he swore
to send a horse to Val to-night. He will keep his
word. He knows Val. That was at noon today,
and I am here, you see, and you know all. The
danger ? Ah ! my friend, — the Police Barracks at
Archangel's Rise. If word is sent down there from
Fort Desire before Val passes, they will have out a
big patrol, and his chances, — well, you know them, the
Riders of the Plains ! But Val, I think will have
luck, and get into Montana before they can stop him,
I hope ; yes."

" If I could do anytliing, Pierre ! Can't we — "

The half-breed intcrrup.ed : "No, we can't do
anything, Galbraith. I have done all. The ranch-
man knows me, he will keep his word, by the Great
Heaven I" It would seem as if Pierre had reasons for
relying on the ranchman other than ordinary prairie
courtesy to law-brcakcrs.

" Pierre, tell me the whole story over, slow and
plain. It don't seem nateral to think of it ; but if
you go over it again, perhaps I can get the thing
more reas'nable in my mind. No, it ain't naterai to

* I

115

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

me, Pierre — our Val running away I " The old man
leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and
his face in his hands.

" Eh, well, it was an Injin. So much. It was in
self-defence — a little, but of course to prove that!
There is the difficulty. You see, they were all drink-
ing, and the Injin — he was a chief — proposed — he
proposed that Val should sell him his sister, Jen
Galbraith, to be the chiefs squaw. He would give
him a cayuse. Val's blood came up quick — quite
quick. You know Val. He said between his teeth :
* Look out, Snow Devil, you Injin dog, or I'll have
your heart Do you think a white girl is like a
redskin woman, to be sold as you sell your wives and
daughters to the squaw-men and white loafers, you
reptile?* Then the Injin said an ugly word about
Val's sister, and Val shot him dead like lightning !
. . . Yes, that is good to swear, Galbraith. You are
not the only one that curses the law in this world. It
is not Justice that fills the gaols, but Law.**

The old man rose and walked up and down the
room in a shuffling kind of way. His best days were
done, the spring of his life was gone, and the step was
that of a man who had little more of activity and
force with wliich to turn the halting wheels of life.
His face was not altogether good, yet it was not evil.
There was a sinister droop to the eyelids, a suggestion
of cruelty about the mouth : but there was more of
good-nature and passive strength than either in the
general expression. One could see that some
genial influence had dominated what was inherently
cruel and sinister in him. Still the sinister predis-
position was there.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

the
were
was
and
life,
evil,
istion
)re of
the
some
!ntly
fedis-

• He can't never come here, Pierre, can he ? " he
said, despairingly.

" No, he can't come here, Galbraith. And look :
if the Riders of the Plains should stop here to-night,
or to-morrow, you will be cool — cool, eh?*'

"Yes, I will be quite cool, Pierre." Tlien he seemed
to think of something else and looked up half-
curiously, half-inquiringly at the half-breed.

Pierre saw this. He whistled quietly to himself for
a little, and then called the old man over to where he
sat Leaning slightly forward he made his reply to
the look that had been bent upon him. He touched
Galbraith's breast lightly with his delicate fingers,
and said : " I have not much love for the world, Pete
Galbraith, and not much love for men and women
altogether ; they are fools — nearly all. Some men —
you know — treat me well. They drink with me —
much. They would make life a hell for me if I was
poor — shoot me, perhaps, quick ! — if — if I didn't shoot
first. They would wipe me with their feet. They would
spoil Pretty Pierre." This he said with a grim kind of
humour and scorn, refined in its suppressed force.
Fastidious as he was in appearance, Pierre was not
vain. He had been created with a sense of refine-
ment that reduced the grossness of his life ; but he
did not trade on it ; he simply accepted it and lived
it naturally after his kind. He was not good at heart,
and he never pretended to be so. He continued : " No,
I have not much love; but Val, well, I think of him
some. His tongue is straight; he makes no lies.
His heart is fire ; his arms are strong; he has no fear.
He does not love Pierre ; but he dues not pretend to
love him. He does not think of me like the rest

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

So much the more when his trouble conies I help him.
I help him to the death if he needs me. To make him
my friend — that is good. Eh ! Perhaps. You see,
Galbraith ? "

The old man nodded thoughtfully, and after a little
pause said: '* I have killed Injins myself;" and he
made a motion of his head backward, suggestive of
the past.

With a shrug of his shoulders the other replied :
"Yes, so have I — sometimes. But the government
was different then, and there were no Riders of the
Plains." His white teeth showed menacingly under
his slight moustache. Then there was another
pause. Pierre was watching the other.

" What's that you're doing, Galbraith ? '*

" Rubbin' laudanum on my gums for this toothache.
Have to use it for nuralgy, too,"

Galbraith put the little vial back in his waistcoat
pocket, and presently said : " What will you have to
drink. Pretty Pierre ? '* That was his way of showing
gratitude.

" I am reformed. I will take coffee, if Jen Galbraith
will make some. Too much broken glass inside is
not good. Yes."

Galbraith went into the sitting-room to ask Jen to
make the coffee. Pierre still sitting on the bar-
counter sang to himself a verse of a rough-and-ready,
satirical prairie ballad :

"The Riders of the Plains, my boys, are twenty thousand
strong —

Oh, Lordy, don't they make the prairies howl I
'Tis their lot to smile on virtue and to collar what is wrong,

And to intercept the happy flowin' bowl.

idy,

and

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

They've a notion, that in glory, when we wicked ones have
chains

They will all be major-generals — and that I
They're a lovely band of pilgrims are the Riders of the Plains —

Will some sinner please to pass around the hat ?"

As he reached the last two lines of the verse the
door opened and Serc^eant Tom entered. Pretty
Pierre did not stop sini^inpj. His eyes simply grew a
little brighter, his cheek flushed ever so slightly, and
there was an increase of vigour in the closing notes.

Sergeant Tom smiled a little grimly, then he nod-
ded and said : " Been at it ever since, Pretty Pierre ?
You were singing the same song on the same spot
when I passed here six months ago."

" Eh, Sergeant Tom, it is you ? What brings you
so far from your straw-bed at Fort Desire ? " and
from underneath his hat-brim Pierre scanned the face
of the trooper closely.

" Business. Not to smile on virtue, but to collar
what is wrong. I guess you ought to be ready by
this time to go into quarters, Pierre. YouVe had a
long innings."

" Not yet. Sergeant Tom, though I love the Irish,
and your company would make me happy. But I
am so innocent, and the world — it cannot spare me
yet. But I think you come to smile on virtue, all the
same, Sergeant Tom. She is beautiful is Jen Gal-
braith. Ah, that makes your eye bright — so. You
Riders of the Plains, you do two things at one time.
You make this hour someone happy, and that hour
someone unhappy. In one hand the soft glove ot
kindness, in the other, voi/d ! the cold glove of steel.
We cannot all be great like that, Sergeant Tom."

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE,

•* Not great, but clever. Votld, ! The Pretty Pierre I
In one hand he holds the soft paper, the pictures
that deceive — kings, queens, and knaves; in the other,
pictures in gold and silver— money won from the
pockets of fools. And so, as you say, bien I and we
each have our way, bed ad ! "

Sergeant Tom noticed that the half-breed's eyes
nearly closed, as if to hide the malevolence that was
in them. He would not have been surprised to see a
pistol drawn. But he was quite fearless, and if it was
not his duty to provoke a difficulty, his fighting nature
would not shrink from giving as good as he got
Besides, so far as that nature permitted, he hated
Pretty Pierre. He knew the ruin that this gambler
had caused here and there in the West, and he was
glad that Fort Desire, at any rate, knew him less than
it did formerly.

Just then Peter Galbraith entered with the coffee,
followed by Jen. When the old man saw his visitor
he stood still with sudden fear ; but catching a
warning look from the eye of the half-breed, he made
an effort to be steady, and said : " Well, Jen, if it isn't
Sergeant Tom ! And what brings you down here,
Sergeant Tom } After some scalawag that's broke
the law?"

Sergeant Tom had not noticed the blanched anxiety
in the father's face ; for his eyes were seeking those
of the daughter. He answered the question as he
advanced toward Jen : " Yes and no, Galbraith ; I'm
only takin' orders to those who will be after some
scalawag by daylight in the mornin', or before. The
hand of a traveller to you, Miss Jen."

Her eyes replied to his in one language ; her lips

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

spoke another. ** And who is the law-breaker,
Sergeant Tom ? " she said, as she took his hand.

Galbraith's eyes strained towards the soldier till the
reply came : " And I don't know that ; not wan o' me.
I'd ridden in to Fort Desire from another duty, a
matter of a hundred miles, whin the major says to
me, 'There's murder been done at Moose Horn.
Take these orders down to Archangel's Rise, and
deliver them and be back here within forty-eight
hours.* And here I am on the way, and, if I wasn't
ready to drop for want of a bite and sup, I'd be
movin' away from here to the south at this moment."

Galbraith was trembling with excitement. Pierre
warned him by a look, and almost immediately after-
ward gave him a reassuring nod, as if an important
and favourable idea had occurred to him.

Jen, looking at the Sergeant's handsome face, said :
* It's six months to a day since you were here.
Sergeant Tom."

** What an almanac you are, Miss Jen !"

Pretty Pierre sipping his coffee here interrupted
musingly : " But Miss Jen's almanac is not always so
reliable. So I think. When was I here last, Miss
Jen ? "

With something like menace in her eyes Jen
replied : ** You were here six months ago to-day,
when you won thirty dollars from our Val • and then
again, just thirty days after that"

" Ah, so 1 You remember with a difference." '

A moment after, Sergeant Tom being occupied in
talking to Jen, Pierre whispered to Peter Galbraith :
** His horse — then the laudanum I "

Galbraith was puzzled for a moment, but soon

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

nodded sip^nificantly, and the sinister droop to his
eyes became more marked. Me turned to the
Sergeant and said : " Your horse must be fed as well
as yourself, Sergeant Tom, I'll look after the beast,
and Jen will take care of you. There's some fresh
coffee, isn't there, Jen ? "

Ten nodded an affirmative. Galbraith knew that the
Sergeant would trust no one to feed his horse but
himself, and the offer therefore was made with
design.

Sergeant Tom replied instantly : " No, I'll do it if
someone will show me the grass pile."

Pierre slipped quietly from the counter, and said :
** I know the way, Galbraith. I will show."

Jen turned to the sitting-room, and Sergeant Tom
moved to the tavern door, follo^"ed by Pierre, who, as
he passed Galbraith, touched the old man's waistcoat
pocket, and said : " Thirty drops in the coffee."

Then he passed out, singing softly :

•• And he sleepeth so well, and he sleepeth so long—
The fight it was hard, my dear ;
And his foes were many and swift and strong—
Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hear 1 "

There was danger ahead for Sergeant Thomas
Gellatly. Galbraith followed his daughter to the
sitting-room. She went to the kitchen and brought
bread, and cold venison, and prairie fowl, and stewed
dried apples — the stay and luxury of all rural Canadian
homes. The coffee-pot was then placed on the table.
Then the old man said : " Better give him some of
that old cheese, Jen, hadn't you ? It's in the cellar."
He wanted to be rid of her for a few moments.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

" S'pose I had," and Jen vanished.

Now was Galbraith's cliance. lie took the vial of
laudanum from his pocket, and opened the coflee-pot.
It was half full. This would not suit. Someone else
— Jen — might drink the coffee also I Yet it had to be
done. Sergeant Tom should not go on. Inspector
Jules and his Riders of the Plains must not be put
upon the track of Val. Twelve hours would make
all the difference. Pour out a cup of coffee ? — Yes,
of course, that would do. It was poured out quickly,
and then thirty drops of laudanum were carefully
counted into it. Hark ! They are coming back ! —
Just in time. Sergeant Tom and Pierre enter from
outside, and then Jen from the kitchen. Galbraith is
pouring another cup of coffee as they enter, and he
says : " Just to be sociable I'm goin' to have a cup of
coffee with you, Sergeant Tom. How you Riders of
the Plains get waited on hand and foot ! " Did some
warning flash through Sergeant Tom's mind or body,
some mental shock or some physical chill ? For he
distinctly shivered, though he was not cold. He
seemed suddenly oppressed with a sense of danger.
But his eyes fell on Jen, and the hesitation, for which
he did not then try to account, passed. Jen, clear-
faced and true, invited him to sit and eat, and he,
starting half-abstractedly, responded to her " Draw
nigh. Sergeant Tom," and sat down. Common-
place as the words were, they thrilled him, for he
thought of a table of his own in a home of his own,
and the same words spoken everyday, but without the
"Sergeant," — simply "Tom."

He ate heartily and sipped his coffee slowly, talk-
ing meanwhile to Jen and Galbraith. Pretty Pierre

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

ii I

watched them all. Presently the gambler said: "Let
us go and have our game of euchre, Pete Galbraith.
Miss Jen can well take care of Scrjrcant Tom."

Galbraith drank the rest of his coffee, rose, and
passed with Pierre into the bar-room. Then the
half breed said to him : " You were careful — thirty
drops ? "

"Yes, thirty drops." The latent cruelty of his
nature was awake.

"That is riyht. It is sleep; not death. He will
sleep so sound for half a day, perhaps eighteen hours,
and then I — Val will have a long start."

In the sitting-room Ser^j^cant Tom was saying :
*' Where is your brother, Miss Jen ? " He had no
idea that the order in his pocket was for the arrest of
that brother. He merely asked the question to start
the talk.

He and Jen had met but five or six times ; but the
impression left on the minds of buth was pleasant —
ineradicable. Yet, as Sergeant Tom often asked
himself during the past six months, why should he
think of her ? The life he led was one of severe en-
durance, and harshness, and austerity. Into it there
could not possibly enter anything of home. He was
but a non-commissioned officer of the Mounted
Police, and beyond that he had nothing. Ireland
had not been kind to him. He had left her inhospit-
able shores, and after years of absence he had but a
couple of hundred dollars laid up — enough to pur-
chase his discharge and something over, but nothing
with which to start a home. Ranching required
capital. No, it couldn't be thought of; and yet he
had thought of it, try as he would not to do so. And

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

: "Let

Ibraith.

)

?e, and
en the
-thirty

of his

^e will
I hours,

;aying :
had no
rrest of
to start

but the
isant —

asked
uld he
ere en-
t there
-le was
ounted
reland
lospit-

but a
o pur-
othing
quired
y^et he
And

she? There was that about this man who had lived
life on two continents, in whose blood ran the warm
and chivalrous Celtic fire, which appealed to her.
His physical manhood was noble, if rugged ; his
disposition genial and free, if schooled, but not en-
tirely, to that reserve which his occupation made
necessary — a reserve he would have been more care-
ful to maintain, in speaking of his mission a short
time back in the bar-room, if Jen had not been there.
She called out the frankest part of him ; she opened
the doors of his nature ; she attracted confidence as
the sun docs the sunflower.

To his question she replied: "I do not know where
our Val is. He went on a hunting expedition up
north. We never can tell about him, when he will
turn up or where he will be to-morrow. He may
walk in any minute. We never feel uneasy. He
always h-is such luck, and comes out safe and sound
wherever he is. Father says Val's a hustler, and that
nothing can keep in the road with him. But he's
a little wild— a little. Still, we don't hector him.
Sergeant Tom ; hectoring never does any good,
does it ? "

" No, hcf^^orlng never does any good. And as for
the wildni^ss, if the heart of him's right, why that's
easy out of him whin he's older. It's a fine lad I
thought him, the time I saw him here. It's his free-
dom I wish I had — me that has to travel all day and
part of the nig'nt, and thin part of the day and all
night back again, and thin a day of sleep and the
same thing over ai^ain. And that's the life of me,
sayin* nothin' of the frost and the blizzards, and no
home to go to, and no one to have a meal for me like

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

this whin I turn up/* And the sergeant wound up
with, " Whooroo ! there's a speech for you, Miss Jen !**
and laughed good-humoured ly. For all that, there
was in his eyes an appeal that went straight to Jen's
heart.

But, woman-like, she would not open the way for
him to say anything more definite just yet. She
turned the subject. And yet again, woman-like, she
knew it would lead to the same conclusion :

" You must go to-night ? "

" Yes, I must."

" Nothing — nothing would keep you ? "

" Nothing. Duty is duty, much as I'd like to stay,
and you givin' me the bid. But my orders were
strict. You don't know what discipline means, per-
haps. It means obeyin* commands if you die for it ;
and my commands were to take a letter to Inspector
Jules at Archangel's Rise to-night. It's a matter of
murder or the like, and duty must be done, and me
that sleepy, not forgettin' your presence, as ever a
man was, and looked the world in the face."

He drank the rest of the coffee and mechanically
set the cup down, his eyes closing heavily as he did so.
He made an effort, however, and pulled himself to-
gether. His eyes opened, and he looked at Jen steadily
for a moment. Then he leaned over and touched her
hand gently with his fingers, — Pierre's glove of kind-
ness, — and said : " It's in my heart to want to stay ;
but a sight of you I'll have on my way back. But I
must go on now, though I'm that drowsy I could lie
down here and never stir again."

Jen said to herself : " Poor fellow, poor fellow, how
tired he is ! I wish " — but she withdrew her hand.

}

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON

vound up
liss Jen!"
hat, there
It to Jen's

e way for

»^et. She
n-like, she

:e to stay,
Jers were
cans, per-
die for it ;
Inspector
matter of
, and me
IS ever a

hanically
le did so.
mself to-

steadily
ched her

of kind-
to stay ;
But I
could lie

Dw, how
land.

He put his hand to his head, and said, absently :
" It's my duty and it's orders, and . . . what was I
sayin' ? The disgrace of me if, if . . . bedad ! the
sleep's on me ; I'm awake, but I can't open my eyes.
... If the orders of me — and a good meal . . . and
the disgrace . . . to do me duty — looked the world
in the face — "

During this speech he staggered to his feet, Jen
watching him anxiously the while. No suspicion of
the cause of his trouble crossed her mind. She set it
down to extreme natural exhaustion. Presently feel-
ing the sofa behind him, he dropped upon it, and,
falling back, began to breathe heavily. But even in
this physical stupefaction he made an effort to re-
assert himself, to draw himself back from the coming
unconsciousness. His eyes opened, but they were
blind with sleep; and as if in a dream, he said . " My
duty . . . disgrace ... a long sleep . . . Jen,
dearest Jen " — how she started then I — " it must be
done . . . my Jen ! " and he said no more.

But these few words had opened up a world for her
— a new-created world on the instant. Her life was
illuminated. She felt the fulness of a great thought
suffusing her face. A beautiful dream was upon her.
It had come to her out of his sleep. But with its
splendid advent there came the other thing that
always is born with woman's love — an almost pathetic
care of the being loved. In the deep love of women
the maternal and protective sense works in the
parallels of mutual regard. In her life now it sprang
full-statured in action ; love of him, care of him ; his
honour her honour; his life her life. He must not
sleep like this if it was his duty to go on. Yet how

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

Utterly worn he must be I She had seen men brought
in from fighting prairie fires for three days without
sleep ; had watched them drop on their beds, and lie
like logs for thirty-six hours. This sleep of her lover
was, therefore, not so stran^^je to her ; but it was
perilous to the perfo'-mance of his duly.

" Poor Sergeant 1 om," she said. " Poor Tom," she
added ; and then, with a great flutter at the heart at
last, " My Tom ! " Yes, she said that ; but she said
it to the beacon, to the Prairie Star, burning outside
brighter, it seemed to her, than it had ever done be-
fore. Then she sat down and watched him for many
minutes, thinking at the end of each that she would
wake him. But the minutes passed, his breathing
grew heavier, and he did not stir. The Prairie Star
made quivering and luminous curtains of red for the
windows, and Jen's mind was quivering in vivid waves
of feeling just the same. It seemed to her as if she
was looking at life now through an atmosphere
charged with some rare, refining essence, and that in
it she stood exultingly. Perhaps she did not define
it so ; but that which we define she felt. And happy
are they who feel it, and, feeling it, do not lose it in
this world, and have the hope of carrying it into the
next!

After a time she rose, went over to him and touched
his shoulder It seemed strange to her to do this
thing. She drew back timidly from the pleasant
shock of a new experience. Then she remembered
that he ought to be on his way, and she shook him
gently, then, with all her strength, and called to him
quietly all the time, as if her low tones ought to wake
him, if nothing else could. But he lay in a deep and

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

brought
without
, and lie
er lover
it was

im," she

heart at

he said

outside

one be-

r many

J would

eathing

lie Star

for the

1 waves

if she .

(Sphere

hat in

define

happy

>e it in

to the

uched
this

iasant

bered
him
him

wake
and

stolid slumber. It was no use. She went to her seat
and sat down to think. As she did so, her father
entered the room.

•* Did you call, Jen ? " he said ; and turned to the
sofa.

" I was calling to Sergeant Tom. He's asleep
there ; dead-gone, father. I can't wake him."

*' Why should you wake him ? He is tired."

The sinister lines in Galbraith's face had deepened
greatly in the last hour. He went over and looked
closely at the Sergeant, followed languidly by Pierre,
who casually touched the pulse of the sleeping man,
and said as casually :

*' Eh, he sleep well ; his pulse is like a baby ; he
was tired, much. He has had no sleep for one, two,
three nights, perhaps; and a good meal, it m?kes him
comfortable, and so you see !"

Then he touched lightly the triple chevron on
Sergeant Tom's arm, and said :

" Eh, a man does much work for that. And then,
to be moral and the friend of the law all the time ! "
Pierre here shrugged his shoulders. " It is easier to
be wicked and free, and spend when one is rich, and
starve when one is poor, than to be a sergeant and
wear the triple chevron. Rut the sleep will do him
good just the same, Jen Galbraith."

** He said that he must go to Archangel's Rise to-
night, and be back at Fort Desire to-morrow night"

"Well, that's nothing to us, Jen," replied Galbraith,
roughly. " He's got his own business to look after.
He and his tribe are none too good to us and our
tribe. He'd have your old father up to-morrow for
selling a tired traveller a glass of brandy ; and worse

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

than that, ay, a great sight worse than that, mind you,
Jen."

Jen did not notice, or, at least, did not heed, the
excited emphasis on the last words. She thought
that perhaps her father had been set against the
Sergeant by Pierre.

" There, that'll do, father," she said. " It's easy to
bark at a dead lion. Sergeant Tom's asleep, and you
say things that you wouldn't say if he was awake.
He never did us any harm, and you know that's true,
father."

Galbraith was about to reply with anger ; but he
changed his mind and walked into the bar-room,
followed by Pierre.

In Jen's mind a scheme had been hurriedly and
clearly formed ; and with her, to form it was to put it
into execution. She went to Sergeant Tom, opened
his coat, felt in the inside pocket, and drew forth an
official envelope.- It was addressed to Inspector
Jules at Archangel's Rise. She put it back and
buttoned up the coat again. Then she said, with her
hands firmly clenching at her side, — " I'll do it."

She went into the adjoining room and got a quilt,
which she threw over him, and a pillow, which she
put under his head. Then she took his cap and the
cloak which she had thrown over a chair, as if to
carry them away. But another thought occurred to
her, for she looked towards the bar-room and put them
down again. She glanced out of the window and
saw that her father and Pierre had gone to lessen the
volume of gas which was feeding the flame. This, she
knew, meant that her father wuuld go to bed when he
came back to the house, and it suited her purpose.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

id you,

:ed, the
:hought
nst the

easy to

md you

awake.

it's true,

but he
ar-room,

dly and

to put it

, opened

orth an

spector

ck and

ith her

t."

a quilt,
ich she
and the
las if to
rred to
lut them
low and
sen the
his, she
hen he
urpose.

She waited till they had entered the bar-room again,
and then she went to them, and said : " I guess he's
asleep for all night. Best leave him wiicre he is. I'm
going. Good-night."

When she got back to the sitting-room she said to
herself: " How old fathers looking ! he seems broken
up to-day. He isn't what he used to be." She
turned once more to look at Sergeant Tom, then she
went to her room.

A little later Peter Galbraith and Pretty Pierre
went to the sitting-room, and the old man drew from
the Sergeant.'s pocket the envelope which Jen had
seen. Pierre took it from him. "No, Pete Galbraith
Do not be a fool. Suppose you steal that paper.
Sergeant Tom will miss it. He will understand. He
will guess about the drug, then you will be in trouble.
Val will be safe now. This Rider of the Plains will
sleep long enough for that. There, I put the paper
back. He sleeps like a log. No one can suspect the
drug, and it is all as we like. No, we will not steal ;
that is wrong — quite wrong " — here Pretty Pierre
showed his teeth — " we will go to bed. Come ! "

Jen heard them ascend the stairs. She waited a
half-hour, then she stole into Val's bedroom, and
when she emerged again she had a bundle of clothes
across her arm. A few minutes more and she walked
into the sitting-room dressed in Val's clothes, and
with her hair closely wound on the top of her head.

The house was still. The Prairie Star made the

room light enough for her purpose. She took

Sergeant Tom's cap and cloak and put them on.

She drew the envelope from his pocket and put it in

her bosom — she showed the woman there, though for

PIERRE AND HIS PKOPLK.

the rest of this night she was to be a Rider of the
Plains, — Sergeant Tom, — S/ie of the Triple Chevron.
She went towards the door, hesitated, drew back,
then paused, stooped down quickly, tenderly touched
the soldier's brow with her lips, and said : " I'll do it
for you. You shall not be disgraced — Tom."

III.

This was at half-past ten o'clock. At two o'clock
a jaded and blown horse stood before the door of Ihe
barracks at Archangel's Rise. Its rider, muffled to
the chin, was knocking, and at the same time pulling
his cap down closely over his head. " Thank God
the night is dusky," he said. We have heard that
voice before. The hat and cloak are those of
Sergeant Tom, but the voice is that of Jen Galbraith.
There is some danger in this act ; danger for her
lover, contempt for herself if she is discovered.
Presently the door opens and a corporal appears.
" Who's there ? Oh," he added, as he caught sight of
the familiar uniform ; "where from?"

" From Fort Desire. Important orders to Inspector
Jules. — Require fresh horse to return with; must leave
mine here. — Have to go back at once."

" I say," said the corporal, taking the papers —
" what's your name ? "

" Sergeant Gellatly."

** Say, Sergeant Gellatly, this isn't accordin' to
Hoylc — come in the night and go in the night and
not stay long enough to have a swear at the Gover'-
ment. Why, you're comin* in, aren't you? You're
comin' across the door-mat for a cup of coffee and a

SHK OF THE TRIPLK rilKVRON.

t and
over'-
'ou're
ind a

warm while the horse is gettin' ready, aren't you.
Serc^cant Gcllatly ? — Scrp^cant Gellatly, Sergeant
Gellatly ! I've heard of you, but — yes; I will hurry.
Here, Waugh, this to Inspector Jules! If you won't
step in and won't drink and will be unsociable,
sergeant, why, come on and you shall have a horse as
good as the one you've brouglit. I'm Corporal Galna.

Jen led the exhausted horse to the stables. For-
tunately there was no lantern used, and therefore
little cliance for the garrulous coiporal to study the
face of his companion, even if he wished to do so.
The risk was considerable ; but Jen Galbraith was
fired by that spirit of self-sacrifice which has held a
world rocking to destruction on a balancing point of
safety.

The horse was quickly saddled, Jen meanwhile
remaining silent. While she was mounting, Corporal
Galna drew and struck a match to light his pipe. He
held it up for a moment as if to see the face of Sergeant
Gellatly. Jen had just given a good-night, and the
horse the word and a touch of the spur at the instant.
Her face, that is, such of it as could be seen above the
cloak and under the cap, was full in the light. Enough
was seen, however, to call forth, in addition to Cor-
poral Gaina's good-night, the exclamation, — "Well,
I'm blowed ! "

As Jen vanished into the night a moment after,
she heard a voice calling — not Corporal Gaina's —
"Sergeant Gellatly, Sergeant Gellatly!" She sup-
posed it was Inspector Jules, but she would not turn
back now. Her work was done.

A half-hour later Corporal Galna confided to
Private Waugh that Sergeant Gellatly was too

too

PtF.RKi: AND HIS PEOPLE.

lid

I -

dainned pretty for the force — wonHercd if they called
him Beauty at Fort Desire — couldn't call him Pretty
Gellatly, for there was Pretty Pierre who had right of
possession to that title — would like to ask him what
soap he used for his complexion — 'twasn't this yellow
bar-soap of the barracks, that wouldn't lather, he'd bet
his ultimate dollar.

Waugh, who had sometime seen Sergeant Gellatly,
entered into a disputation on the point. He said that
"Sergeant Tom was good-lookincT, a regular Irish
thoroughbred ; but he wasn't pretty, not much ! —
guessed Corporal Galna had nightmare, and finally,
as the interest in the theme increased in fervour,
announced that Sergeant Tom could loosen the
teeth of, and knock the spots off, any man among the
Riders, from Archangel's Rise to the Cypress Hills.
Pretty 1 not much — thoroughbred all over ! "

And Corporal Galna replied, sarcastically, — " That
he might be able for spot dispersion of such a kind, but
he had two as pretty spots on his cheek, and as white
and touch-no-tobacco teeth as any female ever had.**
Private Waugh declared then that Corporal Galna
would be saying Sergeant Gellatly wasn't a man at all,
and wore earrings, and put his hair into papers ; and
when he could find no further enlargement of sarcasm,
consigned the Corporal to a fiery place of future
torment reserved for lunatics.

At this critical juncture Waugh was ordered to
proceed to Inspector Jules. A few minutes after, he
was riding away toward Soldier's Knee, with the
Inspector and another private, to capture Val Gal-
braith, the slayer of Snow Devil, while four other
troopers also started off in different directions.

6HB OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

101

IV.

<*>

It was SIX o'clock when Jen drew rein in the yard at

Galbraith's Place. Through the dank humours of the
darkest time of the night she had watched the first
grey streakr of dawn appear. She had caught her
breath with fear at the thought that, by some accident,
she might not get back before seven o'clock, the hour
when her father rose. She trembled also at the sup-
position of Sergeant Tom awaking and finding his
papers gone. But her fearful ness and excitement
was not that of weakness, rather that of a finely
nervous nature, having strong elements of imagina-
tion, and, therefore, great capacities for suffering as
for joy ; but yet elastic, vigorous, and possessing
unusual powers of endurance. Such natures rebuild
as fast as they are exhausted. In the devitalising
time preceding the dawn she had felt a sudden faint-
ness come over her for a moment ; but her will
surmounted it, and, when she saw the ruddy streaks
of pink and red glorify the horizon, she felt a sudden
exaltation of physical strength. She was a child of
the light, she loved the warm flame of the sun, the
white gleam of the moon.

Holding in her horse to give him a five minutes'
rest, she rose in her saddle and looked round. She
was alone in her circle of vision ; she and her horse.
The long hillocks of prairie rolled away like the sea
to the flushed morning, and the far-off Cypress Hills
broke the monotonous skyline of the south. Already
the air was dissipated of its choking weight, and the
vast solitude was filling with that sense of freedom

103

PIERRc AND HIS PEOPLE.

. ■■

which night seems to shut in as with four walls, and
day to gloriously widen. Tears sprang to her eyes
from a sudden rush of feeling ; but her lips were
smiling. The world was so different from what it
was yesterday. Soinetliing had quickened her into a
glow in <^ life.

Then she urged the horse on, and never halted till
she reached home. She unsaddled the animal that
had shared with her the hardship of the long, hard
ride ; hobbled it, and entered the house quickly. No
one was stirring. Sergeant Tom was still asleep.
This she saw, as she hurriedly passed in and laid the
cap and cloak where she had found them. Then,
once again, she touched the brow of the sleeper with
her lips, and went to her room to divest herself of
Val's clothes. The thing had been done without any-
one knowing of her absence. But she was frightened
as she looked into the mirror. She was haggard, and
her eyes were bloodshot. Eight hours or nearly in
the saddle, at ten miles an hour, had told on her
severely; as well it might. Even a prairie-born woman,
however, understands the art and use of grooming
better than a man. Warm water quickly heated at
the gas, with a little acetic acid in it, — used generally
for her scouring, — and then cold water with oatmeal
flour, took away in part the dulness and the lines in
the flesh. But the eyes ! Jen remembered the vial
of tincture of myrrh left by a young Englishman a
year ago, and used by him for refreshing his eyes
after a drinking bout. She got it, tried the tincture,
and saw and felt an immediate benefit. Then she
made a cup of strong green tea, and in ten minutes
was like herself aj-ain.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

103

Now for the horse. She went quickly out where
she could not be seen from the wimlows of the house,
and gave him a rubbin;^^ down till he was quite dry.
Then she gave him a little water and some feed. The
horse was really the touchstone of discovery. But
Jen trusted in her star. If the worst came she would
tell the talc. It must be told anyway to Sergeant
Tom — but that was different now. Even if the thing
became known it would only be a thing to be teased
about by her father and others, and she could stop
that. Poor girl ! as if that was the worst that was to
come from her act 1

Sergeant Tom slept deeply and soundly. He had
not stirred. His breathing was unnaturally heavy,
Jen thought, but no suspicion of foul play came to
her mind yet. Why should it? She gave herself up
to a sweet and simple sense of pride in the deed she
had done for him, disturbed but slightly by the
chances of discovery, and the remembrance of the
match that showed her face at Archangel's Rise.
Her hands touched the flaxen hair of the soldier, and
her eyes grew luminous. One night had stirred all
her soul to its depths. A new woman had been bom
in her. Val was dear to her — her brother Val ;
but she realised now that another had come who
would occupy a place that neither father, nor brother,
nor any other, could fill. Yet it was a most weird set
of tragic circumstances. This man Ipefore her had
been set to do a task which might deprive her brother
of his life, certainly of his freedom ; that would disgrace
him ; her father had done a great wrong too, had put
in danger th*- life of the man she loved, to save his
son she herscll in doing this deed lor her lover had

}

T04

PIERRE AND lilS PEOPLE.

I; i

lii

placed her brother in jcc^parcly, had crossed swords
with her father's purposes, iia 1 done the one thing
that stood between that father's son and safety ;
Pretty Pierre, whom she hated and despised, and
thought to be the enemy of her brother and of her
home, had proved himself a friend ; and belli nd it all
was the brother's crime committed to avenge an in-
sult to her name.

But such is life. Men and women are unwittini^ly
their own executioners, and the executioners of those
they love;

An hour passed, and then Galbraith and Pierre
appeared. Jen noticed that her father went over to
Sergeant Tom and rather anxiously felt his pulse.
Once in the night the old man had come down and
done the same thing. Pierre said something in an
undertone. Did they think he was ill ? That was
Jen's thought. She watched them closely ; but the
half-breed knew that she was watching, and the two
said nothing more to each other. But Pierre said, in
a careless way : "It is good he have that sleep. He
was played out, quite."

Jen replied, a secret triumph at her heart: "But
what about his orders, the papers he was to carry to
Archangel's Rise ? What about his being back at
Fort Desire in the time given him ?"

" It is not much matter about the papers. The
poor devil that Inspector Jules would arrest — well, he
will get off, perhaps, but that does no one harm. Eh,
Galbraith? The law is sometimes unkind. And as ,
for obeying orders, why, the prairie is wide, it is a hard

SHE OF THE TKiri.' CHEVRON.

T05

ride, horses go wronpj ; — a little tale of trouble to In-
spector Jules, another at Fort Desire, and who is to
know except Pete Galbraith, Jen Galbrailh, and
Pierre? Poor Sergeant Tom, It was ^ood he sleep

so."

Jen felt there was iron)' bdiind the smooth words
of the gambler. Me had a habit of saying things, as
they express it in that coimtr\', between his teeth.
That signifies what is animal-like and cruel. Gal-
braith stood silent during Pierre's remarks, but, when
he had finished, said :

"Yes, it's all right if he doesn't sleep too long ; but
there's the trouble — too Uniii ! "

Pierre frowned a warning, and then added, with un-
concern : " I remember when y^u sleep thirty hours,
Galbraith — after the prairie fire, three years ago,
Ehl"

" Well, that's so ; that's so as you say it. We'll let
him sleep till noon, or longer — or longer, won't we,
Pierre ? "

" Yes, till noon is good, or longer."

" But he shall not sleep longer if I can wake him,"
said Jen. "You do not think of the trouble all this
sleeping may make for him."

" But then — but then, there is the trouble he will
make for others, if he wakes. Think. A poor devil
trying to escape the law!"

" But we have nothing to do with that, and justice
is justice, Pierre."

" Eh, well, perhaps, perhaps."

Galbraith was silent.

Jen felt that so far as Sergeant Tom's papers were
concerned he was safe ; but she felt also that by noon

io6

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

he ought to be on his way back to Fort Desire — after
she had told him what she had done. She was anxious
for his honour. That her lover shall appear well be-
fore the world, is a thing deep in the heart of every
woman. It is a pride for which she will deny herself,
even of the presence of that lover.

" Till noon," Jen said, " and then he must go."

VI.

:!. !

I' ^

1 <

1 f

Jen watched to see if her father or Pierre would
notice that the horse was changed, had been travelled
during the night, or that it was a different one al-
together. As the morning wore away she saw that
they did not notice the fact. This ignorance was per-
haps owing largely to the appearance of several ranch-
men from near the American border. They spent
their time in the bar-room, and when they left it was
nearly noon. Still Sergeant Tom slept. Jen now
went to him and tried to wake him. She lifted him
to a sitting position, but his head fell on her shoulder.
Disheartened, she laid him down again. But now at
last an undefined suspicion began to take possession
of iier. It made her uneasy ; it filled her with a vague
sense of alarm. Was this sleep natural ? She re-
membered that, when her father and others had slept
so long after the prairie fire, she had waked them once
to give them drink and a little food, and they did not
breathe so heavily as he was doing. Yet what could
be done? What was the matter? There was not a
doctor nearer than a hundred miles. She thought of
bleeding, — ^thc old-fashioned remedy still used on the

.y^

;^«.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

107

prairies — but she decided to wait a little. Somehow
she felt that she would receive no help from her
father or Pierre. Had they anythin^r to do with this
sleep ? Was it connected with the papers ? No, not
that, for they had not souglit to take them, and had
not made any remark about their being gone. This
showed their unconcern on that point. She could not
fathom the mystery, but the suspicion of something
irregular deepened. Her father could have no reason
for injuring Sergeant Tom ; but Pretty Pierre — that
was another matter ! Yet she remembered too that
her father had appeared the more anxious of the two
about the Sergeant's sleep. She recalled that he said :
" Yes, it's all right, if he doesn't sleep too long."

But Pierre could play a part, she knew, and could
involve others in trouble, and escape himself. He was
a man with a reputation for occasional wickednesses of
a naked, decided type. She knew that he was pos-
sessed of a devil, of a very reserved devil, but liable to
bold action on occasions. She knew that he valued
the chances of life or death no more than he valued
the thousand and one other chances of small im-
portance, which occur in daily experience. It was his
creed that one doesn't go till the game is done and all
the cards are played. He had a stoic indifference to
events.

He might be capable of poisoning — poisoning ! ah,
that thought ! of poisoning Sergeant Tom for some
cause — but her father ? The two seemed to act alike
in the matter. Could her father approve of any harm
happening to Tom ? She thought of the meal he had
eaten, of the coffee he had drunk — the coffee I Was
that the key ? But she said to herself that she was

I08

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

fl !|

Mi '*

foolish, that her love had made her sa No, it could
not be.

But a fear grew upon her, strive as she would
against it. She waited silently and watched, and
twice or thrice made ineffectual efforts to rouse him.
Her father came in once. He showed anxiety ; that
was unmistakable, but was it the anxiety of guilt of
any kind ? She said nothing. At five o'clock matters
abruptly came to a climax. Jen was in the kitchen,
but, hearing footsteps in the sitting-room, she opened
the door quietly. Her father was bending over Ser-
geant Tom, and Pierre was speaking : " No, no, Gal-
braith, it is all right You are a fool. It could not
kill him."

"Kill him — ^iU him," she repeated gaspingly to
herself

"You see he was exhausted; he may sleep for
hours yet. Yes, he is safe, I think."

" But Jen, she suspects something, she — **

** Hush ! " said Pretty Pierre. He saw her standing
near. She had glided forward and stood with flash-
ing eyes turned, now upon the one, and now upon
the other. Finally they rested on Galbraith.

"Tell me what you have done to him; what you
and Pretty Pierre have done to him. You have some
secret. I will know." She leaned forward, something
of the tigress in the poise of her body. " I tell you,
I will know." Her voice was low, and vibrated with
fierceness and determination. Her eyes glowed like
two stars, and her fine nostrils trembled with disdain
and indignation. As they drew back, — the old man
sullenly, the gambler with a slight gesture of im-
patience, — she came a step nearer to them and waited.

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CTTEVKON.

100

Upon

man

«!»

the cords of her shapely tliroat swelling with excite-
ment. A moment so, and then she said in a tone
that su<^f^ested menace, determinatif)n :

*' You have poisoned him. Tell mc the truth. Do
you hear, father — the truth, or I will hate you. I will
make you repent it till you die."

" Hut—" Pierre began.

She interrupted him. " Do not speak, Pretty
Pierre. You are a devil. You will lie. Father — 1"
She waited.

" What difference does it make to you, Jen ?"

" What difference — what difference to me ? That
you should be a murderer ? "

" But that is not so, that is a dream of yours,
Jen Galbraith," s lid Pierre.

She turned to her father aj^ain. ** Father, will you
tell the truth to me ? I warn you it will be better for
you both."

The old man's brow was sullen, and his lips were
twitching nervously. ** You care more for him than
you do for your own flesh and blood, Jen. There's
nothing to get mad about like that. I'll tell you
when he's gone. . . . Let's — let's wake him," he added,
nervously.

He stooped down and lifted the sleeping man to a
sitting posture. Pierre assisted him.

Jen saw that the half-breed believed Sergeant Tom
could be wakened, and her fear diminished slightly, if
her indignation did not. 1 hey lifted the soldier to
his feet. Pierre pressed the point of a pin deep into
his arm. Jen started forward, woman-like, to check
the action, but drew back, for she saw heroic measures
might be necessary to bring him to consciousness.

PIKRRE AND HIS PEOPFR.

■\l\

I '-

I :i

Hut, nevertheless, her an^er bmkc bounds, and she
said: "Cowards — cow.uds ! Wh.it spite made you
do this?"

" Damration, ]cuj' said the fatluT, " you'll hector me
till I maki.* you sorry. What's this Irish poh'ceman
to you ? What's he beside your own flesh and blood,
I say n^ain."

"Why (IOCS my own flesh and blood do such
wicked tricks to an Irish soldier f Why does it give
poison to an Irish s tidier ? "

" Poison, Jen ? You needn't speak so f^host-like.
It was onh' a dose of laudanum ; not enough to kill
him. Ask Picne."

Inwardly she believed him, and said a Thank-God
to herself, but to the half-breed she remarked : " Yes,
ask Pierre! — you are behind all this. It is some
evil scheme of yours. Why did you do it? Tell the
truth for once." Her eyes swam anf;ril\- with Pierre's.

Pierre was complacent ; he admired her wild at-
tacks. He smiled, and replied : *' My dear, it was a
whim of mine ; but you need not tell hiin, all the
same, when he wakes. You see this is your father's
house, though the whim is mine. But look : he is
waking — the pin is good. Some cold water, quick!"

The cold water was broucrht and dashed into the
face of the soldier. He showed signs of returning
consciousness. The effect of the laudanum had been
intensified by the ^^horoughly exhausted condition of
the body. But the man was perfectly healthy, and
this helped to resist the danger of a fatal result.

Pierre kept up an intermittent speech. '* Yes, it
was a mere whim of mine. Eh, he will think he has
been an ass to sleep so long, and on duty, and orders

SlIK OF THK TKII'IK r|{F.VI<0\.

1 I I

to rnr\ to Archanj^cl's Rise! " More he showed liis
teeth ai^ain, white atul re^uilar Hke a (lo;^'s. That
was the impression they pjavc, his lips were so red,
and the contrast was so <Treat. One ahnost expected
to find that the roof of his mouth was bhick, hke that
of a well-bred hound ; but there is no evidence avail-
able on the point.

"There, that is good." he said. "Now set him
down, Pete Galbraitlu Yes — so, so* Scrp^eant Tom!
Ah, you will wake well, soon. Now the eyes a little
wider. Good. Eli, Sergeant Tom, what is the
matter? It is breakfast time — quite."

Sergeant Tom's eyes opened slowly and looked
dazedly before him for a minute. Then they fell on
Pierre. At first there was no recognition, then they
became consciously clearer. He said, " Pretty Pierre,
you here in the barracks ! " He put his hand to his
head, then rubbed his eyes roughly and looked up
again. This time he saw Jen and her father. His
bewilderment increased. Then he added : "What is the
matter ? Have I been asleep ? What — ! " He re-
membered. He staggered to his feet and felt his
pockets quickly and anxiously for his letter. It was
gone.

" The letter ! " he said. " My orders ! Who has
robbed me? Faith, I remember. I could not keep
awake after I drank the coffee. My papers are gone,
I tell you, Galbraith ! ' he said, fiercely.

Then he turned to Jen : "You are not in this, Jen.
Tell me."

She was silent for a moment, then was about to
answer, when he turned to the j^ambler and said :
" You are at the bottom of this. Give me my papers."

%■

^ I

I' '

ill

lit

I !

tiJ

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

But Pierre and Galbraith were as dumfounded as
the Sergeant himself to know that the letter was
gone. They were stunned beyond speech when Jen
said, flushing : " No, Sergeant Tom, / am the thief.
When I could not wake you, I took the letter from
your pocket and carried it to Inspector Jules last
night, — or, rather, Sergeant Gellatly carried them. I
wore his cap and cloak and passed for him.*'

*' You carried that letter to Inspector Jules last
night, Jen?" said the soldier, all his heart in his
voice.

