The cabin we occupied was long and rambling, with two stoves and twelve beds. The one assigned to Mike and myself was at one end, and Mike hung a blanket as a sort of curtain because, he explained to me gravely, we were newlyweds. The nuns slept next to us. As a mark of respect. Baldy Red had dragged in three of his heavy chests and improvised a table where the nuns took their meals, away from the men. When I saw Baldy, face purple and sweating in the sub-zero cold, lug those six-foot packing cases into the cabin, half break his back propping them up so that the three cases would make a level surface, and then cover it all with a gaudy cloth he'd dug up somewhere, my heart went out to him, and I turned to Mike and said:
"There's a man with a kind heart. I think it's sweet and pathetic the way he built that table for the nuns. He even thinks that horrible rag is a pretty tablecloth And look at the way he worked, dragging those heavy cases in."
"They were pretty heavy," Mike said, and winked at me; why, I didn't know.
I set about making friends with Baldy Red. First I spoke to the nuns. They were overcome by his attentions.
"And yet they say he has a bad reputation," said Sister Margaret.
"Evil tongues!" said Sister Magdalena.
While the blizzard roared outside, and I chatted with the nuns, Mike and the men were grouped around the big stove discussing the weather, though, as far as I could see, that didn't change it any.
Baldy Red came over to ask the sisters if there was anything they wanted, and I took the opportunity to talk to him.
I guess the story Mike had told me was on my mind, because right in the middle of a perfectly innocent conversation I asked him if he'd sold any horses lately.
"I sell horses right along, Mrs. Flannigan," said Baldy without hesitating in the least.
"I'm not the best judge of horseflesh in these parts," he went on grinning, "but I'm the best judge of who's the worst judge . . . and that's the way I keep body and soul together."
Throwing a pious look at the nuns, he made his way back to the stove. He smiled at us all the way, with his cheery, innocent red face, but I was beginning to doubt him too.
I went back and threw myself on my bed. I could hear the wind beating against the walls. I pulled back the curtain over the one tiny window in the north end of the cabin and looked out into flying snow. It reminded me of that terrible night when the train had been stalled before Regina, a long time ago. I couldn't make myself believe that it had been less than a year. It seemed as if I had lived the longer half of my life since that day. I was suddenly overcome by the same loneliness and hatred of the cold and snow
as on that night, and to comfort myself I began to draw a dog's ears, Juno's ears, in the frost of the windowpane.
Well, another Juno was behind me. The train Juno would be scrambling over Mildred's ranch. The Boston Juno would be curled up in my mother's bedroom, where her grandmother, the Irish Juno, had had her first pups. And I was going to make Mike give me a Northwest Juno as soon as one of our sled dogs had a litter. For a second I was worried because it seemed to me that only male dogs could do that hard-sled-pulling. But then the only dogs I'd seen in the North were sled dogs, and if they were all males ... so I reassured myself and went on drawing Juno.
It had taken a long time to get used to these northern dogs. Not dogs, but half-tamed wolves they seemed. Pat one on the head, and you'd lose a finger. I've seen Black-Tip take a bite out of the one in front of him while pulling the sled on the dead run. The greatest and most unbelievable confusion in the world is when dog teams go at each other, and snarl the traces like a wet fishline, and pile the goods in the snow, and mill around in growling fury.
About the only one with a gentle disposition was Black-Mittens. The half-breeds and the Crees seemed to think highly of the black parts of a dog, and so they were named Black-Ear, Black-Foot, Black-Socks, Black-Mittens, Black-and-White, Black-Patch, and so on, up to the magnificent leader of the team, Black-All-Over.
In the morning we were on our way to Jussard. Baldy Red was snowshoeing beside our sled and joking with Mike. "And what are they sending Sergeant Flannigan into our territory for?" he said. "Is it to give him a rest?"
"Why, to put down crime," I said, a little proudly.
