# The Law-bringers/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III
#### "I KNOW WHAT I'M AT"

"Payatuk," said Dick. "Go carefully. Tell him we don't want to scare him, Phillipe."
"Him t'ink you mebbe in big hurry," interpreted the breed.
"That is kind of him. Explain that I earn my dollar-ten a day by waiting until he's ready to speak. But intimate that though he's my totam he's got to yakwa what he says, all the same."
Phillipe interpreted in low rapid gutturals. And in the little barrack-room where Tempest held his courts Kicking Horse, pure-bred Cree Indian, stood motionless and hunched in his ill-fitting store clothes. But the eyes in the copper-dark face overhung by the matted hair were alive enough for a regiment of men.
In perspective beyond the glass door showed more Indians, huddled in their fur coats and caps. For winter had descended suddenly upon Grey Wolf, thrusting the thermometer below zero with decision, and pasting all the land with a thick white layer that shone in the sun like a wedding-cake baked for a god.
At the bar of inquiry within Kicking Horse moved solemnly; bringing from under his coat the old fluttering hands where the brown veins and muscles ran corded like fibres on rotted leaves. He began to speak; using his tongue little, but weaving his story on the picturesque sign-language which Phillipe interpreted as one may interpret a telegraph-ribbon unrolling.
"Him and Pasasun mates many suns since. Dey go togedder all taime. Den Pasasun marry—lif on Reserve here. Kicking Horse him shoot an' fish—go all over. Von day him see Pasasun."
"When was that?"
​Phillipe studied the swaying hand-movements.
"Two moons and six suns past. Pasasun ver' happy dat day. Him haf much trink—good trink—make him walk so——" Phillipe's hands suggested the progress of a snake-fence. "But it no mak' him seeck dat taime."
Seven hours before Dick had found Pasasun drunk in Robison's shack. And, because to give drink to an Indian is a punishable offence throughout all the North-West, the interrogation of other Indians had naturally followed, Pasasun himself being in a state of sublime uncertainty regarding essentials.
"Why didn't it make him sick that time?" asked Dick.
"It was très bon w'iskey dat w'ite man gif him——"
Dick half-suppressed the exclamation. But it was too late. Kicking Horse realised that he was presenting information of import to this man in the brown brass-buttoned tunic who sat with unknown instruments of terror about him in little black bottles and small pointed black sticks. His conscience was clear, but he did not know what those black things and that spear-eyed man might make of it. And he did know that there was an empty cell beside Pasasun's. His hands fluttered to cover again.
"Wah, wah," he said heavily, and stood silent.
Dick smothered a groan. His knowledge of men told him that this stream had run dry for all time. But because the fragments of information gleaned here and there required this link badly he drove on with his questions.
"What was the name of the white man?"
The answer came as he had expected.
"Kicking Horse him not know."
"Does he live in Grey Wolf?"
"Him not know, Corp'ral."
"Was it the same man give Pasasun drink last night?"
"Kicking Horse not know."
"Does he know anything more, Phillipe?"
Phillipe questioned.
"Not von dam t'ing." He explored further into the Indian's consciousness. " Him not know w'at him tell you pefore, Corp'ral."
Dick pushed his chair back.
"He can go," he said. Then, watching Kicking Horse ​shuffle out, he added: "I would give much to be able to lie with your serenity, my friend."
He pulled open a drawer in the table, took out a sheaf of papers, and fell to work with his forehead knotted by thought. Sudden suspicion had come to him that this matter was an illumination on something which had been distracting Grey Wolf lately, and he hunted what he wanted through official pamphlets and reports with his eyes growing more eager as he neared his goal. His natural suspicions of this kind helped him here, and also his personal knowledge of sorts of dishonesty which would never occur to Tempest. By way of his great intuition and powers of deduction he wound a tortuous course through the papers until his mind fastened at last with a leap on the clue he sought for. He looked up with his eyes narrowed and dark and rather puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders with a slight laugh.
"Why, of course; who is better fitted to deceive law and justice than the man who holds the scales," he said "But I fancy—I really fancy that we have got it in for you this time, Mr. Ducane."
