MURDER POINT
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The House of the Weeping Woman Hodder and Stoughton, London
The Worker and Other Poems The Macmillan Co., New York
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MURDER POINT
A Tale of Keewatin
by
CONINGSBY WILLIAM DAWSON
Hodder & StoughtonNew YorkGeorge H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1910, byGeorge H. Doran Company
The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. John Granger of Murder Point 1 II. The Unbidden Guest 13 III. The Devil in the Klondike 25 IV. Spurling's Tale 42 V. Cities Out of Sight 53 VI. The Pursuer Arrives 74 VII. The Corporal Sets Out 86 VIII. The Last of Strangeways 100 IX. The Break-up of the Ice 112 X. A Message from the Dead 120 XI. The Love of Woman 144 XII. He Reviews His Marriage, and is Put to the Test 162 XIII. The Dead Soul Speaks Out 186 XIV. Spurling Makes a Request 210 XV. Manitous and Shades of the Departed 225 XVI. In Hiding on Huskies' Island 240 XVII. The Forbidden River 257XVIII. The Betrayal 272 XIX. The Hand in the Doorway 283 XX. Spurling Takes Fright 297 XXI. The Murder in the Sky 305 XXII. The Blizzard 318XXIII. The Last Chance 334
MURDER POINT
CHAPTER I
JOHN GRANGER OF MURDER POINT
John Granger, agent on the Last Chance River in the interests ofGarnier, Parwin, and Wrath, independent traders in the territory ofKeewatin, sat alone in his store at Murder Point. He sat upon anupturned box, with an empty pipe between his lips. In the middle ofthe room stood an iron stove which blazed red hot; through the singlewindow, toward which he faced, the gold sun shone, made doublyresplendent in its shining by the reflected light cast up by theleagues of all-surrounding snow and ice.
Speaking to himself, as is the habit of men who have lived many monthsalone in the aboriginal silence of the North, "Well, and what next?"he asked.
He had been reviewing the uses to which he had put his thirty years oflife, and was feeling far from satisfied. That a man of breeding, whohad been given the advantages of a classical and university education,and was in addition an English barrister, should at the age of thirtybe conducting an independent trader's store in a distant part ofnorthern Canada did not seem right; Granger was conscious of theincongruity. During the past two years and a half he had obstinatelyrefused to examine his career, had fought against introspection, andhad striven to forget.
In this he had been wise, for Keewatin is not a good place wherein to_remember_ and to balance the ledger of the soul; it is too remotefrom human habitation, too near to God--its vastness has robbed it ofall standards, so that small misdemeanours may seem huge anddisastrous as the sin of Cain. Madness lurks in its swampy creeks andwanders along the edges of its woodland seas, so that the border-linebetween natural and supernatural is very faintly marked.
But to-day Granger had given way before the wave of emotional memoriesand had permitted his mind to recapitulate all the happiness which hehad lost; and with this result, that like a child in a darkened househe feared to advance and stood still trembling, questioning thefuture, anticipating and dreading that which was next to come. It wasthe second week in April; the break-up of the winter had almost begun;the spring was striding up from the south and a cry of travel was inthe air, both hopeful and melancholy. The world would soon be growingyoung again. Even in this desperate land the scars of the frost wouldsoon be obliterated; but to his own life, he was painfully aware, thespring had vouchsafed no promise of return. Was it gone forever? heasked.
At the present moment he was remembering London and St. James's Parkwith its banks of daffodils and showers of white may-blossom, itsgroups of laughing children at play, its parade of black-coatedhorsemen, with here and there the scarlet flash of a Life-guard as hesped trotting by, and for bass accompaniment to this music of the Joyof Life the continual low thunder which in the Mall the prancinghoofs of countless carriage-horses strummed.