Jen saw her father blanch, his mouth open blankly,
and his lips refuse to utter the words on them.
For the first time she comprehended some danger to
him, to herself — to Val ! " Father, father," she said, —
"what is it?"

Pierre shrugged his shoulders and rejoined : " Eh,
the devil ! Such mistakes of women. They are fools
—all."

The old man put out a shaking hand and caught
his daughter's arm. His look was of mingled wonder
and despair, as he said, in a gasping whisper : " You
carried that letter to Archangel's Rise?"

" Yes," she answered, faltering now ; " Sergeant
Tom had said how important it was, you remember.
That it was his duty to take it to Inspector Jules, and
be back within forty-eight hours. He fell asleep. I
could not wake him. I thought, what if he were my
brother — our Val. So, when you and Pretty Pierre
went to bed, I put on Val's clothes, took Sergeant
Tom's cloak and hat, carried the orders to Jules,
and was back here by six o'clock this morning."

Sergeant Tom's eyes told his tale of gratitude.

led as

r was
n Jen
thief,
r from
s last
:m. I

IS last
in his

ankly,

them.

ger to

said, —

i " Eh.
fools

:aught

vondet

"You

rgeant
2mber.
is, and
ep. I
re my
Pierre
rgeant
Jules,

titude.

SUE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

He made a step towards her ; but the old man, with
a strange ferocity, motioned him back, saying :

" Go away from this house. Go quick. Go now, I
tell you, or by God, — I'll — "

Here Pretty Pierre touched his arm.

Sergeant Tom drew back, not because he feared,
but as if to get a mental perspective of the situation.

Galbraith again said to his daughter: "Jen, you
carried them papers ? You ! for him — for the Law!"
Then he turned from her, and with hand clenched
and teeth set spoke to the soldier : " Haven't you
heard enough ? Curse you ! why don't you go ? "

Sergeant Tom replied coolly : " Not so fast, Gal-
braith. There's some mystery in all this. There's
my sleep to be accounted for yet. You had some
reason, some" — he caught the eyes of Pierre. He
paused. A light began to dawn on his mind, and he
looked at Jen, who stood rigidly pale, her eyes fixed
fearfully, anxiously, upon him. She too was beginning
to frame in her mind a possible horror ; the thing
that had so changed her father, the cause for drugging
the soldier. There was a silence in which Pierre first,
and then all, detected the sound of horses* hoofs.
Pierre went to the door and look d out. He turned
round a^^ain, and shruc;rcd his shoulders with an ex-
pressioii of helplessness. But as he saw Jen was
about to speak, and Sergeant Tom to move towards
the door, he put up his hand to stay them both, and
said : "A little— wait !"

Then all were silent. Jen's fingers nervously
clasped and unclasped, and her eyes v/cre strained
towards the door. Sergeant Tom stood watching
her pityingly ; the old m^n's head was bowed. The

I: I

114

PIKKKE AND HIS PEOPLE.

sound of galloping grew plainer. It stopped. An
instant and then three horsemen appeared before the
door. One was Inspector Jules, one was Private
Waugh, and the other between them wa^ -let Jen
tell who he was. With an a^^onised cry she rushed
from the house and threw herself against the saddle,
and with her arms about the prisoner, cried :

" Oh, Val, Val, it was you. It was you they were
after. It was you that — oh no, no, no! My poor
Val, and I can't tell you — I can't tell you I "

Great as was her grief and self reproach, she felt it
would be cruel to tell him the part she had taken in
placing him in this position. She hated herself, but
why deepen his misery? His face was pale, but it
had its old, open, fearless look, which dissipation had
not greatly marred. His eyelids quivered, but he
smiled, and touching her with his steel-bound hands,
gently said :

" Never mind, Jen. It isn't so bad. You see it
was this way : Snow Devil said something about some
one that belonged to me, that cares more about me
than I deserve. Welly he died sudden, end I was there
at the time. That's all. I was trying with the help
of Pretty Pierre to get out of the country" — and he
waved his hand towards the half-breed.

" With Pretty Pierre— Pierre ? " she said.

"Yes, he isn't all gambler. But they were too
quick for me, and here I am. Jules is a hustler on
the march. But he said he'd stop here and let me
see you and dad as we go up to Fort Desire, and —
there, don't mind, Sis — don't mind it so ! "

Her sobs had ceased, but she clung to him as if she
could never let him ga Her father stood near her,

» *■

'*\

SHE OF THE TKII'LE CHEVRON.

115

e the
ivate
: Jen
ished
iddle,

were
poor

felt it
<en in
If, but
but it
)n had
iut he
pands,

see it
some

ut me
there

I help

.nd he

re too
ler on
et me
and —

if she
ar her,

all the lines in his face derprncil into hittprncss. To
him Val s;iid : " Whv, ^a^X, what's the matter? Your
hand is shaky. Don't you i,at this tiling' catin' at
your heart. It isn't worth it. That Injin woiikl iiave
died if you'd been in my place, I ?.aicss. Hetween you
and me, I expect to pjive Jules the slip before we get
there." And he laughed at the Ins[)cc:to!-, wiio laughed
a little austerely too, and in his heart wished that it was
anyone else he had as a prisoner than Val Galbraith,
who was a favourite with the Riders of the Plains.

Sergeant Tom had been standing in the doorway
regardmg this scene, and working out in his mind the
complications that had led to it. At this point he
came forward, and Inspector Jules said to him, after a
curt salutation :

" You were in a hurry last night, Sergeant Gellatly.
You don't seem so pushed for time now. Usual
thing. When a man seems over-zealous — drink, cards,
or women behind it. But your taste is good, even if,
under present circumstances " — He stopped, for he
saw a threatening look in the eyes of the other, and
that other said: "We won't discuss that matter, In-
spector, if you please. I'm going on to Fort Desire now.
I couldn't have seen you if I'd wanted to last night."

" That's nonsense. If you had waited one minute
longer at the barracks you could have dcnie so. I
called to you as you were leaving, but you didn't turn
back."

" No. I didn't hear vou.'*

All were listening to this conversation, and none
more curiously than Private W'augh. Many a time in
days to come he pictured the scene for the benefit of
his comrades. Pretty Pierre, leaning against the hitch-

116

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

ing-post nr.ir the bar-room, said languidly : * But,
Inspector, he speaks the truth — quite : that is a virtue
of the Riders of the Plains." Val had his eyes on the
half-breed, and a look of understanding passed be-
tween them. While Val and his lather and sister
were sayings their farewells in few words, but with
homely demonstrations, Sergeant Tom brought his
horse round and mounted it. Inspector Jules gave
the word to move on. As they started, Gellatly,
who fell behind the others slightly, leaned down and
whispered : " Forgive me, Jen. You did a noble act
for me, and the life of me would prove to you that I'm
grateful. It's sorry, sorry I am. But I'll do what I can
for Val, as sure as the heart's in me. Good-bye, Jen."

She looked up with a faint hope in her eyes.
"Good-bye!" she said. " I believe you . . . Good-bye!"

In a few minutes there was only a cloud of dust on
the prairie to tell where the Law and its quarry were.
And of those left behind, one was a broken-spirited
old man with sorrow melting away the sinister look
in his face ; one, a girl hovering between the tempest
of bitterness and a storm of self-reproach ; and one a
half-breed gambler, who again sat on the bar-counter
smoking a cigarette and singing to himself, as
indolently as if he were not in the presence of a
painful drama of life, perhaps a tragedy. But was
the song so pointless to the occasion, after all? and
was the man so abstracted and indifferent as he
seemed ? For thus the song ran :

** Oh, the bird in a cage and the bird on a tree—
VoilA ! 'tis a different fear !
The maiden weeps and she bends the knee—
Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hear !

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

But the bird in a cage has a friend in the tree,
Anil the maiden she dries her tear :

And the niglit is dark and no moon you see —
Oh, the sweet S.iint Gabrielle hear I

When the doors are open tlie bird is free—
Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hearl"

VII.

These words kept ring^inq- in Jen's ears as she stood
again in the doorway that ni<;'nt with her face turned
to the beacon. How different it seemed now 1 When
she saw it last night it was a cheerful spirit of light
— a something suggesting comfort, companionship,
aspiration, a friend to the traveller, and a mysterious,
but delightful, association. In the morning when she
returned from that fortunate, yet most unfortunate;
ride, it was still burning, but its warm flame was
exhausted in the glow of the life-giving sun ; the
dream and delight of the night robbed of its glamour
by the garish morning; like her own body, its task
done, sinking before the unrelieved scrutiny of the
day. To-night it burned with a different radiance.
It came in fiery palpitations from the earth. It made
a sound that was now like the moan of pine trees,
now like the rumble of far-off artillery. The slight
wind that blew spread the topmost crest of flame into
strands of rudJy hair, and, looking at it, Jen saw her-
self rocked to and fro by tumultuous emotions, yet
fuller of strength and larger of life than ever she had
been. Her hot veins beat with determination, with a
love which she drove back by another, cherished now
more than it had ever been, because danger threatened
the boy to whom she had been as a mother. In

I' <

ii8

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

twenty-four hours she had grown to the full stature of
love and suffcrin;^.

There were shadows that betrayed less roundness
to her face; there were lines that told of weariness ;
but in her eyes there was a i^lowin^^ I'G^l^t of hope.
She raised her face to the stars and unco^isciously
;)ara})hrasinf3[ Pierre's song said; " Oh, the God that
dost save us, hoar ! "

A hand touched her arm, and a voice said, huskily :
"Jen, I wanted to save him and — and not let you
know of it ; that's all. You're not kecpin' a grudge
a^:jin rne, my ^^irl ?"

She did not move nor turn her head. " I've no
p;rud^e, father; but — if — if you had told me, 'twouldn't
be on my mini that I had made it worse for Val."

The kindness in the voice reassured him, and he
ventured to say : " I didn't think you'd be carin' for
one of the Riders of the Plains, Jen."

Then the old man trembled lest she should resent
his words. She seemed abou 'o do so, but the flush
faded from her brow, and sne said, simply : * I care
for Val most — father. But he didn't know he was
getting Val into trouble."

She suddenly quivered as a wave of emotion passed
through her; and she said, with a sob in her voice:
" Oh, it's all scrub country, father, and no paths, and —
and I wish I had a mother ! "

The old man sat clown in the doorway and bowed
his gray head in his arms. Then, after a moment, he
whispered :

" She's been dead twenty-two years, Jen. The
day Val was born she went away. I'd a-been a
better man if she'd a-lived, Jen ; and a better father."

-k

SHL OK THK TKirLL CHEVRON.

119

■\

This was an unusual demonstration between these
two. She watched him sadly lor a moment, and
then, Icanin^T over antl touciiiii<j him gently on the
shoulder, said : " It's worse for you than it is for me,
father. Don t feel so bad. Perhaps we shall save
him yet."

He caught a gleam of hope in her words : " Mcbbe,
Jen, melbe ! ** and he raised his face to the light.

This ritual of affection was crude and unadorned ;
but it was real. They sat there for half-an-hour,
silent. Then a figure came out of the shadows behind
the house and stood before them. It was Pierre.

*' I go to-morrow morning, Galbraith/' he said.

The old man nodded, but did not reply.

" I go to Fort Desire," the gambler added.

Jen faced him. " What do you go there for, Pretty
Pierre ? "

" It is my whim. Besides, there is Val. He might
want a horse some dark night."

" Pierre, do you mean that ? "

" As much as Sergeant Tom means what he says.
Every man has his friends. Pretty Pierre has a fancy
for Val Galbraith — a little. It suits him to go to
Fort Desire. Jen Galbraith, you made a grand ride
last night. You did a bold thing — all fcr a man.
We shall see what he will do for \ou. And if he does
nothing — ah I you can trust the tongue of Pretty
Pierre. He will wish he could die, instead of — Eh,
dien, good-night I "

He moved away. Jen followed him. She held
out her hand. It was the first time she had ever
done so with this man.

" I believe you," she said. " I believe that you

■

^:^.

I '

120

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

mean well to our Val. I am sorry that I called you
a devil."

He smiled. " Jen Galbraith, that is nothing. You
spoke true. But devils have their friends — and their
whims. So you see, ^ood-night."

"Mcbbe it will come out all right, Jen — mebbel**
said the old man.

But Jen did not reply. She was thinking hard,
her eyes upon the Prairie Star. Living life to the hilt
greatly illumines the outlook of the mind. She was
beginning to understand that evil is not absolute, and
that good is often an occasion more than a condition.

There was a long silence again. At last the old
man rose to go and reduce the volume of flame for
the night; but Jen stopped him. " No, father, let it
burn all it can to-night. It's comforting."

" Mebbe so — mcbbe ! " he said.

A faint refrain came to them from within the

house :

'* When doors are open the bird is free—
Oh, the sweet Saint Gabiielle hear I '*

4 i

VIII.

It was a lovely morning. The prairie billowed away
endlessly to the south, and heaved away in vastness
to the north ; and the fresh, sharp air sent the blood
beating through the veins. In the bar-room some
early traveller was talking to Peter Galbraith. A
wandering band of Indians was camped about a mile
away, the only sign of humanity in the waste. Jen
sat in the doorway cullin^:]^ dried apples. Though
tragedies occur in lives of the humble, they must still

ed you

. You
d their

ebbe ! "

J hard,
the hilt
he was
te, and
idition.
:he old
ime for
-, let it

ia the

I away

istness
blood
some
th. A
a mile
. Jen
houg^h
St still

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

121

do the dull and ordinary task. They cannot stop to
cherish morbidness, to feed upon their sorrow ; they
must care for themselves and labour for others. And
well is it for them that it is so.

The Indian camp brings unpleasant memories to
Jen's mind. She knows it belongs to old S-m-in-the-
North, and that he will not come to see her now, nor
could she, or would she, go to him. Between her
and that race there can never again be kindly com-
munion. And now she sees, for the first time, two
horsemen riding slowly in the track from Fort Desire
towards Galbraith's Place. She notices that one sits
upright, and one seems leaning forward on his horse's
neck. Slie shades her eyes with her hand, but she
cannot distinguish who they are. But she has seen
men tied to their horses ride as that man is riding,
when stricken with fever, bruised by falling timber,
lacerated by a grizzly, wounded by a bullet, or crushed
by a herd of buffaloes. She remeiubcrcd at that mo-
ment the time that a horse had struck Val with its
forefeet, and torn the flesh from his chest, and how
he had been brought home tied to a broncho's back.

The thought of this drove her into the house, to
have Val's bed prepared for the sufferer, whoever he
was. Almost unconsciously she put on the little table
beside the bed a bunch of everlasting prairie flowers,
and shaded the light to the point of quiet and comfort.

Then she went outsiJe again. The travellers now
were not far away. She recognised the upright rider.
It was Pretty Pierre. The other — she could not tell.
She called to her father. Siie had a fear which she
did not care to face alone. " See ! see ! father," she
said, — " Pretty Pierre and— and can it be Val ? " For

122

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

; t

the moment she seemed unable to stir. But the old
man shook his head, and said : " No, Jen, it can't be.
It isn't Val."

Then another thought possessed her. Her lips
trembled, and, throwing her head back as does a deer
when it starts to shake off its pursuers by flight, she ran
swiftly towards the riders. The traveller standing
beside Galbraith said : " That man is hurt, wounded
probably. I didn't expect to have a patient in the
middle of the plains. I'm a doctor. Perhaps I .an
be of use here ? "

When a hundred yards away Jen recognised the
recumbent rider. A thousand thoughts flashed
through her brain. What had happened ? Why
was he dressed 'n civilian's clothes ? A moment, and
she was at his horse's head. Another, and her warm
hand clasped the pale, moist, and wrinkled one which
hung by the horse's neck. His coat at the shoulder
was stained with blood, and there was a handkerchief
about his head. This — this was Sergeant Tom Gel-
latly !

She looked up at Pierre, an agony of inquiry in her
eyes, and pointing mutely to the wounded man.
Pierre spoke with a tone of seriousness not common
to his voice : '* You see, Jen Galbraith, it was brave.
Sergeant Tom one day resigns the Mounted Police.
He leaves the Riders of the Plains. That is not easy
to understand, lor he is in much favour with the
officers. But he buys himself out, and there is the
end of the Sergeant and his triple chevron. That
is one day. Tliat night, two men on a ferry are
crossing the Saskatchewan at Fort Desire. They are
fired at from the shore behind. One man is hit twice.

J .1

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

123

he old
n't be.

Jr lips
a deer
he ran
inding
unded
n the
I ,an

;d the
ashed

Why
t, and
warm
ivhich
>ulder
rchief

Gel-

n her

man.

tmon

rave.

)lice.

easy

the

the
rhat

are

are
^ice.

But they get across, cut the ferry loose, mount horses,
and ri(ie away together. The man that was hit —
yes, Sergeant Tom. The other that was not hit was
Val Galbraith."

Jen gave a cry of mingled joy and pain, and said,
with Tom Gellatly's cold hand clasped to her bosom :
" Val, our Val, is free, is safe."

" Yes, Val is free ana safe — quite. The Riders of
the Plains could not crDss the river. It was too high.
And so Tom Gellatly and Val got away. Val rides
straight for the American border, and the other
rides here."

They were now near the house, but Jen said, eagerly:
"Goon. Tell me all."

" I knew what had happened soon, and I rode away,
too, and last night I found Tom Gellatly lying beside
his horse on the prairie. I have brought him here to
you. You two are even now, Jen Galbraith."

They were at the tavern door. The traveller and
Pierre lifted down the wounded and unconscious man,
and brought him and laid him on Val Galbraith's
bed. The traveller examined the wounds in the
shoulder and the head, and said : " The head is all
right. If I can get the bullet out of the shoulder
he'll be safe enough — in time."

The surgery was skilful but rude, for proper instru
ments were not at hand ; and in a few hours he,
whom we shall still call SeiL^eant Tom, lay quietly
sleeping, the horrible pallor gone from his face and
the feeling of death from his hand.

It was near midnight when he waked. Jen was
sitting beside him. He looked nund and saw her.
Her face was touehed with the light that shone from

124

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

; 1

the Prairie Star. "Jen," he said, and held out his
hand.

She turned from the window and stood beside his
bed. She took his outstretched hand. " You are
better, Sergeant Tom ? " she said, gently.

" Yes, I'm better ; but it's not Sergeant Tom I am
any longer, Jen."

" I forgot that."

** I owed you a great debt, Jen. I couldn't remain
one of the Riders of the Plains and try to pay it. I
left them. Then I tried to save Val, and I did. I
knew how to do it without getting anyone else into
trouble. It is well to know the trick of a lock and
the hour that guard is changed. I had left, but I re-
lieved guard that night just the same. It was a new
man on watch. It's only a minute I had ; for the
regular relief watch was almost at my heels. I got
Val out just in time. They discovered us, and we
had a run for it. Pretty Pierre has told you. That's
right. Val is safe now — "

She said in a low strained voice, interrupting him :
** Did Val leave you wounded so on the prairie ? "

" Don't let that ate at your heart. No, he didn't
I hurried him off, and he didn't know how badly I
was hit. But I — I've paid my debt, haven't I, Jen?"

With eyes that could not see for tears, she touched
pityingly, lovingly, the wounds on his head and
shoulder, and said : " These pay a greater debt than
you ever owed me. You risked your life for me — ^yes,
for me I You have given up everything to do it I
can't pay you the great difference. No, never !"

" Yes — yes, you can, if you will, Jen. It's as aisy I
If you'll say what I say, I'll give you quit of that
difference, as you call it, forever and ever."

■

r I i

SHE OF THE TRIPLE CHEVRON.

125

** First, tell me. Is Val quite, quite safe?**

" Yes, Jen, he's safe over the border by this time ;
and to tell you the truth, the Riders of the Plains
wouldn't be dyin' to arrest him again if he was in
Canada, which he isn't. It's little they wanted to fire
at us, I know, when we were crossin' the river, but it
had to be done, you see, and us within sight. Will
you say what I ask you, Jen ? "

She did not sp^ak, but pressed his hand ever so
slightly.

" Tom Gellatly, I promise,** he said.

" Tom Gellatly, I promise — "

" To give you as much — "

"Love—"'

There was a pause, and then she falteringly said,
** Love—"

"As you give to me — "

" As you give to me — "

" And I'll take you poor as you are — "

" To be my husband as long as you live — **

** To be my husband as long as you live — *

"So help me, God."

" So help me, God."

She stooped with dropping tears, and he kissed her
once. Then what was girl in her timidly drew back,
while what was woman in her, and therefore maternal,
yearned over the sufferer.

They had not seen the figure of an old man at the
do>Y. They did not hear him enter. They only
knew of Peter Galbraith's presence when he said :
" Mebbe — mebbe I might say Amen 1 '*

Zhvcc ®ntlaw0.

i '

The missionary at Fort Anne of the H. B. C. was vio-
lently in earnest. Before he piously followed the
latest and most amp!}* endov/ed batch of settlers, who
had in turn preceded the new railway to the Fort, the
word scandal had no place in the vocabu'ary of the
citizens. The H. B.C. had never imf.orted it into the
Chinook language, the common meeting-ground of all
the tribes of the North ; and the British men and
native-born, who made the Fort their home, or place
of sojourn, had never found need for its use. Justice
was so quickly distributed, men were so open in their
conduct, good and bad, that none looked askance, nor
put their actions in ambush, nor studied innuendo
But this was not according to the new dispensation :
that is, the dispensation which shrewdly followed the
settlers, who as shrewdly preceded the railway. And
the dispensation and the missionary were known also
as the Reverend Ezra Ijadgley, who, on his own
declaration, in times past had "s. call " to preach, and
in the far East had served as local preacher, then
probationer, then went on circuit, and now was
missionary in a district of which the choice did credit
to his astuteness, and gave abundant room for his
piety and holy rage against the Philistines. He loved
a word for righteous mouthing, and in a moment of

inspiration pagan and scandal came to him. Upon

126

THREE OUTLAWS.

127

these two words he stamped, through them he per-
spired mightily, and with them he clenched his stubby
fingers : such fingers as dug trenches, or snatched
lewdly at soft flesh, in days of barbarian battle. To
him all men were Pagans who loved not the sound of
his voice, nor wrestled with him in prayer before the
Lord, nor fed him with rich food, nor gave him much
strong green tea to drink. But these men were of
opaque stuff, and were not dismayed, and they called
him St. Anthony, and with a prophetic and deadly
paiicnce waited. The time came when the missionary
shook his denouncing finger mostly at Pretty Pierre,
who carefully nursed his silent wrath until the
occasion should arrive for a delicate revenge which
hath its hour with every man, if, hating, he knows how
to bide the will of Fate.

The hour came. A girl had been found dying on
the roadside beyond the Fort by the drunken doctor
of the place and Pierre. Pierre was with her when
she died.

" An' who's to bury her, the poor colleen ? " sai
Shon McGann afterwards.

Pierre musingly replied : " She is a Protestant
There is but one man."

After many pertinent and vigorous remarks, Shon
added : " A Pagan is it he calls you, Pierre : you
that's had the holy water on y'r forehead, and the
cross on the water, and that knows the book o' the
Mass like the cards in a pack ? Sinner y' are, and so
are we all, God save us ! say I ; and weavin' the stripes
for our backs He may be, and little I'd think of Him
failin' in that : but Pagan ! — faith, it's black should
be the white of the eyes of that preachin' sneak

128

PIERRE AND HIS I'EOI'LK.

■'i:

' !

m 1 1

and a rattle of teeth in his throat— divils go round
me!"

The half-breed, still musing, replied : " An eye for
an eye, and a tooth tor a tooth — is that it, Shon ? "

" Nivir a word truer by song or by book, and stand
by the text, say I. For Papist I am, and Papist are
you ; and the imps from below in y'r finders whin
poker is the [;aine ; and outlaws as they call us both
— you for what it doesn't concern rne, and I for a wild
night in ould Donegal ; — but Pagan I Wurra I whin
shall it be, Pierre ? "

"When shall it be?"

" True for you. The teeth in his throat and a lump
to his eye, and what more be the will o* God.
Fightin' there'll be, av coorse ; but by you Pll stand,
and sorra inch will I give, if they'll do it with sticks
or with guns, and not with the blisterin' tongue that's
lied of me and me frinds — for frind I call you,
Pierre, that loved me little in days gone by. And
proud I am not of you, nor you of me; but we've
tasted the bitter of avil days together, and divils sur-
round me, if I don't go down with you or come up
with you, whichever it be ! I'or there's dirt, as I say
on their tongues, and over their shoulder they look at
you, and not with an eye full front."

Pierre was cool, even pensive. His lips parted
slightly once or twice^ and showed a row of white,
malicious teeth. For the rest, he looked as if he were
pc'litely interested but not moved by the excitement
of the other. Me slowly rolled a cigarette and re-
plied : " He says it is a scandal that I live at Fort
Anne. Well, I was here before he came, and I shall
be here aiter he goes — yes. A scandal — Tsh I what

THREE OUTLAWS.

129

gfo round

An eye for
Shon ? "
s and stand
i Papist are
"^crs whin
all us both
r for a wild
urra I whin

nd a lump
J o* God.
I'll stand,
vith sticks
^^ue that's
call you,
3y. And
)ut we've
ivils sur-
come up
as I say
' iook at

parted
»f Wiiite,
he were
itement
and re-
at Fort
I shall
I vviiat

is that ? You know the word Raca of the Book ?
Well, there shall be more Raca soon — perhaps. No,
there shall not bcfi<;hting as you think, Shon ; but — "
here Pierre rose, came over, and spread his fingers
lii;htly on Shon's breast — " but this thing is between
this man and me, Shon McGann, and you shall see a
great matter. Perhaps there will be blood, perhaps
not — perhaps only an end." And the half-breed
looked up at the Irishman from under his dark brows
so covertly and meaningly that Shon saw visions of a
trouble as silent as a plague, as resistless as a great
flood. This noiseless vengeance was not after his own
heart. He almost shivered as the delicate fingers
drummed on his breast.

" Angels begird me, Pretty Pierre, but it's little I'd
like you for enemy o' mine ; for I know that you'd
wait for y'r foe with death in y'r hand, and pity far
from y'r heart ; and y'd smile as you pulled the black-
cap on y'r head, and laugh as you drew the life out of
him, God knows how ! Arrah, give me, say I, the
crack of a stick, the bite of a gun, or the clip of a sabre's
edge, with a shout in y'r mouth the while I "

Though Pierre still listened lazily, there was a
wicked fire in his eyes. His words now came from
his teeth with cutting precision : " I have a great
thought to-night, Shon McGann. I will tell you when
we meet again. But, my friend, one must not be too rash
— no, not too brutal. Even the sabre should fall at
the right time, and then swift and still. Noise is not
battle. Well, a/^ revoir ! To-morrow I shall tell you
many things." He caught Shon's hand quickly, as
quickly dropped it, and went out indolently singing a
favourite song, — " Void le Sabre de mon Phel "

PIKkKli AND HIS I'KOI'LK.

\\ -l

It was dark. Pretty Pierre stood still, and ihoiii^lit
for a while. At last he spoke aloud : " Well, 1 shall
do it now I have him — so ! " And he opened and
shut his hand swiftly and firmly. He moved on,
avoidin^^ the more habited parts of the place, and by
a roundabout came to a house standing very close
to the bank of the river. lie went softly to the
door and listened. Lij^ht shone through the curtain
of a window. He went to the window and looked
beneath the curtain. Then he came back to the door,
opened it very gently, stepped inside, and closed it
behind him.

A man seated at a table, eating, rose; a man on
whom greed Imd set its mark — greed of the flesh,
greed of men's praise, greed of mone^'. His frame
was thick-set, his body was heavily nourished, his ej'e
was shifty but intelligent; and a close observer would
have seen something elusive, something furtive and
sinister, in his face. His lips were greasy with meat
as he stood up, and a fear sprang to his face, so that
its fat looked sickly, l^ut he said hoarsely, and with
an attempt at being brave: — "How dare you enter
my house without knocking ? What do you
want ? "

The half-brccd waved a hand protestingly towards
him. " Pardon I " he said. " Be seated, and finish
your meal. Do you know me ? "

" Yes, I know you."

" Well, as I said, do not stop your meal. T have
come to speak with you very quietly about a scandal
— a scandal, you understand. This is Sunday night,
a good time to talk of such things." And Pierre
seated himself at the table, opposite the man.

TIIKFE OUTLAWS.

13^

(Hi tll()ll<rllt

'ell, I shall
pcncd and
noved on,
cc, and bj'
very close
:Iy to the
he curtain
Ki looked
' the door,
closed it

a man on
the flesh,
lis frame
d, his e}'e
^er would
tive and
'ith meat
, so that
and with
ou enter
do you

towards
id finish

1 have
scandal
Y night,

Pierre

Rut the man rcj)lic(l : " I have nothin^j to say to
you. You arc — "

The h.ilf-brcecl interrupted: "Yes, I know, a Paj^^an
fiitteiuii^ — " here he smiled, and looketl at his thin
hands — '•* fattening for the shambles of the damned,'
as you have said from the i)ul[)it, Reverend K/ra
Bad<4ley. Hut you will permit me — a sinner as you
say — to s[)eak to you like this while you sit down
and cat. I regret to disturb you, but you will sit,
eh ? "

Pierre's tone was smooth and low, almost deferen-
tial, and his eyes, wide open now, and hot with some
hidden pur[)osc, were fixed compel lin<^dy on the man.
The missionary sat, and, havin^^ recovered slightly,
fumbled with a knife and fork. A napkin was still
beneath his greasy chin. Me did not take it away.

Pierre then spoke slowly : " Yes, it is a scandal con-
cerning a sinner — and a Pagan. . . . Will you per-
mit me to light a cigarette ? Thank you. . . . You
have said many harsh things about me : well, as you
see, I am amiable. I lived at Fort Anne before you
came. They call me Pretty Pierre. Why is my
cheek so? Because I drink no wine ; I eat not much.
Pardon I pork like that <.m your plate — no ! no ! I
do not take green tea as there in }'our cup ; I do not
love w men, one or many. Again, pardon I I say."

The other drew his brows together with an attempt
at pious frowning and indignation ; but there was a
cold, sneering smile now turned upon him, that
changed the frown to anxiety, and made his lips
twitch, and the food he had eaten grow heavy within
him.

" I come to the scandal slowly The woman ? She

■»!!

'il

S\\

I !

132

FIEKRK AND MIS I'liOFLE.

was a younpj^irl travclliti^ from tho far East, to search
for a man wlio had — sjioilctl her. She was found by
me and anotl

ner.

Ah, you start so I . .
Well, she died to-ni<'ht.

Will

you

not listen ? . .

Here the missionary ^^■lsped, and cauj^ht with both
iiands at the table.

*' But before she died she <^avc two things into my
hands : a packet of letters (a man is a fool to write
such letters !) and a small bottle of poison — laudanum,
old-fashioned but sure. The letters were from the
man at Fort Anne — t/ie man, you hear ! The other
was for her death, if he would not take her to his
arms again. Women are mad when they love. And
so she came to Fort Anne, but not in time. The
scandal is great, because the man is holy — sit
down ! "

The half-breed said the last two words sharply, but
not loudly. They both sat down slowJy again, look-
ing each other in the eyes. Then Pierre drew from
his pocket a small bottle ^nd a packet of letters, and
held them before him. " I have this to say : there are
citizens of Fort Anne who stand for justice more than
law ; who have no love for the ways of St. Anthony.
There is a Pagan, too, an outlaw, who knows when it
is time to give blow for blow with the holy man.
Well, we understand each other, eh ? "

The elusive, sinister look in the missionary's face
was etched in strong lines now. A dogged sullen-
ness hung about his lips. He noticed that one hand
only of Pretty Pierre was occupied with the relics of
the dead girl ; the other was free to act suddenly on
a hip pocket. " What do you want me to do ? " he
said, not whiningly, for beneath the selfish flesh and

THRKK OUTLAWS.

t33

t, to search

s found by

Will you

with both

:s into my
)1 to write
laudanum,

from the
The other
^er to his
>ve. And
me. The

holy— sit

irply, but
lin, look-
ew from
:ters, and
there are
ore than
\.nthony.
when it
>ly man.

y's face
sullen-
le hand
•elics of
enly on
o ? " he
ish and

sh illow outworks there were the elements of a warrior
— all pulpy now, but they were there.

" This," was the reply : " for you to make one more
outlaw at I^'ort Anne by drinking what is in this
bottle — sit down, quick, by God!" He placed the
bottle within reach of the other. " Tlicn you shall
have these letters; and there is the fire. After?
Well, you will have a great sleep, the good people
will find you, they will bury you, weeping much, and
no one knows here but me. Refuse that, and there
is the other, the Law — ah, the poor girl was so very
young! — and the wild Justice which is sometimes
quicker than Law. Well ? well ? "

The missionary sat as if paralysed, his face all grey,
his eyes fixed on the half-breed. " Are you manor
devil ? " he said at length.

With a slight, fantastic gesture Pierre replied : " It
was said that a devil entered into me at birth, but
that perhaps was mere scandal. You shall think as
you will."

There was silence. The sullenncss about the
missionary's lips became charged with a contempt
more animal than human. The Reverend Ezra
Badgley knew that the man before him was absolute
in his determination, and that the Pagans of Fort
Anne would show him little mercy, while his flock
would leave him to his fate. He looked at the bottle.
The silence grew, so that the ticking of the watch in
the missionary's pocket could be heard plainly, having
for its background of sound the continuous swish
of the river. Pretty Pierre's eyes were never taken
off the other, whose gaze, again, was fixed upon the
bottle with a terrible fascination. An hour, two hours

134

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

passed. The fire burned lower. It was midnight :
and now the watch no lon^^er ticked ; it had fulfilled
its day's work. The missionary shuddered slightly at
this. He looked up to see the resolute gloom of the
half-breed's eyes, and that sneering smile, fixed upon
aim still. Then he turned once more to the bottle. . . .
His heavy hand moved slowly towards it. His stubby
fingers perspired and showed sickly in the light. . . .
They closed about the bottle. Then suddenly he
raised it, and drained it at a draught. He sighed once
heavily, and as if a great inward paii was over. He
rose and took the betters silently pushed towards him,
and dropped them in the fire. He went to the
window, raised it, and threw the bottle into the river.
The cork was left : Pierre pointed to it. He took it
up with a strange smile and thrust it into the coals.
Then he sat down by the table ; he leaned his arms
upon it, his eyes staring painfully before him, and the
forgotten napkin still about his neck. Soon the eyes
clof>ed, and, with a moan on his lips, his head dropped
forward on his arms. . . . Pierre rose, and,, looking at the
figure soon to be breathless as the baked meats about
it, said : " Well, he was not all coward. No."
Then he turned and went out into the night

I
#

midnif^ht :
id fulfilled
slightly at
">om of the
ixed upon
bottle. . . .
iis stubby
lifj^ht

ddcnly he
ghcd once
3ver. He
^ards him,
It to the
the river,
le took it
the coals,
his arms
1, and the
I the eyes
1 dropped
ing at the
ats about

)»

■■*

Sbon fll>c(Banr/6 ZTobogan 1Ri&c»

** Oh, it's down the long^ side of Farcalladen Rise,

With the knees pressin;^ hard to the saddle, my men;
With the sparks from the hoofs giving li^^ht to the eyes,
And our hearts beating hard as we rode to the glen ! —

And it's back with the ring of the chain and the spur,
And it's back with the sun on the hill and the moor.

And it's back is th< thought sets my pulses astir ! —
But I'll never go back to Farcalladen more."

Shon McGann was lying on a pile of buffalo robes
in a mountain hut, — an Australian would call it a
humpey, — singing chus to himself with his pipe be-
tween his teeth. In the room, besides Shon, were
Pretty Pierre, Jo Gordineer, the Honourable Just
Trafford, called by his companions simply " The
Honourable," anJ. Prince Levis, the owner of the
establishment. Not that Monsieur Levis, the French
Canadian, was really a Prince. The name was
given to him with a humorous cynicism peculiar to
the Rockies. We have little to do with Prince
Levis here ; but since he may appear elsewhere, this
explanation is made.

Jo Gordineer had been telling The Honourable
about the ghost of Guidon Mountain, and Pretty
Pierre was collaborating with their host in the
preparation of what, in the presence of the Law —
that is of the North-West Mounted Police — was called
ginger-tea, in consideration of the prohibition statute.

Iff r«

il I

1. 1 I

136

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

Shon McGann had been left to himself — an un-
usual thir.i^ ; for everyone had a shot at Shon when
opportunity occurred ; and never a bull's-eye could
they make on him. His wit was like the shield of a
certain personage of mythology.

He had wandered on from verse to verse of the
song with one eye on the collaborators and an ear
open to The Honourable's polite exclamations of
wonder. Jo had, however, come to the end of his
weird tale — for weird it certainly was, told at the
foot of Guidon Mountain itself, and in a region of
vast solitudes — the pair of chemists were approaching
"the supreme union of unctuous elements," as The
Honourable put it, and in the silence that fell for a
moment there crept the words of the singer :

" And it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise,

And it's swift as an arrow and straight as a spear — *'

Jo Gordineer interrupted. ** Say, Shon, when shall
you get through with that tobogan ride of yours ?
Isn't there any end to it ? "

But Shon was looking with both eyes now at the
collaborators, and he sang softly on :

** And it's keen as the frost when the summer-time dies,
That we rode to the glen and with never a fear."

And then he added : " The end's cut off, Joey, me
boy ; but what's a tobogan ride, anyway ^ "

" Listen to that, Pierre. I'll be eternally shivered
if he knows what a tobogan ride is '

" Hot shivers it'll be for you, Joey, me boy, and no
quinine over the bar aither," said Shon,

11 "■

SHON McGANN'S TOBOGAN RIDE.

137

f — an un-
•hon when
eye could
hield of a

so of the
id an ear
ations of
id of his
d at the
region of
)roaching
' as The
fell for a

ar-

•>

en shall
yours ?

V at the
lies,

:>ey, me
hivered
and no

*' Tell him what a tobogan ride is, Pierre."
And Pretty Pierre said : " Eh, well. I will tell
you — it is like — no, you have the word precise,
Joseph ! Eh ? What ? "

Pierre then added something in French. Shon did
not understand it, but he saw The Honourable smile,
so with a gentle kind of contempt he went on sing-
ing:

And it's hey for the hedge, and it's hey for the wall 1
And it's over the stream with an echoing; cry ;

And there's three fled for ever from old Donegal,
And there's two that have shown how bold Irishmen die."

The Honourable then said : *' What is that all
about, Shon ? I never heard the song before."

" No more you did. And I wish I could see the
lad that wrote that song, livin' or dead. If one of
ye's will tell me about your tobogan rides, Fll unfold
about ' The Song of Farcalladen Rise.' "

Prince Levis passed the liquor. Pretty Pierre,
seated on a candle-box, with a glass in his delicate
fingers, said :

" Eh, well, The Honourable has much language ;
he can speak, precise — this would be better with a
little lemon, just a little, — The Honourable, he, per-
haps, will tell. Eh?"

Pretty Pierre was showing his white teeth. At this
stage in his career, he did not love The Honourable.
The Honourable understood that, but he made clear
to Shon's mind what toboganing is.

And Shon, on his part, with fresh and hearty voice,
touched here and there by a plaintive modulation,
told about that ride on Farcalladen Rise; a tale of

! li

;

i. 1

l^ W .A

138

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

broken laws, and fight and fightin<T, and death and
exile ; and never a word of hatred in it all.

" And the writer of the song, who was he r ** said
The Honourable.

" A gentleman after God's own heart. Heaven
rest his soul, if he's dead, which Frn thinkin' is so,
and give him the luck of the world if he's livin*, say
I. But it's little I know what's come to him. In the
heart of Australia I saw him last ; and mates we
were together af:er gold. And little gold did we get
but what was in the heart of him. And we parted
one day, I carryin' the song that he wrote for me of
Farcalladcn Rise, atid the memory of him ; and him
givin' me the word, — ' I'll not forget you, Shon, me
boy, whatever comes ; remember that. And a short
pull of the Three-Star together for the partin' salute,'
says he. And the Three-Star in one sup each we
took, as solemn as the Mass, and he went away to-
wards Cloncurry and I to the coast ; and that's the
last that I saw of him, now three years gone. And
here I am, and I wish I- was with him wherever
he is."

" What was his name ? " said The Honourable.

" Lawless."

The fini^ers of The Honourable trembled on his
cigar. " Very interesting, Shon," he said, as he rose,
puffing hard till his face was in a cloud of smoke.
" You had many adventures together, I suppose," he
continued.

" Adventures we had and sufferin' bewhiles, and
fun, too, to the neck and flowin' over."

" You'll spin us a long )arn about them another
night, Shon," said The Honourable.

SIION McGANN'S TOl'.OGAN RIDE.

139

death and
fier'* said

Heaven
kin' is so,
livin', say
1. In the
mates we
id we get
^e parted
or me of

and him
Shon, me
1 a short
n' salute/

each we
away to-
hat's the
e. And
rvhcrever

ible.

I on his
he rose,
" smoke.
»ose," he

es, and

another

"I'll do it now — a yarn as long as the lies of the
Government ; and proud of the chance."

" Not to-night, Shon ' (there was a kind of huski-
ness in the voice of The Honourable) ; " it's time to
turn in. We've a long tramp over the glacier to-
morrow, and we must start at sunrise."

The Honourable was in command of the party,
though Jo Gordinccr was the guide, and all were,
for the moment, miners, making for the little Goshen
Field over in Pipi Valley. — At least Pretty Pierre
said he was a miner.

No one thought of disputing the authority of The
Honourable, and they all rose.

In a few minutes there was silence in the hut, save
for the oracular breathing of Prince Levis and the
sparks from the fire. But The Honourable did not
sleep well ; he lay and watched the i\:c through most
of the night.

The day was clear, glowing, decisive. Not a cloud
in the curve of azure, not a shiver of wind down the
canon, not a frown in Nature, if we except the lower-
ing shadows from the shoulders of the giants of the
range. Crowning the shadows was a splendid helmet
of Hght, rich with the dyes of the morning ; the pines
were touched with a brilliant if austere warmth. The
pride of lofty lineage and severe isolation was regnant
over all. And up through the splendour, and the
shadows, and the loneliness, and the austere warmth,
must our travellers go. Must go? Scarcely that,
but The Honourable had made up his mind to cross
the glacier and none sought to dissuade him from his
choice ; the more so, because there was something of
danger in the business. Pretty Pierre had merely

140

riERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

1)1

shrugged his shoulders at the suggestion, and had
said :

" Oh, well, the higher we go the faster we live, that
is something."

" Sometimes we live ourselves To death too quickly.
In my schooldays I watched a mouse in a jar of oxy-
gen do that," said The Honourable.

" That is the best way to die," said the half-breed —
" much."

Jo Gordineer had been over the path before. He
was confident of the way, and proud of his office ol
guide.

" Climb Mont Blanc if you will," said The Honour-
able, " but leave me these white bastions of the Sel-
kirks."

Even so. They have not seen the snowy hills of
God who have yet to look upon the Rocky Mountains,
absolute, stupendous, sublimily grave.

Jo Gordineer and Pretty Pierre strode on together.
They being well away from the other two, The
Honourable turned and said to Shon : " What was
the name of the man who wrote that song of yours,
again, Shon ? "

" Lawless."

** Yes, but his first name ?

" Duke— Duke Lawless."

There was a pause, in which the other seemed to be
intently studying the glacier above them. Then he
said : " What was he like ? — in appearance, I mean."

" A trifle more than your six feet, about yourcoloui

of hair and eyes, and with a trick of smilin' that

would melt the heart of an exciseman, and O'Con-

lell's own at a joke, barrin' a time or two that, he go!

SHON MCGANN'S TOl^OGAN RIDE.

141

and had

ive, that

quickly,
of oxy-

breed —

re. He
office ol

lonour-
he Sel-

hills of
un tains,

)g:ether.

o, The

lat was

yours,

I to be
len he
lean."

coloui
1' that
)'Con-
be got

hold of a pile of papers from the ould country. By
the grave of St. Shon ! thin he was as dry of fun as a
piece of blottini^-paper. And he said at last, before
he was aisy and free a^ain,.' Shon,' says he, ' it's better
to burn your ships behind ye, isn't it ? '

" And I, havin' thought of a glen in ouKl Ireland
that I'll never see again, nor an>' that's in it, said :
' Not only burn them to the water's edge, Duke Law-
less, but swear to your own soul that they never lived
but in the dreams of ^he ni<i;ht.'

" ' You're rii^ht there, Shon,' says he, and after that
no luck was bad enough to cloud the ^ay heart of him,
and bad enough it was sometimes."

" And why do you fear that he is not alive ? "

" lkcau.se I met an old mate of mine one day on
the Frazer, and he said that Lawless had never
come to Cloncurry; and a hard, hard road it was to
travel."

Jo Gordineer was calling to them, and there the
conversation ended. In a few minutes the four stood
on the edge of the glacier. Each man had a long
hickory stick which served as alpenstock, a bag hung
at his side, and tied to his back was his gold-pan, thf*
hollow side in, of course. Shon's was tied a little
lower down than the others.