"Crime!" Baldy laughed. "There's no crime to speak of in the Northwest. Oh, a few shootings, and once or twice a week a throat cut over a woman ... or maybe Scotch Bobby taking a pint too much and burning down a house. But as for thieves and pickpockets, and such bothersome rascals, we've none of them." He grinned at me. "Why, Lady, you could take a sack of gold from
here to Fort St. John, and not a man would stop you. You're as safe as in the Lord's pocket."
"A place you'll never go, Baldy," Mike said.
"Now, there's a houseful of redcoats at Jussard," Baldy Red continued, "but what use in the world are they but to smoke the government's tobacco and eat the government's food, and interfere with the movements of the government's best citizens?" This meant himself, for he shook his head in a self-righteous way.
"Redcoat is a name I don't like," Mike said stiffly.
"You'll not deny if you fell on your knees you'd look like the sun setting over the hills," said Baldy with a wink at me.
"Some day you're going to get your whiskers singed, Baldy, my boy," Mike said. "And it's a pity I'm not on duty this trip, or I'd do it for you."
"Would you now?"
"Yes," said Mike. "And the first thing I'd do would be to have a look in those wooden chests of yours, if it wouldn't be disturbing the comfort of the holy sisters."
"Oh, but it would be disturbing their comfort," Baldy said, with what I thought was a kind of weak smile. "And the Lord knows that's the least we can do for women that bring such a blessing on this God-forsaken country. Have you ever heard of the Mission at Grouard?" He turned to me.
"No," I said.
"A wonderful place," said Baldy, and launched into a description of the Mission, the nuns, the school, and the gardens.
Mike waited till he had finished. Then he grinned and said, "Baldy, you're so fond of the nuns, why don't you give them something? One of those chests of yours would make a beautiful seat for the schoolroom. Yes," Mike said, warming up, "five or six kids, maybe seven if they were small enough could sit on them, and if they didn't kick their feet too hard, they couldn't be breaking the glass."
"What glass?" Baldy Red shouted, and it was comical how pale his face could become and yet leave his nose shining red above.
"Why, I have a picture in my mind of your chests being filled with rows and rows of bottles."
"The only bottles I ever carry north are empty bottles," said Baldy solemnly, "for castoreum." He turned to me and explained that this was a panacea made by the Indians from two small glands under the beaver's tail.
"In that case, everything is okay," Mike said. "There's no law against bringing in empty bottles."
"The bottles are empty," Baldy said stubbornly and returned to his nuns on their chests, where he sat down and eyed Mike and me suspiciously.
"What's wrong with bringing in full bottles?" I asked immediately.
"To Baldy Red, the only full bottle there is, is a bottle full of whisky. And the law says—no whisky north of the fiftieth parallel."
"Are you going to arrest him?" I demanded, thrilled because I had yet to see Mike make an arrest, and yet a little sorry for Baldy, who seemed so nice and friendly and had taken all the trouble to explain to me about the Mission and the beaver-tail medicine.
"No," Mike said. "I'm just guessing. Besides, I'm not on duty. We'll see what the boys at Jussard will do."
But the Mounted Police at Jussard couldn't cope with Baldy and the nuns. They searched the sleds of the caravans thoroughly for liquor, firearms, and other contraband, but they gallantly refused to disturb the two nuns on their cases of whisky. And so the five packing cases that made up the sisters' throne were untouched, and we pushed on to Peace River Crossing. We we
re starting our three-hundred-mile trek upriver to Hudson's Hope in the morning. Since Baldy would be starting earlier, we said good-bye before turning in. The crimson old man winked back slyly. "Like I said, Sergeant, empty bottles—just empty bottles."
That night, our last at Peace River Crossing, Mike whispered to me, "It's a shame to let all that rotgut liquor poison the Indians, and it would be a worse shame if that noble Baldy Red were a
liar." So Mike sneaked out of our cabin, and what he did I don't know, but after we came to Hudson's Hope, word reached us that Baldy Red had spoken the truth after all. When he came to open his five cases of bottles, they were, in truth, all empty.
Six
Mike said the air was so cold he was afraid it would freeze the lungs of the horses. Maybe that's why every breath hurt me. I was tired. The going had been slow all day, and Mike was up ahead with the runner. Another mile, and he dropped back to my sled.