Now it was Piccadilly in which he wandered, returning from the westwith his back toward the setting sun; the street-lamps had just beenkindled, and ahead of him, massed above the housetops, the blue-greyclouds of evening hung. He watched the faces of the people as theypassed, some eager, some jaded, some pleasure-seeking, some smug, andhe strove to conjecture their aim in life. At the Circus he pausedawhile, breathing deep and filling out his lungs with fragrance ofviolets and narcissi, which flower-girls clamoured for him topurchase. He bought a bunch and smiled faintly, contrasting thebeautiful significance of the name of the vendor's profession with theslatternly person to whom it was applied. Then onwards he went toLeicester Square where the dazzling lights of music-halls flared andquickened, and scarlet-lipped Folly smiled out upon him from streetcorners, and beckoned through the dusk. In the old days it had alwaysbeen when he had attained this point in his advance that the pleasureof London had failed, leaving him with a cramped sensation, a frenzieddesire for escape, and an overwhelming sense of the inherentrottenness of western civilisation. It was upon such occasions that hesaw, or thought he saw, the inevitable tendency of European cities toemasculate and corrupt the rugged nobilities of mankind. A revoltagainst artificiality had followed. Immediately, there in the heart ofthe world's greatest city, there had grown up about him the mirage ofthe primeval forest, whose boughs are steeped in silence, borne up bytall bare trunks, which lured him on to explore and adventure throughuntried lands, where quiet grows intense and intenser at each newstep, till he should arrive at that ultimate contentment for which heblindly sought.
He laughed at the memory, smiling bitterly at the manner in which thatformer self had been beguiled. As if to give emphasis to his jest hearose from his box, lounged over to the window, cleared its panes ofmist with his hand, and gazed out upon the landscape of his choice. Itstared back at him with immobile effrontery, with the glazedwide-parted eyes of the prostrate prize-fighter who, in his falling,has been stunned--eyes in which hatred is the only sign of life. Hethrew back his head and guffawed at the conceit, as though it had beenconceived by a brain and given utterance to by a voice other than hisown. Then he paused, drew himself erect, and his face went white; hehad heard of solitary men in Keewatin who had commenced by laughing tothemselves, and had ended by committing murder or suicide. Yet, as hestood in thought, he acknowledged the truth of the image; hisexistence on the Last Chance River was one long and wearisome strugglebetween himself and the intangible prize-fighter, whoever he mightbe,--Nature, the Elemental Spirit hostile to Creation, Keewatin, theDevil, call him what you like. Sometimes he had had the better of thecombat, in which case days of peace had followed; but for the mostpart he stood at bay or crouched upon his knees, watching for hisopportunity to rise; at his strongest he had only just sufficed tohold his invisible antagonist in check, battling for a victory whichhad been already awarded. He had long despaired of winning; the onlyquestion which now troubled him was "How long shall I be able tofight?"
A certain s
tory current in the district, concerning a Hudson Bayfactor, flashed through his mind. At the beginning of the frost hisfort had been stricken with smallpox; one by one his six whitecompanions had died and the Indians had fled in terror, leaving himalone in the silence. In the unpeopled solitude of the long darkwinter days and nights which had followed, he had grown strangelycurious as to the welfare of his soul, and had petitioned God that itmight be disembodied so that he might gaze upon it with his livingeyes. After a week of continuous prayer, he had fastened on hissnowshoes, and gone out upon the ice to seek God's sign. He had nottravelled far before he had come to the mound where his six companionslay buried. There against the dusky sky-line he had seen a famishedwolf standing over a scooped-out grave. So the factor had had hissign, and had looked upon his disembodied soul with his own eyes.
When the ice broke up and the first canoe of half-breed voyageursswept up to the fort, they had been met by a man who crawled uponhands and knees, and snarled like a husky or a coyote.
Granger shrugged his shoulders and shuddered. He thanked his God thatthe spring was near by. Upon one thing he was determined, thatwhatever happened, though he should have to die--by his own hand, hewould not grovel into Eternity upon his hands and knees as had thatfactor of the Hudson Bay.
