. Gilben 
 
 . . - 
 
 orth
 
 
 AN ADVENTURER OF THE 
 NORTH
 
 AN ADVENTURER 
 OF THE NORTH 
 
 BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORIES 
 
 OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE." AND 
 
 THE LATEST EXISTING RECORDS 
 
 OF PRETTY PIERRE 
 
 BY 
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 , 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON
 
 BOOKS BY 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS 
 
 THE WORLD FOR SALE. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 THE MONEY MASTER. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 THE JUDGMENT HOUSE. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 CUMNER'S SON. l j <,st. ovo 
 
 NORTHERN LIGHTS. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 THE WEAVERS. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 THE RIGHT OF WAY. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 A LADDER OF SWORDS. Illustrated. Post 8vo 
 
 THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING. Post 8vo 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. Post 8vo 
 
 AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH. 16mo 
 
 A LOVER'S DIARY. (Pooms). IGmo 
 
 PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. 16mo 
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS. 16mo 
 
 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. 13mo 
 
 (PUBLISHED ELSEWHERE) 
 
 MRS. FALCHION 
 
 THE TRESPASSER 
 
 THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD 
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES 
 
 DONOVAN PASTIA 
 
 YOU NEVER KNOW YOUR LUCK 
 
 EMBERS. (Poc-ms) 
 
 OLD QUEBEC. (History In collaboration with C. G. Bryan) 
 
 ROUND THE COMPASS IN AUSTRALIA (Travel) 
 
 THE WORLD IN THE CRUCIBLE(Study of the Wax) 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by STONB AND KIMBALI. 
 
 Copyright, iSyS, by THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 v-x.
 
 TO SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. 
 
 DEAR SIR WILLIAM: 
 
 To the public it will seem fitting that these 
 tales should be inscribed to one whose notable career 
 is closely associated with the life and development 
 of the Far North. 
 
 But there are other and more personal reasons for 
 this dedication; for some of the stories were begotten 
 in midnight gossip by your fireside: furthermore, it 
 gives my little book a sort of distinction to have on 
 its fore-page the name of so well-known a connoisseur 
 in art and lover of literature. 
 Believe me, dear Sir William, 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 7 PARK PLACE, 
 
 ST. JAMES'S s. w. 
 
 THE AUTUMN, 1895. 
 
 222S814
 
 Contents 
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS I 
 
 A LOVELY BULLY l 
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 38 
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 6l 
 
 MALACHI 87 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 99 
 
 THE RED PATROL I2O 
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 135 
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 162 
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 174 
 
 THE EPAULETTES Ig6 
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 2O/
 
 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 
 
 I 
 
 "Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands 
 I 've seen along the sayshore, and up to me half- 
 ways I 've been in wan, wid a double-an'-twist 
 in the rope to pull me out ; but a suckin' sand 
 in the open plain aw, Trader, aw! the like o' 
 that niver a bit saw I." 
 
 So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing 
 was talked of in his presence. 
 
 "Well, I tell you it 's true, and they 're not 
 three miles from Fort O'Glory. The Com- 
 pany's* men do n't talk about it what 's the 
 use ? Travellers are few that way, and you can 't 
 get the Indians within miles of them. Pretty 
 Pierre knows all about them, better than anyone 
 else almost. He'll stand by me in it eh, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 * The Hudson's Bay Company. 
 I
 
 2 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adven- 
 turer, took no notice, and was silent for a time, 
 intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mow- 
 ley the trapper said : " Pierre's gone back on 
 you, Trader. P'r'aps ye have n't paid him for 
 the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me 
 my treat that 's the game ! " 
 
 "Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy re- 
 proachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to the roof o' yer 
 mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but 
 that's wid wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre 
 aff another man's bat like that aw, Mowley, fill 
 yer mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe !" 
 
 Pierre now looked up at the three men, roll- 
 ing another cigarette as he did so ; but he seemed 
 to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the 
 three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held 
 them for a moment musingly; then he lit his 
 cigarette, and, half-reclining on the bench where 
 he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire, 
 as it were. 
 
 "I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's 
 post there. It was the fall of the year, when you 
 feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the 
 air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like 
 a woman or a priest ? Mais, no. The seasons 
 are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad ; 
 in the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 3 
 
 do. This matter was in the fall. I felt that I 
 must move. Yet, what to do ? There was the 
 thing. Cards, of course. But that 's only for 
 times, not for all seasons. So I was like a wild 
 dog on a chain. I had a good horse Tophet, 
 black as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a 
 reach like a moose. His legs worked like pis- 
 ton-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where 
 to go or what to do. So we used to sit at the 
 Post loafing : in the daytime watching the empty 
 plains all panting for travellers, like a young 
 bride waiting her husband for the first time." 
 
 Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He 
 had an unctuous spirit, and his heart was soft for 
 women so soft that he never had had one on his 
 conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles 
 off the lips of many. But that was an amiable 
 weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he 
 said coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy! me 
 heart 's goin' like a trip-hammer at thought av 
 it; aw yis, yis, Pierre!" 
 
 "Well, it was like that to me all sun and a 
 sweet sting in the air. At night to sit and tell 
 tales and such things ; and perhaps a little brown 
 brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the 
 cattle the same old game. Of course, there 
 was the wife of Hilton the factor fine, always 
 fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good
 
 4 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 friends, Ida and me. I had a hand in her wed- 
 ding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little 
 girl. We could talk together by signs. She was 
 a good woman ; she had never guessed at evil. 
 She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and 
 understand without words. A face was a book 
 to her. 
 
 "Eh Men. One afternoon we were all stand- 
 ing outside the Post, when we saw someone ride 
 over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. 
 I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were 
 so sharp and clear-cut against the sky, that they 
 looked very large and peculiar there was some- 
 thing in the air to magnify. They stopped for 
 a minute on the top of the Divide, and it seemed 
 like a messenger out of the strange country at 
 the farthest north the place of legends. But, 
 of course, it was only a traveller like ourselves, 
 for in a half-hour she was with us. 
 
 "Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She 
 did not try to hide it ; she dressed so for ease. 
 She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth 
 if he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley 
 there." 
 
 Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, 
 for he knew that the Trapper had a precious 
 tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed 
 that way, and a bad name with women to give it
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 5 
 
 point. Mowley smiled sourly; but Macavoy 
 laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his 
 pipe-stem luxuriously. 
 
 "Aw now, Pierre all me little failin's aw ! " 
 he protested. 
 
 Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning 
 upon the other elbow, and, cherishing his cigar- 
 ette, presently continued : 
 
 " She had come far and was tired to death, 
 so stiff that she could hardly get from the saddle; 
 and the horse, too, was ready to drop. Hand- 
 some enough she looked, for all that, in man's 
 clothes and a peaked cap, with a pistol in her 
 belt. She was n't big built mat's, a feathery 
 kind of sapling but she was set fair on her legs 
 like a man, and a hand that was as good as I 
 have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with 
 a horse. Well, what was the trouble? for I saw 
 there was trouble. Her eyes had a hunted look, 
 and her nose breathed like a deer's in the chase. 
 All at once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry 
 come from her and she reached out her hands. 
 What would women of that sort do? They were 
 both of a kind. They got into each other's 
 arms. After that there was nothing for us men 
 but to wait. All women are the same, and Hil- 
 ton's wife was like the rest. She must get the 
 secret first; then the men should know.
 
 6 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's 
 wife beckoned to us. We went inside. The 
 girl was asleep. There was something in the 
 touch of Hilton's wife like sleep itself like 
 music. It was her voice that touch. She could 
 not speak with her tongue, but her hands and 
 face were words and music. Bien, there was the 
 girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain: and that 
 fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so 
 quiet. Enfin, the real story for how she slept 
 there does not matter but it was good to see 
 when we knew the story." 
 
 The Trapper was laughing to himself to 
 hear Pierre in this romantic mood. A woman's 
 hand it was the game for a boy, not an adven- 
 turer ; for the Trapper's only creed was, that 
 women, like deer, were spoils for the hunter. 
 Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above 
 petty anger. He merely said: 
 
 "If a man have an eye to see behind the 
 face, he understands the laugh of a fool, or 
 the hand of a good woman, and that is much. 
 Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two 
 hundred miles from the south-west, and was 
 making for Fort Micah, sixty miles farther north. 
 For what? She had loved a man against the 
 will of her people. There had been a feud, and 
 Garrison that was the lover's name was the
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 7 
 
 last on his own side. There was trouble at a 
 Company's post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. 
 Men say he was right to shoot him, for a wo- 
 man's name must be safe up here. Besides, the 
 half-breed drew first! Well, Garrison was tried, 
 and must go to jail for a year. At the end of 
 that time he would be free. The girl Janie 
 knew the day. Word had come to her. She 
 made everything ready. She knew her brothers 
 were watching her three brothers and two other 
 men who had tried to get her love. She knew 
 also that they five would carry on the feud 
 against the one man. So one night she took 
 the best horse on the ranch and started away 
 toward Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she 
 got to Guidon Hill after two days' hard riding 
 enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to do. 
 She was sure her brothers were on her track. 
 But if she could get to Fort Micah, and be mar- 
 ried to Garrison before they came, she wanted 
 no more. 
 
 " There were only two horses of use at Hil- 
 ton's post then; all the rest were away, or not fit 
 for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a 
 lean chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and 
 not an ounce of loose skin on him. There was 
 but one way: the girl must get there. Aliens, 
 what is the good! What is life without these
 
 8 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 things! The girl loves the man : she must have 
 him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and 
 his wife and me at the Post, and Hilton was lame 
 from a fall and one arm in a sling. If the 
 brothers followed, well, Hilton could not inter- 
 fere he was a Company's man ; but for myself, 
 as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I had an 
 ache in my blood for something. I was tingling 
 to the toes, my heart was thumping in my throat. 
 All the cords of my legs were straightening like 
 I was in the saddle. 
 
 " She slept for three hours. I got the two 
 horses saddled. Who could tell but she might 
 need help? I had nothing to do ; I knew the 
 shortest way to Fort Micah every foot and 
 then it is good to be ready for all things. I told 
 Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad. 
 She made a sign at me as to a brother; and then 
 began to put things in a bag for us to carry. 
 She had settled all how it was to be. She had 
 told the girl. You see, a man may be what is 
 it they call me? a plunderer, and yet a woman 
 will trust him, comma (a! " 
 
 " Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre ; but she knew yer 
 hand and yer tongue niver wint agin a woman, 
 Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw, swate, swate, 
 she was, wid a heart a heart, Hilton's wife, aw 
 yis!"
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 9 
 
 Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. " The 
 girl waked with a start after three hours. Her 
 hand caught at her heart. ' Oh,' she said, still 
 staring at us, ' I thought that they had come!' 
 A little after she and Hilton's wife went to 
 another room. All at once there was a sound of 
 horses outside, and then a knock at the door, 
 and four men come in. They were the girl's 
 hunters. 
 
 " It was hard to tell what to do all in a min- 
 ute; but I saw at once the best thing was to act 
 for all, and to get the men inside the house. So 
 I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that 
 I was a great man in the Company. I ordered 
 Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not 
 giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the 
 old brown brandy, wondering all the time what 
 could be done. There was no sound from the 
 other room, though I thought I heard a door 
 open once. Hilton played the game well, and 
 showed nothing when I ordered him about, and 
 agreed word for word with me when I said no 
 girl had come, laughing when they told why 
 they were after her. More than one of them did 
 not believe at first; but, pshaw, what have I been 
 doing all my life to let such fellows doubt me 1 
 So the end of it was that I got them all inside 
 the house. There was one bad thing their
 
 10 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me. 
 They had only rode them a few miles they had 
 stole or bought them at the first ranch to the 
 west of the Post. I could not make up my 
 mind what to do. But it was clear I must keep 
 them quiet till something shaped. 
 
 "They were all drinking brandy when Hil- 
 ton's wife come into the room. Her face, man 
 Dieu! it was so innocent, so childlike. She stared 
 at the men ; and then I told them she was deaf 
 and dumb, and I told her why they had come. 
 Voila, it was beautiful like nothing you ever 
 saw. She shook her head so simple, and then 
 told them like a child that they were wicked to 
 chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. 
 Thunder, how she fooled them ! She said, 
 would they not search the house ? She said all 
 through me, on her fingers and by signs. And 
 I told them at once. But she told me some- 
 thing else that the girl had slipped out as the 
 last man came in, had mounted the chestnut, 
 and would wait for me by the iron spring, a quar- 
 ter of a mile away. There was the danger that 
 some one of the men knew the finger talk, so she 
 told me this in signs mixed up with other sen- 
 tences. 
 
 " Good! There was now but one thing for 
 me to get away. So I said, laughing, to one of
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 1 1 
 
 the men, 'Come, and we will look after the 
 horses, and the others can search the place with 
 Hilton.' So we went out to where the horses 
 were tied to the railing, and led them away to 
 the corral. 
 
 " Of course you will understand how I did it. 
 I clapped a hand on his mouth, put a pistol at 
 his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got 
 my Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The 
 girl was waiting. There were few words. I 
 gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and 
 then we got away on a fine moonlit trail. We 
 had not gone a mile when I heard a faint yell 
 far behind. My game had been found out. 
 There was nothing to do but to ride for it now, 
 and maybe to fight. But fighting was not good ; 
 for I might be killed, and then the girl would be 
 caught just the same. We rode on such a ride, 
 the horses neck and neck, their hoofs pounding 
 the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a 
 hell-to-split gait. I knew they were after us, 
 though I saw them but once on the crest of a 
 Divide about three miles behind. Hour after 
 hour like that, with ten minutes' rest now and 
 then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We 
 hardly spoke to each other ; but, God of love 1 
 my heart was warm to this girl who had rode a 
 hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours.
 
 12 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Just before dawn, when I was beginning to think 
 that we would easy win the race if the girl could 
 but hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut 
 struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and 
 horse and girl spilt on the ground together. She 
 could hardly move, she was so weak, and her 
 face was like death. I put a pistol to the chest- 
 nut's head, and ended it. The girl stooped and 
 kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke nothing. 
 As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to 
 the sleeve of her dress. Mother of Heaven ! 
 what could a man do ? she was so dam' brave ! 
 
 "Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at 
 the swell of the prairie over the Jumping Sand- 
 hills. They lay quiet and shining in the green- 
 brown plain; but I knew that there was a churn 
 beneath which could set those swells of sand in 
 motion, and make Glory-to-God of an army. 
 Who can tell what it is ? A flood under the 
 surface, a tidal river what? No man knows. 
 But they are sea monsters on the land. Every 
 morning at sunrise they begin to eddy and roll 
 and who ever saw a stranger sight ? Bien, I 
 looked back. There were those four pirates 
 coming on, about three miles away. What was 
 there to do? The girl and myself on my blown 
 horse were too much. Then a great idea come 
 to me. I must reach and cross the Jumping
 
 Across the Jumping Sandhills 13 
 
 Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly 
 chance. 
 
 " When we got to the edge of the sand they 
 were almost a mile behind. I was all sick to my 
 teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. 
 God! how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we 
 dragged over that velvet powder. As we reached 
 the farther side I could feel it was beginning to 
 move. The sun was showing like the lid of an 
 eye along the plain. I looked back. All four 
 horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards 
 us. By the time we touched the brown-green 
 prairie on the farther side the sand was rolling 
 behind us. The girl had not looked back. She 
 was too dazed. I jumped from the horse, and 
 told her that she must push on alone to the 
 Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I 
 should be in no danger. She looked at me so 
 deep ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and 
 kissed me between the eyes I have never for- 
 got. I struck Tophet, and she was gone to her 
 happiness; for before 'lights out!' she reached 
 the Fort and her lover's arms. 
 
 "But I stood looking back on the Jumping 
 Sandhills. So, was there ever a sight like that 
 those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sun- 
 rise spotting it with rose and yellow, and three 
 horses and their riders fighting what cannot be
 
 14 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 fought? What could I do? They would have 
 got the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led 
 them across, and they would have killed me if 
 they could. Only one cried out, and then but 
 once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were 
 quiet as they fought, until they were gone where 
 no man could see, where none cries out so we 
 can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand 
 stretching up out of the sand." 
 
 There was a long pause, painful to bear. The 
 Trader sat with eyes fixed humbly as a dog's on 
 Pierre. At last Macavoy said: 
 
 "She kissed ye, Pierre, aw yis; she did that! 
 Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her now, 
 Pierre ? " 
 
 But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer.
 
 A Lovely Bully 
 
 He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort 
 O'Angel at Hudson's Bay, an immense slip of a 
 lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a won- 
 derful hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible 
 temper, threatening tragedies for all who differed 
 from him, making the Fort quake with his rich 
 roar, and playing the game of bully with a fine 
 simplicity. In winter he fattened, in summer he 
 sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. 
 
 It was a picture to see him with the undercut 
 of a haunch of deer or buffalo, or with a whole 
 prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it 
 shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a 
 clear space about him for he needed room to 
 stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was 
 recognized by all. 
 
 Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, 
 but scowl he ever so much, a laugh kept idling 
 in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about 
 his face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind 
 of underbrush through which his blunt fingers 
 ran at hide-and-seek. 
 
 IS
 
 1 6 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. 
 In later days, when Fort O'Angel was invaded 
 by settlers, he had his time of greatest impor- 
 tance. 
 
 He had been useful to the Chief Trader at 
 the Fort in the early days, and having the run 
 of the Fort and the reach of his knife at table, 
 was little likely to discontinue his adherence. 
 But he ate and drank with all the dwellers at 
 the Post, and abused all impartially. 
 
 "Malcolm," said he to the Trader, "Malcolm, 
 me glutton o' the H.B.C., that wants the Far 
 North for your footstool Malcolm, you villain, 
 it 's me grief that I know you, and me thumb to 
 me nose in token !" 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett, the principal settlers, he 
 abused right and left, and said, " Was n't there 
 land in the East and West, that ye steal the 
 country God made for honest men ? ye rob- 
 bers of the wide world ! Me tooth on the Book, 
 and I tell you what, it 's only me charity that 
 kapes me from spoilin' ye. For a wink of me 
 eye, an' away you 'd go, leaving your tails behind 
 you and pass that shoulder of bear, ye pirates, 
 till I come to it side-ways, like a hog to war!" 
 
 He was even less sympathetic with Bareback, 
 the chief, and his braves. "Sons o' Anak y' are; 
 here to-day and away to-morrow, like the clods
 
 A Lovely Bully 17 
 
 of the valley and that 's yer portion, Bareback. 
 It 's the word o' the Pentytook in pieces you 
 go, like a potter's vessel. Do n't shrug your 
 shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you '11 
 think that Ballzeboob 's loose on the mat ! But 
 take a sup o' this whisky, while you shwear wid 
 your hand on your chist, 'Amin' to the words o' 
 Tim Macavoy!" 
 
 Beside Macavoy, Pierre the notorious, was a 
 child in height. Up to the time of the half- 
 breed's coming the Irishman had been the most 
 outstanding man at Fort O'Angel, and was sure 
 of a good-natured homage, acknowledged by 
 him with a jovial tyranny. 
 
 Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pen- 
 sively indifferent to him even in his most royal 
 moments. He guessed the way to bring down 
 the gusto and pride of this Goliath, but, for a 
 purpose, he took his own time, nodding indo- 
 lently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoid- 
 ing talk with him. 
 
 Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like 
 a king or khan ; for they count much on bulk 
 and beauty, and he answered to their standards 
 especially to Wonta's. It was a sight to see 
 him of a summer day, sitting in the shade of a 
 pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny 
 chest, his arms bare, his face shining with per-
 
 1 8 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 spiration, his big voice gurgling in his beard, his 
 eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they 
 passed or gathered near demurely, while he de- 
 claimed of mighty deeds in patois or Chinook to 
 the braves. 
 
 Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most 
 subterranean kind. He knew that Macavoy had 
 not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his 
 greatest weakness, and that through him there 
 never would have been more half-breed popula- 
 tion. There was a tradition that he had a wife 
 somewhere based upon wild words he had once 
 said when under the influence of bad liquor; 
 but he had roared his accuser the lie when the 
 thing was imputed to him. 
 
 At Fort Ste. Anne, Pierre had known an old 
 woman, by name of Kitty Whelan, whose char- 
 acter was all tatters. She had told him that 
 many years agone she had had a broth of a lad 
 for a husband; but because of a sharp word or 
 two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of 
 furniture, he had left her, and she had seen no 
 more of him. " Tall like a chimney he was," 
 said she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and 
 a voice like a huntsman's horn, though only a 
 b'y, an' no hair an his face; an' she did n't know 
 whether he was dead or alive; but dead belike, 
 for he 's sure to come rap agin' somethin' that 'd
 
 A Lovely Bully 19 
 
 kill him; for he, the darlin', was that aisy and 
 gentle, he would n't pull his fightin' iron till he 
 had death in his ribs." 
 
 Pierre had drawn from her that the name of 
 this man whom she had cajoled into a marriage 
 (being herself twenty years older), and driven to 
 deserting her afterward, was Tim Macavoy. 
 She had married Mr. Whelan on the assumption 
 that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had 
 not the nerve to desert her, and so he departed 
 this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. Whelan, 
 who had changed her name with no right to do 
 so. With his going her mind dwelt greatly upon 
 the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim : and ill 
 would it be for Tim if she found him. 
 
 Pierre had journeyed to Fort O'Angel almost 
 wholly because he had Tim Macavoy in his 
 mind; in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental 
 part: his plans journeyed beyond her and her 
 lost consort. He was determined on an expedi- 
 tion to capture Fort Comfort, which had been 
 abandoned by the great Company, and was now 
 held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. 
 
 Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own 
 sake ; though he had no personal ambition. 
 The love of adventure was deep in him, he 
 adored sport for its own sake, he had had a 
 long range of experiences some discreditable,
 
 2O An Adventurer of the North 
 
 and now he had determined on a field for his 
 talent. 
 
 He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. 
 In that case he must have a man to take his 
 place. He chose Macavoy. 
 
 First he must humble the giant to the earth, 
 then make him into a great man again, with a 
 new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy 
 seemed a civic virtue. He had a long talk with 
 Wonta, the Indian maiden most admired by 
 Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast 
 an ogling, rolling eye on her, and had talked 
 his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of splen- 
 did things he had done : making himself like 
 another Samson as to the destruction of men, 
 and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. 
 
 Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when 
 Pierre told her what was required of her, she 
 laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed 
 as handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed's; 
 which said much for her. She promised to do 
 as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was 
 at his favorite seat beneath the pine, talking to a 
 gaping audience, Wonta and a number of Indian 
 girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a 
 door smoking, not far away. Macavoy's voice 
 became louder. 
 
 " ' Stand them up wan by wan,' says I, ' and
 
 A Lovely Bully 21 
 
 give me a leg loose and a fist free ; and at 
 that' " 
 
 " At that there was thunder and fire in the 
 sky, and because the great Macavoy blew his 
 breath over them they withered like the leaves," 
 cried Wonta laughing; but her laugh had an 
 edge. 
 
 Macavoy stopped short, open - mouthed, 
 breathing hard in his great beard. He was as- 
 tonished at Wonta's raillery: the more so when 
 she presently snapped her fingers, and the other 
 maidens, laughing, did the same. Some of the 
 half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sym- 
 pathy, and shrugged their shoulders. Wonta 
 came up to him softly, patted him on the head, 
 and said: " Like Macavoy there is nobody. He 
 is a great brave. He is not afraid of a coyote, 
 he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles 
 by the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox," 
 here she touched the skin of his broad chest, 
 " and he will die if you do not fight him." 
 
 Then she drew back, as though in humble 
 dread, and glided away with the other maidens, 
 Macavoy staring after her with a blustering kind 
 of shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed, 
 and, one by one, they got up and walked away 
 also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one 
 near save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily.
 
 22 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Macavoy got to his feet muttering. This was 
 the first time in his experience at Fort O' Angel 
 that he had been bluffed and by a girl ; one 
 for whom he had a very soft place in his big 
 heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. 
 
 " I 'd have it out with her," said he. " She 
 called you a bully and a brag." 
 
 " Out with her! " cried Macavoy. " How can 
 ye have it out wid a woman? " 
 
 " Fight her," said Pierre pensively. 
 
 " Fight her ! fight her ! Holy smoke 1 How 
 can ye fight a woman? " 
 
 " Why, what do you fight ? " asked Pierre 
 innocently. 
 
 Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. 
 " Faith, then, y' are a fool. Bring on the divil 
 an' all his angels, say I, and I '11 fight thim where 
 I shtand." 
 
 Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy's arm, 
 and said, "There's time enough for that. I 'd 
 begin with the five." 
 
 "What five, then?" 
 
 " Her half-breed lovers : Big Eye, One Toe, 
 Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber Legs." 
 
 " Her lovers! Her lovers, is it? Is there truth 
 on y'r tongue ? " 
 
 " Go to her father's tent at sunset, and you '11 
 find one or all of them there."
 
 A Lovely Bully 23 
 
 "Oh, is that it ?" said the Irishman, opening 
 and shutting his fists. " Then I '11 carve their 
 hearts out, an' ate thim wan by wan this night." 
 
 " Come down to Wiley's," said Pierre, "there 's 
 better company there than here." 
 
 Pierre had arranged many things, and had 
 secured partners in his little scheme for humbling 
 the braggart. He so worked on the other's good 
 nature that by the time they reached the 
 settler's place, Macavoy was stretching himself 
 with a big pride. Seated at Wiley's table, with 
 Hatchett and others near, and drink going 
 about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and 
 so deftly and with such apparent innocence did 
 Pierre, by a word here and a nod there, encour- 
 age him, that presently he roared at Wiley and 
 Hatchett 
 
 "Ye shameless buccaneers that push yer 
 way into the tracks of honest men, where the 
 Company 's been three hundred years by the 
 will o' God if it was n't for me, ye Jack Shep- 
 pards " 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet 
 with pretended rage, saying he 'd insulted them 
 both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giv- 
 ing him the lie. 
 
 Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only 
 stare, purring in his beard, and drawing in his
 
 24 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 legs, which had been spread out at angles. He 
 looked from Wiley to the impassive Pierre. 
 
 " Buccaneers, you call us," Wiley went on ; 
 " we '11 have no more of that, or there '11 be 
 trouble at Fort O'Angel." 
 
 "Ah, sure y 'are only jokin'," said Macavoy, 
 "for I love ye, ye scoundrels. It 's only me 
 fun." 
 
 "For fun like that you '11 pay, ruffian!" said 
 Hatchett, bringing down his fist on the table 
 with a bang. 
 
 Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, 
 but there was nothing of the coward in his face. 
 "Oh, well," said he, "I'll be goin', for ye 've 
 got y'r teeth all raspin'." 
 
 As he went the two men laughed after him 
 mockingly. "Wind like a bag," said Hatchett. 
 " Bone like a marrowfat pea," added Wiley. 
 
 Macavoy was at the door, but at that he 
 turned. " If ye care to sail agin that wind, an' 
 gnaw on that bone, I 'd not be sayin' you no." 
 
 "Will tonight do at sunset?" said Wiley. 
 
 " Bedad, then, me b'ys, sunset '11 do an' not 
 more than two at a toime," he added softly, all 
 the roar gone from his throat. Then he went 
 out, followed by Pierre. 
 
 Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and 
 laughed a little confusedly. " What 's that he
 
 A Lovely Bully 35 
 
 said?" muttered Wiley. "Not more than two 
 at a time, was it?" 
 
 " That was it. I do n't know that it 's what 
 we bargained for, after all." He looked round 
 on the other settlers present, who had been awed 
 by the childlike, earnest note in Macavoy's last 
 words. They shook their heads now a little 
 sagely ; they were n't so sure that Pierre's little 
 game was so jovial as it had promised. 
 
 Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much 
 from his giant as yet. In a little while he had 
 got Macavoy back to his old humour. 
 
 "What was I made for but war!" said the 
 Irishman, "an* by war to kape thim at peace, 
 wherever I am." 
 
 Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to 
 go with Pierre to Bareback's lodge, where, sit- 
 ting at the tent door, with idlers about, he 
 smoked with the chief and his braves. Again 
 Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he 
 became loud in speech and grandly patronizing. 
 
 " I 've stood by ye like a father, ye loafers," 
 he said, " an' I give you my word, ye howlin' 
 rogues " 
 
 Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came 
 up suddenly from the ground, and the chief said 
 fiercely : " You speak crooked things. We are 
 no rogues. We will fight"
 
 26 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Macavoy's face ran red to his hair. He 
 scratched his head a little foolishly, and gath' 
 ered himself up. " Sure, 't was only 'me tasin', 
 darlin's," he said, "but I '11 be comin' again, 
 when y' are not so narvis." He turned to go 
 away. 
 
 Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the 
 Indian touched the giant on the arm. " Will 
 you fight?" said he. 
 
 " Not all o' ye at once," said Macavoy slowly, 
 running his eye carefully along the half-dozen ; 
 "not more than three at a toime," he added 
 with a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like 
 the dove's. " At what time will it be convayn- 
 yint for ye ? " he asked. 
 
 " At sunset," said the chief, " before the 
 Fort." 
 
 Macavoy nodded and walked away with 
 Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians 
 did not make them thoroughly happy. 
 
 To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He 
 had already three engagements of violence for 
 sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a round- 
 about to the Company's stores, and again there 
 was a distinct improvement in the giant's spirits. 
 Here at least he could be himself, he thought, 
 here no one should say him nay. As if nerved 
 by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous
 
 A Lovely Bully 2/ 
 
 raillery of the Chief Trader. "Oh, ho," he 
 began, " me freebooter, me captain av the loot- 
 ers av the North!" 
 
 The Trader snarled at him. "What d'ye 
 mean, by such talk to me, sir ? I 've had 
 enough we 've all had enough of your brag 
 and bounce; for you're all sweat and swill-pipe, 
 and I give you this for your chewing, that though 
 by the Company's rules I can 't go out and fight 
 you, you may have your pick of my men for it. 
 I '11 take my pay for your insults in pounded 
 flesh Irish pemmican !" 
 
 Macavoy's face became mottled with sudden 
 rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he had never 
 roared before 
 
 "Are ye all gone mad mad mad? I was 
 jokin' wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But 
 by the swill o' me pipe, and the sweat o' me 
 skin, I '11 drink the blood o' yees, Trader, me 
 darlin'. An' all I '11 ask is, that ye mate me to- 
 night whin the rest o' the pack is in front o' the 
 Fort but not more than four o' yees at a time 
 for little scrawney rats as y' are, too many o' 
 yees wad be in me way." He wheeled and 
 strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. 
 
 "He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader? 
 There '11 be fun in front of the Fort to-night. 
 For he 's only bragging, of course eh ?"
 
 28 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 The Trader nodded with no great assurance, 
 and then Pierre said as a parting word : "You '11 
 be there, of course only 'four o' yees!' " and 
 hurried out after Macavoy, humming to him- 
 self 
 
 " For the King said this, and the Queen said that, 
 But he walked away with their army, O ! " 
 
 So far Pierre's plan had worked even better 
 than he expected, though Macavoy's moods had 
 not been altogether after his imaginings. He 
 drew alongside the giant, who had suddenly 
 grown quiet again. Macavoy turned and looked 
 down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, 
 and his voice was very low 
 
 "It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin','' he 
 said, "since I lost me f rinds ages an' ages ago. 
 For me frinds are me inimies now, an' that makes 
 a man old. But I '11 not say that it cripples his 
 arm or humbles his back." He drew his arm up 
 once or twice and shot it out straight into the 
 air like a catapult. "It's all right," he added, 
 very softly, "an', Half-breed, me b'y, if me frinds 
 have turned inimies, why, I 'm thinkin' me inimy 
 has turned frind, for that 1 'm sure you were, an' 
 this I 'm certain y' are. So here 's the grip av 
 me fist, an' y' 11 have it." 
 
 Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron 
 grip of friendship for many a day. He laughed
 
 A Lovely Bully 29 
 
 to himself to think how he was turning the brag- 
 gart into a warrior. 
 
 "Well," said Pierre, "what about those five 
 at Wonta's tent?" 
 
 "I'll be there whin the sun dips below the 
 Little Red Hill," he said, as though his thoughts 
 were far away, and he turned his face towards 
 Wonta's tent. Presently he laughed out loud. 
 "It 's many a long day," he said, "since " 
 
 Then he changed his thoughts. "They've 
 spoke sharp words in me teeth," he continued, 
 "and they '11 pay for it. Bounce ! sweat ! brag ! 
 wind ! is it ? There 's dancin' beyant this night, 
 me darlins!" 
 
 "Are you sure you '11 not run away when they 
 come on?" said Pierre, a little ironically. 
 
 "Is that the word av a frind ?" replied Maca- 
 voy, a hand fumbling in his hair. 
 
 "Did you never run away when faced?" 
 Pierre asked pitilessly. 
 
 " I never turned tail from a man, though, to 
 be sure, it 's been more talk than fight up here : 
 Fort Ste. Anne 's been but a graveyard for fun 
 these years." 
 
 "Eh, well," persisted Pierre, "but did you 
 never turn tail from a slip of a woman ?" 
 
 The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered 
 his beard in his mouth, chewing it confusedly.
 
 30 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 "You 've a keen tongue for a question," was his 
 reply. "What for should any man run from a 
 woman ?" 
 
 "When the furniture flies, and the woman 
 knows more of the world in a day than the man 
 does in a year; and the man 's a hulking bit of 
 an Irishman bien, then things are so and so ! " 
 
 Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trem- 
 bling. "Come into the shade of these maples," 
 said Pierre, "for the sun has set you quaking a 
 little," and he put out his hand to take Maca- 
 voy 's arm. 
 
 The giant drew away from the hand, but 
 walked on to the trees. His face seemed to 
 have grown older by years on the moment. 
 "What's this y' are sayin' to me?" he said 
 hoarsely. "What do you know av av that 
 woman ? " 
 
 "Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre, 
 "but when one travels why should n't the 
 other?" 
 
 Macavoy made a helpless motion with his 
 lumbering hand. "Mother o' saints," he said, 
 "has it come to that, after all these years? Is 
 she tell me where she is, me frind, and you '11 
 niver want an arm to fight for ye, an' the half av 
 a blanket, while I have wan !" 
 
 "But you '11 run as you did before, if I tell
 
 A Lovely Bully 31 
 
 you, an* there '11 be no fighting to-night, accord- 
 in' to the word you 've given." 
 
 "No fightin', did ye say ? an' run away, is it ? 
 Then this in your eye, that if ye '11 bring an 
 army, I '11 fight till the skin is in rags on me 
 bones, whin it 's only men that 's before me ; but 
 women, and that wan ! Faith, I 'd run, I 'm 
 thinkin', as I did, you know when Do n't tell 
 me that she 's here, man ; arrah, do n't say that ! " 
 
 There was something pitiful and childlike in 
 the big man's voice, so much so that Pierre, cal- 
 culating gamester as he was, and working upon 
 him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sud- 
 den pity, and dropping his fingers on the other's 
 arm, said: "No, Macavoy, my friend, she is 
 not here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne or was 
 when I left there." 
 
 Macavoy groaned. " Does she know that I 'm 
 here? " he asked. 
 
 " I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, 
 and she may not hear." 
 
 "What what is she doing?" 
 
 " Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's 
 green." Then Pierre told him somewhat bluntly 
 what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. 
 
 " I 'd rather face Ballzeboob himself than 
 her," said Macavoy. " An' she 's sure to find 
 me."
 
 32 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Not if you do as I say." 
 " An' what is it ye say, little man?" 
 " Come away with me where she '11 not find 
 you." 
 
 "An* where is that, Pierre darlin'?" 
 " I '11 tell you that when to-night's fighting 's 
 over. Have you a mind for Wonta? " he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " I 've a mind for Wonta an' many another 
 as fine, but I 'm a married man," he said, " by 
 priest and by book ; an' I can 't forget that, 
 though the woman 's to me as the pit below. " 
 
 Pierre looked curiously at him. " You 're 
 a wonderful fool," he said, "but I'm not sure 
 that I like you less for that. There was Shon 
 M'Gann but it is no matter." Here he sighed. 
 "When to-night is over, you shall have work 
 and fun that you 've been fattening for this 
 many a year, and the woman '11 not find you, be 
 sure of that. Besides " he whispered in Maca- 
 voy's ear. 
 
 "Poor divil, poor divil, she 'd always a throat 
 for that; but it 's a horrible death to die, I 'm 
 thinkin'." Macavoy's chin dropped on his 
 breast. 
 
 When the sun was falling below Little Red 
 Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta's tent. Pierre 
 was not far away. What occurred in the tent
 
 A Lovely Bully 33 
 
 Pierre never quite knew, but presently he saw 
 Wonta run out in a frightened way, followed by 
 the five half-breeds, who carried themselves 
 awkwardly. Behind them again, with head 
 shaking from one side to the other, traveled 
 Macavoy; and they all marched away towards 
 the Fort. 
 
 " Well," said Pierre to Wonta, " he 's amus- 
 ing, eh? so big a coward, eh?" 
 
 " No, no, " she said, "you are wrong. He is 
 no coward. He is a great brave. He spoke like 
 a little child, but he said he would fight them all 
 when" 
 
 " When their turn came," interposed Pierre, 
 with a fine " bead " of humour in his voice; 
 " well, you see he has much to do." 
 
 He pointed towards the Fort, where people 
 were gathering fast. The strange news had 
 gone abroad, and the settlement, laughing joy- 
 ously, came to see Macavoy swagger: they did 
 not think there would be fighting. 
 
 Those whom Macavoy had challenged were 
 not so sure. When the giant reached the open 
 space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly 
 round him. A great change had come over him. 
 His skin seemed drawn together more firmly, 
 and running himself up finely to his full height, 
 he looked no longer the lounging braggart.
 
 34 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled 
 to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his 
 coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves. 
 His shirt was flying at the chest. 
 
 He beckoned to Pierre. 
 
 "Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said. 
 
 " Now and after," said Pierre. 
 
 His voice was very simple. " I never felt as 
 I do, since the day the coast-guardsmin dropped 
 on me in Ireland far away, an' I drew blood, an' 
 every wan o' them fine beautiful b'ys they 
 looked stretchin' out on the ground wan by 
 wan. D' ye know the double-an'-twist ?" he 
 suddenly added, " for it 's a honey trick whin 
 they gather in an you, an' you can 't be layin' 
 out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the 
 spines av thim. Will ye have a drop av drink 
 cold wather, man near, an' a sponge betune 
 whiles? For there 's many in the play makin' 
 up for lost time. Come an," he added to the two 
 settlers, who stood not far away, " for ye began 
 the trouble, an' we '11 settle accordin' to a, b, c." 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett, responding to his call, 
 stepped forward, though they had now little 
 relish for the matter. They were pale, but they 
 stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley 
 stood bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant 
 looked down on him, arms folded. " I said two
 
 A Lovely Bully 35 
 
 of you," he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. 
 Hatchett stepped forward also. An instant after 
 the settlers were lying on the ground at different 
 angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to 
 carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water 
 from the ground, drank from it lightly, and 
 waited. None other of his opponents stirred. 
 "There's three Injins," he said, "three rid 
 divils, that wants showin' the way to their happy 
 huntin* grounds. . . . Sure, y' are comin', 
 ain't you, me darlins?" he added coaxingly, and 
 he stretched himself, as if to make ready. 
 
 Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three 
 Indians, and they stepped forth warily. They 
 had determined on strategic wrestling, and not 
 on the instant activity of fists. But their wili- 
 ness was useless, for Macavoy's double-and-twist 
 came near to lessening the Indian population of 
 Fort O'Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, 
 however. The Irishman came out of the tangle 
 of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his 
 beard all torn, and face battered. A shout of 
 laughter, admiration, and wonder went up from 
 the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and 
 then Macavoy, whose blood ran high, stood 
 forth again. The Trader came to him. 
 
 "Must this go on? "he said; "haven't you 
 had your fill of it?"
 
 36 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Had he touched Macavoy with a word of hu- 
 mour the matter might have ended there; but 
 now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. 
 
 "Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel ? I 'm 
 only gettin' the taste av it. An' ye '11 plaze 
 bring on yer men four it was for the feed av 
 Irish pemmican." 
 
 The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who 
 smiled enigmatically. Soon after, two of the 
 best fighters of the Company's men stood forth. 
 Macavoy shook his head. "Four, I said, an' 
 four I '11 have, or I '11 ate the heads aff these." 
 
 Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All 
 on an instant the four made a rush on the giant ; 
 and there was a stiff minute after, in which it 
 was not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled 
 on him, and one or two he got on the head, just 
 as he spun a man senseless across the grass, 
 which sent him staggering backward for a mo- 
 ment, sick and stunned. 
 
 Pierre called over to him swiftly: " Remember 
 Malahide!" 
 
 This acted on him like a charm. There never 
 was seen such a shattered bundle of men as came 
 out from his hands a few minutes later. As for 
 himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but 
 stood unmindful of his state, and the fever of bat- 
 tle untamable on him. The women drew away.
 
 A Lovely Bully 37 
 
 "Now, me babes o' the wood," he shouted, 
 "that sit at the feet av the finest Injin woman in 
 the North though she 's no frind o' mine and 
 are n't fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, 
 till I have me fun wid yer spines." 
 
 But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. 
 There were the five half-breeds running away 
 across the plains. 
 
 The game was over. 
 
 " Here 's some clothes, man ; for heaven's sake 
 put them on," said the Trader. 
 
 Then the giant became conscious of his con- 
 dition, and like a timid girl he hurried into the 
 clothing. 
 
 The crowd would have carried him on their 
 shoulders, but he would have none of it. 
 
 " I 've only wan frind here," he said, " an' 
 it 's Pierre, an' to his shanty I go an' no other." 
 
 "Come, man ami" said Pierre, "for to-mor- 
 row we travel far." 
 
 "And what for that?" asked Macavoy. 
 
 Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a 
 king, my lovely bully."
 
 The Filibuster 
 
 Pierre had determined to establish a king- 
 dom, not for gain, but for conquest's sake. But 
 because he knew that the thing would pall, he 
 took with him Macavoy the giant, to make him 
 king instead. But first he made Macavoy from 
 a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into 
 a Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult 
 and be insulted by near a score of men at 
 Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them by 
 twos, threes, and fours, all on a summer's even- 
 ing, and send them away broken. Macavoy 
 would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it 
 not that he feared a woman. Not that he had 
 wronged her ; she had wronged him : she had 
 married him. And the fear of one's own wife is 
 the worst fear in the world. 
 
 But though his heart went out to women, and 
 his tongue was of the race that beguiles, he stood 
 to his "lines" like a man, and people wondered. 
 Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, 
 only bent him, she could not break him to her 
 will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony 
 38
 
 The Filibuster 39 
 
 that was on the day when all Fort O'Angel 
 conspired to prove Macavoy a child and not a 
 warrior. But when she saw what she had done, 
 and that the giant was greater than his years of 
 brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote at 
 Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt. 
 
 Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge 
 of vinegar to his head, for he had had nasty jolt- 
 ings in his great fight. A little laugh came sim- 
 mering up to the half-breed's lips, but dissolved 
 into silence. 
 
 " We '11 start in the morning," he said. 
 
 Macavoy looked up. " Whin you plaze; but 
 a word in your ear; are you sure she 'II not fol- 
 low us?" 
 
 " She does n't know. Fort Ste. Anne is in 
 the south, and Fort Comfort, where we go, is far 
 north." 
 
 "But if she kem!" the big man persisted. 
 
 " You will be a king ; you can do as other 
 kings have done!" Pierre chuckled. 
 
 The other shook his head. " Says Father 
 Nolan to me, says he, ' 't is till death us do part, 
 an' no man put asunder'; an' I '11 stand by that, 
 though I 'd slice out the bist tin years av me 
 life, if I niver saw her face again." 
 
 " But the girl, Wonta what a queen she 'i 
 make!"
 
 4O An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, 
 and be damned to you! For she, like the rest, 
 laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day 
 whin I" 
 
 " That 's nothing. She hung a dead coyote 
 at my door. You do n't know women. There '11 
 be your breed and hers abroad in the land one 
 day." 
 
 Macavoy stretched to his feet he was so tall 
 that he could not stand upright in the room. 
 He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. 
 " I 've another word for your ear," he said 
 darkly. " Kape clear av the likes o' that wid me. 
 For I 've swallowed a tribe of divils. It 's fightin' 
 you want. Well, I '11 do it I 've an itch for the 
 throats of men, but a fool I '11 be no more wid 
 wimen, white or red that hell-cat that spoilt me 
 life an' killed me child, or " 
 
 A sob clutched him in the throat. 
 
 "You had a child, then?" said Pierre gently. 
 
 " An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 
 'd melt the heart av an iron god: none like her 
 above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother 
 of her! One day whin she 'd said a sharp word, 
 wid another from me, an' the child clinging to 
 her dress, she turned quick and struck it, mean- 
 in' to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but 
 it sent the darlin's head agin" the chimney-stone,
 
 The Filibuster 41 
 
 and that was the end av it. For she took to her 
 bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan mid- 
 night, she gives a little cry an' snatched at me 
 beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An' 
 thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her 
 lips." 
 
 Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling 
 in his beard. Pierre was uncomfortable. He 
 could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death 
 unmoved it seemed to him in the game; but 
 the tragedy of a child a mere counter as yet in 
 the play of life that was different. He slid a 
 hand over the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. 
 
 " Poor little waif !" he said. 
 
 Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned 
 Pierre sick, and asked: " Had ye iver a child av 
 y'r own, Pierre iver wan at all?" 
 
 " Never," said Pierre dreamily, " and I 've 
 traveled far. A child a child is a wonderful 
 thing. . . . Poor little waif 1" 
 
 They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre 
 was about to rise, but Macavoy suddenly pinned 
 him to his seat with this question: " Did y' iver 
 have a wife thin, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came 
 through his teeth. He spoke slowly: " Yes, 
 once." 
 
 " And she died?" asked the other, awed.
 
 42 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " We all have our day," he replied enigmati- 
 cally, " and there are worse things than death. 
 . . . Eh, well, man ami, let us talk of other 
 things. To-morrow we go to conquer. I know 
 where I can get five men I want. I have ammu- 
 nition and dogs." 
 
 A few minutes afterward Pierre was busy in 
 the settlement. At the Fort he heard strange 
 news. A new batch of settlers was coming from 
 the south, and among them was an old Irish- 
 woman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan, now 
 Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she 
 was to find, one Tim Macavoy, whose fame gos- 
 sip had brought to her at last. She had clung 
 on to the settlers, and they could not shake her 
 off. "She was comin'," she said, "to her own 
 darlin' b'y, from whom she 'd been parted many 
 a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had 
 niver touched hand o' hers." 
 
 The bearer of the news had but just arrived, 
 and he told it only to the Trader and Pierre. 
 At a word from Pierre the man promised to 
 hold his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's 
 lodge. He found her with her father alone, 
 her head at her knees. When she heard his 
 voice she looked up sharply, and added a sharp 
 word also. 
 
 "Wait;" he said, "women are such fools.
 
 The Filibuster 43 
 
 You snapped your fingers in his face, and 
 laughed at him. Well, that is nothing. He has 
 proved himself great. That is something. He 
 will be greater still, if the other woman does not 
 find him. She should die, but then some women 
 have no sense." 
 
 "The other woman !" said Wonta, starting to 
 her feet; "who is the other woman ?" 
 
 Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but 
 seeing that it was Pierre, dropped again to sleep. 
 Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. 
 Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he 
 thought. 
 
 Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy's 
 life ; for he knew that she loved the man after her 
 heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. 
 
 "I do not care for that," she said, when he 
 had finished; "it is nothing. I would go with 
 him. I should be his wife ; the other should die. 
 I would kill her if she would fight me. I know 
 the way of knives, or a rifle, or a pinch at the 
 throat she should die !" 
 
 "Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands 
 free of her." 
 
 Then he told her that they were going away. 
 She said she would go also. He said no to that, 
 but told her to wait and he would come back for 
 her.
 
 44 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Though she tried hard to follow them, they 
 slipped away from the Fort in the moist gloom 
 of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the 
 prairie-hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as 
 they passed, the Spirit of the North, ever hun- 
 gry, drawing them on over the long Divides. 
 They did not see each other's faces till dawn. 
 They were guided by Pierre's voice ; none knew 
 his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, 
 there were five half-breeds Noel, Little Babiche, 
 Corvette, Jose", and Jacques Parfaite. When they 
 came to recognize each other they shook hands 
 and marched on. In good time they reached 
 that wonderful and pleasant country between the 
 Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows. 
 To the north of it was Fort Comfort, which they 
 had come to take. Macavoy's rich voice roared 
 as of old, before his valour was questioned and 
 maintained at Fort O'Angel. Pierre had di- 
 verted his mind from the woman who, at Fort 
 O'Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth 
 to witness that "Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy 
 and no other, an' she 'd find him the divil and 
 darlin', wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an' a 
 chist you could build a house on if she walked 
 till Doomsday!" 
 
 Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone 
 to muscle, blowing through his beard, puffing
 
 The Filibuster 45 
 
 his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But 
 now that they were facing the business of their 
 journey his voice got soft and gentle, as it did 
 before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two 
 by two and three by three, and wrung them out. 
 In his eyes there was the thing which counts as 
 many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads 
 in battle. As he said himself, he was made for 
 war, like Malachi o' the Golden Collar. 
 
 Pierre guessed that just now many of the 
 Indians would be away for the summer hunt, and 
 that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a 
 few score of braves, who, however, would fight 
 when they might easier play. He had no use- 
 less compunctions about bloodshed. A human 
 life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time, 
 and that it was of little moment when a man 
 went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his 
 creed, for he had ever held his own life as a bird 
 upon a housetop which a chance stone might 
 drop. 
 
 He was glad afterward that he had decided 
 to fight, for there was one in Fort Comfort 
 against whom he had an old grudge the Indian, 
 Young Eye, who, many years before, had been 
 one to help in killing the good Father Halen, 
 the priest who dropped the water on his fore- 
 head and set the cross on top of that, when he
 
 46 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 was at his mother's breasts. One by one the 
 murderers had been killed, save this man. He 
 had wandered north, lived on the Coppermine 
 River for a long time, and at length had come 
 down among the warring tribes at the Lake of 
 Silver Shallows. 
 
 Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed 
 the lake in their canoes, at a point about five 
 miles from the Fort, and so far as they could tell, 
 without being seen. Then ammunition went 
 round, and they marched upon the Fort. Pierre 
 eyed Macavoy measured him, as it were, for 
 what he was worth. The giant seemed happy. 
 He was humming a tune softly through his beard. 
 
 Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of 
 a pine, and put his ear to it. Pierre understood. 
 He had caught at the same thing. " There is a 
 dance on," said Jose", " I can hear the drum." 
 
 Pierre thought a minute. " We will recon- 
 noitre," he said presently. 
 
 " It is near night now," remarked Little Ba- 
 biche. "I know something of these. When 
 they have a great snake dance at night, strange 
 things happen." Then he spoke in a low tone 
 to Pierre. 
 
 They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche 
 went forward to spy upon the Fort. He came 
 back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians
 
 The Filibuster 47 
 
 were feasting. He had crept near, and had 
 learned that the braves were expected back from 
 the hunt that night, and that the feast was for 
 their welcome. 
 
 The Fort stood in an open space, with tall 
 trees for a background. In front, here and 
 there, were juniper and tamarack bushes. Pierre 
 laid his plans immediately, and gave the word to 
 move on. Their presence had not been discov- 
 ered, and if they could but surprise the Indians 
 the Fort might easily be theirs. They made a 
 devour, and after an hour came upon the Fort 
 from behind. Pierre, himself, went forward 
 cautiously, leaving Macavoy in command. When 
 he came again he said: 
 
 " It 's a fine sight; and the way is open. They 
 are feasting and dancing. If we can enter with- 
 out being seen, we are safe, except for food; we 
 must trust for that." 
 
 When they arrived at the margin of the woods 
 a wonderful scene was before them. A volcanic 
 hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but 
 the reflection of the fires reached it, and made 
 its sides quiver the rock itself seemed trem- 
 bling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all 
 round, and in the open space, turreted with fan- 
 tastic fires, the Indians swayed in and out with 
 weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and
 
 48 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 painted in strange colours. The earth itself was 
 still and sober. Scarce a star peeped forth. A 
 purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down 
 the sky, though here and there the flame bronzed 
 it. The Indian lodges were empty, save where 
 a few children squatted at the openings. The 
 seven stood still with wonder, till Pierre whis- 
 pered to them to get to the ground and crawl 
 close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. 
 They did so, Macavoy breathing hard too hard; 
 for suddenly Pierre clapped a hand on his mouth. 
 They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had 
 seen an Indian come from the gate. The brave 
 was within a few feet of them. He had almost 
 passed them, for they were in the shadow, but 
 Jos had burst a puff-ball in his hand, and the 
 dust flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian 
 turned and saw them. With a low cry and the 
 spring of a tiger, Pierre was at his throat ; and 
 in another minute they were struggling on the 
 ground. Pierre's hand never let go. His com- 
 rades did not stir; he had warned them to lie 
 still. They saw the terrible game played out 
 within arm's length of them. They heard Pierre 
 say at last, as the struggles of the Indian ceased: 
 "Beast! You had Father Halen's life. I have 
 yours."
 
 The Filibuster 49 
 
 There was one more wrench of the Indian's 
 limbs, and then he lay still. 
 
 They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden 
 in the shadows and the grass. Presently they 
 came to a clear space. Across this they must 
 go, and enter the Fort before they were dis- 
 covered. They got to their feet, and ran with 
 wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. 
 They had just reached it when there was a cry 
 from the walls, on which two Indians were 
 sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their 
 spears, and lunged at the seven as they entered. 
 One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as 
 he swung aside, but with the butt of his musket 
 Noel dropped him. The other Indian was 
 promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this 
 time Corvette and Jose" had shut the gates, and 
 the Fort was theirs an easy conquest. The 
 Indians were bound and gagged. 
 
 The adventurers had done it all without draw- 
 ing the attention of the howling crowd without. 
 The matter was in its infancy, however. They 
 had the place, but could they hold it ? What 
 food and water were there within ? Perhaps 
 they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. 
 Yet there was no doubt on Pierre's part. He had 
 enjoyed the adventure so far up to the hilt
 
 50 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 an old promise had been kept, and an old 
 wrong avenged. 
 
 "What's to be done now?" said Macavoy. 
 " There '11 be hell's own racket; and they '11 come 
 an like a flood." 
 
 " To wait," said Pierre, " and dam the flood 
 as it comes. But not a bullet till I give the word. 
 Take to the chinks. We '11 have them soon." 
 
 He was right : they came soon. Someone 
 had found the dead body of Young Eye; then it 
 was discovered that the gate was shut. A big 
 shout went up. The Indians ran to their lodges 
 for spears and hatchets, though the weapons of 
 many were within the Fort, and soon they were 
 about the place, shouting in impotent rage. 
 They could not tell how many invaders were in 
 the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, 
 their ancient enemies. But Young Eye, they 
 saw, had not been scalped. This was brought 
 to the old chief, and he called to his men to fall 
 back. They had not seen one man of the invad- 
 ers; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even 
 the two torches which had been burning above 
 the gate were down. At that moment, as if to 
 add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly 
 through the fires, and, passing not far from the 
 bewildered Indians, plunged into the trees be- 
 hind the Fort.
 
 The Filibuster 51 
 
 The caribou is credited with great powers. It 
 is thought to understand all that is said to it, and 
 to be able to take the form of a spirit. No 
 Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he 
 who kills it out of season is supposed to bring 
 down all manner of evil. 
 
 So at this sight they cried out the women 
 falling to the ground with their faces in their 
 arms that the caribou had done this thing. For 
 a moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a 
 brave showed, there was no mark on the body of 
 Young Eye. 
 
 Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull 
 caribou, traveling wildly till he found another 
 herd. He would carry on the deception. "Wail 
 for the dead, as your women do in Ireland. 
 That will finish them," he said to Macavoy. 
 
 The giant threw his voice up and out, so that 
 it seemed to come from over the Fort to the 
 Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds 
 standing by felt a light shock of unnatural ex- 
 citement. The Indians without drew back slowly 
 from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. 
 Macavoy had uncanny tricks with his voice, and 
 presently he changed the song into a shrill, wail- 
 ing whistle, which went trembling about the 
 place and then stopped suddenly. 
 
 " Sure, that 's a poor game, Pierre," he whis-
 
 52 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 pered ;" an' I 'd rather be pluggin' their hides 
 wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It 's 
 fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother 
 Kilkevin!" 
 
 Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. 
 Every man looked to his gun, the gates were 
 slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre 
 had thrown over the Irishman's shoulders the 
 great skin of a musk-ox which he had found 
 inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense 
 figure, as he walked into the open space, and, 
 folding his arms, looked round. In the shadow 
 of the gate behind were Pierre and the half- 
 breeds, with guns cocked. 
 