He picked up the notes on Kicking Horse's evidence, and the paper which had led to his conclusion; took them into Tempest's office, and stood attentive while Tempest read the little information vouchsafed by the Indian. Dick watched him idly. Tempest had developed considerably since the old days. He was a fine-looking fellow, with that broad, untanned forehead where the bright hair lifted vigorously, and those lit, introspective eyes of the dreamer, and the firm jaw of the man who can do. It was the face of one who was not likely to run to wreck on his passions as Dick had done himself.
Tempest looked up at last, laying aside the official tone.
"I can't think who the white man is likely to be," he said.
"Can't you?" There was an edge of mockery in Dick's tone. "It is Ducane."
"Ducane! What are you thinking of? He is District J.P. He is a gentleman."
"Those two facts helped my deductions immenesly. It is also Ducane who, with Robison's assistance, is doing ​the dirty work for that bogus company which is selling lots that exist on paper only and scrip-land which on examination turns out to be Indian Reserve."
That bogus company had been giving Grey Wolf much trouble of late. Men and women had come up to take possession of land that never was there, and of Indian Reserve which no one could sell. Some had given all they had for the little bits of worthless paper which they had brought to Ducane or Tempest with wrath or tears. Tempest had had a woman in the office yesterday, and he did not forget it. But this assertion staggered him.
"By what right do you make such an insinuation?" he said sharply.
"It is not an insinuation. Robison is related to half the tribes in the North. Pasasun is a connection of his. Robison is very thick with Ducane. Morally I dare say he is the better man. But they hardly move in the same social circles. Why are they friends? They are working some underhand game together. I have heard of more than one breed selling Robison scrip-land lately. Where does Robison get the money? From Ducane. Where does Ducane get it; for all the world knows he hasn't a cent to spend on his land? From the bogus company. Where do they get it? From the innocents down in Virginia and Kentucky, and away in England, who are hooked by the prospectuses and pamphlets which Ducane and Robison concoct and send out, for a consideration, to the bogus company."
"This is only deduction, you know."
"Everything is deduction originally. Do you remember this official report showing that one or two breeds near Chipwyan have taken scrip lately? I know that one sold again at once. How does the Government Commissioner know that they are breeds? If Robison can persuade a light-coloured Indian to take oath that he is a breed—and we know that this is occasionally done, that Indian will get his breed privileges, and his scrip-land from the Government. Then he sells it to Robison, which means Ducane, and Ducane pays for it with the commissions on his work for the bogus company."
Tempest sat still with his chin in his hand.
​"What has all this to do with Pasasun's drunkenness?" he said.
"Possibly Robison was drunk too. But he is more accustomed to it. Ducane would necessarily need to treat Robison and his relations sometimes—privately, of course."
"This is a very heavy charge, Dick. I can hardly think that you are right. Besides, Ducane has very few permits, and he only brought five gallons in with him. And he can't get much from Grange, or Grange would speak of it. He's honest."
"Oh, my dear chap, there have been plenty of permits booked outside lately in the name of men who never ordered them, and received inside by Ogilvie and others who are not supposed to have them. We know that much—unofficially, of course."
A permit is a two-gallon cask of whiskey allowed, for certain money paid down, to be received at various times by various men of substance and character. But, like all things defined by law, it holds loopholes for evasion. Tempest swung sharp in his chair.
"Do we know that much?" he said.
"Do you think it necessary to play the innocent with me?"
Tempest stiffened. His body took on hard outlines.
"I wonder what sort of man you really are now," he said slowly. "How long have you known of this?"
"Ever since I came. And I considered that you were using your common-sense in shutting your eyes to it. There's no use in drawing too tight a rein, and we'd never get any information with every man's hand against us."
He found himself being led into excuses, and he stopped in anger.
"Do you remember your oath?" asked Tempest.
"I believe you have turned out rather funnier than you promised to be," observed Dick approvingly.
"Never mind that. Do you?"
"I remember subscribing my fervid appreciation to several things which no man keeps or is expected to keep."
​"You'll keep them while you're under me, or I'll have you discharged. I don't intend that there shall be any scum in the Force if I can help it."
"You are over-valuing your powers, I think," said Dick; but his mockery was gone, even while Tempest looked at him, remembering Molson's assertion that this man was indifferent to punishment and wondering what lever can move a will when shame is broken.
