Chapter 18

A LETTER FROM MAJOR EGERTON TO HIS FRIEND ARTHUR DONCOURT, ESQ.

MY DEAR DONCOURT:

You ask me to tell you some of the circumstances underlying the Imbrie murder case of which you have read the account in the annual report of the R.N.W.M.P. just published. You are right in supposing that a strange and moving tale is hidden behind the cold and formal phraseology of the report.

The first Imbrie was the Reverend Ernest, who went as a missionary to the Sikannis Indians away back in '79. Up to that time these Indians were absolutely uncivilized, and bore a reputation for savage cruelty. I suppose that was what stimulated the good man's zeal. He left a saintly tradition behind him. The Sikannis live away up the corner of British Columbia, on the head-waters of the Stanley River, one of the main branches of the Spirit River. The Spirit River, as you may know, rises west of the Rocky Mountains and breaks through. There is not a more remote spot this side the Arctic Circle, nor one more difficult of access.

The missionary brought with him his son, John Imbrie, a boy just approaching manhood. Very likely the danger of bringing up a boy absolutely cut off from the women of his race never occurred to the father. The inevitable happened. The boy fell in love with a handsome half-breed girl, the daughter of a wandering prospector and a Sikanni squaw, and married her out of hand. The heartbroken father was himself compelled to perform the ceremony. This was in 1886.

The Imbries were so far cut off from their kind that in time they were forgotten. The missionary supported himself by farming in a small way and trading his surplus products with the Indians. John turned out to be a good farmer and they prospered. Their farm was the last outpost of agriculture in that direction. From the time he went in with his father John did not see the outside world again until 1889, when he took his wife and babies out, with a vain hope, I think, of trying to educate the woman. Most of these marriages have tragic results, and this was no exception. During all the years in her husband's house this woman resisted every civilizing influence, except that she learned to deck herself out like a white woman.

She bore her husband twin sons, who were christened Ernest and William. They bore a strong resemblance to each other, but as they began to develop it appeared, as is so often the case in these mixed families, that Ernest had a white man's nature, and William a red man's. When the time came they were sent out to Winnipeg to school, but William, true to the savage nature, sickened in civilised surroundings, and had to be sent home. On the other hand, Ernest proved to be a sufficiently apt scholar, and went on through school and college. During the whole period between his thirteenth and his twenty-fourth year he was only home two or three times. William remained at home and grew up in ignorance. John Imbrie, the father, I gather, was a worthy man, but somewhat weak in his family relations.

Ernest went on to a medical college with the idea of practising among the Sikannis, who had no doctor. During his second year his father died, long before he could reach him, of course. He remained outside until he got his diploma. Meanwhile his mother and brother quickly relapsed into a state of savagery. They "pitched around" with the Indians, and the farm which had been so painstakingly hewn out of the wilderness by the two preceding generations grew up in weeds.

Ernest had a painful homecoming, I expect. However, he patiently set to work to restore his father's work. He managed to persuade his mother and brother to return and live in white man's fashion, but they made his life a hell for him, according to all accounts. They were insanely jealous of his superior attainments. Neither did the Sikannis welcome Doctor Ernest's ministrations. Since the death of the missionary they had been gradually slipping back into their ignorant ways, and now they instinctively took the part of the mother against the educated son. One can imagine what a dreary life the young medico lived among these savages. He has been described to me as a charming fellow, modest, kindly and plucky. And, by the way, I have not mentioned that these young fellows were uncommonly good-looking. William, or, as the Indians say, Hooliam, was one of the handsomest natives I ever saw.

Meanwhile that remote country was being talked about outside on account of the gold deposits along the upper reaches of the Stanley--largely mythically I believe. However that may be, prospectors began to straggle in, and in the summer of the year following Ernest's return from college, the government sent in a surveyor, one Frank Starling, to survey the claims, and adjust disputes. Starling brought with him his daughter Clare, a young lady of adventurous disposition.

Both the Imbrie boys fell in love with her according to their natures, thus further complicating the situation. Hooliam, the ignorant savage, could not aspire to her hand, of course, but the young doctor courted her, and she looked kindly on him. I do not consider that she was ever in love with him, though apart from the dark strain he was worthy of it as men go, a manly fellow!--but it was the hardness of his lot that touched her heart. Like many a good woman before her, she was carried away by compassion for the dogged youth struggling against such hopeless odds.

The father completed his work and took her out, and Ernest Imbrie followed them. They were married in the early spring at Fort Edward on the Campbell River, where the Starlings wintered. Ernest carried his bride back by canoe, hundreds of miles through the wilderness.