They passed up this solid river of ice, this giant
power at endless strife with the high hills, up towards
its head. The Honourable was the first to reach the
point of vantage, and to look down upon the vast and
wandering fissures, the frigid bulwarks, the great
fortresses of ice, the ceaseless snows, the aisles of this
m.ountain sanctuary through which Nature's splen-
did anthems rolled. Shon was a short distance below,

142

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE,

I* !

with his hand over his eyes, sweeping the semi-circle
of ^lory.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry from Pierre :
" Man Dieu ! Look ! "

Shon McGann had fallen on a smooth pavement of
ice. The gold-pan was beneath him, and down the
^lac'cr he was whirled — whirled, for Shon had thiust
his heels in the snow and ice, and the gold-pan per-
formed a series of circles as it sped down the incline.
His fingers clutched the ice and snow, but they only
left a red mark of blood behind. Must he go the
whole course of that frozen slide, plump into the wild
depths ueiow ?

" Mon Dieu ! — mon Dieu ! " said Pretty Pierre,
piteousl)-. The face of The Honourable was set and
tense. Jo Gordineer's hand clutched his throat as if
he choked. Still Shon sped. It was a matter of seconds
only. The tragedy crowded to the awful end.

But, no.

There was a tilt in the glacier, and the gold-pan, sud-
denly swirling, again swung to the outer edge, and
shot over.

As if hurled from a catapult, the Irishman was
ejected from the wlvte monste: s back. He fell on a
wide shelf of ice, covered with light snow, througli
which he was tunnelled, and dropped on another ledge
below, near the path by Vv'hich he and his companions
had ascended.

*' Shied from the finish, by God!" said Jo Gordineer.

" Le pauvre Shon I " added Pretty Pierre.

The Honourable was making his way down, his
brain haunted by the words, " He'll never go back to
Farcal laden more."

t n

SIION Mcr.ANN's TOI'.OCIAN RIDK.

semi-circle

Ti Pierre :

ivement of
down the
bad thrust
i-pan per-
lie incline,
they only
le go the
o the wild

ty Pierre,
LS set and
roat as if

)f seconds
d.

pan,sud-
dge, and

Tian was

fell on a

througii

ler ledge

ipanions

^rdineer.

^wn, his
back to

But Jo was ri ;ht.

For Shon McCJann was alive. lie lay breathless,
helpless, for a moment ; then he saL up and scanned his
lacerated fingers : he looked up the path by which he
had come ; he looked down the path he seemed des-
tined to go ; he started to scratch his head, but paused
in the act, by reason of his fingers.

Then he said : " It's my mother wouldn't know me
from a can of cold meat if I hadn't stopped at this
station ; but wiirrawurra ! what a car it was to couiC
in!" And he looked at his tattered clothes and bare
elbows. He then unbuckled the gold-pan, and no
easy task was it with his ragged fingers. " 'Twas not
for deep minin' I brought ye," he said to the pan, " nor
for scrapin' the clotiies from me back."

Just then The Honourable came up. " Shon, my
man . . . alive, thank God ! How is it with you?"

" I'm hardly worth the lookin' at. I wouldn't turn
my back to ye for a ransom."

" It's enough t! at you're here at all."

"Ah, voila! this Irishman!" said Pretty Pierre, as
his light fingers touched Shon's bruised arm gently.

This from Pretty Pierre !

There was that in the voice which went to Shon's
heart. Who could have guessed that this outlaw of
the North would ever show a sign of sympathy or
friendship for anybody? But it goes to prove that
you can never be exact in your estimate of character.
Jo Gordineer only said jestingly: " Say, now, what are
you doing, Shon, bringing us down here, when we
might be well into the Valley by this time ?

*' That in 3'our face and the hair off your head," said
Shon ; " it's little you know a tobogan ride when you

144

I'lERRK ANIJ HIS I'EUPLE,

HOC one. I'll take my share of the (^rog, by the same
token."

The Honourable uncorked his flask. Shon threw
back his head with a laugh.

** For it's rest when the <;allop is over, me men !
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last,
And it's here's — "

But Si< :)n had fainted with the flask in his hand
and this snatch of a song on his lips.

They reached shelter that night. Had it not been
for the accident, they would have got to their destina-
tion in the Valley ; but here they were twelve miles
from it. Whether this was fortunate or unfortunate
may be seen later. Comfortably bestowed in this
mountain tavern, after they had toasted and eaten
their venison and lit their pipes, they drew about the
fire.

Besides the four, there was a figure that lay sleeping
in a corner on a pile of pine branches, wrapped in a
bearskin robe. Whoever it was slept soundly.

" And what was it like — the gold-pan flyer — the
tobogan ride, Shon ? " remarked Jo Gordineer.

'• What was it like ? — what was it like ? ** replied
Shon. * Sure, I couldn't see what it was like for the
stars that were hittin' me in the eyes. There wasn't
any world at all. I was ridin" on a streak of lightnin',
and nivir a rubber for the wheels ; and my fingers
makin' stripes of blood on the snow ; and now the
stars that were hittin' me were white, and thin they
were red, and sometimes blue — "

" The Stars and Stripes," inconsiderately remarked
Jo Gordineer

STtON Mcr.ANNS T0150(;AN KIDE.

»45

by the same
Shon threw

len !
their last,

in his hand

it not been
leir destina-
velve miles
unfortunate
^ed in this
and eaten
V about the

ay sleeping
ipped in a
ily.

flyer — the
^er.

?'* replied
ike for the
ere wasn't
f lightning
ny fingers
1 now the

thin they

remarked

"And there wasn't any beginning to things, nor
any end of them ; and whin I struck the snow and
cut down the core of it like a cat through a glass, I
was willin' to say with the Prophet of Ireland — "

" Are you going to pass the liniment, Pretty
Pierre ? "

It was Jo Gordincer said that.

What the Prophet of Israel did say — Israel and
Ireland were identical to Shon — was never told.

Shon's bubbling sarcasm was full-stopped by the
beneficent savour that, rising now from the hands of
the four, silenced all irrelevant speech. It was a
function of importance. It was not simply necessary
to say Hoiv ! or Heres reformation ! or / look towards
yoii ! As if b\' a common instinct, The Honourable,
Jo Gordincer, and Pretty Pierre, turned towards Shon
and lilted llieir glasses. Jo Gordincer was going to
say : " Here's a safe foot in the stirrups to you," but
he changed his mind and drank in silence.

Shon's eye had been blazing with fun, but it took
on, all at once, a misty twinkle. None of them had
quite bnrgaincd for this. 7'he feeling had come like a
wave of soft lightning, and had passed through them.
Did it come from the Irisliman himself ? Was it his
own nature acting through those who called him
* partner " ?

Pretty Pierre got up and kicked savagely at the
wood in the big fireplace. He ostentatiously and
needlessly put another log of Norfolk-pine upon the
fire.

The Honourable gaily suggested a song.

"Sing us ' Av€c Us Braves ISaiivages, Pierre," said
Jo Gordincer.

I I

I' ''
1 1

146

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

But Pierre waved his fingers towards Shon : *' Shon,
his song — he did not finish — on the glacier. It is
good we hear all. Eh ? "

And so Shon sang :

** Oh it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise."

The sleeper on the pine branches stirred nervously,
as if the song were coming through a dream to him.
At the third verse he started up, and an eager, sun-
burned face peered from the half-darkness at the
singer. The Honourable was sitting in the shadow,
with his back to the new actor in the scene.

**For it's rest when the gallop is over, my men !
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last I
And it's here's — "

Shon paused. One of those strange lapses of mem-
ory came to him that come at times to most of us
concerning familiar things. He could get no further
than he did on the mountain side. He passed his
hand over his forehead, stupidly : — " Saints forgive
me ; but it's gone from me, and sorra the one can I
get it ; me that had it by heart, and the lad that wrote
it far away. Death in the world, but I'll try it again 1

•• For it's rest when the gallop is over, my men !
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last t
And it's here's—"

Again he paused.

But from the haif-darkness there came a voice, a

clear baritone.

n : " Shon,
ier. It is

SUOS MCC.ANNS TOlUXiAN RIDE.

And here's to the lasses we leave in the^lt-n,
With a smile for the future, a sigh for the past."

147

i»

lise.'

nervously,
m to him.
ager, sun-
iss at the
e shadow,

r last I

5 of mem-
lost of us
10 further
assed his
s forgive
ne can I
hat wrote
it again I

last I

-■>'■

voice, a

At the last words the fig^ure strode down irto the
firelight.

"Shon, old friend, don't you know mc?"

Shon had started to his feet at the first note of the
voice, and stood as if spellbound.

There was no shakinf^ of h-nids. Both men held
each other hard by the shoulders, and stood so for a
moment looking steadily eye to eye.

Then Shon said : " Duke Lawless, there's parallels
of latitude and parallels of longitude, but who knows
the tomb of ould Brian Borhoime ? "

Which was his way of saying, " How come you
here?''

Duke Lawless turned to the others before he re-
plied. Mis eyes fell on The Honourable. With a
start and a step backward he said, a peculiar angry
dryness in his voice :

"JustTrafford!"

" Yes," replied The Honourable, smiling, ** I have
found you."

" Found me I And why have you sought me ? Me,
Duke Lawless ? I should have thoui^ht — "

The Honourable interrupted: " To tell you that you
are Sir Duke Lawless."

" That ? You sought me to tell me t/tat f "

« I did."

** You are sure ? And for naught else ? "

'♦ As I live, Duke."

The eyes fixed on The Honourable were searching.
Sir Duke hesitated, then held out his hand. In a

5
1^

i.i ; '

I !

h:\

! i

148

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

swift but cordial silence it was taken. Nothing more
could be said then. It is only in plays where gentle-
men freely discuss family affairs before a curious
public. Pretty Pierre was busy with a decoction. Jo
Gordineer was his associate. Shon had drawn back,
and was apparently examining the indentations on
his gold-pan.

"Shon, old fellow, come here," said Sir Duke
Lawless.

But Shon had received a shock. " It's little I knew
Sir Duke Lawless — " he said

** It's little you needed to know then, or need to
know now, Shon, my friend. I'm Duke Lawless to
you here and henceforth, as ever I was then, on the
wallaby track."

And Shon belie'^ed him.

The glasses were '-eady.

" I'll give the toast," said Th* Honourable, with a
gentle gravity. " To Shon Mc( iann and his Tobo-
gan Ride!"

" I'll drink to the first half of It with all my heart,"
said Sir Duke. " It's all I know about."

" Amen to that divorce I " rejoined Shon.

**But were it not for the Tobogan Ride we
shouldn't have stopped here," said The Honourable ;
" and where would this meeting have been ? "

" That alters the case," Sir Duke remarked

** I take back the ' Amen.' " said Shon.

II.

Whatever claims Shon had upon the companion-
ship of Sir Duke Lawless, he knew there were other

SHON MCGANNS TOr.OGAN RIDE.

149

thing more
ere gentlc-
a curious
action. Jo
awn back,
tations on

Sir Duke

tie I knew

r need to
-awless to
en, on the

>1e, with a
his Tobo-

ny heart,"

Ride we
lourable ;

upanion-
sre other

claims that were more pressing. After the toast was
finished, with an emphasised assumption of weariness,
and a hint of a long yarn on the morrow, he picked
up his blanket and started for the room where all
were to sleep. The real reason of this early depar-
ture was clear to Pretty Pierre at once, and in due
time it dawned upon Jo Gordineer.

The two Englishmen, left alone, sat for a few
moments silent and smoking hard. Then The
Honourable rose, got his knapsack, and took out a
small number of papers, which he handed to Sir
Duke, saying, " By slow postal service to Sir Duke
Lawless. Residence, somewhere on one of five
continents."

An envelope bearing a woman's writing was the
first thing that met Sir Duke's eye. He stared, took
it out, turned it over, looked curiously at The
Honourable for a moment, and then began to break
the seal.

" Wait, Duke. Do not read that. We have some-
thing to say to each other first."

Sir Duke laid the letter down. " You have some
explanation to make," he said.

" It was so long ago ; mightn't it be better to go
over the story again ? "

" Perhaps."

" Then it is best you should tell it. I am on my
defence, you know."

Sir Duke leaned back, and a frown gathered on his
forehead. Strikingly out of place on his fresh
face it seemed. Looking quickly from the fi.c to the
face of The hoiioiirablc and back again earnestly, as
if the full force of what was required came to him, he

150

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

' I '

I •

said : "We shall get the perspective beuer if we put
the tale in the third person. Duke Lawless was the
heir to the title and estates of Tr.ifford Court. Next
in succession to him was Just Trafford, his cousin.
Lawless had an income sufficient for a man ol
moderate tastes. Trafford had not quite that, but
he had his profession of the law. At college they
had been fast friends, but afterwards had drifted
apart, through no cause save difference of pursuits
and circumstances. Friends they still were and
likely to be so always. One summer, when on a
visit to his uncle, Admiral Sir Clavel Lawless, at
Trafford Court, where a party of people had been in-
vited for a month, Duke Lawless fell in love with
Miss Emily Dorset. She did him the honour to
prefer him to any other man — at least, he thought so.
Her income, however, was limited like his own. The
engagement was not announced; for Lawless wished
to make a home before he took a wife. He inclined
to ranching in Canada, or a planter's life in Queens-
land. The eight or ten thousand pounds necessary was
not, however, easy to get for the start, and he hadn't
the least notion of discounting the future, by asking
the admiral's help. Besides, he knew his uncle did
not wish him to marry unless he married a woman
p/us a fortune. While things were in this uncertain
state. Just Trafford arrived on a visit to Trafford
Court. The meeting of the old friends was cordial.
Immediately on Trafford 's arrival, however, the cur-
rent of events changed. Things occurred which
brought disaster. It was n(jticeable that Miss Emily
Dorset began to see a deal more of Admiral Lawless
and Just Trafford, and a deal less of the younger

STION McGANN'S TOBOGAN RIDE.

r if we put
5S was the
irt. Next
lis cousin,
man ot

that, but
le^e they
d drifted

pursuits
vere and
len on a
vvless, at

been in-
:>ve with
3noi:r to
)ught so.
n. The

wished
inclined
Jueens-

iirywas

hadn't

asking
cle did
woman
certain
rafford
:ordial.
le cur-

which
Emily-
awl ess
)unger

■;.3;l

Lawless. One day Duke Lawless came back to the
house unexpectedly, his horse having knocked up on
the road. On entering the library he saw what
turned the course of his life."

Sir Duke here paused, sighed, shook the ashes out
of his pipe with a grave and expressive anxiety
which did not properly belong to the action, and
remained for a moment, both arms on his knees,
silent, and looking at the fire. Then he continued :

"Just Trafiford sat beside Emily Dorset in an
attitude of — say, affectionate consideration. She had
been weeping, and her wliole manner suggested very
touching confidences. They both rose on the entrance
of Lawless; but neither sought to say a word. What
could they say? Lawless apologised, took a book
from the table which he had noi come ff^^ ^'' ' left**

Again Sir Duke paused.

"The book was an illustrated Much Ado About
Nothingl' said The Honourable.

" A few hours after. Lawless had an interview with
Emily Dorset. H^ demanded, with a good deal of
feeling, perhaps, — for he was romantic enough to love
the girl, — an explanation. He would have asked it of
Trafford first if he had seen him. She said Lawless
should trust her ; that she had no explanation at that
moment to give. If he waited — but Lawless asked
her if she cared for him at all, if she wished or in-
tended to marry him ? She replied lightly : ' Per-
haps, when you become Sir Duke Lawless.' Then
Lawless accused her of heartlessness, and of en-
couraging both his uncle and Just Trafford. She
amusini^ly said, * Perhaps she had, but it really didn't
matter, did it ? ' For reply, Lawless said her interest

I5«

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE

I 'I

in the whole family seemed active and impartial. He
bade her not vex herself at all about him, and not to
wait until he became Sir Duke Lawless, but to give
preference to seniority and begin with the title at
once ; which he has reason since to believe that she
did. What he said to her he has been sorry for, not
because he thinks it was undeserved, but because he
has never been able since to rouse himself to anger on
the subject, nor to hate the girl and Just Trafford as
he ought. Of the dead he is silent altogether. He
never sought an explanation from Just Trafford, for
he left that night for London, and in two days was on
his way to Australia. The day he left, however, he
received a note from his banker saying that ;^8ooo
had been placed to his credit by Admiral Lawless.
Feeling the indignity of what he believed was the
cause of the gift, Lawless neither acknowledged it
nor used it, not any penny of it. Four years have
gone since then, and Lawless has wandered over two
continents, a self-created exile. He has learned
much that he didn't learn at Oxford ; and not the
least of all, that the world is not so bad as is claimed
for it, that it isn't worth while hating and cherishing
hate, that evil is half-accidental, half-natural, and that
hard work in the face of nature is the thing to pull a
man together and strengthen him for his place in
the universe. Having burned his ships behind him,
that is the way Lawless feels. And the story is
told."

Just Trafford sat looking musingly but imperturb-
ably at Sir Duke for a minute ; then he said :

" That is your interpretation of the story, but not
t/ii storv. Let us turn ihe medai over now. And,

t !

SHON MCGANN'S TOBOGAN FIDE.

153

ial. He

d not to
to give
title at
that she
for, not
ause he
nger on
fTord as
;r. He
brd, for
was on
-ver, he
;^8ooo
.awl ess.
^as the
%ed it
s have
er two
earned
lot the
laimed
rishing
id that
pull a
ace in
d him,
ory is

jrturb-

Lit not
And,

first, let Trafford say that he has the permission of
Emily Dorset — "

Sir Duke interrupted : " Of her who was Emily
Dorset."

'' Oi Miss Emily Dorset, to tell what she did not
tell that day live years ago. After this other read-
ing of the tale has been rendered, her letter and those
documents are there for fuller testimony. Just
Trafford's part in the drama begins, of course, with
the library scene. Now Duke Lawless had never
known Trafford's half-brother. Hall Vincent. Hall
was born in India, and had lived there most of his
life. He was in the Indian Police, and had married a
clever, beautiful, but impossible kind of girl, against
the wishes of her parents. The marriage was not a
very happy one. This was partly owing to the quick
Lawless and Trafford blood, partly to the wife's wil-
fulness. Hall thought that things might go better if
he came to England to live. On their way from
Madras to Colombo he had some words with his
wife one day about the way she arranged her hair,
but nothing serious. This was shortly after tiffin.
That evening they entered the harbour at Colombo ;
and Hall, going to his cabin to seek his wife, could
not find her ; but in her stead was her hair, arranged
carefully in flowing v/aves on the pillow, where
through the voyage her head had lain. That she
had cut it off and laid it there was plain ; but she
could not be found, nor was she ever found. The
large porthole was open ; this was the only clue.
But we need not go further into that. Hall Vincent
came home to England. He told his brother the
Story as it has been told to you, and then left tor

•54

PIERRE AND HIS PFOrLE.

South America, a broken-spirited man. The wife's
family came on to England also. They did not meet
Hall Vincent; but one day Just Trafford met at a
country seat in Devon, for the first time, the wife's
sister. She had not known of the relationship between
Hall Vincent and the Traffords ; and on a memor-
able afternoon he told her the full story of the
married life and the final disaster, as Hall had told it
to him.

Sir Duke sprang to his feet.

" You mean, Just, that — "

" I mean that Emily Dorset was the sister of Hall
Vincent's wife."

Sir Duke's brown fingers clasped and unclasped
nervously. He was about to speak, but The Honour-
able said : " That is only half the story — wait !

" Emily Dorset would have told Lawless all in due
time, but women don't like to be bullied ever so little,
and that, and the unhappiness of the thing, kept her
silent in her short interview with Lawless. She
could not have guessed that Lawless would go as he
did. Now, the secret cf her diplomacy with the
uncle — diplomacy is the bc^st word to use — was Duke
Lawless's advancement. She kniw how he had set
his heart on the ranching or planting life. She would
have married him without a penny, but she felt his
pride in that particular, and respected it. So, like a
clever girl, she determined to make the old chap give
Lawless a cheque on his possible future. Perhaps, as
things progressed, the same old chap got an absurd
notion in his head about marrying her to Just
Trafford, but that was meanwhile all the better for
Lawless. The very day that Emily Dorset and Just

•I

SHON MCGANN S TOBOCAN RIDE.

155

*he wife's
not meet
met at a
he wife's
I between
memor-
' of the
id told it

of Hall

nclasped

Honour-

11 in due
so little,
:ept her
>s. She
^o as he
nth the
IS Duke
had set
e would
felt his
), like a
ap give
laps, as
absurd
to Just
tter for
id Just

Trafford succeeded in melting Admiral Lawless's
heart to the tune of eight thousand, was the day
that Duke Lawless doubted his friend and challenged
the loyalty of the girl he loved."

Sir Duke's eyes filled. *' Great Heaven 1 Just — "
he said.

" Be quiet for a little. You see she had taken
Trafford into her scheme against his will, for he was
never good at mysteries and theatricals, and he saw
the danger. But the cause was a good one, and he
joined the sweet conspiracy, with what result these
five years bear witness. Admiral Lawless has been
dead a year and a half, his wife a year. For he
married out of inger with Duke Lawless ; but he did
not marry Emily Dorset, nor did he beget a child."

" In Australia I saw a paragraph speaking of a visit
made by him and Lady Lawless to a hospital, and I
tb.ought— "

" You thought he had married Emily Dorset, and —
well, you had better read that letter now."

Sir Duke's face was flushing with remorse and pain.
He drew his hand quickly across his eyes. " And
you've given up London, your profession, everything,
just to hunt for me, to tell me this — you who would
have profited by my eternal absence ! What a beast
and ass I've been ! "

" Not at all ; only a bit poetical and hasty, which is
not unnatural in the Lawless blood. I should have
been wild myself, maybe, if I had been in your
position ; only I shouldn't have left England, and I
should have taken the papers regularly and have
asked the other fellow to explain. The other fellow
didn't like the little conspiracy. Women, however.

156

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

seem to find that kind of thini^ a moral necessity.
By the way, I wish when you ^o back you'd send me
out my hunting traps. I've made up my mmd to —
oh, nuite s^— read the letter — I foif^ot !"

Si' Duke c^jencd ihe leiter and read it, putting it
awry rvr': him now and then as if it hurt him, and
takmg; .l up moment after to continue the reading.
The Honourable watched him.

At last Sir Duke rose.

"Just—"

" Yes ? Go on."

" Do you think she would have me now ? "

" Don't know. Your outfit is not so beautiful as it
used to be."

" Don't chaff me."

" Don't be so fuiiereal, then."

Under The Flonourable's matter of fact air Sir
Duke's face began to clear. " Tell me, do you think
she still cares for me ? "

" Well, I don't know. She's rich now — got the
grandmother's stocking. Then there's Pedley, of the
Scots Guards ; he has been doing loyal service for a
couple of years. What does the letter say ? "

" It only tells the truth, as you have told it to me,
but from her standpoint ; not a word that says any-
thing but beautiful reproach and general kindness.
That is all."

" Quite so. You see it was all four years ago, and
Pedley — "

But The Honourable paused. He had punished
his friend enough. He stepped forward and laid his
hand on Sir Duke's shoulder. " Duke, you want to
pick up the threads where they were dropped. You

SHON MCGANN S TOBOGAN RIPE.

157

necessity,

send mo

vnd fo —

'Utting it

him, and

reading.

iful as it

air Sir
>u think

got the
% of the
ce for a

t to me,
ys any-
indness.

go, and

jnished
aid his
i^ant to
. You

dropped them. Ask me nothing about the ends that
Emily Dorset held. I conspire no more. lUit go
vou and learn your fate. If one remembers, why
sh uld the other forget ? "

Sir Duke's light heart and eager faith came back
with a rush. " I'll .start for England at once. I'll
know the worst or the best of it before three months
are out.''

The Honourable's slow placidit ' tu ^d.

"Three months. — Yes, you m- v lo it in that time.
Better go from Victoria to San I'lncisco and then
overland. You'll not forget ai? ut my hunting traps,
and — oh, certainly, Gordineer ; ^Oine in."

" Say," said Gordineer. " I don't want to disturb
the meeting, but Shon's in chancery somehow ;
breathing like a white pine, and thrashing about !
He's red-hot with fever."

Before he had time [c -ay more, Sir Duke seized
the candle and entered the room. Shon was moving
uneasily and suppressing the groans that shook him.

" Shon, old friend, what is it ? "

" It's the pain here. Lawless," laying his hand on his
chest.

After a moment Sir Duke said : " Pneumonia ! "

From that instant thoughts of himself were sunk in
the care and thought of the man who in the heart of
Queensland had been mate and friend and brother to
him. He did not start for England the next day, nor
for many a day.

Pretty Pierre and Jo Gordineer and his party
carried Sir Duke's letters over into the Pipi Valley,
from where they could be sent on to the coast. Pierre
came back in a tew days to see how Shon was, and

I i

158

riKRKE AND HIS PEOPLE.

expressed his dctcrminntion of staying to help Sir
Duke, if need be.

Shon hovered between life and death. It was not
alone the pneumonia that racked his system so ;
there was also the shock he had received in his flight
down the glacier. In his delirium he seemed to be
always with Lawless : —

"'For it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise*
— It's share and share even, Lawless, and ye'll ate the
rest of it, or I'll lave ye — Did ye say ye'd found water
— Lawless — water ! — Sure you're drinkin' none your-
self — I'll sing it again for you then — ' And it's back
with the ring of the chain and the spur ' — ' But burn
all your ships behind you ' — ' I'll never go back to
Farcalladen more ' — God bless you, Lawless ! "

Sir Duke's fingers had a trick of kindness, a sug-
gestion of comfort, a sense of healing, that made his
simple remedies do more than natural duty. He was
doctor, nurse, — sleepless nurse, — and careful apothe-
cary. And when at last the danger was past and
he could relax watching, he would not go, and he did
not go, till they could all travel to the Pipi Valley.

In the blue shadows of the firs they stand as we
take our leave of one of them. The Honourable and
Sir Duke have had their last words, and Sir Duke has
said he will remember about the hunting traps. They
understand each other. There is sunshine in the face
of all — a kind of Indian summer sunshine, infused
with the sadness of a coming winter ; and theirs is the
winter of parting. Yet it is all done easily, undemon-
stratively.

"We'll meet again, Shon," said Sir Duke, "and
you'll remember your promise to write to me."

^ffON McCANN'S TonO(;AN RIDR.

159

" I'll keep my promise, and I hope the news
thc'it'll please you best is what you'll send us
first from England. And if you should go to ould
Donegal ! — I've no words for me thoughts at
all 1 "

" I know them. Don't try to say them. We've not
had the luck together, all kinds and all weathers, for
nothing."

Sir Duke's eyes smiled a good-bye into the smiling
eyes of Shon. They were much alike, these two,
whose stations were so far apart. Yet somewhere, in
generations gone, their ancestors may have toiled,
feasted, or governed, in the same social hemisphere ;
and here in the mountains life was levelled to one
degree again.

Sir Duke looked round. The pines were crowding
up elate and warm towards the peaks of the white
silence. The river was brawling over a broken path-
way of boulders at their feet ; round the edge of a
mighty mountain crept a mule train ; a far-off glacier
glistened harshly in the lucid morning, yet not harshly
either, but with the rugged form of a vast antiquity,
from which these scarred and grimly austere hills had
grown. Here Nature was filled with a sense of
triumphant mastery — the mastery of ageless experi-
ence. And down the great piles there blew a wind
of stirring life, of the composure of great strength, and
touched the four, and the man that mounted now
was turned to go. A quick good-bye from him to all ;
a God-speed-you from The Honourable ; a wave of
the hand between the rider and Shon, and Sir Duke
Lawless was gone.

" You had better cook the last of that bear this

II I

I60

riKKKE ANU HIS PEOPI.W.

niorninj^, Pierre," said 1 he Honourable. And thcii
life weiit on.

• • • • • t

It was eight months after that, siitinjr in their hut
after a day's successful mining, Tlic Honourable
handed Shon a newspaper to read. A p.ir.u^raph was
marked. It concerned the marriage of Miss Emily
Dorset and Sir Duke Lawless.

And while Shon read, The Honourable called into
the tent : — " Have you any lemons tor the whisky,
Pierre ? "

A satisfactory reply being returned, The Honour-
able proceeded : " We'll begin with the bottle of
Pommery, which I've been saving months for this."

And the royal-flush toast of the evening bclor -^ed
to Shon.

"God bless him 1 To the day when we sec him

• I fi

agam .

And all ot them saw that day.

And thcii

n their hut
honourable
ti;.^r:-iph was
^iss Emily

called into
he whisky,

le Honour-
; bottle of
for this."
g bcloi ^ed

fQ 6CC him

pere (Ibanipaone.

" Is it that we stand at the top of the hill and the
end of the travel has come, Pierre ? Why don't
you spake ? "

'* We stand at the top of the hill, and it is the
end."

" And Lonely Valley is at our feet and Whitefaccd
Mountain beyond ? "

"One at our feet, and the other beyond, Shon
McGann."

" It's the sight of my eyes I wish I had in the
light of the sun this mornin*. Tell me, what is't you
see ? "

" I see the trees on the foot-hills, and all the branches
shine with frost. There is a path — so wide ! — between
two groves of pines. On Whitefaced Mountain lies a
glacier-field . . . and all is still." . . .

"The voice of you is far-away-like, Pierre — it
shivers as a hawk cries. It's the wind, the wind,
maybe."

" There's not a breath of life from hill or villey."

" But I feel it in my face."

" It is not the breath of life you feel"

"Did you not hear voices coming athwart ihe
wind? . . . Can you see the people at the
mines ? "

" I have told you wliat I see."

x6x lb

i i-

1 62

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

" You told me of the pine-trees, and the glacier, and

the snow — "

" And that is all."

** But in the valley, in the valley, where all the
miners are ! ''

" I cannot see them."

" For love of heaven, don't tell me that the dark is
falUn' on your eyes too."

" No, Shon, I am not growing blind."

" Will you not tell me what gives the ache to your
words ? "

" I see in the valley — snow . . . snow."

" It's a laugh you have at me in your cheek, whin
I'd give years of my ill-spent life to vv^atch the chimney
smoke come curlin' up slow through the sharp air in
the Valley there below,"

" There is no chimney and there is no smoke in all
the Valley."

" Before God, if you're a man, you'll put your hand
on my arm and tell me what trouble quakes your
speech."

" Shon McGann, it is for you to make the sign of
the Cross . . . there, while I put my hand on your
shoulder — so ! "

" Your hand is heavy, Pierre."

" Thii: is the sight of the eyes that see. In the
Valley there is snow ; in the snow of all that was,
there is one poppet-head of the mine that was called
St. Gabriel . . . upon the poppet-head there is the
figure of a woman."

*' Ah ! "

" Slie does not move — "

'* She will never move ? "

PERE CHAMPAGi\i!L

163

cier, and

all the

i dark is

; to your

:ek, whin
chimney
irp air in

Dke in all

our hand

kes your

' ' •':

le sign of

[ on your

In the

;..V

» ■"'■;*

;hat was,

as called

ire is the

" She will never move."

*' The breath o' my body hurts me. . 1 . There
is death in the valley, Fierre ? "

" Tr.ere is death "

" It was an avalanche — that path between the
pines ?

'* And a great storm after."

" Ble-sscd be God that I cannot behold that thing
this day 1 . . . And the woman, Pierre, the woman
aloft ? "

" She went to watch for someone coming, and as
she watched, the avalanche caiiie — and siie moves
not."

" Do we know that woman ? **

« Who can tell ? "

** What was it you whispered soft to yourself, then,
Pierre ? "

" I whispered no word.'*

" There, don't you hear it, soft and sighin' ? . • •
Natlialie ! "

" Mon Dieu ! It is not of the world."

" It's facin' tlie puppet-head where she stands I'd
be."

" Your face is turned towards her."

" Where is the sun ? "

*' The sun stands still above her head."

" With the bitter over, and the avii jj>ait, come rest
foi her and all that lie there !"

" Eh, bien, the game is done."

" If we stay here we shall die also."

" If we go we die, perhaps." . . .

" Don't spake it. We will go, and we will return
when the breath of summer comes from the South."

1 64

PIERRE AND HIS PEOi'LE.

*' rt sin 11 be so."

" Hush ! Did you not hear — ? "

" I did not hear. I only see an eagle, and it flies
towards Whitcfaccd Mountain."

And Shon McGann and Pretty Pierre turned back
from the end of their quest — from a mighty grave
behind to a lonely waste before ; and though one was
snow-blind, and the otlier knew that on him fell the
chicfer weight of a great misfortune, for he must
provide food and fire and be as a mother to his com-
rade — they had courage ; without which, men are as
the standing straw in an unreaped field in winter ; but
having become like the hooded pine, that keepeth
green in frost, and hath :he bounding blood in all its
icy branches.

And whence they came and wherefore was as thus: — •

A French Canadian once lived in Lonely Valley.
One day great fortune came to him, because it was
given him to discover the mine SA. Gabriel. And he
said to the woman who loved him : " I will go with
mules and much gold, that I have hewn and washed
and gathered, to a village in the East where my father
and my mother are. They are poor, but I will make
them rich : and then I will return to Lonely Valley,
and a priest shall come with me, and we will dwell
here at Whitefaced Mountain, where men are men and
not children." And the woman blessed him, and
prayed fpr him, and let him go.

He travelled far through passes of the mountains,
and came at last where new cities lay upon the plains,
and where men were full of evil and of lust of gold.
And he was free of hand and light of heart ; and at a
place called Diamond City false friends came about

PERE CHAMPAGNE.

165

it flies

d back
y grave
Dne was
fell the
e must
is com-
1 are as
ter ; but
keepeth
in all its

5 thus:—
Valley.
;e it was
And he
go with
washed
y father
ill make
Valley,
ill dwell
[men and
im, and

)untains,
^e plains,
of gold,
land at a
he about

him, and gave him champic^iie wine to drink, and
struck him down and robbed him, leaving him for
dead.

And he was found, and his wounds were all healed:
all save one, and that vas in tb? brain. Men called
him mad.

He wandered through the land, preaching to men
to drink no wine, and to shun the sight of gold.
And they laughed at him, and called him Pfere
Champagne.

But one day much gold was found at a place called
Reef o' Angel ; and jointly with the gold came a
plague which scars the l"ace and rots the bodv ; and
Indians died by hundreds and white men by scores;
and Pere Champagne, of all who were not stricken
down, feared nothing, and did not flee, but went
among the sick and d\-ing, and did those deeds which
gold catmot buy, and prayed those pra)ers which were
never sold. And who can count how high the prayers
of the feckless go !

When nc)ne was found to bury the dead, he gave
them place himself beneath the prairie earth, — conse-
crated onl\' by the tears of a fool, — and for extreme
unction he had but this: ''God be merciful to me, a
sifiner ! "

And it happily ciiamcd that l^icrre and Shon
McGann, who travelled westward, came upon this
desperate battle-field, and saw how i'ere Champagne
dared the elements of scourge and death ; and they
paused and laboured with hnn — to save where savinfr
was granted of I leaven, and to bury when the Reaper
reaped and would not stay his hand. At last the
plague ceased, because winter stretched its winijs out

It J

|pi

' i

1 .i i f

160

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

swiftly o'er the plains from frigid ran^res in the West
And then Pere Champagne fell ill again.

And this last great sickness cured his madness: and
he remembered whence he had come, and what befell
him at Diamond City so many moons ago. And
he prayed them, when he knew his time was come,
that they would go to Lonely Valley and tell his
story to the woman whom he loved ; and say that he
was going to a strange but pleasant Land, and that
there he would await her coming. And he begged
them that they would go at once, that she might know,
and not strain her eyes to blindness, and be sick at
heart because he came not. And he told them her
name, and drew the coverlet up about his head and
seemed to sleep ; but he waked between the day and
dark, and gently cried : " The snow is heavy on the
mountain . . . and the Valley is below . . . Gardez!
mon Pere ! , . , Ah, Nathalie ! " And they buried
him between the dark and dawn.

Though winds were fierce, and travel full of peril,
they kept their word, and passed along wide steppes
of snow, until they entered passes of the mountains,
and again into the plains ; and at last one poudre day,
when frost was shaking like shreds of faintest silver
through the air, Shon McGann's sight fled. But he
would not turn back — a promise to a dying man was
sacred, and he could follow if he could not lead ; and
there was still some pemmican, and there were
martens <a the woods, and wandering deer that good
spirits hunted into the way of the needy ; and
Pierre's finger along the gun was sure.

Pierre did not tell Shon that for manj'- days they
travelled woods where no sunshine entered ; where

PfeRE CHAMPAONE.

167

West

s: and
t befell
, And
i come,
tell his
that he
id that
begged
it know,
sick at
lem her
sad and
day and
r on the
Gardez!
buried

of peril,

steppes
)untains,
idre day,
ist silver

But he
man was
ad ; and
;re were
lat good
jy J and

ays they
where

no trail had ever been, nor foot of man had trod :
that they had lost their way. Nor did lie make his
comrade know that one ni^^lit he sat and played a
game o{ solitaire to sec if they would ever reach the
place calleJ Lonely Valley. Ikforc the cards were
dealt, he made a sii^n upon his breast and forehead.
Three times he plav'cd, and three times he counted
victory ; and before three suns had come and gone,
they climbed a hill that perched over Lonely Valley.
And of what they saw and their hearts felt we know.

And when they turned their faces eastward they
were as me;i who go to meet a final and a conquering
enemy ; but they had kept their honour with the
man upon whose grave-tree Shon McGann had carved
beneath his name these words :

" A Brother of Aaron^^

Upon a lonely trail they wandered, the spirits of
lost travellers hungering in their wake — spirits tliat
mumbled in cedar thickets, and whimpered down the
flumes of snow. And Pierre ho knew that o\il
things are exorcised by might) )njuring, sang louciiy,
from a throat made thin by forced fasting, a song with
which his mother sought to c ve away the devils of
dreams that flaunted on hi How when a child : it
was the song of the Scarlet Jimter. And the charrn
sufficed ; for suddenly of a cheerless morning they
came upon a trapper's hut m the wilderness, where
their sufferings ceased, and the sight of Shon's eyes
came back. When strength returned also, they jour-
neyed to an Indian village, wi-i^re a priest laboured :
and him they besought ; and when spring came tliey
set forth to Lonel\' Valley again that the woman and
the smothered dead — if it might chance so — should

1 68

PIKRRE AND HIS PEOl'LE.

be put away into peaceful graves. But thither coming
they only saw a gny and churlish river ; and the
poppet-head of the mine of Sc. Gabriel, and she who
had knelt thereon, were vanished into solitudes, where
only God's cohorts have the rights of burial. . .

But the priest prayed humbly for their so swiftly-
summoned souls.

-if

coming
nd the
le who
, where

■ •

iwiftly-

ZTbc Scarlet Ibunter*

"News out of Kt^ypt!" said the Honourable Just
TrafTord. " If this is true, it ^ivcs a pretty finish to
the season. You think it possible, Pierre ? It is
every man's talk that there isn't a herd of buffaloes in
the whole country ; but this — eh ? "

Pierre did not seem disposed to answer. He
had been watching a m; face for some time ; but
his eyes were now idly following the smoke of his
cigarette as it floated away to the ceiling in fading
circles. He seemed to take no interest in Trafford's
remarks, nor in the tale that Shangi the Indian had
told them ; though Shangi and his tale were both
sufficiently uncommon to justify attention.

Shon McGann was more impressionable. His eyes
swam; his feet shifted nervously with enjoyment;
he glanced frequently at his gun in the corner of
the hut ; he had watched Trafford's face with
some anxiety, and accepted the result of the tale
with delight. Now his kxjk was occupied wiih
Pierre.

Pierre was a pretty gool authority in all matters
concerning the prairies and the North. He also had
an instinct for detecting veracit}', having practised on
both sides of the equation. Trafford became im-
patient, and at last the half-breed, conscious that he
had tried the temper of his chief so far as was safe,

iilli

1 i i

■J
1 n

* i]

■

170

PIERRE AND HIS PKOPLE.

lifted his eyes, and, resting them casually on the
Indian, replied: ''Yes, I know the place. . . . No, I
have not been there, hut I was toM — ah, it was long
ago. There is a great valley between hills, the
Kimash Mills, the hills of the Mighty Men. The
woods are deep and dark ; there is but one trail
through them, and it is old. On the highest bill is a
vast mound. In that mound are the forefathers of a
nation that is gone. Yes, as you say, they are dead,
and there is none of them alive in the valley — which
is called the White Valley — where the buffalo are.
The valley is [;recn in summer, and the snow is not
deep in winter; the noses of the buffalo cpn find the
tender grass. The Injin speaks the truth, perhaps.
But of the number of buffaloes, one must see. The
eye of the red man multi[>lies."

Trafford looked at Pierre closely. "You seem to
know the place very well. It is a long way north
where — ah yes, you said you had never been there ;
you were told. Who told you ? "

The half-brocd raised his eyebrows slightly as he
replied : " I can remember a long time, and my
mother, she spoke much and sang many songs at
the camp fires." Then he puffed his cigarette so that
the smoke clouded his face for a moment, and went
on, — " I think there may be buffaloes."

" It's along the barrel of me gun I wish I was
lookin' at thim now," said McGann.

" Eh, you will go ? " inquired Pierre of Trafford.

" To have a shot at the only herd of wild buffaloes
on the continent ! Of course I'll go. I'd go to the
North Pole for that. Sport and novelty T came here
to see ; buff; )-hunt!ng I did not expect 1 I'm in

I liul

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

171

ly on the
. . . No, I
: was long

hills, the
len. The

one trail
St hill is a
thers of a
are dead,
y — which
ifiTalo are.
ow is not
I find the

perhaps,
ee. The

seem to
ly north
n there;

ly as he
md my
ongs at
: so that
id went

I was

brd.
Liffaloes
to the
le here
I'm in

luck, that's all. We'll start to-rnorrow mornin^r, if we
can get ready, and Shangi here will lead us ; eh,
Pierre?"

The half-breed again was not polite. Instead of
replying he sang almost below his breath the words
of a song unfamiliar to hb. companions, though the
Indian's eyes .showed a flash of understanding. These
were the words :

" They ride away with a waking wind,— away, away I
W'th laughinj^ lip and with jocund mind at break of day.
A rattle of hoofs and a snatch of song, — they ride, they ride 1
The plains are wide and the path is long, — so long, so wide ! "

Just Trafford appeared ready to deal with this in-
solence, for the half-breed was after all a servant of
his, a paid retainer. He waited, however. Shon saw
the difficulty, and at once volunteered a reply. " It's
aisy enough to get away in the mornin', but it's a
question how far we'll be able to go with the horses.
The year is late ; but there's dogs beyand, I suppose,
and bedad, there y' are ! "

The Indian spoke slowly : " It is far off. There is
no colour yet in the leaf of the larch. The river-hen
still swims northward. It is good that we go. There
is much buffalo in the White Valley."

Again Trafford looked towards his follower, and
again the half-breed, as if he were making an effort
to remember, sang abstractedly :

•• They follow, they follow a lonely trail, by day, by night,
By distant sun, and by fire-fly pale, and northern lii^ht.
The ride to the Hills of the Mighty Men, so swift they ;;o!
Where butialo feed in the wilding glen in sun and snow."

Ill"

- f T

•*Ui

! I

172

PIERRE ANT) HIS I'KOPI-E.

"Pierre!" said Trafford, sharply, "I want an answer
to my question."

^^ Mais, fxirifon, I was thinking . . . well, we can
ride until the deep snows come, then we can walk ,
and Shangi, he can get the dogs, maybe, one team of
dogs."

*' But," was the reply, " one team of dogs will not
be enough. We'll bring meat and hides, you know,
as well as pemmican. We w(jn't cache any carcases
up there. What would be the use? We shall have
to be back in the Pipi V'^lley by the spring-time."

"Well," said the half-breed with a cold decision,
"one team of dogs will be enough ; and we will not
cache, and we shall be back in the Pipi Valley before
the spring, perhaps," — but this last word was spoken
under his breath.

And now the Indian spoke, with his deep voice and
dignified manner : " Brothers, it is as I have said, —
the trail is lonely and the woods are deep and dark.
Since the time when the world was young, no white
man hath been there save one, and behold sickness
fell on him ; the grave is his end. It is a pleasant
land, for the gods have blessed it to the Indian for-
ever. No heathen shall possess it. But you shall see
the White Valley and the buffalo. Shangi will lead,
because you have been merciful to him, and have given
him io sleep in your wigwam, and to eat of your wild
meat. There are dogs in the forest. I have spoken."

Trafford was impressed, and annoyed too. He
thought too much sentiment was being squandered on
a very practical and s{)ortive thing. He disliked
functions ; speech-making was to him a matter for
prayer and fasting. The Indian's address was there-

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

173

in answer

I, we can
an walk ,
c team of

•' will not
3U know,

carcases
lall liave
time."
decision,

will not
y before
3 spoken

pice and
said, —
id dark,
o white
sickness
:»leasant
ian for-
hall see
ill lead,
e given
ur wild
3oken."
He
;red on
isliked
"cr for
there-

fore more or less jTratin'tous, and he hastened to re-
mark : "Thank you, Shanf^j ; that's very good, and
you've put it poetically. You've turned a shooting-
excursion into a medieval romance. But we'll get
down to business now, if you please, and make the
romance a fact, beautiful enough to send to the Times
or the New York Stin. Let's see, how would they put
it in the Sun? — ' Extraordinary Discovery — Herd of
buffaloes found in the far North by an Englishman
and his Franco-Irish Party — Sport for the gods —
Exodus of bril/es to White Valley!' — and so on,
screeching to the end."

