CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF DAVE

In the early morning there was excitement at the fort, for the isolated inhabitants were soon to be placed in contact with the outer world. The H.B. boat, which, in the summer season, made periodic trips from Selkirk to the Great Saskatchewan, had entered the river, and was steaming heavily towards the uneven and broken platform of logs which constituted a landing stage.

As usual, news of the arrival came through the medium of the keen-sighted Justin. The excitable Factor clapped a hand over Lamont's arm, and dragged him forth in shirt and breeches to where the white waves rushed and bubbled, covered with foam of broken force. Here they waited for news from the world and sight of other fellow creatures.

Spray dashed up the slimy logs, while a strong river breeze made the morning chilly. McAuliffe blew into his hands vigorously, always keeping his gaze on the green screen of firs, round which the boat might any moment appear.

'Goldam! I reckon the crazy ark's travelled to the bottom,' he cried lustily.

'The river's running strong. Listen to the roar of the rapids,' said his companion.

'Justin sighted her at the second bend, and she's not round yet. Us two could pull the lump of wood along in less time. Goldam! there she is! That's her old nose coming round.'

The black boat crawled round the bend slowly, with two lines of foam parting before her keel. Then the watchers distinguished the coarse features of a man standing in the bows. He held, and occasionally waved as an entirely unnecessary signal, a small and much torn flag.

The Factor rubbed his hands excitedly. 'It's Dave Spencer, making a fool of himself as usual. Now we'll have to get to work and pump the news out of him. Dave's bad on telling things, though it's in his head all the time. It's like dropping a bucket down a deep well getting anything out of him.'

He placed a hand to his mouth and shouted, 'Ho, there, Dave!'

The Captain grinned widely, but replied only by a more vigorous wave of the tattered ensign.

'Thinks a wonderful lot of his breath, don't he?' grumbled the Factor. 'Now, if it had been Angus, he'd have started in to talk 'way back at the mouth. He don't care if no one hears him. Talks just for the pleasure of letting his tongue work!'

The boat turned in mid-stream, slightly above the stage, then drew down cautiously, the captain bawling deep-toned commands, interlarded with epithets. Presently a rope swung uncoiling through the air. This was eagerly snatched at by the Factor. Then the boat was made fast and Dave stepped ashore, mail bag in hand.

McAuliffe gripped him by the arm at once. 'Now, then, Dave, let's have it!'

'What's the racket?' asked the other composedly, beating his legs. 'I tell you, Alf, it's ter'ble cold on the water this morning. The wind's a terror.'

'You derned old oyster!' spluttered the Factor. 'Open up your chin bag, and put us up to what's been going on.'

'It's wonderful cold for the time of year, sure. How's yourself, Alf?'

'Going to consumption for wanting to pound your head off. See here, Dave! What's been the latest south?'

'Quite a lot,' said Dave, imperturbably, drawing a big bundle of soiled newspapers from the buckskin bag.

'Let's hear,' cried McAuliffe, clutching the parcel hungrily.

Dave meditated, while he kicked up splinters from the rotting logs. 'There's old man Roberts. You mind him, Alf?'

The Factor nodded, while Dave continued carelessly, 'He's tumbled off the perch. All his truck went by auction. I bought up his white pony--one he used to ride every day, summer or winter. He was a queer old chap, warn't he, Alf? I'd meet him crawling along the fence of his half section, wrapped up in all the rags he could lay claws on, if 'twas winter. His old jaws would be shifting, and the brown juice freezing in solid chunks on his dirty bunch of beard--'

'Goldam!' shouted McAuliffe. 'Think I care whether old man Roberts's alive or dead, or gone up like Elijah? What have the _nitchies_ been up to? Tell us that, Dave.'

'Coming to that. You're in an everlasting twitter, Alf; don't give a fellow chance to open his lips. Young Munn's dead, too--'

'Well, well, what did he die of?'

'Overdose of lead. Riel's slick shot fixed him at Fish Creek.'

'Bad for his old folks. How goes the Rebellion?'

'There ain't none to speak on--not now, anyway.'

'Not quieted down? You don't say it's over, Dave?'

'That's what. It's the Archbishop's racket. He told 'em not to rise, and, by the powers, they didn't.'

The Factor gave a long whistle. 'How did the old man do it, Dave? It must have been a fairly tough job.'

'Bet your neck upon that. He ran through the Province and over the Territories. He went miles by himself, and told the breeds he'd curse 'em if they jumped with Riel. Times he went horseback; times by canoe; often on foot. I tell you, Alf, he's straight enough, though he is chief R.C.'

'It corks me,' said the Factor.

'He's a Christian, sure. The Government's done nothing good for him. Now he's gone to work and saved them the country. Old Taché and Father Lacombe are names to swear by right now.'

'It knocks me over,' said McAuliffe, 'catches me right between the eyes. Tell you, Dave, I never thought there was any good in Catholics before. Seems queer, too, that fellows who keep little bits of painted images in cupboards to say prayers to, should be so right down white in the heart. I'll have a good word for them after this. But how about Riel?'

'He's fairly cornered. There's only one thing for Louis--a gallows and bit of rope at Regina.'

'The old man won't chip in to get him off?'

'No good; they wouldn't have it. Riel's sworn to fight till he crops. He'd stay by his word.'

Lamont, standing near, had listened to the conversation with intense interest, though he had not joined in it himself The close observer might have noticed a sudden angry gleam in his eyes when the name of the Archbishop had been pronounced, also the nervous twitchings of his hands at the mention of the Indian leader's impending fate. When he perceived Spencer had no further information of definite importance, he walked to the end of the stage, as if provided with sufficient food for reflection. Half-breeds were dumping loaded provision barrels upon the insecure logs, while a couple of Icelanders carried an inanimate figure between them to the grass space beyond.

