Fur Pirates/Chapter 7

I described our journey in detail you would find it wearisome. So far as events went, each day was much like another. There was rain and shine, wind and calm, rapids and portages, and steady, monotonous work. Each day began by the wink of Louis' cooking fire, and the smell of wood smoke in the dawn, followed by his whoop for breakfast. Next the quick rolling of blankets and stowing of dunnage, water on the fire, and the dip and swish of paddles. A brief halt at noon-to eat and relax cramped limbs and muscles. Dip and swish and tunk of paddle again. And once more the landing, the quick "lick-lock" of axes, the fire in the growing dusk, the hour around it while the men smoked and talked; and last the welcome blankets and the bright stars of the northern night above the sleeping camp.

At last we turned up the Brulé, where the old raiders, finding their way blocked by the company's men, had broken away northward. And what a beautiful thing is a boy's imagination! I could see them in fancy, those men of twenty years before, their canoes deep with plunder, paddles driving steadily in an endeavor to shake off the pursuit which had fastened on them. No doubt every boy is a bandit at heart. At any rate, my sympathies were with Nitche McNab and his men. And as I swung my paddle hour after hour. I pretended that I was Nitche himself. But of course I kept that to myself, for I would have been very much ashamed to have been even suspected of such childishness.

It has always interested me to observe how strangers thrown together immediately sort themselves into groups. This process went on among us. Old Hayes consorted principally with the younger men. He was continually yarning to them of rich strikes, of will-o'-the-wispy rumors of gold, of fabled creeks, and lodes in which he himself believed devoutly and of which, therefore, he told impressively. Gold seeking, according to him, was the only work fit for young men of spirit. And his words fired their imaginations.

"What do you know about this here trip, anyway, old-timer?" I heard Conover ask him once. "Is it gold the Ogemows are after?"

"Why don't you ask 'em?" Hayes returned.

"I asked Tom," Conover returned, "but I don't get no satisfaction from him."

"Tom's wise," said Hayes.

"Then it is gold," Conover concluded.

"I didn't say so," Hayes returned, but his tone was an admission.

"No, you didn't. But, I can tell you, if it's gold I'm goin' to stake me a claim almighty close to discovery."

"You're workin' for wages," Hayes pointed out, and Conover swore.

"I can fix that any time I see pay dirt," he said, and I heard no more.

But this conversation amused me, for it seemed to show that Hayes had been quite misled by Fothergill's diplomatic words to Ballou. After hearing it I took a gold pan and washed sand and gravel near our camps, and in a day or two all the men but Ballou were at it themselves, which I considered a huge joke.

It was old Hayes who endeavored to pump me. He came up behind me one evening when I was fishing.

"Ain't seen you panning any dirt for a couple of days," he said casually.

"I didn't find anything," I replied. And I added mischievously: "I guess there isn't anything right around here."

He digested that.

"Can't tell about gold. Half the rich strikes was made by accident. I'll bet I've walked over millions in my time, not knowin' it was there."

"Did you ever find any?"

"Sure. I was never first on one of the big creeks, but I've made stakes now and again."

"What did you do with them?" I asked curiously.

He grinned wickedly.

"Ask me somethin' easy, Bob. I blowed 'em. When I had the dust I surely played 'em high and hard." He spoke with a certain pride. "Us old-timers is built that way. I'm about due for another stake now. I feel it in my bones. Shouldn't wonder if there was good stuff somewhere up in this country."

His eyes searched my face; but I went on with my fishing.

"Now here!" he said. "I'm an old-timer, and no man can give me any pointers on placer workin'. You're a kid, but I've took a fancy to you. If I find anything I'm a-goin' to let you in on it as my partner. You won't be the first young feller that's got rich workin' with the old man. Same way, if you strike anything you'll let me know. You're about as apt to as me, because that's the way it goes. We'll stake as partners and work together."

"All right," I replied, "if we find gold."

I suppose he thought he had laid a foundation, for he asked me a number of leading questions, but got nothing out of me. And presently he left me.

Ordinarily, Jim Dunleath and I had the small canoe together, but one day he went with Fothergill, and Ballou came in with me. Quite casually he proceeded to question me about my three weeks' trip with Dunleath. Where had we been exactly? What had we seen? Had we met any people? And so on.

I answered his questions, but of course said nothing of finding the bones of Joe Barbe. And he switched to our visit to Neepaw, asking if I had had a good time there. I told him no, that I was anxious to get away.

"To start on this here trip, you mean?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Yes, of course you would be. What kept you there so long?"

"We were waiting for Mr. Fothergill."

"He wasn't on time?"

"Oh, I guess he came as fast as he could," I admitted incautiously.

"When Dunleath sent him word to come, I s'pose?"

"Yes," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

"He dropped all holts and come right along," he deduced. "Well, I s'pose he thought it was worth while?"

But I did not respond to that lead, and he asked me no more questions. Afterward I repeated the conversation to Dunleath.