 Macavoy had lived so long in the north that 
 he knew enough of all the languages to speak to 
 this tribe. When he came out a murmur of 
 wonder ran among the Indians. They had never 
 seen anyone so tall, for they were not great of 
 stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of 
 hair were a wonderful sight. He remained silent, 
 looking on them. At last the old chief spoke. 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 " I am a great chief from the Hills of the 
 Mighty Men, come to be your king," was his 
 reply. 
 
 " He is your king," cried Pierre in a strange
 
 The Filibuster 53 
 
 voice from the shadow of the gate, and he 
 thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could 
 see it. 
 
 The Indians now saw Pierre and the half- 
 breeds in the gateway, and they had not so much 
 awe. They came a little nearer, and the women 
 stopped crying. A few of the braves half raised 
 their spears. Seeing this, Pierre instantly stepped 
 forward to the giant. He looked a child in stat- 
 ure thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the 
 Chinook language. 
 
 "This is a mighty man from the Hills of the 
 Mighty Men. He has come to rule over you, to 
 give all other tribes into your hands ; for he has 
 strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of 
 gods nor men. I have the blood of red men in 
 me. It is I who have called this man from his 
 distant home. I heard of your fighting and 
 foolishness; also that warriors were to come 
 from the south country to scatter your wives and 
 children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you, 
 and I have brought you a chief greater than any 
 other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and 
 all will be well ; but raise one to throw, or one 
 arrow, or axe, and there shall be death among 
 you, so that as a people you shall die. The 
 spirits are with us. ... Well?"
 
 54 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did 
 not drop their spears, for the old chief forbade 
 them. 
 
 "We are not dogs or cowards," he said, 
 "though the spirits be with you, as we believe. 
 We have seen strange tilings" he pointed to 
 Young Eye "and heard voices not of men; 
 but we would see great things as well as strange. 
 There are seven men of the Little Skins' tribe 
 within a lodge yonder. They were to die when 
 our braves returned from the hunt, and for that 
 we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he 
 shall fight them all at once, and if he kills them 
 he shall be our king. In the name of my tribe 
 I speak. And this other," pointing to Pierre, 
 "he shall also fight with a strong man of our 
 tribe, so that we shall know if you are all brave, 
 and not as those who crawl at the knees of the 
 mighty." 
 
 This was more than Pierre had bargained for. 
 Seven men at Macavoy, and Indians, too, fight- 
 ing for their lives, was a contract of weight. But 
 Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully 
 enough. 
 
 "Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid 
 me back to the wall, an' I '11 take thim as they 
 come." 
 
 Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians,
 
 The Filibuster 55 
 
 and said for himself that he would welcome their 
 strongest man at the point of a knife when he 
 chose. 
 
 The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins 
 were brought. The fires still burned brightly, 
 and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind 
 rose and stirred them, came softly over. The 
 Indians stood off at the command of the chief. 
 Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the 
 musk-ox skin to the ground, and stripped him- 
 self to the waist. But in his waistband there was 
 what none of these Indians had ever seen a 
 small revolver that barked ever so softly. In the 
 hands of each Little Skin there was put a knife, 
 and they were told their cheerful exercise. They 
 came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed 
 in, knives flashing. But Macavoy's little bulldog 
 barked, and one dropped to the ground. The 
 others fell back. The wounded man drew up, 
 made a lunge at Macavoy, but missed him. As 
 if ashamed, the other six came on again at a 
 spring. But again the weapon did its work 
 smartly, and one more came down. Now the 
 giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut 
 right and left. So sudden and massive was his 
 rush that they had no chance. Three fell at his 
 blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. 
 " Drop your knives," he said, as they cowered,
 
 56 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 "or I '11 kill you all." They did so. He dropped 
 his own. 
 
 "Now come an, ye scuts !" he cried, and sud- 
 denly he reached and caught them, one with each 
 arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one 
 like a willow rod, and dropped him with a broken 
 back, while the other was at his mercy. Suddenly 
 loosing him, he turned him toward the woods, 
 and said: "Run, ye rid divil, run for y'r life!" 
 
 A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of 
 Pierre's men came in between; the Indian 
 reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, 
 two had been killed, the rest were severely 
 wounded, and Macavoy had not a scratch. 
 
 Pierre smiled grimly. "You 've been doing 
 all the fighting, Macavoy," he said. 
 
 "There 's no bein' a king for nothin'," he re- 
 plied, wiping blood from his beard. 
 
 "It 's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, 
 though I think there 's no need." 
 
 Pierre had but a short minute with the cham- 
 pion, for he was an expert with the knife. He 
 carried away four fingers of the Indian's fighting 
 hand, and that ended it ; for the next instant the 
 point was at the red man's throat. The Indian 
 stood to take it like a man ; but Pierre loved 
 that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its 
 sheath instead.
 
 The Filibuster 57 
 
 The old chief kept his word, and after the 
 spears were piled, he shook hands with Macavoy, 
 as did his braves one by one, and they were all 
 moved by the sincerity of his grasp : their arms 
 were useless for some time after. They hailed 
 as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are like 
 dogs they worship him who beats them. The 
 feasting and dancing went on till the hunters 
 came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in 
 the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet 
 their new king. 
 
 The king himself went to bed in the Fort that 
 night, Pierre and his bodyguard by name Noel, 
 Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose", and Parfaite its 
 only occupants, singing joyfully 
 
 " Did yees iver hear tell o' Long Barney, 
 That come from the groves o' Killarney ? 
 He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, 
 But he niver kem back to Killarney 
 Wid his crown, an' his soord, an' his army !" 
 
 As a king Macavoy was a success, for the 
 brag had gone from him. Like all his race he 
 had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of 
 ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an 
 old sword and belt, left by some Company's 
 man, and these he furbished up and wore. 
 
 With Pierre's aid he drew up a simple con- 
 stitution, which he carried in the crown of his
 
 58 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trap- 
 pings as marks of honour. Nor did he forget 
 the frequent pipe of peace, made possible to all 
 by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found 
 a kingdom abaft the Barren Grounds with to- 
 bacco, beads, and red flannel. 
 
 For very many weeks it was a happy king- 
 dom. But presently Pierre yawned, and was 
 ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were 
 inclined to go with him. Jose" and Little Ba- 
 biche had formed alliances which held them 
 there besides, King Macavoy needed them. 
 
 On the eve of Pierre's departure a notable 
 thing occurred. 
 
 A young brave had broken his leg in hunt- 
 ing, had been picked up by a band of another 
 tribe and carried south. He found himself at 
 last at Fort O' Angel. There he had met Mrs. 
 Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and purple 
 and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. 
 That was how the king and Pierre met her in the 
 yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early 
 autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turn- 
 ing the King about and getting him away ; but 
 it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and 
 she called out at him: 
 
 "Oh, Tim ! me jool ! me king ! have I found 
 ye, me imp'ror ! "
 
 The Filibuster 59 
 
 She ran at him, to throw her arms round 
 him. He stepped back, the red of his face 
 going white, and said, stretching out his hand, 
 " Woman, y' are me wife, I know, whativer y' be; 
 an' y' ve right to have shelter and bread av me; 
 but me arms, an' me bed, are me own to kape or 
 to give; and by God, ye shall have nayther one 
 nor the other! There 's a ditch as wide as hell 
 betune us!" 
 
 The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled 
 the yard, and crowded the gate. The woman 
 went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran 
 at Macavoy and spat in his face, and called down 
 such a curse on him as whoever hears, be he the 
 one that 's cursed or any other, shudders at till 
 he dies. Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Mac- 
 avoy turned to the Indians, stretched out his 
 hands and tried to speak, but could not. He 
 stooped down, picked up the woman, carried 
 her into the Fort, and laid her on a bed of skins. 
 
 "What will you do?" asked Pierre. 
 
 " She is my wife," he answered firmly. 
 
 "She lived with Whelan." 
 
 " She must be cared for," was the reply. 
 Pierre looked at him with a curious quietness. 
 " I '11 get liquor for her," he said presently. He 
 started to go, but turned and felt the woman's 
 pulse. " You would keep her?" he asked.
 
 60 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " Bring the liquor." 
 
 Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the 
 sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. 
 
 Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that 
 the woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy 
 beside her all night. Toward morning her eyes 
 opened and she shivered greatly. 
 
 " It 's bither cold," she said. " You '11 put 
 more wood on the fire, Tim, for the babe must 
 be kipt warrum." 
 
 She thought she was at Malahide. 
 
 "Oh, wurra, wurra! but 'tis freezin'!" she 
 said again. " Why d' ye kape the door opin 
 whin the child 's perishin'?" 
 
 Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shak- 
 ing him. 
 
 "I '11 shut the door meself, thin," she added; 
 "for 't was I that lift it opin, Tim." She started 
 up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell 
 back. 
 
 " The door is shut," said Pierre. 
 
 " But the child ! the child ! " said Macavoy, 
 tears running down his face and beard.
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 
 
 I 
 
 Once Macavoy, the giant, ruled a tribe of 
 Northern people, achieving the dignity by the 
 hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. 
 Then came a time when, tiring of his kingship, 
 he journeyed south, leaving all behind, even his 
 queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and 
 yarrow, came forth no more into the morning. 
 About Fort Guidon they still gave him his title, 
 and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and 
 generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple 
 King." His seven feet and over shambled 
 about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled 
 force. No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, 
 he was welcome at the fire and the cooking-pot: 
 yet it seemed shameful to have so much man 
 useless such an engine of life, which might do 
 great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought 
 much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, 
 Pierre, who sometimes said, " My simple king, 
 some day you shall have your great chance 
 again, but not as a king as a giant, a man." 
 61
 
 62 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 The day did not come immediately, but it 
 came. 
 
 When Ida, the deaf and dumb girl, married 
 Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, 
 and some from posts beyond, sent her or brought 
 her presents of one kind or another. Pierre's 
 gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding 
 Ida's name on it with the broken blade of a case- 
 knife, when Macavoy entered on him, having just 
 returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. 
 
 " Is it digging out or carvin' in y' are?" he 
 asked, puffing into his beard. 
 
 Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not 
 reply to the insinuation, for he never saw an in- 
 sult unless he intended to avenge it ; and he 
 would not quarrel with Macavoy. 
 
 " What are you going to give?" he asked. 
 
 " Aw, give what to who, Hop-o'-me-thumb?" 
 Macavoy said, stretching himself out in the door- 
 way, his legs in the sun, his head in the shade. 
 
 " You 've been taking a walk in the country, 
 then ? " Pierre asked, though he knew. 
 
 " To Fort Ste. Anne : a buryin', two christ'- 
 nin's, and a weddin' ; an' lashin's av grog an' 
 swill aw that, me button o' the North! " 
 
 " Hey ! What a fool you are, my simple 
 king ! You 've got the things end foremost. 
 Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 63 
 
 a cigarette, and if you breathe this way, there 
 will be a grand explode ! " 
 
 " Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre ! It's like 
 a baby's, me breath is, milk and honey it is aw 
 yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the trick 
 for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim 
 Macavoy,' aw yis, little Tim Macavoy, says he, 
 * when are you goin' to buckle to, for the love av 
 God ! ' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that 
 Father Corraine should spake to me like that, for 
 I 'd only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me 
 trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in 
 his eye ! ' Buckle to,' says I, ' Father Corraine? 
 Buckle to, yer riv'rince ! ' feelin' I was at the 
 twigs the while. ' Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he 
 says, says he, 'you 've bin atin' the husks av 
 idleness long enough ; when are you goin' to 
 buckle to ? You had a kingdom and ye guv it 
 up,' says he ; ' take a field, get a plough, and 
 buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no more!' 
 like that, says Father Corraine ; and I thinkin' 
 all the time 'twas the want o' me belt he was 
 drivin' at ! " 
 
 Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then 
 said: "Such a tom-fool ! And where's that 
 grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch ? " 
 
 A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. 
 " For the weddin' it wint : buckled the two up
 
 64 l^n Adventurer of the North 
 
 wid it for better or worse an' purty they looked, 
 they did, standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole 
 lift aw yis, Pierre ! " 
 
 " And what do you give to Ida ? " Pierre 
 asked, with a little emphasis of the branding-iron. 
 
 Macavoy got to his feet. " Ida ! Ida ! " said 
 he. " Is that saddle for Ida ? Is it her and 
 Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither ? That 
 rose o' the valley, that bird wid a song in her 
 face and none an her tongue ! That daisy dot 
 av a thing, steppin' through the world like a 
 sprig o' glory ! Aw, Pierre, thim two ! an I 've 
 divil a scrap to give, good or bad. I 've nothin' 
 at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes on me 
 back, an' thim hangin' on the underbrush ! " 
 giving a little twist to the twigs. " An' many 
 a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she' s guv me, 
 little smiles dancin' at her lips." 
 
 He sat down in the doorway again, with his 
 face turned toward Pierre, and the back of his 
 head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect 
 health, sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the 
 heart of a child looking out of his eyes, but a 
 sort of despair, too, in his bearing. 
 
 Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for 
 a time, then he said languidly : " Never mind 
 your clothes, give yourself. " 
 
 "Yer tongue inyer cheek, me spot o' vinegar.
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 65 
 
 Give meself ! What's that for ? A purty wed- 
 din' gift, says I ! Handy thing to have in the 
 house ! Use me for a clothes-horse, or shtand 
 me in the garden for a fairy bower ! aw yis, wid 
 a hole in me face that 'd ate thim out o' house 
 and home ! " 
 
 Pierre drew a piece of brown paper toward 
 him, and wrote on it with a burnt match. Pres- 
 ently he held it up. " Voila, my simple king, the 
 thing for you to do : a grand gift, and to cost 
 you nothing now. Come, read it out, and tell 
 me what you think." 
 
 Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judi- 
 cial way, read slowly: 
 
 " On demand, for value received, I promise to 
 pay to . . IDA HILTON, . . or order, 
 meself, Tim Macavoy, standin* seven foot three on 
 me bare fut, wid interest at nothin' at all." 
 
 Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. 
 "McGuire!" he said, and nothing more. 
 
 McGuire was his strongest expression. In 
 the most important moments of his career he had 
 said it, and it sounded deep, strange and more 
 powerful than many usual oaths. A moment 
 later he said again, " McGuire ! " Then he 
 read the paper once more out loud. "What's 
 that, me Frenchman ? " he said. " What Ballze- 
 boob's tricks are y' at now ? "
 
 66 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Pierre was complacently eyeing his handi- 
 work on the saddle. He now settled back with 
 his shoulders to the wall, and said: "See, then, 
 it 's a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to 
 Ida. When she says some day, ' Tim Macavoy, 
 I want you to do this or that, or to go here or 
 there, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for 
 a clothes-horse, or a bridge over a canyon, or to 
 hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be 
 my second husband,' you shall say, ' Here I am'; 
 and you shall travel from Heaven to Halifax, but 
 you shall come at the call of this promissory ! " 
 
 Pierre's teeth glistened behind a smile as he 
 spoke, and Macavoy broke into a roar of laugh- 
 ter. "Black 's the white o' yer eye," he said at 
 last, "an 1 a joke's a joke. Seven fut three I 
 am, an' sound av wind an' limb an' a weddin'- 
 gift to that swate rose o' the valley! Aisy, aisy, 
 Pierre. A bit o' foolin' 't was ye put on the 
 paper, but truth I '11 make it, me cock o' the 
 walk ! That 's me gift to her an' Hilton, an' no 
 other. An' a dab wid red wax it shall have, an' 
 what more be the word o' Freddy Tarlton the 
 lawyer." 
 
 "You're a great man," said Pierre, with a 
 touch of gentle irony, for his natural malice had 
 no play against the huge ex-king of his own 
 making. With these big creatures he had con-
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 67 
 
 nived with several in his time he had ever been 
 superior, protective, making them to feel that 
 they were as children beside him. He looked at 
 Macavoy musingly, and said to himself, "Well, 
 why not ? If it is a joke, then it is a joke ; if it 
 is a thing to make the world stand still for a 
 minute some time, so much the better. He is all 
 waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is 
 amusing, and it may be great bye and bye." 
 
 Presently Pierre said aloud : "Well, my Mac- 
 avoy, what will you do ? Send this good gift ?" 
 
 "Awyis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the 
 crown av me head to the sole av me fut sure. 
 Face like a mornin' in May, and hands like the 
 tunes of an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look 
 av her eye and a twist av her purty lips an' sway- 
 ing body, an' talkin' to you widout a word. Aw 
 motion motion motion ; yis, that 's it. An' 
 I 've seen her an tap af a hill wid the wind blow- 
 in' her hair free, and the yellow buds on the 
 tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the 
 world smilin' betune her and the sun : pictures 
 pictures, aw yis ! Promissory notice on de- 
 mand is at anny toime ? Seven fut three on me 
 bare toes but. Father o' Sin 1 when she calls I 
 come, yis." 
 
 "On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre; 
 "by the book of the Mass ?"
 
 68 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Macavoy stood up straight till his head 
 scraped the cobwebs between the rafters, the wild 
 indignation of a child in his eye. "D' ye think 
 I 'm a thafe, to stale me own word ? Hut ! I '11 
 break ye in two, ye wisp o' straw, if ye doubt me 
 word to a lady. There 's me note av hand, and 
 ye shall have me fist on it, in writin' at Freddy 
 Tarlton's office, wid a blotch av red and the 
 queen's head at the bottom. McGuire /" he said 
 again, and paused, puffing his lips through his 
 beard. 
 
 Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving 
 his fingers idly, said, "So, my straw-breaker! 
 Then to-morrow morning at ten you will fetch 
 your wedding-gift. But come so soon now to 
 M'sieu' Tarlton's office, and we will have it all 
 as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your 
 fist yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world, 
 and sometimes we see strange things, and no 
 two strange things are alike no ; there is only 
 one Macavoy in the world, there was only one 
 Shon M'Gann. Shon M'Gann was a fine fool, 
 but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim 
 Macavoy, perhaps, will do something at last on 
 his own hook. Hey, I wonder!" 
 
 He felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm mus- 
 ingly, and then laughed up in the giant's face. 
 "Once I made you a king, my own, and you
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 69 
 
 threw it all away; now I make you a slave, and 
 we shall see what you will do. Come along, for 
 M'sieu' Tarlton." 
 
 Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "'T is hard to be a king, Pierre, but 't is aisy 
 to be a slave for the likes o' her. I 'd kiss her 
 dirty shoe sure !" 
 
 As they passed through the door, Pierre said, 
 "Dis done, perhaps, when all is done, she will 
 sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will 
 buy you, and I will burn your bones and the 
 rags, and I will scatter to the four winds of the 
 earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an 
 Irishman, truly! " 
 
 "Bedad, ye '11 have more earth in yer hands 
 then, Pierre, than ye '11 ever earn, and more 
 heaven than ye '11 ever shtand in." 
 
 Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarl- 
 ton's office on the banks of the Little Big Swan, 
 which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of 
 the early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a 
 gift of humour, entered into the spirit of the 
 thing and treated it seriously; but in vain did 
 he protest that the large red seal with Her 
 Majesty's head on it was unnecessary; Macavoy 
 insisted, and wrote his name across it with a 
 large indistinctness worthy of a king. Before
 
 70 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 the night was over everybody at Guidon Hill, 
 save Hilton and Ida herself, knew what gift 
 would come from Macavoy to the wedded pair. 
 
 II 
 
 The next morning was almost painfully beau- 
 tiful, so delicate in its clearness, so exalted by 
 the glory of the hills, so grand in the limitless 
 stretch of the green-brown prairie north and 
 south. It was a day for God's creatures to meet 
 in, and speed away, and having flown round the 
 boundaries of that spacious domain, to return 
 again to the nest of home on the large plateau 
 between the sea and the stars. Gathered about 
 Ida's home was everybody who lived within a 
 radius of a hundred miles. In the large front 
 room all the presents were set : rich furs from 
 the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking- 
 chairs made by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a 
 copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the 
 Protestant missionary who performed the cere- 
 mony, a nugget of gold from the Long Light 
 River, and outside the door, a horse, Hilton's 
 own present to his wife, on which was put 
 Pierre's saddle, with its silver mounting and 
 Ida's name branded deep on pommel and strap. 
 When Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 71 
 
 was carried on waves of laughter into the house 
 to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening 
 to the first words of the brief service which be- 
 gins, " / charge you both if you do know any just 
 cause or impediment " and so on. 
 
 They did not turn to see what it was, for just 
 at that moment they themselves were the very 
 centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and 
 dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the 
 words of the service by signs, as the missionary 
 read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, the 
 half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought 
 Hilton and Ida together, for he and Ida had 
 been old friends. After Father Corraine had 
 taught her the language of signs, Pierre had 
 learned them from her, until at last his gestures 
 had become as vital as her own. The delicate 
 precision of his every movement, the suggestive- 
 ness of look and motion were suited to a lan- 
 guage which was nearer to the instincts of his 
 own nature than word of mouth. All men did 
 not trust Pierre, but all women did ; with those 
 he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he 
 had no sign of Mephistopheles, and few were 
 the occasions in his life when he showed out- 
 ward tenderness to either: which was equally 
 effective. He had learnt, or knew by instinct, 
 that exclusiveness as to men, and indifference as
 
 72 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 to women, are the greatest influences on both. 
 As he stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by 
 graceful allusive signs, the words of the service, 
 one could not think that behind his impassive 
 face there was any feeling for the man or for the 
 woman. He had that disdainful smile which 
 men acquire, who are all their lives aloof from 
 the hopes of the hearthstone, and acknowledge 
 no laws but their own. 
 
 More than once the eyes of the girl filled 
 with tears, as the pregnancy of some phrase in 
 the service came home to her. Her face re- 
 sponded to Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves 
 to the delights of good music, and there was 
 something so unique, so impressive in the cere- 
 mony, that the laughter which had greeted 
 Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence, begin- 
 ning from where the two stood, crept out until 
 it covered all the prairie. Nothing was heard ex- 
 cept Hilton's voice in strong tones saying, " / 
 take thee to be my wedded wife" etc., but when 
 the last words of the service were said, and 
 the new-made bride turned to her husband's 
 embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from 
 her lips, there was plenty of noise and laughter 
 again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or 
 rather outside it, stooping to look in upon the 
 scene. Someone had lent him the cinch of a
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 73 
 
 broncho, and he had belted himself with it, no 
 longer carrying his clothes about " an the under- 
 brush." Hilton laughed and stretched out his 
 hand. " Come in, King," he said, "come and 
 wish us joy." 
 
 Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his 
 way, and instantly was stooping before the pair 
 for he could not stand upright in the room. 
 
 " Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's 
 pluckin' the roses av the valley, snatchin' the 
 stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o' that 1 
 Travel down I did yistiday from "Fort Ste. 
 Anne, and divil a word I knew till Pierre hit me 
 in the eye wid it last night and no time for a 
 present, for a wedding gift no, aw no I " 
 
 Just here Ida reached up and touched him on 
 the shoulder. He smiled down on her, puffing 
 and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to 
 her, yet knowing no word by signs to say ; but 
 he nodded his head at her, and he patted Hil- 
 ton's shoulder, and he took their hands and 
 joined them together, her's on top of Hilton's, 
 and shook them in one of his own till she almost 
 winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who 
 nodded in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy 
 to kiss Macavoy, the idle, ill-cared-for, boister- 
 ous giant. His face became red like that of a 
 child caught in an awkward act, and with an ab-
 
 74 
 
 surd shyness he stooped and touched her cheek. 
 Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, 
 " Aw, the rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide 
 wurruld ! aw the bloom o' the hills ! I 'd have 
 kissed her dirty shoe. McGuire ! " 
 
 A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear 
 air of the prairie, and the hills seemed to stir 
 with the pleasure of life. Then it was that Mac- 
 avoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly 
 stopped beside the horse, drew from his pocket 
 the promissory note that Pierre had written, and 
 said, " Yis, but all the weddin -gifts are n't in. 
 'Tis nothin' I had to give divil a cint in the 
 wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for the 
 fire, or a bit av linin for the table ; nothin' but 
 meself an me dirty clothes, standin' seven feet 
 three an me bare toes. What was I to do ? 
 There was only meself to give, so I give it free 
 and hearty, and here it is wid the Queen's head 
 an it, done in Mr. Tarlton's office. Ye'd better 
 have had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, 
 or a saddle, or a quart of brown brandy ; but 
 such as it is I give it ye I give it to the rose o' 
 the valley and the star o' the wide wurruld." 
 
 In a loud voice he read the promissory note, 
 and handed it to Ida. Men laughed till there 
 were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was 
 opened ; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 75 
 
 and Pierre had seen a serious side to Macavoy's 
 gift : the childlike manliness in it. It went 
 home to her woman's heart without a touch of 
 ludicrousness, without a sound of laughter. 
 
 Ill 
 
 After a time the interest in this wedding-gift 
 declined at Fort Guidon, and but three people 
 remembered it with any singular distinctness 
 Ida, Pierre and Macavoy. Pierre was inter- 
 ested, for in his primitive mind he knew that, 
 however wild a promise, life is so wild in its 
 events, there comes the hour for redemption of 
 all I.O.U.'s. 
 
 Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple 
 of years passed, Macavoy and Pierre coming and 
 going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all 
 manner of words at war, in all manner of fact at 
 peace. And Ida, out of the bounty of her na- 
 ture, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fire- 
 side whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, 
 where speech was not given, a gift of divination 
 entered into her instead, and she valued what 
 others found useless, and held aloof from what 
 others found good. She had powers which had 
 ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds 
 and animals were her friends she called them
 
 76 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy joined them ; 
 so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild 
 duck, and made it do the duties of a carrier- 
 pigeon, no one thought it strange. 
 
 Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, 
 lived her sister and her sister's children ; and, by 
 and by, the duck carried messages back and 
 forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida's health 
 became delicate, she had comfort in the solicitude 
 and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety of 
 the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many 
 a sprightly message and tales of their good va- 
 grancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and 
 Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and 
 then to sit with Hilton beside the fire, waiting 
 for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had 
 settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which 
 shows man at his best, as he waits for the time 
 when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood, 
 he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood 
 spreading up the world which, all being said 
 and done, is that place called Home. Some- 
 thing gentle came over him while he grew 
 stouter in body and in all other ways made a 
 larger figure among the people of the West. 
 
 As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be 
 trusted than his general morality, "it is strange 
 that most men think not enough of themselves
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 77 
 
 till a woman shows them how. But it is the 
 great wonder that the woman does not despise 
 him for it. Quel caractere / She has so often 
 to show him his way like a babe, and yet she says 
 to him, Mon grand homme I my master ! my 
 lord ! Pshaw ! I have often thought that women 
 are half saints, half fools, and men half fools, 
 half rogues. But, quelle vie .' what life ! with- 
 out a woman you are half a man ; with one you 
 are bound to a single spot in the world, you are 
 tied by the leg, your wing is clipped you can- 
 not have all. Quelle vie ! what life ! " 
 
 To this Macavoy said : " Spit-spat ! But what 
 the devil good does all yer thinkin' do ye, 
 Pierre ? It 's argufy here and argufy there, an* 
 while yer at that, me an' the rest av us is squeez- 
 in' the fun out o' life. Aw, go 'long wid ye. 
 Y' are only a bit o' hell an' grammar, annyway. 
 Wid all yer cuttin' and carvin' things to see the 
 internals av thim, I 'd do more to the call av a 
 woman's finger than for all the logic and know- 
 alogy y' ever chewed an' there y' are, me little 
 tailor o' jur'sprudince!" 
 
 "To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh ?" 
 
 Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's 
 
 enigmatical tone meant. A wild light shone in 
 
 his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis, 
 
 Hilton's wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or
 
 78 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye wasp ! ye 'd go 
 stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye 
 would. But the tongue av ye hut, it 's gall to 
 the tip ! " 
 
 "Maybe, my king. But I 'd go hunting be- 
 cause I wanted ; you because you must. You 're 
 a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal 
 on the promissory." 
 
 Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that ! 
 The rose o' the valley ! the joy o' the wurrld ! 
 S't, Pierre " his voice grew softer on a sudden, 
 as a fresh thought came to him "did y* ever 
 think that the child might be dumb like the 
 mother?" 
 
 This was a day in the early spring, when the 
 snows were melting in the hills, and freshets 
 were sweeping down the valleys far and near. 
 That night a warm heavy rain came on, and in 
 the morning every stream and river was swollen 
 to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have 
 stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun 
 began at once to color the foothills with green. 
 As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, look- 
 ing out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy 
 suddenly said: "Aw, look, look, Pierre her 
 white duck aff to the nest on Champak Hill !" 
 