Then he saw the painful red flush up the brown skin, and Dick turned his shoulder, walking through the room. Tempest guessed then, with a swift gladness. This man was not indifferent to the opinion of the man who had been his friend. He spoke again, less sternly. And in the end Dick submitted, rather from amused indifference than conviction. But Tempest had learnt something from that short contest.
"You know more about this business than I do," he said. "I empower you to work it up."
Dick was pacing the room with head low. He stopped suddenly.
"You old devil," he said; and Tempest smiled.
"You've got the executive faculty more developed at short range than anyone I know," he said.
Dick walked again. But his face was changing. His eyes brightened slowly. Then he began to laugh with a soft, purring note like a big cat, and his steps were soft as those of a cat.
"You give me a free hand?" he said, and Tempest laughed again.
"As free as compatible with your uniform. Go on, and do your damndest."
And then, quite suddenly, he remembered Jennifer. Dick's next words trod on his thought.
"Ducane has a wife, hasn't he?"
"That's so," said Tempest quietly. But Dick saw his limbs twitch.
"Why haven't I seen her?"
"I suppose this first cold snap has kept her at home."
"Take me over to see her to-morrow."
"Give me your word you won't——"
"Good Lord! no, man. That's what I want her for. ​It's always easier to get at a man through his women-folk."
Tempest looked at the face that was red with the light of the lamp which Poley had just brought into the passage. It was a dangerous face. It was recklessly alive and alluring, and there was a spark of eagerness in it now that turned Tempest sick.
"You're a brute, Dick," he said.
"Very possibly. But I'm going to shoot Ducane out of here. He has jockeyed the District long enough, and—I guess that case is worth while. But I want your post-mark on me with the wife. It will save a deal of time."
"What do you purpose doing with her?"
"Making her talk, of course. What else?"
"You'll end by making her suffer—when she knows what she has talked for."
"Well——" Dick put Jennifer aside with a gesture. "Why should women get off cheaper than men?" he said. "They are one-half the human race, and they are accountable for most of the mistakes it makes—the dear creatures!"
"They don't get off cheaper."
"Mrs. Ducane isn't going to get ten years—or may be twenty—for fraud. Ducane is, I hope. And she'll probably be very glad to get rid of him." Then, suddenly, "Is your talk about your work meaning more to you than anything all hot air?" he demanded.
"No."
"Then don't put a spoke in my wheel with Mrs. Ducane. I know what I'm at!"
Tempest was leaning forward with his face in his hand. Quite clearly he saw that inexorable law which is made for all time. Canada was calling; the coming nation was calling; the type which nature is eternally building anew was calling. And the individual, the separate soul, must, now as ever, be powdered to dust to feed it, if need be. It was the law; and there big and dark, with the red light on his face, was the kind of man whom Nature chooses to enforce these kinds of laws for her. He spoke slowly.
"I'll take you—if necessary."
Dick came near. His eyes were curious.
"If it were necessary I shouldn't have the choice," said Tempest, unguessing the future.
But Dick walked out of the room whistling.
"We all have the choice, my son of a gun," he said. "And that's why we are so precious sure that there is a hell."
Tempest sat in the half-dark room for very long. This matter had brought him to the edge of understanding again, where he sought, painfully, blindly, as the human must always seek, for the reason of it all.
What was the secret, the solution behind all this brutality and unmeaningness? What was that Power which weaves and unweaves, makes and unmakes, gives to life and takes back to death? What does it mean by playing cat and mouse with man through all the endless centuries? What is that great resistless Power which draws us in over the rollers of the present to tear us up in the machinery of the future? And why, since all of life goes to feed the same mill, should there be such divers and nice complexities in our being? Tempest turned his mind on these men and women just under his hand. Dick, indifferent concerning his sins and the sins of others, yet whipped by a sudden trick of fancy into a merciless enforcer of the law. Ducane, the fine blustering shell of a man, with the soul of a louse, and yet capable of that strange redeeming love for his wife. Jennifer, herself blind on the rim of all the mysteries, deaf te the clamour of that sharp-toothed machine which is the future. Robison, animal and man in one, born to suffer for the more refined sins of others. What were they for? What was the great secret which would fuse all this muddle of flesh and spirit throughout the straining universe into that majestic all-conquering whole which alone could justify its being?
Tempest never asked himself if there was a meaning. He had come into that knowledge long since. But again and again, as now, he shaped half-aloud the question which belongs to the next step of the way.
