In the Brooding Wild. Cullum Ridgwell
a run down to Edmonton one o’ these days. A feller mostly likes to make things hum when he’s got a good wad.” Gagnon’s tone was purely conversational. But his object must have been plain to any one else. He was bitterly resentful at the working out of the placer mine, and his anger always sent his thoughts into crooked channels. His nature was a curious one; he was honest enough, although avaricious, while his own ends were served. It was different when he was balked.
“We don’t notion a city any,” said Nick, simply.
“Things is confusin’ to judge by the yarns folks tell,” added Ralph, with a shake of his shaggy head.
“Them fellers as comes up to your shack, Victor, mostly talks o’ drink, an’ shootin’, an’–an’ women,” Nick went on. “Guess the hills’ll do us. Maybe when we’ve done wi’ graft an’ feel that it ’ud be good to laze, likely we’ll go down an’ buy a homestead on the prairie. Maybe, I sez.”
Nick spoke dubiously, like a man who does not convince himself.
“Hah, that’s ’cause you’ve never been to a city,” said the Breed sharply.
“Jest so,” observed Ralph quietly, between the puffs at his pipe.
Gagnon laughed silently. His eyes were very bright and he looked from one brother to the other with appreciation. An idea had occurred to him and he was mentally probing the possibilities of carrying it out. What he saw pleased him, for he continued to smile.
“Well, well, maybe you’re right,” he said indulgently. Then silence fell.
Each man was rapt in his own thoughts, and talk without a definite object was foreign to at least two of the three. The brothers were waiting in their stolid Indian fashion for sleep to come. The trader was thinking hard behind his lowered eyelids, which were almost hidden by the thick smoke which rose from his pipe.
The fire burned down and was replenished. Ralph rose and gathered the pannikins and threw them into a biscuit-box. Then he laid out his blankets while Nick went over and bolted the door. Still the trader did not look up. When the two men had settled themselves comfortably in their blankets the other at last put his pipe away.
“No,” he said, as he too negotiated his blankets, “guess we want good sound men in these hills, anyway. I reckon you’ve no call to get visitin’ the prairie, boys; you’re the finest hunters I’ve ever known. D’ye know the name your shack here goes by among the down-landers? They call it the ‘Westley Injun Reserve.’”
“White Injuns,” said Nick, with a grin followed by a yawn.
“That’s what,” observed Victor, curling himself up in his blankets. “I’ve frequent heard tell of the White Squaw, but White Injuns sounds like as it wa’n’t jest possible. Howsum, they call you real white buck neches, an’ I ’lows ther’ ain’t no redskin in the world to stan’ beside you on the trail o’ a fur.”
The two men laughed at their friend’s rough tribute to their attainments. Ralph was the quieter of the two, but his appreciation was none the less. He was simple-hearted, but he knew his own worth when dealing with furs. Nick laughed loudly. It tickled him to be considered a White Indian at the calling which was his, for his whole pride was in his work.
Nick was not without a romantic side to his nature. The life of the mountains had imbued him with a half-savage superstition which revelled in the uncanny lore of such places. This was not the first time he had heard of a White Squaw, and, although he did not believe such a phenomenon possible, it appealed seductively to his love of the marvellous. Victor had turned over to sleep, but Nick was very wide awake and interested. He could not let such an opportunity slip. Victor was good at a yarn. And, besides, Victor knew more of the mountain-lore than any one else. So he roused the Breed again.
“You was sayin’ about a White Squaw, Victor,” he said, in a shamefaced manner. His bronzed cheeks were deeply flushed and he glanced over at his brother to see if he were laughing at him. Ralph was lying full length upon his blankets and his eyes were closed, so he went on. “Guess I’ve heerd tell of a White Squaw. Say, ain’t it that they reckon as she ain’t jest a human crittur?”
Victor opened his eyes and rolled over on his back. If there was one weakness he had it was the native half-breed love of romancing. He was ever ready to yarn. He revelled in it when he had a good audience. Nick was the very man for him, simple, honest, superstitious. So he sat up and answered readily enough.
“That’s jest how, pard. An’ it ain’t a yarn neither. It’s gospel truth. I know.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Nick, while a strange feeling passed down his spine. Ralph’s eyes had slowly opened, but the others did not notice him.
“I’ve seen her!” went on the trader emphatically.
“You’ve seen her!” said Nick, in an awed whisper.
An extra loud burst of the storming wind held the men silent a moment, then, as it died away, Victor went on.
“Yes, I see her with my own two eyes, an’ I ain’t like to ferget it neither. Say, ye’ve seen them Bible ’lustrations in my shanty? Them pictur’s o’ lovesome critturs wi’ feathery wings an’ sech?”
“I guess.”
“Wal, clip them wings sheer off, an’ you’ve got her dead right.”
“Mush! But she must be a dandy sight,” exclaimed Nick, with conviction. “How come ye to–”
“Guess it’s a long yarn, an’ maybe ye’re wantin’ to sleep.”
“Say, I ’lows I’d like that yarn, Victor. I ain’t worried for sleep, any.”
Nick deliberately refilled his pipe and lit it, and passed his tobacco to the trader. Victor took the pouch. Ralph’s eyes had closed again.
“You allus was a great one fer a yarn, Nick,” began the half-breed, with a laugh. “Guess you most allus gets me gassin’; but say, this ain’t no yarn, in a way. It’s the most cur’us bit o’ truth, as maybe you’ll presently allow. But I ain’t goin’ to tell it you if ye ain’t believin’, ’cause it’s the truth.” The trader’s face had become quite serious and he spoke with unusual earnestness. Nick was impressed, and Ralph’s eyes had opened again.
“Git goin’, pard; guess your word’s good fer me,” Nick said eagerly. “You was sayin’–”
“Ye’ve heard tell o’ the Moosefoot Injuns?” began the trader slowly. Nick nodded. “They’re a queer lot o’ neches. I used to do a deal o’ trade wi’ them on the Peace River, ’fore they was located on a reserve. They were the last o’ the old-time redskin hunters. Dessay they were the last to hunt the buffalo into the drives. They’re pretty fine men now, I guess, as neches go, but they ain’t nothin’ to what they was. I guess that don’t figger anyway, but they’re different from most Injuns, which is what I was coming to. Their chief ain’t a ‘brave,’ same as most, which, I ’lows, is unusual. Maybe that’s how it come they ain’t allus on the war-path, an’ maybe that’s how it come their river’s called Peace River. Their chief is a Med’cine Man; has been ever since they was drove across the mountains from British Columbia. They was pretty nigh wiped out when that happened, so they did away wi’ havin’ a ‘brave’ fer a chief, an’ took on a ‘Med’cine Man.’
“Wal, it ain’t quite clear how it come about, but the story, which is most gener’ly believed, says that the first Med’cine Man was pertic’ler cunnin’, an’ took real thick with the white folks’ way o’ doin’ things. Say, he learned his folk a deal o’ farmin’ an’ sech, an’ they took to trappin’ same as you understand it. There wa’n’t no scrappin’, nor war-path yowlin’; they jest come an’ settled right down an’ took on to the land. Wal, this feller, ’fore he died, got the Mission’ry on his trail, an’ got religion; but he couldn’t git dead clear o’ his med’cine, an’ he got to prophesyin’. He called all his folk together an’ took out his youngest squaw. She was a pretty crittur, sleek as an antelope fawn; I ’lows her