_ CHAPTER IX. MURRAY TELLS HIS STORY
For a whole week Ailsa Mowbray was given no further opportunity of dwelling upon the possibilities of the situation between Jessie and Murray McTavish. John Kars pervaded the Mission with a personality too buoyant to allow of lurking shadows. On the mother he had an effect like the voice of hope urging her to a fuller appreciation of the life about her, an even greater desire for the fulfilment of those responsibilities which the passing of her husband had thrust upon her. His great figure, his strong, reliant face, his decision of manner, all combined to sweep any doubt from the path of the simple folk at St. Agatha's Mission.
The only person who escaped his cheering influence, perhaps, was Murray McTavish. Father Jose yielded Kars a friendship and liking almost equal to the friendship which had sent him to Leaping Horse in the depths of winter on behalf of Allan Mowbray's widow. This man was a rock upon which the old priest, for all his own strength of character, was not ashamed to seek support. To Alec he was something of a hero in all those things for which his youthful soul yearned. Was he not the master of great wealth? Did he not live in Leaping Horse, where life pulsated with a rush, and no lagging, sluggish stream of existence could find a place? Then, too, the instinct of the trail which the youth had inherited from his father, was not John Kars endowed with it all?
But the week of this man's stay had more meaning for Jessie than for any one else. Her frank delight in his presence found no denial. Every shadow was banished out of her life by it. Her days were rendered doubly bright. Her nights were illuminated by happy dreams. His kindness to her, his evident delight in her company, were sources of unspeakable happiness.
He had brought presents for them all, he had reserved the best and costliest for Jessie. Yet no word of love passed his lips, no act of his could have been interpreted as an expression of such by the most jealous-minded. Nor had the girl any thought but of the delight of the moments spent with him, and of the shadow his going must inevitably leave behind.
The mother watched. She understood. And, understanding, she dreaded more than she admitted even to herself. She felt that her child would awaken presently to the reality, and then--what then? Would John Kars pass on? Would he come again, and again pass on? And Murray. Murray was always in the back of her mind.
The last day came. It was a day of labor and preparation at the landing. Under the supervision of Kars and Bill the work went forward to its completion, with a precision and care for detail which means perhaps the difference between safety and disaster on the long trail. Nothing was too small for the consideration of these men in their understanding of the fierce wilderness which they had made their own.
Their spirits were high. It was the care-free spirit which belongs to the real adventurer. That spirit which alone can woo and win the smiles of the wanton gods of the wilderness. The landing was alive with activity. Father Jose found excuse for his presence there. Even Ailsa Mowbray detached herself from the daily routine of her labors to watch the work going forward. Nor was there a moment when a small crowd of the Indian converts of the Mission were not assembled in the hope that the great white hunter might be disposed to distribute at least a portion of tobacco by way of largesse. Murray, too, found his way thither. And his mood seemed to have improved. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the going of these people on the morrow which stirred his spirits to match their own.
And Jessie? Jessie found every excuse she desired to add her presence at the bank of the river. The day for her was all too short. For her it was full of the excitement of departure, with the regret at the going looming like a shadow and shutting out her sun. She concealed nothing from herself, while her smile and happy laughter banished every sign of all it really meant.
So the day wore on till the last of the evening light found everything ready for the morning's departure. All stores were bestowed under their lashed coverings, and the canoes lay deep in the water. Then came the evening festival planned by Ailsa in her hospitable home. A homely supper, and a gathering of all the white folk of the post. It was all so simple. But it was just such as these people understood and appreciated. It was the outward sign of the profound bond which held them all in a land that is eternally inhospitable.
It was nearly midnight when the party broke up. Farewells were said and the men departed. Jessie, herself, closed the heavy door upon the last of them. Alec bade his mother and sister good-night, and betook himself to his belated rest. Mother and daughter were left alone.
The mother's knitting needles were still clicking busily as she sat beside the great stove, whose warmth was a necessity in the chill of the spring evenings. Jessie came slowly over and stood gazing down at the fierce glow radiating beneath the iron door, where the damper had been withdrawn.
No word was spoken for some moments. Then a sound broke the quiet of the room. It was the sound of a stifled sob, and the mother looked up anxiously.
"Why, child!" she cried, and sprang to her feet.
The next moment her protecting arms were about the pretty figure of the girl, and she drew her to her bosom, with a world of tender affection.
For some moments Jessie struggled with her tears. The mother said no word. It was the gentle hand stroking the girl's beautiful hair which spoke for the lips which sympathy had rendered dumb.
Then came the half-stifled confession which could no longer be denied.
"Oh, mother, mother!" the girl cried, through her sobs. "I--I can't help it. I--I love him, and--and he's gone."
