When the constable and his prisoner had first struck camp, there had been two of them. Now there were six. For in addition to Jessie McRae, the Blackfoot, and Barney, another had come out of the night and hailed them with a “Hello, the camp!” This last self-invited guest was Brad Stearns, who had not ridden to Whoop-Up as he had announced, but had watched events from a distance on the chance that he might be of help to Tom Morse.
Jessie agreed with Beresford that she must stay in camp till morning. There was nothing else for her to do. She could not very well ride the night out with Onistah on the road back to the fort. But she stayed with great reluctance.
Her modesty was in arms. Never before had she, a girl alone, been forced to make camp with five men as companions, all but one of them almost strangers to her. The experience was one that shocked her sense of fitness.
She was troubled and distressed, and she showed it. Her impulsiveness had swept her into an adventure that might have been tragic, that still held potentialities of disaster. For she could not forget the look on West’s face when he had sworn to get even with her. This man was a terrible enemy, because of his boldness, his evil mind, and his lack of restraining conscience.
Yet even now she could not blame herself for what she had done. The constable’s life was at stake. It had been necessary to move swiftly and decisively.
Sitting before the fire, Sleeping Dawn began to tell her story. She told it to Beresford as an apology for having ridden forty miles with Onistah to save his life. It was, if he chose so to accept it, an explanation of how she came to do so unwomanly a thing.
“Onistah’s mother is my mother,” she said. “When I was a baby my own mother died. Stokimatis is her sister. I do not know who my father was, but I have heard he was an American. Stokimatis took me to her tepee and I lived there with her and Onistah till I was five or six. Then Angus McRae saw me one day. He liked me, so he bought me for three yards of tobacco, a looking-glass, and five wolf pelts.”
It may perhaps have been by chance that the girl’s eyes met those of Morse. The blood burned beneath the tan of her dusky cheeks, but her proud eyes did not flinch while she told the damning facts about her parentage and life. She was of the métis, the child of an unknown father. So far as she knew her mother had never been married. She had been bought and sold like a negro slave in the South. Let any one that wanted to despise her make the most of all this.
So far as any expression went Tom Morse looked hard as pig iron. He did not want to blunder, so he said nothing. But the girl would have been amazed if she could have read his thoughts. She seemed to him a rare flower that has blossomed in a foul swamp.
“If Angus McRae took you for his daughter, it was because he loved you,” Beresford said gently.
“Yes.” The mobile face was suddenly tender with emotion. “What can any father do more than he has done for me? I learned to read and write at his knee. He taught me the old songs of Scotland that he’s so fond of. He tried to make me good and true. Afterward he sent me to Winnipeg to school for two years.”
“Good for Angus McRae,” the young soldier said.
She smiled, a little wistfully. “He wants me to be Scotch, but of course I can’t be that even though I sing ‘Should auld acquaintance’ to him. I’m what I am.”
Ever since she had learned to think for herself, she had struggled against the sense of racial inferiority. Even in the Lone Lands men of education had crossed her path. There was Father Giguère, tall and austere and filled with the wisdom of years, a scholar who had left his dear France to serve on the outposts of civilization. And there was the old priest’s devoted friend Philip Muir, of whom the story ran that he was heir to a vast estate across the seas. Others she had seen at Winnipeg. And now this scarlet-coated soldier Beresford.
Instinctively she recognized the difference between them and the trappers and traders who frequented the North woods. In her bed at night she had more than once wept herself to sleep because life had built an impassable barrier between what she was and what she wanted to be.
“To the Scot nobody is quite like a Scot,” Beresford admitted with a smile. “When he wants to make you one, Mr. McRae pays you a great compliment”
The girl flashed a look of gratitude at him and went on with her story. “Whenever we are near Stokimatis, I go to see her. She has always been very fond of me. It wasn’t really for money she sold me, but because she knew Angus McRae could bring me up better than she could. I was with her to-day when Onistah came in and told us what this West was going to do. There wasn’t time for me to reach Father. I couldn’t trust anybody at Whoop-Up, and I was afraid if Onistah came alone, you wouldn’t believe him. You know how people are about—about Indians. So I saddled a horse and rode with him.”