Shon laui^died heartily. " The fun of the world is
in the thing," he said ; *' and a day it would be for a
notch on a stick and a rasp of gin in the throat. And
if I get the sight of me eye on a buffalo-ruck, it's down
on me knees I'll go, and not for prayin' aither I And
here's both hands up for a start in the mornin'I"

Long before noon next day they were well on their
way. Trafford could not understand wh\- Pierre was
so reserved, and, when speaking, so innical. It was
noticeable that the half- breed watched the Indian
closely, that he always rode behind him, that he never
drank out of the same cup. The leader set this down
to the natural uncertainty of Pierre's disposition. He
had grown to like Pierre, as the latter had come in
course to respect him. Each was a man of value after
his kind, Eacii also had recognised in the other quali-
ties of force and knowledge having their generation
in experiences which had become individuality, sub-
terranean and acute, under a cold surf^ice. It was the
mutual recognition of these equivalents that led the
two men to mutual trust, only occasionally disturbed,as

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il ■

174

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE,

has been shown ; though one was regarded as the
most fastidious man of his set in London, the fairest-
minded of friends, the most comfortable of compan-
ions ; while the other was an outlaw, a haif-heathen, a
lover of but one thing in this world, — the joyous god
of Chance. Pierre was essentially a gamester. He
would have extracted satisfaction out of a death-
sentence which was contingent on the trumping of
an ace. His only honour was the honour of the
game.

Now, with all the swelling prairie sloping to the
clear horizon, and the breath of a large life in their
nostrils, these two men were caught up suddenly, as
it were, by the throbbing soul of the North, so that
the subterranean life in them awoke and startled them.
Trafibrd conceived that tobacco was the charm with
which to exorcise the spirits of the past. Pierre let
the game of sensations go on, knowing that they pay
themselves out in time. His scheme was the wiser.
The other found that fast riding and smoking were
not sufficient. He became surrounded by the ghosts
of yesterdays ; and at length he gave up striving with
them, and let them storm upon him, until a line of
pain cut deeply across his forehead, and bitterly and
unconsciously he cried aloud, — " Hester, ah, Hester I **

But having spoken, the spell was broken, and he
was aware of the beat of hoofs beside him, and
Shangi the Indian looking at him with a half smile.
Something in the look thrilled him ; it was fantastic,
masterful. He wondered that he had not noticed
this singular influence before. After all, he was only
a savage with cleaner buckskin than his race usually
wore. Yet that glow, that power in the face I — was

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

175

he Piegan, Blackfoot, Cree, Blood? Whatever he was,
this man had heard the words which broke so painfully
from him.

He saw the Indian frame her name upon his lips,
and then came the words, " Hester — Hester Orval !"

He turned sternly, and said, "Who are you? What
do you know of Hester Orval ? "

The Indian shook his head gravely, and replied,
"You spoke her name, my brother."

" I spoke one word of her name. You have spoken
two."

" One does not know what one speaks. There are
words which are as sounds, and words which are as
feelings. Those come to the brain through the ear ;
these to the soul through sign, which is more than
sound. The Indian hath knowledge, even as the
white man ; and because his heart is open, the trees
whisper to him ; he reads the language of the grass
and the wind, and is taught by the song of the bird,
the screech of the hawk, the bark of the fox. And
so he comes to know the heart of the man who hath
sickness, and calls upon someone, even though it be a
weak woman, to cure his sickness ; who is bowed low
as beside a grave, and would stand upright. Are not
my words wise ? As the thoughts of a chi!d that
dreams, as the face of the blind, the eye of the beast,
or the anxious hand of the poor, — are they not simple,
and to be understood ? "

Just Trafford made no reply. But behind, Pierre
was singing in the plaintive measure of a chant:

** A hunter rideth the herd abreast,
The Scarlet Hunter from out of the West,

176

PIKRRK AND HIS PKOPLE.

W hose arrows with points of rtame are drest,
Who lovcth the bc.ist of the field the best,
The child and the young bird out of the nest,-
They ride to the hunt no more, — no more ! "

V t

! !

1 I

They travelled bcx'ond all bounds of civilisation ;
beyond the nortlicrnmost Indian villa<4es, until the
features of the landscape became more rugged and
solemn, and at last they paused at a place which the
Indian called Misty Mountain, and where, disappear-
ing for an hour, he returned with a team of Eskimo
dogs, keen, quick-tempered, and enduring. They
had all now recovered from the disturbing sentiments
of the first portion of the journey ; life was at full
tide ; the spirit of the hunter was on them.

At length one night they camped in a vast pine
grove wrapped in coverlets of snow and silent as
death. Here again Pierre became moody and alert
and took no part in the careless chat at the camp-
fire led by Shon McGann. The man brooded and
looked mysterious. Mystery was not pleasing to
Trafford. He had his own secrets, but in the ordin-
ary affairs of life he preferred simplicity. In one of
the silences that fell between Shon's attempts to give
hilarity to the occasion, there came a rumbling far-off
sound, a sound tiiat increased in volume till the earth
beneath them responded gently to the vibration.
Trafford looked up inquiringly at Pierre, and then at
the Indian, who, after a moment, said slowly: " Above
us are the hills of the Mighty Men, beneath us is the
White Valley. It is the tramp of buffalo that we
hear. A storm is coming, and they go to shelter in
the mountains."

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

177

drest,

est,
2 nest,-

t »

f civilisation ;
L^cs, until the
e ruirired and
ICC which the
:re, disappcar-
.m of Eskimo
Liring. They
ng sentiments
fe was at full
;m.

1 a vast pine
ind silent as
ody and alert
at the camp-
brooded and
: pleasing to
in the ordin-
In one of
mpts to give
bling far-off
till the earth
Ihe vibration,
and then at
ly : " Above
ath us is the
[falo that we
to shelter in

The information had come somewhat suddenly,
and McGann was the first to recover from the
pleasant shock: " It's divil a wink of sleep I'll get
this night, with the thought of them below there ripe
for slaughter, and the tumble of fight in their beards."

Pierre, with a meaning glance from his half-closed
eyes, added : " But it is the old saying of the prairies
that you do not shout dinner till you have your knife
in the loaf. Your knife is not yet in the loaf, Shon
McGann."

The boom df the tramping ceased, and now there
was a stirring in the snow-clad tree tops, and a sound
as if all the birds of the North were flying overhead.
The weather began to moan and the boles of the
pines to quake. And then there came war, — a trouble
out of the north, — a wave of the breath of God to
show inconsequent man that he who seeks to live by
slrtughter hath slaughter for his master.

They hung over the fire while the forest cracked
round them, and the flame smarted with the flying
snow. And now the trees, as if the elements were
closing in on them, began to break close by, and one
plunged forward towards them. Traffoid, to avoid
its stroke, stepped quickly aside right into the line of
another which he did not see. Pierre sprang forward
and swung him clear, but was himself struck sense-
less by an outreaching branch.

As if satisfied with this achievement, the storm
began to subside. When Pierre recovered conscious-
ness Trafford clasped his hand and said, — " You've a
sharp eye, a quick thought, and a deft arm, comrade."

" Ah, it was in the game. It is good play to assist
your partner," the half-breed replied sententiously.

I7.S

F»IKkKK AND HIS PKOPF K.

i '

Through all, the Indian had remained stoical. But
McGann, who swore by Trafford — as he had once
sworn by another of the Trafford race — had his heart
on his lips, and said :

** There's a swate little cherub that sits up aloft,
Who cares for the soul of poor Jack 1 "

li was long after midnight ere they settled down
again, with tlie wreck of the forest round them. Only
the Indian slept ; the others were alert and restless
They were up at daybreak, and on their way before
sunrise, filled with desire for prey. They had not
travelled far before they emerged upon a plateau.
Around them were the hills of the Mighty Men —
austere, majestic ; at their feet was a vast valley on
which the light newly-fallen snow had not hidden all
the grass. Lonely and lofty, it was a world waiting
chastely to be peopled ! And now it was peopled,
for there came from a cleft of the hills an army of
buffaloes lounging slowly down the waste, with toss-
ing manes and hoofs stirring the snow into a feathery
scud.

The eyes of Trafford and McGann swam ; Pierre's
face was troubled, and strangely enough he made the
sign of the cross.

At that instant Trafford saw smoke issuing from a
spot on the mountain opposite. He turned to the
Indian : " Someone lives there? " he said.

" It is the home of the dead, but life is also there."

*• White man, or Indian ? "

But no reply came. The Indian pointed instead to
the buffalo rumbling down the valley. Trafford for-
got the smoke, forgot everything except that splendid

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

179

)ical. But

had once

d his heart

aloft,

}ttled down
hem. Only
and restless
• way before
ley had not
n a plateau,
i^rhty Men—
ist valley on
ot hidden all
vorld waiting
was peopled,
an army of
te, with toss-
ito a feathery

^ram ; Pierre's
he made the

ssuing from a
urned to the

s also there.

ited instead to
Trafford for-
that splendid

quarry. Shon was excited. " Sarpints alive!" he
said, " look at the troops of thim ! Is it standin'
here we are with our tongues in our checks, whin
there's bastes to be killed, and mate to be got, and
the call to war on the ground below ! Clap spurs
with your heels, say I, and down the side of the turf
together and give 'em the teeth of our guns!" And
the Irishman dashed down the slope. In an instant,
all followed, or at least Trafford thought all followed,
swinging their guns across their saddles to be ready
for this excellent foray. But while Pierre rode hard,
it was at first without the fret of battle in him, and he
smiled strangely, for he knew that the Indian had
disapi)eared as they rode down the slope, though how
and why he could not tell. 1 here ran through his
head tales chanted at camp-fires when he was not yet
in stature so high as the loins that bore him. They
rode hard, and yet they came no nearer to that flying
herd straining on with white streaming breath and
the surf of snow rising to their quarters. Mile upon
mile, and yet they could not ride these monsters down!

And now Pierre was leading. There was a kind of
fury in his face, and he seemed at last to gain on
them. But as the herd veered close to a wall of
stalwart pines, a horseman issued from the trees and
joined the cattle. The horseman was in scarlet from
head to foot ; and with his coming the herd went
faster, and ever lastcr, until they vanished into the
mountain-side ; and they who pursued drew in their
trembling horses and stared at each other with
wonder in their faces.

" In God's name what does it mean ? *' TrafifoH
cried.

I i

r!tj

1 80

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLL.

" Ts il a trick of the eye or the hand of the devil ? *
added Shon.

" In the name of God we shall know perhaps. If it
is the hand of the devil it is not good for us," re-
marked Pierre.

" Who was the man in scarlet who came from the
woods ? ' asked Trafford of the half-breed.

" Eh, it is strange ! There is an old story among
the Indians ! My mother told many tales of the
place and sang of it, as I sang to you. The legend
was this : — In the hills of the North which no white
man, nor no Injin of this time hath seen, the fore-
fathers of the red men sleep ; but some day they will
wake a^ain and go forth and possess all the land ;
and the buffalo are for them when that time shall
come, that they may have the fruits of the chase, and
that it be as it was of old, when the cattle were as
clouds on the horizon. And it was ordained that one
of these mighty men who had never been vanquished
in fight, nor done an evil thing, and was the greatest
of all the chiefs, should live and not die, but be as a
sentinel, as a lion watching, and preserve the White
Valley in peace until his brethren waked and came
into their own again. And him they called the
Scarlet Hunter ; and to this hour the red men pray
to him when they lose their way upon the plains, or
Death draws aside the curtains of the wigwam to call
them forth."

" Repeat the verses you sang, Pierre," said Trafford.

The half-breed did so. When he came to the
words, " Who loveth the beast of the field the best,'
the Englishman looked round. "W^here is Shangi?"
he said*

THE SCAnLET HUNTER.

181

the devil ? *

haps. II it
for us," re-

ne from the

tory among
ales of the
The legend
ch no white
n, the fore-
ay they will
11 the land;
t time shall
,e chase, and
ittle were as
led that one
vanquished
the greatest
but be as a
; the White
d and came
called the
id men pray
e plains, or
warn to call

Lid Trafford.
lame to the
Id the best/
is Shangi?"

McGann shook his head in astonishment and nega-
tion. Pierre explained : " On the mountain-side
where we ride down he is not seen — he vanished . ,
mon Dieu, look ! "

On the slope of the mountain stood the Scarlet
Hunter with drawn bow. From it an arrow flew over
their heads with a sorrowful tivang, and fell where the
smoke rose among the pines ; then the mystic figure
disappeared.

McGann shuddered, and drew himself together.
" It is the place of spirits," he said ; " and it's little I
like it, God knows ; but I'll follow that Scarlet
Hunter, or red devil, or whatever he is, till I drop, if
The Honourable gives the word. For flesh and
blood I'm not afraid of; and the other we come to,
whether we will or not, one day."

But Trafford said : " No, we'll let it stand wherf
it is for the present. Something has played our eyes
false, or we're brought here to do work different from
buffalo-hunting. Where that arrow fell among the
smoke we must go first. Then, as I read the riddle,
we travel back the way we came. The e are points
in connection with the Pipi Valley superior to the
hills of the Mighty Men."

They rode away across the glade, and through a
grove of pines upon a hill, till they stood before a log
hut with parchment windows.

Trafford knocked, but there was no response. He
opened the door and entered. He saw a figure rise
painfully from a couch in a corner, — the figure of a
woman young and beautiful, but wan and worn. She
seemed dazed and inert with suffering, and spoke
mournfully : " It is too late. Not you, nor any ot

1 82

PIERRE AND I ITS PEOPLE.

your race, nor anything on earth can save him. He
is dead — dead now."

At tlie lirst sound of her voice Trafford started.
He drew near to licr, as pah^ as she was, and wonder
and pity were in his face. " Hester," lie said, " Hester
Orval ! "

She stared at him like one that had been awakened
from an evil dream, then tottered towards him with
the cry, — "Just, Just, have you come to save me ? O
Just!" His distress was sad to see, for it was held in
deep repression, but he said calmly and with protecting
gentleness : " Yes, I have come to save you. Hester,
how is it you are here in this strange place ? — you !'*

She sobbed so that at first she could not answer;
but at last she cried : '* O Just, lie is dead ... in there,
in there! . . . Last night, it was last night; and he
prayed that I might go with him. But I could not
die unforgiven, — and I was right, for you have come
out of the world to help me, and to save me."

"Yes, to help you and to save you, — if I can," he
added in a whisper to himself, for he was full of fore-
boding. He was of the earth,earthy,and things that had
chanced to him this day were beyond the natural and
healthy movements of his mind. He had gone forth
to slay, and had been foiled by shadows; he had come
with a tragic, if beautiful, memory haunting him, and
that memory had clothed itself in flesh and stood
before him, pitiful, solitary, — a woman. He had
scorned all legend and superstition, and here both
were made manifest to him. He had thought of this
woman as one who was of this world no more, and
here she mourned before him and bade him go and
look upon her dead, upon the man who had wronged

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

183

•e him. He

h?m, int^ whom, as he once declared, the soul of a cur
had entered, — and now what could he say? He had
carried in his heart the infinite something that is to
men the utmost fulness of life, which, losing, they
must carry lead upon their shoulders where they
thought the gods had given pinions.

McGann and Pierre were ner,vous. This conjunc-
tion of unusual things was easier to the intelligences
of the dead than the quick. The outer air was
perhaps less charged with the unnatural, and with a
glance towards the room where death was quartered,
they left the hut

Trafford was alone with the woman through whom
his life had been turned awry. He looked at her
searchingly ; and as he looked the mere man in him
asserted itself for a moment. She was dressed in
coarse garments ; it struck him that her grief had a
touch of commonness about it ; there was something
imperfect in the dramatic setting. His recent ex-
periences had had a kind of grandeur about them ; it
was not thus that he had remembered her in the
hour when he had called upon her in the
plains, and the Indian had heard his cry. He felt,
and was ashamed in feeling, that there was a grim
humour in the situation.. The fantastic, the melo-
dramatic, the emotional, were huddled here in too
marked a prominence ; it all seemed, for an instant,
like the tale of a woman's first novel. But im-
mediately again there was roused in him the latent
force of loyalty to himself and therefore to her ; the
story of her past, so far as he knew it, flashed before
him, and his eyes grew hot.

He remembered the time he had last seen her in an

i«4

MERRF AND HIS PKOl'LE.

English country-house amoncr a gay party in which
royalty smiled, and the subject was content beneath
the smile. Hut there was one rebellious subject, an*!
her name was Hester Orval. She was a wilful girl
who had lived life selfishly within the lines of that
decorous yet pleasant convention to which she was
born. She was beauttful, — she knew that, anil ro>-alty
had i^'raciously admitted it. She was warm-thoui^hted,
and possessed the fatal strain of the artistic tempera-
ment. She was not sure that she had a heart ; and
many others, not of her sex, after varying and
enthusiastic study of the matter, were not more con-
fident than she. But it had come at last that she had
listened with pensive j)leasure to Trafford's tale of
love; and becau.se to be worshipped by a man high
in all men's, and in most women's, esteem, ministered
delicately to her sweet egotism, and because she was
proud of him, she gave him her hand in promise, and
her cheek in privilege, but denied him — though he
knew this not — her heart and the service of her life.
But he was content to wait patiently . jr ihat service,
and he wholly trusted her, for there was in him some
fine spirit of the antique world.

There had come to Falkenstowe, this country-house
and her father's home, a man who bore a knightly
name, but who had no knightly heart ; and he told
Ulysses' tales, and covered a hazardous and cloudy
past with that fascinating colour which makes evil
appear to be good, so that he roused in her the pulse
of art, which she believed was soul and life, and her
allegiance swerved. And when her mother pleaded
with her, and when her father said stern things, and
even royalty, with uncommon use, rebuked her gently,

;

■ i

t'-'-i

THE SCAKIKT lIlINTrR.

iR:

her heart jjrcw hard ; and ahnost on the eve of her
wcddiiv^ (l.iy she fled with her lover, and nianid him,
and together they sailed away over the se.is.

The world was shocked and clamorous for a matter
of nine days, and then it lorj^ot this foolish and awk-
ward ci:cunistance ; hut Just Trafford never forgot it.
He remembered all vividly until the hour, a \ear
later, when London journals announced that llcster
Orval and her husband had gone down with a vessel
wrecked upon the Alaskan and Ca.iadian coast.
And there new regret began, and his knowledge of
her ended.

But she and her iiusband had not been diowned ;
with a sailor the\' had reached the shore in safety.
They had travelled inland from the coast through the
great mountains by unknown {)aths, and as they
travelled, the -ailor died ; and they came at last
through innumerable hardships to the Kimash Hills,
the hills of the Might)- Men, and there they stayed.
It was not an evil land ; it had neither deadly cold
in winter nor wanton heat in summer. Hut they
never saw a human face, and everything wa>. lonely
and spectral. For a time they strove to go eastwards
or southwards but the mountains were impassable,
and in the north and west there was no hope. Though
the buffalo swept by them in the valley they could
not slay them, and they lived on forest fruits until in
time the man sickened. The woman nursed him
faithfully, but still he failed ; and when she could go
forth no more for food, some unseen dweller of the
woods brought buffalo meat, and prairie fowl, and
water from the spring, and laid them beside her do(;r.

She had seen the mounds upon the hill, the wide

iSO

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

couches of the sleepers, and she remembered the
things done in the days when God seemed nearer to
the sons of men than now ; and she said that a spirit
had done this thing, and trembled and was thankful.
But the man weakened and knew that he should die ;
and one night when the pain was sharp upon him he
prayed bitterly that he mii^ht pass, or that help might
come to snatch him from the grave. And as they
sobbed together, a form entered at the door, — a form
clothed in scarlet, — and he bade them tell the tale of
Iheir lives as they would some time tell it unto heaven.
And when the tale was told he said that succour
should come to them from the south by the hand of
the Scarlet Hunter, that the nation sleeping there
should no more be disturbed by their moaning. And
then he had gone forth, and with his going there
was a storm such as that in which the man had died,
the storm that had assailed the hunters in the forest
yesterday.

This was the second part of Hester Orval's life as
she told it to Just Trafford. And he, looking into
her eyes, knew that she had suffered, and that she
had sounded her husband's unworthiness. Then he
turned froni her and went into the room where the
dead man lay. And there all hardness passed from
him, and he understood that in the great going forth
man reckons to the full with the deeds done in that
brief pilgrimage called life ; and that in the bitter
journey which this one took across the dread spaces
between Here and There, he had repented of his sins,
because they, and they onl\', went with him in mock-
ing company ; the good having gone first to plead
where evil is a debtor and hath a prison. And the

; I

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

187

woman came and stood beside Trafford, and whis-
pered, " At first — and at the last — he was kind."

But he urged her gently from the room : " Go
away," he said ; " go away. We cannot judge him.
Leave me alone with him.

They buried him upon the hill-side, far from the
mounds Where the Mighty Men waited for their
summons to go forth and be the lords of the North
again. At night they buried him when the moon
was at its full ; and he had the fragrant pines for his
bed, and the warm darkness to cover him ; and
though he is to those others resting there a heathen
and an alien, it may be that he sleeps peacefully.

When Trafford questioned Hester Orval more
deeply of her life there, the unearthly look quickened
in her eyes, and she said : " Oh, nothing, nothing is
real here, but suffering; perhap.-. it is all a dream, but
it has changed me, changed me. To hear the tread
of the flying herds, — to see no being save him, the
Scarlet Hunter, — to hear the voices calling in the
night! . . . Hush! There, do y^u not hear them ? It
is midnight — listen ! "

He listened, and Pierre and Shon McGann looked
at each other apprehensively, while Shon's fingers
felt hurriedly along the beads of a rosary which he
did not hold. Yes, they h ard it, a deep sonorous
sound : " Is the daybreak come ? " " It is still the
night," rose the reply as of one clear voice. And
then there floated through the hills more softly :
" We sleep — we sleep I " And the sounds echoed
through the valley — " sleep — sleep 1"

Yet though these things were full of awe, the spirit
of the place held them there, and the fever of the

I ':.

1 88

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

1^ )

i I

hunter descended on them hotly. In the morning
they went forth, and rode into the White Valley
where the buffalo were feeding, and sought to steal
upon them ; but the shots from their guns only
awoke the hills, and none were slain. And though
they rode swiftly, the wide surf of snow was ever be-
tween them and the chase, and their striving availed
nothing. Day after day they followed that flying
column, and night after night they heard the sleepers
call from the hills. And the desire of the thing
wasted them, and they forgot to eat, and ceased to
talk among themselves. But one day Shon McGann,
muttering aves as he rode, gained on the cattle, until
once again the Scarlet Hunter came forth from a
cleft of the mountains, and drove the herd forward
with swifter feet. But the Irishman had learned the
power in this thing, and had taught Trafford, who
knew not those availing prayers, and with these
sacred conjurations on their lips they gained on the
cattle length by length, though the Scarlet Hunter
rode abreast of the thundering horde. Within easy
range, Trafford swung his gun shoulderwards to fire,
but at that instant a cloud of snow rose up between
him and his quarry so that they all were blinded.
And when they came into the clear sun again the
buffalo were gone ; but flaming arrows from some
unseen hunter's bow came singing over their heads
towards the south ; and tiiey obeyed the sign, and
went back to where Hester wore her life out with
anxiety for them, because she knew the hopelessness
of their quest. Women are nearer to the heart ol
things. And now she begged Trafford to go south-
Waiids before winter froze tne plains impassably, and

THE SCARLET HUNTER.

189

the snow made tombs of the valleys. And he gave
the word to go, and said that he had done wrong —
for now the spell was falling from him.

But she, seeing his regret, said : " Ah, Just, it could
not have been different. The passion of it was on
you as it was on us ! As if to teach us that hunger
for happiness is robbery, and that the covetous desire
of man is not the will of the gods. 1 he herds are
fcr the Miglity Men when they awake, not for the
stranger and the Pliilistine."

" You have grown wise, Hester," he replied.

" No, I am sick in brain and body ; but it may be
that in such sickness there is wisdom."

" Ah," he said, " it has turned my head, I think.
Once I laughed at all such fanciful thinj^s as these.
This Scarlet Hunter, — how many times have you seen
him ? "

" But once."

" What were his looks ? "

" A face pale and strong, with noMe eyes ; and in
his voice there was something strange."

Trafiford thought of Shangi, the Indian, — where had
he gone ? He had disappeared as suddenly as he had
come to their camp in the South.

As they sat silent in the growing night, the door
opened and the Scarlet Hunter stood before them

" There is food," he said, " on the threshold, — food
for those who go upon a far journey to the South in
the morning Unhappy are they who seek for gold
at the rainbow's foot, who chase the fire-fly in the
night, who follow the herds in the White Valley.
Wise are they who anger not the gods, and who
fly beiore the rising storm. There is a path from the

IQO

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

Vii

's i

valley for the strangers, the path by which they came ;
and when tlie sun stares forth again upon the world,
the way shall be open, and there shall be safety for
you until your travel ends in the quick world whither
you go. You were foolish ; now you are wise. It is
time to depart ; seek not to return, that we may have
peace and you safety. When the world cometh to
her spring again we shall meet." Then he turned and
was gone, with Trafford's voice ringing after him, —
"Shangi! Shangi!"

They ran out swiftly, but he had vanished. In the
valley where the moonlii^ht fell in icy coldness a herd
of cattle was moving, and their breath rose like the
spray from sea-beaten rocks, and the sound of their
breathing was born upwards to the watchers.

At daybreak they rode down into the valley. All
was still. Not a trace of life remained ; not a hoof-
mark in the snow, nor a bruised blade of grass. And
when they climbed to the plateau and looked back, it
seemed to Trafford and his companions, as it seemed
in after years, that this thing had been all a fantasy.
But Hester's face was beside them, and it told of
strange and unsubstantial things. The shadows of
the middle world were upon her. And yet again
when they turned at the last there was no token. It
was a northern valley, with sun and snow, and cold
blue shadows, and the high hills, — that was all.

Then Hester said i " O Just, I do not know if this
is life or death — and yet it must be death, for after
death there is forgiveness to those who repent, and
your face is forgiving and kind."

And he — for he saw that she needed much human
help and comfort — gently laid his hand on hers and

THK SCARLET HUiNTER.

191

replied : " Hester, this is life, a new life for both of us.
Whatever has been was a ilrcam ; whatever is now,"
— and he folded her hand in his — ** is real ; and there
is no such thing as forgiveness to be spoken of be-
tween us. There shall be happiness for us yet, please
God ! "

" I want to ^o to Falkenstowe. Will — will my
mother forgive me ? "

" Mothers always forgive, Hester, else half the world
had slain itself in shame."

And then she sn.Iied for the first time since he had
seen her. • This was in the shadows of the scented
pines ; and a new life breathed upon her, as it breathed
upon them all, and they knew that the fever of the
White Valley had passed away from them forever.

After many hardships they came in safety to the
regions of the south country again ; and the tale they
told, though doubted by the race of pale-faces, was
believed by the heathen ; because there was none
among them, but as he cradled at his mother's breasts,
and from his youth up, had heard the legend of the
Scarlet Hunter.

For the romance of that journey, it concerned only
the man and woman to whom it was as wine and
meat to the starving. Is not love more than legend,
and a human heart than all the beasts of the field or
any joy of slaughter ?

V It

! r

Zbc Stone*

The Stone hung on a juttinfr crag of Purple Hill.
On one side of it, far beneath, lay the village, huddled
together as if, through being cl >se compacted, its
handful of humanity should not be a mere dust in the
balance beside Nature's portentousness. Yet if one
stood beside The Stone, and looked down, the flimsy
wooden huts looked like a barrier at the end of a
great flume. For the hill hollowed and narrowed
from The Stone to the village, as if giants had made
this concave patii by trundling boulders to that point
like a funnel where the miners' houses now formed a
cul-de-sac. On the other side of the crag was a valley
also; but it was lonely and untenanted; and at one
flank of The Stone were serried lei^^ions of trees.

The Stone was a mighty and wonderful thing.
Looked at from the vilia;^e direct, it had nothing but
the sky for a background. At times, also, it appeared
to rest on nothing; and mnny declared that they could
see clean between it and the oval floor of the crag on
which it rested. That was generally in the evening,
when the sun was setting behind it. Then the light
coiled round its base, between it and its pedestal, thus
making it appear to hover above the hill-point, or,
planet-like, to be just settling on it. At other times^
when the light was perfectly clear and not too strong,
and the village side of the crag was brighter than the

IQ2

THE STONE.

193

pie Hill,
huddled
cted, its
ist in the
2t if one
lie flimsy-
end of a
1 arrowed
ad made
at point
formed a
a valley
at one
es.

1 thin^.
ing but
ppeared
ey could
crag on
evening,
le light
tal, thus
•oint, or,
times^
> strong,
han the

other, nriore accurate relations of The Stone to its
pedestal could be discovered. Then one would say
that it balanced on a tiny base, a toe of granite. But
if one looked long, especially in the summer, when the
air throbbed, it evidently rocked upon that toe; if steadi-
ly, and very long, he grew tremulous, perhaps afraid.
Once, a woman who was about to become a mother
went mad, because she thought The Stone would
hurtle down the hill at her great moment and destroy
her and her child. Indians would not live either on
the village side of The Stone or in the valley beyond.
They had a legend that, some day, one, whom they
called The Man Who Sleeps, would rise from his
hidden couch in the mountains, and, being angry that
any dared to cumber his playground, would hurl The
Stone upon them that dwelt at Purple Hill. But
white men pay little heed to Indian legends.

At one time or another every person who had come to
the village visited The Stone. Colossal as it was, the
real base on which its weight rested was actually very
small : the view from the village had not been all de-
ceitful. It is possible, indeed, that at one time it had
really rocked, and that the rocking had worn for it a
shallow cup, or socket, in which it poised. The first
man who came to Purple Valley prospecting had often
stopped his work and looked at The Stone in a half-
fear that it would spring upon him unawares. And
yet he had as often laughed at himself for doing so,
since, as he said, it m'ust have been there hundreds of
thousands of years. Strangers, when they came to
the village, went to sleep somewhat timidly the first
night of their stay, and not infrequently left their beds
to go and look at The Stone, as it hung there omin-

194

PIEKKE AND HIS PEOPLE.

\ I

il )

ously in the light of the moon ; or listened towards
it if it was dark. When the moon rose late, and The
Stone chanced to be directly in front of it, a black
sphere seemed to be rolling into the light to blot it
out.

But none who lived in the village looked upon The
Stone in quite the same fashion as did that first man
who had come to the valley. He had seen it through
three changing seasons, with no human being near
him, and only occasionally a shy, wandering elk, or a
cloud of wild ducks whirring down the pass, to share
his companionship with it. Once he had waked in
the early morning, and, possessed of a strange feeling,
had gone out to look at The Stone. There, perched
upon it, was an eagle ; and though he said to himself
that an eagle's weight was to The Stone as a feather
upon the world, he kept his face turned towards it all
day ; for all day the eagle stayed. He was a man of
great stature and immense strength. The thews of
his limbs stood out like soft unbreakable steel. Yet,
as if to cast derision on his strength and great pro-
portions, God or Fate turned his bread to ashes, gave
failure into his hands where he hugely grasped at for-
tune, and hung him about with misery. He discovered
gold, but others gathered it. It was his daughter
that went mad, and gave birth to a dead child in fear-
some thouglit of The Stone. Once, when he had gone
over the hills to another mining field, and had been
prevented from comin;.^ back by unexpected and heavy
snows, his wife was taken ill, and died alone of star-
vation, because none in the village remembered of her
and her needs. Again, one wild night, long after, his
only son was taken from his bed and lynched for a

THi: STUNL.

195

owards

id The

a black

blot it

on The
St man
ihrough
ig near
;lk, or a
o share
aked in
feeling,
perched
himself
feather
js it all
man of
lews of
Yet,
at pro-
s, gave
at for-
covcred
aughtcr
in fear-
d gone
been
j heavy
Df star-
1 of her
ter, his
d for a

crime that was none of his as was discovered by his
murderers next day. Then the)- killed horribly the
real ciimitial, and offered the father such satisfaction
as they could. Thev said that an)' (jne of them was
ready there to be kilUd by him ; and they threw a
weapon at his feet. At this he stood looking upon
t' em for a moment, his great hre.ist heaving, and his
eyes glowering; but presently he reached out his
arms, and taking two of them by the throat, brought
their heads togetlier heavily, breaking their skulls ;
and, with a cr)' in his throat like a woiuided animal,
left them, and entered the village no more. But it
became known that he had built a rude hut on Purple
Hill, and that he had been seen standing beside The
Stone or sitting among the boulders below it, with his
face bent upon the village. Those who had come
near to him said that he had greatly changed ; that
his hair and beard had grown long and strong, and, in
effect, that he looked like some rugged fragment of
an antique world.

The time came when they associated The Man
with Tiie Stone : they grew to speak of him simply
as The Man. There was something natural and apt
in the association. Then they avoided these two
singular dwellers on the height. What had hap[)ened
to The Man when he lived in the village became al-
most as great a legend as the Indian fable concern-
ing The Stone. In the minds of the people one
seemed as old as the other. Women who knew the
awful disasters which had befallen The Man brooded at
times most timidly, regarding him as they did at first
— and even still — The Stone. Women who carried
life unborn about with them had a strange dread of

•'

19^

PIERRK AND HIS PKOPLE.

both The Stone and The Man. Time passed on, and
the feclinjT grew that The Man's pjrief must be a
terrible thinf^, since he lived alone with The Stone
and God. But this did not prevent the men of the
villag^e from dij^^.Ljing gold, drinking liquor, and doing
many kinds of evil. One day, again, they did an un-
just and cruel thing. They took Pierre, the gambler,
whom they had at first sought to vanquish at his own
art, and, possessed suddenly of the high duty of citi-
zenship, carried him to the edge of a hill and dropped
him over, thinking thereby to give him a quick death,
while the vultures would provide him a tomb. But
Pierre was not killed, though to his grave — unpre-
pared as yet — he would bear an arm which should
never be lifted higher than his shoulder. When he
waked from the crashing gloom which succeeded the
fall, he was in the presence of a being whose appear-
ance was awesome and massive — an outlawed god :
whose hair and beard were white, whose eye was
piercing, absorbing, painful, in the long perspective of
its woe. This being sat with his great hand clasped
to the side of his head The beginning of his look
was the village, and — though the vision seemed in-
finite — the village was the end of it too. Pierre,
looking through the doorway beside which he lay,
drew in his breath sharply, for it seemed at first as if
The Man was an unnatural fancy, and not a thing.
Behind The Man was The Stone, which was not more
motionless nor more full of age than this its comrade.
Indeed, The Stone seemed more a thing of life as it
poised above the hill : The Man was sculptured rock.'
His white hair was chiselled on his broad brow,
his ^ace was a solemn pathos petrified, his lips-

THE STONR

197

ay,

ips-

were curled with an iron contempt, an incalculable
anger.

The sun went down, and darkness gathered about
The Man. Pierre reached out his hand, and drank
the water and ate the coarse bread that had been put
near him. He i^ucssed that trees or pn^trudin^ ledges
had broken his fall, and tliat he had been rescued and
brought here. As he lay thinkiiii^, The Man entered
the doorway, stooping much to do so. With flints he
lighted a wick which huw^ from a wooden bowl of
bear's oil ; then kneeling, held it above his head, and
looked at Pierre. And Pierre, who had never feared
anyone, shrank from the look in The Man's eyes.
But when the other saw that Pierre was awake, a
distant kindness came upon his face, and he nodded
gravely ; but he did not speak. Presently a great
tremor as of pain shook all his limbs, and he set the
candle on the ground, and with his stalwart hands
arranged afresh the bandages about Pierre's injured
arm and leg. Pierre spoke at last.

" You are The Man ? " he said.

The other bowed his head.

"You saved me from those devils in the valley?
A look of impregnable hardness came into The Man's
face, but he pressed Pierre's hand for answer ; and
though the pressure was meant to be identic, Pierre
winced painfully. The candle spluttered, and the
hut filled with a sickly smoke. The Man brought
some bear skins and covered the sufferer, f^r, the
season being autumn, the night was cold. Pierre,
who had thus spent his first sane and conscious hour
in many days, fell asleep. What tim.e it was when he
waked he was not sure, but it was to hear a metailii

19^

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

'""

f
I )

III

click-click come to him through the clear airof nipht.
It was a pleasant noise as of steel and rock : the work
of some lonely stone-cutter of the hills. The sound
reached him with stran^^e, increasing distinctness.
Was this Titan that had saved him sculpturing some
figure from the metal hill ? Click-click I it vibrated as
regularly as the keen pulse of a watch. He lay and
wondered for a long time, but fell asleep again ; and
the steely iteration went on in his dreams.

In the morning The Man came to him, and cared
for his hurts, and gave him food ; but still would
speak no word. He was gone nearly all day in the
hills ; yet when evening came he sought the place
where Pierre had seen him the night before, a.id the
same weird scene was re-enacted. And again in the
night the clicking sound went on ; and ^wtry night it
was renewed. Pierre grew stronger, and could, with
difficulty, stand upon his feet. One night he crept
out, and ma'le his way softly, slowly, towards the
sound. He saw The Man kneeling beside The Stone,
he saw a hammer rise and fall upon a chisel ; and the
chisel was at the base of Tiie Stone. The hammer
rose and fell with perfect but dreadful precision.
Pierre turned and looked towards the village below,
whose lights were burning like a bunch of fire-flies in
the gloom. Again he looked at The Stone and The
Man.

Then the thing came to him sharply. The Man
was chiselling away the socket of The Stone, bringing
it to that point of balance where the touch of a finger,
the wing of a bird, or the whistle of a north-west
wind, would send it down upon the offending and un-
suspecting village.

I '

THE STONE.

199

The thoujrht held him pnralyscfl. The Man had
nursed his revenge lotv^^ past tlie tli(niL;lu of its pro-
bability by the people beiuath. lie had at first sat
and watched the villa^^e, hated, and mused dreadfully
upon the thini; he had determined to do. Then he
had worked a little, afterwanls more, and now, lastly,
since lie had seen what thev iiad done to Pierre, with
t!ic hot but firm caL;crness of an aveiiijinc^ ^iant.
Pierre had done some sad deeds in his time, aid had
tasted some sweet rcven;^es, but nothing like to this
had ever entered his brain. In that village were men
who — as they thought — had cast him to a d( ath fit
only for a coward or a cur. Well, here was the most
exquisite retaliation. Though his hand should not
be in the thing, he could still be the c\ nical and
approving spectator.

Hut yet : had all those people hovering about those
lights below done harm to him? Ilethouf-ht there
were a few — and thev were women — who would rot
have followed his tumbril to his death with cries of ex-
ecration. The rest would have done so, — most of them
did so, — not because lie was a criminal, hut because
he was a victim, and because human nature as it is
thirsts inordinately at times for blood and sacrifice — a
living strain of the old barbaric instinct. lie re-
membered that most of these people were concerned
in having injured The Man.. The few good women
there had vile husbands ; the few pardonable men
had hateful wives : the village of Purple Hill was an
ill affair.

He thought : now doubtfully, now savagely, now
with irony.

The hammer and steel clicked on.

i .

"•iX)

riKKKK AND HIS PKOPLK.

He lookril at (lir li}.;hts of Ihc vill.i^r a<;.iin.

SjuUIciiIn' ihcvc c.iinc to his niiiul tlic words nf a
^vc.\{ man wlu) soiu;IU to sav(* a city manifold (Cii-
turics ai^o. He was not sine that lie wisheti to save
this villaL;c ; but thete was a inim, almost i^iotcscjiic,
fitness in the thin^ ihat he now intentlcd. lie spoke
out clearly thi()ni;h the ni^ht :

" ' ( V/, //V ;;«'/ ///(■ Lord hr (tni^ry, and I will sf>('(}k vrt
but this ouce : /^eniilreniure ten n^i^litrous shall be
found thrre! "

The hammer stopped. There was a silenee, in
which the pines siiHicd lii;htl\*. Then, as if speaking
was a labour, The Man replied in a deep, harsh voice:

" I will not spare it for ten's sake."

Again there was a silence, in which I*ierre felt his
maimed body bend beneath him ; but [)rcsenlly the
voice said, — " Now ! '"

At this the moon swuni; from behind a cloud. The
Man stood behind The Stone. His arm was raised
to it. There was a moment's pause — it seemed like
years to Pierre ; a wind came softl)- crying out of the
west, the moon hurried into the dark, and then r^
monster sprani; fr^MU its pedestal upon Puri)le II ill,
and, with a sound of thunder and an awful speed,
raced upon the village bcUnv. The boulders of the
hillside crumbled after it.

And Pierre saw the lii^hts go out.

The moon shone out again for an instant, and
Pierre saw that The Man stood where The Stone had
been ; but when he reached the place The Man wa?
gone. Forever 1

(Tbe ^all flDaetcn

The

aiscd

II like

r the

en H

Mill,

)eed,

the

TlIK story hris been so much tosscrl about in the
mouths of Indians, and half hiccrls, and inen of the
Hudson's Hay Coinp.iriy, that > on are pretty sure to
hear only an apochryphal vrsion of the thin^ as
you now travel in the North. Hut Pretty Pierre
was at Fort Luke when the l»attle rxxurred, nnd
before and after he sifted the business thorou^jhly.
For he had a philosophical turn, and this may be said
of him, that he never lied except to save another
from danger. In this matter he was cool and im-
partial from first to last, and evil as his re[)utation
was in many ways there were those who l;elieved and
trusted him. Himself, as he travelled back and forth
through the North, had heard of the Tall Master.
Yet he had never met anyone who had seen him ; for
the Master had dwelt, it was said, chiefly among the
strange tribes of the P^ir-O ff Metal River whose faces
were almost white, and who held themselves aloof from
the southern races. The tales lost nothing by being
retold, even when the historians were the men of the
H.B.C. ; — Pierre kr»ew uhat accom[)lished liars may be
found among that Company of Adventurers trading in
Hudson's Bay, and how their art had been none too
delicately engrafted by his own people. Hut lie was,
as became him, open to conviction, especially when,
journeying to l\nt Luke, he heard what John fl}'bar.

I i

■ i

■1 .

:(,

■ {

(''

I ■?

s •.

h i

1 I

202

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

the Chief Factor — a man of uncommon quality — had
to say. Hybar had once lived long among those
Indians of the Bright Stone, and had seen many rare
things among them. He knew their legends of the
White Valley and the Mills of the Mighty Men, and
how their distinctive character had imposed itself on
the whole Indian race of the North, so that there was
none but believed, even though vaguely, in a pleasant
land not south but Arcticwards ; and Pierre himself,
with Shon McGann and Just Trafford, had once had
a strange experience in the Kimash Hills. He
did not share the opinion of Lazcnby, the Company's
clerk at Fort Luke, who said, when the matter was
talked of before him, that it was all hanky-panky, —
which was evidence that he had lived in London
town, before his anxious relatives, sending him forth
under the delusive flag of adventure and wild life, im-
prisoned him in the Arctic regions with the H. B. C.

Lazenby admired Pierre ; said he was good stuff,
and voted him amusing, with an ingenious emphasis
of heathen oaths ; but advised him, as only an in-
solent young scoundrel can, to forswear securing, by
the seductive game of poker or euchre, larger interest
on his capital than the H. B. C. ; whose record, he in-
sisted, should never be rivalled by any single man in
any single lifetime. Then he incidentally remarked
that he would like to empt\- the Company's cash-box
once — ^ nly once ; — thus reconciling the preacher and
the sinner, as many another has done. Lazenb3''s
morals were not bad, however. He was simply fond
of making them appear terrible ; even when in
London he was more idle than wicked. He
gravely suggested at last, as a kind of climax, that

rHE TALL MASTER.

203

he and Pierre should go out on the pad together.
This was a mere stroke of pleasantry on his part,
because, the most he could loot in that far North
were furs and caches of buffalo meat; and a man's
capacity and use for them were limited. Even Pierre*s
especial faculty and art seemed valueless so far Pole-
wards ; but he had his beat throughout the land,
and he kept it like a perfect pacrolmian. He had not
been at Fort Luke for years, and he would not be
there ac^ain for more years ; but it was certain that
he would go on reappearing till he vanished utterly.
At the end of the first week of this visit at Fort Luke,
so completely had he conquered the place, that he had
won from the Chief Factor the year's purchases of
skins, the stores, and the Fort itself; and every stitch
of clothing owned by Lazenby : so that, if he had in-
sisted on the redemption of the debts, the H. B. C. and
Lazenby had been naked and hungry in the wilder-
ness. But Pierre was not a hard creditor. He in-
stantly and nonchalantly said that the F'ort would
be useless to him, and handed it back again with
all therein, on a most humorously constructed ninety-
nine years' lease ; while Lazenby was left in pawn.
Yet Lazenby 's mind was not at certain ease ; he
had a wholesome respect for Pierre's singularities,
and dreaded being suddenly called upon to pay his
debt before he could get his new clothes made,
— maybe, in the presence of Wind Driver, chief of
the Golden D(jgs, and his demure and charming
daughter. Wine Face, who looked upon him with the
eye of affection — a matter fully, but not ostentatiously,
appreciated by Lazenby. If he could have entirely
forgotten a pretty girl in South Kensington, who, at

;

ili

iil^^

204

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLB.

her parents' bidding, turned her shoulder on him, he
had married Wine Face ; and so he told Pierre.
But the half-breed had only a sardonic kind of sym-
pathy for such weakness.

Things changed at once when Shon McGann
arrived. He should have come before, according to a
promise given Pierre, but there were reasons for the
delay ; and these Shon elaborated in his finely
picturesque style. He said that he had lost his way
after he left the Wapiti Woods, and should never have
found it again, had it not been for a strange being who
came upon him and took him to the camp of the White
Hand Indians, and cared for him there, and sent him
safely on his way again to Fort Luke.

