Fur Pirates/Chapter 6

is now a busy, thriving town, almost a city, with waterworks, electric lights, banks, a theater, and all the rest of it. But at that time it was merely a trading point, an outpost of civilization whence a single sagging wire trailed away southward, a tenuous filament, often broken, connecting it with the outer world of men and events.

"You see, Bob," Dunleath explained, "I'll have to get money from Fothergill for this trip. If I could see him there would be no trouble. As it is I'll have to put it up to him that it's a gamble. But that ought to appeal to him. It always did."

"Is he a gambler?" I asked in surprise.

"No, he's in the wholesale dry-goods business—nominally. That is, his father made the business and about half a million, and left both to Fothergill. Fothergill lets other people run it, and has a good time. Not that he isn't a good business man. He is. But what I meant was that he's game to take a long chance. And this is a mighty long one."

"But I thought," I said hesitatingly, "that you had plenty of money. I guess you paid me too much. I wish you'd take some of it back."

He laughed gently, and shook his head. "Not a nickel, old boy, though it's good of you. Just between ourselves I had some money once and I lost it. The next lot I get I'm going to hang on to. I have some stocks, but they are down to rock bottom now, and if I let go I'd lose. So I'll get it from Fothergill."

But for two days he got no reply to his telegram, and we waited impatiently. When at last the answer same he puckered his mouth and whistled.

"Can't you get it?" I asked anxiously.

"That part is all right. Fothergill wants to come with us, though of course I didn't tell him what we were going for. He knows there's something up, and he wants to be in the fun. Well, as he's putting up the money, he's entitled to a run for it. I always understood that he had a good deal of experience in roughing it."

Remembering what Louis Beef had said as to Mr. Fothergill's ability to lose himself, I repeated his words. Dunleath laughed.

"As a matter of fact, I always suspected that he wasn't the original . But he's a good fellow, Bob, one of the best in the world, and it's white of him to help us out. We'll have to wait for him."

So we waited, and I found the time pass very slowly. At last he arrived, not on the stage, but in a wagon which he had hired; and it was piled with a quantity of rolls and bundles of dunnage which quite appalled me.

Wallace Dent Fothergill was a big man, beefy, red-faced, with a loud voice and a bluff, offhand manner. He was wearing a four-punch hat, a fringed buckskin shirt and moccasins, and he had a belt full of cartridges around his extensive middle. I suppose he thought these things made him look like an old-timer; whereas they merely advertised him as a pilgrim. And the driver grinned at us as his passenger climbed down.

"Klahowya, Jim!" he shouted to Dunleath. But he pronounced it "kla-how-ya," which is quite wrong, for the Chinook greeting is accented sharply on the second syllable, which is "ho." "Klahowya, Jim! Hope you're feeling hiyu skookum again. And Bob Cory, too. Lord, Bob, you've grown! I didn't kumtux you at first. And how is the uncle and the pretty sister and everybody at your illahee?"

He had a fashion of interlarding his conversation with Chinook words which he did not always use correctly apart from the pronunciation, though in this case he was all right. Just in fun I asked him in Chinook what made him so large around the waist. He didn't understand a word of it. But all the same he made a bluff in English, thanking me for inquiring. And the driver snickered again, and Jim Dunleath gave me a reproving glance, though of course he did not understand what I had said, either.

"And now, Jim," said Mr. Fothergill after dinner, when he had lit a huge cigar, "I'm ready to hear all about it."

So Dunleath showed him the old letter of Nitche McNab, and told him what we had heard from McClintock.

"And that," he concluded, "is what we have to go on. Not being blessed with the ready cash to finance an expedition to look for this old cache I wired you. Now you know as much about it as I do. If you don't feel like staying with the game, say so. I admit it's a long shot."

"Well, I'm lucky with these long ones," said Mr. Fothergill. "Of course I'll stay with it. About twenty years ago this was. That ought to pretty nearly extinguish any title the company had to the furs. Anyway, if we find 'em we can make practically our own salvage terms."