"He's a long-headed old fox," he said, "and I don't blame him for being curious. I would be myself if I were in his place. He would know that I sent for Fothergill. And I rather think he suspects that our little camping trip has something to do with this one. If there wasn't the possibility of meeting some of the company's men they might all be told, for all I'd care. But with that possibility we'd better keep quiet. Naturally they'd know that the company would be interested in any fur cache, even though they've never heard of Nitche McNab. You know, that seems odd to me. I should think old-timers like them would have heard of him."

"Oh, I don't know. They weren't in this part of the country at the time, and McClintock said the company kept the whole thing quiet."

"That's so, of course. Well, anyway, don't let them pump you. We'll tell them when we get to those lakes, and not before."

Now up to that time we had all gotten along harmoniously, but that very night I ran foul of McGregor's hasty temper—or perhaps he ran foul of mine—and Dunleath became involved in it. I was carrying a pail of water for Louis, and with it in my hand I tried to step across McGregor's legs as he lay between me and the cooking fire. Somehow I stumbled and upset half the contents of the bucket on him. He was up in a minute, and cuffed me, open-handed, on the ear. Instantly my own temper, never very well controlled, flared up. I caught up a knot of pitch-wood and threw it. It struck him fair on the mouth, splitting his lip, and the next moment he had me by the throat, shook me till my brain rattled, and then struck me deliberately in the face. I struck back, but I had about as much chance as a rat in a terrier's jaws.

"Hey, stop dat, McGregor!" cried Louis Beef. "For why you try for bus' up leetle kid, hey?"

"Mind your own business, you!" snarled McGregor, and drew back his hand again.

But it never struck me, for Jim Dunleath, clearing the intervening space in two great bounds, caught McGregor's wrist, and, as the latter half turned, lifted a terrific right-hand punch at his jaw. It came straight up from the heel, with a stiffening leg and a lifting shoulder, and it cracked home like the blow of a mallet. I felt a beautiful, vicarious satisfaction in it. McGregor simply dropped in his tracks, greatly, I think, to the surprise of every one except Dunleath, and a good deal to the disappointment of the men.

But McGregor, though momentarily knocked out, was up again in a few seconds.

"You hit me when I wasn't looking," he told Dunleath.

"You ought to have been looking," Dunleath replied, "seeing that you were punching a kid. However, if you want it that way I can hit you when you are looking."

"That will suit me," said McGregor. "Are you ready now?"

"Any time," Jim Dunleath replied. "Only, I warn you, McGregor, that if you want to follow this up you're in for a lively time."

The men had dropped whatever they were doing. Louis stood, with a spoon in his hand, his mouth half open, and a look of childish delight upon his features. Ballou's face was expressionless. Old Hayes was leaning forward hungrily, his lips twitching like the nose of an old hound which strikes a familiar scent. But they were cheated of their amusement, for Mr. Fothergill came hurrying up and shoved in between them. Of course he had no authority over Dunleath, but as it was McGregor who was looking for more trouble he succeeded in stopping the impending fight. Later I overheard a conversation between him and Jim Dunleath.

"But I couldn't let him beat up the kid," the latter was saying.

"Well, you could have stopped that without a rough-house. You're too fond of scrapping, Jim. Bob had no business to throw that knot at him."

"If he hadn't thrown it he wouldn't have been worth scrapping for. We were kids ourselves once. Young wild cat! He'd have used a gun on McGregor if I hadn't butted in."

Mr. Fothergill grunted. "Here," said he, "everything was going harmoniously, and you must punch one of our best men."

"Well, he can't quit," Dunleath pointed out, "unless he wants to take a long walk."

"That's not it. You act on impulse, and you destroy the spirit of good feeling and comradeship that should exist all around."

"Which was so strongly in evidence when McGregor was punching the kid," Dunleath retorted. "And now, Wally, if you have any more calling down to do try it on somebody else—McGregor, for instance. I've had all I want of it."

"Oh, all right," said Mr. Fothergill rather stiffly. "You needn't go up in the air about it. I'm merely trying to tell you that McGregor will carry a grudge, if I know anything about him."

"If you hadn't horned in," said Dunleath, "he'd have worked out his grudge by this time. If he had licked me he would have been satisfied, and if I had trimmed him he'd have known that it was no lucky punch that put him down."

"It wouldn't have done—wouldn't have done at all," said Mr. Fothergill. "I know you can scrap, but I'll bet McGregor can, too. If he had licked you he'd never have let it go at that, and neither would the other young fellows. You'd have seen it in their eyes and heard it in their voices every day of your life. Then you'd have tried him or one of them again. That's human nature—yours, anyway. It was far better not to fight at all."

But one result was to start a controversy as to the respective prowess of Dunleath and McGregor, in which the latter had the most supporters, Louis being almost alone in picking the former.

"Aw, what's the use of talkin'?" said old Hayes. "Mac can whip this here Dunleath in a rough-an'-tumble any day."

"You t'ink dat, hey?" said Louis. "Well, now I'll tol' you somet'ing: De rougher dey tumble de more dat Dunleaf mak' heem look lak suckaire!"

I told Jim Dunleath, who merely laughed and said he hoped that Louis was a good judge. And I think Hayes told McGregor.