"God—or whatever Great Power you call ​Yourself—what is it for? What are you doing it all for? What is the secret? What is the meaning? And why can't we know it to help us?"
All that was good and pure and fine in him reached out for the answer, stopping his breath. Far-off worlds seemed to creak and groan as they swung their ordered way. Far off that secret lay, brooding calm interpretation over chaos. Tempest had come so far many times with the knowledge that the secret was not for the dwellers on the earth. Now, halting just one instant with the wind and the flesh of those worlds in his face, he saw further before he dropped back to earth. He straightened in his chair, closing his hand slowly on the table.
"Before God it is for us," he said. "Because it is formed by us and works through us. Without us the meaning and the secret and the solution couldn't be. It needs us as we need it. We belong to each other, and we can't make the whole until we find it. And yet we eternally lock it out from our understandings."
His eyes were wide, unseeing; the eyes of the dreamer who dreams realities; of the man who looks into his soul. The intensity of that inner search whitened his face, drawing it into lines. At last he stood up. The finite will would hold him in those rarer heights no longer. But he had taken one step further. By whatever mysterious ways the secret of Life is hid from man; by whatever mysterious ways he may stumble to it at last, it is there to be found. Because it is not God who has hidden it, but man himself.
A moment longer he waited, as though to gird up his loins.
"Great Power," he said, "we've got to find that secret; to justify ourselves—and You."
In the passage the yoke of routine fell on him again. He took the lamp and went swiftly up the narrow stairs to give Dick a forgotten order. The bunk-room was empty, but he halted a moment, sweeping the light round it. He had not been there since Dick came, and the man's personality rose at him from every corner. On Dick's bare bunk, with its neat sausage of rolled clothes at the head, lay his fur coat and cap, his half-cleaned rifle, and ​a torn shirt stained with oil. His black oilskin kit sprawled on the floor, vomiting underwear and stockings, and the well-known initials stared up from it in bold white. Waist-belts, cartridge-belts, empty shells, leather straps, an unrolled puttee, moccasins, and a spur with a broken rowel strewed Kennedy's bed, conclusively proving that Kennedy was away. And Dick's clothes were everywhere. Against the wall a half-dozen of his sketches were crookedly pasted; but never a photograph or a picture to hint of past days.
Tempest walked across the room to look at the sketches. Kennedy had regularly ripped them down until Dick brought the paste-pot, and they showed signs of his disapproval.
"Sloushy kind o' thoughts," he called them; but Tempest looked at them with bitten lips.
A woman's moccasin, one; fine in the upper with bead-work and porcupine-quills, but worn through and blood-stained in the sole. A spider-web spun from star to star, to catch a spinning world. A half-shut eye on the edge of space, looking out with serene contemplation on nothingness. Two heads; the man's stooped to that of the woman who lifted her lips but covered her eyes.
Tempest trod down again slowly. Was Dick also seeking in his own wild way for that eternal secret? And, if so, which man would find it, or would both go out into the rimless future, seeking still? Very surely they sought along different trails—Dick with the bitter goad of a wasted life to flail him on; Tempest with the pure heart to which it is promised that it shall see God. Down in the kitchen he heard Poley setting out the granite bowls and cups in which Dick carried the food across the yard to the cells. Then he heard Dick swear in sharp wrath at the heat of the bowls.
"Don't you try those games with me, you old sinner," he said. "Fetch me some plates to put 'em on."
"Don't you come your Judge-an'-whole-dam-constitution style over me," retorted Poley with spirit. "Fetch yer bloomin' plates yer bloomin' self."
Tempest waited the next move with interest. Dick spoke softly.
​"I promised to take my next sketch of you down to Grange's. That new waitress seemed quite a good deal struck on you, Poley."
In the dark Tempest grinned. He heard Poley shuffle over the floor.
"There's yer plates," he said pacifically. "Off wi' yer. I'll open the door."
An icy breath rushed in to prove it. Tempest turned into his own room. Dick's knowledge of the forces which moved humanity might not be high, but no man could deny that they were occasionally diabolically convincing.
On the next morning when breakfast was done Tempest gave his commands to Dick.
"You'll have to go out on the Moon-Dance trail right away," he said. "Word has just come in that O'Hara has had his team go to blazes with him again. He always does, but I'm afraid he's got it for good this time. De Choiseaux is just off, and I want you along with him to take O'Hara's depositions if necessary."