“That was fine of you. I’ll never forget it, Miss McRae,” the young soldier said quietly, his eyes for an instant full on hers. “I don’t think I’ve ever met another girl who would have had the good sense and the courage to do it.”
Her eyes fell from his. She felt a queer delightful thrill run through her blood. He still respected her, was even grateful to her for what she had done. No experience in the ways of men and maids warned her that there was another cause for the quickened pulse. Youth had looked into the eyes of youth and made the world-old call of sex to sex.
In a little pocket opening from the draw Morse arranged blankets for the girl’s bed. He left Beresford to explain to her that she could sleep there alone without fear, since a guard would keep watch against any possible surprise attack.
When the soldier did tell her this, Jessie smiled back her reassurance. “I’m not afraid—not the least littlest bit,” she said buoyantly. “I’ll sleep right away.”
But she did not. Jessie was awake to the finger-tips, her veins apulse with the flow of rushing rivers of life. Her chaotic thoughts centered about two men. One had followed crooked trails for his own profit. There was something in him hard and unyielding as flint. He would go to his chosen end, whatever that might be, over and through any obstacles that might rise. But to-night, on her behalf, he had thrown down the gauntlet to Bully West, the most dreaded desperado on the border. Why had he done it? Was he sorry because he had forced her father to horsewhip her? Or was his warning merely the snarl of one wolf at another?
The other man was of a different stamp. He had brought with him from the world whence he had come a debonair friendliness, an ease of manner, a smile very boyish and charming. In his jaunty forage cap and scarlet jacket he was one to catch and hold the eye by reason of his engaging personality. He too had fought her battle. She had heard him, in that casually careless way of his, try to take the blame of having wounded West. Her happy thoughts went running out to him gratefully.
Not the least cause of her gratitude was that there had not been the remotest hint in his manner that there was any difference between her and any white girl he might meet.
CHAPTER XI
C.N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF
The North-West Mounted Police had authority not only to arrest, but to try and to sentence prisoners. The soldierly inspector who sat in judgment on Morse at Fort Macleod heard the evidence and stroked an iron-gray mustache reflectively. As he understood it, his business was to stop whiskey-running rather than to send men to jail. Beresford’s report on this young man was in his favor. The inspector adventured into psychology.
“Studied the Indians any—the effect of alcohol on them?” he asked Morse.
“Some,” the prisoner answered.
“Don’t you think it bad for them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you’ve been here longer than I. Isn’t this whiskey-smuggling bad business all round?”
“Not for the smuggler. Speakin’ as an outsider, I reckon he does it because he makes money,” Morse answered impersonally.
“For the country, I mean. For the trapper, for the breeds, for the Indians.”
“No doubt about that.”
“Y
ou’re a nephew of C.N. Morse, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wish you’d take him a message from me. Tell him that it’s bad business for a big trading firm like his to be smuggling whiskey.” The officer raised a hand to stop the young man’s protest. “Yes, I know you’re going to tell me that we haven’t proved he’s been smuggling. We’ll pass that point. Carry him my message. Just say it’s bad business. You can tell him if you want to that we’re here to put an end to it and we’re going to do it. But stress the fact that it isn’t good business. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, sir.” A glint of a smile showed in the inspector’s eyes. “I’ll give you a Scotch verdict, young man. Not guilty, but don’t do it again. You’re discharged.”
“Barney, too?”
“Hmp! He’s a horse of another color. Think we’ll send him over the plains.”
“Why make two bites of a cherry, sir? He can’t be guilty if I’m not,” the released prisoner said.
“Did I say you weren’t?” Inspector MacLean countered.