For relief from the turbulence of his thoughts he turned his attentionto the frozen quiet of the world without. Not a feature in thelandscape had changed throughout all the past five months. He hadnothing new to learn about it: he had even committed to memory whereeach separate shadow would fall at each particular hour of the day.Straight out of the west the river ran so far as eye could reach,until it came to Murder Point. At close of day it seemed a moltenpathway which led, without a waver, from Granger's store directly tothe heart of the sun. Having arrived at the Point, the Last ChanceRiver swept round to the northeast, and then to the north, until inmany curves it poured its waters into the distant Hudson Bay. Itsbanks, in the open season, which lasted from May to October, were lowand muddy; the country through which it flowed, known as the barrenlands, was for the most part flat and densely wooded with a stuntedgrowth of black spruce, jackpine, tamarack, poplar, willow, and birch.The river was the only highway: much of the forest which lay back fromits banks was entirely unexplored on account of its swamps and thecloseness of its underbrush. There were places within three miles ofMurder Point where a white man had never travelled, and some where noteven the Indians could penetrate. Partly for this reason the districtwas rich in game: the caribou, moose, lynx, bear, wolf, beaver,--wolverine, and all the smaller fur-bearing animals of the Northabounded there. Seventy miles to the southwestward lay the nearestpoint of white habitation, where stood the Hudson Bay Company's Fortof God's Voice. Between Murder Point and the coast, for two hundredand fifty miles, there was no white settlement until the river's mouthwas reached, where the Company's House of the Crooked Creek had beenerected on the shores of the Bay. With his nearest neighbours, seventymiles distant at God's Voice, Granger had no intercourse, for he wasregarded by them as an outcast inasmuch as he was an independenttrader. Once was the time when Prince Rupert's _Company of Adventurersof England trading in the Hudson's Bay_ had held the monopoly of thefur trade over all this territory, from the Atlantic seaboard to thePacific Coast; then to have been caught trapping or trading privatelyhad meant almost certain death to the trespasser. Now that the powersof the Company had been curtailed, the only manner in which a HudsonBay factor could show his displeasure toward the interloper was byignoring his presence--a very real penalty in a land of loneliness,where, at the best, men can only hope to meet once or twice ayear--and by rendering his existence as unbearable and silent aspossible in every lawful and private way. In the art of ostracising,Robert Pilgrim, the factor at God's Voice, was a past master; duringthe two and a half years that Granger had been in Keewatin he had haddirect communication with no one of the Company's white employees. Onoccasions certain of its Cree Indians and half-breed trappers had cometo him stealthily, at dead of night, to see whether he would not offerthem better terms for their season's catch of furs, or to inquirewhether he would not give them liquor in exchange, the selling ofwhich to an Indian in Keewatin is a punishable offence. These wereusually loose characters who, being heavily in debt to the Company,were trying to postpone payment by selling to Granger on the sly; yet,even these men, when day had dawned, would pass him on the riverwithout recognition, as if he were a stick or a block of ice. However,only by dealing with such renegades could he hope to pick up anyprofit for the proprietors of his store. His every gain was a loss tothe factor, and _vice versa_; therefore by Robert Pilgrim he was notgreatly beloved.
Pilgrim was a man of conservative principles, who looked back withlonging to the days when a factor was supreme in his own domain,holding discretionary powers over all his people's lives, who, afterthe giving of a third warning to an independent trader found poachingin his district, could dispose of him more or less barbarouslyaccording to his choice. Now that every man, whatever his company, hadan equal right to gather furs in the Canadian North, he consideredthat he and his employers were being robbed; wherefore he made it hisbusiness to see that no friendship existed between any of hissubordinates and the man at Murder Point. Hence it happened that insummer when the canoes and York boats, and in winter when thedog-teams and runners from God's Voice, went up and down river by thefree-trading store of Garnier, Parwin and Wrath, no head was turned,and no sign given that anyone was aware that a white man, yearning fora handshake and the sound of spoken words, was regarding them withsorrowful eyes from the wind-swept spit of land.
Two years and a half ago, on his first arrival, Granger had laughed atthe factor's petty persecution and had pretended not to mind. Sincethen, as his isolation had grown on him, his temper had changed, hispride had given way, until, in the January of the present year, he hadjourneyed down to the Company's fort, and had implored them to speakto him, if only to curse him, that his reason might be saved. Thegates of the fort had been clanged in his face, and he had beensilently threatened with a loaded rifle, till resurrected shame haddriven him away.
He had since heard that Pilgrim had said on that occasion, "I knewthat he would come and that this would happen sooner or later. I'vebeen waiting for it; but he's held out longer than the last one."