"So I think. Bob and I have equal shares in this. Now you come in, and we'll split the profits—if there are any—three ways. Will that be satisfactory to you?"

"Say," said Mr. Fothergill, "do you think my name is Shylock? I've got all the money I want. This is fun for me. If we get the furs you can repay what I spend—and that's all."

But Jim Dunleath would not have it that way, telling him rather stiffly that we were neither of us objects of charity. Mr. Fothergill called him a crank. They got quite hot about it. But finally Mr. Fothergill agreed to take a quarter interest.

"Meet me now," he said. "Don't be so blame proud."

And so we all shook hands on it, and, seeing how really generous and good-hearted he was, I resolved not to make fun of him any more, no matter what he did or said.

"Ballou will guide us, of course," he announced, "and Louis will cook. I'm surprised that you haven't engaged them already. However, you just leave it to Tom and me. We'll pick out good men. We'll need eight or ten. The expense is a detail. We'll do this thing right. Tom will know where to get good men. When I've told him where we're going and what we're after "

"Hold on, Wally!" said Dunleath. "That's just what you must not do."

"Why not?" Mr. Fothergill demanded.

"Because, Wally, though competition may be the life of trade, it's poor from the standpoint of monopolists. We are monopolists—so far as information of this cache is concerned. I don't want anybody told where we are going, or why."

"But old Tom is as honest as the sun and as close as a clam."

"That's the way he struck me. But all the same I want this kept among us three until we get on the ground."

"But, hang it!" Mr. Fothergill exclaimed impatiently. "We've got to give some reason for going into that country with such an outfit. Why not be frank with Ballou? It's far the best policy."

"Now, look here," said Dunleath emphatically, "I'm not going to take a single chance on this, Wally, and that goes. I want to have those furs in possession before the company gets wind of them. Then we can make our own terms. If somebody leaked we might have a rival outfit on the ground, and there might be all kinds of trouble."

"Something in that, perhaps," Mr. Fothergill admitted. "All right. I'll think up some plausible yarn. And we'll put ourselves in Tom's hands as to men. You can bet that any man he recommends will be good. And, without egotism, I think I know these backwoodsmen pretty well. Any man that gets past Tom and me will be all right. Don't you worry. I'll look after our organization myself."

That, as I learned later, was a characteristic of Mr. Fothergill. He was prone, unasked, to take things into his own hands, and I think it was knowledge of this trait which had made Dunleath doubtful when he had received the telegram.

It was evident that we should never get Mr. Fothergill and his dunnage into a small canoe. And then he bought a quantity of supplies and tools. I solved the problem by getting a big canoe and two Indians to paddle it. They were Ojibways, named Billy Finger and Jake Horsefly, both good men. And so Mr. Fothergill rode in comfort and was able to shift about and stretch his limbs; and when I saw how he did it I was very glad he was not in the little canoe with me. He hitched and lurched in a way that would have upset a sixteen-foot canoe a dozen times in a mile, and I could imagine the trouble he had been to Ballou and Louis.

Dunleath and I stopped at the ranch when we reached it, while Fothergill and the Indians went through to Ballou's.

I had bought a few simple presents for Peggy and Uncle Fred, but Jim Dunleath had things for them which quite put mine in the shade-—books and music and almost a half bushel of candy for Peg; and for my uncle a case of pipes and half a dozen boxes of cigars. And for me, quite without my knowledge, he had a long forty-one-caliber single-action six-shooter, blued, plain, and businesslike, a weapon which I had often longed for.

Most of these things were not to be had in Neepaw, and he must have telegraphed for them. Altogether they must have cost him a pretty penny, and I don't think my uncle quite approved.

"I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth," he said, "but for a young man that's broke you are going pretty strong."

"I'm not broke," Jim Dunleath laughed: "I have a fortune in furs."

"And a castle in Spain," said my uncle dryly.