Their happiness, if indeed they were ever happy, was of brief duration. Whichever way you look at it, the situation was impossible. Ernest's mother, the breed woman, acted like a fiend incarnate, I have been told, and I can quite believe it, having witnessed some of her subsequent performances. Then there was the brother-in-law always hanging around the house, nursing his evil passion for his brother's wife. And in the background the ignorant, unfriendly Indians.

The catastrophe was precipitated by a gross insult offered to the girl by her husband's brother. He broke into her room one night impudently assuming to masquerade as her husband. Her husband saved her from him, but in the shock to her nerves she experienced a revulsion against the lot of them--and small wonder!

Her husband of his own free will took her back to her father. That's one of the finest things in the story, for there's no question but that he loved her desperately. The loss of her broke his spirit, which had endured so much. He never went back home. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were cast out alike by reds and whites, and his instinct was to find a place where he could bury himself far from all humankind.

He was next heard of at Miwasa landing a thousand miles away, across the mountains. Here he got employment with a york boat crew and travelled with them down-stream some hundreds of miles north to Great Buffalo Lake. Here he obtained a canoe from the Indians, and, with a small store of grub, set off on his own. He made his way up the Swan River, an unexplored stream emptying into Great Buffalo Lake, as far as the Great Falls, and there he built himself a shack.

He could hardly have found a spot better suited to his purpose. No white man so far as known had ever visited those falls, and even the Indians avoid the neighbourhood for superstitious reasons. But even here he could not quite cut himself off from his kind. An epidemic of measles broke out among the Kakisa Indians up the river from him, and out of pure humanity he went among them and cured them. These Indians were grateful, strange to say; they almost deified the white man who had appeared so strangely in their country.

Meanwhile the wrong she had done him began to prey on his wife's mind. She could not rest under the thought that she had wrecked his usefulness. Ernest Imbrie had, with the idea of keeping his mind from rusting out in solitude, ordered certain papers and books sent to him at Fort Enterprise. His wife learned of this address through his medical college, and in the spring of the year following her marriage, that is to say the spring of the year just past, she set off in search of him without saying anything to anybody of her intention.

She and her father were still at Fort Edward--have I said that the girl had no mother?--and Hooliam Imbrie had been there, too, during the winter, not daring to approach the girl precisely, but just hanging around the neighbourhood. One can't help feeling for the poor wretch, bad as he was, he was hard-hit, too. He bribed a native servant to show him the letter giving his brother's address, and when the girl set off, he instantly guessed her errand, and determined to prevent their meeting.

Now it is only a short distance from Fort Edward over the height of land to the source of the main southerly branch of the Spirit, and Hooliam was therefore able to proceed direct to Fort Enterprise by canoe (a journey of more than a thousand miles), pausing only to go up the Stanley to pick up his mother, who was ripe for such an adventure. At Carcajou Point, when they had almost reached Enterprise, they heard the legend of the White Medicine Man off on the unknown Swan River, and they decided to avoid Enterprise and hit straight across the prairie.

Meanwhile the girl was obliged to make a long detour south to the railway, then across the mountains and north again by all sorts of conveyances, with many delays. So Hooliam and his mother arrived a few weeks before her, but they in turn were delayed at Swan Lake by the woman's illness.

You have read a transcript of the statements of this precious pair at the hearing before me. Read it again, and observe the ingenious web of truth and falsehood. For instance, it was true the woman fell sick at Swan Lake, and Hooliam after waiting awhile for her, finally went down the river without her--only a few days in advance of Sergeant Stonor and Ernest Imbrie's wife. As soon as Hooliam reached Swan Lake he began to meet Indians who had seen his brother, and thereafter he was always hailed among them as the White Medicine Man. The Indians never troubled to explain to themselves how he had got to Swan Lake, because they ascribed magical powers to him anyway.

What happened between the brothers when they met will never be known for certain. Hooliam swears that he did not intend to kill Ernest, but that the deed was done in self-defence during a quarrel. However that may be, Ernest was shot through the heart with a bullet from Hooliam's gun, and his body cast in the river.

You have read the rest of the story; how Stonor arrived with Ernest's wife, and how, at the shock of beholding her husband's body, the poor girl lost her memory. How Hooliam sought to escape up-stream, and Stonor's confusion when he was told by an Indian that the White Medicine Man was still alive. How Hooliam kidnapped the girl from Stonor, and tried to win back to the mountains and his own country by way of the unexplored river.

We established the fact that Hooliam did not tell his mother what had happened at the Great Falls. She thought that Hooliam had found Ernest gone still further north. You can see at the hearing how when Stonor first told of the murder, in her horror at the discovery that one brother had killed the other the truth finally came out. Though she had always taken Hooliam's part she could not altogether deny her feeling for the other son.