Dr. Bill had gone on with Father Jose. To Murray's surprise, John Kars expressed his intention of accompanying him up to the Fort, which was the former's sleeping quarters. Murray was astonished. Nor was it a companionship he in the least desired. The prospect even robbed him of some of the satisfaction which the departure on the morrow inspired. Still he was left with no choice. To refuse him on any pretext would only be to show his hand, and bring into active expression all the bitter feeling which lay smoldering behind his exterior of cordiality.
He knew what John Kars meant to his hopes with regard to Jessie Mowbray. He had admitted that he feared him. The past week had only confirmed those fears beyond all question. He realized, surely enough, that, whatever Kars' feelings, Jessie's were unmistakable. He knew that time and opportunity must inevitably complete the destiny before them. Just now it seemed to him that only something in the nature of a miracle could help him.
Reluctantly enough he led the way up to the grim old Fort. The path lay through the woods, which only extended to the lower slopes of the bald knoll upon which it stood. The moonless night made no difference to him. He could have made the journey blindfolded.
At the summit Murray led the way round to the gateway of the stockade, and passed within. He was still speculating, as he had speculated the whole way up, as to the purpose of this visit. He only saw in one direction, at the moment, and that direction was the girl he desired for wife. If she were to be the subject of their talk, well, he could match any words of this man, whom he knew to be his rival.
Inside the room, which served him as an office, Murray lit an oil lamp on his desk. Then he set a chair for his visitor so that he should face the light. Kars flung himself into it, while the trader took his place before the desk, and tilted his swivel chair back at a comfortable angle, his round smiling face cordially regarding his companion.
Kars bulked large in the light of the lamp. The chair under him was completely hidden. He was of very great size and Murray could not help but admire the muscular body, without a spare ounce of that burden of fat under which he labored. Then the keen eyes under the strongly marked brows. The well-shaped nose, so suggestive of the power expressed in every line of his features. The clean-shaven lips and chin, almost rugged in their suggestion of purpose. And above all the curling dark hair, now bared by the removal of his beaver cap.
Kars permitted not a moment's delay in announcing the purpose of his visit.
"I waited till now to have this talk, Murray, because--why, because I don't think I could have helped things for you folks waking memories before. I got to talk about Allan Mowbray, about the Bell River neches. And I take it you're wisest on both subjects."
His eyes were grave. Nor did Murray fail to observe the sternness which gravity gave to the rest of his face.
"I've had the story of these things as the trail knows it. An' as the gossips of Leaping Horse figgered it out. But I don't reckon I need to tell you Ananias didn't forget to shed his old wardrobe over the north country gossips when he cashed in. Do you feel like saying some?"
Murray's reply came without hesitation.
"Why, sure," he replied. "All I know."
Neither by look, nor tone, did his manner convey his dislike. His smile was amiability itself. Yet under it his feelings were bitter.
He stooped abruptly and groped in a small cupboard beside his desk. A moment later he set a whisky bottle and two glasses in front of him, and pushed one of the latter towards his visitor. Then he reached the water carafe and set it beside them.
"It's Scotch," he said invitingly.
"Thanks."
Kars helped himself and watered it down considerably.
"It needs strong water in the stomach of the feller who's got to raise the ghosts of Bell River. Gee, the thought makes me weaken."
Murray's smile had vanished. He had by no means exaggerated his feelings. The truth of his words was in his mysterious eyes. It was in the eagerness of his action in raising the glass of spirit to his lips. Kars watched him gulp down his drink thirstily. The sight of it prepared him. He felt that he had done more than well in thus delaying all reference to the murder of Allan Mowbray. If this were its effect on Murray, what would it have been on Jessie, or her mother?
The glasses were set back on the desk in silence. Kars had something of the waiting attitude of a great watchful dog. He permitted no word or action of his to urge the man before him. He wanted the story in Murray's own way, and his own time. His own reasons for requesting it were--his own.
"It's an ugly story," Murray announced, his eyes regarding his companion with a stare that passed through, and traveled far beyond him. "I don't just see where to start." He stirred in his chair with a nervous movement. "Allan was a pretty big man. I guess his nerve was never really all out, even in this hellish country. It was as strong as chilled steel. It was a nerve that left danger hollerin' help. He didn't know fear--which isn't good in this land. You need to know fear if you're to win out. There's times in this latitude you need to be scared--badly scared--if you're to make good all the time."
Kars nodded.
"I'm scared most all the time."
Murray's eyes became alert. A shadow of his smile returned to his lips. It was gone again in a second. He replenished his glass and produced cigars. Both men helped themselves, and, in a moment, the fragrant smoke clouded about the globe of the oil lamp.
"Allan was 'mushing' the long trail, same as he'd done years in the open season," Murray said, drawing a deep sigh as he opened his story. "I don't rightly know his itinerary. Y'see Allan had his trade secrets which he didn't hand on to a soul. Not even his partner. But," he leaned forward impressively, and Kars caught the full glow of his earnest eyes, "Bell River wasn't on his schedule. We'd agreed to leave it alone. It's fierce for a white man. It's been so years. The trade there isn't worth the chances. He knew it. I knew it. We'd agreed to cut it out."
