In the Brooding Wild

A forceful gust, too sudden to withstand, would drive them, blind, groping, from their path; and a moment later they would be hurled like shuttlecocks in the opposite direction. They staggered under the burden of the storm, and groped for the solid foothold of the track with their poles; and so they slowly gained their way.

Their strenuous life had rendered them uncomplaining, and they laboured in silence. No emergency but they were ready to meet with a promptness that was almost automatic. A slip upon the declining path and the fall was checked by the aid of the poles which both men used as skilfully as any guide upon the Alps. These contests with the elements were as much a part of their lives as were their battles with the animal world.

After awhile Ralph halted; he thrust his pole deep into the snow and held his position by its aid. Then, throwing up his head, as might any wolf, he opened his throat and uttered a prolonged cry. It rose high above the storm in a manner which only the cry of a mountain or forest bred man can. It rushed forth borne unwillingly upon the shrieking wind, and its sound almost instantly died out of the ears of the sender. But the men knew it was travelling. Nick followed his brother’s example, and then Ralph gave out the mountain call again.

Then they waited, listening. A sound, faint and far off, came in answer to their cries. It was the human cry they had heard before.

Ralph moved forward with Nick hard upon his heels. The line “paid out,” and the points of the poles sought the hard earth beneath the snow. They gained their way in spite of the storm, foot by foot, yard by yard. And, at short intervals, they paused and sent their cries hurtling upon the vicious wind. And to every cry came an answer, and every answer sounded nearer.

They were on the only open track in the valley, and both men knew that whoever was out in that storm must be somewhere upon it. Therefore they kept on.

“The line’s gettin’ heavy,” said Nick presently.

“It’s only a little further,” replied Ralph.

“By the weight o’ the line, I reckon ther’ ain’t more’n fifty feet more.”

“Maybe it’ll be ’nough.”

And Ralph was right.

Ten yards further on they almost fell over a dark mass lying in the snow. It was a huddled heap, as of a creature striving to shut out the attack of the storm. It was the attitude of one whose heart quails with dread. It was the attitude of one, who, in possession of all his faculties and strength, lies down to die. Rank cowardice was in that fur-clad figure, and the cries for help were as the weeping of a fear-filled soul.

Ralph was down upon his knees in a moment, and all that the still figure conveyed was at once apparent to him. His hand fell heavily upon the man’s shoulder, and he turned him over to look at his face.

The victim of the storm groaned; as yet he was unable to realize that help was at hand. Then, after several rough shakes, his head emerged from the folds of an enormous storm-collar.

As he looked up at the faces bending over him the two trappers uttered exclamations.

“It’s the trader!” said Ralph.

“Victor Gagnon!” exclaimed Nick.

CHAPTER II.

WHICH TELLS OF THE WHITE SQUAW

The stormy day was followed by an equally stormy night. Inside the dugout it was possible, in a measure, to forget the terrors of the blizzard raging outside. The glowing stove threw out its comforting warmth, and even the rank yellow light of the small oil lamp, which was suspended from one of the rafters, gave a cheering suggestion of comfort to the rough interior. Besides, there were within food and shelter and human association, and the mind of man is easily soothed into a feeling of security by such surroundings.

The trappers had brought the rescued trader to the shelter of their humble abode; they had refreshed him with warmth and good food; they had given him the comfort of a share of their blankets, the use of their tobacco, all the hospitality they knew how to bestow.

The three men were ranged round the room in various attitudes of repose. All were smoking heavily. On the top of the stove stood a tin billy full to the brim of steaming coffee, the scent of which, blending with the reek of strong tobacco, came soothingly to their nostrils.

Victor Gagnon was lying full length upon a pile of outspread blankets. His face was turned towards the stove, and his head was supported upon one hand. He looked none the worse for his adventure in the storm. He was a small, dark man of the superior French half-breed class. He had a narrow, ferret face which was quite good looking in a mean small way. He was clean shaven, and wore his straight black hair rather long. His clothes, now he had discarded his furs, showed to be of orthodox type, and quite unlike those of his hosts. He was a trader who kept a store away to the northeast of the dugout. He worked in connection with one of the big fur companies of the East, as an agent for the wholesale house dealing directly with trappers and Indians.

This was the man with whom the Westleys traded, and they were truly glad that chance had put it in their power to befriend him. Their associations with him, although chiefly of a business nature, were decidedly friendly.

Now they were listening to his slow, quiet, thoughtful talk. He was a man who liked talking, but he always contrived that his audience should be those who gave information. These two backwoodsmen, simple as the virgin forests to which they belonged, were not keen enough to observe this. Victor Gagnon understood such men well. His life had been made up of dealings with the mountain world and those who peopled it.