 They both shaded their eyes with their hands. 
 Circling round two or three times above the
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 79 
 
 Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the 
 west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and 
 was hid from view. Pierre, without a word, be- 
 gan cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, 
 and sat looking into the distance, surveying the 
 sweet warmth and light. His face blossomed 
 with colour, and the look of his eyes was like 
 that of an irresponsible child. Once or twice 
 he smiled and puffed in his beard, but perhaps 
 that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague 
 reflection of his dreams, themselves most vague, 
 for he was only soaking in sun and air and life. 
 
 Within an hour they saw the wild duck again 
 passing the crest of Guidon, and they watched 
 it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling 
 the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. 
 But presently they were altogether roused, the 
 gun was put away, and both were on their feet ; 
 for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at 
 the Post, and Hilton could be seen running 
 from the store to his house, not far away. 
 
 " Something 's wrong there," said Pierre. 
 
 "D'ye think 'twas the duck brought p it?" 
 asked Macavoy. 
 
 Without a word Pierre started away toward 
 the Post, Macavoy following. As they did so, a 
 half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying 
 toward them.
 
 8o An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Inside the house Hilton's wife lay on her 
 bed, her great hour coming on before the time, 
 because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. 
 There was with her an old Frenchwoman, who 
 herself, in her time, had brought many children 
 into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if 
 uncouthly, over the dumb girl. She it was who 
 had handed to Hilton the paper the wild duck 
 had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in 
 a faint on the floor. 
 
 The message that had felled the young wife 
 was brief and awful. A cloud-burst had fallen 
 on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and 
 a part of this part had swept down into the path 
 that led to the little house, having been stopped 
 by some falling trees and a great boulder. It 
 blocked the only way to escape above, and 
 beneath, the river was creeping up to sweep 
 away the little house. So, there the mother and 
 her children waited (the father was in the farthest 
 north), facing death below and above. The wild 
 duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplic- 
 ity. The last words were, " There may n't be 
 any help for me and my sweet chicks, but I am 
 still hoping, and you must send a man or many. 
 But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end 
 may come any hour." 
 
 Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post,
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 8 1 
 
 and knew from Hilton all there was to know. 
 At once Pierre began to gather men, though 
 what one or many could do none could say. 
 Eight white men and three Indians watched the 
 wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom 
 window where Ida lay, to carry a word of com- 
 fort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida 
 asked for Macavoy, and he was brought to her 
 bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, almost un- 
 earthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling 
 with a coming agony, looking up at him ; and 
 presently two trembling hands made those mys- 
 tic signs which are the primal language of the 
 soul. Hilton interpreted to him this : " I have 
 sent for you. There is no man so big or strong 
 as you in the north. I did not know that I 
 should ever ask you to redeem the note. I want 
 my gift, and I will give you your paper with the 
 Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those 
 pretty little dears, you will not see them die. If 
 there is a way, any way, you will save them. 
 Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. 
 You were my wedding-gift : I claim you now." 
 She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, 
 who laid the piece of brown paper in Macavoy's 
 hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as 
 if it were a fragile bit of glass, something that 
 his huge fingers might crush by touching. Then
 
 82 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 he reached over and laid it on the bed beside 
 her and said, looking Hilton in the eyes, " Tell 
 her, the slip av a saint she is! if the breakin' av 
 me bones, or the lettin' av me blood 's what '11 
 set all right at Champak Hill, let her mind be 
 aisy aw yis!" 
 
 Soon afterward they were all on their way 
 all save Hilton, whose duty was beside this other 
 danger, for the old nurse said that, " like as 
 not," her life would hang upon the news from 
 Champak Hill ; and if ill came, his place was 
 beside the speechless traveler on the Brink. 
 
 In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top 
 of Champak Hill, looking down. There stood 
 the little house, as it were, between two dooms. 
 Even Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he 
 saw what a very few hours or minutes might do. 
 Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no 
 question since they had left the Post. There 
 was in his eyes the large seriousness, the intent- 
 ness which might be found in the face of a brave 
 boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a 
 vast ditch of danger at which he must leap. 
 There was ever before him the face of the dumb 
 wife ; there was in his ears the sound of pain 
 that had followed him from Hilton's house out 
 into the brilliant day. 
 
 The men stood helpless, and looked at each
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 83 
 
 other. They could not say to the river that it 
 must rise no farther, and they could not go to 
 the house, nor let a rope down, and there was 
 the crumbled moiety of the hill which blocked 
 the way to the house : elsewhere it was sheer 
 precipice without trees. 
 
 There was no corner in these hills that Mac- 
 avoy and Pierre did not know, and at last, when 
 despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, 
 having spoken a low word to Pierre, said : 
 
 "There 's wan way, an' maybe I can an' maybe 
 I can 't, but I 'm fit to try. I '11 go up the river 
 to an aisy p'int a mile above, get in, and drift 
 down to a p'int below there, thin climb up and 
 loose the stuff." 
 
 Every man present knew the double danger : 
 the swift headlong river, and the sudden rush of 
 rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the 
 side of the narrow ravine opposite the little 
 house. Macavoy had nothing to say to the 
 head-shakes of the others, and they did not try 
 to dissuade him ; for women and children were 
 in the question, and there they were below near 
 the house, the children gathered round the 
 mother, she waiting waiting. 
 
 Macavoy stripped to the waist, and carrying 
 only a hatchet and a coil of rope tied round him, 
 started away alone up the river. The others
 
 84 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 waited, now and again calling comfort to the 
 woman below, though their words could not be 
 heard. About half an hour passed, and then 
 some one called out : " Here he comes ! " Pres- 
 ently they could see the rough head and the bare 
 shoulders of the giant in the wild churning 
 stream. There was only one point where he 
 could get a hold on the hillside the jutting bole 
 of a tree just beneath them, and beneath the 
 dyke of rock and trees. 
 
 It was a great moment. The current swayed 
 him out, but he plunged forward, catching at the 
 bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held 
 him an instant, as he was swung round, then it 
 snapt. But the other hand clenched the bole, 
 and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, 
 Macavoy drew himself up. After that they could 
 not see him. He alone was studying the situa- 
 tion. He found the key-rock to the dyked slide 
 of earth. To loosen it was to divert the slide 
 away, or partly away from the little house. But 
 it could not be loosened from above, if at all, 
 and he himself would be in the path of the de- 
 stroying hill. 
 
 " Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to him- 
 self. " It's the woman and the darlin's av her, 
 an' the rose o' the valley down there at the 
 Post ! "
 
 The Gift of the Simple King 85 
 
 A minute afterward, having chopped down a 
 hickory sapling, he began to pry at the boulder 
 which held the mass. Presently a tree came 
 crashing down, and a small rush of earth fol- 
 lowed it, and the hearts of the men above and 
 the women and children below stood still for an 
 instant. An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with 
 a strange careful skill and a superhuman concen- 
 tration. His body was all shining with sweat, 
 and sweat dripped like water from his forehead. 
 His eyes were on the key-rock and the pile, alert, 
 measuring, intent. At last he paused. He 
 looked round at the hills down at the river, up 
 at the sky humanity was shut away from his 
 sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke 
 from his lips, stirring his big red beard. Then 
 he gave a call, a long call that echoed through 
 the hills weirdly and solemnly. 
 
 It reached the ears of those above like a 
 greeting from an outside world. They answered, 
 " Right, Macavoy 1 " 
 
 Years afterward these men told how then 
 there came in reply one word, ringing roundly 
 through the hills the note and symbol of a 
 crisis, the fantastic cipher of a soul 
 
 "McGwrtl" 
 
 There was a loud booming sound, the dyke 
 was loosed, the ravine spilt into the swollen
 
 86 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock : 
 and a minute afterward the path was clear to 
 the top of Champak Hill. To it came the un- 
 harmed children and their mother, who, from 
 the warm peak sent the wild duck " to the rose 
 o' the valley," which, till the message came, was 
 trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that 
 marvellous healer, kept it blooming with a little 
 Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue 
 was taught in after years to tell of the gift of The 
 Simple King : who had redeemed, on demand, 
 the promissory note forever.
 
 Malachi 
 
 " He '11 swing just the same to-morrow. Exit 
 Malachi ! " said Freddy Tarlton gravely. 
 
 The door suddenly opened on the group of 
 gossips, and a man stepped inside and took the 
 only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at 
 none, but stretched out his hands to the heat, 
 looking at the coals with drooping introspective 
 eyes. 
 
 " Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft 
 ironical voice, but did not look up. 
 
 " By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you 
 spring from ? " asked Tarlton genially. 
 
 " The wind bloweth where it listeth, and " 
 Pierre responded, with a little turn of his fingers. 
 
 " And the wind does n't tell where it 's been, 
 but that's no reason Pierre shouldn't," urged 
 the other. 
 
 Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no 
 answer. 
 
 " He was a tough," said a voice from the 
 crowd. " To-morrow he '11 get the breakfast he 's 
 paid for." 
 
 87
 
 88 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with 
 a cold inquisitive stare. " Mon Dieu /" he said 
 presently, " here 's this Gohawk playing preacher. 
 What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk ? What 
 do any of you know about Malachi ? A little of 
 this, a little of that, a drink here, a game of 
 euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind 
 Guidon Hill ! But what is that ? You have 
 heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him 
 carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, 
 but what do you know of the eagle's nest ? Mat's 
 non. The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. 
 You don't know the eagle till you' ve been there. 
 And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you 
 saw the nest. Such cancan ! " 
 
 "Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. 
 "D' ye think I 'm going to stand your " 
 
 Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. 
 "Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good will it do ?" 
 Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; 
 they 're hanging him for the lamb in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre 
 asked. 
 
 "I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I 
 could, but the game was dead against him from 
 the start. The sheriff was popular, and young ; 
 young that was the thing ; handsome, too, and
 
 Malachi Sg 
 
 the women, of course ! It was sure from the 
 start; besides, Malachi would say nothing 
 did n't seem to care." 
 
 "No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What 
 did you say for him to the jury? I mean the 
 devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, 
 'Poor Malachi !' like that." 
 
 "Best speech y' ever heard," Gohawk inter- 
 jected; "just emptied the words out, spilt 'em 
 like peas, by gol ! till he got to one place right 
 before the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and 
 it got so quiet you could 'a heard a pin drop. 
 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton 
 here gen'lemen, by gol ! all that lot Lagan 
 and the rest ! 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' he says, 
 'be you danged well sure that you 're at one with 
 God A'mighty in this ; that you 've got at the 
 core of justice here ; that you 've got evidence 
 to satisfy Him who you 've all got to satisfy some 
 day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin', but 
 evidence as to what that shootin' meant, an' 
 whether it was meant to kill, an' what for.' 
 
 " ' The case is like this, gen'lemen of the jury,' 
 says Freddy Tarlton here. 'Two men are in a 
 street alone. There 's a shot, out comes every- 
 body, and sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the 
 ground, his mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun 
 in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Mai-
 
 9O An Adventurer of the North 
 
 achi with a gun smokin' in his fist. It seems to 
 be the opinion that it was cussedness just cuss- 
 edness that made Malachi turn the sheriff's 
 boots to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome. 
 I '11 give you a quarter on that. And the sheriff 
 was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like 
 as if he 's lift himself over the fence with his 
 boot-straps. So, when Malachi come and saw 
 the sheriff steppin' round in his paten' leathers, 
 it give him the needle, and he got a bead on 
 him and away went Sheriff Fargo right away! 
 That seems to be the sense of the public.' And 
 he stops again, soft and quick, and looks the 
 twelve in the eyes at once. 'But,' says Freddy 
 Tarlton here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on 
 the little you know? Or are you goin' to credit 
 him with somethin' of what you do n't know ? 
 You haint got the inside of this thing, and Mal- 
 achi does n't let you know it, and God keeps 
 quiet. But be danged well sure that you 've got 
 the bulge on iniquity here ; for gen'lemen with 
 pistols out in the street is one thing, and sittin' 
 weavin' a rope in a courtroom for a man's neck 
 is another thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here. 
 ' My client has refused to say one word this or 
 that way, but do n't be sure that Some One that 
 knows the inside of things won't speak for him 
 in the end.'
 
 Malachi 91 
 
 "Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and 
 Malachi was standin' still and steady like a tree, 
 but his face was white, and sweat poured on his 
 forehead. ' If God has no voice to be heard for 
 my client in this courtroom to-day, is there no 
 one on earth no man or woman who can 
 speak for one who won't speak for himself?' 
 says Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol ! for 
 the first time Malachi opened. ' There 's no 
 one,' he says. 'The speakin' is all for the sheriff. 
 But I spoke once, and the sheriff did n't answer. 1 
 Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. It struck cold. 
 ' I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,' 
 says Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down. 
 
 "So they said he must walk the air?" sug- 
 gested Pierre. 
 
 " Without leavin' their seats," some one added 
 instantly. 
 
 "So! But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton 
 here'?" 
 
 " It was worth twelve drinks to me, no more, 
 and nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton. 
 "When I said I 'd come to him to night to 
 cheer him up, he said he 'd rather sleep. The 
 missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. 
 ' I do n't need anyone here,' he says. ' I eat 
 this off my own plate.' And that 's the end of 
 Malachi."
 
 92 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " Because there was no one to speak for him 
 eh? Well, well." 
 
 " If he 'd said anything that 'd justify the 
 thing make it a manslaughter business or a 
 quarrel then! But no, not a word, up or down, 
 high or low. Exit Malachi!" added Freddy 
 Tarlton sorrowfully. " I wish he 'd given me 
 half a chance." 
 
 " I wish I 'd been there," said Pierre, taking 
 a match from Gohawk, and lighting his cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 "To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nod- 
 ding toward Tarlton. 
 
 " To tell the truth about it all. T 'sh, you 
 bats, you sheep, what have you in your skulls ? 
 When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain 
 a case for his lawyer or save himself, there is 
 something ! Now, listen to me, and 1 will tell 
 you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. 
 
 "I never saw such a face as that girl had 
 down there at Lachine in Quebec. I knew her 
 when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when 
 he was on the river with the rafts, the foreman 
 of a gang. He had a look all open then as the 
 sun yes. Happy ? Yes, as happy as a man 
 ought to be. Well, the mother of the child died, 
 and Malachi alone was left to take care of the 
 little Norice. He left the river and went to work
 
 Malachi 93 
 
 in the mills, so that he might be with the child ; 
 and when he got to be foreman there he used to 
 bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung 
 for her just inside the mill not far from him, 
 right where she was in the shade ; but if she 
 stretched out her hand it would be in the 
 sun. I 've seen a hundred men turn to look at 
 her where she swung, singing to herself, and 
 then chuckle to themselves afterward as they 
 worked. 
 
 " When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, 
 and saw her, he swore, and was going to sack 
 Malachi, but the child that little Norice 
 leaned over the basket, and offered him an apple. 
 He looked for a minute, then he reached up, 
 took the apple, turned round, and went out of 
 the mill without a word so. Next month when 
 he come he walked straight to her, and handed 
 up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 
 ' That's to call me when you want me,' he said, 
 as he put the whistle to her lips, and then he put 
 the gold string of it round her neck. She was a 
 wise little thing, that Norice, and noticed things. 
 I don 't believe that Trevoor or Malachi ever 
 knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh saw- 
 dust till she held it to their noses ; and it was 
 she that had the saws all sizes start one after 
 the other, making so strange a tune. She made
 
 94 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 up a little song about fairies and others to sing 
 to that tune. 
 
 "And no one ever thought much about In- 
 dian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking 
 piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and tim- 
 bers in the bay, till she told stories about it. 
 Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and 
 open windows of those empty houses, all white 
 without in the sun and dark within, and not a 
 human to be seen, you could believe almost any- 
 thing. You can think how proud Malachi was 
 ho ! She used to get plenty of presents from 
 the men who had no wives or children to care 
 for little silver and gold things as well as 
 others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain. 
 She loved the gold and silver for their own sake." 
 
 Pierre paused. " I knew a youngster once," 
 said Gohawk, " that " 
 
 Pierre waved his hand. " I 'm not through, 
 M 'sieu' Gohawk the talker. Years went on. 
 Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She 
 wore the whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept 
 saying to her still, 'If ever you need me, little 
 Norice, blow it, and I will come.' He was droll; 
 that M 'sieu' Trevoor, at times. Well she did 
 not blow, but still he used to come every year, 
 and always brought her something. One year 
 he brought his nephew, a young fellow of about
 
 Malachi 95 
 
 twenty-three. She did not whistle for him 
 either, but he kept on coming. That was the 
 beginning of ' Exit Malachi.' The man was 
 clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He 
 was young, but he knew how to win a woman's 
 heart. When that is done, there is nothing 
 more to do she is yours for good or evil ; and 
 if a man, through a woman's love, makes her to 
 sin, even his mother cannot be proud of him 
 no. But the man married Norice, and took her 
 away to Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi 
 was left alone Malachi and Trevoor, for Tre- 
 voor felt to her as a father. 
 
 " Ators, sorrow come to the girl, for her hus- 
 band began to play cards and to drink, and he 
 lost much money. There was the trouble the 
 two together. They lived in a hotel. One day 
 a lady missed a diamond necklace from her 
 room. Norice had been with her the night 
 before. Norice come into her own room the 
 next afternoon, and found detectives searching. 
 In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in 
 the pocket of an old dress, was found the neck- 
 lace. She was arrested. She said nothing for 
 she waited for her husband, who was out of town 
 that day. He only come in time to see her in 
 court next morning. She did not deny any- 
 thing ; she was quiet like Malachi. The man
 
 96 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 played his part well. He had hid the necklace 
 where he thought it would be safe, but when it 
 was found, he let the wife take the blame a lit- 
 tle innocent thing. People were sorry for them 
 both. She was sent to jail. Her father was 
 away in the Rocky Mountains, and he did not 
 hear ; Trevoor was in Europe. The husband 
 got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail 
 for over a year, and then she was set free, for her 
 health went bad, and her mind was going, they 
 thought. She did not know till she come out 
 that she was divorced. Then she nearly died. 
 But then Trevoor come." 
 
 Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with ex- 
 citement, and his fingers trembled so he could 
 hardly light a cigar. 
 
 " Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily. 
 
 " Trevoor said to her he told me this him- 
 self ' Why did you not whistle for me, Norice ? 
 A word would have brought me from Europe.' 
 'No one could help me, no one at all,' she 
 answered. Then Trevoor said, ' I know who did 
 it, for he has robbed me too.' She sank in a 
 heap on the floor. ' I could have stood it and 
 anything for him, if he hadn't divorced me,' 
 she said. Then they cleared her name before 
 the world. But where was the man ? No one 
 knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains,
 
 Malachi 97 
 
 heard of her trouble, for Norice wrote to him, 
 but told him not to do the man any harm, if he 
 ever found him ah, a woman, a woman ! . . . 
 But Malachi met the man one day at Guidon 
 Hill, and shot him in the street." 
 
 " Fargo the sheriff!" said half-a-dozen voices. 
 
 " Yes ; he had changed his name, had come 
 up here, and because he was clever and spent 
 money, and had a pull on someone, got it at 
 cards, perhaps, he was made sheriff." 
 
 "In God's name, why did n't Malachi speak?" 
 said Tarlton ; "why didn't he tell me this?" 
 
 " Because he and I had our own plans. The 
 one evidence he wanted was Norice. If she 
 would come to him in his danger, and in spite 
 of his killing the man, good. If not, then he 
 would die. Well, I went to find her and fetch 
 her. I found her. There was no way to send 
 word, so we had to come on as fast as we could. 
 We have come just in time." 
 
 " Do ye mean to say that she 's here, Pierre?" 
 said Gohawk. 
 
 Pierre waved his hand emphatically. " And 
 so we came on with a pardon." 
 
 Every man was on his feet, every man's 
 tongue was loosed, and each ordered liquor 
 for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. 
 Freddy Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a
 
 g8 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 boy to go to his rooms and bring three bottles 
 of wine, which he had kept for two years, to 
 drink when he had won his first big case. 
 
 Gohawk was importunate. " Where is the 
 girl, Pierre?" he urged. 
 
 "Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is 
 with her father." 
 
 A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, 
 Freddy Tarlton was making eloquent toasts over 
 the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, 
 the door opened from the hallway, and Malachi 
 stood before them. At his shoulder was a face, 
 wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness, too ; 
 and the eyes had depths which any man might 
 be glad to drown his heart in. 
 
 Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe 
 or awkwardness fell on the group at the table. 
 
 But Norice stepped forward a little, and said : 
 "May we come in?" 
 
 In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, 
 and had her by the hand, her and her father, 
 drawing them over. 
 
 His ardent, admiring look gave Norice 
 thought for many a day. 
 
 And that night Pierre made an accurate 
 prophecy.
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 
 
 When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it 
 was so called, Pierre said: "Because of the 
 Great Slave;" and then paused. 
 
 Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his 
 whims. If he wished to tell, he would in his own 
 time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. 
 It was nearly an hour before Pierre eased off 
 from the puzzle he was solving with bits of paper 
 and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had 
 been speaking the moment before : 
 
 "They have said it is legend, but I know 
 better. I have seen the records of the Com- 
 pany, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory 
 once, and in a box two hundred years old the 
 factor and I found it. There were other papers, 
 and some of them had large red seals, and a 
 name scrawled along the end of the page." 
 
 Pierre shook his head, as if in contented 
 musing. He was a born story-teller. Tybalt 
 was aching with interest, for he scented a thing 
 of note. 
 
 99
 
 IOO An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " How did any of those papers, signed with a 
 scrawl, begin?" he asked. 
 
 " ' To our dearly-beloved? or something like 
 that," answered Pierre. "There were letters 
 also. Two of them were full of harsh words, 
 and these were signed with the scrawl." 
 
 "What was that scrawl ? " asked Tybalt. 
 
 Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two 
 words with his finger. " Like that," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and 
 then drew a long breath. " Charles Rex" he 
 said, hardly above his breath. 
 
 Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. 
 "That name was droll, eh ?" 
 
 Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of 
 discovery. " It is a great name," he said, 
 shortly. 
 
 "The Slave was great the Indians said so 
 at the last." 
 
 " But that was not the name of the Slave ? " 
 
 " Mais non. Who said so ? Charles Rex > 
 like that ! was the man who wrote the letters." 
 
 " To the Great Slave ? " 
 
 Pierre made a gesture of impatience. " Very 
 sure." 
 
 "Where are those letters now ?" 
 
 "With the Governor of the Company."
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 101 
 
 Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe sav- 
 agely. 
 
 " You 'd have liked one of those papers ?" 
 asked Pierre, provokingly. 
 
 " I 'd give five hundred dollars for one ! " 
 broke out Tybalt. 
 
 Pierre lifted his eyebrows. " T'sh, what 's the 
 good of five hundred dollars up here? What 
 would you do with a letter like that? " 
 
 Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for 
 Pierre was clearly "rubbing it in." 
 
 " Perhaps for a book ? " gently asked Pierre. 
 
 " Yes, if you like." 
 
 " It is a pity. But there is a way." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Put me in the book. Then - 
 
 " How does that touch the case ? " 
 
 Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he 
 thought Tybalt was unusually obtuse. Tybalt 
 thought so himself before the episode ended. 
 
 " Go on," he said, with clouded brow, but 
 interested eye. Then, as if with sudden thought : 
 " To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre ?" 
 " Wait ! " was the reply. " One letter said : 
 ' Good cousin, We are evermore glad to have 
 thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. 
 So, fail us not at our cheerful doings yonder at 
 Highgate. ' Another a year after said:
 
 IO2 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 ' Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get 
 thee gone into some distant corner of our pas- 
 turage the farthest doth please us most. We 
 would not have thee on foreign ground, for we 
 bear no ill-will to our brother princes, and yet 
 we would not have thee near our garden of good 
 loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a 
 tongue of divers tunes thou lovest not the 
 good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying 
 us, thy lady shall keep thine estates untouched ; 
 failing obedience, thou wilt make more than thy 
 prince unhappy. Fare thee well.' That was 
 the way of two letters," said Pierre. 
 
 " How do you remember so ? " 
 
 Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. " It is 
 easy with things like that." 
 
 "But word for word?" 
 
 " I learned it word for word." 
 
 " Now for the story of the Lake if you 
 won 't tell me the name of the man." 
 
 "The name afterward perhaps. Well, he 
 came to that farthest corner of the pasturage, to 
 the Hudson's Bay country, two hundred years 
 ago. What do you think ? Was he so sick of 
 all, that he would go so far he could never get 
 back ? Maybe those 'cheerful doings' at High- 
 gate, eh ? And the lady who can tell ?" 
 
 Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. " You <kne w
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 103 
 
 more. Damnation ! can 't you see I 'm on 
 needles to hear ? Was there anything in the 
 letters about the lady? anything more than 
 you've told ?" 
 
 Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He 
 glanced down at the eager fingers, and said 
 coldly : 
 
 " You are a great man ; you can tell a story 
 in many ways, but I in one way alone, and that 
 is my way mats out ! " 
 
 " Very well, take your own time." 
 
 " Bien. I got the story from two heads. If 
 you hear a thing like that from Indians, you call 
 it legend ; if from the Company's papers, you 
 call it history. Well, in this there is not much 
 difference. The papers tell precise the facts ; 
 the legend gives the feeling, is more true. How 
 can you judge the facts if you do n't know the 
 feeling ? No ! what is bad turns good some- 
 times, when you know the how, the feeling, the 
 place. Well, this story of the Great Slave eh ! 
 . . . There is a race of Indians in the far north 
 who have hair so brown like yours, m'sieu', and 
 eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that 
 lived at the Pole, before the sea swamped the 
 Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. So 
 in those days the fair race came to the south for 
 the first time, that is, far below the Circle. They
 
 104 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 had their women with them. I have seen those 
 of to-day : fine and tall, with breasts like apples, 
 and a cheek to tempt a man like you, m'sieu' ; 
 no grease in the hair no, M'sieu' Tybalt ! " 
 
 Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, 
 but his eyes were fixed intently on Pierre, his 
 mind ever traveling far ahead of the tale. 
 
 "Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex, 
 he made a journey with two men to the Far-off 
 Metal River, and one day this tribe from the 
 north come on his camp. It was summer, and 
 they were camping in the Valley of the Young 
 Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the 
 north. The Indians cornered them. There was 
 a fight, and one of the Company's men was 
 killed, and five of the other. But when the king 
 of the people of the Pole saw that the great man 
 was fair of face, he called for the fight to stop. 
 
 "There was a big taik all by signs, and the 
 king said for the great man to come and be one 
 with them, for they liked his fair face their 
 fore-fathers were fair like him. He should have 
 the noblest of their women for his wife, and be a 
 prince among them. He would not go : so they 
 drew away again and fought. A stone-axe 
 brought the great man to the ground. He was 
 stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave 
 up, and said he would be one of them if they
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 105 
 
 would take him. They would have killed him 
 but for one of their women. She said that he 
 should live to tell them tales of the south coun- 
 try and the strange people, when they came 
 again to their camp-fires. So they let him live, 
 and he was one of them. But the chief man, 
 because he was stubborn and scorned them, and 
 had killed the son of their king in the fight, they 
 made a slave, and carried him north a captive, till 
 they came to this lake the Lake of the Great 
 Slave. 
 
 " In all ways they tried him, but he would 
 not yield, neither to wear their dress nor to wor- 
 ship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, 
 of his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and 
 silver, his carbine with rich chasing, and all, and 
 he was among them almost naked, it was sum- 
 mer, as I said, yet defying them. He was 
 taller by a head than any of them, and his white 
 skin rippled in the sun like soft steel." 
 
 Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he 
 knew all this, but he held his peace. Pierre, as 
 if divining his thoughts, continued : 
 
 " You ask how I know these things. Very 
 good : there are the legends, and there were the 
 papers of the Company. The Indians tried 
 every way, but it was no use ; he would have 
 nothing to say to them. At last they come to
 
 106 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 this lake. Now something great occurred. The 
 woman who had been the wife of the king's dead 
 son, her heart went out in love of the Great 
 Slave ; but he never looked at her. One day 
 there were great sports, for it was the Feast of 
 the Red Star. The young men did feats of 
 strength, here on this ground where we sit. The 
 king's wife called out for the Great Slave to 
 measure strength with them all. He would not 
 stir. The king commanded him ; still he would 
 not, but stood among them silent and looking 
 far away over their heads. At last, two young 
 men of good height and bone threw arrows at 
 his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then 
 he give a cry through his beard, and was on 
 them like a lion. He caught them, one in each 
 arm, swung them from the ground, and brought 
 their heads together with a crash, breaking their 
 skulls, and dropped them at his feet. Catching 
 up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But 
 they did not come, for, with a loud voice, the 
 king told them to fall back, and went and felt the 
 bodies of the men. One of them was dead ; the 
 other was his second son he would live. 
 