"How goes it, Minx?" he asked, and squeezed my hand.
I laughed and said, "Fine."
He gave me a sharp look and then began telling me what a good rest we'd have tonight. "This isn't a trapper's cabin. The Howards have a big home with an organ. They had it freighted in."
"Have you stayed with them before?"
"Sure, they've put me up whenever I've been in the territory. Everybody's glad of company up in these parts; they try to get you to stay on and on."
"Who are the Howards?" What I really wanted to know was: was there a Mrs. Howard? I thought how nice it would be to talk to a woman. Mike jogged along by my side, and his forced breathing punctuated his speech. "Howard's a lumberman. Got a mill up there at Taylor Flats."
"Is he married?" I asked.
Mike laughed. "Well, all I know is they've got four sons."
I smiled to myself. I was a married woman, and Mike said things like that to me sometimes. But the smile went out of me,
for the cold was cutting at my insides with every breath. Pain was white, white and cold, and it was around me like a winding sheet. Something beat at my ears and dripped into my mind. At first I thought it was snow, but after a while it made sense and I knew it was Mike talking.
"We'll be there soon . . . soon, darling."
By breathing very regularly, I was able to push away the white and see the troubled blue eyes of Mike Flannigan. "Did Mildred tell you what I said about them?"
"What, Kathy? What, girl?" He bent very close to me because my words hadn't come out as loud as I thought them.
"I told Mildred. I said, 'His eyes are so blue you could swim in them.' " The words poured out on a swell of pain, but it was suddenly important. I had to find out. "Did she, Mike? Did she ever tell you that?"
"Yes, darling. She told me. Now don't talk. Rest. We'll be there soon."
"But what did you think of me?"
"I loved you, Kathy."
I sighed and turned my face in against his furs. I tried to remember when he had gotten into the cariole with me—but after a while I forgot to wonder, and then I think I slept.
The motion stopped. I sat up and looked around. We were in a clearing. Ahead of us was a house, and a charred barn stood a little to one side. All over the clearing were neat stacks of firewood. Mike picked me up. His steps shook me and hurt.
He set me down inside, and the sudden heat almost choked me. There were a lot of people, all talking in whispers. A woman helped Mike undo my furs. "The poor child," she said.
I remember being put in an iron bedstead, and Mike feeding me soup and then lying down beside me. I thought it funny he had on all his clothes and wondered why he didn't come under the covers.
When I opened my eyes it was daylight, and Mike wasn't there. I sat up carefully to see how I felt, and I knew I was much better.
My clothes were folded over a chair, and I began to put them on. I saw the door handle turn very softly, and the door open very slowly. Mike looked in. "Kathy," and he was over by me in a step. He was so close that his worry and his fear and his love were mine too, and in me.
"I'm all right, Mike," I told him before he could ask me. "Shhh," I said, "It's all over. I'm well now."
Mike laughed shakily. "You'd think I was the one who had been sick."
I laughed too. We sat on the bed and laughed with relief that things were better, and not worse.
Then Mike went into the other room and came back with something that looked like a dog harness.
"What's that?"
"It's for you," Mike said. He looked at the leather straps in his hand and then at me. "A Mounty's got to be a bit of everything, Kathy. Up in this country, where there's no judge, no policeman, no forest ranger, I have to be those things. I have to be a doctor too." He looked at me and smiled to reassure me. Then he said, "You've not been well, Kathy. And I think it's a collapse of the right lung you've got. Now, don't look scared, darling—because I've got the thing here that's going to help you." And he waved the dog harness.
"That?" I asked.
"It's a brace that will keep your shoulders back. Haven't you noticed how you're leaning forward all the time? Why, the air your lungs are meant to be filled with never gets where it should, on account of your hunching your shoulders forward." I must have looked unconvinced because he added, "A good posture will keep you from getting so tired, Katherine."
"But, Mike, I don't want to wear a brace."
"You'll give it a chance, won't you?"
"Well, if I can wear it under my clothes."
"Sure and you can. I've made it that soft it won't chafe."
I took off my shirt and undid the top buttons of my underwear.