"But he went there--why?"
Kars' question was the obvious one, and Murray's fleshy shoulders answered it. He sat back in his chair moodily puffing at his cigar. His eyes were on his desk. It was moments before he replied.
At last he reached out and seizing his glass drank the contents at a gulp. Then he leaned forward. His voice was deep. But his eyes were steady and questioning.
"That question'll never find its answer," he said. "Anyway he went there. It was from there we got his call for help. It came by a runner. It came to his wife. Not to me. He'd sent to me days before, and it hadn't come through. Guess that call of his was a farewell to his wife. The game must have been played when he wrote it, and I guess he was wise to it. Say"--he sat back in his chair and pushed his fat fingers through his hair--"it makes me sweat thinking of it."
Kars' silent nod of sympathy was followed by a kindly warning.
"Take your time."
"Time?" A mirthless laugh responded to the caution. "It don't need time. Anyway time's not calculated to make it easier. It's all right before me now, set out as only the fiend-spawn of Bell River can set it out." His tone deepened and he spoke more rapidly. "We got that call in the evening. An hour after I was hot foot down the river with an outfit of thirty neches, armed with an arsenal of weapons." His tone grew. His eyes shone fiercely, and a deep passion seemed to stir him. "Say, they reckon I can drive hard on the river. They reckon I've got neither mercy, nor feeling when it comes to putting things through. I proved all they said that trip. I drove those crews as if hades was on our heels. I didn't spare them or myself. We made Bell River a day under the time I figgered, and some of the boys were well-nigh dead. Say, I guessed the clock hands were runnin' out the life of my big friend, and--well, the life of my fellers didn't weigh an ounce in the balance. But I was late. Late by a day."
He broke off and dashed more whisky into his glass. He drank it down neat.
"Do you need more?" His eyes shone, and his voice rose. Then came his mirthless laugh again. "Yes, best have it all. Oh, it's pretty. As pretty as if demons had fixed it. We found him. What was left of him. He was well-nigh hacked to dog meat, and around him were the bodies of some of his boys. Oh, he'd put up an elegant scrap. He'd fought 'em at something more than man for man. The Bell River dead lay about round that bluff on the river bank in heaps. He'd fought 'em to the last man, and I guess that was Allan. He'd fought 'em as Allan Mowbray only knew how to fight. And he'd died as just he knew how to die. A man."
His voice ceased and in the silence John Kars drew a deep breath. A great sympathy was stirring him. But he had no words to offer, and presently the other went on.
"We gathered him up, and the frost helped us. So we brought him right along home. He's buried here inside this old stockade. His grave's marked. Alec made the cross, I set it up. An' Jessie--why, Jessie wrote some on it. That's all."
Kars rose to his feet. His cigar was out.
"Thanks," he said, with curious formality.
Then he relit his cigar. He stood for a moment as though debating with himself. Murray remained in his chair. Somehow his fat figure seemed to have become huddled. His gaze, too, seemed to have only his thoughts to dwell upon.
At last Kars went on.
"I didn't ask all this for any sort of curiosity," he said. "I asked it because I need to know. I'm mushing a long trail myself this year, an' I guess my way's likely taking me in the region of Bell River, before I git back here next fall. Guess I've got that yellow streak a feller needs to make good," he went on, his gravity thawing under a shadowy smile. "And you figger Bell River's mighty unhealthy for a white man about now."
While the other was talking the last vestige of Murray's preoccupation seemed to fall from him. He was alert. He rose from his chair. His decision was full, and strong, and emphatic, when he replied.
"Unhealthy? It don't say a thing. Avoid Bell River, or you'll regret it. They're devils let loose. I tell you right here you'll need an outfit of half a hundred to pass safe through that country. They got a taste for white man's outfit now. Time was when they fancied only neche scalps. It's not that way now. No, sir. I'm figgering now how long we'll be safe here, in this Fort. There's just two hundred and odd miles between us, and---- Say, when do you figger you're making that way? Fall?" Kars nodded. "The time they got Allan. Don't do it. I warn you solemnly. And I guess I--know."
Murray's warning was delivered with urgency. There was no mistaking its sincerity. He seemed to have risen above his antipathy for this man. He seemed only concerned to save another from a disaster similar to that which had befallen his partner.
Kars thanked him and held out one powerful hand.
"I'm obliged," he said, in a sober way as they gripped hands. "I've had full warning, and, maybe, it's going to save me trouble. Anyway if my way does take me around that region, and I get my medicine, well--I guess it's up to me. Good-night, Murray. Thanks again. I'll be off before you're around to-morrow morning. So long."
Murray McTavish accompanied his visitor to the door. There was no more to be said. His smile returned as he bade him farewell, and it remained for a few moments as he stood till the night swallowed up the departing figure. Then it died out suddenly, completely. _