 "'It is a great deed,' said the king, 'for these 
 were no children, but strong men.' 
 
 " Then again he offered the Great Slave 
 women to marry, and fifty tents of deerskin for
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 107 
 
 the making of a village. But the Great Slave 
 said no, and asked to be sent back to Fort 
 O'Glory. 
 
 "The king refused. But that night, as he 
 slept in his tent, the girl-widow came to him, 
 waked him, and told him to follow her. He 
 came forth, and she led him softly through the 
 silent camp to that wood which we see over 
 there. He told her she need not go on. With- 
 out a word, she reached over and kissed him on 
 the breast Then he understood. He told her 
 that she could not come with him, for there was 
 that lady in England his wife, eh ? But never 
 mind, that will come. He was too great to save 
 his life, or be free at the price. Some are born 
 that way. They have their own commandments 
 and they keep them. 
 
 " He told her that she must go back. She 
 gave a little cry, and sank down at his feet, say- 
 ing that her life would be in danger if she went 
 back. 
 
 " Then he told her to come ; for it was in 
 his mind to bring her to Fort O* Glory, where 
 she could marry an Indian there. But now she 
 would not go with him, and turned toward the 
 village. A woman is a strange creature yes, 
 like that ! He refused to go and leave her. 
 She was in danger, and he would share it, what-
 
 108 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 ever it might be. So, though she prayed him 
 not, he went back with her ; and when she saw 
 that he would go in spite of all, she was glad : 
 which is like a woman. 
 
 " When he entered the tent again, he guessed 
 her danger, for he stepped over the bodies of 
 two dead men. She had killed them. As she 
 turned at the door to go to her own tent, another 
 woman faced her. It was the wife of the king, 
 who had suspected, and had now found out. 
 Who can tell what it was ? Jealousy, perhaps. 
 The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he could 
 speak, for a man always knows when a woman 
 sets him high. Anyhow, that was the way it 
 stood. In a moment the girl was marched back 
 to her tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie 
 of the widow of the king's son. 
 
 "To it there was an end, after the way of 
 their laws. The woman should die by fire, and 
 the man as the king might will. So there was a 
 great gathering in the place where we are, and 
 the king sat against that big white stone, which 
 is now as it was then. Silence was called, and 
 they brought the girl-widow forth. The king 
 spoke : 
 
 " ' Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, 
 didst go in the night to the tent of the slave 
 who killed thy husband ; whereby thou also
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 109 
 
 becamest a slave, and didst shame the great- 
 ness which was given thee. Thou shalt die, as 
 has been set in our law.' 
 
 "The girl-widow rose and spoke: 'I did 
 not know, O king, that he whom thou mad'st a 
 slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, 
 and thy son. That was not told me. But had 
 I known it, still would I have set him free, for 
 thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man 
 deserves not slavery or torture. I did seek the 
 tent of the Great Slave, and it was to set him 
 free no more. For that did I go, and, for the 
 rest, my soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I 
 have done naught, and never did, nor ever will, 
 that might shame a king, or the daughter of a 
 king, or the wife of a king, or a woman. If to 
 set a great captive free is death for me, then am 
 I ready. I will answer all pure women in the 
 far Camp of the Great Fires without fear. There 
 is no more, O king, that I may say, but this : 
 She who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may 
 choose who shall light the faggots is it not 
 so?' 
 
 " Then the king replied : 'It is so ; such is 
 our law.' 
 
 " There was counselling between the king 
 and his oldest men, and so long were they hand- 
 ing the matter back and forth that it looked as
 
 HO An Adventurer of the North 
 
 if she might go free. But the king's wife, see- 
 ing, came and spoke to the king and the 
 others, crying out for the honor of her dead 
 son ; so that in a moment of anger they all 
 cried out for death. 
 
 " When the king said again to the girl that 
 she must die by fire, she answered : 'It is as the 
 gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may 
 choose who shall light the fires ? ' 
 
 " The king answered yes, and asked her whom 
 she chose. She pointed towards the Great SJave. 
 And all, even the king and his councillors, won- 
 dered, for they knew little of the heart of women. 
 What is a man with a matter like that ? Noth- 
 ing nothing at all. They would have set this 
 for punishment : that she should ask for it was 
 beyond them. Yes, even the king's wife it was 
 beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was 
 it not this way ? If she died by the hand of him 
 she loved, then it would be easy, for she could 
 forget the pain, in the thought that his heart 
 would ache for her, and that at the very last he 
 might care, and she should see it. She was 
 great in her way also that girl, two hundred 
 years ago. 
 
 " Alors, they led her a little distance off, 
 there is the spot, where you see the ground heave 
 a little, and the Great Slave was brought up.
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave in 
 
 The king told him why the girl was to die. He 
 stood like stone, looking, looking at them. He 
 knew that the girl's heart was like a little child's, 
 and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze 
 him silent for a minute, and the color flew from 
 his face to here and there on his body, as a flame 
 on marble. The cords began to beat and throb 
 in his neck and on his forehead, and his eyes 
 gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. 
 
 "Then he began to talk. He could not say 
 much, for he knew so little of their language. 
 But it was 'No ! ' every other word. ' No no 
 no no ! ' the words ringing from his chest. 
 ' She is good ! ' he said. ' The other no ! ' and 
 he made a motion with his hand. ' She must 
 not die no ! Evil ? It is a lie ! I will kill 
 each man that says it, one by one, if he dares 
 come forth. She tried to save me well ? ' 
 
 " Then he made them know that he was of high 
 place in a far country, and that a man like him 
 would not tell a lie. That pleased the king, for 
 he was proud, and he saw that the Slave was of 
 better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was 
 a brave man, and he had strength, and more than 
 once he had laid his hand on the chest of the 
 other, as one might on a grand animal. Per- 
 haps, even then, they might have spared the girl 
 was it not for the queen. She would not hear
 
 112 
 
 of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he 
 was found guilty. The queen sent him word to 
 beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to 
 the queen. She sat up straight, with pride in 
 her eyes, for was it not a great prince, as she 
 thought, asking ? But a cloud fell on her face, 
 for he begged the girl's life. Since there must 
 be death, let him die, and die by fire in her 
 place ! It was then two women cried out : the 
 poor girl for joy not at the thought that her 
 life would be saved, but because she thought the 
 man loved her now, or he would not offer to die 
 for her ; and the queen for hate, because she 
 thought the same. You can guess the rest : 
 they were both to die, though the king was sorry 
 for the man. 
 
 "The king's speaker stood out and asked 
 them if they had anything to say. The girl 
 stepped forward, her face without any fear, but 
 a kind of noble pride in it, and said : ' I am 
 ready, O king.' 
 
 " The Great Slave bowed his head, and was 
 thinking much. They asked him again, and he 
 waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in 
 anger, and then he smiled and said : ' O king, I 
 am not ready ; if I die, I die.' Then he fell to 
 thinking again. But once more the king spoke : 
 ' Thou shall surely die, but not by fire, nor now ;
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 113 
 
 nor till we have come to our great camp in our 
 own country. There thou shalt die. But the 
 woman shall die at the going down of the sun. 
 She shall die by fire, and thou shalt light the 
 faggots for the burning.' 
 
 " The Great Slave said he would not do it, 
 not though he should die a hundred deaths. 
 Then the king said that it was the woman's right 
 to choose who should start the fire, and he had 
 given his word, which should not be broken. 
 
 "When the Great Slave heard this he was 
 wild for a little, and then he guessed altogether 
 what was in the girl's mind. Was not this the 
 true thing in her, the very truest? Mais out.' 
 That was what she wished to die by his 
 hand rather than by any other ; and something 
 troubled his breast, and a cloud came in his 
 eyes, so that for a moment he could not see. He 
 looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Per- 
 haps she understood. So, after a time, he got 
 calm as the farthest light in the sky, his face 
 shining among them all with a look none could 
 read. He sat down, and wrote upon pieces of 
 bark with a spear-point those bits of bark I 
 have seen also at Fort O'Glory. He pierced 
 them through with dried strings of the slippery- 
 elm tree, and with the king's consent gave them 
 to the Company's man, who had become one of
 
 114 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 the people, telling him, if ever he was free, or 
 could send them to the Company, he must do 
 so. The man promised, and shame came upon 
 him that he had let the other suffer alone ; and 
 he said he was willing to fight and die if the 
 Great Slave gave the word. But he would not ; 
 and he urged that it was right for the man to 
 save his life. For himself, no. It could never 
 be ; and if he must die, he must die. 
 
 "You see, a great man must always live alone 
 and die alone, when there are only such people 
 about him. So, now that the letters were writ- 
 ten, he sat upon the ground and thought, look- 
 ing often towards the girl, who was placed apart 
 with guards near. The king sat thinking also. 
 He could not guess why the Great Slave should 
 give the letters now, since he was not yet to die, 
 nor could the Company's man show a reason 
 when the king asked him. So the king waited, 
 and told the guards to see that the Great Slave 
 should not kill himself. 
 
 " But the queen wanted the death of the girl, 
 and was glad beyond telling that the Slave must 
 light the faggots. She was glad when she saw 
 the young braves bring a long sapling from the 
 forest, and, digging a hole, put it stoutly in the 
 ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. 
 
 " The Great Slave noted that the bark of the
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 1 1 5 
 
 sapling had not been stripped, and more than 
 once he measured, with his eye, the space be- 
 tween the stake and the shores of the Lake ; 
 he did this most private, so that no one saw but 
 the girl. 
 
 " At last the time was come. The Lake was 
 all rose and gold out there in the west, and the 
 water so still so still. The cool, moist scent of 
 the leaves and grass came out from the woods 
 and up from the plain, and the world was so full 
 of content that a man's heart could cry out, 
 even as now, while we look eh, is it not good? 
 See the deer drinking on the other shore there!" 
 
 Suddenly he became silent, as if he had for- 
 gotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impa- 
 tient, but he did not speak. He took a twig, 
 and in the sand he wrote " Charles Rex'' Pierre 
 glanced down and saw it. 
 
 " There was beating of the little drums," he 
 continued, "and the crying of the king's speaker; 
 and soon all was ready, and the people gathered 
 at a distance, and the king and the queen, and 
 the chief men nearer ; and the girl was brought 
 forth. 
 
 " As they led her past the Great Slave, she 
 looked into his eyes, and afterwards her heart 
 was glad, for she knew that at the last he would 
 be near her, and that his hand should light the
 
 Ii6 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 fires. Two men tied her to the stake. Then 
 the king's man cried out again, telling of her 
 crime, and calling for her death. The Great 
 Slave was brought near. No one knew that the 
 palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand 
 for a purpose. When he was brought beside the 
 stake a torch was given him by his guards. He 
 looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and 
 said : ' Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid, 
 and happy.' 
 
 " He did not answer, but stooped and lit the 
 sticks here and there. All at once he snatched 
 a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, 
 like lightning, in the faces of his guards, blind- 
 ing them. Then he sprang to the stake, and, 
 with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, girl 
 and all, and rushed to the shore of the Lake, 
 with her tied so in his arms. 
 
 " He had been so swift, that, at first, no one 
 stirred. He reached the shore, rushed into the 
 water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he 
 did so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle 
 and was away with a start. A few strokes, and 
 then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was in 
 the boat with many spears, and freed the girl. 
 Then he paddled on, trusting, with a small hope, 
 that through his great strength he could keep 
 on ahead till darkness came, and then, in the
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave 117 
 
 gloom, they might escape. The girl also seized 
 an oar, and the canoe the king's own canoe 
 came on like a swallow. 
 
 " But the tribe was after tnem in fifty canoes, 
 some coming straight along, some spreading 
 out, to close in later. It was no equal game, for 
 these people were so quick and strong with the 
 oars, and they were a hundred or more to two. 
 There could be but one end. It was what the 
 Great Slave had looked for : to fight till the last 
 breath. He should fight for the woman who 
 had risked all for him just a common woman 
 of the north, but it seemed good to lose his 
 life for her ; and she would be happy to die with 
 him. 
 
 " So they stood side by side when the spears 
 and arrows fell round them, and they gave death 
 and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. 
 When, at last, the Indians climbed into the 
 canoe, the Great Slave was dead of many wounds, 
 and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to 
 his wet, red cheek. She smiled as they dragged 
 her away ; and her soul hurried after his to the 
 Camp of the Great Fires." 
 
 It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last 
 he said : " If I could but tell it as you have 
 told it to me, Pierre !" 
 
 Pierre answered : " Tell it with your tongue,
 
 1 1 8 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I ? 
 What English have I, a gipsy of the snows ? 
 But do not write it, mats non! Writing wanders 
 from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, 
 and the time, that is the thing. But in a book! 
 it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the 
 north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before 
 a man rolls into his blanket, and is at peace. 
 No ! no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere 
 with your tongue." 
 
 " And so I would, were my tongue as yours. 
 Pierre, tell me more about the letters at Fort 
 O' Glory. You know his name what was it ? 
 
 " You said five hundred dollars for one of 
 those letters. Is it not?" 
 
 "Yes." Tybalt had a new hope. 
 
 "T'sh! What do I want of five hundred 
 dollars ! But, here, answer me a question : Was 
 the lady his wife, she that was left in England 
 a good woman ? Answer me out of your own 
 sense, and from my story; If you say right you 
 shall have a letter one that I have by me." 
 
 Tybalt's heart leaped into his throat. After a 
 little he said huskily : " She was a good woman 
 he believed her that, and so shall I." 
 
 " You think he could not have been so great 
 unless, eh ? And that ' Charles Rex,' what of 
 him ?"
 
 The Lake of the Great Slave ng 
 
 " What good can it do to call him bad now ?" 
 
 Without a word, Pierre drew from a leather 
 wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-set- 
 ting sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and 
 yet again. 
 
 "Poor soul 1 poor lady!" he said. "Was 
 ever such another letter written to any man ? 
 And it came too late ; this, with the king's re- 
 call, came too late ! " 
 
 " So so. He died out there where that wild 
 duck flies a Great Slave. Years after, the 
 Company's man brought word of all." 
 
 Tybalt was looking at the name on the out- 
 side of the letter. 
 
 " How do they call that name ? " asked 
 Pierre. " It is like none I 've seen no." 
 
 Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did 
 not answer.
 
 The Red Patrol 
 
 St. Augustine's, Canterbury, had given him 
 its licentiate's hood, the Bishop of Rupert's 
 Land had ordained him, and the north had 
 swallowed him up. He had gone forth with sur- 
 plice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the prayer- 
 book, and that other book of all. Indian camps, 
 trappers' huts, and Company's posts had given 
 him hospitality, and had heard him with patience 
 and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, 
 stole, and hood, took the eastward position, and 
 intoned the service, and no man said him nay, 
 but watched him curiously and was sorrowful 
 he was so youthful, clear of eye, and bent on 
 doing heroical things. 
 
 But little by little there came a change. The 
 hood was left behind at Fort O'Glory, where it 
 provoked the derision of the Methodist mission- 
 ary who followed him ; the sermon-case stayed 
 at Fort O'Battle ; and at last the surplice itself 
 was put by at the Company's post at Yellow Quill. 
 He was too excited and in earnest at first to see 
 the effect of his ministrations, but there came 
 120
 
 The Red Patrol 121 
 
 slowly over him the knowledge that he was talk- 
 ing into space. He felt something returning on 
 him out of the air into which he talked, and buf- 
 fetting him. It was the Spirit of the North, in 
 which lives the awful natural, the large heart of 
 things, the soul of the past. He awoke to his 
 inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to 
 whom he talked, listened, and only listened, and 
 treated him with a gentleness which was almost 
 pity as one might a woman. He had talked 
 doctrine, the Church, the sacraments, and at 
 Fort O'Battle he faced definitely the futility of 
 his work. What was to blame the Church 
 religion himself ? 
 
 It was at Fort O'Battle he met Pierre, that he 
 heard some one say over his shoulder as he 
 walked out into the icy dusk : " The voice of one 
 crying in the wilderness. . . . and he had 
 sackcloth about his loins, and his food was locusts 
 and wild honey" 
 
 He turned to see Pierre, who in the large 
 room of the Post had sat and watched him as he 
 prayed and preached. He had remarked the 
 keen, curious eye, the musing look, the habitual 
 disdain at the lips. It had all touched him, con- 
 fused him ; and now he had a kind of anger. 
 
 " You know it so well, why don 't you preach 
 yourself ? " he said feverishly.
 
 122 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " I have been preaching all my life," Pierre 
 answered drily. 
 
 " The devil's games : cards and law-breaking ; 
 and you sneer at men who try to bring lost sheep 
 into the fold." 
 
 " The fold of the Church yes, I understand 
 all that," Pierre answered. " I have heard you 
 and the priests of my father's Church talk. 
 Which is right ? But as for me, I am a mis- 
 sionary. Cards, law-breaking these are what I 
 have done ; but these are not what I have 
 preached." 
 
 " What have you preached ?" asked the other, 
 walking on into the fast gathering night, be- 
 yond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the 
 wastes where frost and silence lived. 
 
 Pierre waved his hand towards space. 
 "This," he said suggestively. 
 
 " What 's this ? " asked the other fretfully. 
 
 " The thing you feel round you here." 
 
 " I feel the cold," was the petulant reply. 
 
 " I feel the immense, the far off," said Pierre 
 slowly. 
 
 The other did not understand as yet. 
 " You 've learned big words," he said disdain- 
 fully. 
 
 " No ; big things," rejoined Pierre sharply 
 " a few."
 
 The Red Patrol 123 
 
 " Let me hear you preach them," half snarled 
 Sherburne. 
 
 " You will not like to hear them no." 
 
 " I 'm not likely to think about them one 
 way or another," was the contemptuous reply. 
 
 Pierre's eyes half closed. The young, im- 
 petuous, half-baked college man! To set his 
 little knowledge against his own studious vaga- 
 bondage ! At that instant he determined to 
 play a game and win ; to turn this man into a 
 vagabond also ; to see John the Baptist become 
 a Bedouin. He saw the doubt, the uncertainty, 
 the shattered vanity in the youth's mind, the 
 missionary's half retreat from his cause. A cri- 
 sis was at hand. The lad was fretful with his 
 great theme, instead of being severe upon him- 
 self. For days and days Pierre's presence had 
 acted on Sherburne silently but forcibly. He 
 had listened to the vagabond's philosophy, and 
 knew that it was of a deeper so much deeper 
 knowledge of life than he himself possessed, 
 and he knew also that it was terribly true ; he 
 was not wise enough to see it was only true in 
 part. The influence had been insidious, deli- 
 cate, cunning, and he himself was only "a voice 
 crying in the wilderness," without the simple 
 creed of that voice. He knew that the Meth-
 
 124 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 odist missionary was believed in more, if less 
 liked, than himself. 
 
 Pierre would work now with all the latent 
 devilry of his nature to unseat the man from 
 his saddle. 
 
 " You have missed a great thing, alors, though 
 you have been up here two years," he said. 
 " You do not feel ; you do not know. What 
 good have you done ? Who has got on his 
 knees and changed his life because of you ? 
 Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass 
 because of you ? Tell me, who has ever said, 
 ' You have showed me how to live' ? Even the 
 women, though they cry sometimes when you 
 sing-song your prayers, go on just the same 
 when the little ' bless you' is over. Why ? Most 
 of them know a better thing than you tell them. 
 Here is the truth : you are little eh, so very 
 little. You never lied direct ; you never stole 
 the waters that are sweet ; you never knew the 
 big dreams that come with wine in the dead of 
 night ; you never swore at your own soul and 
 heard it laugh back at you ; you never put your 
 face in the breast of a woman do not look so 
 wild at me! you never had a child; you 
 never saw the world and yourself through the 
 doors of real life. You never have said, ' I am 
 tired ; I am sick of all ; I have seen all.'
 
 The Red Patrol 125 
 
 "You have never felt what came after under- 
 standing. Chut, your talk is for children and 
 missionaries. You are a prophet without a call, 
 you are a leader without a man to lead, you are 
 less than a child up here. For here the children 
 feel a peace in their blood when the stars come 
 out, and a joy in their brains when the dawn 
 comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, 
 and the west wind shouts at them. Holy Mother! 
 we in the far north, we feel things ; for all 
 the great souls of the dead are up there at the 
 Pole in the pleasant land, and we have seen the 
 Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You 
 have seen nothing. You have only heard, and 
 because, like a child, you have never sinned, 
 you come and preach to us ! " 
 
 The night was folding down fast, all the stars 
 were shooting out into their places, and in the 
 north the white lights of the aurora were flying 
 to and fro. 
 
 Pierre had spoken with a slow force and 
 precision, yet, as he went on, his eyes almost 
 became fixed on those shifting flames, and a 
 deep look came into them, as he was moved by 
 his own eloquence. Never in his life had he 
 made so long a speech at once. He paused, 
 and then said suddenly : " Come, let us run." 
 
 He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sher-
 
 126 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 burne did the same. With their arms gathered 
 to their sides they ran for quite two miles with- 
 out a word, until the heavy breathing of the 
 clergyman brought Pierre up suddenly. 
 
 " You do not run well," he said ; " you do 
 not run with the whole body. You know so 
 little. Did you ever think how much such men 
 as Jacques Parfaite know ? The earth they read 
 like a book, the sky like an animal's ways, and 
 a man's face like like the writing on the wall." 
 
 " Like the writing on the wall," said Sher- 
 burne, musing ; for, under the other's influence, 
 his petulance was gone. He knew that he was 
 not a part of this life, that he was ignorant of 
 it ; of, indeed, all that was vital in it and in men 
 and women. 
 
 "I think you began this too soon. You 
 should have waited ; then you might have done 
 good. But here we are wiser than you. You 
 have no message no real message to give us ; 
 down in your heart you are not even sure of 
 yourself." 
 
 Sherburne sighed. " I 'm of no use," he 
 said ; " I '11 get out ; I 'm no good at all." 
 
 Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered 
 how, the day before, this youth had said hot 
 words about his card-playing ; had called him 
 in effect a thief; had treated him as an in-
 
 The Red Patrol 127 
 
 ferior, as became one who was of St. Augustine's, 
 Canterbury. 
 
 " It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, 
 " that no man shall look for this or that of you. 
 Just to do as far as you feel as far as you are 
 sure that is the best. In this you are not 
 sure no. Hein, is it not ? " 
 
 Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, 
 wretchedness, the spirit of the alien, loneliness, 
 were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep, 
 penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on 
 him, and in spite of every reasonable instinct 
 he turned to him for companionship. 
 
 "It's been a failure," he burst out, "and 
 I'm sick of it sick of it ; but I can't give it 
 up." 
 
 Pierre said nothing. They had come to what 
 seemed a vast semicircle of ice and snow a 
 huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was won- 
 derful : a great round wall on which the north- 
 ern lights played, into which the stars peered. 
 It was open towards the north, and in one side 
 was a fissure shaped like a gothic arch. Pierre 
 pointed to it, and they did not speak till they 
 had passed through it. Like great seats the 
 steppes of snow ranged round, and in the center 
 was a kind of plateau of ice, as it might seem a 
 stage or an altar. To the north there was a huge
 
 128 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 opening, the lost arc of the circle, through 
 which the mystery of the Pole swept in and out, 
 or brooded there where no man may question 
 it. Pierre stood and looked. Time and again 
 he had been here, and had asked the same ques- 
 tion : Who had ever sat on those frozen benches 
 and looked down at the drama on that stage be- 
 low ? Who played the parts ? was it a farce or 
 a sacrifice ? To him had been given the sorrow 
 of imagination, and he wondered and wondered. 
 Or did they come still those strange people, 
 whoever they were and watch ghostly gladia- 
 tors at their fatal sport ? If they came, when 
 was it ? Perhaps they were there now, unseen. 
 In spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the 
 keeper of the house ? 
 
 Through his mind there ran pregnant to 
 him for the first time a chanson of the Scarlet 
 Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers 
 in the Kimash Hills against the time they should 
 awake and possess the land once more: the friend 
 of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and- of all 
 who had no home : 
 
 " Strangers come to the outer walls 
 
 ( Why do the sleepers stir ?) 
 Strangers enter the Judgment House 
 
 ( Why do the sleepers sigh ?) 
 Slow they rise in their judgment seats,
 
 The Red Patrol 129 
 
 Sieve and measure the naked souls, 
 Then with a blessing return to sleep 
 
 ( Quiet the Judgment House.) 
 Lone and sick are the vagrant souls 
 
 ( When shall the world come home f) ' ' 
 
 He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of 
 awe came over him, for he had been in the White 
 Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But 
 there came at once also a sinister desire to play 
 a game for this man's life-work here. He knew 
 that the other was ready for any wild move ; 
 there was upon him the sense of failure and dis- 
 gust ; he was acted on by the magic of the 
 night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that 
 might be turned to advantage. 
 
 He said : " Am I not right ? There is some- 
 thing in the world greater than the creeds and 
 the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, 
 that is the thing. Never before have you felt 
 what you feel here now. And I will show you 
 more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead 
 you- through all the north a'nd make you to 
 understand the big things of life. Then, when 
 you have known, you can return if you will. But 
 now S ee : I will tell you what I will do. Here 
 on this great platform we will play a game of 
 cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin. 
 If you win I promise to leave him safe, and to
 
 130 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 go out of the far north forever, to go back to 
 Quebec " he had a kind of gaming fever in his 
 veins. " If I win, you give up the Church, leav- 
 ing behind the prayer-book, the Bible and all, 
 coming with me to do what I shall tell you, for 
 the passing of twelve moons. It is a great stake 
 will you play it ? Come " he leaned for- 
 ward, looking into the other's face " will you 
 play it ? They drew lots those people in the 
 Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh ? and 
 see ? " 
 
 " I accept the stake," said Sherburne, with a 
 little gasp. 
 
 Without a word they went upon that plat- 
 form, shaped like an altar, and Pierre at once 
 drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his 
 mittened hands. Then he knelt down and said, 
 as he laid out the cards one by one till there 
 were thirty : " Whoever gets the ace of hearts 
 first, wins hein ? " 
 
 Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards 
 lay back upward in three rows. For a moment 
 neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, 
 the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep 
 wonder of night made it strange and dreadful. 
 Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though 
 he felt others present, and once Pierre looked 
 out to the wide portals, as though he saw some
 
 The Red Patrol 131 
 
 one entering. But there was nothing to the eye 
 nothing. Presently Pierre said : "Begin." 
 
 The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, 
 then the other, then Pierre again ; and so on. 
 How slow the game was ! Neither hurried, but 
 both, kneeling, looked and looked at the card 
 long before drawing and turning it over. The 
 stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game 
 more than he cared about the stake. Sherburne 
 cared nothing about the game, but all his 
 soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was 
 not a sound out of the night, nothing stirring 
 but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty- 
 five cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused. 
 
 " In a minute all will be settled," he said. 
 " Will you go on, or will you pause ? " 
 
 But Sherburne had got the madness of chance 
 in his veins now, and he said : " Quick, quick, 
 go on ! " 
 
 Pierre drew, but the great card held back. 
 Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were 
 three left. Sherburne's face was as white as the 
 snow around him. His mouth was open, and a 
 little white cloud of frosted breath came out. 
 His hand hungered for the card, drew back, then 
 seized it. A moan broke from him. Then 
 Pierre, with a little weird laugh, reached out and 
 turned over the ace of hearts.
 
 132 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in 
 his pocket. 
 
 " You have lost," he said. 
 
 Sherburne threw back his head with a reck- 
 less laugh. The laugh seemed to echo and echo 
 through the amphitheatre, and then from the 
 frozen seats, the hillocks of ice and snow, there 
 was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, and a voice 
 came after : 
 
 " Sleep sleep ! Blessed be the just and the 
 keepers of vows" 
 
 Sherburne stood shaking as though he had 
 seen a host of spirits. His eyes on the great 
 seats of judgment, he said to Pierre : 
 
 " See ! see ! how they sit there ! grey and 
 cold and awful ! " 
 
 But Pierre shook his head, 
 
 "There is nothing," he said, "nothing," 
 yet he knew that Sherburne was looking upon 
 the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the 
 sleepers. He looked round half fearfully, for 
 if here were those great children of the ages, 
 where was the keeper of the house, the Red 
 Patrol ? 
 
 Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a 
 noble face and a high pride of bearing stood 
 before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched 
 his arm.
 
 The Red Patrol 133 
 
 Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter, 
 spoke : 
 
 " Why have you sinned your sins and bro- 
 ken your vows within our house of judgment ? 
 Know ye not that in the new springtime of the 
 world ye shall be outcast, because ye have called 
 the sleepers to judgment before their time ? 
 But I am the hunter of the lost. Go you," he 
 said to Sherburne, pointing, " where a sick man 
 lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley In his soul 
 find thine own again." Then to Pierre : " For 
 thee, thou shall know the desert and the storm 
 and the lonely hills ; thou shalt neither seek nor 
 find. Go, and return no more." 
 