Dick had his own ideas for that day.
"We were going over to Ducane's," he objected.
"That can wait. O'Hara probably won't. You'd best take some grub, and—you may have to stay all night, you know." Then, ten minutes later, when the doctor's rig swung up to the door, he added, "De Choiseaux has mighty little English and O'Hara hasn't a word of French. If you have to put him through just—be a bit merciful if he hasn't your contempt for such small things as eternity and death."
Dick nodded sulkily at the whimsical face, and tucked himself into the rig where the pony fidgeted with lowered quarters and ears laid back.
"You'd best do those kind o' chores yourself," he muttered. And then, as the pony went down the trail like a loosed spring, he turned his collar up against the air that was sharp and brittle-feeling as glass, and retired on his inmost thought.
De Choiseaux drove with his knees up and a rein in each great fur-mittened hand. He was doctor for some uncounted hundreds of miles here and there, and as French as a man can possibly be who has lived twelve strenuous ​months in the North-West. Dick destested him; and de Choiseaux, never guessing that Dick could have used to him much better French than his own, accepted the disabilities of "these so gauche English," and extended him a gentle compassion mixed with encouragement. But Dick proving blank against all things just now, de Choiseaux cracked his whip at the solitudes and talked to his mad-headed pony instead.
The pines were ebony columns upbearing a mighty nave-roof of snow on frozen branches, and the little trees stood among them like tufted candles at a shrine. The whole forest was very still, with the thrumming note of the sled runners sounding through it like the diapason of an organ. Once Dick's trained eyes saw a single footprint which showed where a trapper had left the trail. Once a flurry of snow that told where a struggle had been. And once again a black stick explained that it had snapped and shed its burden since the last snowfall. He noted these things because it was his nature. But the whole of his conscious mind was focussed on Ducane.
He had no special quarrel with Ducane, any more than he had special interest in the people of Grey Wolf. When Tempest spoke, vague desire stirred in him to look on his work as a sacred thing. When alone he knew that he looked on it as a mink looks on the trail which it follows. To track a man into the very burrow where he lies hid; to jump on him sudden and sharp, noting in what manner he bears himself under the supreme moment—these were some of the very few things that did not grow stale to Dick. The unexpectedness of the human; the impossibility of calculating exactly when he will double or run backwards or spring; these were the things that gave joy to the chase and made it worth while. And all the good or evil that neglect or fulfilment of his work might mean to Canada were such a side issue that he always roused in new surprise when Tempest spoke of it. And yet he had a genius for his work which Tempest would never have, although Tempest offered flesh and spirit to it daily.
The sled swayed out of the forest and a white ocean heaved broad billows about them. Bush and hollow, ridge and snake-fence were as levelly white as paper. ​Dick wondered idly what kind of land O'Hara was like to find where he was going. Would the vivid air bring the blood leaping from a man's heart along his veins there? Would there be a bullmoose like that one on horizon to strike a wonderful note of virility over this senseless snow that pushed itself against the pale blue of the sky? Would a trail like this of the Moon-Dance, kept hard by the passing of many Indians, lead O'Hara anywhere—anywhere at all? Dick yawned, and turned to torment de Choiseaux.
"I think that pony is going lame on the near fore," he said.
"Comment?" said de Choiseaux. Then he apologized and endeavoured to struggle down to Dick's level. He was struggling still when Dick sat upright with a sharp oath which cut de Choiseaux's efforts in half. O'Hara's shack lay on the snow like a boat in the trough of a wave; and, down the slope where a snake-fence was broken and tangled, an up-ended sled tilted athwart a dead horse. A trail wound from the sled to the shack; a wide smudged trail, dabbled here and there with blood; and, twisted through and through it like a thread, ran the coyote-spore which antedated the accident twenty hours back at least.
"But he brought himself in," said Dick. "Well—a man has to pay for his carelessness."
He followed his knock into the shack. But de Choiseaux shot past him, gripping his great black bag in both hands.
"Ah, mon brave," he began. "Eh! Get pauvre petit——"
O'Hara moved, and unquenchable humour gleamed in his eye.
"Faith, Docthor, dear," he said. "’Twas main thoughtful ov ye tu bring me coffin wid ye."