“Not worth the powder, is he, sir?” Tom insinuated nonchalantly. “Rather a fathead, Barney is. If he’s guilty, it’s not as a principal. You’d much better send me up.”
The officer laughed behind the hand that stroked the mustache. “Do you want to be judge and jury as well as prisoner, my lad?”
“Thought perhaps my uncle would understand the spirit of your message better if Barney went along with me, Inspector.” The brown eyes were open and guileless.
MacLean studied the Montanan deliberately. He began to recognize unusual qualities in this youth.
“Can’t say I care for your friend Barney. He’s a bad egg, or I miss my guess.”
“Not much taken with him myself. Thought if I’d get him to travel south with me it might save you some trouble.”
“It might,” the Inspector agreed. “It’s his first offense so far as I know.” Under bristling eyebrows he shot a swift look at this self-assured youngster. He had noticed that men matured at an early age on the frontier. The school of emergency developed them fast. But Morse struck him as more competent even than the other boyish plainsmen he had met. “Will you be responsible for him?”
The Montanan came to scratch reluctantly. He had no desire to be bear leader for such a doubtful specimen as Barney.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause.
“Keep him in the States, will you?”
“Yes.”
“Take him along, then. Wish you luck of him.”
As soon as he reached Fort Benton, Tom reported to his uncle. He told the story of the whiskey cargo and its fate, together with his own adventures subsequent to that time.
The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed Yankee who had drifted West in his youth. Since then he had acquired gray hairs and large business interests. At Inspector MacLean’s message he grinned.
“Thinks it’s bad business, does he?”
“Told me to tell you so,” Tom answered.
“Didn’t say why, I guess.”
“No.”
The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a plug of tobacco, cut off a liberal chew, and stowed this in his cheek. Then, lounging back in the chair, he cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.
“Wonder what he meant.”
Tom volunteered no opinion. He recognized his uncle’s canny habit of fishing in other people’s minds for confirmation of what was in his own.
“Got any idee what he was drivin’ at?” the old pioneer went on.
“Sorta.”
C.N. Morse chuckled. “Got a notion myself. Let’s hear yours.”
“The trade with the North-West Mounted is gonna be big for a while. The Force needs all kinds of supplies. It’ll have to deal through some firm in Benton as a clearin’ house. He’s servin’ notice that unless C.N. Morse & Company mends its ways, it can’t do business with the N.W.M.P.”
“That all?” asked the head of the firm.
“That’s only half of it. The other half is that no firm of whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the line.”
C.N. gave another little chirrup of mirth. “Keep your brains whittled up, don’t you? Any advice you’d like to give?”
Tom was not to be drawn. “None, sir.”
“No comments, son? Passin’ it up to Uncle Newt, eh?”
“You’re the head of the firm. I’m hired to do as I’m told.”
“You figure on obeyin’ orders and lettin’ it go at that?”
“Not quite.” The young fellow’s square chin jutted out. “For instance, I’m not gonna smuggle liquor through any more. I had my eyes opened this trip. You haven’t been on the ground like I have. If you want a plain word for it, Uncle Newt—”
“Speak right out in meetin’, Tom. Shouldn’t wonder but what I can stand it.” The transplanted Yankee slanted at his nephew a quizzical smile. “I been hearin’ more or less plain language for quite a spell, son.”
Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder, quietly but without apology. “Sellin’ whiskey to the tribes results in wholesale murder, sir.”
“Strong talk, boy,” his uncle drawled.
“Not too strong. You know I don’t mean anything personal, Uncle Newt. To understand this thing you’ve got to go up there an’ see it. The plains tribes up there go crazy over fire-water an’ start killin’ each other. It’s a crime to let ’em have it.”
Young Morse began to tell stories of instances that had come under his own observation, of others that he had heard from reliable sources. Presently he found himself embarked on the tale of his adventures with Sleeping Dawn.