 The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped 
 down and moved to the open plain. They 
 turned at the great entrance and looked back. 
 Where they had stood there rested on his long 
 bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a flam- 
 ing arrow flew through the sky toward the 
 south. They followed its course, and when they 
 looked back a little afterward the great judg- 
 ment - house was empty and the whole north 
 was silent as the sleepers. 
 
 At dawn they came to the hut in the 
 Shikam Valley, and there they found a trapper 
 dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could 
 not die without some one to show him how,
 
 134 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 to tell him what to say to the angel of the cross- 
 roads. 
 
 Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own 
 new soul moved by a holy fire, and, first praying 
 for himself, he said to the sick man : " For if 
 we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to for- 
 give us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un- 
 righteousness" 
 
 Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and 
 he heard the sick man say, ere he journeyed 
 forth to the cross-roads : 
 
 "You have shown me the way; I have 
 peace." 
 
 " Speak for me in the Presence," said Sher- 
 burne, softly. 
 
 The dying man could not answer, but that 
 moment, as he journeyed forth on the Far Trail, 
 he held Sherburne's hand.
 
 The Going of the White Swan 
 
 "Why don't she come back, father ?" 
 
 The man shook his head, his hand fumbled 
 with the wolfskin robe covering the child, and 
 he made no reply. 
 
 " She 'd come if she knew I was hurted, 
 wouldn't she ?" 
 
 The father nodded, and then turned rest- 
 lessly toward the door, as though expecting 
 some one. The look was troubled, and the pipe 
 he held was not alight, though he made a pre- 
 tence of smoking. 
 
 " Suppose the wildcat had got me, she 'd be 
 sorry when she comes, would n't she ? " 
 
 There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the 
 language of primitive man ; but the big body 
 shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for 
 a place in the bed where the lad's knee made a 
 lump under the robe. He felt the little heap 
 tenderly, but the child winced. 
 
 "S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's 
 most too much on me, isn't it, father ?" 
 
 The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the 
 I3S
 
 1 36 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 robe, folded it back, and slowly uncovered the 
 knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin 
 and bone, but the knee itself was swollen with 
 inflammation. He bathed it with some water, 
 mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down 
 the deer-skin shirt at the child's shoulder, and 
 did the same with it. Both shoulder and kneo 
 bore the marks of teeth where a huge wild- 
 cat had made havoc and the body had long 
 red scratches. 
 
 Presently the man shook his head sorrow- 
 fully, and covered up the small disfigured frame 
 again, but this time with a tanned skin of the 
 caribou. The flames of the huge wood fire 
 dashed the walls and floor with a velvety red and 
 black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the 
 Company at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers 
 of steam. 
 
 The place was a low hut with parchment 
 windows and rough mud-mortar lumped between 
 the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with 
 bullet-holes and knife-holes showing : of the 
 great grey wolf, the red puma, the bronze hill- 
 lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and 
 in one corner was a huge pile of them. Bare 
 of the usual comforts as the room was, it had a 
 sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpress-
 
 The Going of the White Swan 137 
 
 ible loneliness ; you could scarce have told how 
 or why. 
 
 " Father," said the boy, his face pinched with 
 pain for a moment, " it hurts so, all over, every 
 once in a while." 
 
 His fingers caressed the leg just below the 
 knee. 
 
 " Father," he suddenly added, "what does it 
 mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle 
 of the night?" 
 
 The woodsman looked down anxiously into 
 the boy's face. " It has n't no meaning, Domi- 
 nique. There ain 't such a thing on the Labra- 
 dor Heights as a bird singin' in the night. 
 That 's only in warm countries where there 's 
 nightingales. So Men surf" 
 
 The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative 
 look. " Well, I guess it was a nightingale it 
 didn't sing like any I ever heard." 
 
 The look of nervousness deepened in the 
 woodman's face. " What did it sing like, Dom- 
 inique ?" 
 
 " So it made you shiver. You wanted it to 
 go on, and yet you did n't want it. It was pretty, 
 but you felt as if something was going to snap 
 inside of you." 
 
 " When did you hear it, my son ?"
 
 138 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 "Twice last night and and I guess it 
 was Sunday the other time. I do n't know, for 
 there has n't been no Sunday up here since 
 mother went away has there ?" 
 
 " Mebbe not." 
 
 The veins were beating like live cords in the 
 man's throat and at his temples. 
 
 "'Twas just the same as Father Corraine 
 bein' here, when mother had Sunday, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 The man made no reply ; but a gloom drew 
 down his forehead, and his lips doubled in as if 
 he endured physical pain. He got to his feet 
 and paced the floor. For weeks he had listened 
 to the same kind of talk from this wounded, 
 and, as he thought, dying son, and he was get- 
 ting less and less able to bear it. The boy at 
 nine years of age was, in manner of speech, the 
 merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes 
 large and wise. The only white child within a 
 compass of a thousand miles or so ; the lonely 
 life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, 
 so melted to a sober joy in summer ; listening 
 to the talk of his elders at camp-fires and on the 
 hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, 
 he was swung in a blanket from a tree or was 
 packed in the torch-crane of a canoe ; and more 
 than all, the care of a good, loving if passion-
 
 The Going of the White Swan 1 39 
 
 ate little mother : all these had made him far 
 wiser than his years. He had been hours upon 
 hours each day alone with the birds, and squir- 
 rels, and wild animals, and something of the 
 keen scent and instinct of the animal world had 
 entered into his body and brain, so that he felt 
 what he could not understand. 
 
 He saw that he had worried his father, and it 
 troubled him. He thought of something. 
 
 "Daddy," he said, "let me have it." 
 
 A smile struggled for life in the hunter's face, 
 as he turned to the wall and took down the skin 
 of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for a 
 moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied 
 way, then he brought it over and put it into the 
 child's hands ; and the smile now shaped itself, 
 as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft 
 fur. 
 
 " Good ! good 1 " he said involuntarily. 
 "Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice from the 
 fur, in the language of his mother, who added 
 a strain of Indian blood to her French an- 
 cestry. 
 
 The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on 
 the low bed, and stroking the fur very gently. 
 It could scarcely be thought that such pride 
 should be spent on a little pelt, by a mere 
 backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. One
 
 140 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 has seen a woman fingering a splendid neck- 
 lace, her eyes fascinated by the bunch of warm, 
 deep jewels a light not of mere vanity, or hun- 
 ger, or avarice in her face only the love of the 
 beautiful thing. But this was an animal's skin. 
 Did they feel the animal underneath it yet, giv- 
 ing it beauty, life, glory ? 
 
 The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, 
 and this one was of the boy's own harvesting. 
 While his father was away he saw the fox creep- 
 ing by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized 
 him, and guided his eye over the "sights" of 
 his father's rifle as he rested the barrel on the 
 window-sill, and the animal was his ! Now his 
 finger ran into the hole made by the bullet, and 
 he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. Min- 
 utes passed as they studied, felt, and admired 
 the skin, the hunter proud of his son, the son 
 alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts 
 suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps 
 the tenderness as well as the wild passion of the 
 animal gets into the hunter's blood, and tips his 
 fingers at times with an exquisite kindness as 
 one has noted in a lion fondling her young, 
 or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of the 
 desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a 
 splendid moose, and, as it lay dying, drop down 
 and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of its hand-
 
 The Going of the White Swan 141 
 
 someness. Death is no insult. It is the law of 
 the primitive world war, and love in war. 
 
 They sat there for a long time, not speaking, 
 each busy in his own way : the boy full of imag- 
 inings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic feel- 
 ings ; the man roaming in that savage, romantic, 
 superstitious atmosphere which belongs to the 
 north, and to the north alone. At last the boy 
 lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the 
 bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he 
 seemed about to fall asleep, but presently looked 
 up and whispered : " I have n't said my prayers, 
 have I ? " 
 
 The father shook his head in a sort of rude 
 confusion. 
 
 "I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?" 
 
 " Of course, Dominique." The man shrank 
 a little. 
 
 " I forget a good many times, but I know 
 one all right, for I said it when the bird was 
 singing. It is n't one out of the book Father 
 Corraine sent mother by Pretty Pierre ; it 's one 
 she taught me out of her own head. P'r'aps I 'd 
 better say it." 
 
 " P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was 
 husky. 
 
 The boy began : 
 
 " O bon Je"su, who died to save us from our
 
 142 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 sins, and to lead us to Thy country, where there 
 is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no 
 one is afraid, listen to Thy child. . . . When 
 the great winds and rains come down from the 
 hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the 
 woods cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us, and 
 do not let the prairie-fires burn us. Keep wild 
 beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us 
 good hearts that we may not kill them in 
 anger." 
 
 His finger twisted involuntarily into the bul- 
 let-hole in the pelt, and he paused a moment. 
 
 " Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Sa- 
 vior." 
 
 Again there was a pause, his eyes opened 
 wide, and he said : 
 
 *' Do you think mother 's lost, father ? " 
 
 A heavy broken breath came from the father, 
 and he replied haltingly : " Mebbe, mebbe so." 
 
 Dominique's eyes closed again. " I '11 make 
 Up some," he said slowly: "And if mother's 
 lost, bring her back again to us, for everything's 
 going wrong." 
 
 Again he paused, then went on with the prayer 
 as it had been taught him. 
 
 "Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou call- 
 est, and to see Thee when Thou visitest us, and 
 let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak
 
 The Going of the White Swan 143 
 
 often to Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord 
 have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon 
 us. Amen." 
 
 Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, 
 and said : " I '11 go to sleep now, I guess." 
 
 The man sat for a long time looking at the 
 pale, shining face, at the blue veins showing 
 painfully dark on the temples and forehead, 
 at the firm little white hand, which was as brown 
 as a butternut a few weeks before. The longer 
 he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his 
 soul. His wife had gone he knew not where, 
 his child was wasting to death, and he had for 
 his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever 
 had that touch of mystical imagination insep- 
 arable from the far north, yet he had none of 
 that religious belief which swallowed up natural 
 awe and turned it to the refining of life, and to 
 the advantage of a man's soul. Now it was 
 forced in upon him that his child was wiser than 
 himself; wiser and safer. His life had been 
 spent in the wastes, with rough deeds and rug- 
 ged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger, 
 and almost savage endurance had given him a 
 half-barbarian temperament, which could strike 
 an angry blow at one moment and fondle to 
 death at the next. 
 
 When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his
 
 144 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 religion reached little farther than a belief in 
 the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and 
 those voices that could be heard calling in the 
 night, till their time of sleep be past and they 
 should rise and reconquer the north. 
 
 Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were 
 like those of his Master, could ever bring him 
 to a more definite faith. His wife had at first 
 striven with him, mourning yet loving. Some- 
 times the savage in him had broken out over the 
 little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny 
 was in him torture followed by the passionate 
 kiss. But how was she philosopher enough to 
 understand the cause ! 
 
 When she fled from their hut one bitter day, 
 as he roared some wild words at her, it was be- 
 cause her nerves had all been shaken from 
 threatened death by wild beasts (of this he did 
 not know), and his violence drove her mad. 
 She had ran out of the house, and on, and on, 
 and on and she had never come back. That 
 was weeks ago, and there had been no word nor 
 sign of her since. The man was now busy with 
 it all, in a slow, cumbrous way. A nature more 
 to be touched by things seen than by things 
 told, his mind was being awakened in a massive 
 kind of fashion. He was viewing this crisis of 
 his life as one sees a human face in the wide
 
 The Going of the White Swan 145 
 
 searching light of a great fire. He was restless, 
 but he held himself still by a strong effort, not 
 wishing to disturb the sleeper. His eyes seemed 
 to retreat farther and farther back under his 
 shaggy brows. 
 
 The great logs in the chimney burned bril- 
 liantly, and a brass crucifix over the child's head 
 now and again reflected soft little flashes of 
 light. This caught the hunter's eye. Presently 
 there grew up in him a vague kind of hope that, 
 somehow, this symbol would bring him luck 
 that was the way he put it to himself. He had 
 felt this and something more when Domi- 
 nique prayed. Somehow, Dominique's prayer 
 was the only one he had ever heard that had 
 gone home to him, had opened up the big 
 sluices of his nature, and let the light of God 
 flood in. No, there was another : the one Lu- 
 cette made on the day that they were married, 
 when a wonderful timid reverence played 
 through his hungry love for her. 
 
 Hours passed. All at once, without any other 
 motion or gesture, the boy's eyes opened wide 
 with a strange, intense look. 
 
 " Father," he said slowly, and in a kind of 
 dream, "when you hear a sweet horn blow at 
 night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling ?" 
 
 " P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" He made
 
 146 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 up his mind to humor the boy, though it gave 
 him strange aching forebodings. He had seen 
 grown men and women with these fancies and 
 they had died. 
 
 "I heard one blowing just now, and the 
 sounds seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps 
 he 's calling some one that's lost." 
 
 " Mebbe." 
 
 "And I heard a voice singing it was n't a 
 bird to-night." 
 
 " There was no voice, Dominique." 
 
 "Yes, yes." There was something fine in 
 the grave, courteous certainty of the lad. "I waked, 
 and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut 
 my eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remem- 
 ber the tune and the words." 
 
 "What were the words ?" In spite of him- 
 self the hunter felt awed. 
 
 " I 've heard mother sing them, or something 
 most like them : 
 
 " Why does the fire no longer burn ? 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Why does the tent -door swing outward ? 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Oh, let me breathe hard in your face ! 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me ? 
 
 (I have no home.)"
 
 The Going of the White Swan 147 
 
 The boy paused. 
 
 " Was that all, Dominique ?" 
 
 " No, not all." 
 
 " Let us make friends with the stars ; 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Give me your hand, I will hold it. 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Let us go hunting together. 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 We will sleep at God's camp to-night. 
 
 (I have no home.)" 
 
 Dominique did not sing, but recited the words 
 with a sort of chanting inflection. 
 
 " What does it mean when you hear a voice 
 like that, father?" 
 
 "I don't know. Who told your mother 
 the song ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I suppose she just 
 made them up she and God. . . . There ! 
 There it is again ? Don't you hear it don't 
 you hear it, daddy ? " 
 
 "No, Dominique, it's only the kettle sing- 
 ing." 
 
 "A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy " He 
 paused a little, then went on, hesitatingly: "I 
 saw a white swan fly through the door over your 
 shoulder when you came in to-night."
 
 148 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 "No, no, Dominique, it was a flurry of snow 
 blowing over my shoulder." 
 
 " But it looked at me with two shining eyes." 
 
 "That was two stars shining through the 
 door, my son." 
 
 "How could there be snow flying and stars 
 shining too, father ? " 
 
 "It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but 
 the stars were shining above, Dominique." 
 
 The man's voice was anxious and unconvinc- 
 ing, his eyes had a hungry, hunted look. The 
 legend of the White Swan had to do with the 
 passing of a human soul. The swan had come 
 in would it go out alone ? He touched the 
 boy's hand it was hot with fever ; he felt the 
 pulse it ran high ; he watched the face it had 
 a glowing light. Something stirred with him, 
 and passed like a wave to the farthest course of 
 his being. Through his misery he had touched 
 the garment of the Master of Souls. As though 
 a voice said to him there, "Someone hath 
 touched me," he got to his feet, and, with a sud- 
 den blind humility, lit two candles, placed them 
 on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure 
 of the Virgin, as he had seen his wife do. Then 
 he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs 
 from a branch over the chimney, and laid them 
 beside the candles. After a short pause he came
 
 The Going of the White Swan 149 
 
 slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very sol- 
 emnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the 
 cross with the tips of his fingers, and brought 
 them to his lips with an indescribable reverence. 
 After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the 
 face of the crucified figure, he said, in a shaking 
 voice : 
 
 " Pardon, ban Jesu ! Sauves mon enfant ! Ne 
 me laissez pas seul ! " * 
 
 The boy looked up with eyes again grown 
 unnaturally heavy, and said : 
 
 " Amen ! . . . Bon Jesu / . . . Encore ! 
 Encore, mon pere ! " 
 
 The boy slept. The father stood still by the 
 bed for a time, but at last slowly turned and went 
 toward the fire. 
 
 Outside, two figures were approaching the 
 hut a man and a woman ; yet at first glance the 
 man might easily have been taken for a woman, 
 because of the long black robe which he wore, 
 and because his hair fell loose on his shoulders 
 and his face was clean-shaven. 
 
 " Have patience, my daughter," said the 
 man. "Do not enter till I call you. But stand 
 close to the door, if you will, and hear all." 
 
 So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of 
 
 benediction, passed to the door, and after tap- 
 
 * " Pardon, good Jesus. Save my child. Leave me not alone."
 
 1 50 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 ping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed 
 it behind him not so quickly, however, but 
 that the woman caught a glimpse of the father 
 and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine 
 look of motherhood. 
 
 "Peace be to this house!" said the man 
 gently, as he stepped forward from the door. 
 
 The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on 
 him, as if he had seen a spirit. 
 
 "M'sieu' le cur !" he said in French, with 
 an accent much poorer than that of the priest, 
 or even of his own son. He had learned French 
 from his wife ; he himself was English. 
 
 The priest's quick eye had taken in the 
 lighted candles at the little shrine, even as he 
 saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. 
 
 "The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, 
 looking round. "Ah, the boy !" he added, and 
 going toward the bed, continued, presently, in 
 a low voice : " Dominique is ill ? " 
 
 Bagot nodded, and then answered : "A wild- 
 cat and then fever, Father Corraine." 
 
 The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then 
 with a close personal look he spoke hardly above 
 his breath, yet distinctly too : 
 
 "Your wife, Bagot?" 
 
 "She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was 
 low and gloomy.
 
 The Going of the White Swan 151 
 
 "Where is she, Bagot?" 
 
 "I do not know, m'sieu'." 
 
 "When did you see her last ?" 
 
 " Four weeks ago, m'sieu'." 
 
 "That was September, this is October 
 winter. On the ranches they let their cattle 
 loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not 
 where they go, yet looking for them to return 
 in the spring. But a woman a woman and a 
 wife is different. . . . Bagot, you have been a 
 rough, hard man, and you have been a stranger 
 to your God, but I thought you loved your wife 
 and child!" 
 
 The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked 
 light flashed up into his eyes; but the calm, be- 
 nignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in 
 his veins. The priest sat down on the couch 
 where the child lay, and took the fevered hand 
 in his very softly. 
 
 "Stay where you are, Bagot, just there where 
 you are, and tell me what your trouble is, and 
 why your wife is not here. . . . Say all honestly 
 by the name of the Christ ! " he added, lifting 
 up a large iron crucifix that hung on his breast 
 
 Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace 
 the light playing on his bronzed, powerful face, 
 his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like 
 two coals. After a moment he began :
 
 152 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 "I don't know how it started. I 'd lost a lot 
 of pelts stolen they were, down on the Child o' 
 Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, 
 like as not she always was brisker and more 
 sudden than I am. I I laid my powder-horn 
 and whisky-flask up there ! " 
 
 He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, 
 where now his candles were burning. The 
 priest's grave eyes did not change expression at 
 all, but looked out wisely, as though he under- 
 stood everything before it was told. 
 
 Bagot continued : " I did n't notice it, but 
 she had put some flowers there. She said some- 
 thing with an edge, her face all snapping angry, 
 threw the things down, and called me a heathen 
 and a wicked heretic and I do n't say now but 
 she 'd a right to do it. But I let out then, for 
 them stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. 
 I said something pretty rough, and made as if I 
 was goin' to break her in two just fetched up 
 my hands, and went like this ! With a sin- 
 gular simplicity he made a wild gesture with his 
 hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his 
 throat. Then he looked at the priest with the 
 honest intensity of a boy. 
 
 " Yes, that was what you did what was it you 
 said which was 'pretty rough ' ?"
 
 The Going of the White Swan 153 
 
 There was a slight hesitation, then came the 
 reply : 
 
 " I said there was enough powder spilt on 
 the floor to kill all the priests in heaven." 
 
 A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine's 
 face, and his lips tightened for an instant, but 
 presently he was as before, and he said : 
 
 " How that will face you one day, Bagot ! 
 Go on. What else ? " 
 
 Sweat began to break out on Bagot's face, 
 and he spoke as though he were carrying a heavy 
 weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. 
 
 "Then I said, 'And if virgins has it so fine, 
 why did n't you stay one ? " 
 
 " Blasphemer ! " said the priest in a stern, 
 reproachful voice, his face turning a little pale, 
 and he brought the crucifix to his lips. "To 
 the mother of your child shame! What 
 more?" 
 
 " She threw up her hands to her ears with a 
 wild cry, ran out of the house, down the hills, 
 and away. I went to the door and watched her 
 as long as I could see her, and waited for her 
 to come back but she never did. I 've hunted 
 and hunted, but I can't find her." Then, with 
 a sudden thought, " Do you know anything of 
 her, m'sieu' ? "
 
 154 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 The priest appeared not to hear the question. 
 Turning for a moment toward the boy who now 
 was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. 
 Presently he spoke. 
 
 " Ever since I married you and Lucette Bar- 
 bond you have stood in the way of her duty, 
 Bagot. How well I remember that first day 
 when you knelt before me ! Was ever so sweet 
 and good a girl with her golden eyes and the 
 look of summer in her face, and her heart all 
 pure ! Nothing had spoiled her you cannot 
 spoil such women God is in their hearts. But 
 you, what have you cared ? One day you would 
 fondle her, and the next you were a savage 
 and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time ! 
 Then, for her religion and the faith of her child 
 she has fought for it, prayed for it, suffered 
 for it. You thought you had no need, for you 
 had so much happiness, which you did not de- 
 serve that was it. But she ! with all a woman 
 suffers, how can she bear life and man with- 
 out God ? No, it is not possible. And you 
 thought you and your few superstitions were 
 enough for her. Ah, poor fool ! She should 
 worship you ! So selfish, so small, for a man 
 who knows in his heart how great God is. You 
 did not love her."
 
 The Going of the White Swan 155 
 
 " By the Heaven above, yes ! " said Bagot, 
 half starting to his feet. 
 
 "Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no ! nor the 
 child. For true love is unselfish and patient, 
 and where it is the stronger, it cares for the 
 weaker ; but it was your wife who was unselfish, 
 patient, and cared for you. Every time she said 
 an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks 
 to the good God had you therein. They know 
 you well in heaven, Bagot through your wife. 
 Did you ever pray ever since I married you to 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " An hour or so ago." 
 
 Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards 
 the lighted candles. 
 
 Presently he said : " You asked me if I had 
 heard anything of your wife. Listen, and be 
 patient while you listen. . . . Three weeks ago 
 I was camping on the Sundust Plains, over 
 against the Young Sky River. In the morning, 
 as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my 
 young Cree Indian with me, I saw coming over 
 the crest of a landwave, from the very lips of 
 the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I 
 could not quite make them out. I hoisted my
 
 1 56 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to 
 me. I did not know the tribe they had come 
 from near Hudson's Bay. They spoke Chinook, 
 and I could understand them. Well, as they 
 came near, I saw that they had a woman with 
 them." 
 
 Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, 
 every muscle tense. " A woman ! " he said, as 
 if breathing gave him sorrow " my wife ! " 
 
 " Your wife." 
 
 "Quick! Quick! Go on oh, go on, 
 m'sieu' good father." 
 
 " She fell at my feet, begging me to save her. 
 ... I waved her off." 
 
 The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead, 
 a low growl broke from him, and he made such 
 a motion as a lion might make at its prey. 
 
 "You wouldn't wouldn't save her you 
 coward !" He ground the words out. 
 
 The priest raised his palm against the other's 
 violence. " Hush ! . . . She drew away, saying 
 that God and man had deserted her. . . . We 
 had breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards, 
 when the chief had eaten much and was in good 
 humor, I asked him where he had got the wo- 
 man. He said that he had found her on the 
 plains she had lost her way. I told him then 
 that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, ' What
 
 The Going of the White Swan 157 
 
 does a priest want of a woman ? ' I said that I 
 wished to give her back to her husband. He 
 said that he had found her, and she was his, and 
 that he would marry her when they reached the 
 great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It 
 would not do to make him angry. I wrote 
 down on a piece of bark the things that I would 
 give him for her : an order on the Company at 
 Fort o' Sin for shot, blankets and beads. He 
 said no." 
 
 The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swim- 
 ming with sweat, his body was rigid, but the 
 veins of his neck knotted and twisted. 
 
 "For the love of God go on!" he said 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes, 'for the love of God.' I have no 
 money, I am poor, but the Company will always 
 honor my orders, for I pay sometimes by the 
 help of Christ. Bien, I added some things to 
 the list : a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But 
 no, he would not. Once more I put many things 
 down. It was a big bill it would keep me 
 poor for five years. To save your wife, John 
 Bagot, you who drove her from your door, 
 blaspheming and railing at such as I. ... I 
 offered the things, and told him that was all 
 that I could give. After a little he shook his 
 head, and said that he must have the woman for
 
 158 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 his wife. I did not know what to add. I said 
 ' She is white, and the white people will never 
 rest till they have killed you all, if you do this 
 thing. The Company will track you down.' 
 Then he said, ' The whites must catch me and 
 fight me before they kill me.' . . . What was 
 there to do ? " 
 
 Bagot came near to the priest, bending over 
 him savagely : 
 
 "You let her stay with them you, with 
 hands like a man !" 
 
 " Hush," was the calm, reproving answer. 
 " I was one man, they were twenty." 
 
 " Where was your God to help you, then ? " 
 
 " Her God and mine was with me." 
 
 Bagot's eyes blazed. " Why did n't you offer 
 rum rum ? They 'd have done it for that 
 one five ten kegs of rum !" 
 
 He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet 
 their voices hardly rose above a hoarse 
 whisper all the time. 
 
 ' You forget," answered the priest, " that it 
 is against the law, and that as a priest of my 
 order I am vowed to give no rum to an In- 
 dian." 
 
 " A vow ! A vow ! Son of God ! what is a 
 vow beside a woman my wife ?" 
 
 His misery and his rage were pitiful to see.
 
 The Going of the White Swan 1 59 
 
 " Perjure my soul ! Offer rum ! Break my 
 vow in the face of the enemies of God's Church ! 
 What have you done for me that I should do 
 this for you, John Bagot ?" 
 
 " Coward ! " was the man's despairing cry, 
 with a sudden threatening movement. "Christ 
 himself would have broke a vow to save her." 
 
 The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the 
 other's fierce gaze, and quieted the wild storm 
 that was about to break. 
 
 " Who am I that I should teach my Master ?" 
 he said, solemnly. " What would you give 
 Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you ?" 
 
 The man shook with grief, and tears rushed 
 from his eyes, so suddenly and fully had a new 
 emotion passed through him. 
 
 "Give give!" he cried ; "I would give 
 twenty years of my life !" 
 
 The figure of the priest stretched up with a 
 gentle grandeur. Holding out the iron crucifix, 
 he said : " On your knees and swear it ! John 
 Bagot." 
 
 There was something inspiring, commanding, 
 in the voice and manner, and Bagot, with a new 
 hope rushing through his veins, knelt and re- 
 peated his words. 
 
 The priest turned to the door, and called, 
 " Madame Lucette ! "
 
 160 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! " he cried, as the door 
 flew open. 
 
 The mother came to her husband's arms, 
 laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards 
 was pouring out her love and anxiety over her 
 child. 
 
 Father Corraine now faced the man, and with 
 a soft exaltation of voice and manner said: 
 
 " John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I de- 
 mand twenty years of your life of love and 
 obedience of God. I broke my vow; I per- 
 jured my soul; I bought your wife with ten kegs 
 of rum !" 
 
 The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, 
 and caught the priest's hand to kiss it. 
 
 "No, no this!" the priest said, and laid 
 his iron crucifix against the other's lips. 
 
 Dominique's voice came clearly through the 
 room: 
 
 "Mother, I saw the white swan fly away 
 through the door when you came in." 
 
 "My dear, my dear," she said, "there was no 
 white swan." But she clasped the boy to her 
 breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. 
 
 "Peace be to this house," said the voice of 
 the priest.
 
 The Going of the White Swan 161 
 
 And there was peace : for the child lived, 
 and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, 
 even unto this day. 
 
 For the visions of the boy, who can know the 
 divers ways in which God speaks to the children 
 of men !
 