" Sorra wan did I ever see like him," said Shon,
"with a face that was divil this minute and saint the
next ; pale in the cheek, and black in the eye, and
grizzled hair flowin' long at his neck and lyin' like
snakes on his shoulders ; and whin his fingers closed
on yours, bedad ! they didn't seem human at all, for
they clamped you so cold and strong."

" * For they clamped you so cold and strong,* "
replied Pierre, mockingly, yet greatly interested, as
one could see by the upward range of his eye towards
Shon. " Well, what more ? "

" Well, squeeze the acid from y'r voice, Pierre ; for
there's things that better become you : and listen to
me, for I've news for all here at the Fort, before I've
done, which'll open y'r eyes with a jerk."

" With a wonderful jerk, /io/a ! let us prepare,
messieurs, to be waked with an Irish jerk ! " and
Pierre pensively trifled with the fringe on Shon's
buckskin jacket, which was whisked from his fingers

THE TALL MASTER.

305

> M

pare,

and

ion's

igers

with smothered anger. And for a few moments he
was silent ; but the eager looks of the Chief Factor
and Lazenby encouraged him to continue. Besides,
it was only Pierre's way ; provoking Shon was the
piquant sauce of his life.

" Lyin' awake I was," continued Shon, " in the
middle of the night, not bein' able to sleep for a pain
in a shoulder I'd strained, whin I heard a thing that
drew me up standin'. It was the sound of a child
laughin', so wonderful and bright, and at the very
door of me tent it seemed. Then it faded away till it
was only a breath, lovely, and idle, and sv '^gin'.
I wint to the door and looked out There was
nothin' there, av coorse."

"And why * av coorse?'** rejoined Pierre. The
Chief Factor was intent on what Shon was saying,
while Lazenby drummed his fingers on the table,
his nose in the air.

" Divils me darlin', but ye know as well as I, that
there's things in the world neither for havin' nor
handlin'. And that's wan of thim, says I to meself . . .
I wint back and lay down, and I heard the voice
singin' now and comin' nearer and nearer, and growin'
louder and louder, and then there came with it a
patter of feet, till it was as a thousand children were
dancin' by me doer. I was shy enough, I'll own ; but
I pulled aside the curtain of the tent to see again :
and there was nothin' bej-and for the eye. But the
singin' was goin' past and recedin' as before, till it
died away along the waves of prairie grass. I wint
back and give Grey Nose, my Injin bed-fellow, a
lift wid me fut. ' Come out of that,' says I, * and tell
me if dead or alive I am.' He got up, and there

'' '1
> (

1 1

i i
i

206

PIKRKK AND HIS l^OIM.K.

was the noise soft and grand again, but with il now
the voices of men, the fli[) of birds' wings and the
sighin' of tree tops and behind all that the long
wash of a sea like none I ever heard. . . . ' Well/ sa>'s
I to the Injin grinnin' before me, ' what's that, in the
name o' Moses ? ' ' Tliat,' says he, laughin slow in me
face, 'is the Tall Master; him that brought you to
the camp.' Thin I remimbere.l all the things that's
been said of him, and I knew it was music I'd been
hearin' and not chiklren's voices nor anythin' else
at all/"

" ' Come with me,' says Grey Nose ; and he took me
to the door of a big tent standin' alone from the rest.
' Wait a minute,' says he, and he put his hand on the
tent curtain ; and at that there was a crash, as a
million gold hammers were fallin' on silver drums.
And we both stood still ; for it seemed an army,
with swords wranidin' and bridle-chains rattlin', was
marchin' down on us. There was the divil's own up-
roar, as a battle was comin' on ; and a long line of
spears clashed. But just then there whistled through
the larrup of sound a clear voice callin', gentle and
coaxin', yet commandin' too ; and the spears dropped,
and the pounding of horse-hoofs ceased, and then the
army marched away ; far away ; iver so far away^
into — "

" Into Heaven !" flippantly interjected Lazenby.

" Into Heaven, say I, and be choked to you ! for
there's no other place for it ; and I'll stand by that,
till I go there mx'self, and know the truth o' the
thing."

Pierre here spoke. " Heaven gave you a marvel-
lous trick with words, Shon. I sometimes think that

long

and

! for
that,
the

irvel-
that

THE TALL MASTER.

207

Irishmen have gifts for only two thi'nj:,fs — words and
women, . . . Well, what then ? "

Shon was determined not to be irritated. The
occasion was too big. " Well, Grey Nose lifted the
curtain and wint in. In a minute he comes out.
'You can go in,' says he. So in I wint, the Injin not
comin', and there in the middle of tiie tint stood The
Tall Master, ah^ne. He had his fiddle to his chin,
and the bow hoverin' abov(,' it. lie looked at me for
a long time along the thim; ; then, all at once, from
one string I heard the child laughin' that pleasant
and distant, though the bcnv seemed uot to be
touchin'. Soon it thinned till it was the shadow of a
laugh, and I didn't know whin it stop[jed, he smilin'
down at the fiddle bewhilcs. Then he said without
lookin' at me, — ' It is the spirit of the White Valley and
the Hills of the Mighty Men ; of which ail men shall
know, for the North will come to her spring again one
day soon, at the remakir;g of the world. They thought
the song would never be found again, but I have given
it a home here.* And he bent and kissed the strings.
After, he turned sharply as if he'd been spoken to, and
looked at someone beside him ; someone that I
couldn't see. A cloud dropped upon his face, he
caught the fiddle hungrily to his breast, and came
limpin' over to me — fur there was somethin' wrong
with his fut — and lookin' down his hook-nose at me,
says he, — * I've a word for them at Fort Luke, where
you're goin', and you'd better be gone at once ; and I'll
put you on your way. There's to be a great battle.
The White Hands have an ancient feud with the
Golden Dogs, and they have come fr m where the
soft Chinook wind ranges the Peace River, to fight

i:t'

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208

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

until no man of all the Golden Doc^s be left, or till
they themselves be destroyed. It is the same north
and south,' he wint on ; 'I have seen it all in
Italy, in Greece, in — ' but here he stopped and smiled
strangely. After a minute he wint on: 'The
White Hands have no quarrel with the Englishmen
of the Fort, and I would warn them, — for Englishmen
were once kind to me — and warn also the Golden
Dogs. So come with me at once/ says he. And I
did. And he walked with me till mornin', carryin*
the fiddle under his arm, but wrapped in a beautiful
velvet cloth, havin' on it grand figures like the arms
of a king or queen. And just at the first whisk of
sun he turned me into a trail and give me good-bye,
sayin' that maybe he'd follow me soon, and, at any-
rate, he'd be there at the battle. Well, divils betide
me ! I got off the track again ; and lost a day ; but
here I am ; and there's me story to take or lave as
you will."

Shon paused and began to fumble with the cards on
the table before him, looking the while at the others.

The Chief Factor was the first to speak. " I don't
doubt but he told you true about the White Hands
and the Golden Dogs," he raid ; " for there's been
war and bad blood between them beyond the
memory of man — at least since the time that the
Mighty Men lived, from which these date their his-
tory. But there's nothing to be done to-night ; for if
we tell old Wind Driver, there'll be no sleeping at the
Fort. So we'll let the thing stand."

"You believe all this poppy-cock. Chief?" said
Lazenby to the Factor, but laughing in Shon's face
the while.

1 1

THE TALL MASTKR.

209

^t, or till
[le north
t all in
d smiled
i: 'The
Tlishmen
Tlishmen

Golden
And I

carryin'
beautiful
the arms
whisk of
ood-bye,
, at any-
Is betide
lay ; but
r lave as

cards on
others.
" I don't
i Hands
es been
Dnd the
that the
leir his-
forif
g at the

?" said
>n's face

The Factor gravely replied : " I knew of the Tall
Master years ago on the Far-Off Metal River ; and
though I never saw him I can believe these things —
and more. You do not know this world through and
through, Lazenby ; you have much to learn."

Pierre said nothing. He took the cards from Shon
and passed them to and fro in his hand. Mechanically
he dealt them out, and as mechanically they took
them up and in silence began to play,

The next day there was commotion and excitement
at Fort Luke. The Golden Dogs weie making pre-
parations for the battle. Pow-wow followed pow-wow,
and paint and feathers followed all. The H. B. C.
people had little to do but look to their guns and
house everything within the walls of the Fort.

At night, Shon, Pierre, and Lazenby, were seated
about the table in the common-room, the cards lying
dealt before them, waiting for the Factor to come.
Presently the door opened and the Factor entered,
followed by another. Shon and Pierre sprang to
their feet

" The Tall Master," said Shon with a kind of awe ;
and then stood still.

Their towering visitor slowly unloosed something
he carried very carefully and closely beneath his arm,
and laid it on the table, dropping his compass-like
fingers softly on it. He bowed gravely to each, yet
the bow seemed grotesque, his body was so ungainly.
With the eyes of all drawn to him absolutely, he spoke
in a low sonorous tone : " I have followed the traveller
fast," — his hand lifted gently towards Shon — " for
there are weighty concerns abroad, and I have things
to say and do before I go again to my people — and

'1,"

: )

* f

• I.

f .i

210

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

beyond. ... I have hungered for the face of a white
man these many years, and his was the first I saw ; "
— again he tossed a long finger towards the Irishman
— ** and it brought back many things. I remember.
..." He i)ause(l, then sat down ; and they all did
the same. He lo(jkcd at them one by one with
distant kindness. " I remember," he continued, and
his strangely articulated fingers folded about the
thing on the table beside him, " when " — here the cards
caught his eye. His face underwent a change. An
eager fantastic look shot from his eye, — " when I
gambled this away at Lucca," — his hand drew the
bundle closer to him — " but I won it back again — at
a price ! " he gloomily added, glancing sideways as to
someone at his elbow.

He remained, eyes hanging upon space for a mom-
ent, then he recollected himself and continued: "I
became wiser ; I never risked it again ; but 1 loved
the game always. I was a gamester from the
start — the artist is always so when he is greatest, —
like nature herself. And once, years after, 1 played
with a mother for her child — and mine. And
yet once again at Parma with " — here he paused,
throwing that sharp sidelong glance — "with the
oreatest gamester^ for the infinite secret of Art:
and I won it ; but I paid the price ! . . . I should
like to play now."

He reached his hand, drew up five cards, and ran
his eye through them. ** Play!" he said. "The hand
is good — very good. . . . Once when I played with
the Princess — b;it it is no matter ; and Tuscany is
far away ! . . . Play ! " he repeated.

Pierre instantly picked up the cards, with an air of

THE TALL MASTER.

211

a white
I saw ;
rishman
member.
/ all did
me with
ucd, and
)out the
the cards
ige. An
when I
drew the
igain — at
ays as to

a mom-
nued: "I
1 loved
from the
leatest, —
1 played
e. And
paused,
with i/te
of Art:
I should

and ran

'he hand

[yed with

juscany is

air of

coo! satisfaction. He had either found the perfect
gamester or the perfect liar He knew the remedy
for either.

The Chief Factor did not move. Shon and Lazenby
followed Pierre's action. By their positions Lazenby
became his partner. They played in silence for a
minute, the Tall Master taking all. " Napoleon was a
wonderful player, but he losl with me," he said slowly
as he plriyed a card upon three others antl took them.

Lazenby was so taken back by this remark that,
presently, he trumped his [)artner's ace, and was re-
warded by a talon-like look from the Tall Master's
eye ; but it was immediately followed by one of
saturnine amusement.

They played on silently.

" Ah, you are a wonderful player!" he presently said
to Pierre, with a look of keen scrutiny. " Come, I
will play with you — for values — the first time in
seventy-five years ; then, no more ! "

Lazenby and Shon drew away beside the Chief
Factor. The two played. Meanwhile Lazenby said
to Shon : " The man's mad. He talks about
Napoleon as if he'd known him — as if it wasn't three-
fourths of a century ago. Does he think we're all
born idiots? Why, he's not over sixty years old now.
But where the deuce did he come from with that
Italian face ? And the funniest part of it is, he re-
minds me of someone. Did you notice how he
limped — tiie awkward beggar ! "

Lazenby had unconsciously lifted his voice, and
presently the Tall Master turned and said to him :
" I ran a nail into my foot at Leyden seventy-odd
years ago."

»i ;:

212

FIKRKK AND HIS I'KOHLE.

I.I

i ;

** f le's the flcvil liiinself," rejoined Lazenby, and he
did not lower his voice.

" Many witli angelic gifts are children of His Dark
Majcsty," said the Tall Master, slo\s ly ; and though he
appeared closely occupied with the game, a look of
vague sadness came into his face.

For a half-hour they played in silence, the
slight, delicate-featured half-l)rced, and the mys-
terious man who had for so long been a thing of
wonder in the North, a weird influence among the

Indians.

There was a strange, cold fierceness in the Tall

Master's face. He now staked his precious bundle

against the one thing Pierre prized — the gold watch

received years ago for a deed of heroism on the

Chaudi^re. The half-breed had always spoken of

it as amusini^, but Shon at least knew that to Pierre

it was worth his right hand.

Both men drew breath slowly, and their eyes were
hard. The stillncsr became painful ; all were pos-
sessed by the grim spirit of Chance. . . . The Tall
Master won. He came to his feet, his shambling body
drawn together to a height. Pierre rose also. Their
looks clinched. Pierre stretched out his hand. "You
are my master at this," he said.

The other smiled sadly. *' I have played for the last
time. I have not forgotten how to win. If I had
lost, uncommon things had happened. This,"~he laid
his hand on the bundle and gently undid it, — "is my
oldest friend, since the warm days at Parma . . ^ all
dead . . all dead." Out of the velvet wrapping,
broidered with royal and ducal arms, and rounded by
a wreath of violets — which the Chief Factor looked at

Tin; TALL MASTER.

213

and he

is Dark
[)Ugh he
look of

ice, thi
le mys-
:hing of
ong the

the Tall
s bundle
Id watch
I on the
(oken of
to Pierre

yes were

ere pos-

:he Tall

ng body

Their

"You

r the last

If I had

-he laid

— " is my

. . ^ all

rapping,

nded by

oked at

closely— he drew his violin. He hTted it reverently
to his lips.

" My good Garncnus!" he said. "Three masters
played you, but I am chief of tlicm all. They had the
classic soul, but I the romdntic heart — Us grandes
Caprices!' His head lifted higher. " I am tlie Master
Artist of the World. I liave fouiui the core of
Nature. Here in the North is the wonderful soul
of things. Beyond this, far be\ond, where the
foolish think is only inviolate ice, is the first song
of the Ages in a very pleasant land. I am the lost
Master, and I shall return, I shall return , . , but
not yet . . . not yet."

He fetched the instrument to his chin with a
noble pride. The ugliness of his face was almost
beautiful now.

The Chief Factor's look was fastened on him with
bewilderment; he was tryinL,^to remember something:
his mind went feeling, he knew not why, for a certain
day, a quarter of a century before, when he unpacked
a box of books and papers from England. Most of
them were still in the Fort. The association of this
man with these things fretted him.

The Tall Master swung his bow upward, but at that
instant there came a knock, and, in n sponse to a call.
Wind Driver and Wine Face entered. Wine Face
was certainly a beautiful girl ; and Lazenby might
well have been pardoned for throwing in his fate
with such a heathen, if he despaired of ever seeing
England agnin. The Tall Master did not turn
towards these. The Indians sat gracefully on a
bearskin before the fire. The eyes of the girl
were cast shyly upon the Man as he stood there un-

■ it'

214

PIKRRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

|i ■

like an ordinary man ; in his face a fine hardness and
the cold light of the North. lie suddenly tipped
his bow upward and broui^ht it down with a most
delicate crash upon tiie strin_«^s. Tiien softly, slowly,
he passed into a weird fantasy. The Indians sat
breathless. Upon them it acted more impressively
than the others : besides, the player's eye was search-
ing them now ; he was pla\'ing into their very bodies.
And they responded with some swift shocks of recog-
nition crossing their faces. Suddenly the old Indian
sprang up. He thrust his arms out, and iiiade, as
if unconsciously, some fantastic yet solemn motions.
The player smiled in a far-off fashion, and presently
ran the bow upon the strings in an exquisite
cry; and then a beautiful avalanche of sound slid
from a distance, growing nearer and nearer, till it
swept through the room, and imbedded all in its
sweetness.

At this the old Indian threw himself forward at the
player's feet. " It is the song of the White Weaver,
the maker of the world — the music from the Hills of
the Mighty Men. ... I knew it — I knew it — but
never like that. ... It was lost to the world ; the
wild cry of the lofty stars. . . ." His face was wet.

The girl too had risen. She came forward as if in
a dream and reverently touched the arm of the
musician, who paused now, and v.as looking at them
from under his long eyelashes. She said whisper-
ingly • " Are you a spirit ? Do you come from the
HUlsofthe Mighty Men?"

He answered gravely : *' I am no spirit. But I
have journeyed in the Hills of the Mighty Men
and along their ancient hunting-grounds. This

THE TALL MASTER.

215

less and
tipped
a most
slowly,
ians sat
essively
search-
bodies,
f recog-
Indian
ade, as
lotions,
■esently
iquisite
nd slid
, till it
in its

at the
l^eaver,
lills of
— but
1; the
wet.
IS if in
of the

them
lisper-
m the

But I

Men
This

that I have played is the ancient music of the
world — the music of Jubal and his comrades. It
comes humming from the Poles ; it rides laughing
down the planets ; it trembles through the snow ; it
gives joy to the bones of the wind. . . . And I am the
voice of it," he added ; and he drew up his loose un-
manageable body till it looked encmous, firm, and
dominant.

The girl's fingers ran softly over to his breast. " I
will follow you," she said, " when you go again to the
Happy Valleys."

Down from his brow there swept a faint hue of
colour, and, for a breath, his eyes closed tenderly
with hers. But he straightway gathered back his
look again, his body shrank, not rudely, from her
fingers, and he absently said : " I am old — in years
the father of the world. It is a man's life gone since,
at Genoa, she laid her fingers on my breast like that.
. . . These things can be no more . . . until the
North hath its summer again ; and I stand young
— the Master — upon the solemn summits of my
renown."

The girl drew slowly back. Lazenby was
muttering under his breath now ; he was over-
whelmed by this change in Wine Face. He had
been impressed to awe by The Tall Master's music,
but he was piqued, and determined not to give
in easily. He said sneeringly that Maskelyne
and Cooke in music had come to life, and sug-
gested a snake-dance.

The Tall Master heard these things, and im-
mediately he turned to Lazenby with an anf^ry
look on his face. His brows hung heavily over

i I
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2l6

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

j '■

U P !

the dull fire of his eyes ; his nair itself seemed
like Medusa's, just quivering into savage I'^e ;
the fingers spread out white and claw-like upon
the strings as he curved his violin to his chin,
whereof it became, as it were, a piece. The bow
shot out and down upon the instrument with a
great clangour. There eddied into a vast arena
of sound the prodigious elements of war. Tor-
ture rose from those four immeasurable cords ;
destruction was afoot upon them ; a dreadful dance
of death supervened.

Through the Chief Factor's mind there flashed —
though mechanically, and only to be remembered
afterwards — the words of a schoolday poem. It
shuttled in and out of the music :

■m

f '

** Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance.
And thunders rattle loud ;
And call the brave to bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud."

The face of the player grew old and drawn.
The skin was wrinkled, but shone, the hair spread
white, the nose almost met the chin, the mouth was
all malice. It was old age with vast power : con-
quest volleyed from the fingers.

Shon McGann uhispered ai'es, aching with the
sound ; the Chief Factor shuddered to his feet ;
Lazenby winced and drew back to the wall, putting
h*s hand before his face as though the sounds were
striking him; the old Indian covered his head with his
arms upon the floor. Wine Face knelt, her face all

THE TALL MASTER.

217

seemed
ge I'^e;
ke upon
lis chin,
rhe bow

with a

St arena

Tor-

; cords ;

ul dance

ilashed —
lembered
)em. It

grey, her fingers lacing and interlacing with pain.
Only Pierre sat with masterful stillness, his eyes never
moving from the face of the player ; his arms folded ;
his feet firmly wedded to the floor. The sound be-
came strangely distressing. It shocked the flesh and
angered the nerves. Upon Lazenby it acted singu-
larly. He cowered from it, but presently, with a look
of madness in his eyes, rushed forward, arms out-
stretched, as though to seize this intolerable minstrel.
There was a sudden pause in the playing ; then the
room quaked with noise, buffeting Lazenby into
stillness. The sounds changed instantly again, and
music of an engaging sweetness and delight fell
about them as in silver drops — an enchanting lyric of
love. Its exquisite tenderness subdued Lazenby,
who, but now, had a heart for slaughter. He dropped
on his knees, threw his head into his arms, and sobbed
hard. # The Tall Master's fingers crept caressingly
along one of those heavenly veins of sound, his
bow poising softly over it The farthest star seemed
singing.

• I

drawn.

spread
)uth was
er : con-

ith the
feet;
putting
ds were
with his
face all

At dawn the next day the Golden Dogs were
gathered for war before the Fort. Immediately after
the sun rose, the foe were seen gliding darkly out of
the horizon. From another direction came two
travellers. These also saw the White Hands bearing
upon the Fort, and hurried forward. They reached the
gates of the Fort in good time, and were welcomed.
One was a chief trader from a fort in the west. He
was an old man, and had been many years in
the service of the H. B. C. ; and, like Lazenby, had
spent his early days in London, a connoisseur in all its

: ■)

2ib

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

plensurcs ; the other was a voyngeiir. They had
posted on quickly to bring news of this crusade of the
White Hands.

The hostile Indians came steadily to within a few
hundred yards of the Golden Dogs. Then they sent a
brave to say that they had no quarrel with the people
of the Fort; and that if the Golden Dcgs came on
they would battle with them alone ; since the time
had comr: for "one to be as both," as their Medicine
Men had declared since the days of the Great Race.
And this signified that one should destroy the
other.

At this all the Golden Dogs ranged into line. The
sun shone brightly, the long hedge of pine woods in
the distance caught the colour of the sky, the flowers
of the plains showed handsomely as a carpet of war.
The bodies of the fighters glistened. You could see
the rise and fall of their bare, strenuous chests. , They
stood as their forefathers in battle, almost naked, with
crested head, gleaming axe, scalp-knife, and bows and
arrows. At first there was the threatening rustle of
preparation ; then a great stillness came and stayed
for a moment ; after which, all at once, there sped
through the air a big shout of battle, and the in-
numerable tivang of flying arrows; and the opposing
hosts ran upon each other.

Pierre and Shon McGann, watching from the Fort,
cried out with excitement.

" Divils me darlin'!" called Shon, "are we gluin' our
eyes to a chink in the wall, whin the tangle of battle
goes on beyand ? Bcdad, I'll not stand it! Look at
them twistin' the neck o' war ! Open the gates, open
the gates! say I, and let us have play with our guns!"

THE TATX MASTER.

2T9

ey had
e of the

in a few
y sent a
: people
ame on
le time
[edicine
Lt Race,
•oy the

;. The
oods in
flowers
of war.
uld see
• They
:d, with
ws and
jstle of
stayed
3 sped
he in-
posing

; Fort,

n' our
battle
)ok at
open
runs!"

* Hush ! Mo7i Dieuf' interrupted Pierre. " Look !
The Tall Master!"

None at the Fort had seen the Tall Master since
the night before. Now he was covering the space
between the walls and the battle, his hair streaming
behind him.

When he came near to the vortex of fight he raised
his violin to his chin, and instantly a piercingly sweet
call penetrated the wild uproar The Call filled
it, drained through it, wrapped it, overcame it ; so
that it sank away at last like the outwash of an ex-
hausted tide : the weft of battle sta) cd unfinished in
the loom.

Then from the Indian lodGfes came the women and
children. They drew near to the unearthly luxury of
that Call, now lilting with an unbounded joy. Battle-
axes fell to the ground; the warriors quieted even
where they stood locked with tlieir foes. The Tall
Master now drew away from them, facing the north
and west. That ineffable Call drew them after him
with grave joy ; and they brought their dead and
wounded along. The women and children glided in
among the men and followed also. Presently one
girl ran away from the rest and came close into
the great leader's footsteps.

At that instant, Lazenby, from the wall of the Fort,
cried out madly, sprang down, opened the gates, and
rushed towards the girl, crying : " Wine P'ace ! Wine
Face!"

She did not lf)ok behind. But he came close to her
and caught hen by the waist. " Come back ! Come
back 1 O my love, come baci: : " he ur;^'^ d ; but she
pushed him gently from her.

!'l

' I

!'l

220

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

" Hush ! Hush ! " she said. " We are going to the
Happy Valleys. Don't you hear him calling ? " . .
And Lazenby fell back.

The Tall Master was now playing a wonderful
thing, half dance, half carnival ; but with that Call
still beating through it. They were passing the Fort
at an angle. All within issued forth to see. Suddenly
the old trader who had come that morning started for-
ward with a cry; then stood still. He caught the
Factor's arm; but he seemed unable to speak yet; his
face was troubled, his eyes were hard upon the
player.

The procession passed the empty lodges, leaving
the ground strewn with their weapons, and not one oi
their number stayed behind. They passed away
towards the high hills of the north-west — beautiful
austere barriers.

Still the trader gazed, and was pale, and trembled.
They watched long. I'he throng of pilgrims grew
a vague mass; no longer an army of individuals;
^nd the music came floating back with distant
charm. At last the old man found voice. " My God,

It IS

The Factor touched his arm, interrupting him,
and drew a picture from his pocket — one but just
now taken from that musty pile of books, re-
ceived so many years before. He showed it to the
old man.

"Yes, yes," said the other, "that is he. . . .
And the world buried him forty years ago !"

Pierre, standing near, added with soft irony: *'There
are strange things in the world. He is a superb
gamester I ... a grand comrade."

ng to the
ig?" . .

^^onderful
that Call
the Fort
suddenly
irted for-
Jght the
yet; his
pon the

THE TAT,L MASTER.

22t

The music came wavin;..; hack upon them delicaleiy
but the pilgrims were fading from view.

Soon the watchers were alone with the glowing
day.

leaving
t one oi
d away
>eautiful

embled.
IS grew
i^iduals ;
distant
ly God,

i'i

g him,
ut just
ks, re-
to the

There

superb

!i .

111

ii;

tTbc Crimson Jflng.

Talk and think as one would, The Woman was
striking to see ; with marvellous flaxen hair and a
joyous violet eye. She was all pulse liud dash ; but
she was as much less beautiful than the manager's
wife as Tom Liffcy was as nothing beside the
manager himself: and one would care little to name
the two women in the same breath if the end had
been different. When The Woman came to Little
Goshen there were others of her class there, but they
were of a commoner sort and degree. She was the
queen of a lawless court, though she never, from first
to last, spoke to one of those others who were her
people ; neither did she hold commerce with any of
the ordinary miners, save Pretty Pierre, — but he was
more gambler than miner^ — and he went, when the
matter was all over, and told her some things tb?-t
stripped her soul naked before her eyes. Pierre had
a wonderful tongue. It was only the gentlemen-
diggers — and there were many of them at Little
Goshen — who called upon her wiien the lif^hts were
low; and then there was a good deal of muffled mirth
in the white house among the pines. The rougher
miners made no quarrel with this, for the gentlemen-
diggers were popular enough ; they were merely
sarcastic and humorous, and said things which, coming

to The Woman's ears, made her very merry ; for she

2aa

THE CRIMSON FLAG.

223

an was

and a
)h ; but
nager's
ie the

name
nd had

Little
It they
as the
n first
re her
my of
e was
n the

that
i had
men-
kittle
^vere
Tiirth
igher
Tien-
-rely
ning

she

herself had an abundant wit, and had spent wild
hours with clever men. She did not resent the play-
ful insolence that sent a dozen miners to her house in
the dead of night with a crimson f"^, which they
quietly screwed to her roof; and paint, with which
they deftly put a wide stripe of scarlet round the
cornice, and another round the basement. In the
morning, when she saw what had been done, she
would not have the paint removed nor the flag taken
down ; lor, she said, the stripes looked very well,
and the other would show that she was always at
home.

Now, the notable thing v/as that Heldon, the
manager, was in The Woman's house on the night
this was done. Tom Liffcy, the lumpish guide and
trapper, saw him go in ; and, days afterwards, he said
to Pierre : " Divils me own ! but this is a bad hour lor
Heldon's wife — she with a face like a princess and
eyes like the fear o' God. Nivir a wan did I see
like her, since I came out of Erin with a clatter of
hoofs behoind me and a squall on the sea before.
There's wimmin there wid cheeks like roses and
butliermilk, and a touch that'd make y'r heart pound
on y'r rib? ; but none that's grander than Heldon's
wife. To lave her for that other, standin' hip-high in
her shame, is temptin' the fires of Heaven, say I, that
basted the sinners o' Sodom."

Pierre, pausing between the whiffs of a cigarette,
said : " So ? But you know more of catching loxcs
in winter, and climbing mountains in summer, and
the grip of the arm of an Injin girl, than of these
things. You are young, quite young in the world,
Tom Liffey."

' I

5 .•:

! I

' I

224

riERRE AND HIS PKOPLR.

" Younjj I may be, with a ^liiit o' grey at me
temples from a night o' trouble bcyand in the hills ;
but I'm the man, an* the only man, that's climbed to
the glacier-top — God's Playground, as they call it:
and nivir a dirty trick have I done to Injin girl or
any other ; and be damned to you there ! say i."

" Sometimes I think you are as foolish as Shon
McGann," compassionately re{)lied the half-breed.
"You have almighty virtue, and you d.d that brave
trick of the glacier; but great men have fallen. You
are not dead yet. Still, as you say, Heldon's wife is
noble to see. She is grave and cold, and speaks
little ; but there is something in her which is not of
the meek of the earth. Some women say nothing,
and suffer and forgive, and take such as Heklon back
to their bosoms ; but there are others — I remember
a woman — well, it is no matter, it was long ago ; but
they two are as if born of one mother ; and what
comes of this will be mad play — mad play."

" Av coorse his wife may not get to know of it,
and—"

" Not get to know it ! *Tsh, you are a child — **

" Faith, I'll say what I think, and that in y'r face !
Maybe he'll tire of the handsome rip — for handsome
she is, like a yellow lily growin' out o' mud — and go
back to his lawful wife, that believes he's at the mines,
when he's drinkin' and coUoguin' wid a fly-away."

Pierre slowly wheeled till ho had the Irishman
straight in his eye. Then he said in a low, cutting
tone : '* I suppose your heart aches for the beautiful
lady, eh?" Here he screwed his slight forefinger
into Tom's breast ; then he added sharply : " By the
holy Heaven, but you make me angry ! You talk

THE CRIMSON FI-AO.

22$

r at me
e hills ;
11 bed to

call it:

girl or
i."

IS Shon
If- breed,
it brave
1. You
> wife is

speaks
s not of
nothing,
on back
member

o ; but
d what

of it,

f'r face !

idsome
ind go
mines,

ly.»

Ishman

:utting

Lutiful

;finger

\y the

talk

too much. Such men get into trouble And keep
down the riot of that sympathy of yours, Tom Liffey,
or you'll walk on the edge of knives one day. And
now take an inch of whisky and ease your anxious
soul. Voi/d!" After a moment he added: " Women
work these things out for themselves."

Then the two left the hut, and amiably strolled
together to the centre of the village, where they
parted.

It was as Pierre had said : the woman would work
the thing out for herself. Later that evening Heldon's
wife stood cloaked and veiled in the shadows of the
pines, facing the house with The Crimson Flag. Her
eyes shifted ever from the door to the flag, which was
stirred by the light breeze. Once or twice she
shivered as with cold, but she instantly stilled again,
and watched. It was midnight. Here and there
beyond in the village a light showed, and straggling
voices floated faintly towards her. For a long time
no sound came from the house. But at last she
heard a laugh. At that she drew something from
her pocket, and held it firmly in her hand. Once she
turned and looked at another house far up on the
hill, where li<.;hts were burning. It was Heldon's
house — her home. A sharp sound as of anguish and
anger escaped her ; then she fastened her eyes on the
door in front of her.

At that moment Tom Liffey was standing with his
hands on his hips looking at Heldon's home on the
hill ; and he said some rumbling words, then strode
on down the road, and suddenly paused near the
wife. He did not see her. He faced the door at
which she was looking, and shook his fist at it.

, i

. )

miM p - i -miiJU.-

■

226

I'IKKKK AM) HIS I'I'.Oi'Lli.

"A inurr.iiti 011 )'V sowl!" said lu?, "as there's
|)la;.'.uc in y'r hoily, aiul hell in tin.' shdc of y'r feet,
like th(.' trail of the red spider. And out o' that come
yc, Hellion, lor I know y'rc there. Out of that, ye
beast ! . . . Hnt how i<m ye ^o back — you that's
rolletl in //a// sevvcr — to the loveliest woman that ever
trod the lu.'ck o' the woilil ! I). mined y' arc in every
joint o' y'r frame, and d.unned is y'r sowl, say I, for
briiij^in^ sorrow to her ; ami I hate you as much for
that, as I could woishij) her was she not your wife
and a lady o' bluod, (lod save her ! "

Then, shakini; his fist once more, he swun^ away
slowh' down the ruatl. l)uiin<j this the wife's teeth
held together as thoiiL^h the\' were of a oiece. She
looked after Tom Liffey and smiled ; but it was a
dreadful smile.

" He worships mc, that common man — worships
me ! " she said. " This man who was my husband
has shamed mc, left me. Well — "

The door of the house opened ; a man came out
His wife leaned a little forward, and something
clicked ominously in her hand. But a voice came up
the road towards them through the clear air — the
voice of Tom Liffey. The husband paused to listen ;
the wife mechanically did the same. The husband
remembered this afterwards : it was the key to, and
the be^inninij of, a traj^cdy. These are the words the
Irishman san<i :

*' She was a queen, she stood up there before me,

My blooLl went roarin' when she touched my hahd:
She kissed me on the lijis, and then she swore me
To die for her — and happy was the land I "

THK CKIMSON KI,A(;.

227

there's
y'r feet,
at come
tliat, ye
u that's
hat ever
in every
ay I, for
luch for
our wife

njT away
e's teeth
ce. She
t was a

worships
husband

me out
methin^
came up
air — the
o listen ;
lusband
to, and
ords the

hahd:
■me

A new and sini^ulai look cime into her face. It
transf(jrmed her. " Ihat," slie saitl in a wliisper to
herself — "that ! He knows the way."

As her hushatul turned towards his home, she
turned also. lie heard the rustic of garments, and
he could just discern the cloaktul n;.;ure in the shadows.
He hurried on ; the fi<;ure ilitled ahead of him. A
fear possessed him in spite of his will. He turned
back. The fi<;ure stood still for a moment, tlien
followed him. He braced himself, faced about, and
walked towards it : it stopped and waited. He had
not the courage. He went back ai^ain swiftly towards
the house he had left. Aj^ain he looked behind him.
The li^^ure was standinj^, not far, in the pines. He
wheeled suddenly towards the house, turned a key in
the door, and entered.

Then the wife went to that which had been her
home : Heldon did not go thither until the first flush
of morning. Pierre, returiiing from an all-night sitting
at cards, met him, and saw the careworn look on his
face. The half-breed smiled. He knew that the
event was doubling on the man. When Heldon
reached his house, he went to his wife's room. It was
locked. Then he walked down to his mines with a
miserable shame and anger at his heart. He did not
pass The Crinihon Flag. He went by another
way.

That evening, in the dusk, a woman knocked at
Tom Liffey's door. He opened it

'* Are you alone ? " she said.

" I am alone, lady."

" I will come in," she added.

" You will — coir.e in ? " he faltered.

1' .

-2$

riKRRE AND HIS TKOPl.E.

She drew ne.ir him, iind reached out and gently
caught his hand.

"Ah ! " he said, with a sound a' most hkc a sob in
its intensity, and the blood llii Ivil to his hair.

He steppeel aside, and she entered. In the hght of
the candle her eye burned into his, but her face wore
a shinriig coldness. She leaned towards him.

"You said you could worship me," she whispered,
" and you cursed /i/fJi. Well — worship me — aitoLjether
— and that will curse him, as he has killed me."

" Dear lady 1 " he said, in ..n awed, overwhelmed
murmur ; ai»d he fell back to the wall.

She came towards him. " Am I not beautiful ? " she
urged. She took his hand. His eye swam with hers,
liut his look was different from hers, though he could
not know that. His was the madne.ss of a man in a
dream; hers was a painful thing. The Furies dwelt
in her. She softly lifted his hand above his head, and
whispered : " Swear." And she kissed him. Her lips
were icy, though he did not think so. The blood
tossed in his veins. He swore : but, doing so, he
could not conceive a// that would be required of him.
He was hers, body and soul, and she had resolved on
a grim thing. ... In the darkness, they left the hut
and passed into the woods, and slowly up through the
hills.

Heldon returned to his home that night to find it
empty. There were no servants. There was no wife.
Her cat and dog lay dea 1 upon the hearthrug. Her
clothing was cut into strips. Her wedding-dress was
a charred heap on the fireplace. Her jewellery lay
molten with it. Her portrait had been torn from its
frame.

TIIF CRIMSON FLAG.

229

1 gently

a sob in

e light of
face wore

hispered,
Litogcther
le.
rwhelmed

iful ? " she
with hers,
he could
man in a
ics dwelt
head, and

Her lips
he blood
ig so, he
d of him.

olved on
t the hut

ough the

to find it
no wife.
Her

ress was

|cllery lay

from its

lUfT

An intolerable fear possessed him. Drops of sweat
hung on his forehead and his hands. He fled towards
the town. He bit his finger-nails till they bled as he
passed the house in tlie pines. He lifted his arm as
if the flaf)pings of The Crimson Flag were blows in
his face.

At last he passed Tom Liffey's hut. He saw Pierre
coming from it. The locjk on the gambler's face was
one of gloomy wonder. His fingers trembled as he
lighted a cigarette, and that was an unusual thing.
The form of Heldon edged within the light. Pierre
dropped the match and said to him, — "You are look-
ing for your wife ? "

Heldon bowed his head. The other threw open
the door of the hut. " Come in here," he said. They
entered. Pierre pointed to a woman's hat on the
table. " Do you know that ? ' he asked, huskily,
for he was moved. But Heldon only nodded
dazedly.

Pierre continued : " I was to have met Tom Liffey
here to-night. He is not here. You hoped — I sup-
pose — to see your wife in your — home. She is not
there. He left a word on paper for me. I have torn
it up. Writing is the enemy of man. But I know
where he is gone. I know also where your wife has
gone."

Heldon's face was of a hateful paleness. , . . They
passed out into the night.

"Where are you going ? " Heldon said.

" To God's Playground, if we can get there."

" To God's Playground ? T j the glacier-top ? You
are mad."

" No, but Jie and sJie were mad. Come on.'* Then

. i

! I

;it

^- ^KMWW^nMP^;

) ,'

2^0

I'lEKkE AN1» HIS PEOPLE.

he whispered something, and Hcldon gave a great cry,
and Ihey plunged into the woods.

In the morning the people of Little Goshen, looking
towards the glacier, saw a flag (they knew afterwards
that it was crimson) flying on it. Near it were two
human figures. A miner, looking through a field-
glass, said tliat one figure w<is crouching by the flag-
staff, and that it was a woman. The other figure near
was a man. As the morning wore on, they saw upon
a crag of ice below the sloping glacier two men look-
ing upwards towards the flag. One of them seemed to
shriek out, and threw up his hands, and made as if to
rush forward ; but the other drew him back.

Heldon knew what revenge and disgrace may beat
their worst In vain he tried to reach God's Play-
ground. Only one man knew the way, and he v/as
dead upon it — with Heldon's wife : two shameless
suicides. . . . When he came down from the mountain
the hair upon his face was white, though that upon
his head remained black as it had always been. And
those frozen figures stayed there like statues with that
other crimson flag : until, one day, a great-bodied wind
swept out of the north, and in pity, carried them down
a bottomless fissure.

But long belore this happened. The Woman had fled
from Little Goshen in the night, and her house was
burned to the ground.

great cry,

1, looking
ftcrwards
were two
1 a field-
the flag-
gure near
saw upon
nen look-
leemed to
e as if to

nay beat
d's Play-
d he was
shameless
mountain
hat upon
m. And
with that
died wind
em down

1 had fled
LOuse was

tCbe 3fIoo^.

WendlTNG came to Fort Anne on the day that the
Reverend Ezra Badj^ley and an nnknown girl were
buried. And that was a notable thin •;, The man had
been found dead at his evening meal ; the girl had
died on the same day ; and they were buried side by
side. This caused much scandal, for the man was
holy, and the girl, as many women said, was probably
evil altogether. At the graves, when the minister's
people saw what was being done, they piously pro-
tested ; but the Factor, to whom Pierre had whimpered
a word, answered them gravely that the matter should
goon: since none knew but the woman was as worthy
of heaven as the man. Wendling ch.anced to stand be-
side Pretty Pierre.

" Who knows ! " he said alnud, looking hard at the
graves, " who knows ! . . . She died before him, but
the dead can strike."

Pierre did not answer immediately, for the Factor
was calling the earth down on both coffins ; but after
a moment he added : " Yes, tlie dead can strike."
And then the eyes of the two men caught and stayed,
and they knew that they had things to say to each
other in the world.

They became friends. And that, perhaps, was not
greatl)' to Wendling's credit ; for in the e}cs of many
Pierre was an outcast as an outlaw. Ma\be some of
the women disliked this friendsliip most ; since Wend-

i'4

> >

I 3

I 1,1

232

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

ling was a handsome man, and Pierre was never known
to seek them, good or bad; and they blamed him for the
other's coldness, for his unconcerned yet respev:tful eye.

" There's Nelly Nolan would dance after him to the
world's end," said Shon McGann to Pierre one day ;
" and the Widdy Jerome herself, wid her flamin' cheeks
and the wild fun in her eye, croons like a babe at the
breast as he slides out his cash on the bar ; and over
on Gansonby's Flat there's — "

" There's many a fool," sharply interjected Pierre,
as he pushed the needle through a button he was sew-
ing on his coat.

" Bedad, there's a pair of fools here, anyway, say I ;
for the women might die without lift at waist or brush
of lip, and neither of ye'd say, * Here's to the joy of
us, goddess, me own ! * "

Pierre seemed to be intently watching the needle-
point as it pierced up the button-eye, and his reply
was given with a slowness corresponding to the sedate
passage of the needle. " Wendling, you think, cares
nothing for women? Well, men who are like that
cared once for one woman, and when that was over —
But, pshaw! I will not talk. You are no thinker,
Shon McGann. You blunder through the world.
And you'll tremble as much to a woman's thumb in
fifty years as now."

" By the holy smoke," said Shon, " though I tremble
at that, maybe, I'll not tremble, as Wendling, at no-
thing at all." Here Pierre looked up sharply, then
dropped his eyes on his work again. Shon lapsed
suddenly into a moodiness.

" Yes," said Pierre, " as Wendling, at nothing at all ?
Well?"

;

rif

THE FLOOD.

233

" Weil, this, Pierre, for you that's a thinker from me
that's none. I was vvalkiivjc with him in Red Glen
yesterday. Sudden he took to shivcrin', and snatched
me by the arm, and a mad look shot out of his hand-
some face. ' Hush ! ' says he. I listened. There
was a sound like the hard rattle of a creek over stones,
and then another sound behind that. ' Come quick,*
says he, the sweat standin' thick on him ; and he ran
me up the bank — for it was at the beginnin' of the
Glen where the sides were low — and there we stood
pantin' and starin' flat at each other. * What's that ?
and what's got its hand on ye ? for y' are cold as
death, an' pinched in the face, an' you've bruised my
arm,' said I. And he looked round him slow and
breathed hard, then drew his fingers through the sweat
on his cheek. * I'm not well, and I thought I heard
— you heard it ; what was it like ? ' said he ; and he
peered close at me. * Like water,* said I ; * a little
creek near, and a flood comin' far off.' * Yes, just
that,' said he ; * it's some trick of wind in the place, but
it makes a man foolish, and an inch of brandy would
be the right thing.' I didn't say No to that. And on
we came, and brandy we had with a wish in the eye
of Nelly Nolan that'd warm the heart of a tomb. . . .
And there's a cud for your chewin', Pierre. Think
that by the neck and the tail, and the divil absolve
you."

During this, Pierre had finished with the button.
He had drawn on his coat and lifted his hat, and now
lounged, trying the point of the needle with his fore-
finger. When Shon ended, he said with a sidelong
glance : " But what did you think of all that, Shon ? "

" Think ! There it was ! What's the use of

I !

! I

v <

t •

1 ;■

: <,

A 3

■l ■■>

1,5 I

23 f

PIllKkK AND MIS l'i;n|'LK.

thiiikin'? There's ni.iiiy a trick in the world with
wind or with si)iril, as I've ^eeii often cnoiii;h in ould
Irclanii, .ind it's not to he L^uessed hy me." Here his
voice ^ot a htlle lower and a trifle solemn. " For,
Pierre," spoke he, "there's what's more than life or
death, and sorra wan can we tell what it is ; but we'll
know some day whin -"

" VVHien we've taken the leap at the Almijjjhty
Ditch," said Pierre, with a v^vavc kind of liLjhtness.
"Yes, it is all strani;e. Hut even the AhniLjhty Ditch
is worth the doini; : nearly everythini^ is worth the
doing ; beini;- youni^ L,n-owini]^ old, flighting, loving—
when youth is on — hating, eating, drinking, working,
playing big games : all is worth it except two things."

" And what are they, bedad ? "

"Tin* neisjhbour's wife. Murder. — Those are hor-
rible. They double on a man one time o; another ;
always."