Dick laughed, stooping over the bunk.
"You've got your wits, anyhow," he said. "How are you, O'Hara?"
"That's for him to tell," said O'Hara slowly. "I—dunno."
Instinct told Dick that he did. And then de Choiseaux went to work with the energy of a man chopping wood. ​Ejaculations flew like chips, spattering over the Irishman's occasional groans, and Dick kept out of range until a shout from O'Hara brought him over to see part of the shining contents of that bag ranged along the floor.
"Kape him off with them saws," roared O'Hara. "Set him cuttin' lumber tu build a house. Begorra, he has machinery enough wid him. Och, Corp'ral, what did ye let him intu here wid all that tu him for?"
"C'est necessaire," shrilled de Choiseaux, and spilt the odour of chloroform into the air.
Grey and sweating with pain O'Hara leaned over, selected a wooden mallet from beside the bunk, and jerked it with under-arm swing into the shining array.
"Maybe that'll tache him to putt a dacent men tu slape so he can walk off wid his appendums an' things," he said. "Just tell him that if I'm dyin' I'm dyin' in wan piece, Corp'ral, dear."
"Il est fol," said de Choiseaux, advancing with the sponge.
Dick glanced from the brisk-stepping little man with the erect shock of hair to the heavily-breathing giant on the bunk, and the grim humour of these man-made limitations which will not untangle even with Death as interpreter tickled him to something near laughter. Then he assaulted the amazed de Choiseaux in a pure French that left him sputtering, and stooped again to O'Hara.
"Be easy, O'Hara," he said. "He is not going to touch you."
There was silence. Then O'Hara said:
"What du that mane?"
"I fancy you know," said Dick, with dropped voice. And the whole of him was alert if sudden action were needed.
One shudder ran through O'Hara. Then he burst into a blaze of wrath.
"What duthat——want wid cuttin' me up, thin? What did he mane, the blood-suckin' little skunk? Howly mother, lind me the loan ov him till I wring the little wry neck ov him——"
"Delirium," crowed de Choiseaux, bobbing into range. "Parblieu! I expected it."
​Dick swung him clear of the giant's long arm.
"You'll likely get what you don't expect in a minute," he said. "Steady, O'Hara. It's only professional instinct. He had to try to do something."
"Let him go an' thry ut outside, thin." O'Hara dropped back exhausted. "Arrah! Get me rid ov him! How shud I be turnin' me sowl tu hivin wid him an' his knives afther me?"
Dick made the matter clear and comprehensive. De Choiseaux met it with heated reference to his diploma and other matters. Then Dick took him by the elbows and ran him out, for a certain look on O'Hara's face had warned him that there was no time for civilities. He trod back softly, laying his warm living hand over the clammy one.
"All right," he said. "You can take your time about it. Now—have you any matters to fix up?"
O'Hara spoke with long pauses between, and Dick followed the lips with his pencil. O'Hara's dog howled once with its nose up. Then it curled in the blankets at its master's feet and slept. A clock on the wall ticked busily, shortening down the minutes, one by one. At last O'Hara raised himself, and his eyes grew dark.
"I—wud be wantin' tu make me confession," he gasped.
Dick sat back on his heels in alarm.
"Holy Powers, don't make it to me, man," he said. "I've sins enough of my own."
"Anny man can give anny man absolution——"
"I couldn't. Don't speak of such a hideous farce. Ask de Choiseaux."
"If the Sergeant had sint a praste—why didn't he sind a praste?"
"You never go to chapel. I suppose he didn't know you had any religion."
"A man foinds the nade ov ut—when he comes tu die——"
"Does he?" Dick wondered a moment. "I can't see what difference it makes," he said. "But go on, if it's any amusement to you. I'm listening."
O'Hara spoke in whispers broken by the ebb and flow of his life-tide. And then he twisted on his bed.
​"Grange's Andree has come back tu Grey Wolf," he said. "I was goin' in tu see her when—this came."
Dick nodded. He was not concerned with Grange's Andree. His mind was puzzling over some of the bald, stupid things which were all O'Hara had been able to do in the way of sin. O'Hara's hand shot out and grasped Dick's sleeve.