To this human bundle the Captain now drew the Factor's attention. 'That's a present I'm going to leave you, Alf,' he said.

'What sort?' demanded McAuliffe, shading his eyes.

'An Icelander. Ter'ble sick, he is. Can't take him on with me in the boat, for he's turning up fast. You can find some place for him, eh?'

'I reckon Justin can. Wish you wouldn't dump your dying carcases here, Dave. This place isn't a derned cemetery. I allow, if you'd been here t'other day, you might have thought it was.'

'What's that?' asked Dave, eagerly. 'What's been going on here, Alf?'

'Lots of things. We've been fighting worse than wild cats.'

Dave was interested. 'You don't say scrapping?'

'It was a terror,' said the Factor. 'The _nitchies_ were hot after our hides. We had a holy time.'

'What made them rise here, though?'

'Riel sent them up a message; don't know what it was. Anyway, it made them as crazy as bugs on a hot plate. But, Dave, they fixed young Winton.'

The other's dull eyes rounded. 'Well, well, that's a lot too bad,' he exclaimed, hanging on each syllable.

'Sinclair, too. You mind Billy Sinclair of St Andrews, Dave?'

'What! Not him? Never old Billy Sinclair?'

'That's what,' said McAuliffe, not without relish at being the imparter of startling information.

Dave wagged his head sorrowfully. 'You--don't--say! To think of old Billy hopping! Why, we've been pards ever since he could bite tobacco. Married the gal I was more than a little broken on, too. Now she's a widow with young children. Well, well, well. To think of how Billy used to walk her out Sunday evenings, while I'd hang round church door and tell the boys all gals were the same anyway. Here's old Billy gone, with her a widow, and me still a single man. I reckon that's not my fault, but gals take some suiting nowadays.'

'Haven't you anything else to tell, Dave?'

'Why, it's you that's got the talking. It makes me dizzy to take it in. Deaths and murders like a printed newspaper. Young Winton fixed, and poor Billy gone to the worms. But say, Alf, where's Peter?'

'You don't want to talk to me about him. I'm through with the dam' cowardly hypocrite. He skulked off in the bush before the fight, and if it hadn't been for the dead youngster and Lamont over there, I'd shouldn't have been telling you the truth now.'

'Peter ran off, eh?' chuckled the other. 'What have you done?'

'Fired him out by the neck,' said the Factor, with unction. Then, as a rapid change of subject, 'You've brought my brandy, Dave?'

'Dozen case of H.B. Good and black, I tell you.'

The Factor beamed. 'We'll have a good night, liquoring up and poker.'

A short figure appeared on the summit of a black rock in the distance, waving his straw bonnet.

'There's Justin signalling. Hungry, Davey?'

'I'd be a liar if I said no,' replied the Captain.

They turned away together, while Lamont still remained on the wet logs, despite the Factor's cheery invitation for him to join them. For some time he stood motionless, regardless of Nature's appeal for breakfast, troubled, be it said, more by fear for the future than reflection on the past. Indeed, he was only stirred by hostile interruption.

A tall figure glided quickly from the bush behind, and crossed the rock-strewn space. When he saw Lamont he paused, as though he had unexpectedly come upon the object of his search and doubted how to act.

For the young man's growing intimacy with the fair forest queen of the Saskatchewan could not escape the naturally keen eyes of her watchers. The aged Chief but shook his weak head, as he watched the light-hearted girl dancing along the sunshine with laugh and happy song. Antoine, gloomy as was his wont, limped from hut to hut, muttering low-voiced imprecations against all white men, and those around in particular. The youngest and most formidable--Muskwah, leader of the warriors, who looked upon the beautiful girl as his own life prize, yet with that reverential sense of ownership the dreamer might regard some glorious phantasy of his imagination--only awaited opportunity to strike at the pride of his rival; for surely the imperious white could never descend to the poor level of the Indian, nor choose a bride from the tents of the down-trodden race.

So, shadow-like, he had crept behind the young man to the meeting place, where the dry bones of the dead creaked in the night wind. There, with burning eyes and throbbing brain, he had listened to a soft-voiced conversation, yet one in which eyes and hands were more expressive than tongue. He had stolen away with madness at the heart, with wild desire to obtain her who was now slipping beyond reach on the ebb-tide of fate. He would risk his life to obtain its highest desire.

Lamont turned quickly when he heard a guttural exclamation at his side. With his usual contemptuous air he regarded the young Indian, who was unarmed, save for the sheathed hunting knife. 'What do you want?' he muttered angrily.

Then Muskwah raised a hand to point at the boat, rising and falling on the heavy river swell.

'The white chief will listen to his servant? For his heart bids him speak, and there is much to say.'

Lamont had started violently and turned pale, when the words 'white chief,' spoken in a tongue unpleasantly familiar, smote upon his ear. Then he repeated his question.

The Indian made a strange answer,--

'Is not this land lonely and vast to the white man? See how the black boat rides upon the waters. In he you may sail away, along the mighty river, and out upon the Great Water.[1] So you shall come to the cities of the plain, and be again among the tents of your own people. Also, you will leave to the Indian the little he may now call his own. Then the peaceful air will lie like a bird in the sail, while the men's muscles will swell with rowing. The boat will leap over laughing waters and flit home, as the muskawk to its lair when the sun dies. In your own tents you may find happiness, and a white bride, whose face shall be as the blush of early morning.

'And I--I also shall know the beauty of life. For I may live beneath the sunshine of Menotah's smiles.'

[1] Lake Winnipeg.