Here, as in curiosity, Pierre pierced his finger with
the needle, and watched the blood f(^rm in a little
globule. Looking at it mcditativel)- and sardonically,
he said : " There is only one end to these. Blood for
blood is a great matter ; anti I used to wonder if it
would ncH be terrible for a man to see his death ad-
vancing on him drop by drop, like that." And he let
the spot of blood fall to the floor. " Hut now I know
that there is a punishment worse than that . . . tnon
Dicu ! wt^rse than that," he added.

Into Shon's face a strange look had suddenly come.
" Yes, there'.^ something worse than that, Pierre."

" So, Men ? "

Shon made the sacred gesture of his creed. " To
be punished b}- the dead. And not see them — only

TIIK KLOOI).

235

rid with

I in ould
Here his
. '• For,

II hTe or
but we'll

dmij^hty
ii^htncss.
ty Ditch
[)rth the
loviiiir —
A'orkiriL^,
things."

arc hor-
nother ;

^er with

a little

:)nically,

lood for

ler if it

:ath ad-

d he let

I know

. . mon

Y come.

"To

1 — only

hear them." And his eyes steadied firmly to the
otlu'i 's.

Pierre was ahoiit to reply, but there came the
. sound of fo()tste|)s thruii;.;h the- oi'cii door, and pre-
sently Wendlin;.; entered slowly. I le was pale and
worn, and his eyes looked out with a searching
anxiousness. Hut that di-l not render him less
comely. He had always dics-;c(l in black and white,
and this now addt^l to tin; easy .-md yet se\(,'re rc-fme-
ment of his nerson. Mis birth and breeding had
occurred in places unfreciuented by such as Shon and
Pierre ; but plains and wild life level all ; and men
are friends according to their taste and will, and by
no other law. Hence tliese with Weiidiing. He
stretched out his hand to each without a word. The
hand-shake was unusual ; he had little demonstration
'ever. Shon looked up surj)rise(l, but responded.
Pierre followed with a swift, incjuiring look ; then, in
the succeeding pause, he offered cigarettes. Wend ling
took one ; and all, silent, sat down. The sun
streamed intempcrately through the doorway, mak-
ing a broad ribbon of light straight across the floor to
Wendling's feet. After lighting his cigarette, he
looked into the sunliglit for a moment, still not
speaking. Shon meanwhile had started his pipe, and
now, as if he found the silence awkward,* — " It's a day
for God's country, this," he said : " to lUakc man a
Christian for little or much, though he play with the
Divil betunewhiles." Without looking at them,
Wendling said, in a low voice : '* It was just such a
day, down there in Quebec, when It hai)nened. You
could hear the swill of the river, and the water lick-
ing the piers, and the saws in the Big Mill and the

i r

r 1:

ll'

7^6

PTFRKF AND TTTS rKOPV.B.

Little Mill as [hrv inaulu'd thrnnpjh the tfmhrr,
fla^hifij; their t<Mih liki' h.iNniiets. It's a wonderlul
^ound (Ml a hot, clc.ir (l.iy that wild, keen ^in;;iiij^ of
the saws, like the ciy of a I vc thin;; fl;,;htiii^]^ and
eotuiuerinj;. Up from the tVesh-cnt Ininht r m tlv
y.irds there eain(^ a sincll liki> the juice of apples, anc'
th(^ sawdust, .'s yon inrnst mhw hand into it, vv.i; .!-
cool and solt as the leaves of a elove-llovver in die
(k:\v. On these (.lays th(* town was always still. It
hooked sU^c^pin;^, and yon saw the heat qniverinij np
tVoni the wooden wiills and tlu^ loofs ol cedar shinj^le.s
as thoui;h the 'lOu^cs were hreathin;;."

Picie he paused, still intent on thi> shakinp^ sun-
shine. I'hen he turned to the others as it' suddenly
awaf' that he had bixMi talkit^i; to thiMU. Shon was
about to s})eak. hut Pit rre threw a r strainin*]^ ^l.mee,
and. instead, they all looked thr(MiL;h the doorway
and bey^ond. In [he settlement below they .^'w the
eflfect that Wendlin;^ had disca-ibed. 'I'he houses
breathcil. A i^rasshopper w enl elackini^ j)ast, a do<^
at the door snapped up a {1\- ; hut there seemed no
other lite of c!a\-. Wendlip'^ nodded his head to-
wards the .list, nice. " It w a-^ (pu'et, like that I
stood and watched the mills and th :' \ards, and
listened to the saws, and io(>ked at the ^reat slide,
and the loi^s on ihe river : and I said ever to myself
that it was all mine ; all. Then I turned to a bij^
house on the hillock beyond -he cedars, whose
wiadows were open, w ilh a cool dusk lyin<^^ behind
them. More than all else, I loved to think I owned
that house and what was in it . . . She was a beauti-
ful woman. And she used to sit in a room facing the
mill — though the house fronted another way — thinking

TIIK KLOOI).

237

i\ no

of 1110, I (lid tidt (l<.iil)t. ;nui w'»rkin;j at Sf»mr <leliratc!
needle st 1 1 IT. 'Iliere iiev(!r had heen a sharp won]
l)elvveen ns, save when I «|ii,irrelled hift'-rly with her
brother, and he left the itiill and went away. liut she
got over tliat mostly, flvMi^di thr: lad's natne was never
mentioiK'd between us. 'I hat day f was sf) hungry
for tli<* si^dit ofhcr that I y^ >\ my H -Id-^^lass -used to
walv'h my vessels and rafts malsin*^^ across the bay —
and traiiUMl it on th(! window uh' re I knew she sat.
I tliouj^dil It would amns(! her, too, when I v rit back
at ni^ht, if I told her what he had been doin^. I
hiu;.du-d to myseir at the thou^dit of it as I adjusted
the '^dass. ... I lo<)k(Ml. . . . 'I In; re was no more
lau;.;hin^'. ... I saw her, and in front (>f her a man,
with his back lialf on me. I could not recognise him,
thou^^h at the instant I thou;.dit he was something
familiar. I failed to |.^et his face at all. llers I ffHind
indistinctly. lUit I saw hifn catch her [>Iayfully by
the cliin ! Alter a little they rose. He put his arm
about her and kissed her, and he ran his fingers
through her hair. She h-iti such fine golden hair ; so
light, and lifted to every breath. Something got

into my brain. I know now it was the maggot which
sent Othello mad. The world in that hour was
malicious, awful. . . .

" After a time — it seemed ai^^es : she and everything
had receded so far — I went . . home. At the door
I asked the servant v\'ho had been there. She hesi-
tated, confused, and then said the young curate of
the parish. I was very cool : for madness is a strange
thing ; you see everything with an intense aching
clearnes.s — that is the trouble. . . . She was more kind
than common. I do not think i was unusual. I was

238

PIRRRE AND HIS PKOPLR.

ii ,

playinjT a part well, -my j^iaiulinothcr had Indian
bl(Jod like yoMis, Pierre, — and I was waiting. I was
even nicely oritical of her to myself. I balanced the
m(jle on her neck aijainst her jj^encral be.iuty ; the
curve of her instep, I decided, was a little too em-
phatic. I passed her back and forth before me, weiL;h-
ing her at every point ; but yet these two things were
the only imijerfections. I pronounced her an exceed-
ing pier:e of art — and infamy. I was much inter-
ested to see how she could ap[)ear perfect in her soul.
I encouraged her to talk. I saw with devilish irony
that an angel spoke. And, to cap it all, she assumed
the fascinating sir of the mediator — for her brother;
seeking a reconciliation Letween us. Her amazing
art of person and mind so worked upon me that it be-
came unendurable ; it was so exquisite — and so shame-
less. I was sitting where the priest had sat that after-
noon ; and when she leaned towards me I caught her
chin lightly and trailed my fingers through her hair as
he had done : and that ended it, for I was cold, and
my heart worked with horrible slowness. Just as a
wave poises at its height before breaking upon the
shore, it hung at every pulse-beat, and then seemed
to fall over with a sickening thud. I arose, and, act-
ing still, sp )ke impatiently of her brother. Tears
sprang to her eyes. Such divine dissimulation,
I thought ; — too good for earth. She turned to
leave the room, and I did no: stay her. Yet we
were together again that night. ... I was only

waitmg.

The cigarette had dropped from his fingers to the
floor, and lay there smoking. Shon's face was fixed
with anxiety ; Pierre's eyes played gravely with the

Till-: FLOOD.

239

wei'jh-

sunshine. VVcml.in^ drew a hcav)' breath, and llien
went on.

" A<;ain, next day, it u as Uk ' this — the world drain-
ing the heat. ... I watched from the \V\^^ Mill. I
'saw tiiem a^ain. lie leaned over her chair and
buried his face in her hair. The i)roof was absolute
now. ... I started awa)-, goini; a roundabout, that I
ini<4ht not be seen. It t(K)k nie some time. I was
passin<^ through a clump of cedar w hen I saw them
makin<^ towards the trees skirtini; the river. Their
backs were on me. Suddenly they diverted their
steps towards the i^reat slide, shut off from water th s
last few months, and used as a (juarr)- tc; deei)en it.
Some petrified things had been found in the rocks, but
I did not think they were going to ihese. I saw them
climb down the rorky steps ; and presently tliey
were lo^t to view. The gates of the slide could be
opened by machinery from the Little Mill. A terrible,
deliciously malignant thought came to me. I re-
member how the sunlight crept away from me and
left me in the dark. 1 stole through that darkness to
the Little Mill. I went to the machinery for opening
the gates. Very gen ly I set it in motion, facing the
slide as I did so. I could see it through the open
sides of the mill. I smiled to think what the tiny
creek, always creeping through a faint leak in the
gates and falling with a granite rattle on the stones,
would now become. I pushed the lever harder —
harder. I saw the gates suddenly give, then fly open,
and the river sprang roaring massively through them.
I heard a shriek through the roar. I shuddered ; and
a horrible sickness came on me. . . . And as I turned
from the machinery, I saw the >'oUi.g priest coming at

! •■;•

,41 1

240

PIKRRK AND HIS I'KOIT.E.

me throufi[h a doorway ! . . . It was not the priest
and my wife that 1 h.itl killed ; but my wife and her
brothir. . . ."

lie threw his head back as thoi^^h something
clamped his thioat. His voice ruiiL^hened with
misi:ry : — "The yoiin^ piiest buried them both, and
people did not know ihe truth. 1 hey were even sorry
for me. But I f^ave up the mills — all ; and I became
homeless , . . this."

Now he looked up at the two men, and said : '* I
have told you because you know something, and be-
cause there will, I think, be an end soon." He got
up and reached out a trembling hand for a ci;_;arelte.
Pierre gave him one. " Will you walk with me ?" he
asked.

Shon shook his head. " God forgive you ! " he re-
plied ; " I can't do it."

But Wcndling and Pierre left the hut together.
They walked for an hour, scarcely speaking, and not
considering where they went. At last Pierre mechani-
cally turned to go down into Red Glen. Wendling
stopped short, then, with a sighing laugh, strode on.
" Shon has told you what happened here? " he said.

Pierre nodded.

" And you know what came once when you walked
with me. , . The dead can strike," he added.

Pierre sought his eye. " The minister and the girl
buried together that day," he said, " were — "

He stopped, for behind him he heard the sharp,
cold trickle of water. Silent they walked on. It
followed them. They could not get out of the Glen
now until they had compassed its length — the walls
svere high. The sound grew. The men faced each

I III M.< M )h.

241

; priest
and hcf

nothing
d with
)th, and
:n sorry
became

aid : '* I
and be-
Hc got

i paretic.

ne?"he

()th(.'r. "(iiKtd hyi'." said \\'« ndliii;.; ; and lu; rcailud
out his li.tiid swiftly. lint i'urrc Icard a mi^ht)'
flood _L;roaiiitij^ on tlu-iii, and he hlimicd as he slrctc hcd
his arm in ri'sponsc. I Ic ( aii;.',ht atWcndlinj^'s sh()ukk.r,
but felt hiMi lifted and canicd awa)', wliilc he himself
stood still in a screeehin^ wind and heard imj).ili)able
water rusl)in|^^ over him. in a minute it was j^onc ;
and he stood aloni: in \ici\ (Hen.

He [gathered himseU up and laii. l''ar down, wlierc
the (ilcn opened to tiie i)l,iin, he found W'endling.
The hands were wiinklecl; the face was cold; the
body was wet : the man was drowned and dead

" he re-

ogether.
nd not
echani-
endling
ode on.
said.

walked

I the girl

sharp,

ion. It

le Glen

le walls

;d each

! if,

3n ptpi Dalles-

:i.

*' DiVlLS me darlins, it's a memory I have of a time
whin luck wasn't foldin' her arms round me, and not
so far back aither, and I on the wallaby track hot-
foot for the City o' Gold."

Shon McGann said this in the course of a discussion
on the pro-spciity of the Pipi Valley. Pretty Pierre,
remarked nonchalantly in reply, — " The wallaby
track — eh — what is that, Shon ? "

" It's a bit of a haythen y' arc, Pierre, — the wallaby
track ? — that's '•he name in Australia for trampin*
west throut^h the plain^ of rhe Never Never Country
lookin' for the luck o' the world ; as, bedad, it's
meself that knows it, and ud other, and not by book
or tellin' either, but with the grip of thirst at me
throat and a reef in me belt every hour to quiet the
gnawin' ; " — and Shon proceeded to light his pipe
afresh.

" But the City o' Gold — was there much wealth for
you there, Shon ? "

Shon laughed, and said between the pufTs of smoke, —

" Wealth for me, is it ? Oh, mother o' Moses ! wealth

of work and the pride of livin' in the heart of us, and

the grip of an honest hand betune whiles ; and what

more do y' want, Pierre ? "

The Frenchman's drooping eyelids closed a little

242

IN PIPI VALLEY.

243

of a time
, and not
rack hot-

iiscussion

ty Pierre,

wallaby

e wallaby
trampin*
Country

|edad, it's

by book

St at me

quiet the

his pipe

wealth for

|smoke, —
! wealth

i^f us, and
ind what

Id a little

more, and he replied, meditatively, — ** Money ? — no,
that is not, Shon McGann. The good fellowship of
thirst ? — yes, a little. The grip of the honest hand ?
— quite ; and the clinch of an honest waist? well, per-
haps ; of the waist which is not honest ? — tsh ! he is
gay — and so i "

The Irishman took his pipe from his mouth, and
held it poised before him. He looked inquiringly and
a little frowningly at the other for a moment, as if
doubtful whether to resent the sneer that accompanied
the words just spoken ; but at last he good-humoured ly
said : " Blood o' me bones, but it's much I fear
the honest waist hasn't always been me portion —
Heaven forgive me ! "

^^ Man DieUy this Irishman !" replied Pierre. " He
is gay ; of good heart ; he smiles, and the women are
at his heels ; he lauijhs, and they are on their knees —
he is a fool 1 "

Still Shon I\TcGann laughed.

" A fool I am, Pierre, or I'd be in ould Ireland at
this minute, with a roof o' me own over me and the
friends o* me youth round me, and brats on me knee,
and the fear o' God in me heart."

" Mais^ Shon," mockingly rejoined the Frenchman,
"this is not Ireland, but there is much like that to be
done here. There is a roof, and there is that woman at
Ward's Mistake, and the brats — eh, by and by ? "

Shon's face clouded ; he hesitated, then replied
sharply : " T/iat woman, do y' say, Pierre, she that
nursed me when The Honuurable and mesclf were
taken out o' Sandy Drift, more dead than livin' ; she
that brought mc back to life as good as ever, barrin'
this scar o». me forehead and a stiffness at me elbow,

t- t

■ t

•ill

I : i

r I

5 Z
I

I f

f ^

■• I

244

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

and The ITonoiirable as rii^lit as thesui:, more luck to
!iini ! — which he doesn't need at all, with the wind of
fortune in his back and shiftin' neitlier to right nor
left 1 — 77<!^?/ wonian ! faith, y'd better not cut the
words so sharp betune yer teeth, Pierre."

''■ But I will say more — a little — ^just the same.
She nursed you — well, that is i^ood; but it is good also,
I think, you pay her for that, and stop the rest.
Women are fools, or else they are worse. This one ?
— she is worse. Yes ; you will take my advice, Shon
McGann."

The Irishman came to his feet with a spring, and
his words were angry.

'* It doesn't come well from Pretty Pierre, the
gambler, to be revilin' a woman ; and I throw it in
y'r face, though I've slept under the same blanket
with ye, an' drank out of the same cup on many a
tramp, that you lie dirty and black when yQ spake ill
— of my wife."

This conversation had occurred in a quiet corner of
the bar-room of the Saints' Repose. The first few
sentences had not been heard by the others present ;
but Shon's last speech, delivered in a ringing tone,
drew the miners to their feet, in expectation of seeing
shots exchanged at once. The code required satis-
faction, immediate and decisive. Shon was not
armed, and someone thrust a pistol towards him; but
he did not take it. Pierre rose, and coming slowly
to him, laid a slender finger on his chest, and
said :

" So ! I did not know that she was your wife.
That is a surprise."

The miners nodded assent He continued :

IN PIPI VALLEY.

245

lick to
/ind of
ht nor
jt the

same.
»d also,
e rest,
s one?
:, Shon

ig, and

re, the
w it in
blanket
nany a
)ake ill

rner of
rst few
resent ;
tone,

seeing
satis-
is not
■n; but
slowly
t, and

•' wife.

" Luc_y Rives your wife ! Ha, ha, Shon McGaiin,
that is such a joke."

" It's no joke, but God's truth, and the He is v\ ith
you, Pierre."

Murmurs of anticipation ran round the room ; but
the Frenchman said: "There will be satisfaction al-
together; but it is my whim to prove what I say first;
then — " fondling his revolver — " then we shall settle !
But, see : you will meet me here at ten o'clock to-night,
and I will make it, I swear to you, so clear, that the
woman is vile.

The Irishman suddenly clutched the gambler, shook
him like a dog, and threw him against the farther wall
Pierre's pistol was levelled from the instant Shon
moved ; but he did not use it. He rose on one knee
after the violent fall, and pointing it at the other'js
head, said coolly : " I could kill you, my friend,
so easy ! But it is not my whim. Till teu o'clock is
not long to wait, and then, just here, one of us shall
die. Is it not so?"

The Irishman did not flinch before the pistol. He
said with low fierceness : " At ten o'clock, or now, or
any time, or at any place, y'U find me ready to break
the back of the lies y've spoken, or be broken meself.
Lucy Rives is my wife, and she's true and straight as
the sun in the sky. I'll be here at ten o'clock, and as
ye say, Pierre, one of us makes the long reckoning for
this." And he opened the door and went out.

The half-breed moved to the bar, and, throwing
down a handful of silver, said : " It is good we drink
after so much heat. Come on, come on, comrades.

The miners responded to the invitation. Their
sympathy was mostly with Shon McGann ; their

246 PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

admiration was about equally divided ; for Pretty
Pierre had the quality of courage in as active a degree
as the Irishman, and they knew that some extra-
ordinary motive, promising greater excitement, was
behind the Frenchman's refusal to send a bullet
through Shon's head a moment before.

King Kinkley, the best shot in the Valley next to
Pierre, had watched the unusual development of the
incident with interest ; and when his glass had been
filled he said, thoughtfully: " This thing isn't accord-
ing to Hoyle. There's never been any trouble just
like it in the Valley before. What's that McGann
said about the lady being his wife ? If it's the case,
where hev we been in the show ? Where was we
when the license was around ? It isn't good citizen-
ship, and I hev my doubts."

Another miner, known as the Presbyterian, added :
** There's some skulduggery in it, I guess. The lady
has had as much protection as if she was the sister of
every citizen of the place, just as much as Lady Jane
here (Lady Jane, the daughter of the proprietor of the
Saint's Repose, administered drinks), and she's played
this stacked hand on us, has gone one better on the
sly."

"Pierre," said K\^.j^ Kinkley, "you're on the track
of the secret, and appear to hev the advantage of the
lady : blaze it — blaze it out."

Pierre rejoined : " I know something ; but it is good
we wait until ten o'clock. Then I will show you all
the cards in the pack. Yes, so."

And though there was some grumblinc^, Pierre had
his way. The spirit of adventure and mutual interest
had thrown the Frenchman, the Irishman, and the

If f^

IN PIPI VALLF-V.

247

had

tercst

Honourable Just Trafford together on the cold side
of the Canadian Rockies ; and they had journeyed
to this other side, where the warm breach from the
Pacific passed to its conp^caHng in the rani^cs. They
had come to tlie Pipi field when it was languishing.
From the moment of their coming its luck changed ;
it became prosperous. They conquered the Valley
each after his kind. The Honourable — he was always
called that — mastered its resources by a series of
" great lucks," as Pierre termed it, had achieved a
forti.me, and made no enemies ; and but two months
before the dav whose incidents are here recorded, had
gone to the coast on business. Shon had won the re-
putation of bein;^a " white man," to say nothing of his
victories in the region of gallantry. He made no
wealth ; he only got that he might spend. Irish-
man-like he would barter the chances of fortune for
the lilt of a voice or the clatter of a pretty foot.

Pierre was different. " Women, ah, no I " he would
say ; "they make men fools or devils."

His temptation lay not that way. When the three
first came to the Pipi, Pierre was a miner, simply ; but
nearly all his life he had been something else, as many
a devastated pocket on the east of the Rockies could
bear witness ; and his new career was alien to his
soul. Temptation grew greatly on him at the Pipi,
and in the days before he yielded to it he might have
been seen at midnight in his hut playing solitaire.
Why he abstained at first from practising his real
profession is accounted for in two ways : he had tasted
some of thesweets of honest companionship with The.
Honourable and Shon, and then he had a memory of
an ugly night at Pardon's Drive a year before, when

248

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

i >

l''li:

si !

he stood over his own brotlicr's body, shot to death by
accident in a lijatnbh'ni; row having its origin with
himself. These things had held him back for a time ;
but he was weaker than his ruling passion.

The Pipi was a young and comparatively virgin
field ; the quarry was at his hand. He did not love
money for its own sake ; it was the game that enthralled
him. He would have played his life against the trea.-
sury of a kingdom, and, winning it with loaded
double sixes, have handed back the spoil as an un-
redeemable national debt.

He fell at last, and in falling conquered the Pipi
Valley ; at the same time he was considered a fearless
and liberal citizen, who could shoot as straight as he
played well. He made an excursion to another field,
however, at an opportune time, and it was during this
interval that the accident to Shon and The Honourable
had happened. He returned but a few hours before
this quarrel with Shon occurred, and in the Saints*
Repose, whither he had at once gone, he was told of
the accident. While his informant related the incident
and the romantic sequence of Shon's infatuation, the
woman passed the tavern and was pointed out to
Pierre. The Frenchman had not much excitableness
in his nature ; but when he paw this beautiful woman
with a touch of the Indian in her contour, his pale
face flushed, and he showed his set teeth under his
slight moustache He watched her until she entered
a shop, on the signboard of which was written —
written since he had left a few months ago — Lucy
Rives, Tobacconist.

Shon had then entered the Saints* Repose ; and we
know the rest. A couple of hours after this nervous

■\

IN riri VALLEY.

249

Icath by

jin with

a time;

y virgin
lot love
thralled
he trea.-
loadcd
s an un-

the Pipf

fearless

it as he

ler field,

ring this

lourable

s before

Saints'

told of

incident

ion, the

out to

ibleness

woman

his pale

ider his

entered

ritten —

) — Lucy

and we
■nervous

episode, Pierre might have been seen standing in the
shadow of the pines not far from the house at Ward's
Mistake, where, lie had been told, Lucy Rives lived
with an old Indian woman. He stood, scarcely mov-
ing, and smoking cigarettes, until the donr opened.
Shon came out and walked down the hillside to the
town. Then Pierre went to the door, and without
knocking, opened it, and entered. A woman started
up from a seat where she was sewing, and turned to-
wards him. As she did so, the work, Shon's coat,
dropped from her hands, her face paled, and her eyes
grew big with fear. She leaned against a chair for sup-
port — this man's presence had weakened her so. She
stood silent, save for a slight moan that broke from
her lips, as the Frenchman lighted a cigarette coolly,
and then said to an old Indian woman who sat upon
the floor braiding a basket : "Get up, Ikni, and go
away."

Ikni rose, came over, and peered into the face of
the half-breed. Then she muttered : " I know you —
I know you. The dead has come back again." She
caught his arm v/ith her bony fingors as if to satisfy
herself that he was flesh and blood, and shaking her
head dolefully, went from the room. When the door
closed behind her there was silence, broken only
by an exclamation from the man.

The other drew her hand across her eves, and
dropped it with a motion of despair. Then Pierre
said, sharply : " Bicn ? "

*'Fran9ois," she replied, "you are alive."

**Yes, I am alive, Lucy Rives."

She shuddered, then grew still again and whis-
pered t

(

! I

250

riERRK AND HIS PEOPLE.

" Why did you let it be thou^^ht that you w.^e
drowned ? Why ? Oh, why ? " she moaned.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, and said, betM ■ n
the puffs of smoke :

'AH ye , my Lucy, why? It was so long a^o.
l/t Mie :;te : so — so — ten years. Ten years is a
^O' :^ tutw to remember, eh ?"

He cam towards her. She drew back ; but he^-
hand remained on the chair. He touched the plain
gold ring on her finc^cr, and said :

"You still wear it. To think of that — so loyal for
a woman! How she remembers, — holy Mother! . . .
But shall I not kiss you, yes, just once after right
years — my wife ? "

She breathed hard and drew back against the wall,
dazed and frirhtened, and said :

" No, no, do not come near me ; do not speak to
me — ah, please, stand back, for a moment, please ! '*

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and continued,
with mock tenderness :

" To think that things come round so 1 And here
you have a home. But that is good. I am tired of
much travel and life all alone. The prodigal goes not
to the home, the home comes to the prodigal." He
stretched up his arms as if with a feeling of content.

" Do you — do you not know," she said, * that —
that—"

He interrupted her :

" Do I not ktiow, Lucy, that this is your home ?
Yes. But is it not all the same? I gave you a home
ten years ago — to think, ten years ago ! We
quarrelled one night, and I left you. Next morning
my boat was found below the White Cascade — yes,

IN PIPI VALLEY,

*$l

but that was so stale a trick ! It was not worux; of
Fran9oif i<.ives. He would do it so much better n^w ;
but he was young, then ; just a boy, and foolish.
Well, sit down, Lucy, it is a hmg story, and you have
much to tell, how much — who knows ?"

She came slowly forward and said with a painful
effort :

"You did a great wrong, Fran9ois. You have
killed me."

"Killed you, Lucy, my w' » ! ardon ! Never la
those days did you look sc s..ia ning as now — never!
But the great surprise of sceii.g \our husband, it has
made you shy, quite shy. '^licre will be much time
now for you to change all that. It is quite
pleasant to think on, Lucy. . . . You remember the
song we used to sing on the Chaudiere at St. Antoine ?
See, I have not forgotten it —

*' * Nos amavts sont en guerre^
Vole, mon coeur^ vole. ' "

He hummed the lines over and over, watching
through his half-shut eyes the torture he was in-
flicting.

" Oh, Mother of God," she whispered, " have mercy !
Can you not see, do you not know ? I am not as
vou left me."

"Yes, my wife, you are just the same ; not an hour
older. I am glad that you have come to me. But
how they will envy Pretty Pierre ! "

" Envy — Pretty — Pierre," she repeated, in distress ;
" are you — Pretty Pierre ? Ah, I might have known,
I might have known ' "

253

PIERRE AND HTS PEOPLE.

I..

I ,

I-
1 I

:< 1

" Yes, and so ! Is not I'rctty Pierre as f];ood a name
as Fran9ois Rives? Is it not as g®od as Shon
McGann ? "

"Oh, I see it all, I see it all now," she mournfully
said. " It was with you lie quarrelled, and about me.
He would not tell me what it was. You know, then,
that I am — that, I am married — to him !"

" Quite. I know all that ; but it is no marriage."
He rose to his feet slowly, dropping the cigarette from
his lips as he did so. " Yes," he continued, " and I
know that you prefer Shon McGann to Pretty Pierre."

She spread out her hands appealingly.

" But you are my wife, not his. Listen : do you
know what I shall do ? I will tell you in two hours.
It is now eight o'clock. At ten o'clock Shon McGann
will meet me at the Saints' Repose. Then you shall
know. . . . Ah, it is a pity I Shon was my good
friend, but this spoils all that. Wine — it has danger ;
cards — there is peril in that sport ; women — they
make trouble most of all."

"O God," she piteously said, "what did I do?
There was no sin in me. I was your faithful wife,
though you were cruel to me. You left me, cheated
me, brought this upon me. It is you that has done
this wickedness, not I." She buried her face in her
hands, falling on her knees beside the chair.

He bent above her : " You loved the young avocat
better, eight years ago."

She sprang to her feet. " Ah, now I understand,"
she said; "that was why you quarrelled with me;
why you deserted me — you were not man enouj^h to
say what made you so much the — so wicked and hard,

so—

))

IN PIPI VALLEY.

^53

name
Shon

rnfully
ut me.
', then,

riage."

e from

and I

^ierre."

3o you
> hours.
LcGann
u shall
good
anger ;
— they

I do?

il wife,
icated
done
in her

avocat

"He thankful, Lucy, that I did not kill y^u then,"
he interjected.

" But It IS a lie," she cried ; '* a lie ! "

She went to the duor and called the Indian
woman.

" Ikni," she said. " He dares to say evil of Andre
and me. Tiiink — of Andre ! "

Ikni came to him, put her wrinkled face close to his,
and said : "She was yours, only yours ; but the spirits
gave you a devil. Andre, oh, oh, Andre! The father
of Andr^ was her father — ah, that makes your sulky
eyes to open. Ikni knows how to speak. Ikni nursed
them both. If you had waited you should have
known. But you ran away like a wolf from a coal of
fire ; you shammed death like a fox ; you ccnne back
like the snake to crawl into the house and strike with
poison tooth, when you should be witli the worms in
the ground. But Ikni knows — you shall be struck
with poison too, the Spirit of the Red Knife waits for
you. Andre was her brother."

He pushed her aside savagely : " Be still ! " he
said ; " get out — quick. Sucre- — quick ! "

When they were alone again he continued with
no anger in his tone : " So, Andrd the avocat and
you — that, eh ? Well, you see how much trouble
has come ; and now this other — a secret too ! When
were you married to Shon McGann ? "

*' Last night," she bitterly replied ; " a priest came
over from the Indian village."

" Last night," he nmsiiigly repeated — "last nic^ht 1
lost two thousand dollars at the Little Goshen lield.
I did not play wi.-ll List night ; I was nervous. In
ten years 1 had not lost so much at one game as I

, , ,

254

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

L I

1 '

did last niglit. It was a punishment for playing too
honest, or something ; ch, wh.it do you think, Lucy—
or something, eh ? "

She said ncjthing, but rocked lier body to and fro.

** Why did you not make known the marriage with
Shon ? "

" He was to have told it to-night," she said.

There was silence for a moment, then a thought
flashed into his eyes, and he rejoined with a jarring
laugh: "Well, I will play a game to-night, Lucy
Rives ; such a game that Pretty Pierre will never be
forgotten in the Pipi Valley ; a beautiful game, just
for two. And the other who will play — the wife of
Francois Rives shall see if she will wait ; but she
must be patient, more patient than her husband was
ten years ago."

" What will you do? tell me, what will you do?"

" I will play a game of cards — just one magnificent
game ; and the cards shall settle it. All shall be
quite fair, as when you and I played in the little
house by the Chaudi^re — at first, Lucy, — before I was
a devil."

Was this peculiar softness to his last tones assumed
or real ? She looked at him inquiringly ; but he moved
away to the window, and stood gazing down the
hillside towards the town below. His eyes smarted.

" I will die," she said to herself in whispers — " I
will die." A minute passed, and then Pierre turned
and said to her : " Lucy, he is coming up the hill.
Listen. If you tell him that I have seen you, I will
shoot him on sight, dead. You would save him, for a
little, for an hour or two — or more ? Well, do as I
say ; for these things must be according to the rules

IN I'lli XAl.LI'V.

255

ing too

Lucy —

id fro.
,ge with

thought
I jarring
it, Lucy
icvcr be
ime, just
: wife of
but she
ia^d was

do?"
Lgnificent

shall be
the little
:)re I was

assumed
tie moved
own the
marted.
pers— " I
re turned
the hill,
ou, I will
lim, for a
do as I
the rules

of the game, and I myself will tell him ail at the
Saints' Repose. He gavi- me the lie there, I will tell
him the truth before them all. Will )ou do as 1
say ? "

She hesitated an instant, and then replied ; ** I shall
not tell him."

" There is only one way, then,' ho continued ; " you
must go at once from here into the woods behind
there, and not see him at all. Then at ten o'clock
>ou will come to the Saints' Repose, if you choose,
to know how the game has ended."

She was trembling, moaning, no longer. A set
look had come into her face ; her c)'es were steady
and hard. She quietly replied : " Yes, I shall be
there."

He came to her, took her hand, and drew from her
finger the wedding-ring which last night Shon McGann
had placed there. She submitted passively. Then
with an upward wave of his fingers, he spoke in a
mocking lightness, but without any of the malice which
had first appeared in his tones, words frtni an old
French song :

'* I say no more, my lady —

Mironton^ M (ronton^ Mirontaine !

I say no more, my lady.

As nought more can be said."

He opened the door, motioned to the Indian
woman, and, in a few moments, the broken hearted
Lucy Rives and her companion were hidde.i in the
pines ; and Pretty Pierre also disappeared into the
shadow of the woods as Shun McGann appeared on
the crest of the hill.

51'

III

i :

" > i

256

riEKKK AND HIS i'KOPLK.

The Irishinaii walked slowly to the door, and
pausin<^, said to himself : '* I couldn't run the hi^^ risk',
me dailin', without scein' you aq-in'n, God help me !
There's danu[cr ahead which litt-le I'd care for if it
wasn't tor you."

Then he ste})ped '•""side the house — the place was
silent ; he called, but no 0112 answered ; he threw open
the doors of the rooms, but they were empty ; he went
outside and called again, but no reply came, except
the flutter of a night-hawk's wings and the cry of a
whip-poor-will. He went back into the house and sat
down with his head between his hands. So, for a
moment, and then he raised his head, and said with a
sad smile: " Faith, Shon, me boy, this takes the life
out of you ! — the empty house where she ought to be,
and the smile of her so swate, and the hand of her
that falls on y'r shoulder like a dove on the blessed
altar — gone, a^d lavin' a chill on y'r heart like a touch
of the dead. Sure, nivir a wan of me saw any that
could stand wid her for goodness, barrin' the angel
that kissed me good-bye with one foot in the stirrup
an' the troopers behind me, now twelve years gone, in
ould Donegal, and that 111 nivir see again, she lyin*
where the hate of the world will vex the heart of her
no more, and the masses gone up for her soul. Twice,
twice in y'r life, Shon McGann, has the cup of God's
joy been at y'r lips, and is it both times that it's to
spill ? — Pretty Pii rre shoots straight and sudden, and
maybe it's aisy to see the end of it ; but as the just
God is above us, I'll give him the lie in his throat
betimes for the word he said agin me darlin'. What's
the avil thing that he has to say ? What's the divil's
proof he would brin"; ? And where is she now ? —

IN PIPI VALLKY.

257

)r,

and

i'^ risk,
Ip mc !
or if it

ice was
)\v open
le went
except
cry of a
and sat
o, for a
I with a
the life
lit to be,
1 of her
blessed
a touch
ny that
le angel
stirrup
lijone, in
;hc lyin'
-t of her
Twice,
»f God's
jt it's to
|len, and
:he just
Is throat
What's
|e divil's
low ? —

where are you, Lucy ? I know the proof I've got in
me heart, that the wreck of the world couldn't shake,
while that light, born of Heaven, swims up to your
eyes whin you look at me ! "

He rose to his feet again and walked to and fro ; he
went once more to the doors ; he looked here and
there through the growing dusk, but to no purpose.
She had said that she would not go to her shop this
night ; but if not, then where could she have gone? —
and Ikni, too ? He felt there was more awry in his
life than he cared to put into thought or speech. He
picked up the sewing she had dropped and looked at
it as one would regard a relic of the dead ; he lifted
her handkerchief, kissed it, and put it in his breast.
He took a revolver from his pocket and examined it
closely, looked round the room as if to fasten it in his
memory, and then passed out, closing the door be-
hind him. He walked down the hillside and went to
her shop in the one street of the town, but she was
not there, nor had the lad in charge seen her.

Meanwhile, Pretty Pierre had made his way to the
Saints' Repose, and was sitting among the miners in-
dolently smoking. In vain he was asked to play
cards. His one reply was, " No, pardon, no ! I play
one game only to-night, the biggest game ever played
in Pipi Valley." In vain, also, was he asked to
drink. He refused the hospitality, defying the danger
that such lack of good-fellowship might bring forth.
He hummed in patches to himself the words ot a
song that the br'Aiis were wont to sing when they
hunted the buffalo :

•* Voild. / it is the sport to ride ;
Ah, ah the brave hunter I

s (

' 'f*

>■ ' ■

p ■

I '■'

^58 PIERRE AND HIS PEOIM-E.

To thrust: the arrow in his hide,
To send the bullet through his side —
/a, the buffalo, /V^///
Ah, ah the buffalo ! "

He nodded here and there as men entered ; but he
did not stir from his seat. He smoked incessantly,
and his eyes faced the door of the bar'-room that
entered upon the street. There was no doubt in the
minds of any present that the promised excitement
would occur Slion McGann was as fearless as he
was gay. And Pipi Valley remembered the day in
which he had twice risked his life to save two women
from a burning building — Lady Jane and another.
And Lady Jane this evening was agitated, and once
or twice furtively hooked at something under the bar-
counter ; in fact, a close observer would have noticed
anger or anxiety in the eyes of the daughter of Dick
Waldron, the keeper of the Saints' Repose; Pierre
would certainly have seen it had he been looking
that way. An unusual inlluence was working upon
the frequenters of the busy tavern. Planned, pre-
meditated excitement was out of their line. Un-
expectedness was the salt of their existence. This
thing had an air of svstem not in accord with the
suddenness of the Pipi mind. The half-breed was
the only one entirely at his ease ; he was languid and
nonchalant ; the long lashes of his half-shut eyelids
gave his face a pensive look. At last King Kinkley
walked over to him, and said : "There's an almighty
m\ steriousncss about this event which isn't joyi'ul.
Pretty Pierre. We want to see the muss cleared up,
of course ; we want Shon McGann to act like a high-
toned citizen, and there's a general prejudice in favour

[-.

but he
isantly,
nn that
in the
temcnt
5 as he
day in
women
mother,
id once
the bar-
noticed
|Of Dick
Pierre
ooking
upon
ed, pre-
Un-
This
th the
ed was
uid and
eyehds
vinkley
Unighty
t joyiul,
red up,
a high-
n favour

v\\

IN riPI VALLEY.

259

of tliitvj^s bcin on the flat of )'our j)rihn, as it were.
Now this thing hangs fire, and there's a lack of ani-
mation about it, isn't there ? "

To this. Pretty Pierre replied: "What can I do?
This is not Hke other things ; one had to wait ; great
things take time. To shoot is easy ; but to shoot is
not all, as you shall see if you have a little patience,
Ah, my friend, where there is a woman, things are
different. I throw a glass in your face, we shoot,
someone dies, and th ^re it is quite plain of reason ;
you play a card which was dealt just now, I call you
• — something, and the swiftest finger does the trick ;
but in such as this, one m.ust wait for the sport."

It was at this point that Shcn McGann entered,
looked round, nodded to all, and then came forward
to the table where Pretty Pierre sat. As the other
took out his watch, Shon said firmly but quietly :
" Pierre, I gave you the lie to-day concerning me wife,
and Pm here, as I said Pd be, to stand by the word I
passed then."

Pierre waved his fingers lightly towards the other,
and slowly rose. Then he said in sharp tones : " Yes,
Shon McGann, you gave me the lie. There is but
one thing for that in Pipi Valley. You choked me ;
I would not take that from a saint of heaven ; but
there was another thing to do first. Well, I have
done it ; I said I would bring proofs — I have them."
Pie paused, and now there might have been seen a
shining moisture on his forehead, and his words came
menacingly from between his teeth, while the room
became breathlessly still, save that in the silence a
sleeping dog sighed heavily : " Shon McGann," he
added, " you are living with my wife.

260

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLfi.

!' if

'■!l

'ijl

J t

T\\'enty men drew in a sharp breath of excite-
ment, and Shon came a step nearer the other, and
said in a strange voice : *' I — am — living — with — your
—wife ? "

" As I say, with m\' wife, Lucy Rives. Fran9ois
Rives was my name ten years ago. We quarrelled.
I left her, and I never saw her again until to-night.
You went to see her two hours ago. You did not find
her. Why ? She was gone because her husband,
Pierre, told her to go. You want a proof? You shall
have it. Here is the wedding-ring you gave her last
night."

He handed it over, and Shon saw inside it his own
name and hers.

"My God!" he said, "did she know? Tell me
she did not know, Pierre ? "

" No, she did not know. I have truth to speak to-
night. I was jealous, mad, and foolish, and I left her.
My boat was found upset. They believed I was
drowned. Well, she waited until yesterday, and then
she took you — but she was my wife ; she is my wife
— and so you see I

The Irishman was deadly pale.

" It's an avil heart y' had in y' then, Pretty Pierre,
and it's an avil day that brought this thing to pass,
and there's only wan way to the end of it."

" Yes, that is true. There is only one way," was
the reply ; " but what shall that way be ? Someone
must go : there must be no mistake. I have to pro-
pose. Here on this table we lay a revolver. We will
give up these which we have in our pockets. Then
we will play a game 01 euchre, and the winner of the
game shall have the revolver. W>5 will play for a

IN PIPI VALLEY.

261

excite-
er, and
1 — your

"ratKjois
arrelled.
:o-night.
not find
lusband,
'ou shall
her last

his own

Tell me

kpcak to-
left her.
I was

and then
my wife

y Pierre,
to pass,

^ay, was
Someone
e to pro-
We will
IS. Then
ler of the

[lay f(

or a

hTe. That is fair, eh — that is fair ? " he said to those
around.

KinCT Kinkley, speaking for the rest, replied :
** That's about fair. It gives both a chance, and
leaves only two when it's over. While the woman
lives, one of you is naturally in the way. Pierre left
her in a way that isn't handsome ; but a wife's a wife,
and though Shon was all in the glum about the
thing, and though the woman isn't to be blamed
either, there's one too many of you, and there's got to
be a vacation for somebody. Isn't that so?"

The rest nodded assent. They had been so en-
gaged that they did not see a woman enter the bai
from behind, and crouch down beside Lady Jane, a
woman whom the latter touched affectionately on the
shoulder and whispered to once or twice, while s-ie
watched the preparations for the game.

The two men sat down, Shon facing the bar and
Pierre with his back to it.

The game began, neither man showing a sign of
nervousness, though Shon w; very pale. Tiie game
was to finish for ten points. ien crowded about the
tables silent but keenly exe cd ; cigars were ch'jwed
instead of smoked, and liqi was left undrunk. At
the first deal Pierre made a narch, securing two. At
the next Shon made a pc nt, and at the next also a
march. The half-breed was playing a straii^ht game.
He could have stacked the cards, but he did not do
so ; deft as he was he might have cheated even the
vigilant eyes about him, but it was not so ; he
played as squarely as a noviv e. At the third, at the
fourth, deal he made a march ; at the fifth, sixth, and
seventh deals, Shon made a march, a p(jint, and a

^t^:- "■>

I'lERkK AND Ills PEOPLE.

if'^ff'

I !

i;i

f h

march. Both now had cii^Hit points. At the next
deal both got a point, and b jth stood at nine !

Now came the crucial ])Iay.

During the progress of the game nothing had been
heard save the sound of a knuckle on the table, the
flip-Jlip of the pasteboard, or the rasp of a heel on the
floor. There was a set smile on Shon's face — a for-
gotten smile, for the rest of the face was stern and
traj^ic. Pierre smoked cigarettes, pausing, while his
opponent was shuffling and dealing, to light them.

Behind the bar as the game proceeded the woman
who knelt beside Lady Jane listened to every sound.
Her eyes grew more agonised as the numbers,
whispered to her by her companion, climbed to the
fatal ten.

The last deal was Shon's ; there was that much to
his advantage. As he slowly dealt, the woman — Lucy
Rives — rose to her feet behind Lad\' Jane. So ab-
sorbed were all that none saw her. Her eyes passed
from Pierre to Shon, and stayed.

When the cards were dealt, with but one point for
either to gain, and so win and save his life, there was
a slight pause before the two took them up. They
did not look at one another ; but each glanced at the
revolver, then at the men nearest them, and lastly, for an
instant, at the cards themselves, with their pasteboard
faces of life and death turned downward. As the
players picked th:m up at last and spread them out
fan-like, Lady Jane slipped something into the hand
of Lucy Rives.

Those who stood behind Shon McGann stared with
anxious astonishment at his hand; it contained only
nine and ten spots. It was easy to see the direction

IN' PIPI VAT.T.EY.

263

le next

cul been
ible, the
:1 on the
I — a for-
ern and
A\\\c his
hem.
3 woman
■y sound,
numbers,
;d to the

much to
n — I.ucy
So ab-
^s passed

point for
;here was
p. They

d at the
tly, for an

isteboard
As the

them out

the hand

ared with
ned only
direction

of the sympathy of Pipi X^'alley. The Irishman's
face turned a slight shade paler, but he did not tremble
or appear disturbed.