"Corp'ral," he whispered. "For what ye may hear about that girl du not lay ut up against her. Du not. An'—ye'll hear plenty. She's no more than the birrd in the forest for understanding. It goes wid the natur ov her tu have the bhoys afther her—faith, they're all that an' more. And she don't know—she don't know——" His voice broke and caught up again. "Maybe she have not a sowl—or a heart—I dunno. I dunno. But I wudn't she had a hearrt in her tu make her sad. Betther as she is, the darlin'. Betther as she is. An' if a man says anything against her—give him the lie from me. An' who wud give ut if ut was not me——"
Dick was interested now.
"Where has she been?" he said.
"Outside—tu Calgary—I was woild tu see her again, an' I putt in the furrst horse that come—well—bhut give me the worrd on the lips ov ye, Corp'ral. Say: 'If anny man says annything against her O'Hara will come back tu give the lie tu him.' Say ut."
Dick said it, not knowing that he himself was to qualify for O'Hara's visit very fully in the days to come.
"Mary—have mercy——" muttered O'Hara; and fell into stupor, and presently went on to present his prayer in person.
When the necessary work was done by the two men moving softly in the dingy shack, de Choiseaux drove home through the coming dark to one who needed him still, and Dick turned to the labour that was his to do.
He overhauled O'Hara's freight-sled in the stable, padding it level with empty sacks and blankets. He went with his knife to the snake-fence and cut and dragged the harness clear of the dead horse, while the sun turned all the waste of snow to pink and delicate umber that steeled to cold blue, and the rigid air numbed his nose ​to the edge of frost-bite, and left his fingers stiff when he had rubbed that danger away. He fed the living remainder of O'Hara's team while the dog slunk at his heels, explaining the fear that was in him. Then he lit up the stove and fed himself, with O'Hara unobjecting in the bunk against the wall; and later, he brought horse and sled to the door, got O'Hara aboard with difficulty, and started back with the dog at his feet for the eight-hour drive into Grey Wolf.
Death meant less to him than to many men. The tragedies that belong to the loneliness meant less, because familiarity had worn away the edges that cut. He sat hunched in his furs, with keen eyes only uncovered, and the sledge burring on the hard-stamped trail. Up in the pale night the moon stared nakedly; the Lights blew up like white smoke from the world's pipe of peace, then melted suddenly into a spirit-dance of indecent glee, with the swishing of silken flags and the crackle of far-off laughter.
The snow lay in wind-rows to all horizons, and every wave of it was a swathe flung down to die. The dog at Dick's feet raised himself to smell the air and howl, and back at the snake-fence a coyote barked in answer. Then, far across the waste, drifted their shadows, one by one; slinking, silent, seeking blood. The single howl of a wolf rang metallic out of the forest ahead, and Dick's senses, always vividly alive, understood. The North-West was abroad amongst her own; indifferent to those who served her and died by her hand; splendid in her arrogance, calm with irresistible power, with careless cruelty. All the wild things that she nurtured fought her, tooth and claw, for their subsistence. All the soft-treading, keen-eyed men of the back-trail met her, breast to breast and grip to iron grip. She played with them, kissed them with her fragrant lips of summer, taught them to love her, and then fastened on them swiftly with her sharp white teeth and her breath that kills.
Dick looked at a couple of big stars that watched him indolently over the flank of the range, and his mind slid back to Grange's Andree—the girl who had no soul for the man who loved her.
The Lights rollicked in their game of hide-and-seek ​over half a world. The moon slid low, indifferent still; the black hard line of the forest neared and opened, letting them into a world of dimness where the tall trees stood like mutes with bowed heads cowled with white. Very sound seemed frozen silent. The whispering creak of the sledge grew finer, thinner. The moon dropped down and the Lights went home to the waiting bergs, and the life that moved in the forest was stealthy as they.
The world was dark yet when the pale line of the frozen lake rose like a ghost by the trail-side. A pair of prowling Indian dogs, hungry as their race has been through immemorable ages, loped alongside with raised bristles, smelling the dog at Dick's feet. It swore defiance back until Dick kicked it out to make its own arrangements, and he drove down the one street of Grey Wolf with a chorus waking the echoes about him.
In a side-window at Grange's a sudden match spurted into light and stayed. Dick had an idle fancy as he drove past. Did Grange's Andree know that O'Hara had come into Grey Wolf to keep his tryst after all?