Nick, large and picturesque, sat tailor-fashion on his blankets, facing the glowing stove with the unblinking, thoughtful stare of a large dog. Ralph was less luxurious. He was propped upon his upturned bucket, near enough to the fire to dispense the coffee without rising from his seat.

“Yup. It’s a long trail for a man to make travellin’ light an’ on his lone,” Victor was saying, while his black eyes flashed swiftly upon his companions. “It’s not a summer picnic, I guess. Maybe you’re wonderin’ what I come for.”

He ceased speaking as a heavy blast shook the roof, and set the lamp swinging dangerously.

“We’re good an’ pleased to see you–” began Ralph, in his deliberate way; but Victor broke in upon him at once.

“O’ course you are. It’s like you an’ Nick there to feel that way. But human natur’s human natur’, an’ maybe som’eres you are jest wonderin’ what brought me along. Anyway, I come with a red-hot purpose. Gee! but it’s blowin’. I ain’t like to forget this storm.” Gagnon shuddered as he thought of his narrow escape.

“Say,” he went on, with an effort at playfulness. “You two boys are pretty deep–pretty deep.” He repeated himself reflectively. “An’ you seem so easy and free, too. I do allow I’d never ’a’ thought it. Ha, ha!”

He turned a smiling face upon his two friends and looked quizzically from one to the other. His look was open, but behind it shone something else. There was a hungriness in his sharp, black eyes which would have been observed by any one other than these two backwoodsmen.

“You allus was a bit fancy in your way o’ speakin’, Victor,” observed Nick, responding to the man’s grin. “Hit the main trail, man. We ain’t good at guessin’.”

Ralph had looked steadily at the trader while he was speaking; now he turned slowly and poured out three pannikins of coffee. During the operation he turned his visitor’s words over in his mind and something of their meaning came to him. He passed a tin to each of the others and sipped meditatively from his own, while his eyes became fixed upon the face of the half-breed.

“Ther’ was some fine pelts in that last parcel o’ furs you brought along,” continued Victor. “Three black foxes. But your skins is always the best I get.”

Ralph nodded over his coffee, whilst he added his other hand to the support of the tin. Nick watched his brother a little anxiously. He, too, felt uneasy.

“It’s cur’us that you git more o’ them black pelts around here than anybody else higher up north. You’re a sight better hunters than any durned neche on the Peace River. An’ them hides is worth more’n five times their weight in gold. You’re makin’ a pile o’ bills. Say, you keep them black pelts snug away wi’ other stuff o’ value.”

Gagnon paused and took a deep draught at his coffee.

“Say,” he went on, with a knowing smile. “I guess them black foxes lived in a gold mine–”

He broke off and watched the effect of his words. The others kept silence, only their eyes betrayed them. The smoke curled slowly up from their pipes and hung in a cloud about the creaking roof. The fire burned fiercely in the stove, and with every rush of wind outside there came a corresponding roar of flame up the stovepipe.

“Maybe you take my meanin’,” said the Breed, assured that his words had struck home. “Them black furs was chock full o’ grit–an’ that grit was gold-dust. Guess that dust didn’t grow in them furs; an’ I ’lows foxes don’t fancy a bed o’ such stuff. Say, boys, you’ve struck gold in this layout o’ yours. That’s what’s brought me out in this all-fired storm.”

The two brothers exchanged rapid glances and then Ralph spoke for them both.

“You’re smart, Victor. That’s so. We’ve been workin’ a patch o’ pay-dirt for nigh on to twelve month. But it’s worked out; clear out to the bedrock. It wa’n’t jest a great find, though I ’lows, while it lasted, we took a tidy wage out o’ it–”

“An’ what might you call a ‘tidy wage’?” asked the Breed, in a tone of disappointment. He knew these men so well that he did not doubt their statement; but he was loth to relinquish his dream. He had come there to make an arrangement with them. If they had a gold working he considered that, provided he could be of use to them, there would be ample room for him in it. This had been the object of his hazardous journey. And now he was told that it had worked out. He loved gold, and the news came as a great blow to him.

He watched Ralph keenly while he awaited his reply, sitting up in his eagerness.

“Seventy-fi’ dollars a day,” Ralph spoke without enthusiasm.

Victor’s eyes sparkled.

“Each?” he asked.

“No, on shares.”

There was another long silence while the voice of the storm was loud without. Victor Gagnon was thinking hard, but his face was calm, his expression almost indifferent. More coffee was drunk, and the smoke continued to rise.