Pierre played his biggest card and took the point.
He coolly counted one, and said : '' Game. I win."

The crowd drew back, l^oth rose to their feet. In
the painful silence the half-breed's hand was gvMitly
laid on the revolver. He lifted it, and paused slightly,
his eyes fixed to the steady look in those of Shon
McGann. He raised the revolver again, till it was
level with Shon's forehead, //// it was even ivitJi his
hair ! Then there was a shot, and someone fell, not
Shon, but Pierre, saying, as they caught him : " Alon
Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! Ff in behind ! "

Instantly there was another shot, and someone
crashed against the bottles in the bar. The other
factor in the game, the wife, had shot at Pierre, and
then sent a bullet through her own lungs.

Shon stood for a moment as if he was turned to
stone, and then his head dropped in his arms upcju the
table. He had seen boih shots fired, but could not
speak in time.

Pierre was severely but not dangerously wounded
in the neck.

But the woman — ? Thev broucfht her out from be-
hind the counter. She still breaihed ; but on her eyes
was the film of coming death. She turned to where
Shon sat. Her lips framed his name, but no voice
came forth. Someone touched him on the shr)ulder.
He looked up and Cviught her last glance. He came
and stooped beside her , but she had died witii that
one glance from him, bringing a faint smile to her lips.
And the smile staged when the lile of her had lied —

264

PIERRE AND HIS I'EOI'LE.

fled through the cloud over her eyes, from the tide-
beat of her [)ulse. It swept out from the smoke and
reeking air into the open world, and beyond, into those
untried paths where all must walk alone, and in what
bitterness, known only to the Master of the World
who sees these piteous things, and orders in what
fashion distorted lives shall be made straicjht and
wholesome in the Places of Re-adjustment,

Shon stood silent above the dead body.

One by one the miners went out quietly. Presently
Pierre nodded towards the door, and King Kink-
ley and another lifted him and carried him towards it.
Before they passed into the street he made them turn
him so that he could see Shon. He waved his hand
towards her that had been his wife, and said : " She
should have shot but once and straight, Shon McGann,
and then !— Eh, well ! "

The door closed, and Shon McGann was left alone
with the dead.

?fn

e tide-

fke and
o those
n what
World
II what
ht and

•esently
: Kink-
vRvds it.
;m turn
is hand
: " She
IcGann,

ft alone

antoine anb angcUquc

"The birds are goin^ south, Antoine — see — and it is
so early 1 "

"Yes, Angelique, the winter will be loni;."

There was a pause, and then : '* Antoine, I heard a
child cry in the niL;ht, and I could not sleei)."

" It was a devil-bird, my wife ; it flics slowly, and
the summer is dead."

" Antoine, there was a rushing of wings by my bed
before the morn was breaking."

" The wild-geese know tlieir way in the night,
Angelique; but they flew by the house and not near
thy bed."

"The two black squirrels have gone from the hickory
tree."

" They have hidden away with the bears in the
earth; for the frost comes, and it is the time of
sleep."

"A cold hand was knocking at my heart when I
said my ai'cs last night, my Antoine."

" The heart of a woman feels many strange things :
I cannot answer, my wife."

" Let us go also southward, Antoine, before the
great winds and the wild frost come."

'* I love thee, Angelique, but I cannot go.

" Is not love greater than all ? '

" To keep a pledi;c is t>reater."

265

766

PIERRE AND IllS PEOPLb.

'4!

t'iS

i !

s :i

■S I

" Yet if evil come ? "

" There is the mine."

" None travels hither ; who should find it?"

" He said to me, my wife : * Antoine, will you stay
and watch the mine until I come with the birds north-
ward, again?' and I said: * I will stay, and Angelique
will stay ; I will watch the mine.' "

" This is for his riches, but for our peril, Antoine."

** Who can say whither a woman's fancy goes ? It
is full of guessing. It is clouds and darkness to-
day, and sunshine — so much — to-morrow. I cannot
answer."

" I have a fear ; if my husbind loved me — "

"There is the mine," he interrupted firmly.

" When my heart aches so — "

"Angelique, there is the mine."

" Ah, my Antoine ! "

And so these two stayed on the island of St. Jean,
in Lake Superior, through the purple haze of autumn,
into the white brilliancy of winter, guarding the Rose-
Tree Mine, which Falding the Englishman and his
companions had prospected and declared to be their
Ophir.

But St. Jean was far from the ways of settlement,
and there was little food and only one hut, and many
things must be done for the Rose-Tree Mine in the
places where men sell their souls for money ; and
Antoine and Angelique, I^Vench peasants from the
parish of Ste. Irene in Quebec, were left to guard the
place of treasure, until, to the sound of the laughing
spring, there should come many men and much
machinery, and the sinking of shafts in the earth, and
the making of riches.

ANTOINK AM) ANCKMQUE.

2^7

l^iit when Antoinc and Anj^^'licjuc were K-ft ali>ne in
the waste, and (ind In'^an to draw the pale coverlet of
frost slowly across land and water, and to surround St.
Jean with a stubborn moat of ire, the heart of the
woman felt some coming dani^er, and at last bn kc
forth in words of timid warnint^^ When she cnee had
spoken slie said no m(-re. but sta\ed and builded the
heaps of caith about tju- house, and filK-d t-very
crevice against the inhosi)itable Spirit of W in(N, and
drew her world closer and closer within those two
rooms where they should live throuL;h many months.

The winter was harsh, but the hearts of the two
were stron^i;. They loved ; and Love is the i)arent of
endurance, the bes^etter of courat^^e. And every day,
because it seemed his dutv', Antoine insj)ected the
Rose-Tree Mine; and every (la\- also, because it
seemed her dut\', An^elicpie said many a^'es. And
one prayer was much with her — for sprinj^ to come
early that the child should not suffer : the child
which the ^ood God was to c^ive to her and Antoine.

In the first hours of each evenini; Antoine smc^ked,
and Angelic[ue san<4" the old son^s which their an-
cestors learned in Normandy. One nij^ht Antoine's
face was li<^hted with a fine fire as he talked of
happy days in the parish (jf Ste. Irene; and with that
romantic fervour of his race which the stern winters of
Canada could not k'!l, he sanii;, A la Claire I'ontaine^
the well-beloved song-child of the voyai^enrs' hearts.

And the wife smiled far away into the dancing
flames — far awa)', because the fire retreated, retreated
to the little church where th(j)' two were wed ; and
she did as most good women do— though exac:tly
why, man the insufficient cannot declare — she wept a

, ,1

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■» Itt 12.2

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Photographic

Sdences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 145S0

(716) 872-4503

( \

268

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLB.

little through her smiles. But when the last verse
came, both smiles and tears ceased. Antoine sang it
with a fond monotony :

*• Would that each rose were growing
Upon the rose-tree gay,
And that the fatal rose-tree
Deep in the ocean lay.
/ya longtemps que je faime
Jamais je ne toublieraV

Angelique's heart grew suddenly heavy. From the
rose-tree of the song her mind fled and shivered before
the leafless rose-tree by the mine ; and her old dread
came back.

Of course this was foolish of Angelique ; of course
the wise and great throw contumely on all such super-
stition ; and knowing women will smile at each other
meaningly, and with pity for a dull man-writer, and
will whisper, " Of course, the child." But many things,
your majesties, are hidden from your wisdom and your
greatness, and are given to the simple — to babes, and
the mothers of babes.

It was upon this very night that Falding the
Englishman sat with other men in a London tavern,
talking joyously. " There's been the luck of Heaven,"
he said, " in the whole exploit. We'd been prospect-
ing for months. .As a sort of tr)' in a back-water we
rowed over one night to an island and pitched tents.
Not a dozen yards from where we camped was a rose-
tree ; think of it, Belgard, — a rose-tree on a rag- tag
island of Lake Superior ! ' There's luck in odd num-
bers,* says Rory O'More. * There's luck here,' said
I : and at it we went just beside the rose-tree. What's

ANTOINE AND ANGELIQUE.

269

the result ? Look at that prospectus : a company
with a capital of two huiuhcd thousand ; the whole
island in our hands in a week ; and Antoine squat-
ting on it now like Bonaparte on Elbe."

" And what does Antoine get out of this ? " said
Belgard.

" Forty dollars a month and his keep."
" Why not write him off a couple of shares to pro-
pitiate the gods — gifts unto the needy, eh ! — a thou-
sandfold — what ? "

" Yes ; it might be done, Belgard, if — "
But someone just then proposed the toast, " The
Rose-Tree Mine ! " and the souls of these men waxed
proud and merry, for they had seen the investor's palm
filled with gold, the maker of conquest. While Antoine
was singing with his wife, they were holding revel
within the sound of Bow Bells. And far into the
night, through silent Cheapside, a rolling voice swelled
through much laughter thus :

•* Gai Ion la^ gat le rosier^
Du joli niois de Mai."

The next day there were heavy heads in T>ondon ;
but the next day, also, a man lay ill in the hut on the
island of St. Jean.

Antoine had sung his last song. He had waked in
the night with a start of pain, and by the time the sun
was halting at noon above the Ro.se-Tree Mine, he
had begun a journey, the record of which no man has
ever truly told, neither its beginning nor its end ; be-
cause that which is of the spirit reluseth to be inter-
preted by the flesh. Some signs there be, but they are

\- i

SBl

270

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

|i >

brief and sh.ulovvy ; tlic awe of It is hidden in the
mind of him that ^oeth out lonely unto God.

When the call ^oes forth, not wife nor child nor
any other can h(jld the wayfarer back, thouf:jh he may
loiter for an instant on the brink. The poor medi-
caments which Angelique brint^s avail not ; these
soothing hands and healing tones, they pass through
clouds of the middle place between heaven and earth
to Antoine. It is only when the second midnight
comes that, with conscious, but pensive and far-off,
eyes, he says to her : " Angclique, my wife."

For reply her lips pressed his cheek, and her fingers
hungered for his neck. Then : " Is there pain now,
Antoine ? "

" There is no pain, Angclique."

He closed his eyes slowly ; her lips framed an ar^e.

" The mine," he said, "the mine — until the spring."

•' Yes, Antoine, until the spring."

" Have you candles — many candles, Angclique?"

" There are many, my husband."

" The ground is as iron ; one cannot dig, and
the water under the ice is cruel — is it not so,
Angclique ? "

*' No axe could break the ground, and the water is
cruel," she said.

" You will see my face until the winter is gone, my
wife."

She bowed her head, but smoothed his hand mean-
while, and her throat was quivering.

He partly slept ; his body slept, though his mind
was feeling its way to wonderful things. J^ut near
the morning his eyes opened wide, and he said;
" Someone calls out of the dark. Angclique."

ANTOINE AND ANCFLIQUE.

271

And she, with her h;uul on her he.irt, repheil: " It

mind
near
said:

is the cry of a do^, Antoine.

But there are footsteps at the door, my wife.

th(

bei

the

wnigs

" Nay, Antoine ; it is tne snow
window."

" There is the sounc
not hear them, Ani^eh'que ? "

" Wings — wings," she faltt^ingly said : " it is the hot
blast through the chimney ; the night is cold,
Antoine."

" The night is very cold," he said ; and he trembled.
• . . "I hear, O my wife, I hear the voice of a little
child . . . the voice is like tliine, Angelique."

And she, not knowing what to reply, said softly:
"There is hope in the voice of a child ;" and the
mother stirred within her ; and in the moment he
knew also that the Spirits would give her the child in
safety, that she should not be alone in the long
winter.

The sounds of the harsh night had ceased — the
snapping of the leafless branches, the cracking of the
earth, and the heaving of the rocks : the Spirits of the
Frost had finished their work ; and just as the grey
forehead of dawn appeared beyond the cold hills,
Antoine cried out gently : " Angelique . . . Ally vion
.Capitame . . . /esu "... and theii, no more.

Night after night Angelique lighted candles in the
place where Antoine smiled on in his frozen silence ;
and masses were said for his soul — the masses Love
murmurs for its dead. The earth could not receive
him ; its bosom was adamant ; but no decay could
touch him ; and she dwelt alone with this, that was
her husband, until one beautiful, bitter day, when,

272

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

I; ' ' ' •

with no eye save God's to see her, and no human com-
fort by her, she gave birth to a man-child. And yet
that night she lighted the candles at the dead man's
head and feet, dragging herself thither in the cold ;
and in her heart she said that the smile on Antoine's
face was deeper than it had been before.

In the early spring, when the earth painfully breathed
away the frost that choked it, with her child for
mourner, and herself for sexton and priest, she buried
Antoine with maimed rites : but hers were the prayers
of the poor, and of the pure in heart ; and she did not
fret because, in the hour that her comrade was put
away into the dark, the world was laughing at the
thought of coming summer.

Before another sunrise, the owners of the island
of St. Jean claimed what was theirs ; and because
that which had happened worked upon their
hearts, they called the child St. Jean, and from that
time forth they made him to enjoy the goodly fruits
of the Rose-Tree Mine.

,n com-
vnd yet

1 man's
e cold ;
ntoine's

reathed
hild for

2 buried
prayers
did not

was put
r at the

e island
because

^ their
om that
y fruits

Cbe Cipher.

Hilton was staying his horse by a spring at Guidon
Hill when he first saw her. She was gathering may-
apples ; her apron was full of them Me noticed that
she did not stir until he rode almost upon her. Then
she started, first without looking round, as does an
animal, droj){)ing her head slightly to one side, though
not exactl} appearing to listen. Suddenly she wheeled
on him, and her big eyes captured him. The look
bewildered him. She was a creature of singular
fascination. Her face was expressive. Her eyes
had wonderful light. She looked happy, yet grave
withal ; it was the gravity of an uncommon earnest-
ness. She gazed through everything, and beyond.
She was young — eighteen or so.

Hilton raised his hat, and courteously called a good-
morning at her. She did not reply by any word, but
nodded quaintly, and blinked seriously and yet blitliely
on him. He was preparing to dismount. As he did
so he paused, astonished that she did not speak at all.
Her face did not have a familiar language ; its
vocabulary was its own. He slid from his horse, and,
throwing his arm over its neck as it stooped to the
spring, looked at her more intently, but respectfully
too. She did not yet stir, but there came into her
face a slight inflecti*. n of confusion or perplexity.

Again he raised his hat to her, and, smiling, wished

273 b

t <

274

I'IKKKK AND HIS Pr.f)l'I,l<

l! Ill

•t »4

luT a };<)(>(l initmin;.r. Kvni as lu* did so a thoiii^ht
spriiti^ ill him. UndiMstandinj.^ i^.ivc [>lacc to wonder;
he iiit(;r|)ii"tc<l the unusu.d look in lu-r face.

Instantly lie made a si<;ii to her. To that licr face
responded with a wonderful sjjeech — of reHef and
recoj^nition. Tlie corners of her apron di()|)ped from
hcv fin;.;ers, and tlie ji'llow may-ai)ples fell about her
feet. She ditl not notice this. She answered his sign
with another, rapid, gracelul, and meaning. lie left
his iiorse and advanced to her, holding out his hand
simply — for he was a sim|)Ie and honest man. Her
response to this was spiuUaneous. The warmth of
her fingers invaded him. Her eyes were full of
questioning. He gave a hearty sign of admiration.
She flushed with pleasure, but made a naive, pro-
testing gesture.

She was deaf and dumb.

Hilton had once a sister who was a mute. He
knew that amazing primal gesture-language of the
silent race, whom God has sent like one-winged
birds into the world. He had watched in his sister
just such looks of a'nsolute nature as flashed from this
girl. They were comrades on the instant ; he
reverential, gentle, j)rotective ; she sanguine, candid,
beautifully aboriginal in the freshness of her ciphcr-
thouuhts. She saw the world naked, with a naked
eye. She was utterly natural. She was the maker
of exquisite, vital gesture-speech.

She glided out from among the may-apples and
the long, silken grass, to charm his horse with her
hand. As she started to do so, he hastened to prevent
her, but, utterly surprise(i, he saw the horse whinny
to her cheek, and arch his neck under her white palm

TIIF rTPFIFR.

275

oiulcr;

cr face
.!f and
d from
mt her
lis s\^n

\e left
s hand
I. Her
nith of

full of
liiiition.
vc, pro-

te. He
of the
winged
is sister
om this
nt ; he
candid,
cipher-
naked
maker

)les and
vith her
prevent
whinny
ite palm

--it was very while. Then llie aniinars diin sc.ii^ht
lier sh(julder and stased pl.icid. He li.id nevei dune so
to anyone before save Hilton. Once, indeed, lie had
kicked a stableman to death. He lifted his lu-ad and
caught with playful shaking lips at her ear Hilton
smiled ; and so, as we said, their connadi'ship bc;.;an.

He was a new officer ol the I Iiidson's iJ.iy Com[jany
at Fort Gu!don. She was the (laiij^hter of a ranchman.
She had been educated by Father Corraine, the Jesuit
missionary, I'rolestant thou di she was. He had
learned the sign-language wiiile assistant-i)riest in a
Parisian chapel for mutes. He taught her this
gesture-tongue, waich she, taking, rendered divine;
and, with this, she learned to read and write.

Her name was Ida.

Ida was faultless. Hilton was not ; but no man is.
To her, however, hii was the best that man can be.
He was unself'sh and altogether honeat, and that is
much for a man.

When Pierre came to know of their friendship he
shook his head doubtfully. One day he was sitting
on the hot side of a pine near his mountain hut, soaK-
ing in the sun. He saw them passing below him, along
the edge of the hill across the ravine. He said to
someone behind Ivim in the shade, who was looking
also,—" What will be the end of that, eh ? "

And the someone re[)licd : " Faith, what the Ser-
pent in the Wilderness couldn't cure."

"You think he'll play with her?"

" I think he'll do it without wishin' or willin', may-
be. It'll be a ca-e of kiss and ride away."

There was silence. Soon Pierre pointed down
again. She stood upon a green moinid with a cool

276

riKUKF AND ms I'KOPLE.

t\l

hed|^e of rock behind her, her feet on the margin of
solifl sunlii^hl, her forehead bared. Her hair .si)rinkled
round her as she c^ently thiew l)ack her head. Her
face was full on Hilton. She was teliinj^^ him some-
thinii^. Her j^e^tuies were rhythmical, and admirably
balanced. Because the)- were continuous or only
re^^ularly broken, it was clear she was telling him a
story. Hilton gravely, deli^hledy, nodded response
now and then, or raised his eyebrows in fascinated
surprise. Pierre, watching, was only aware of vague
impressions — not any distinct outline of the tale. At
last he guessed it as a perfect pastoral — b rds, reaping,
deer, winds, sundials, cattle, shepherd^, hunting. To
Hilton it was a new revelation. She was telling him
things she had thoui;ht, she was recalling her lifQ.

Towards the last, she said in gesture : — " You
can forget the winter, but not the s])ring. You like to
remember the spring. It is the beginning. When the
daisy first peeps, when the tall young deer first stands
upon its feet, when the first egg is seen in the oriole's
nest, when the sap first sweats from the tree, when
you first look into the eye of your friend — these you
want to remember. ..."

She paused upon this gesture — a light touch upon
the forehead, then the hands stretched out, palms up-
ward, with coaxing fingers. She seemed lost in it.
Her eyes rippled, her lips pressed slightly, a delicate
wine crept through her cheek, and tenderness wimpled
all. Her soft breast rose modestly to the cool
texture of her dress. Hilton felt his blood bound
joyfully; he had the wish of instant possession. But
yet he could not stir, she held him so ; for a change
immediately passed upon her. She glided slowly

THE CIF'HER.

277

rgin of
•inkled
, Her

somc-
nirably
ir only

him a
isponse
cinated
f vague
le. At
eaping,
ig. To
ng him
ifq.
-" You

like to
hen the
: stands

oriole's
e, when
ese you

:h upon

1ms up-

st in it.

delicate

vimpled

le cool

bound

n. But

change

slowly

from that almost statue-like repose into another
gesture. Her eyes drew up from his, and looked
away to plumbless distance, all glowing and child-
like, and the new ciphers slowly said :

" But the spring dies away. We can only see a
thing born once. And it ma\' be ours, yet not ours.
I have sighted the perfect Sh.'. on -flower, far up on
Guidon, yet it was not mine; it was tof) distant; I
could not reach it. I ha\e seen the siher bullfinch
floating aloti'.^ the canon. I called to it, and it came
singing ; and it was mine, yet I could not hear its
song, and I let it go ; it could not be happy so with
me. ... I stand at the gate of a great city, and see
all,. and feel the great shuttles of sounds, the roar and
clack of wheels, the horses' hoofs striking the ground,
the hammer of bells ; all : and yet it is not mine ; it
is far far away from me. It is one world, mine is
another ; and sometimes it is lonely, and the best
things are not for me. But I have seen them, and it
is pleasant to remember, and nothing can take from
us the hour when things were born, when we saw the
spring — nothing — never ! "

Her manner of speech, as this went on, became ex-
quisite in fineness, slower, and more dream-like, until,
with downward protesting motions of the hand, she
said that — " nothing — never ! " Then a great sigh
surged up her throat, her lips parted slightly, showing
the warm moist whiteness of her teeth, her hands
falling lightly, drew together and folded in front of
her. She stood still.

Pierre had watched this scene intently, his chin in
his hands, his elbows (;n his knees. Presently he
drew himself up, ran a finger meditatively along his

278

I'lKUUK AM) HIS n.OPLE.

up, an 1 .aid to hitn^clf : " Ii Is perfect. She is carved
from the core of tialuro. Hut this thini'; hns danger
for lier . . . wdl ! . . . ah ! "

A chaiv I' in th(? scene Iieforc him caused this last
expression of surprise.

Hilton, rousinc; from !lic enchantin.C]^ pantomime,
tof)k a step t(nva:ds her ; l)Ut she raised her hand
plea(h'ni,dy, rcstrainin:.,dy, and lie paused. With his
eyes he a^kcil her mute!>' why. She did not answer,
but, all at once transformed into a ihini; of abundant
spri .;htlincss, ran down the hillside, tossing' up her
arms i^aily. Yet her face was not all brilliance. Tears
hunpj at her eyes. But Hilton did not see these. He
did not run, but walked quickl)-, f( llowincij her; and
his face had a dcternn'ned look lmmediatel\', a
man rose up from behind a rock on the same side of
the ravine, and shoolc ck^iched fists after the depart-
ing fii:jures ; then stood gesticulatiiijj ani^rily to him-
self, until, chancing to look up, he sighted Pierre, and
straightway di\ed into the underbrush. Pierre rose
to his feet, and said slowly: " Hilton, there may be
trouble for you also. It is a tanp;led world."

Towards evening Pierre sauntered to the hou.se of
Ida's father. Light of footstep, he came upon the
girl suddenly. They had always been friends since
the day when, at uncommon risk, he rescued her dog
from a freshet on the Wild l\Ioose River. She was
sitting utterly still, her hands folded i'l her Ian. He
struck his foot smartly on the ground She felt the
vibration, and looked up. He do;'led his hat, and
she held out her hand. He smiled and took it, and,
as it lay in his. lool^ed at it for a moment musingly.
She drew it back slowly. He was then thinking that

TIIF < Il'IIKR.

2-9

arvcfl
lander

lis last

miinc,
hiind
th his
nswcr,
nul.'int
ip her
Tears
^ He
r ; and
:cly, a
side of
lepart-
3 him-
•e, and
e rose
nay be

3USC of

^n the
since
cr do^[^

he was
He
-It the
it, and
it, and,
singly.
itT that

It was the most intclii^nit hand iu* had ever seen, . . .
He dcti'rniined to pa)- a hold and surptisiiv^r ^r;i,,ie.
He had learned from her the alphabet of the llni^ers —
that is, lu)W to spell wnnis. lie knew little ^esture-
langua^^e. He, thereIo:e, spelled slowly: " Hawley is
an;^ry, because you love llilton." 'I'he statenuMit was
so matters if-facl, so sudden, that the L;irl had no
chance. She llushel and then paled. She sliook her
head firmly, lio\\e\er, an 1 her fnigers slowl)- framed
the repl)': " Vou ^aiess too much. Foolish things
come to the idle."

" I saw you this afternoon." he silently ur^^ed.

Her fiiiL^ers trembled slij^htl)'. '* There was nothing
to see." She knew he couKl not have read her gestures.
"I was telling a story."

"You ran from him — why?" His questioning was
cruel that he might in the end be kind.

"The child rims from its shadow, the bird from its
nest, the fish jumps from the water — that is nothing."
She had recovered somew hat.

But he: "The shadow follows the child, the bird
comes back to its nest, the fish cannot live beyond
the water. But it is sad when the child, in runninjr,
rushes into darkness, and loses its shadow; when the
nest falls from the tree; atid the hawk catches the
happy fish. . . . Hawley saw )'ou also."

Hawley, like Ida, was deaf and dumb. He lived
over the mountains, but came often. It had been
understood that, one day, she should marry him. It
seemed fitting. She had said neither yes nor no. And
now?

A quick tremor of trouble trailed over her face, then it
became very slill. Her e}es were bent upon the ground

i V

280

PIERRE AND TITS PEOPLE.

Steadily. Presently a bird hopped near, its head
coquetting at her. She ran her hand gently along
the grass towards it. The bird tripped on it. She
lifted it to her chin, at which it pecked tenderly.
Pierre watched her keenly — admiring, pitying. He
wished to serve her. At last, with a kiss upon its
head, she gave it a light toss into the air, and it
soared, lark-like, straight up, and hanging over her
head, sang the day into the evening. Her eyes
followed it. She could feel that it was singing. She
smiled and lifted a finger lightly towards it. Then she
spelled to Pierre this: "It is singing to me. We
imperfect things love each other."

"And what about loving Hawley, then?" Pierre
persisted. She did not reply, but a strange look came
upon her, and in the pause Hilton came from the house
and stood beside them. At this, Pierre lighted a
cigarette, and with a good-natured nod to Hilton,
walked away.

Hilton stooped over her, pale and eager. " Ida," he
gestured, " will you answer me now ? Will you be my
wife?" She drew herself together with a little shiver.
" No," was her steady reply. She ruled her face into
stillness, so that it showed nothing of what she felt
She came to her feet wearily, and drawing down a
cool flowering branch of chestnut, pressed it to her
cheek.

"You do not love me?" he asked nervously.

" I am going to marry Luke Hawley," was her slow
answer. She spelled the words. She used no gesture
to that. The fact looked terribly hard and inflexible
so. Hilton was not a vain man, and he believed he
was not loved. His heart crowded to his throat

TTIK riPHER.

2S1

\ head
alon^
. She
nderly.
y. He
Don its
and it
^er her
r eyes
;. She
len she
. We

Pierre
k came
e house
hted a
Hilton,

da," he
be my
shiver,
ce into
le felt
Jown a
to her

cr slow
gesture
lexible
ved he
t

" Please ^n away, now," she bej::^£Ted with an anxious
gesture. While the hand was extended, he reached
and Lroiigl t it to his lips, then quickly kissed her on
the forehead, and walked away. She stood trembling,
and as the fini,ers of one hand hung at her side, they
spelled mechntiically these words : * it would spoil his
life. I am only a mute — a dummy ! "

As she stood so, she eU the approach of someone.
She did not turn instantl}', but with the aboriginal
instinct, listened, as it were, with her body ; but pre-
sently faced about — to Hawley. He was red with
anger. He had seen Hilton kiss her. He caught
her smartly by the arm, but, awed by the great
calmness of her face, dropped it, and fell int a
fit of sullenness. She spoke to him : he did not reply.
She touched his arm : he still was gloomy. All at once
the full price of her sacrifice rushed upon her ; and
overpowered her. She had no help at her critical
hour, not even from this man she had intended to
bless. There came a swift revulsion, all passions
stormed in her at once Despair was the resultant
of these forces. She swerved from him im-
mediately, and ran hard towards the high- banked
i-jver !

Hawley did not follow her at once : he did not
guess her purpose. She had almost reached the
leaping- place, when Pierre shot from the trees, and
seized her. The impulse of this was so strong, that
they slipped, and quivered on the precipitous edge:
but Pierre righted then, and presently they were safe.

Pierre held her hard by both wrists for a moment.
Then, drawing her awa^y, he loosed her, and spelled
these words slowly : " I understand. But you are

2^2

riFkXK AM) UTS I'KOIT-K.

wn.,,<.r ilawloy is noi ih,. mati Von must come
with mc. Jt is foolish to die."

Ihc riot of her fcelini^^s, her momentary clcspaT,
were <,^()ne. It was even j.leasant to be mastered by
Pierre's firmness. Slie was passive. Mecham'cally
slu> went with him. I [awley approached. She looked
at Pierre. Then she turned on the other. "Yours is
not the best l.-ve," she sij;ned to him ; "it does not
trust ; it is selfi-^li." And she moved on.

lUit, an hour later, Jiilton caui;ht her to his bosom,
and kissed her full on the lips. . . , And his right
to do so continues to this day.

coine

a tCraoebT? of IRoboMce.

At Fort Latrobe sentiment was not of the most
refined kind. I. cal customs were pronounced and
crude in outline ; lanjj^ua^^c was often 'ii^lily coloured,
and actic^n was occasionally accentuated by a pistol
shot. For the first few months of its life the place
was honoured by the presence of neither wife, nor
sister, nor mother. Yet women lived there.

When some men c'.id briii^^^ wives and children, it
was noticed that the girl Blanche was seldom seen in
the streets. And, however it was, there grew among
the men a faint respect for her. They did not talk of
it to each other, but it existed. It was known that
Blanche resented even the most casual notice from
those men who had wives and homes. She gave the
impression that she had a remnant of conscience.

" Go home," she said to Harry Belong, who asked
her to drink with him on New Year's Day. "Go
home, and thank God that you've got a home — and
wife."

After Jacques, the long-time friend of Pretty Pierre,
came to Fort Latrobe, with his sulky e\e and
scrupulously neat attire, Blanche appeared to with-
draw still more from public gaze, thouj^h no one saw
any connection between these events. The girl also
became fastidious in her dress, and lost all her foimer

dash and smart aggression of manner. She shrank

283

' '

284

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

i '

from the women of her class, for which, as might be
expected, she was duly reviled. But the foxes have
holes, and the birds of the air have nests, nor has it
been written that a woman may not close her ears,
and bury herself in darkness, and travel alone in the
desert with her people — those ghosts of herself, whose
name is legion, and whose slow white fingers mock
more than the world dare at its worst.

Suddenly, she was found behind the bar of
Weir's Tavern at Cedar Point, the resort most fre-
quented by Jacques. Word went about among the
men that Blanche was taking a turn at religion,
or, otherwise, reformation. Soldier Joe was some-
thing sceptical on this point from the fact that
she had developed a very uncertain temper. This
appeared especially noticeable in her treatment of
Jacques. She made him the target for her sharpest
sarcasm. Though a peculiar glow came to his eyes
at times, he was never roused from his exasperating
coolness. When her shafts were unusually direct
and biting, and the temptation to resent was keen, he
merely shrugged his shoulders, almost gently, and
said : " Eh, such women 1 "

Nevertheless, there were men at Fort Latrobe who
prophesied trouble, for they knew there was a deep
strain of malice in the French half-breed which could
be the more deadly because of its rare use. He was
not easily moved, he viewed life from the heights of a
philosophy which could separate the petty from the
prodi'jjious. His reputation was not wholly disquiet-
ing ; he was of the goats, he had sometimes been
found with the sheej), he preferred to be numbered
with the transgressors. Like Pierre, his one passion

A TRAGEDY OF NOBODIES.

285

was gamblinc^f. There were legends that once or twice
in his life he had had another passion, but that some
Gorgon drew out his heart-strings painfully, one by
one, and left him inhabited by a pale spirit now called
Irony, now Indifference — under either name a fret and
an anger to women.

At last Blanche's attacks on Jacques called out
anxious protests from men like rollicking Soldier Joe,
who said to her one night : " Blanche, there's a devil
in Jacques. Some day you'll startle him, and then
he'll shoot you as cool as he empties the pockets of
Freddy Tarlton ever there."

And Blanche replied : " When he does that, what
will you cio, Joe ? "

" Do? Do?" and the man stroked his beard softly,
"Why, give him ditto, — cold."

" Well, then, there's nothing to row about, is there?"

And Soldier Joe was not on the instant clever
enough to answer her sophistry ; but when she left
him and he had thought awhile, he said, convincingly;

" But where would you be then, Blanche ? , . .
That's the point."

One thing was known and certain ; Blanche was
earning her living by honest, if not high-class, labour.
Weir the tavern-keeper said she was " worth hun-
dreds " to him. But she grew pale, her eyes became
peculiarly brilliant, her voice took a lower key, and
lost a kind of hoarseness it had in the past. Men
came in at times merely to have a joke at her expense,
having heard of her new life ; but they failed to enjoy
their own attempts at humour. Women of her class
came also, some with half-uncertain jibes, .some with
a curious wistful ncss, and a few with scornful oaths ;

■M

286

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

i I

but the jibes and oaths were only for a time. It
became known that she had paid the coach fare of
Miss Dido (as she was called) to the hospital at
Wapiti, and had raised a subscription for her main-
tenance there, heading it herself with a liberal sum !
Then the atmosphere round her became less trying ;
yet her temper remained changeable, and had it not
been that she was good-looking and witty, her posi-
tion might have been insecure. As it was, she ruled
in a neutral territory where she was the only woman.

One night, after an inclement remark to Jacques, in
the card-room, Blanche came back to the bar, and
not noticing that, while she was gone, Soldier Joe
had entered and laid himself down on a bench in a
corner, she threw her head passionately forward on
her arms as they rested on the counter, and cried :
"O my God! my God!"

Soldier Joe lay still as if sleeping, and when Blanche
was called away again he rose, stole out, went down
to Freddy Tarlton's office, and offered to bet Freddy
two to one that Blanche wouldn't live a year. Joe's
experience of women was limited. He had in his
mind the case of a girl who had accidentally smothered
her child ; and so he said :

" Blanche has something on her mind that's killing
her, Freddy. When trouble fixes on her sort it kills
swift and sure. They've nothing to live for but life,
and it isn't good enough, you see, for — for — " Joe
paused to find out where his philosophy was taking
him.

Freddy Tarlton finished the sentence for him: ^^ Fof
an inner sorrow is a consuming fire!'

Fort Latrobe soon had an unexpected opportunity

lUng

kills

life,

Joe

dng

For

inity

A TRAGEDY OF NOl'.ODIES.

287

to study Soldier Joe's tlu-oiy. One niidit Jaccjucs
did not appear at Weir's Tavern as he had en^a^ed
to do, and Soldier Joe and another wMit across the
frozen river to his lof^-hiit to seek him. They found
him by a handful of fire, breathini; heavily and nearly
unconscious. One of the sudden and fixupicntly fatal
colds of the mountains had fastened on liiin. and he
had begun a war for life. Joe started back at once
for liquor and a doctor, leavinc^ his comrade to watch
by the sick man. He could not understand why
Blanche should sta^r^er and Lirow white wh .n he told
her ; nor why she insisted on taking tlic li(iuor her-
self, lie did not )et guess the truth.

The next day all Fort Latrobc knew that I^lanche
was nursing Jacques, on what was thought to be his
no-return journey. The doctor said it was a danger-
ous case, and he held out little hope. Nursing might
bring him through, but the chance was very slight.
Blanche only occasionally left the sick man's bedside
to be relieved by Soldier Joe and Freddy Tarlton.
It dawned on Joe at last, — it had dawned on Freddy
before, — what Blanche meant by the heart-breaking
words uttered that night in Weir's Tavern. Down
throuf?h the crust of this woman's heart had !Jonc
something both joyful and painful. Wliatever
it was, it made Blanche a saving nurse, a good
apothecary ; for, one night the* doctor pronounced
Jacques out of danger, and said that a few days
would brin^ him round if he was careful.

Now, for the first time, Jacques fully comprehended
all Blanche had done for him, thoug'.'> he had ceased
to won 'er at her change ' attitude to Iiim. Through
his suffering and his del rium had come the under-

288

riF.RRK ANT) HIS PEOPT.R.

St, Hiding of it. WIilmi, after the crisis, the doctor
turned away from the bed, Jacques looked steadily
into Blanche's eyes, and siie flushed, and wiped the
wet from his brow with her handkerchief. He took
the handkerchief from her fingers i^ently before Soldier
Joe came over to the bed.

Tile doctor had insisted that Blanche should ^o to
Weir's Tavern and get the night's rest, needed so
much, and Joe now pressed her to keep her promise.
Jacques added an urging word,, and after a time she
started. Joe had forgotten to tell her that a new road
had been made on the ice since she had crossed, and
that the old road was dangerous. Wandering with
her thoughts she did not notice the spruce bushes set
up for signal, until she had step[)ed on a thin piece of
ice. It bent beneath her. She slipped : t!iere was a
sudden sinking, a sharp cry, then another, piercing
and hopeless — and it was the one word — " Jacques ! "
Then the night was silent as before. But someone
had heard tlie cry. Freddy Tarlton was crossing the
ice also, and that desohiUw^ /ac^/zes ! had reached iiis
ears. When he found her he saw that she had been
taken and tlie other left. But that other, asleep in his
bed at the sacred moment when she parted, suddenly
waked, and said to Soldier Joe :

" Did you speak, Joe ? Did you call me ? "

But Joe, who had been playing cards with himself,
replied : " I haven't said a word."

And Jacques then added : " Perhaps I dream —
perhaps."

On the advice of the doctor and Freddy Tarlton,
the bad news was kept from Jacques. When she did
not come the next day, Joe told him that she couldn't;

A TKAOLDY OF NOBODIES.

289

doctor
cadily
ed the
c took
soldier

i ^o to
i\va\ so
romise.
iiic she
;w road
ed, and
jg with
jhes set
piece of
e was a
piercing
ques ! "
omeone
ing the
hed bis
ad been
p in his
ddenly

Ihim^clf,
Iream —

'arlton,
I she did
louldn't ;

that he oiicrht to remember she had had no rest for
weeks, and liad earned a long rest And Jacques said
that was so.

Weir began preparations for the funeral, but Freddy
Tarlton took them out of his hands — Freddy Tarlton,
who visited at the homes of Fort Latrobe. But he
had the strengtl of his convictions such as they were.
He began by riding thirty miles and back to ask the
young clergyman at Purple Hill to come and bury
Blanche. She'd reformed and been bijptisid^ Freddy
said with a sad sort of humour. And the clergyman,
when he knew all, said that he would come. Freddy
was hardly prepared for what occurred when he got
back. Men were waiting for him, anxious to know if
the clergyman was coming. They had raised a sub-
scription to cover the cost of the funeral, and among
them were men such as Harry Dclong.

" You fellows would better not mix yourselves up
in this," said Freddy.

But Harry Belong replied quickly: " I am going to
see the thing through." And the others endorsed his
words.

When the clerg\'man came, and looked at the face
of this Magdalene, he was struck by its comeliness
and quiet. All else seemed to have been washed
away. On her breast lay a knot of white roses —
white roses in this winter desert.

One man present, seeing the look of wonder in the
clergyman's eyes, said quietly : " My — my wife sent
them. She brought the j)lant from Quebec It has
just bloomed. She knows all about lier!*

That man was Harry Belong. The keeper of his
home understood the other homeless woman. When

290

PIEKRK AND HIS PKOI'LR.

she knew of HI I ru he's death she said : " Poor girl, poor
Rirl ! " and then she had gently added: " Tuor
Jacques ! "

And Jacques, as he sat in a cliair by the fire four
days after tlie tragedy, did not know that the clergy-
man was reading over a gr.ive on t'le hillside, words
which are for the hearts of the quick as for the un-
tenanted dead.

To Jacques's inquiries after Blanche, Soldier Joe
had made changing and vague replies. At last he
said that she was ill ; then, that she was very ill, and
again, that she was better, almighty better — now.
I'he third day following the funeral, Jacques insisted
that he would go and see her. The doctor at length
decided he should be taken to Weir's Tavern, where,
they declared, they would tell him all. And they
took him, and placed him by the fire in the card-
room, a wasted figure, but fastidious in maimer and
scruinilously neat in person as of old. Then he asked
for Blanche ; but even now they had not the courage
for it. The doctor nervouslv went out, as if to seek
her ; and Freddy Tarlton said: "Jacques, let us have
a little gpmc, just for quarters^ you know. Kh ? "

The other replied without eagerness : " Vuila, one
game, then ! "

They drew him to the table, but he played list-
lessly. His eyes shifted ever to the door. Luck was
a;4ainst hJm. Finally he pushed over a silver piece,
and said : " The last. My money is all gone. Bie?i!"
lie lost that too.

Just then the door opened, and a ranchman from
Purple Hill entered. He looked carelessly round, and
then said loi'dly:

-1, poor
" Poor

re four

clergy-
words
:he un-

ier Joe
last he
ill, and
— now.
nsistcd
length
where,
d they
e card-
ler and
2 asked
;ourage
to seek
us have
?"
ila, one

A TRA(;Kr)Y OF NOIJODIES.

291

"Say, Joe so you ve buric.l H|.,„che. have you?
lo.r sinner ! ^ "r

There ^vas a heavy silence. No one replied
Jacxiucs started to hs feet, gazed around scarch'gly
P.unfuil>s and presently gave a great gasp. ufs'
hands made a chafing motion in the air. and the
blood showed on his lii.s and chin. He drew a
handkerchief from his breast.

''Pardon I . . . Pardon l^ he faintly cried in
apology, and put it to his mouth.

Then he fell backwards in the arms of Soldier Foe
who wiped a moisture from the hfeless cheek as he
laid the body on a bed.

thi word°^'' °' '^' '''''"'' handkerchief they found

Blanche

ed list-

ick was

r piece,

Bienr

m from
md, and

■ > I

I' >

'll

f
i s-

£1 Sanctnarv of the HMatne,

Fatiikr Corkaink stood with his chin in his
hand and one arm supporting the other, thinking
deeply. His e\'es were fixed on the northern horizon,
alon^; wliich the sun was casting obUque rays ; for it
was the bef^iiniin^ of the winter season.

Where the prairie touched the sun it //as responsive
and radiant; but on either side of this red and golden
tapestry there was a tawny glow and then a duskiness
which, curving round to the north and east, became
blue and cold — an impalpable but [)erceptible barrier
rising from the earth, and shutting in Father Corraine
like a prison wall. And this shadow crept stealthily
on and invaded the whole circle, until, where the
radiance had been, there was one continuous wall of
gloom, rising arc upon arc to invasion of the zenith,
and pierced only by some intrusive wandering
stars.

And still the priest stood there looking, until
the darkness closed down on him with an almost
tangible consistency. Then he appeared to remember
himself, and turned away with a gentle remonstrance
of his head, and entered the hut behind him. He
lighted a lamp, looked at it doubtfully, blew it out,
set it aside, and lighted a candle. This he set in the
one window of the room which faced the north and
west

\ SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

293

in his
hinking
horizon,
3 ; for it

5ponsive
I golden
iiskincss

became
; biirrier

orraine

ealthily
here the

wall of
zenith,
indering

until
almost
member
nstrance
m. He
it out,
Lit in the
rth and

lie went to a door opcninfj into the only other room
in the hut, and with his hand on the latch lo(jkcd
tiioughtfiilly and sorrowfully at something in the
corner of the ro()m where he stood. He was evitlently
debating upon some matter,— prohibl)- the removal of
what was in the corner to the other room. U so, he
finally decided to abandon the intention. He sat
down in a chair, faccxl the candle, again dropped his
chin upon his hand, and ke[)t his eyes musingly on
the light. He was silent and motionless a long time,
then his lips moved, and he seemed to repeat some
thing to himself in whispers.

Presently he took a well-worn book from his pocket,
and read aloud from it softly what seemed to be an
office of his Church. I lis voice grew slightly louder
as he continued, until, suddenly, there ran through the
words a deep, sigh which tlid not come from himself.
He raised his head quickly, started to his feet, and
turning round, looked at that something in the corner.
It took the form of a human figure, which raised itself
on an elbow and said : " W atei — water — for the love
of God 1 "

Father Corraine stood painfully staring at the figure
for a moment, and then the words broke from him :
"Not dead! not dead! wonderful!" Then he stepped
quickly to a table, took therefrom a pannikin of
water, and kneeling, held it to the lips of the gasp-
ing figure, throwing his arm round its shoulder, and
supporting its head on his breast. Agaiti bespoke:
" Alive ! alive I Blessed be I leaven ! "

The hands of the figure seized the hand of the
priest, which held the j)annikin, and kissed it, saying
faintly : " You are good to me. , . . But 1 must

294

PIERRE AND HIS PFOPLE.

I !

sleep — I must sleep — I am so tired ; and I've — very
far — to go — across tlie world."

This was said very slowly, then the head thick with
brown curls dropped again on the priest's breast,
heavy with sleep. Father Corraine, flushing slightly at
first, became now slightly pale, and his brow was
a place of war between thankfulness and perplexity.
But he said something prayerfully, then closed his
lips firmly, and gently laid the figure down, where
it was immedir.tely clothed about with slumber.
Then he rose, and standing with his eyes bent upon
the sleeper and his fingers clasping each other tightly
before him, said : " Poor girl ! So, she is alive. And
now what will come of it ? "

He shook his grey head in doubt, and immediately
began to prepare some simple food and refreshment
for the sufferer when she should awake. In the
midst of doing so he paused and repeated the words,
"A?id ivhat will come of it?" Then he added: "There
was no sign of pulse nor heart-beat when I found
her. But life hides itself where man cannot reach
it"

Having finished his task, ht sat down, drew the
book of holy offices again from his bosom, and read
it, whisperingly, for a time ; then fell to musing, and,
after a considerable time, knelt down as if in prayer.
While he knelt, the girl, as if startled from her sleep
by some inner shock, opened her eyes wide and
looked at him, first with bewilderment, then with
anxiety, then with wistful thankfulness. " Oh, I
thought — I thought when I awoke before that it
was a woman. But it is the good Father Corraine
— Corraine, yes, that was the name."