Well, that's about all. I consider that they got off easily; Hooliam with twenty years, and the woman with half that sentence; but in the man's case it was impossible to prove that the murder was a deliberate one, and though the woman certainly did her best to put Stonor out of the way, as it happened he escaped.

You ask about the Indian woman, Mary Moosa, who served Stonor and Mrs. Imbrie so faithfully. We overtook her at Swan Lake on the way out. So she did not starve to death on the river, but recovered from her wound.

When we got out as far as Caribou Lake we met Mrs. Imbrie's distracted father coming in search of her. The meeting between them was very affecting. I am happy to say that the young lady has since recovered her memory entirely, and at the last account was very well.

You are curious to know what kind of fellow Stonor is. I can only answer, an ornament to the service. Simple, manly and dependable as a trooper ought to be. With a splendid strong body and a good wit. Out of such as he the glorious tradition of our force was built. They are becoming more difficult to get, I am sorry to say. I had long had my eye on him, and this affair settled it. I have recommended him for a commission. He is a man of good birth and education. Moreover I saw that if we didn't commission him we'd lose him; for he wants to get married. As a result of the terrible trials they faced together he and Ernest Imbrie's widow have conceived a deep affection for each other. Enlisted men are not allowed to marry. They make a fine pair, Doncourt. It makes an old fellow sort of happy and weepy to see them together.

Stonor is now at the Officers' School at General Headquarters, and if he passes his examinations will be commissioned in the summer.

We'll talk further about this interesting case when good fortune brings us together again. In the meantime, my dear Doncourt,

Yours faithfully, FRANK EGERTON.

EPILOGUE

In a bare and spotless company-room in headquarters in Regina eight uneasy troopers in fatigue uniform were waiting. Down one side of the room a row of tall windows looked out on the brown parade-ground, and beyond the buildings on the other side they could see a long Transcontinental train slowly gathering way up the westward grade.

"Hey, boys!" cried one. "How'd you like to be aboard her with your shoulder-straps and spurs?"

They cast unfriendly glances at the speaker and snorted.

"Don't try to be an ass, Carter," said one. "It doesn't require the effort."

They evinced their nervousness in characteristic ways. Several were polishing bits of brass already dazzling; one sat voraciously chewing gum and staring into vacancy; one paced up and down like a caged animal; another tried to pick a quarrel with his mates, and the eighth, Sergeant Stonor--the hero of Swan River they called him when they wished to annoy him--sat in a corner writing a letter.

To the eight entered a hardened sergeant-major, purpled-jowled and soldierly. All eight pairs of eyes sprang to his face in a kind of agony of suspense. He twirled his moustache and a wicked, dancing light appeared in his little blue eyes.

"You're a nice set of duffers!" he rasped. "Blockheads all eight of you. Why they ever sent you down beats me. I've seen some rum lots, but never your equal. Flunked, every man of you!"

The eight pairs of eyes were cast down. Nobody said anything. Each was thinking: "So that dream is over. I mustn't let anything on before the others": those who were polishing brass gave an extra twirl to the chamois.

Stonor, suddenly suspicious, narrowly searched the sergeant-major's face. "Fellows, he's joshing!" he cried. "It isn't possible that every one of us has flunked! It isn't reasonable!"

The sergeant-major roared with laughter. "Wonderful penetration, Sherlock! When I saw your faces I couldn't help it. You were asking for it. All passed! That's straight. Congrats!" He passed on down the corridor.

There was a silence in the company-room. They looked shyly at each other to see how the news was being taken. Each felt a sudden warmth of heart towards all his mates. All of them displayed an elaborate and perfectly transparent assumption of indifference. Stonor added a postscript to his letter, and sedately folded it.

Then speech came, at first softly. "Damn old Huggins, anyway. Almost gave me heart-failure!... Wot t'hell, Bill! Poor old Hugs, it was his last chance. Sure, we'll have him where we want him now.... Think of being able to call Hugs down!... Lordy, Lordy, am I awake!"

Suddenly the unnatural tension broke, and a long-limbed trooper jumped to his feet with his arms in the air. "Boys! Are you dumb! We've passed! We've got the straps! All together now, Mumbo-Jumbo!"

They marched around the room with their hands on each other's shoulders, singing:

"For I've got rings on my fingers And bells on my toes; Elephants to ride upon----"

In a little house in Vancouver, embowered in such greenery as only the mild, moist airs of Puget Sound can produce, a young woman sat in her drawing-room regarding a letter she had just read with a highly dissatisfied air. It was a pretty little room, not rich nor fussy, but expressing the charm of an individual woman no less than the clothes she wore.

To the mistress entered the maid, to wit, a matronly Indian woman with an intelligent face. She looked from her mistress' face to the letter, and back to her mistress again. When the latter made no offer to speak she said, for she was a privileged person:

"You hear from Stonor?"