"Yes—more than one," he replied, laughing, and as he said it his eyes sought Peggy's, and I thought she blushed a little, though I could not see what his Spanish property had to do with her. You see, I had never heard the phrase before, and took it literally, though I soon found out it was a mere figure of speech.

In the morning, Mr. Fothergill came up the river with the Indians, and he was jubilant.

"I've made all arrangements," he said. "I knew we could depend on old Tom. He will go, and Louis, and his old tillikum, Hayes. A fine old fellow, Hayes; a genuine frontiersman, one of a vanishing type."

"Personally," said Dunleath, "I don't care how soon his type vanishes. He seems to me to be a pretty hard old bird."

"Of course he's hard. A rough diamond, like all those fellows. They had to be hard to survive. It ill becomes us, who ride in comfort on the trails they blazed, to sneer at them."

"Well," said Dunleath, "I don't know what trails Hayes has blazed, but I'll bet a fair proportion of them lead to saloons. However, that's so of too many of us. Hayes goes. How about other men?"

"Tom's off to Scott's Portage to get them. He thinks he can find three or four there."

"What's the matter with these Indians? They are good men."

"I mentioned that to Tom, but he pointed out that it would be better to have all white men. He isn't prejudiced against Indians himself, but some are—Hayes for one. Others might be."

"Any one who can stand Hayes ought to be able to stand an Indian," said Dunleath. "Is Hayes running this show, or are we?"

"You've taken an unreasonable dislike to that old pioneer," said Mr. Fothergill. "Why, you've only seen him once or twice. He may have his peculiarities, but he's a friend of Tom's, and that's good enough for me. You'll like him when you know him better."

"Maybe. But I hate to discard two perfectly good Indians on his say-so. Well, all right, if you want it that way. Did Ballou ask any questions?"

"Naturally he wanted to know why we required such a big outfit. He thought the three of them and the three of us would be plenty for anything."

"Well?"

"Well, I just told him to get four more men, and that we would take four big canoes and one small one; and when he asked what we were going to do with the big canoes I said we expected to bring them back loaded with the natural products of the country."

Jim Dunleath laughed. "Was he satisfied with that?"

"Not altogether. He asked a few questions. I had to say something, so I told him we had information of some valuable deposits. No harm in that, was there?"

"No, I guess not. Only my limited experience has been that a good, straightforward lie is the most honest form of evasion."

"Well, hang it, I wouldn't tell old Tom a flat-footed lie that I'd have to acknowledge later. It would be tantamount to a suspicion of his honesty. I tell you, these old-timers are as frank and simple and straightforward as the sun. I know them, and you don't."

Mr. Fothergill was plainly put out, and Dunleath let the matter drop. There was nothing to do but wait for Ballou's return. Fothergill took up his quarters with Louis and Hayes. I worked hard about the ranch. And Peggy and Jim Dunleath spent more and more time together.

Ballou was away a week. He returned with three big canoes, which, with the one we had brought from Neepaw, made up our complement, and four recruits, strangers to me. All were young men, and though they were evidently strong and experienced canoe-men I didn't care much for their looks.

Hector McGregor seemed to be the leader. He stood six feet in his moccasins, and he was beautifully built. He was red of hair, high of cheek bone as an Indian, with a straight, wide mouth and a pair of insolent blue eyes. His tongue carried the Highland bur of his ancestors, and it was easy to see that he had a hair-trigger temper. Jordan and Conover were of a more ordinary type, such as may be seen by the score anywhere in the North among the lumberjacks and rivermen. The fourth man was a breed, Peter Opegagun, and his appearance was decidedly against him. He was well built enough, but his mouth bent down at the corners like the curve of a hawk's bill; his nose had been broken and sat sidewise in his wide, flat face; his upper lip was thinly thatched with coarse hair; his ears projected outward, and his head narrowed in above them, and he had the smallest, lowest forehead I have ever seen in a man. Nevertheless, he seemed to be on good terms with the others.