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

295

—very

k with
breast,
htly at
w was
lexity.
ed Ill's
where
umber.
: upon
tightly
And

diately
jhment
In the
words,
'There
found
reach

w the

d read

g, and,

Drayer.

r sleep

e and

with

Oh, I

that it

:)rraine

The priest's clean-shaven race> long hair, and
black cassock had, in her first moments of con-
sciousness, deceived her. Now a sharp pain brou^^ht
a moan to her lips ; and this drew the priest's atten-
tion. He rose, and brought her some food and drink
" My daughter," he said, " you must take these."
Something in her face touched his sensitive mind, and
he said, solemnly : " You are alune with me and God,
this hour. Be at peace. Eat."

Her eyes swam with instant tears. "I know — I am
alone — with God," she said. Again he gently urged
the food upon her, and she took a little ; but now and
then she put her hand to her side as if in pain. And
once, as she did so, she said : " I've far to go and the
pain is bad. Did they take him away ? "

Father Corraine shook his head. " I do not know
of whom you speak," he replied. "When I went to
my door this morning I found you l}'ing there. I
brought you in, and, finding no sign of life in you,
sent Featherfoot, my Indian, to Fort Cypress for a
trooper to come ; for I feared that there had been ill
done to you, somehow. This border-side is but a
rough country. It is not always safe for a woman to
travel alone."

The girl shuddered. " Father," she said, — " Father
Corraine, I believe you are ? " (Mere the priest
bowed his head.) " I wish to tell you all, so that if
ever any evil did come to me, if I should die without
doin' what's in my heart to do, you would know ; and
tell ^im if you ever saw him, how I remembered, and
kept rememberin' him ahvaj-s, till my heart got sick
with waitin', and I came to find him far across the

fieas.

296

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

'\i

" Tell me your tale, my child," he patiently said.
Her eyes were on the candle in the window qucs-
tioningly. " It is for the trooper — to guide him,"
the other remarked. " *Tis past time that he should
be here. When you are able you can go with
him to the Fort. You will be better cared for there,
and will be amonsf women."

" The man — the man who was kind to me — I wish
I knew of him," she said.

" I am waiting for your story, my child. Speak
of your trouble, whether it be of the mind and body,
or of the soul."

"You shall judge if it be of the soul," she
answered. " I come from far away. I lived in old
Donegal since the day that I was born there, and
I had a lover, as brave and true a lad as ever trod
the world. But sorrow came. One night at Far-
calladen Rise there was a crack of arms and a
clatter of fleeing hoofs, and he that I loved came
to me and said a quick word of partin', and with
a kiss — it's burnin* on my lips yet — askin* pardon,
father, for speech of this to you — and he was gone,
an outlaw,* to Australia. For a time word came from
him. Then I was taken ill and couldn't answer his
letters, and a cousin of my own, who had tried to win
my love, did a wicked thing. He wrote a letter to
him and told him I was dyin', and that there was
no use of farther words from him. And never again
did word come to me from him. But I waited, my
heart sick with longin' and full of hate for the
memory of the man who, when struck with death,
told me of the cruel deed he had done between us
two."

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

29;

y said.
' qucs-
I him,"
should

with
r there,

-I wish

Speak
i body,

1," she
in old
re, and
er trod
Lt Far-
and a

1 came
d with
Dardon,

gone,
from
ver his

to win
tter to
re was
r again
cd, my
Dr the

death,
een us

She paused, as she had to do several times during
the recital, through weariness or pain ; but, after a
moment, proceeded. *' One day, one beautiful day,
when the flowers were like love to the eye, and the
larks singin' overhead, and my thoughts goin' with
them as they swam until they were lost in the sky,
and every one of them a prayer for the lad livin' yet,
as I hoped, somewhere in ^jod's universe — there rode
a gentleman down Farcalladen Rise. He stopped
me as I walked, and said a kind good-day to me;
and I knew when I looked into his face that he had "
word for me — the whisperin' of some angel, I suppose,
— and I said to him as though he had asked me for it:
* My name is Mary Callen, sic.'

"At that he started, and the colour came quick to
his face ; and he said : ' I am Sir Duke Lawless. I
come to look for Mary Callen's grave. Is there a
Mary Callen dead, and a Mary Callen livin' ? and did
both of them love a man that went from Farcalladen
Rise one wild night long ago ? '

"'There's but one Mary Callen,' said I ; 'but the
heart of me is dead, until I hear news that brings it
to life again ? '

" * And no man calls you wife ? ' he asked.

"* No man. Sir Duke Lawless,' answered I. 'And
no man ever could, save him that used to write me of
you from the heart of Australia; only there was no
Sir to your name then.'

"* I've come to that since,' s.iid he.

"'Oh, tell me,' I cried, with a quiverin' at my heart,
' tell me, is he livin'?'

" And he replied : ' I left him in the Fipi Valley of
the Rocky Mountains a year ago.'

298

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE..

;(. !

** ' A year ago ! * said I, sadly.

"'I'm ashamed tliat I've been so long in comin*
here,' replied he ; * but, of course, he didn't know that
you were alive, and I had been parted from a lady for
years — a lover's quarrel — and I had to choose between
oourtin' her again and marryin' her, or comin' to Far-
calladen Rise at once. Well, I went to the altar first'

" ' Oh, sir, you've come with the speed of the wind,
for now that I've news of him, it is only yesterday
that he went away, not years agone. But tell me,
does he ever think of me ? ' I questioned.
. " ' He thinks of you,' he said, * as one for whom the
masses for the holy dead are spoken ; but while I
knew him, first and last, the memory of you was with
him.'

"With that he p^ot off his horse, and said: 'I'll walk
with you to his father's home.'

" * You'll not do that,' I replied ; ' for it's level with
the ground. God punish them that did it! and they're
lyin' in the glen by the stream that he loved and
galloped over many a time.'

" * They are dead — they are dead, then,' said he,
with his bridle swung loose on his arm and his hat off
reverently.

" ' Gone home to Heaven together,' said I, * one day
and one hour, and a {)rayer on their lips for the lad ;
and I closin' their eyes at the last. And before they
went they made mc sit by them and sing a song that's
common here with us ; for many and many of the
strength and pride of Farcalladen Rise have sailed
the wide seas north and south, and otherwhere, and
comin' back maybe and maybe not.*

" ' Hark,' he said, very gravely, ' and I'll tell you

comm
ow that
ady for
)etween
to Far-
ar first'
e wind,
sterday
;ell me,

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

299

what it is. for I've heard liiin sinc^ it, I know, in the
worst days and the best days that ever we had,
when hick was wicked and big ac^ainst us and. we
starvin' on the walla1)y track ; or when we found the
turn in the lane to hriL^liter days.'

" And then with me lookin' at him full in the eyes,
gentleman thouc^h he was, — for comrade he had been
with the man I loved, — he said to mc there, so finely
and kindly, it ouf^ht to have brou<;ht the dead back
from their graves to hear, these words :

om the
while I
as with

11 walk

el with
they're
:d and

"'You'll travel far and wide, dear, but you'll come back ap^ain.
You'll come back to your father and \our motlier in the ^l^^-n,
Although we should be lyin' 'neath the heather grasses then —
You'll be comin' back, my darlin* 1 '

"'You'll see the icebergs sailin' along the wintry foam,
The white hair of the breakers, and the wild swans as they

roam ;
But you'll not forget the rowan beside your father's home —
You'll be comin' back, my darlin'.'"

lid he,
hat off

ne day

le lad ;
e they

that's
of the

sailed
5, and

II ynu

Here the c^irl paused lon^i^er than usual, and the
priest dropped his forehead in his hand sadly.

" I've brought grief to your kind heart, Father," she
said.

" No, no," he replied, " not sorrow at all ; but I was
born on the Liffe}- side, th' ugh it's forty years and more
since I left it, and I'm an old man now. That song I
knew well, and the truth and the heart of it too. . . .
I am listening."

" Well, together we went to the grave of the father
and mother, and the place where the home had been,

jOO

PIERRE AND MIS PKOPI.E.

lir

is,

''^\l

and for a lon^ time he was silent, as though they who
slept beneath the sod were his, and not another's ;
but at last he said :

"'And what will you do? 1 don't quite know
where he is, though ; when last I heard from him and
his comrades, they wore in the Pipi Valley.'

" My heart was full of joy ; for though I saw how
touched he was because of what he saw, it was all
common to my sight, and I had grieved much, but
had had little delight ; and I said :

"* There's only one thing to be done. He cannot
come back here, and I must go to him — that is,' said
I, ' if you think he cares for me still, — for my heart
quakes at the thought that he might have changed.*

"* I know his heart,' said he, *and you'll find him, I
doubt not, the same, though he buried you long ago
in a lonely tomb, — the tomb of a sweet remembrance,
where the flowers are evcrlastin'.' Then after more
words he offered me money with which to go ; but I
said to him that the l(we that couldn't carry itself
across the sea by the strength of the hands and the
sweat of the brow was no love at all ; and that the
harder was the road to him the gladder I'd be, so that
it didn't keep me too long, and bnnight me to him at
last.

" He looked me up and down very earnestly for a
minute, and then he said : ' What is there under the roof
of heaven like the love of an honest woman ! It makes
the world worth livin' in.'

" * Yes,' said I, * when love has hope, and a place to
lay its head.'

"'Take this,' said he — and he drew from his pocket
his watch — ' and carry it to him with the regard of Duke

A SANCTUARY OF IHK 1>1,A1NS.

;ot

ley who
other's ;

e know
lim and

;aw how

was all

uch, but

; cannot
is/ said
ny heart
nged.*
id him, I
onpj ago
nbrance,
er more
but I
rry itself
and the
that the
so that

him at

;tly for a
r the rool
It makes

. place to

is pocket

1 of Duke

Lawless, and this for yourself — fetchiu;^ from his
p cket a revolver and puttin<^ it into my hands ; ' for
tlie prairies are but roui^h places after all, and it's
better to he safe than — worried. . . . Never fear
though but the prairies will bring back the finest
of blooms to your cheek, if fair enough it is now, and
flush his eye with pride of you ; and God be with
you both, if a sinner may say that, and brcakin*
no saint's prer(\<^ative.' And he mounted to ride
away, havin' shaken my hand like a brother ; but
he turned again before he went, and said: 'Tell
him and iiis comrades that I'll shoulder my gun
and join them before the world is a year older, if
I can. h'or that land is God's land, and its people
are my people, and I care not who knows it, what-
ever here I be.'

" I worked my way across the sea, and stayed
awhile in the East earning money to carry me
over the land and into the Pipi Valley. I joined a
party of emigrants that were goin' westward, and
travelled far with them. But they quarrelled and
sei)arated, I goin' with these that I liked
best. One night though, I took my horse and
left ; for I knew there was evil in the heart of a
man who sought me continually, and the
thing drove me mad. I rode until my horse
could stumble no farther, and then I took the
saddle for a pillow and slept on the bare ground.
And in the morning I got up and rode on, seein'
no house nor human being for many and many a mile.
When everything seemed hopeless I came suddenly
upon a camp. But I saw that there was only one
man thet-e and I should have turned back, but that I

^02

IMI'KKK AND IffS I'KOP!,!'

ill

tin '

■ ■

i i.

\ i

w.iN won) .111(1 ill, ,111(1, n)< ir(>(i\ (I , I h.id ridden almost
ii))t)M liiiM. Hilt lu^ was kind. lie sli, ncd his food
with iiu', and aski-d \\w \\\\v\r I w.r. i;'"iir. I told
liim, and al-<> that I had (juai iclKd with ihost^ofniy
parts' and had Irlt tluMii ni>thin:; ni<>u\ !Ic* sccincd
to wcmuUm that I was j'/'in' l<> I'lpi \'aiU>y ; and wIkmi
1 had linislu-d my taK^ \\c said : ' Well, I must tc*ll you
that 1 am not i;ood it»m|»iny lt)r \-ou. I have a
name that docv>n"t pass at \),\\ np \\v\\\ 'I'o speak
plain truth, lioopiMs arc lonkini; for nu-, and —
strani^c as it m.iy \>c for a t rime whic h I didn't roin-
init. That is tho loolishnc^ss of the law. lUit for this
I'm makini; Inr the American hoidci, l)i)-ontl which,
treaty or no trcMty, a man ih-Is refui^e.'

"He was silent after that, lookin' at me thouj^ht-
fully the while, hut in a way that told mc I mi^dit
trust him, evil thoui;h he called himself At Icui^th
he said : ' 1 kntnv a i^^^od priest, leather COrraiue, who
has a cabin sixty miles or more from here, and I'll
guide you to him, if so be you can trust a half breed
and a gambler, and one men call an outlaw. If not,
I'm feared it'll go hard with you ; for the Cypress
Hills are not easy travel, as I've known this many a
year. And should you wixvxt a name to call me,
Pretty Pierre will do, thout;h my godfathers and
godmothers did different for me before they
w ent to Heaven.* And nothing said he irreverently,
Father."

Here the priest looked up and answered : " Yes,
yes, I know him well — an evil man, and yet he has
suftered too. . . . Well? well? my daughter?"

" At that he took his pistol from his pocket and
handed it * Take that,' he said. * It will make you

A SANCI IIAUV (»!■ I III'. PLAINS.

^OT,

alinnst
lis food

I told
(' of my

scimiuhI
1(1 wIkmi
tell you

liavc .1

I) speak

and —

n't coni-

iur tills
d which,

thou^ht-
I niij^ht
t Icivj^th
nc, who
and I'll
ir breed
If not,
Cypress
many a
call me,
lers and
they
verently,

" Yes,

it he has

:ket and
lake you

s.ilci Willi iiic, aix! I'll tuli- .iIk .III <>! \<)ii, .md \\^■ .li.iU
rea( li tlu;rc hy smnl"\\ii, | lii.|.( .' ^

"And I would nnj take In. pi tnl, lni(, shamed a
liltie, shnwcMJ I' m the one Sir I )iikc Law less }.fav(! un:.
'That'.s i.^;i I, he said, 'and, iii.i\l»(', it'', hdtcr tiiat I
should c.my mine, Ini, as I s.iid, tin ic aic anxious
gentlemen htokin' fi»r me, who wi.li to };iv(; riic a
(jiiiet but (he iiy huinc. /\nd see,' he a<ldcd, * il they
should come you will he sale, lor the)- sit in th< jud;.;-
nient seat, and the staliilcs haii;.^ at thiir s.kMIcs, and
I'll say this for them, th.it a woman to th( ni is as a
saint of dod out here wluie women and s.iints are
few.'

"I do not speak as he s|)oke, for his words had a
turn of i^'riMK h ; hut i ktiew th.it, wlia!f\i'i lie was,
I should travel peaceably with him. VrX i saw
that he would be rumiin' the risk (>( his own safety
for me, and I told him that I couhi not have him
do it; but he talk'd n>e li;',htly down, and we started.
We had ^(jne but a little dist.mce, wh' n there
j^allopcd over a riii*^(; u|)on us, two men o; the j^arty
I had left, and one, I saw, was the man 1 hat<d ; and
I cried out and told Pretty I'lcru;. lie wheeled
his hor.se, and held his pistol by him. 'Ilu-y said
that I should coiTie with them, and tluy told a
dreadful lie — that I was a runaway wifg ; but Pierre
answered them they lied. At this, one n^de forward
suddenly, and clutched me at my waist tf) dra^

fro

m m

y horse. At this, i'ierre's jjistol was

thrust in his face, and Pierre bade him cease, which
he did ; but the cAher came tlown wiih a pistol
showin', and Pierre, se( in' the>' were determined,
fired : and the man that clutched at me fell from his

304

I'IKKKK AND HIS I'KOI'Lli.

• '

horse. Then the other drew off; and Pierre got
down, and stooped, and felt thi* rtian's heart, and
said to the other: * T.ike \'()ur friend away, for he
is diMd ; bnt (irop that pistol of yonrs on tlie yronnd
first.' And llie man did so ; and I'ierre, as he
looked at the dead man, added: 'Why did he make
me kill him ?*

" Then the two tied the body to tlie horse, and the
man rotle away with it. We travelled on without
speakin' for a lon^ time, and tlien 1 heard him say
absently: * I am sick of ///<if. When once you have
played shuttlecock with human life, you have to play
it to the end : that is the ))cnalty. Hut a woman is a
woman, and she must be protected.' Then afterward
he turned and asked me if I had friends in Pipi Val-
ley ; and because what he h.ul done for me had
' 'orked upon me, I told him of the man I was goin'
to find. And he st.uted in his saddle, and I could see
by the way he twisted the mouth of his horse that I
had stirred him."

Here the priest interposed: "What is the name of
the man in Pipi Valley to whom you are going?"

And the girl replied : " Ah, Father, have I not told
you? It is Shon McGann — of Farcalladen Rise."

At this, Father Corraine seemed suddenly troubled,
and he looked strangely and sadly at her. But the
girl's eyes were fastened on the candle in the window,
as if she saw her story in it ; and she continued : " A
colour spread upon him, and then left him pale; and
he said : * To Shon McGann — you are going to ///;;? ?
Thirk of that — that!' For an instant I thought a
horrible smile pla\'ed upon his face, and I grew
frightened, and said to him : * You know him. You

Pierre pot
heart, and
ay, for lie
lie ground
Tf, as he
1 he make

>e, and the
)n without
d him say
you have
Lve to play
/Oman is a
I afterward
i Pipi Val-
>r me h.id
; was goin'
I could see
3rse that I

e name of

bing?"
I not told
Rise."

y troubled,
But the

le window,
nued : " A
pale ; and

g to /itm ?
thought a
d I grew

■lim. You

A SANCTUAKV OK Till-. [MAINS

^''5

are not sorry that you ate hcl| ing uic? V( u and
Shon McCjann are not eiieinies?'

"After a mo-nent tin; snile that stnuk \\\v with
dicad passed, and he said, as he drew hiiiiscH up with
a shake : "Shon McCiaini and I were gc^od friends —
as good as ever shared a blanket or split a loaf,
though he was free of any evil, and I faileil of any
good. . . . Well, there came a change. We parted.
Wc could meet no more ; but who could have guessed
////.v thing? Yet, hear me — I am no enemy of Shon
McCiann, as let m}' deeds to you prove.' And he
pausetl again, but added presently: 'it's better you
should have come now than two years ago.'

" And 1 had a fear in my heart, and to this asked
him why. ' Ik-cause then he was a friend of mine,*
he said, 'and ill aKva)'s comes to those who arc such.*
I was troubled at this, and asked him if Shon was in
Pipi Valley yet. * I do not know,' said he, * for I've
travelled long and far from there; still, while I do
not wish to put doubt into your minti, I have
a thought he may be gone. . . . He had a gay
heart,' he continued, * and we saw brave days to-
gether.*

"And though I questioned him, he told me little
more, but became silent, scannin' the plains as we
rode ; but once or twice he looked at me in a strantre
fashion, and passed his hand across his forehead, and
a grey look came upon his face. I disked him if he
were not well. 'Only a kind of fightin' within,* he
said ; ' such things soon pass, and it is well they do, or
we should break to pieces.'

" And I said again that I wished not to bring him
into danger. And he replied that these matters were

30^

HIKkUK AM) HIS PEOPLE.

I'i i

!■!

accordin' to Fate ; that men like him must go on
when once the die is cast, for they cannot turn buck.
It seemed to nie a bitter creed, and I was sorry for
him. Then for hours we kept an almost steady
silence, and comin' at last to the top of a rise of land
he pointed to a spot far off on the plains, and said
that you. Father, lived there ; and that he would go
with nie still a little way, and then leave me. I
urged him to go at once, but he would not, and we
came down into the plains. He had not ridden far
when he said sharply:

" ' The Riders of the Plains, those gentlemen who
seek me, are there — see ! Ride on or stay, which you
please. If you go you will reach the priest, if you
stay here where I shall leave you, you will see me
taken perhaps, and it may be ficjhtin' or death ; but
you will be safe with them. On the whole, it is best,
perhaps, that you should ride away to the priest
They might not believe all that you told them, ridin'
with me as you are.*

" But I think a sudden madness again came upon
me. Rememberin' what things were done by women
for refugees in old Donegal, and that this man had
risked his life for me, I swung my horse round nose
and nose with his, and drew my revolver, and said
that I should see whatever came to him. He prayed
me not to do so wild a thing ; but when I refused, and
pushed on along with him, makin' at an angle for
some wooded hills, I saw that a smile proud and gentle
played upon his face. We had almost reached the
edge of the wood when a bullet whistled by us. At
that the smile passed and a strange look came upon
him, and he said to me :

A sANC.Tl'AkY OF 1 UK I'LAINS.

3^';

5t go on
urn back,
sorry for
t steady
e of land
and said
would go
e me. I
)t, and we
idden far

;men who
vhich you
:st, if you
11 see me
eath ; but
it is best,
he priest
lem, ridin'

ime upon

)y women

man had

»und nose

and said

[e prayed

"used, and

angle for

md gentle

ached the

y us. At

ime upon

"' 1 liis must end here. 1 think you ^ucss 1 \\d\r
no coward's blood ; but I am sick to the teeth of
tightin'. I do not wish to shocls \n»u, Init 1 swe.ir, un-
less you turn and ride away to the left towards the
priest's house, I shall save those fillous fuithci
trouble by killin' ii.yself Ium-.' ; aiul tluTv.-,' said he,
* would be a pleas.uit place ii> die — ai the teet of a
woman who trusted you.'

" 1 knew by the look in hib eye he would keep his
word.

« * Oh, is this so ? ' I said.

" * It is so,' he replied, * and it shall be done quickly,
for the courage to death is on me.'

" ' But if I go, you will still try to escape ? ' I said.
And he answered that he would. Then I spoke a God-
bless-you, at which he smiled and shook his head, and
leanin' over, touched my hand, and spoke low : * When
you see Shon McGanii, tell him what I tlid, and say
that we are even now. Say also that you called
Heaven to bless me.' Then wc swung away from
each other, and the troopers followed after him, but
let me go my way ; from which, I guessed, they saw
I was a woman. And as I rode I heard shots, and
turned to see ; but my horse stumbled on a hole md we
fell together, and when I waked, I saw that the poor
beast's legs were broken. So I ended its misery, and
made my way as best I could by the stars to your
house ; but I turned sick and fainted at the door, and
knew no more until this hour. . . . You thought me
dead. Father ? "

The priest bowed his head, and said : " These are
strange, sad thini^s, my child ; and they shall seem
stranger to you when you hear all."

3oS

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

" Jl7;rn I hear all I Ah, tell me, father, do you
know Shoii McGann ? Can you take me to him ? "

" I know him, but I do not know where he is. He
left the Pipi Val.ey eighteen months ago, and I never
saw him afterwards ; still I doubt not he is somewhere
on the pl'iins, and we shall find him — we shall find
hi':i, please Heaven."

" Is he a good lad, Father ? "

" He is brave, and he was always kind. He came
to me before he left the valley — for he had trouble —
and said to me : * Father, I am going away, and to
what place is far from me to know, but wherever it is,
I'll live a life that's fit for men, and not like a loafer on
God's world ;' and he gave me money for masses to be
said — for the dead."

The girl put out her hand. " Hush I hush ! " she
said. " Let me think. Masses for the dead. . . .
What dead ? Not for me ; he thought me dead
long ago."

" No ; not for you," was the slow reply.

She noticed his hesitation, ind said : " Speak. I
know that there is sorrow on him. Someone — some-
one — he loved ? "

" Someone he loved," v/as the reply.

" And she died ? " The priest bowed his head.

" She was his wife — Shon's wife ? " and Mary
Callen could not hide from her words the hurt she
felt.

" I married her to him, but yet she was not his
wife."

There w'as a keen distress in the girl's voice.
" Father, tell me, tell me what you mean."

" Hush, and I will tell you all. He married her,

do you

iim ?
I: is. He
1 I never
niewhere
hall find

ie came
rouble —
7, and to
iver it is,
loafer on
ses to be

>h ! " she
;ad. . . .
Tie dead

peak. I
i — some-

lead.

d Mary

hurt she

not his

i's voice.

ried her,

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

309

thinking, and she thinking, that she was a widowed
woman. But her husband came back. A terrible
thing happened. The woman believing, at a painful
time, that he who came back was about to take Shon's
life, fired at him, and wounded him, and then killed
herself."

Mary Callen raised herself upon her elbow, and
looked at the priest in piteous bewilderment " It is
dreadful," she said. ..." Poor woman ! . . . And he
had forgotten — forgotten me. I was dead to him,
and am dead to him now. There's nothing left but
to draw the cold sheet of the grave over me. Better
for me if I had never come — if I had never come, and
instead were lyin' by his father and mother beneath
the rowan."

The priest took her wrist firmly in his. "These
are not brave nor Christian words, from a brave and
Christian girl. But I know that grief makes one's
words wild. Shon McGann shall be found. In the
days when I saw him most and best, he talked of you
as an angel gone, and he had never sought another
woman had he known that you lived. The Mounted
Police, the Riders of the Plains, travel far and wide.
But now, there has come from the farther West a
new detachment to Fort Cypress, and they may be
able to help us. But listen. There is something
more. The man Pretty Pierre, did he not speak
puzzling words concerning himself and Shon
McGann? And did he not say to you at the last
that tJiey were even now ? Well, can you not guess ?"

Mary Callen's bosom heaved painfully and her eyes
stared so at the candle in the window that they
seemed to grow one with the flame. At last a new look

3IO

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

Il !

'Mi

crept into them ; a thought made the lids close quickly
as though it burned them. When they opened again
they were full of tears that shone in the shadow and
dropped slowly on her cheeks and flowed on and on,
quivering too in her throat.

The priest said : " You understand, my child ? "
And she answered : " I understand. Pierre, the out-
law, was /ler husband."

Father Corraine rose and sat beside the table, his
book of oflices open before him. At length he said :
" There is much that might be spoken ; for the Church
has words for every hour of man's life, whatever it be ;
but there comes to me now a word to say, neither
from prayer nor ps?'m, but from the songs of a country
where good women are ; where however poor the fire-
side, the loves beside it are born of the love of God,
though the tongue be angry now and then, the foot
stumble, and the hand quick at a blow." Then, with a
soft, ringing voice, he repeated :

" * New friends will clasp your hand, dear, new faces on you

smile —
You'll bide with them and love them, but you'll long for us

the while ;
For the word across the water, and the farewell by the

stile —
For the true heart's here, my darlinV"

Mary Callen's tears flowed afresh at first ; but soon
after the voice ceased she closed her eyes and her sol s
stOf)ped, and Father Corraine sat down and became
lost in thouHit as h.* v^atched the candle. Then there
went a word amons:^ the spirits watching,' that he was
not thinking o( the candle, or of them that the candle

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

quickly
d again
ow and
and on,

1?"
he out-

ble, his
le said :
Church
r it be ;
neither
:ountry
he fire-
of God,
he foot
, with a

on you

ig for us

by the

Jt soon
er sol s
Decame
n there
he was
candle

was to light on the way, nor even of this girl near him,
but of a summer forty years gone when he was a
goodly youth, with the red on his lip and the light in
his eye, and before him, leaning on a stile, was a lass
with —

t«

cheeks like the dawn of day.'

And ail the good wor'd swam in circles, eddying
ever inward until it streaTied intensely and joyously
through her eyes " blue as the fairy flax." And he
had carried the remembrance of this away into the
world with him, but had never gone back again. He
had travelled beyond the seas to live among savages
and wear out his life in self-denial ; and now he
had come to the evening of his life, a benignant figure
in a lonely land. And as he sat here murmuring
mechanically bits of an office, his heart and mind
were with a sacred and distant past. Yet the spirits
recorded both these things on Iheir tablets, as though
both were worthy of their remembrance.

He did not know that he kept repeating two
sentences over and over to himself:

*• * Quoniam ipse liberavit me de laqueo venantitim et a vrbo
aspero.
Quoniam angelis suis mandavit de te : ut custodiant te in
omnibus viis tuis.' "

These he said at first softly to himself, but uncon-
sciously his voice became louder, so that the girl
heard, and she said :

" Father Corraine, what are those words ? I do
not understand them, but they sound comforting."

312

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

And he, wdking from his dream, changed the Latin
into English, and said :

" * For he hath delivered me from the snue of the hunter, and
from the sharp sivord.
For he hath given his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in
all thy ways! "

I i

■ s;. ,.

i I

i:n

i \

" The words are good," she said. He then told hci
he was going out, but that he should be within call,
saying, at the same time, that someone would no
doubt arrive from Fort Cypress soon : and he went
from the house. Then the girl rose slowly, crept
lamely to a chair and sat down. Outside, the priest
paced up and down, stopping now and then, and
listening as if for horses' hoofs. At last he walked
some distance away from the house, deeply lost in
thought, and he did not notice that a man came
slowly, heavily, to the door of the hut, and opening it,
entered.

Mary Callen rose from her seat with a cry in which
was timidity, pity, and something of horror ; for it
was Pretty Pierre. She recoiled, but seeing how he
swayed with weakness, and that his clothes had blood
upon them, she helped him to a chair. He looked
up at her with an enigmatical smile, but he did not
speak.

" Oh," she whispered, " you are wounded ? "

He nodded ; but still he did not speak. Then his
lips moved dryly. She brought him water. He
drank deeply, and a sigh of relief escaped him. " You
got here safely," he now said. " 1 am glad of that —
— though you, too, are hurt."

he Latin

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS

313

niter ^ and
'ep thee in

told hci
hin call,
ould no
he went
y, crept
le priest
en, and
walked
lost in
n came
2ning it,

n which
; for it
how he
d blood
looked
did not

'hen his
r. He

" You
■ that—

She briefly told him how, and then he said : " Well,
I suppose you know all of me now ? "

" I know what happened in Pipi Valley," she said
timidly and wearily. " Father Corraine told me "

" Where is he ? "

When she had answered him, he said : « And you
are willing to speak with me still ? "
^ " You saved me," was her brief, convincing reply.
How did you escape ? Did you fight ? "
« No," he said. « It is strange. I did not fight at
all. As I said to you, I was sick of blood. These
men were only doing their duty. I might have killed
two or three of them, and have escaped, but to what
g )od ? When they shot my horse,— my good Sacra-
ment,— and put a bullet into this shoulder, I crawled
away still, and led them a dance, and doubled on
them ; and here I am."

" It is wonderful that they have not been here," she
said,

" Yes, it is wonderful ; but be very sure they will
be with that candle in the window. Whv is it
there?" ^

She told him. He lifted his brows in stoic irony
and said : « Well, we shall have an army of them'
soon." He rose again to his feet. « I do not wish to
die, and I always said that I would never go to prison.
Do you understand ? "

"Yes," she replied. She went immediately to the
wmdow, took the candle from it, and put it behind an
improvised shade. No sooner was this done than
Father Corraine entered the room, and seeing the
outlaw, said : " You have come here, Pierre ? " And
his face showed wonder and anxiety.

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

'.'

» ;

" I have come, mon Phrey for sanctuary."

" For sanctuary I But, my son, if 1 vex not Heaven
by calling you so, why" — he saw Pierre stagger
slightly. " But you are wounded." He put his arm
round the other's shoulder, and supported him till he
recovered himself. Then he set to work to bandage
anew the wound, from which Pierre himself had not
unskilfully extracted the bullet. While doing so, the
outlaw said to him :

*' Father Corraine, I am haunted like a coyote for a
crime I did not commit. But if I am arrested they
will no doubt charge me with other things — ancient
things. Well, I have said that 1 should never be sent
to gaol, and I never shall ; but I do not wish to die at
this moment, and I do not wish to fight When is
there left ^ "

" How do you come here, Pierre ? "

He lifted his eyes heavily to Mary Callen, and she
told Father Corraine what had been told her. When
she had finished, Pierre added :

" I am no coward, as you will witness ; but as I
said, neither gaol nor death do I wish. Well, if they
should come here, and you said, Pierre is not herCy
even though I was in the next room, they would be-
lieve you, and they would not search. Well, I ask
such sanctuary."

The priest recoiled and raised his hand in protest
Then, after a moment, he said :

" How do you deserve this ? Do you know what
you ask ? "

" My Father, I know it is immense, and I deserve
nothing : and in return I can offer nothing, not even
thut I will repent And I have done no good in the

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

315

)t Heaven
€ Stagger
t his arm
im till he
) bandage
f had not
ing so, the

yote for a
:sted they
s — ancient
^er be sent
h to die at
When is

, and she
r. When

but as I

ell, if they
not here^
would be-
fell, I ask

n protest

enow what

I deserve

not even

)od in the

world ; but still perhaps I am worth the saving, as
may be seen in the end. As for you, well, you will
do a little wrong so that the end will be right
So?"

The priest's eyes looked out long and sadly at the
man from under his venerable brows, as though he
would see through him and beyond him to that end ;
and at last he spoke in a low, firm voice :

" Pierre, you have been a bad man ; but sometimes
you have been generous, and of a few good acts I
know — "

" No, not good," the other interrupted. '' I ask this
of your charity."

" There is the law, and my conscience."

" The law ! the law ! " and there was sharp satire
in the half-breed's voice. " What has it done in the
West ? Think, mon Fere ! Do you not know a hun-
dred cases where the law has dealt foully? There
was more justice before we had law. Law — " And
he named over swiftly, scornfully, a score of names
and incidents, to which Father Corraine listened in-
tently. " But," said Pierre, gently, at last, " but for
your conscience, sir, that is greater than law. For
you are a good man and a wise man ; and you know
that I shall pay my debts of every kind some sure
day. That should satisfy your justice, but you are
m.erciful for the moment, and you will spare until the
time be come, until the corn is ripe in the ear. Why
should I plead ? It is foolish. Still, it is my whim, of
which, perhaps, I shall be sorry to-morrow . . . Hark!"
he added, and tlien shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
There were sounds of hoof-beats coming faintly to
them. Father Corraine threw open the door of the

316

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

/ !

Other room of the hut, and said : " Go in there — Pierre.
We sliall see ... we shall see."

The outlaw looked at the priest, as if hesitating ;
but, after, nodded meaningly to himself, and entered
the room anc' shut the door. The priest stood listen-
ing. When the hoof-beats stopped, he opened the
door, and went out. In the dark he could see that
men were dismounting from their horses. He stood
still and waited. Presently a trooper stepped forward
and said warmly, yet brusquely, as became his office :
" Father Corraine, we meet again ! "

The priest's face was overswept by many expres-
sions, in which marvel and trouble were uppermost,
while joy was in less distinctness.

" Surely," he said, " it is Shon McGann."

"Shon McGann, and no other. — I that laughed at
the law for many a year, — though never breaking
it beyond repair,^ — took your advice, Father Corraine,
and here I am, holding that law now as my bosom
friend at the saddle's pommel. Corporal Shon
McGann, at your service."

They clasped hands, and tNe priest said: "You
have come at my call from Fort Cypress ? "

" Yes. But not these others. They are after a
man that's played ducks and drakes with the statutes
— Heaven be merciful to him, I say. For there's
naught I treasure against him ; the will of God bein*
in it all, with some doin' of the Devil, too, maybe."

Pretty Pierre, standing with ear to the window of
the dark room, heard all this, and he pressed his
upper h"p hard with his forefinger, as \i something
disturbed him.

Shon continued: "I'm glad I wasn't sent after

A SANCTUAkN OF 1 HE PLAINS.

e — Pierre.

lesitating ;
id entered
)od listen-
pened the
d see that

He stood
ed forward

his office :

ny expres-
uppermost,

lauf^fhed at
r breaking
r Corraine,
my bosom
oral Shon

lid: "You

lire after a
he statutes

or there's

God bein*
maybe."

window of
Dressed his

something

sent

after

him as all these here know; for it's little I'd like to
clap irons on his wrists, or whistlt him to come to
me with a Winchester or a Navy. So I'm hcM'c on
my business, and the)''rc here on theirs. Thv. -^^h
we come to^^ether it's because we met each other
hereaway. They've a thought that, maybe. Pretty
Pierre has taken refuge witli you. They'll little
like to disturb you, I know. But with dead in your
house, and you givin' the word of truth, — which
none other could fall from your lips, — they'll go
on their way to look elsewliere."

The priest's face was pinched, and there was a
wrench at his heart. He turned to the others. A
trooper stepped fcjrward.

" Father Corraine," he said, " it is my duty to
search your house ; but not a foot will I stretch
across your threshold if you say No, and give the
word that the man is not with you."

"Corporal McGann," said the priest, "the woman
whom I thought was dead did not die, as you shall
see. There is no need for inquiry. But she will
go with you to Fort Cypress. As for the other, you
say that Father Corrainc's threshold is his own, and
at his own command. His home is how a sanctuary
— for the afflicicd." He went tuuards the door. As
he did so, Mary Callcn, who had been listening inside
the room with shaking- frame and bursting heart,
dropped on her knees beside the table, her head
in her arms. The door opened. " See," said the
priest, "a woman who is injured and suffering."

"Ah," rejoined the trooper, "perhaps it is the
woman who was riding with the half-breed. We
found her dead horse."

3'»

I'IKKkK AM) HIS I'KOHI.K

■H

The priest nodded. Shon McGnnn looked at the
crouching ngure by the table pityingly. As he looked
he was stirred, he knew not why. And she, though
she did not look, knew that his gaze was on her ; and
all her will was spent in holding her eyes from his
face, and from crying out to him.

* And I'retty Pierre," said the trooper, " is not here
wiLli her?"

There was an unfathomable sachicss in the priest's
eyes, as, with a slight motion of the hand towards
the room, he said : " You see — he is not here."

The trooper and his men imn.ediately mounted ;
but one of them, young Tim Kearney, slid from his
horse, and came and dropped on his knee in front of
the priest.

" It's many a day," he said, "since before God or
man I bent a knee — more shame to me for that, and
for mad days gone ; but I care not who knows it, I
want a word of blessin' from the man that's been out
here like a saint in the wilderness, with a heart Uke
the Son o' God."

The priest looked at the man at first as if scarce
comprehending this act so familiar to him, then he
slowly stretched out his hand, said some words in
benediction, and made the sacred gesture. But his
face had a strange and absent look, and he held the
hand poised, even wlien the man had risen and
mounted his horse. One by one the troopers rode
through the faint belt of li;;ht that stretched from the
door, and were lost in the darkness, the thud of their
horses' hoofs echoing behind them. But a change
had come over Corporal Shon McGann. He looked
at Father Corraine with concern and perplexity. He

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

319

ked at the
s he looked
she, though
n lier ; and
s from his

Is not here

the priest's

id towards

re."

' mounted ;

d from his

in front of

)re God or
r that, and
<novvs it, I
3 been out
heart like

s if scarce
m, then he

words in
But his
t held the
risen and
Dpers rode
i from the
id of their

a change
rie looked
;xity. He

alune of those who were there had caught the unreal
note in the proceedings. His eyes were bent on the
darkness into which the men had gone, and his fingers
toyed for an instant with his wliistle; but he said a
hard word of himself under his breath, and turned to
meet Father Corraine's hand upon his arm.

" Shon McGann," the priest said, " I have words
to say to you concerning this poor girl."

" You wish to have her taken to the Fort, I
suppose ? What was she doing with Pretty
Pierre ? "

" I wish her taken to her home."

" Where is her home, Father ? " And his eyes
were cast with trouble on the girl, though he could
assign no cause for that.

" Her home, Shon," — the priest's voice was very
gentle — " her home was where they sing such words
as these of a wanderer :

"* You'll hear the wild birds singin' beneath a brighter sky,
The roof-tree of your home, dear, it will be grand and high ;
But you'll hunger for the hearthstone where a child you used

to lie —
You'll be comin' back, my darlin'.'"

During these words Shon's face ran white then
red ; and now he stepped inside the door like one
in a dream, and /ler face was lifted to his as though
he had called her. " Mary — Mary Callen !" he cried.
His arms spread out, then dropped to his side, and
he fell on his knees by the table facing her, and
looked at her with love and horror warring in his
fa^e ; for the remembrance that she had been with
Pierre was like the hand of the grave upon him.

\^ t

I '

1 : ,

I i in

'!(

I) t

i^i

320

PIKKKK AND 11 IS HKOJ'KE.

Movitiof not at all, she looked at him, a numb
dcspuiidciicy in her face. Suddenly Shun's look
grew stern, and he was about to rise ; but Father
Corraine put a hand on his .shoulder, and said :
" Stay where you are, man — on your knees. There
is your j)lace just now. He not so quick to
judi^^e, and remember your ov/n sins before you
char<^^e others without knowledge. Listen now to
me."

And he spoke Mary Callen's tale as he knew it,
and as she had given it to him, not forgettini,^ to
mention that she had been told the thing which
had occurred in Pipi \'alley.

The heroic devotion of this woman, and Pretty
Pierre's act of friendship to her, together with the
swift panorama of his past across the seas, awoke
the whole man in Sh on, as the stauncii life that
he had lately led rendered it possible. There was
a noble look upon his face w 1 en he rose at the
ending of the tale, and came to her, saying :

" Mary, it is I who need forgiveness. Will you
come now to the home you sought?" and he stretched
his arms to her. . . .

An hour after, as the three sat there, the door of
the other room opened, and Pretty Pierre came out
silently, and was about to pass from the hut ; but the
priest put a hand on his arm, and said :

" Where do you go, Pierre ? "

Pierre shrugged his shoulder slightly :

" I do not know. Jl/oJi Dieu ! — that I have put
this upon you ! — you that never spoke but the
truth !

" You have made my sin of no avail," the priest

1, a numb
lion's look
but Father
and said :
js. Tlicre
quick to
Dcforc )-ou
n now to

,e knew it,
•ij^ettini,^ to
ing which

ind Pretty
witli the
as, awoke
1 Hfe that
Fhere was
)sc at the

Will you
stretched

le door of
came out
; but the

A SANCTUARY OF THE PLAINS.

321

have put
but the

:he priest

rcph'ed ; and he motioned toward Shon McGann,
who was now risen to his feet, Mary clinging to his
arm.

" Father Corraine," said Shon, " it is my duty to
arrest this man ; but I cannot do it, would not do
it, if he came and offered his arms for the steel. /*//
take the wrong of this now, sir, and such shame as
there is in that falsehood on my shoulders. And
she here and I, and this man too, I doubt not, will
carry your sin — as you call it — to our graves, as a
holy thing."

Father Corraine shook his head sadly, and made
no reply, for his soul was heavy. He motioned them
all to sit down. And they sat there by the light
of a flickering candle, with the door bolted and a
cassock hung across the window, lest by any chance
this uncommon thing should be seen. But the
priest remained in a shadowed corner, with a little
book in his hand, and he was long on his knees.
And when morning came they had neitlier slept
nor changed the fashion of their watch, save for a
moment now and then, when Pierre suffered from the
pain of his wound, and silently passed up and down
the little room.

The morning was half gone when Shon McGann
and Mary Callen stood beside their horses, ready to
mount and go ; for Mary had persisted that she could
travel ; joy makes such marvellous healing. When
the moment of parting came, Pierre was not there.
Mary whispered to her lover concerning this. The
priest went to the door of the hut and called him.
He came out slowly.

" Pierre," said Shon, " there's a word to be said be-

322

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE.

I I

tween us that had best be spoken now, though it's not
aisy. It's little you or I will care to meet again in
this world. There's been credit given and debts paid
by both of us since the hour when we first met ; and
it needs thinking to tell which is the debtor now, for
deed.': are hard to reckon ; but, before God, I believe it's
mcseif;" and he turned and looked fondly at Mary
Callen.

The other replied: " Shon McGann, I make no
reckoning closely ; but we will square all accounts
here, as you say, and for ihe last time ; for never again
shall we meet, if it's within my will or doing. But I
jay I am the debtor ; and if I pay not here, there will
come a time ! " and he caught his shoulder as it shrunk
in pain of his wound. lie tapj)ed the v/ound lightly,
and said with irony: " This is my note of hand for my
debt, Shon McGann. Eh, dien ! "

Then he tossed his fingers indolently tov/ards Shon,
and turning his eyes slowly to Mary Callen. raised his
hat in good-bye. She put out her hand impu'sively to
him, but Pierre, shaking his head, looked away. Shon
put his hand gently on her arm. " No, no," he said
in a whisper, " there can be no touch of hands between

us."

And Pierre, looking up, added: " That is the truth.

You go — home. I go — to hide. So — so. . . "

And he turned and went into the hut.

The others set their faces northward, and Father
Corraine walked beside Mary Callen's horse, talking
quietly of their future life, and speaking, as he would
never speak again, of days in that green land of their
birth. At length, upon a dividing swell of the prairie,
he paused to say farewell.

A SANCTUAKV OF THE PLAINS. 32-,

Many times the two turned to see, and he was there
loolang after them; I-.-s forehead bared to the clear'

clasped, Hcf„re descending the trough of a great land-
wave, t ey turned ,or the last time, and saw him L: d-
mg mouonless, the one solitary being in all their wide

a p.aine hut, whose eyes travelled over the vallcv
of blue sky stretching away beyond the mo" ng
whose face was pale rnd cold. For hours he sS

hirrfkr'i"";?' "V^^*- '^""'=°- ^-"y touched

went Z th':.t"""^' '^ '""^ ''"'^^ '^'^ •'-<^. -"l
He was busy with the grim ledger of his hTe.

THE END.