"You'll have to put it on me, Mike. I'll never figure out how it works."
"Lift up your arms, then, and I'll slip it on." I did. But instead of slipping it over my arms, it was himself he slipped between them. He kissed me in the hollow of my throat, and it was a long time before we got those braces on.
I rested in my room all day, and that evening I met the Howard family. Mike had spoken of the Howard "boys," but the youngest was five years older than I.
I went into the kitchen to ask Mrs. Howard if there was anything I could do. She was shocked at my wanting to help. "Eyes and hair," she said, "that's all you are; eyes and a mop of hair. The only thing you can do that will be of any use is to wash up for dinner." So I pumped water over my hands and then looked around for a towel.
"Up there on the wall." Mrs. Howard pointed. "We got one of those roller towels. Henry brought it back when he was out about a year ago."
I could see that the towel had not been changed in that length of time. It was black and grimy, and as it hadn't occurred to Mrs. Howard to change it, I could hardly suggest it. I took hold of the towel with as small a grip as it was possible to get and still spin it around. As it whirled I looked for a clean spot, or at least a light gray one. There didn't seem to be any. I turned it again, very slowly, to make sure. By that time, my hands were dry.
"Ma," one of the boys called in, "where's dinner?"
Mrs. Howard looked harassed. She was stirring four or five pots and keeping a weather eye on twenty pairs of socks that hung over the stove. The line was strung too low, and every time she reached for a dish, the socks flapped in her face. The main course was beans, and she let me put them on the table. They had a very long table, and the Howard men and Mike were seated at it. Everything in the room was homemade—except a gilt organ. It was highly polished, and a candle gleamed at either end, giving it the appearance of a shrine, which is what it was to this family.
Beside each man was a brass spittoon. The six of them lolled
back on hind chair legs, chewing tobacco and spitting. The idea seemed to be not to spit in your own spittoon, but in your neighbor's. There must have been some skill to the game because the floor was spotless. Mike looked up and gave me a sly wink. "What are we eating?" he asked.
"Beans."
A chorus of groans went up. "Ma," Mr. Ho
ward called to the kitchen, "is it beans again?"
"Never you mind, Henry Howard." She came in with meat in one hand and a pot of prunes in the other. "We got dessert tonight." She set the prunes on the table. "These here are known as lumberman's strawberries."
"You see, they're dried," Mike explained. "Easy to keep up here."
"Aw, heck," one of the boys said. "I thought when you said dessert, you maybe meant candy."
"Now where would I be getting candy?" his mother asked as she set some dried eggs beside the dried prunes. "It's all gone three months ago." She turned to me. "Last time Henry went out, he was supposed to bring me some cups. My china ones I started housekeeping with all got broke. And all we got left is that tin one you see."
I looked where she pointed and was horrified to see a tin mug of water making its way toward me. Each man gulped thirstily, wiped his greasy lips with his hand, and passed the cup on. It was refilled at frequent intervals. It came to me; a bean was floating in it. I tried not to think how it had gotten there, but passed the cup quickly to Mrs. Howard. "Aren't you thirsty?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Well, anyway, I was telling you about how we haven't got no decent china. Know what this Henry done? He bought candy. Now, some men can't be trusted. They'll go on a drunk as soon as they hit town. Well, Henry'll go on a spree, too, only with him it's candy. What does he do but eat it and stock up on it until all the money is gone, including the money set aside for my cups."
"I hated to touch that cup money," Mr. Howard interrupted, "but it's a terrible craving, Mrs. Flannigan, just terrible."
He had called me Mrs. Flannigan, and I glanced significantly at Mike. He still wasn't used to my having the same name as his mother.
I was startled by a low wailing cry that rose to a shriek. No one seemed to notice it or even look up. But it started Mr. Howard on a new train of thought. "Hear about our fire, Mike?"
"Noticed your barn was charred. Lose anything?"
The wail had been taken up and answered again and again in a maniacal crescendo of sound. I shuddered with it long after I stopped hearing it. Then I was hearing it again, a low minor wail that built and built until the final shriek tore through you.
Mrs. Mike Page 8