CHAPTER XVI
A BUSINESS DEAL
It was thirty below zero. The packed snow crunched under the feet ofMorse as he moved down what served Faraway for a main street. Theclock in the store registered mid-afternoon, but within a few minutesthe sub-Arctic sun would set, night would fall, and aurora lightswould glow in the west.
Four false suns were visible around the true one, the whole forming across of five orbs. Each of these swam in perpendicular segments of acircle of prismatic colors. Even as the young man looked, the lowestof the cluster lights plunged out of sight. By the time he had reachedthe McRae house, darkness hung over the white and frozen land.
Jessie opened the door to his knock and led him into the living-roomof the family, where also the trapper's household ate and Fergusslept. It was a rough enough place, with its mud-chinked log walls andits floor of whipsawed lumber. But directly opposite the door was alog-piled hearth that radiated comfort and cheerfulness. Buffalo robesserved as rugs and upon the walls had been hung furs of silver fox,timber wolves, mink, and beaver. On a shelf was a small library of notmore than twenty-five books, but they were ones that only a lover ofgood reading would have chosen. Shakespeare and Burns held honoredplaces there. Scott's poems and three or four of his novels were inthe collection. In worn leather bindings were "Tristram Shandy,"and Smollett's "Complete History of England." Bunyan's "Pilgrim'sProgress" shouldered Butler's "Hudibras" and Baxter's "The Saint'sEverlasting Rest." Into this choice company one frivolous modern novelhad stolen its way. "Nicholas Nickleby" had been brought from Winnipegby Jessie when she returned from school. The girl had read them allfrom cover to cover, most of them many times. Angus too knew them all,with the exception of the upstart "storybook" written by a Londonnewspaper man of whom he had never before heard.
"I'm alone," Jessie explained. "Father and Fergus have gone out to thetraps. They'll not be back till to-morrow. Mother's with Mrs. Whaley."
Tom knew that the trader's wife was not well. She was expecting to beconfined in a few weeks.
He was embarrassed at being alone with the girl inside the walls ofa house. His relations with Angus McRae reached civility, but notcordiality. The stern old Scotchman had never invited him to drop inand call. He resented the fact that through the instrumentality ofMorse he had been forced to horsewhip the lass he loved, and thetrader knew he was not forgiven his share in the episode and probablynever would be. Now Tom had come only because a matter of business hadto be settled one way or the other at once.
"Blandoine is leavin' for Whoop-Up in the mornin'. I came to see yourfather about those robes. If we buy, it'll have to be now. I can send'em down with Blandoine," he explained.
She nodded, briskly. "Father said you could have them at your price ifyou'll pay what he asked for those not split. They're good hides--cowsand young bulls."[5]
[Footnote 5: A split robe was one cut down the middle and sewntogether with sinews. The ones skinned from the animal in a singlepiece were much more valuable, but the native women usually preparedthe hides the other way because of the weight in handling. One of thereasons the Indians gave the missionaries in favor of polygamy wasthat one wife could not dress a buffalo robe without assistance. Thebraves themselves did not condescend to menial labor of this kind.(W.M.R.)]
"It's a deal," the fur-trader said promptly. "Glad to get 'em, thoughI'm payin' all I can afford for the split ones."
"I'll get the key to the storehouse," Jessie said.
She walked out of the room with the springy, feather-footed step thatdistinguished her among all the women that he knew. In a few momentsshe was back. Instead of giving him the key, she put it down on thetable near his hand.
Beneath the tan the dark blood beat into his face. He knew she haddone this in order not to run the risk of touching him.
For a long moment his gaze gripped and held her. Between them passedspeech without words. His eyes asked if he were outside the palecompletely, if he could never wipe out the memory of that first cruelmeeting. Hers answered proudly that, half-breed though she was, he wasto her only a wolfer, of less interest than Black, the leader of herfather's dog train.
He picked up the key and left, wild thoughts whirling through hismind. He loved her. Of what use was it trying longer to disguise itfrom himself. Of the inferior blood she might be, yet his whole beingwent out to her in deep desire. He wanted her for his mate. He cravedher in every fiber of his clean, passionate manhood, as he had neverbefore longed for a woman in his life. And she hated him--hated himwith all the blazing scorn of a young proud soul whose fine body hadendured degradation on his account. He was a leper, to be classed withBully West.
Nor did he blame her. How could she feel otherwise and hold herself-respect. The irony of it brought a bitter smile to his lips. Ifshe only knew it, the years would avenge her a hundredfold. For he hadcut himself off from even the chance of the joy that might have beenhis.
In the sky an aurora flashed with scintillating splendor. The heavenswere aglow with ever-changing bars and columns of colored fire.
Morse did not know it. Not till he had passed a dozen steps beyond aman in heavy furs did his mind register recognition of him as Whaley.He did not even wonder what business was taking the gambler towardAngus McRae's house.
Business obtruded its claims. He arranged with Blandoine to takethe robes out with him and walked back to the McRae storehouse. Itadjoined the large log cabin where the Scotchman and his family lived.
Blandoine and he went over the robes carefully in order that thereshould be no mistake as to which ones the trainmaster took. This done,Morse locked the door and handed the key to his companion.
To him there was borne the sound of voices--one low and deep, theother swift and high. He caught no words, but he became aware that aqueer excitement tingled through his veins. At the roots of his hairthere was an odd, prickling sensation. He could give himself noreason, but some instinct of danger rang in him like a bell. The lowbass and the light high treble--they reached him alternately, cuttinginto each other, overriding each other, clashing in agitated dissent.
Then--a shrill scream for help!
Morse could never afterward remember opening the door of the loghouse. It seemed to him that he burst through it like a battering-ram,took the kitchen in two strides, and hurled himself against the sturdyhome-made door which led into the living-room.
This checked him, for some one had slid into its socket the bar usedas a bolt. He looked around the kitchen and found in one swift glancewhat he wanted. It was a large back log for the fireplace.
With this held at full length under his arm he crashed forward. Thewood splintered. He charged again, incited by a second call forsuccor. This time his attack dashed the bolt and socket from theirplace. Morse stumbled into the room like a drunken man.
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