The fur-trader heard him patiently. The dusty wrinkled boots of the merchant rested on the desk. His chair was tilted back in such a way that the weight of his body was distributed between the back of his neck, the lower end of the spine, and his heels. He looked a picture of sleepy, indolent ease, but Tom knew he was not missing the least detail.
A shadow darkened the doorway of the office. Behind it straddled a huge, ungainly figure.
“’Lo, West! How’re tricks?” C.N. Morse asked in his lazy way. He did not rise from the chair or offer to shake hands, but that might be because it was not his custom to exert himself.
West stopped in his stride, choking with wrath. He had caught sight of Tom and was glaring at him. “You’re here, eh? Sneaked home to try to square yourself with the old man, did ya?” The trail foreman turned to the uncle. “I wanta tell you he double-crossed you for fair, C.N. He’s got a heluva nerve to come back here after playin’ in with the police the way he done up there.”
“I’ve heard something about that,” the fur-trader admitted cautiously. “You told me Tom an’ you didn’t exactly gee.”
“He’ll never drive another bull-team for me again.” West tacked to his pronouncement a curdling oath.
“We’ll call that settled, then. You’re through bull-whackin’, Tom.” There was a little twitch of whimsical mirth at the corners of the old man’s mouth.
“Now you’re shoutin, C.N. Threw me down from start to finish, he did. First off, when the breed girl busted the casks, he took her home ’stead of bringin’ her to me. Then at old McRae’s camp when I was defendin’ myself, he jumped me too. My notion is from the way he acted that he let on to the red-coat where the cache was. Finally when I rode out to rescue him, he sided in with the other fellow. Hadn’t been for him I’d never ’a’ had this slug in my leg.” The big smuggler spoke with extraordinary vehemence, spicing his speech liberally with sulphurous language.
The grizzled Yankee accepted the foreman’s attitude with a wave of the hand that dismissed any counterargument. But there was an ironic gleam in his eye.
“’Nough said, West. If you’re that sot on it, the boy quits the company pay-roll as an employee right now. I won’t have him annoyin’ you another hour. He becomes a member of the firm to-day.”
The big bully’s jaw sagg
ed. He stared at his lean employer as though a small bomb had exploded at his feet and numbed his brains. But he was no more surprised than Tom, whose wooden face was expressionless.
“Goddlemighty! Ain’t I jus’ been tellin’ you how he wrecked the whole show—how he sold out to that bunch of spies the Canadian Gov’ment has done sent up there?” exploded West.
“Oh, I don’t guess he did that,” Morse, Senior, said lightly. “We got to remember that times are changin’, West. Law’s comin’ into the country an’ we old-timers oughta meet it halfway with the glad hand. You can’t buck the Union Jack any more than you could Uncle Sam. I figure I’ve sent my last shipment of liquor across the line.”
“Scared, are you?” sneered the trail boss.
“Maybe I am. Reckon I’m too old to play the smuggler’s game. And I’ve got a hankerin’ for respectability—want the firm to stand well with the new settlers. Legitimate business from now on. That’s our motto, boys.”
“What church you been j’inin’, C.N.?”
“Well, maybe it’ll come to that too. Think I’d make a good deacon?” the merchant asked amiably, untwining his legs and rising to stretch.
West slammed a big fist on the table so that the inkwell and the pens jumped. “All I got to say is that this new Sunday-school outfit you aim to run won’t have no use for a he-man. I’m quittin’ you right now.”
The foreman made the threat as a bluff. He was the most surprised man in Montana when his employer called it quietly, speaking still in the slow, nasal voice of perfect good-nature.
“Maybe you’re right, West. That’s for you to say, of course. You know your own business best. Figure out your time an’ I’ll have Benson write you a check. Hope you find a good job.”
The sense of baffled anger in West foamed up. His head dropped down and forward threateningly.
“You do, eh? Lemme tell you this, C.N. I don’t ask no odds of you or any other guy. Jes’ because you’re the head of a big outfit you can’t run on me. I won’t stand for it a minute.”
The Second Western Megapack Page 162