The evening before our departure was close and muggy. I was busy overhauling my outfit, and when I was through I went outside to look for Peg. But she was not around anywhere, and neither was Jim Dunleath. By that time I knew better than to go looking for them, for I had done that once or twice before, and when I had found them it was clear that I was about as popular as a crow with two kingbirds. And so I sat down on the grass in the shadow of a bushy, soft maple, where I presently fell asleep. I came out of my slumber with the sound of voices near by, and there were the two of them close to me in the starlight. But they were so much occupied with each other that they did not see me at all.

"I'll bid your uncle good-by in the morning," Jim Dunleath was saying, "but I'd rather say good-by to you now—alone."

"Good-by," said Peggy softly, "and good luck! I shall think of you—and Bob—very often."

"Thank goodness it's only for a few weeks. Do you know that I shall find that time very long?"

"Really?" said Peggy in a very small voice.

"Really and truly. Each night, at dusk, I shall wish that I were here with you, beside this old, brown river. I believe I shall pretend that I am."

"It would be fun, wouldn't it? Mental telepathy. Is that it?"

"Well, I hope it works. If we find those furs" He broke off.

"You were going to say" Peggy reminded him after a pause.

"I was going to say something which I had better keep till then," he replied. And so he said good night and good-by, standing very close to her, looking down into her face and holding her hands, and went away. And she watched him vanish in the gloom, her slight figure drooping a little as a flower that craves the rain.

"Peg!" I said.

She started with a little cry.

"Bob! Is that you? What are you doing there?"

"Nothing. I was asleep. You woke me up." I shivered a little, for the night chill had crept up from the river.

"You had no business to be asleep there. You frightened me."

"I didn't mean to. What do you suppose he was going to say?"

"You were listening!" she cried.

"I wasn't!" I denied indignantly. "I just couldn't help hearing."

"Yes, you could! You could have spoken. It was sneaky of you!"

"Aw, go on!" I retorted. "If you and Jim Dunleath want to spoon without being heard why don't you go somewhere else?"

"We don't!" she exclaimed angrily. "You—you're mean, Bob. You lie there like a—a snake and frighten me and listen to what's none of your business and ask impertinent questions. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Rats!" I told her, with brotherly frankness. "You make me tired. I don't care a darn what you were talking about. Mush! That's what it was. Going to pretend you are together by the river every night. Kid's tricks! You're the one that ought to be ashamed. I'll tell him so, too."

"If you do," she flamed, "I'll never speak to you again—never! Remember, Bob!"

"Oh, well, I won't then," I promised. "No need to get hot about it. Why didn't he propose to you, Peg? Any one can see you're stuck on him."

And the next instant my ear rang to the impact of her clenched fist against it, and I staggered, for she was strong for a girl and I was taken utterly by surprise. I caught her wrists, and she wrenched against my grip. Even in the starlight I could see that her eyes were blazing with anger, and her face white.

"You brute! You big boy brute!" she panted. "Let me go! Oh, how dare you? How could you?" And suddenly she stopped struggling and began to cry softly. Whereat, panic-stricken, I put my arm around her and walked her out of earshot of the house.

"There now, old girl, don't be a darn fool," I said in what I considered a highly comforting manner. "What's the row? What did you punch me for? I didn't mean anything."

"Oh, Bob!" she sobbed. "It was brutal of you. And yet it must be my own fault. Oh, do you suppose I have let him see—and, of course, you don't know how a thing like that cuts a girl, when he—I mean she—oh, I can't talk about it even to you!"

Which was all Greek to me. But finally she stopped crying and dried her eyes, and gave me a hug and a swift kiss, and the trouble was all over like a spring shower, and we were good friends again. And I was glad of that because I was going away and I was really very fond of Peggy, though, like most women, she was unreasonable at times and I seemed to have bunted into one of them. For I declare I could not think, for the life of me, what I had said to make such a fuss about.