 At Bamber's Boom 
 I 
 
 His trouble came upon him when he was old. 
 To the hour of its coming he had been of 
 shrewd and humorous disposition. He had 
 married late in life, and his wife had died, leav- 
 ing him one child a girl. She grew to woman- 
 hood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved 
 in the settlement ; and there was no one at 
 Bamber's Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, 
 but was startled and sorry when it turned out 
 that Dugard, the river-boss, was married. He 
 floated away down the river, with his rafts and 
 drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. 
 They knew she was sick at heart, because she 
 grew pale and silent; they did not know for 
 some months how shamed she was. Then it 
 was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister of the Roman 
 Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a 
 woman of notable character and kindness, visited 
 her and begged her to tell all. 
 
 Though the girl Nora was a Protestant, 
 Mrs. Lauder did so : but it brought sore grief to 
 162
 
 At Bamber's Boom 163 
 
 her. At first she could hardly bear to look at 
 the girl's face, it was so hopeless, so numb to 
 the world : it had the indifference of despair. 
 Rumor now became hateful fact. When the 
 old man was told, he gave one loud cry, then 
 sat down, his hands pressed hard between his 
 knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring be- 
 fore him. 
 
 It was Father Halen who told him. He did 
 it as man to man, and not as a priest, having 
 traveled fifty miles for the purpose. "George 
 Magor," said he, "it's bad, I know, but bear it 
 with the help of God. And be kind to the girl." 
 
 The old man answered nothing. "My 
 friend," the priest continued, "I hope you'll 
 forgive me for telling you. I thought 'twould 
 be better from me, than to have it thrown at you 
 in the settlement. We've been friends one way 
 and another, and my heart aches for you, and 
 my prayers go with you." 
 
 The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their 
 keen humor gone, and spoke as though each 
 word were dug from his heart. "Say no more, 
 Father Halen." Then he reached out, caught 
 the priest's hand in his gnarled fingers, and 
 wrung it. 
 
 The father never spoke a harsh word to the 
 girl. Otherwise he seemed to harden into stone.
 
 164 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 When the Protestant missionary came he would 
 not see him. The child was born before the 
 river-drivers came along again the next year with 
 their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad 
 that it would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to 
 camp at Bamber's Boom. The look of the old 
 man's face was ominous, and he was known to 
 have an iron will. 
 
 Dugard was a handsome man, half French, 
 half Scotch, swarthy and admirably made. He 
 was proud of his strength, and showily fearless 
 in danger. For there were dangerous hours to 
 the river life; when, for instance, a mass of logs 
 became jammed at a rapids, and must be 
 loosened ; or a crib struck into the wrong chan- 
 nel, or, failing to enter a slide straight, came at 
 a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and 
 tore apart, and its crew, with their great oars, 
 were plumped into the busy current. He had 
 been known to stand singly in some perilous 
 spot when one log, the key to the jam, must be 
 shifted to set free the great tumbled pile. He 
 did everything with a dash. The handspike was 
 waved and thrust into the best leverage, the long 
 robust cry, "O-hee-hee-hoi !" rolled over the 
 waters, there was a devil's jumble of logs, and 
 he played a desperate game with them, tossing 
 here, leaping there, balancing elsewhere, till,
 
 At Bamber's Boom 165 
 
 reaching the smooth rush of logs in the current, 
 he ran across them to the shore as they spun 
 beneath his feet. 
 
 His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives 
 of logs, came sweeping down one beautiful day 
 of early summer, red-shirted, shouting, good- 
 tempered. It was about this time that Pierre 
 came to know Magor. 
 
 It was the old man's duty to keep the booms 
 of several great lumbering companies, and to 
 watch the logs when the river-drivers were en- 
 gaged elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place 
 with the men, helping to make cribs and rafts. 
 Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor 
 for others. Many in the settlement showed 
 Dugard how much he was despised. Some 
 warned him that Magor had said he would break 
 him into pieces ; it seemed possible that Dugard 
 might have a bad hour with the people of Bam- 
 ber's Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and 
 strutted, showed by a furtive eye and a sin- 
 ister watchfulness that he felt himself in an 
 atmosphere of danger. But he spoke of his 
 wickedness lightly as, " A slip a little accident, 
 mon ami." 
 
 Pierre said to him one day : " J3ien, Dugard, 
 you are a bold man to come here again. Or is 
 it that you think old men are cowards ? "
 
 1 66 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly 
 upon his case-knife. 
 
 Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came 
 over, and throwing out his perfectly formed but 
 not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: 
 " Ho, ho, m'sieu' the butcher, take your time 
 at that. There is too much blood in your car- 
 cass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands 
 without this. Come, don't be a fool and a 
 scoundrel too ! " 
 
 Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn 
 the thing off as a joke, and Pierre, who laughed 
 still a little more, said: "It would be amusing 
 to see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would 
 be so equal." There was a keen edge to 
 Pierre's tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. 
 
 One day Magor and Dugard must meet. 
 The square-timber of the two companies had got 
 tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both 
 must set them loose. They were camped some 
 distance from each other. There was rivalry 
 between them, and it was hinted that if any 
 trouble came from the meeting of Magor and 
 Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores 
 with each other. Pierre wished to prevent this. 
 It seemed to him that the two men should 
 stand alone in the affair. He said as much 
 here and there to members of both camps, for
 
 At Bamber's Boom 167 
 
 he was free of both : a tribute to his genius at 
 poker. 
 
 The girl, Nora, was apprehensive for her 
 father; she hated the other man now. Pierre 
 was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and 
 look, and fond of her child. He had always 
 shown a gentleness to children, which seemed 
 little compatible with his character ; but for this 
 young outlaw in the world he had something 
 more. He even labored carefully to turn the 
 girl's father in its favor ; but as yet to little pur- 
 pose. He was thoughtful of the girl too. He 
 only went to the house when he knew her father 
 was present, or when she was away. Once while 
 he was there Father Halen and his sister, Mrs. 
 Lauder, came. They found Pierre with the child, 
 rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so 
 an old song of the coureurs de bois : 
 
 "Out of the hills comes a little white deer 
 
 Poor little vaurien, O, ci, cil 
 Come to my home, to my home down here, 
 Sister and brother and child o' me 
 Poor little, poor little vaurien I 
 
 Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who 
 had cared for the home since Nora's trouble 
 came. The priest was anxious lest any harm 
 should come from Dugard's presence at Bam- 
 ber's Boom. He knew Pierre's doubtful repu-
 
 1 68 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 tation, but still he knew he could speak freely 
 and would be answered honestly. 
 
 "What will happen ?" he abruptly asked. 
 
 " What neither you nor I should try to pre- 
 vent, m'sieu'," was Pierre's reply. 
 
 "Magor will do the man injury ? " 
 
 " What would you have ? Put the matter on 
 your own hearthstone, eh ? ... Pardon, if I say 
 these things bluntly." Pierre still lightly rocked 
 the cradle with one foot. 
 
 "But vengeance is in God's hands." 
 
 "M'sieu'," said the half-breed, "vengeance 
 also is man's, else why did we ten men from 
 Fort Cypress track down the Indians who mur- 
 dered your brother, the good priest, and kill 
 them one by one ? " 
 
 Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, 
 and helped her to a chair, then turned a sad face 
 on Pierre. " Were you were you one of that 
 ten ? " he asked, overcome ; and he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 The two rivers-driving camps joined at Mud 
 Cat Point, where was the crush of great timber. 
 The two men did not at first come face to face, 
 but it was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the 
 bank while the others worked, that the old man 
 watched his enemy closely. The work of undo- 
 ing the great twist of logs was exciting, and
 
 At Bamber's Boom 169 
 
 they fell on each other with a great sound as they 
 were pried off, and went sliding, grinding into 
 the water. At one spot they were piled together, 
 massive and high. These were left to the last. 
 It was here that the two met. Old Magor's 
 face was quiet, if a little haggard, and his eyes 
 looked out from under his shaggy brows pierc- 
 ingly. Dugard's manner was swaggering, and 
 he swore horribly at his gang. Presently he 
 stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate 
 log. He was at the foot of an incline of timber, 
 and he was not aware that Magor had suddenly 
 appeared at the top of that incline. He heard 
 his name called out sharply. Swinging round, 
 he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a 
 huge timber hanging at the top of the incline. 
 He was standing in a hollow, a kind of trench. 
 He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old 
 man's design. He gave a cry and made as if to 
 jump out of the way, but with a laugh Magor 
 threw his whole weight on the handspike, the 
 great timber slid swiftly down and crushed 
 Dugard from his thighs to his feet, breaking his 
 legs terribly. The old man called down at him: 
 "A slip a little accident, mon ami /" Then, 
 shouldering his handspike, he made his way 
 through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on 
 homewards.
 
 170 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Magor had done what he wished. Dugard 
 would be a cripple for life ; his beauty was all 
 spoiled and broken : there was much to do to 
 save his life. 
 
 II 
 
 Nora also about this time took to her bed 
 with fever. Again and again Pierre rode thirty 
 miles and back to get ice for her head. All 
 were kind to her now. The vengeance up- 
 on Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of 
 her shame in the eyes of Bamber's Boom. Such 
 is the way of the world. He that has the last 
 blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora 
 began to recover the child fell ill also. In the 
 sickness of the child the old man had a great 
 temptation far greater than that concern- 
 ing Dugard. As the mother grew better the 
 child became much worse. One night the doc- 
 tor came, driving over from another settlement, 
 and said that if the child got sleep till morning 
 it would probably live, for the crisis had come. 
 He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same 
 that had been given to the mother. If it did 
 not sleep it would die. Pierre was present at 
 this time. 
 
 All through the child's illness the old man's 
 mind had been tossed to and fro. If the child
 
 At Bamber's Boom 171 
 
 died, the living stigma would be gone; there 
 would be no reminder of his daughter's shame 
 in the eyes of the world. They could go away 
 from Bamber's Boom, and begin life again some- 
 where. But, then, there was the child itself 
 which had crept into his heart he knew not 
 how and would not be driven out. He had 
 never, till it was taken ill, even touched it, nor 
 spoken to it. To destroy its life! Well, would 
 it not be better for the child to go out of all 
 possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave? 
 
 This night he sat down beside the cradle, 
 holding the bottle of medicine and a spoon in 
 his hand. The hot, painful face of the child 
 fascinated him. He looked from it to the bot- 
 tle, and back, and then again to the bottle. He 
 started, and the sweat stood out on his fore- 
 head. For though the doctor had told him 
 in words the proper dose, he had by mistake 
 written on the label the same dose as for the 
 mother! Here was the responsibility shifted in 
 any case. More than once the old man un- 
 corked the bottle, and once he dropped out the 
 opiate in the spoon steadily; but the child 
 opened its suffering eyes at him, its little 
 wasted hand wandered over the coverlet, and 
 he could not do it just then. 
 
 But again the passion for its destruction came
 
 1 72 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 on him, because he heard his daughter moaning 
 in the other room. He said to himself that she 
 would be happier when it was gone. But as he 
 stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating, 
 the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. 
 The old man shuddered, and drew back from 
 the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt in the 
 old man's face, and his instinct told him what 
 was happening. He took the bottle from the 
 trembling hand, and looked at the label. 
 
 "What is the right dose?" he asked, seeing 
 that a mistake had been made by the doctor. 
 
 In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. " It 
 may be too late," Pierre added. He knelt 
 down, with light fingers opened the child's 
 mouth, and poured the medicine in slowly. 
 The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at 
 them both. Then he came round to the other 
 side of the cradle, and seated himself beside it, 
 his eyes fixed on the child's face. For a long 
 time they sat there. At last the old man said: 
 "Will he die, Pierre?" 
 
 "I am afraid," answered Pierre painfully. 
 " But we shall see." Then early teaching came 
 to him never to be entirely obliterated and 
 he added: " Has the child been baptized?" 
 
 The old man shook his head. "Will you 
 do it?" asked Pierre hesitatingly.
 
 At Bamber's Boom 173 
 
 " I can 't I can 't," was the reply. 
 
 Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if to him- 
 self, got some water in a cup, came over, and 
 said: 
 
 " Remember, I 'm a Papist ! " 
 
 A motion of the hand answered him. 
 
 He dipped his fingers in the water, and 
 dropped it ever so lightly on the child's fore- 
 head. 
 
 "George Magor" it was the old man's 
 name " I baptize thee in the name of the 
 Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
 Amen." Then he drew the sign of the cross 
 on the infant's forehead. 
 
 Sitting down, he watched beside the child. 
 After a little he heard a long choking sigh. 
 Looking up he saw tears slowly dropping from 
 Magor's eyes. 
 
 And to this day the child and the mother of 
 the child are dear to the old man's heart.
 
 The Bridge House 
 
 It stood on a wide wall between two small 
 bridges. These were approaches to the big cov- 
 ered bridge spanning the main channel of the 
 Madawaska River and when swelled by the 
 spring thaws and rains, the two flanking chan- 
 nels divided at the foundations of the house, 
 and rustled away through the narrow paths of 
 the small bridges to the rapids. You could 
 stand at any window in the House and watch 
 the ugly, rushing current, gorged with logs, 
 come battering at the wall, jostle between the 
 piers, and race on to the rocks and the dam and 
 the slide beyond. You stepped from the front 
 door upon the wall, which was a road between 
 the bridges, and from the back door into the 
 river itself. 
 
 The House had once been a tavern. It looked 
 a wayfarer, like its patrons the river-drivers, with 
 whom it was most popular. You felt that it 
 had no part in the career of the village on either 
 side, but was like a rock in a channel, at which 
 a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. 
 174
 
 The Bridge House 175 
 
 Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in 
 the springtime or early summer, throngs of 
 river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its 
 doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as 
 they talked and smoked. 
 
 The glory of the Bridge House suddenly de- 
 clined. That was because Finley, the owner, a 
 rich man, came to hate the place his brother's 
 blood stained the bar-room floor. He would 
 have destroyed the house but that John Rupert, 
 the beggared gentleman, came to him, and 
 wished to rent it for a dwelling. 
 
 Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably 
 poor for many years, but he had a breeding and 
 a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. 
 He was too old for a labourer, he had no art or 
 craftsmanship ; his little money was gone in 
 foolish speculations, and he was dependent on 
 his granddaughter's slight earnings from music- 
 teaching and needlework. But he rented an 
 acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegeta- 
 bles ; he gathered driftwood from the river for 
 his winter fire, and made up the accounts of the 
 storekeeper occasionally ; yet it was merely 
 keeping off starvation. He was not popular. 
 He had no tongue for the meaningless village 
 talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and 
 yet they felt a mean satisfaction when they saw
 
 1 76 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the 
 shore to be dragged away the last resort of 
 the poor, for which they blush. 
 
 When Mr. Rupert asked for the House Fin- 
 ley knew the chances were he would not get the 
 rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old 
 man, he gave it to him at a low rate. He closed 
 up the bar-room, however, and it was never 
 opened afterwards. 
 
 So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his 
 granddaughter, came to live there. Judith was 
 a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known 
 comfort or riches; they were taken from her 
 grandfather before she was born, and her father 
 and mother both died when she was yet a little 
 child. But she had been taught by her grand- 
 mother, when she lived, and by her grandfather, 
 and she had felt the graces of refined life. 
 Withal, she had a singular sympathy for the 
 rude, strong life of the river. She was glad 
 when they came to live at the Bridge House ; 
 and shamed too ; glad because they could live 
 apart from the other villagers ; shamed because 
 it exposed her to the curiosity of those who 
 visited the House, thinking it was yet a tavern. 
 But that was only for a time. 
 
 One night Jules Brydon, the young river- 
 boss, camped with his men at Bamber's Boom.
 
 The Bridge House 177 
 
 He was of parents Scotch and French, and the 
 amalgamation of races in him was a striking 
 product. He was cool and indomitable, yet 
 hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch 
 him at the head of his men, breaking up a jam 
 of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an 
 evening as he sang : 
 
 "Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, 
 When happy is the sun in the morning ? 
 The rapids long and the banks of green, 
 As we ride away in the morning, 
 
 On the froth of the Long Lachine ? " 
 
 One day, soon after they came, the dams and 
 booms were opened above, and forests of logs 
 came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The cur- 
 rent was strong, and the logs came on swiftly. 
 As Brydon's gang worked they saw a man out 
 upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been 
 suddenly caught in the drive of logs, and was 
 carried out towards the middle channel. The 
 river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that 
 the man was old, and that he could not run 
 across the rolling logs to the shore. The old 
 man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike- 
 pole, folded his hands and drifted with the 
 logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They 
 began to understand. 
 
 Brydon saw a woman standing at a window
 
 178 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 of the House waving her arms, and there floated 
 up the river the words, " Father ! father ! " He 
 caught up a pike-pole and ran over that spin- 
 ning floor of logs to the raft. The old man's 
 face was white, but there was no fear in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I cannot run the logs," he said at once ; "I 
 never did ; I am too old, and I slip. It's no 
 use. It is my granddaughter at that window. 
 Tell her that I'll think of her to the last. 
 Good-bye!" 
 
 Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's 
 voice was husky; he could not cry out, but he 
 waved his hand to the girl. 
 
 "Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. 
 
 Brydon's eyes were now on the covered 
 bridge. Their raft was in the channel, coming 
 straight between two piers. He measured his 
 chances. He knew if he slipped, doing what he 
 intended, that both might be drowned, and cer- 
 tainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and 
 to drop among them was a bad business. If 
 they once closed over there was an end of every- 
 thing. 
 
 " Keep quite still," he said, " and when I 
 throw you, catch." 
 
 He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang 
 out upon the slippery logs, and ran. A cheer
 
 The Bridge House 179 
 
 went up from the men on the shore, and the 
 people who were gathering on the bridges, too 
 late to be of service. Besides, the bridge was 
 closed, and there was only a small opening at 
 the piers. For one of these piers Brydon was 
 making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and 
 nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree 
 suddenly lunged up and struck him, so that he 
 dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and 
 strained for the pier. He was within a few feet 
 of it as they came to the bridge. The people 
 gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was no 
 chance of both making it; because, too, at the 
 critical moment a space of clear water showed 
 near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert 
 up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the 
 pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching 
 out their arms. An instant afterwards the old 
 man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon 
 slipped and fell; the roots of a tree bore him 
 down, and he was gone beneath the logs ! 
 
 There was a cry of horror from the watchers, 
 then all was still. But below the bridge they 
 saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then 
 another arm crowding them apart. Now a head 
 and shoulders appeared. Luckily the piece of 
 timber which Brydon grasped was square, and 
 did not roll. In a moment he was standing on
 
 1 80 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 it. There was a wild shout of encouragement. 
 He turned his battered, blood-stained face to 
 the bridge for an instant, and, with a wave of 
 the hand and a sharp look towards the rapids 
 below, once more sprang out. It was a brave 
 sight, for the logs were in a narrower channel 
 and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of 
 his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling 
 forest gave him no quarter, but he came on, 
 rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of 
 shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out 
 on the logs they were packed closely here 
 caught him up and brought him to dry ground. 
 They took him to the Bridge House. He 
 was hurt more than he or they thought. The 
 old man and the girl met them at the door. 
 Judith gave a little cry when she saw the blood 
 and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted his head 
 as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their 
 looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face 
 flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather 
 seized Brydon's big hand and said some trem- 
 bling words of thanks. The girl stepped inside, 
 made a bed for him upon the sofa, and got him 
 something to drink. She was very cool; she im- 
 mediately asked Pierre to go for the young doc- 
 tor who had lately come to the place, and made 
 ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's
 
 The Bridge House 181 
 
 blood-stained face and hands, and then gave 
 him some brandy. 
 
 His comrades standing round watched her 
 admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Bry- 
 don, as if to be nursed and cared for was not 
 manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly to a 
 sitting posture, saying, " Pshaw ! I'm all right ! " 
 But he turned sick immediately, and Judith's 
 arms caught his head and shoulders as he fell 
 back. His face turned, and was pillowed on 
 her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of 
 singular dignity came into her face. Those 
 standing by were struck with a kind of awe; 
 they were used mostly to the daughters of 
 habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive 
 face spoke a wonderful language ; a divine grat- 
 itude and thankfulness ; and her eyes had a clear 
 moisture which did not dim them. The situa- 
 tion was trying to the river-drivers it was too 
 refined ; and they breathed more freely when 
 they got outside and left the girl, her grand- 
 father, Pierre, and the young doctor alone with 
 the injured man. 
 
 That was how the thing began. Pierre saw 
 the conclusion of events from the start. The 
 young doctor did not. From the hour when he 
 bound up Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aid- 
 ing him, he felt a spring in his blood new to him.
 
 1 82 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 When he came to know exactly what it meant, 
 and acted, it was too late. He was much sur- 
 prised that his advances were gently repulsed. 
 He pressed them hard; that was a mistake. He 
 had an idea, not uncommon in such cases, that 
 he was conferring an honour. But he was very 
 young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to 
 turn a lad's head at the start. He falls into the 
 error that the ability to demonstrate the medulla 
 oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the 
 heart of a maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; 
 he knew life all round ; he had boxed the com- 
 pass of experience. He believed in Judith. 
 The old man interested him ; he was a wreck 
 out of an unfamiliar life. 
 
 " Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one 
 day, as they sat on the high cross-beams of the 
 little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man what 
 he was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood 
 over there. Broken down, eh ? Yes, but then 
 there is something a manner, an eye. He 
 piles the wood like champagne bottles. On the 
 raft, you remember, he took off his hat to death. 
 That's different altogether from us ! " 
 
 He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and 
 saw a troubled look. 
 
 "Yes," Brydon said, "he is different : and so 
 is she."
 
 The Bridge House 183 
 
 " She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow em- 
 phasis. "She couldn't hide it if she tried. She 
 plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. 
 Made for this" he waved his hand towards the 
 Bridge House. "No, no ! made for " 
 
 He paused, smiled enigmatically, and drop- 
 ped a bit of wood on the swift current. 
 
 Brydon frowned, then said : " Well, made for 
 what, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, to- 
 wards a pretty cottage on the hillside. " Made 
 for homes like that, not this," he said, and he 
 nodded first towards the hillside, then to the 
 Bridge House. (The cottage belonged to the 
 young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came 
 from Brydon, and he clinched the other's shoul- 
 der. Pierre glanced at the hand, then at Bry- 
 don's face, and said sharply : "Take it away." 
 
 The hand dropped, but Brydon's face was 
 hot, and his eyes were hard. 
 
 Pierre continued : " But then women are 
 strange. What you expect they will not no. 
 Riches ? it is nothing ; houses like that on the 
 hill, nothing. They have whims. The hut is as 
 good as the house, with the kitchen in the open 
 where the river welts and washes, and a man 
 the great man of the world to them to play 
 the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw I you
 
 1 84 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 are idle move; you are thick in the head 
 think hard ; you like the girl speak !" 
 
 As he said this, there showed beneath them 
 the front timbers of a small crib of logs with a 
 crew of two men, making for the rapids and the 
 slide below. Here was an adventure, for run- 
 ning the rapids with so slight a craft and small 
 a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the 
 distance, and with a " Look out below ! " swiftly 
 let himself down by his arms as far as he could, 
 and then dropped to the timbers as lightly as if 
 it were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. 
 He waved a hand to Brydon, and the crib shot 
 on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran 
 into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the 
 three men rising and falling to the monotonous 
 cry. The sun set out the men and the craft 
 against the tall dark walls of the river in strong 
 relief, and Brydon was carried away from what 
 Pierre had been saying. He had a solid plea- 
 sure in watching, and he sat up with a call of 
 delight when he saw the crib drive at the slide. 
 Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely. 
 His face blazed. 
 
 "A pretty sight," said a voice behind him. 
 
 Without a word he swung round, and drop- 
 ped, more heavily than Pierre, beside Judith.
 
 The Bridge House 185 
 
 " It gets into our bones," he said. " Of 
 course, though, it ain't the same to you," he 
 added, looking down at her over his shoulder. 
 " You do n't care for things so rough, mebbe ?" 
 
 " I love the river," she said quietly. 
 
 " We 're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We 
 have to be. It 's a rowdy business." 
 
 " I never noticed that," she replied, gravely 
 smiling. " When I was small I used to go to 
 the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and 
 they were always kind to us. They used to sing 
 and play the fiddle, and joke ; but I did n't think 
 that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They 
 were never rough with us." 
 
 " No one 'd ever be rough with you," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Oh yes," she said suddenly, and turned her 
 head away. She was thinking of what the 
 young doctor had said to her that morning ; 
 how like a foolish boy he had acted : upbraiding 
 her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, 
 as young egotists always do. In years she was 
 younger than he, but in wisdom much older; in 
 all things more wise and just. He had not 
 struck her, but with his reckless tongue he had 
 cut her to the heart. 
 
 " Oh yes," she repeated, and her eyes ran up
 
 1 86 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 to his face and over his great stalwart body ; 
 and then she leaned over the railing and looked 
 into the water. 
 
 " I 'd break the man in two that was rough 
 with you," he said between his teeth. 
 
 " Would you ? " she asked in a whisper. 
 Then, not giving him a chance to reply, " We 
 are very poor, you know, and some people are 
 rough with the poor and proud. I remember," 
 she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if talking 
 to herself, " the day when we first came to the 
 Bridge House. I sat down on a box and looked 
 at the furniture it was so little and cried. 
 Coming here seemed the last of what grand- 
 father used to be. I could n't help it. He sat 
 down too, and didn't say anything. He was 
 very pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he 
 looked at me. Then I got angry with myself, 
 and sprang up and went to work and we get 
 along pretty well." 
 
 She paused and sighed ; then, after a minute: 
 " I love the river ; I do n't believe I could be 
 happy away from it. I should like to live on it, 
 and die on it, and be buried in it." 
 
 His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked 
 so frail and dainty, that his voice, to himself, 
 sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along 
 the railing to hers, and covered it tenderly
 
 The Bridge House 187 
 
 for so big a hand. She drew her fingers away, 
 but not very quickly. " Do n't," she said, "and 
 and some one is coming ! " 
 
 There were footsteps behind them. It was 
 her grandfather, carrying a board fished from 
 the river. He grasped the situation, and stood 
 speechless with wonder. He had never thought 
 of this. He was a gentleman, in spite of all, and 
 this man was a common river-boss. Presently he 
 drew himself up with an air. The heavy board 
 was still in his arms. Brydon came over and 
 took the board, looking him squarely in the eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask some- 
 thing." 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 "I helped you out of a bad scrape on the 
 river ? " 
 
 Again the old man nodded. 
 
 " Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that 
 I 'm going to ask you to draw no more drift- 
 wood from the Madawaska not a stick, now or 
 ever." 
 
 " It is the only way we can keep from freez- 
 ing in winter." Mr. Rupert scarcely knew what 
 he said. 
 
 Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, 
 then answered : "/'// keep you from freezing, 
 if you '11 let me, you and Judith."
 
 1 88 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith 
 said hastily. 
 
 She saw the young doctor driving towards 
 them out of the covered bridge ! 
 
 When Brydon went to join his men far down 
 the river he left a wife behind him at the Bridge 
 House, where she and her grandfather were to 
 stay until the next summer. Then there would 
 be a journey from Bamber's Boom to a new home. 
 
 In the late autumn he came, before he went 
 away to the shanties in the backwoods, and again 
 in the winter just before the baby was born. 
 Then he went far up the river to Rice Lake and 
 beyond, to bring down the drives of logs for his 
 Company. June came, and then there was a 
 sudden sorrow at the Bridge House. How 
 great it was, Pierre's words as he stood at the 
 door one evening will testify. He said to the 
 young doctor : " Save the child, and you shall 
 have back the I.O.U. on your house:" which 
 was also evidence that the young doctor had 
 fallen into the habit of gambling. 
 
 The young doctor looked hard at him. He 
 had a selfish nature. " You can only do what 
 you can do," he said. 
 
 Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not 
 save it, one would guess why." 
 
 The other started, flushed, was silent, and
 
 The Bridge House 189 
 
 then said : " You think I 'm a coward. We 
 shall see. There is a way, but it may fail." 
 
 And though he sucked the diphtheria poison 
 from the child's throat, it died the next night. 
 
 Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company 
 had won was handed back with such good ad- 
 vice as only a world-wise adventurer can give. 
 
 Of the child's death its father did not know. 
 They were not certain where he was. But when 
 the mother took to her bed again, the young 
 doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. 
 Pierre had time and inclination to go for him. 
 But before he went he was taken to Judith's bed- 
 side. Pierre had seen life and death in many 
 forms, but never anything quite like this : a 
 delicate creature floating away upon a summer 
 current : travelling in those valleys which are 
 neither of this life nor of that; but where you 
 hear the echoes of both, and are visited by solic- 
 itous spirits. There was no pain in her face 
 she heard a little, familiar voice from high and 
 pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are the 
 dying, that her husband was travelling after her, 
 and that they would all be together soon. But 
 she did not speak of that. For the knowledge 
 born of such a time is locked up in the soul. 
 
 Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he 
 crossed himself.
 
 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 " Tell him to come quickly," she said, " if 
 you find him " her fingers played with the cov- 
 erlet " for I wish to comfort him. . . . Some- 
 one said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not 
 believe it. You were sorry when my baby went 
 away. I am going away too. But do not 
 tell him that. Tell him I cannot walk about. 
 I want him to carry me to carry me. Will 
 you?" 
 
 Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping 
 along the coverlet to him ; but it was only in- 
 stinct that guided him, for he could not see. 
 He started on his journey with his hat pulled 
 down over his eyes. 
 
 One evening when the river was very high 
 and it was said that Brydon's drives of logs 
 would soon be down, a strange thing happened 
 at the Bridge House. 
 
 The young doctor had gone, whispering to 
 Mr. Rupert that he would come back later. He 
 went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an 
 angel. His selfishness had dropped away from 
 him. The evening wore on, and in the little 
 back room a woman's voice said : 
 
 " Is it morning yet, father ?" 
 
 " It is still day. The sun has not set, my 
 child." 
 
 " I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark."
 
 The Bridge House 191 
 
 "You have been asleep, Judith. You have 
 come out of the dark." 
 
 " No, I have come out into the darkness 
 into the world." 
 
 " You will see better when you are quite 
 awake." 
 
 " I wish I could see the river, father. Will 
 you go and look ? " 
 
 Then there was a silence. " Well ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 "It is beautiful," he said, "and the sun is 
 still bright." 
 
 " You see as far as Indian Island ?" 
 
 "I can see the white comb of the reef beyond 
 it, my dear." 
 
 "And no one is coming?" 
 
 "There are men making for the shore, and the 
 fires are burning, but no one is coming this 
 way. . . . He would come by the road, 
 perhaps." 
 
 "Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found 
 him. Can you see the Eddy?" 
 
 "Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the 
 logs tossing round it." 
 
 " We used to sit there he and I by the big 
 cedar tree. Everything was so cool and sweet. 
 There was only the sound of the force-pump and 
 the swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a
 
 1 92 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 woman was drowned there, and that you can see 
 her face in the water, if you happen there at 
 sunrise, weeping and smiling also : a picture in 
 the water. . . . Do you think it true, father ? " 
 
 "Life is so strange, and who knows what is 
 not life, my child?" 
 
 "When baby was dying I held it over the 
 water beneath that window, where the sunshine 
 falls in the evening ; and it looked down once 
 before its spirit passed like a breath over my 
 face. Maybe, its look will stay, for him to see 
 when he comes. It was just below where you 
 stand. . . . Father, can you see its face?" 
 
 "No, Judith; nothing but the water and the 
 sunshine!" 
 
 "Dear, carry me to the window." 
 
 When this was done she suddenly leaned 
 forward with shining eyes and anxious fingers. 
 "My baby ! My baby !" she said. 
 
 She looked up the river, but her eyes were 
 fading, she could not see far. "It is all a grey 
 light," she said, " I cannot see well." Yet she 
 smiled. "Lay me down again, father," she 
 whispered. 
 
 After a little she sank into a slumber. All at 
 once she started up. "The river, the beautiful 
 river ! " she cried out gently. Then, at the last, 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear!"
 
 The Bridge House 193 
 
 And so she came out of the valley into the 
 high hills. 
 
 Later he was left alone with his dead. The 
 young doctor and others had come and gone. 
 He would watch till morning. He sat long be- 
 side her, numb to the world. At last he started, 
 for he heard a low, clear call behind the House. 
 He went out quickly to the little platform, and 
 saw through the dusk a man drawing himself up. 
 It was Brydon. He caught the old man's 
 shoulders convulsively. "How is she?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Come in, my son," was the low reply. The 
 old man saw a grief greater than his own. He 
 led the husband to the room where the wife lay 
 beautiful and still. 
 
 "She is better, as you see," he said bravely. 
 
 The hours went, and the two sat near the 
 body, one on either side. They knew not what 
 was going on in the world. 
 
 As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor 
 sat silent in that cottage on the hillside. They 
 were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's 
 keen ears the sound of the river. 
 
 "Let us go out," he said ; "the river is flood- 
 ing. You can hear the logs." 
 
 They came out and watched. The river went 
 swishing, swilling past, and the dull boom of the
 
 IQ4 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or 
 some building on the shore came rolling to 
 them. 
 
 "The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre 
 said. 
 
 He pointed to the camps far up the river. 
 By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a 
 wide weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's 
 eyes shifted to the Bridge House. In one room 
 was a light. He stepped out and down, and 
 the other followed. They had almost reached 
 the shore, when Pierre cried out sharply : 
 "What's that?" 
 
 He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing 
 down upon the ' Bridge House. It was a big 
 shed that had been carried away, and, jammed 
 between timbers, had not broken up. There 
 was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, 
 heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding 
 sound, and then they saw the light of that one 
 room move on, waving a little to and fro on to 
 the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard 
 after. 
 
 Where the light was two men had started to 
 their feet when the crash came. They felt the 
 House move. 
 
 "Run save yourself!" cried the old man 
 quietly. "We are lost!"
 
 The Bridge House 195 
 
 The floor rocked. 
 
 "Go," he said again. "I will stay with her." 
 
 "She is mine," Brydon said; and he took her 
 in his arms. "I will not go." 
 
 They could hear the rapids below. The old 
 man steadied himself in the deep water on the 
 floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold 
 hands. 
 
 "Come close, come close," said Brydon. 
 "Closer; put your arms round her." 
 
 Mr. Rupert did so. They were locked in 
 each other's arms dead and living. 
 
 The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of 
 
 jy ; 
 
 " We therefore commit her body to the deep /" 
 The three were never found.
 
 The Epaulettes 
 
 Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat 
 at the door of his lodge, staring down into the 
 valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa 
 his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at 
 the fringe of her fine buckskin jacket. She 
 had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader 
 had put a great indignity upon Athabasca. A 
 factor of twenty years before, in recognition of 
 the chief's merits and in reward of his services, 
 had presented him with a pair of epaulettes, 
 left in the fort by some officer in Her Majesty's 
 service. A good, solid, honest pair of epau- 
 lettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of 
 those high feasts and functions at which the 
 chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. 
 They were the admiration of his own tribe, 
 the wonder of others, and the envy of many 
 chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them 
 creditably, and was no more immobile and 
 grand-mannered than became a chief thus 
 honored above his kind. 
 196
 
 The Epaulettes 197 
 
 But the years went, and there came a man 
 to Fort Pentecost that knew not Athabasca. 
 He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot 
 temper, knew naught of human nature, was 
 possessed by a pride more masterful than his 
 wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. 
 He was ever for high-handedness, brooked no 
 interference, and treated the Indians more as 
 Company's serfs than as Company's friends and 
 allies. Also, he had an eye for Mitawawa, and 
 found favor in return, though to what depth it 
 took a long time to show. The girl sat high in 
 the minds and desires of the young braves, for 
 she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and 
 dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a par- 
 ticular fortune with a bow and arrow, and the 
 fleetest foot. 
 
 There were mutterings now because Fyles 
 the white man came to sit often in Athabasca's 
 lodge. He knew of this, but heeded not at 
 all. At last Konto, a young brave, who very 
 accurately guessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped 
 him one day on the Grey Horse Trail, and in a 
 soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his 
 regard, in a fight without weapons, to the death, 
 the survivor to give the other burial where he 
 fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It 
 would have been foolish to run the risk of leav-
 
 198 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 ing Fort and people masterless for an Indian's 
 whim; it would have been cowardly to do noth- 
 ing. So he whipped out a revolver, and bade 
 his rival march before him to the Fort, which 
 Konto very calmly did, begging the favor of a 
 bit of tobacco as he went. 
 
 Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should 
 sit in judgment and should at least banish 
 Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he 
 might have to put a bullet into Konto's refrac- 
 tory head if the thing were not done. He said 
 large things in the name of the H. B. C., and 
 was surprised that Athabasca let them pass un- 
 moved. But that chief, after long considera- 
 tion, during which he drank Company's coffee 
 and ate Company's pemmican, declared that he 
 could do nothing, for Konto had made a fine 
 offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had 
 been missed. 
 
 This was in the presence of several petty 
 officers and Indians and woodsmen at the Fort. 
 Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He 
 swore a little, and with words of bluster went 
 over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's 
 shoulders, as a punishment, a mark of degrada- 
 tion. The chief said nothing. He got up, and 
 reached out his hands as if to ask them back; 
 and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing
 
 The Epaulettes 199 
 
 his blanket high over his shoulders. It was 
 wont before to lie loosely about him, to show 
 his badges of captaincy and alliance. 
 
 This was about the time that the Indians 
 were making ready for the buffalo, and when 
 their chief took to his lodge and refused to 
 leave it they came to ask him why. And they 
 were told. They were for making trouble, but 
 the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he 
 would settle it in his own way. He would not 
 go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should take 
 his place; and when his braves came back there 
 should be great feasting, for then the matter 
 would be ended. 
 
 Half the course of the moon and more, and 
 Athabasca came out of his lodge the first time 
 in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. 
 He and his daughter sat silent and watchful at 
 the door. There had been no word between 
 Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mita- 
 wawa and Fyles. The fort was well-nigh ten- 
 antless, for the half-breeds also had gone after 
 buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half- 
 breed cook were left. 
 
 Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: 
 she had held her peace so long that even her 
 slow Indian nature could endure no more. 
 "What will my father Athabasca do?" sh
 
 2OO An Adventurer of the North 
 
 asked. " With idleness the flesh grows soft, and 
 the iron melts from the arm." 
 
 " But when the thoughts are stone, the body 
 is that of the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills. 
 When the bow is long drawn, beware the ar- 
 row." 
 
 "It is no answer," she said; "what will my 
 father do?" 
 
 "They were of gold," he answered, "that 
 never grew rusty. My people were full of won- 
 der when they stood before me, and the tribes 
 had envy as they passed. It is a hundred 
 moons and one red mid-summer moon since the 
 Great Company put them on my shoulders. 
 They were light to carry, but it was as if I bore 
 an army. No other chief was like me. That is 
 all over. When the tribes pass they will laugn, 
 and my people will scorn me if I do not come 
 out to meet them with the yokes of gold." 
 
 "But what will my father do ?" she persisted. 
 
 "I have had many thoughts, and at night I 
 have called on the Spirits who rule. From the 
 top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft 
 drum, and called, and sung the hymn which 
 wakes the sleeping Spirits : and I know the 
 way." 
 
 "What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a 
 kind of fear or trouble, and many times they
 
 The Epaulettes 201 
 
 shifted from the Fort to her father, and back 
 again. The chief was silent. Then anger leapt 
 into her face. 
 
 "Why does my father fear to speak to his 
 child?" she said. "I will speak plain. I love 
 the man ; but I love my father also." 
 
 She stood up, and drew her blanket about 
 her, one hand clasped proudly on her breast. " I 
 cannot remember my mother; but I remember 
 when I first looked down from my hammock in 
 the pine tree, and saw my father sitting by the 
 fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, 
 for the pines made great shadows. I cried out, 
 and he came and took me down, and laid me 
 between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat 
 from the pot. He talked much to me, and his 
 voice was finer than any other. There is no 
 one like my father Konto is nothing; but the 
 voice of the white man, Fyles, had golden 
 words that our braves do not know, and I lis- 
 tened. Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, be- 
 cause he was a great man of the Company, 
 would not fight, and drove him like a dog. 
 Then he made my father as a worm in the eyes 
 of the world. I would give my life for Fyles 
 the trader, but I would give more than my life 
 to wipe out my father's shame, and to show that 
 Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. I have
 
 202 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 been carried by the hands of the old men of my 
 people, I have ridden the horses of the young 
 men ; their shame is my shame." 
 
 The eyes of the chief had never lifted from 
 the Fort ; nor from his look could you have 
 told that he heard his daughter's words. For a 
 moment he was silent, then a deep fire came 
 into his eyes, and his wide heavy brows drew up 
 so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, 
 as she waited, he arose, put out a hand and 
 touched her forehead. 
 
 "Mitawawa has spoken well," he said. 
 "There will be an end. The yokes of gold are 
 mine; an honour given cannot betaken away. 
 He has stolen ; he is a thief. He would not 
 fight Konto ; but I am a chief and he shall fight 
 me. I am as great as many men I have car- 
 ried the golden yokes ; we will fight for them. 
 I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter 
 loved the man more than her people ; but now I 
 will break him in pieces. Has Mitawawa seen 
 him since the shameful day?" 
 
 "He has come to the lodge, but I would not 
 let him in unless he brought the epaulettes. He 
 said he would bring them when Konto was pun- 
 ished. I begged of him as I never begged of 
 my own father, but he was hard as the ironwood
 
 The Epaulettes 203 
 
 tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue 
 like his in the world; he is tall and beautiful, 
 and has the face of a spirit." 
 
 From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With 
 a pair of field-glasses he could follow their ac- 
 tions, could almost read their faces. "There'll 
 be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mai- 
 lory," he said at last, turning to his clerk. "Old 
 Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet." 
 
 " Wouldn 't it be just as well to give 'em back, 
 sir?" Mallory had been at Fort Pentecost a 
 long time, and he understood Athabasca and his 
 Indians. He was a solid, slow-thinking old fel- 
 low, but he had that wisdom of the north which 
 can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent 
 to lion in the moment. 
 
 " Give 'em back, Mallory ? I '11 see him in 
 Jericho first, unless he goes on his marrow-bones 
 and kicks Konto out of the camp." 
 
 "Very well, sir. But I think we'd better 
 keep an eye open." 
 
 " Eye open, be hanged ! If he 'd been going 
 to riot he 'd have done so before this. Besides, 
 the girl !" 
 
 Mallory looked long and earnestly at his 
 master, whose forehead was glued to the field- 
 glass. His little eyes moved as if in debate, his
 
 204 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he 
 said : "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if 
 I was you, unless I meant to marry her." 
 
 Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your 
 place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals 
 too. One'd think you were a missionary." 
 Then with a sudden burst of anger : " Damn it 
 all, if my men don't stand by me against a pack 
 of treacherous Indians, I'd better get out." 
 
 "Your men will stand by you, sir; no fear. 
 I've served three traders here, and my record is 
 pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I '11 say it to your 
 face, whether you like it or not, that you're not 
 as good a judge of the Injin as me, or even Due 
 the cook; and that's straight as I can say it, Mr. 
 Fyles." 
 
 Fyles paced up and down in anger not 
 speaking ; but presently threw up the glass and 
 looked towards Athabasca's lodge. "They're 
 gone," he said presently; "I'll go and see them 
 to-morrow. The old fool must do what I want 
 or there'll be ructions." 
 
 The moon was high over Fort Pentecost 
 when Athabasca entered the silent yard. The 
 dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without 
 reason, and no one heeds them. The old chief 
 stood a moment looking at the windows, upon 
 which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows.
 
 The Epaulettes 205 
 
 He went to Fyles' window ; no one was in the 
 room. He went to another; Mallory and Due 
 were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epau- 
 lettes, looking at them, and fingering the hooks 
 by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Due 
 was laughing ; he reached over for an epaulette, 
 tossed it up, caught it and threw it down with a 
 guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca 
 walked in, seized the epaulettes, and went swift- 
 ly out again. Just outside the door Mallory 
 clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Due 
 caught at the epaulettes. 
 
 Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once 
 there was a cold white flash, and Due came 
 huddling to Mallory's feet. For a brief instant 
 Mallory and the Indian fell apart, then Atha- 
 basca with a contemptuous fairness tossed his 
 knife away, and ran in on his man. They 
 closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled 
 wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted 
 high into the air, and came down with a broken 
 back. 
 
 Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hur- 
 ried away, breathing hard, and hugging them to 
 his bare, red-stained breast. He had nearly 
 reached the gate when he heard a cry. He did 
 not turn, but a heavy stone caught him high in 
 the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay
 
 206 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 clutching the epaulettes in his outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the 
 effort of throwing when he heard the soft rush 
 of footsteps and someone came swiftly into his 
 embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoul- 
 ders lips closed with his something ice-cold 
 and hard touched his neck he saw a bright 
 flash at his throat. 
 
 In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sit- 
 ting with wild eyes by her father's body. She 
 had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. 
 Fyles and his men made a grim triangle of death 
 at the door of the Fort.
 
 The -Finding of Fingall 
 
 " Fingall ! Fingall! Oh, Fingall!" 
 A grey mist was rising from the river, the 
 sun was drinking it delightedly, the swift blue 
 water showed underneath it, and the top of 
 Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a 
 hand-length. The river brushed the banks like 
 rustling silk, and the only other sound, very 
 sharp and clear in the liquid monotone, was the 
 crack of a woodpecker's beak on a hickory tree. 
 It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in 
 Lonesome Valley. Before night the deer would 
 bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the moun- 
 tain-goat call to its unknown gods ; but now 
 there was only the wild duck skimming the river, 
 and the high hill-top rising and fading into the 
 mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry: 
 "Fingall! Oh, Fingall! Fingall!" 
 Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of 
 the hills, raised their eyes to the mountain-side 
 beyond and above them, and one said presently : 
 "The second time. It's a woman's voice, 
 Pierre." 
 
 207
 
 208 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 Pierre nodded, and abstractedly stirred the 
 coals about with a twig. 
 
 "Well, it is a pity the poor Cynthie," he 
 said at last. 
 
 " It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre 
 her story?" 
 
 "Fingall! Fingall.' Oh, Fingall!" 
 
 Pierre raised his head towards the sound ; 
 then after a moment, said : 
 
 " I know Fingall." 
 
 " And the woman ? Tell me." 
 
 "And the girl. Fingall was all fire and 
 heart, and devil-may-care. She she was not 
 beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a 
 flame of red and blue. Her hair, too then 
 would trip her up, if it hung loose. That was 
 all, except that she loved him too much. But 
 women et puts, when a woman gets a man be- 
 tween her and the heaven above and the earth 
 beneath, and there comes the great hunger, 
 what is the good ? A man cannot understand, 
 but he can see and he can fear. What is the 
 good ! To play with life, that is not much ; but 
 to play with soul is more than a thousand lives. 
 Look at Cynthie." 
 
 He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. 
 Presently Pierre continued: 
 
 " Fingall was gentil ; he would take off his hat
 
 The Finding of Fingall 209 
 
 to a squaw. It made no difference what others 
 did, he didn't think it was like breathing to 
 him. How can you tell the way things happen? 
 Cynthie's father kept the tavern at St. Gabriel's 
 Fork, over against the great sawmill. Fingall 
 was foreman of a gang in the lumber-yard. 
 Cynthie had a brother Fenn. Fenn was as bad 
 as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall 
 knew it well, though he hated the young skunk. 
 The girl's eyes were like two little fireflies when 
 Fingall was about. 
 
 " He was a gentleman, though he had only 
 half a name Fingall like that. I think he did 
 not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for 
 something always when the mail come in he 
 would be there; and afterwards you wouldn't 
 see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he 
 made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, 
 and to say nothing." 
 
 "Fingall! Fingall! Oh, Fingall !" 
 The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded 
 nearer. 
 
 "She's coming this way, Pierre," said Law- 
 less. 
 
 "I hope not to see her. What is the good?" 
 "Well, let us have the rest of the story." 
 "Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang. 
 One day there was trouble. Fenn called Fin-
 
 2IO An Adventurer of the North 
 
 gall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual 
 thing did not come. Fingall told him to leave 
 the yard, and they would settle some other time. 
 That night a wicked thing happened. We were 
 sitting in the bar-room when we heard two shots 
 and then a fall. We ran into the other room ; 
 there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted 
 himself on his elbow, pointed at Fingall and 
 fell back. The father of the boy stood white 
 and still a few feet away. There was no pistol 
 showing none at all. 
 
 "The men closed in on Fingall. He did not 
 stir he seemed to be thinking of something 
 else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The 
 men roared round him, but he waved them back 
 for a moment, and looked first at the father, 
 then at the son. I could not understand at first. 
 Someone pulled a pistol out of Fingall's pocket 
 and showed it. At that moment Cynthie came 
 in. She gave a cry. By the holy ! I do not 
 want to hear a cry like that often ! She fell on 
 her knees beside the boy, and caught his head to 
 her breast. Then with a wild look she asked 
 who did it. They had just taken Fingall out 
 into the bar-room. They did not tell her his 
 name, for they knew that she loved him. 
 
 "'Father,' she said all at once, 'have you 
 killed the man that killed Fenn?'
 
 The Finding of Fingall 21 1 
 
 "The old man shook his head. There was a 
 sick color in his face. 
 
 "'Then I will kill him,' she said. 
 
 "She laid her brother's head down, and stood 
 up. Someone put in her hand the pistol, and 
 told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She 
 took it, and came with us. The old man stood 
 still where he was; he was like stone. I looked 
 at him for a minute and thought ; then I turned 
 round and went to the bar-room ; and he fol- 
 lowed. Just as I got inside the door, I saw the 
 girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw 
 that it was Fingall ; he was looking at her very 
 strange. It was the rule to empty the gun into 
 a man who had been sentenced ; and already 
 Fingall had heard his ' God-have-mercy ! ' The 
 girl was to do it. 
 
 "Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, 'Fire 
 Cynthie ! ' 
 
 "I guessed what she would do. In a kind 
 of a dream she raised the pistol up up up, till 
 I could see it was just out of range of his head, 
 and she fired. One ! two ! three ! four ! five ! 
 Fingall never moved a muscle ; but the bullets 
 spotted the wall at the side of his head. She 
 stopped after the five ; but the arm was still held 
 out, and her finger was on the trigger; she 
 seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers
 
 212 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 were in the gun, and of course one chamber was 
 empty. Fenn had its bullet in his lungs, as we 
 thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched 
 her arm, pushing it down. But there was an- 
 other shot, and this time, because of the push, 
 the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull." 
 
 Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand 
 toward the mist which hung high up like a can- 
 opy between the hills. 
 
 "But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene, 
 "what about that sixth bullet ?" 
 
 " Holy, it is plain ! Fingall did not fire the 
 shot. His revolver was full, every chamber, when 
 Cynthie first took it. 
 
 "Who killed the lad?" 
 
 " Can you not guess ? There had been 
 words between the father and the boy : both 
 had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, 
 fired ; the boy wanted revenge on Fingall, and, 
 to save his father, laid it on the other. The 
 old man ? Well, I do not know whether he was 
 a coward, or stupid, or ashamed he let Fingall 
 take it." 
 
 " Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh ? " 
 
 " For the girl. It wasn't good for her to 
 know her father killed his own son." 
 
 " What came after ? " 
 
 "The worst. That night the girl's father
 
 The Finding of Fingall 213 
 
 killed himself, and the two were buried in the 
 same grave. Cynthie " 
 
 "Fingall / Fingall! Oh, Fingall/" 
 "You hear? Yes, like that all the time as 
 she sat on the floor, her hair about her like a 
 cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. 
 She thought she had killed Fingall, and she 
 knew now that he was innocent. The two were 
 buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not 
 dead. She used to come and sit outside the 
 door, and listen to his breathing, and ask if he 
 ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? 
 If we said he did, she'd have come in to him, 
 and that would do no good, for he wasn't right 
 in his mind. By and by we told her he was 
 getting well, and then she didn't come, but 
 stayed at home, just saying his name over to 
 herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman 
 it is strange ! When Fingall was strong enough 
 to go out, I went with him the first time. He 
 was all thin and handsome as you can think, but 
 he had no memory, and his eyes were like a 
 child's. She saw him, and came out to meet 
 him. What does a woman care for the world 
 when she loves altogether ? Well, he just looked 
 at her as if he 'd never seen her before, and 
 passed by without a sign, though afterwards a 
 trouble came in his face. Three days later he
 
 214 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 was gone, no one knew where. That is two year? 
 ago. Ever since she has been looking for him." 
 
 " Is she mad ? " 
 
 " Mad ? Holy Mother ! It is not good to 
 have one thing in the head all the time ! What 
 do you think ? So much all at once ! And 
 then " 
 
 "Hush! Pierre! There she is !" said Law- 
 less, pointing to a ledge of rock not far away. 
 
 The girl stood looking out across the valley, 
 a weird, rapt look in her face, her hair falling 
 loose, a staff like a shepherd's crook in one 
 hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly 
 looked from point to point of the horizon. 
 
 The two watched her without speaking. 
 Presently she saw them. She gazed at them for 
 a minute, then descended to them. Lawless 
 and Pierre rose, doffing their hats. She looked 
 at both a moment, and her eyes settled on Pierre. 
 Presently she held out her hand to him. 
 
 "I knew you yesterday," she said. 
 
 Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with 
 one kind and strong. 
 
 " So-so, Cynthie," he said ; " sit down and 
 eat." 
 
 He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and 
 some fish from the ashes. She sat facing them, 
 and, taking from a bag at her side some wild
 
 The Finding of Fingall 215 
 
 fruits, ate slowly, saying nothing. Lawless no- 
 ticed that her hair had become gray at her tem- 
 ples, though she was but one-and-twenty years 
 old. Her face, brown as it was, shone with a 
 white kind of light, which may, or may not, 
 have come from the crucible of her eyes, where 
 the tragedy of her life was fusing. Lawless 
 could not bear to look long, for the fire that 
 consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for 
 the sight of the quick. At last she rose, her 
 body steady, but her hands having that tremu- 
 lous activity of her eyes. 
 
 "Will you not stay, Cynthie ?" asked Law- 
 less very kindly. 
 
 She came close to him, and, after searching 
 his eyes, said with a smile that almost hurt him, 
 " When I have found him, I will bring him to 
 your camp-fire. Last night the Voice said to 
 me that he waits for me where the mist rises 
 from the river at daybreak, close to the home 
 of the White Swan. Do you know where is the 
 home of the White Swan ? Before the frost 
 comes and the red wolf cries, I must find him. 
 Winter is the time of sleep ; I will give him 
 honey and dried meat. I know where we shall 
 live together. You never saw such roses ! 
 Hush ! I have a place where we can hide." 
 
 Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-
 
 2i6 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 like, and she said slowly: "In all time of our 
 tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the 
 hour of death, and in the Day of Judgment, 
 Good Lord, deliver us ! " 
 
 " Good Lord, deliver us ! " repeated Law- 
 less, in a low voice. Without looking at them, 
 she slowly turned away and passed up the hill- 
 side, her eyes scanning the valley as before. 
 
 " Good Lord, deliver us ! " again said Law- 
 less. " Where did she get it ?" 
 
 " From a book which Fingall left behind." 
 
 They watched her till she rounded a cliff, 
 and was gone ; then they shouldered their kits 
 and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti. 
 One month later, when a fine white surf of frost 
 lay on the ground, and the sky was darkened 
 often by the flight of the wild geese southward, 
 they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the 
 edge of a clump of pines. It was morning, 
 and White-faced Mountain shone clear and high, 
 without a touch of cloud or mist from its 
 haunches to its crown. 
 
 They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer 
 to a voice, entered. The sunlight streamed in 
 over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried 
 flowers in a corner. A man was kneeling beside 
 her. They came near and saw that the woman 
 was Cynthie.
 
 The Finding of Fingall 217 
 
 "Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught 
 the kneeling man by the shoulder. At the sound 
 of his voice the woman's eyes opened. 
 
 "Fingall ! Oh, Fingall!" she said, and 
 reached up a hand. 
 
 Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: 
 
 " Cynthie ! poor girl ! Oh, my poor Cyn- 
 thie ! " he said. 
 
 In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and 
 his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. 
 
 Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes 
 closed ; she slept. Fingall laid her down with 
 a sob in his throat ; then he sat up and clutched 
 Pierre's hand. 
 
 " In the East, where the doctors cured me, I 
 heard all," he said, pointing to her, "and I came 
 to find her. I was just in time ; I found her 
 yesterday." 
 
 "She knew you ?" whispered Pierre. 
 
 "Yes, but this fever came on." Returned 
 and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed 
 away the hair from the quiet face. " Poor girl!" 
 he said ; " poor girl !" 
 
 " She will get well ?" asked Pierre. 
 
 " God grant it ! " Fingall replied. " She is 
 better better !" 
 
 Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole
 
 218 An Adventurer of the North 
 
 away, leaving the man alone with the woman he 
 
 loved. 
 
 The two stood in silence, looking upon the 
 
 river beneath. Presently a voice crept through 
 
 the stillness. 
 
 " Fingall ! Oh, Fingall ! Fingall ! " 
 
 It was the voice of a woman returning from 
 
 the dead.
 
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