This remark explained to Granger how it was that, when he had arrivedin Winnipeg, having just returned from the Klondike, and had appliedto his acquaintance Wrath for employment, his request had been soreadily granted. He had marvelled at the time that he, who had hadnext to no experience in Indian trading, should have met withimmediate engagement, and have been given sole charge of an outpost.Now he knew the reason; he had been given his job because hisemployers could get no one else to take it. From the first day of hiscoming to Murder Point strange stories had reached his ears concerningthe diverse and sudden ways in which its bygone agents had departedthis life: some by committing murder against themselves; some bycommitting murder against others; some, having gone mad, by wanderingoff into the winter wilderness to die; others, who were reckoned sane,by attempting to make the six hundred and eighty mile journey back tocivilisation alone across the snow and ice. These rumours he had notcredited at first, supposing them to be fictions invented by Pilgrimfor the purpose of shattering his confidence, and thus inducing him toleave at once. The last remark of the factor, however, inasmuch as ithad been reported to him by an honest man, the Jesuit priest PereAntoine, had proved to him that they were not all lies. When he hadquestioned Pere Antoine himself, the kindly old man had shaken hishead, refusing to answer, and had departed on his way. This hadhappened shortly after the occurrence in January; since then Grangerhad been less than ever happy in his mind.
Luckily for him, about this time Beorn Ericsen, the Man with the DeadSoul, as he was named, the only white Company trapper in the district,had quarrelled with the factor over the price which had been offeredhim for a silver fox; in revenge he had betaken himself to Granger,bringing with him his
half-breed daughter, Peggy, and his son,Eyelids. Their chance coming had saved his sanity; moreover it hadfurnished him with something to think about, besides himself, namelyPeggy. His courtship of her had been short and informal, as is the wayof white men when dealing with women of a darker shade: within a weekhe had taken her to himself. But Peggy had had ideas of her own uponthe nebulous question of morals, ideas which she had gained in the twoyears during which she had attended a Catholic school in Winnipeg; shehad refused to be regarded as a squaw, since the blood which flowed inher veins was fully half white, and, after staying with him for afortnight, had taken herself off, joining her father on a huntingtrip, giving Granger clearly to understand that she would not livewith him again until Pere Antoine should have come that way and unitedthem according to the rites of the Roman Church.
As he stood by the window looking out across the frost-bound landwhich once, years since, in Leicester Square, he in his ignorance hadso much desired, he re-pondered these events and, "Well, and whatnext?" he asked.
The touch of spring in the air, recalling him to England and the olddays, had made him realise among other things what this marriage witha half-breed girl, supposing he consented, must entail. It wouldexile him forever. No matter howsoever well he might prosper, or richhe might become, or whatsoever stroke of good fortune might visit him,he could never return to his English mother and English friends,bringing with him a half-breed wife and children who had Indian blood.If he married her, he would become what Pilgrim had named him--anoutcast. If he did not marry her, she would refuse to live with him,and he would be left lonely as before and would probably becomeinsane. Since he was never likely to become either prosperous, orrich, or fortunate, would it not be better for him to provide for hisimmediate happiness, he asked, and let the future take care of itself?Even while he asked the question another woman intruded her face: shewas slim, and fair, and delicately made, and was disguised in the maleattire of a Yukon placer-miner. She seemed to be asking him toremember her.
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, as if defying Fate: turningaway from the window, he reseated himself upon the upturned box by thered-hot stove.
Pooh! he'd been a fool to give way to retrospection. He was noexception to the general rule; most men mismanaged their careers--moreor less. Still, he was bound to confess that he had done so rathermore than less. Oh well, he would settle down to his fate. As for thatother girl in the Yukon miner's dress, who would keep intrudingherself, she also must be forgotten.
But at that point, perversely enough, he began to think about her.What was she doing at the present time? Where was she? Did she stillremember him? Had she made her fortune up there out of their last bigstrike? How had she construed his sudden and unexplained departure? Heswore softly to himself, and rising, went over to the window again.Then he pressed closer as if to make certain of something, gazing upthe long glimmering stretch of frozen river to the west.
There was a strange man coming down; strange to those parts, at anyrate, though Granger seemed to recognise something familiar in hisstride. He was driving his dogs furiously, lashing them on withfrenzied brutality, coming on apace, turning his head ever and againfrom side to side, peering across his shoulder and looking behind, asif he feared a thing which followed him--which was out of sight.
Murder Point: A Tale of Keewatin Page 1