Clare nodded.

"He not pass his 'xamination, I guess?"

"Certainly he has passed!" said Clare sharply. "If anybody can pass their examinations he can."

"Why you look so sorry then?"

"Oh--nothing. I didn't expect him to write it. A five-word postscript at the end of a matter-of-fact letter."

"Maybe he couldn't get leave."

"He said he'd get leave if he passed."

"Maybe he comin' anyhow."

"He never says a word about coming."

"You ask him to come?"

"Of course not!"

"Don't you want him come?"

"I don't know whether I do or not."

Mary looked perplexed.

Clare burst out, "I can't ask him. He'd feel obliged to come. A man--man like that anyway, would feel after what we've been through together that I had a claim on him. Well, I don't want him to come out of a sense of duty. Don't you understand?"

Mary shook her head. "If I want something I ask for it."

"It's not so simple as all that!"

"Maybe he think he not wanted here."

"A man's supposed to take that chance."

"Awful long way to come on a chance," said Mary. "Maybe I write to him."

Clare jumped up. "Don't you dare!" she cried. "If I thought for a moment--if I thought he had been _brought_, I should be perfectly hateful to him. I couldn't help myself--Is that a motor at the gate?"

"Yes, Miss, a taxi-cab."

"Stopping here?"

"Yes, Miss,"--with absolute calm: "Stonor is gettin' out."

"What!--Oh, Mary!--It can't be!--It is!"

A bell rang.

"Oh, Mary! What shall I do? Don't go to the door! Let him wait a minute. Let me think what I must do. Let me get upstairs!"

* * * * *

Stonor got up and sat down, and got up again. He walked to the window and back to the door. He listened for sounds in the house, and then went back to his chair again. He heard a sound overhead and sprang to the door once more. He saw her on the stairs, and retreated back into the room. She came down with maddening deliberation, step by step. She did not look through the door, but paused a second to straighten a picture that hung askew on the wall. Stonor's heart was beating like a trip-hammer.

She came into the room smiling in friendly fashion with a little gush of speech--but her eyes did not quite meet his.

"Well, Martin! Congratulations! I just got your letter this morning. I didn't expect you to follow so soon. So it's Inspector Stonor now, eh? Very becoming uniform, sir! Was the examination difficult? You must tell me all about it. I suppose you are just off the train. What kind of a trip did you have? Sit down."

He was a little flabbergasted by her easy flow of speech. "I don't want to sit down," he muttered huskily. He was staring at her from a white face.

She sat; glanced out of the window, glanced here and there about the room, and rattled on: "Haven't we got a jolly little place here? But I expect we'll be ordered on directly. Mary and I were talking about you the moment you rang the bell. Mary is so good to me, but her heart is already turning to Fort Enterprise and her children, I'm afraid."

He found his tongue at last. "Clare, don't!" he cried brokenly. "I didn't come eight hundred miles to hear you make parlour conversation. What's the matter? What have I done? If you've changed towards me tell me so plainly, and let me get out. I can't stand this!"

Panic seized her. "I must see about lunch. Excuse me just a moment," she said, making for the door.

He caught her as she tried to pass. "Damn lunch! Look me in the eye, woman!"

She relaxed. Her eyes crept imploringly up to his. "Bear!" she whispered. "You might at least have given me a moment's respite!--Oh, I love you! I love you! I love you!"

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: The following changes have been made from the original text:

Pg. 27: heart-strings --> heartstrings (... plucked at his heartstrings with a ...) Pg. 44: strain ... --> strain.... (I've been under a strain....) Pg. 54: bambye --> bam-bye (... but bam-bye he rise up again ...) Pg. 85: storeroom --> store-room (... a work-room and store-room.) Pg. 85: Snow-shoes --> Snowshoes (Snowshoes, roughly-fashioned fur garments ...) Pg. 105: backwater --> back-water (... out of the back-water alongshore ...) Pg. 105: along-shore --> alongshore (... out of the back-water alongshore ...) Pg. 133: redskin --> red-skin (Some red-skin mumbo-jumbo.) Pg. 172: horseflesh --> horse-flesh (... horse-flesh, fresh into the bargain.) Pg. 174: singlehanded --> single-handed (... brave him single-handed ...) Pg. 219: get's --> gets (And if she gets a knife ...) Pg. 256: headwaters --> head-waters (... on the head-waters of the Stanley River ...) Pg. 260: downstream --> down-stream (... travelled with them down-stream ...) Pg. 267: hunk --> hung (... picture that hung askew ...)]

End of Project Gutenberg's The Woman from Outside, by Hulbert Footner