The Peace of Roaring River

“Sure, that’s right enough,” said old man Prouty.

Pat advanced, but Maigan began to growl.

“Say, young ’ooman, I’ll bash that dog’s head in if you don’t keep him still,” he said, truculently. “Keep a holt of him.”

Madge pulled the dog back and quieted him.

“Be good, Maigan,” she said. “It’s all right, old fellow.”

She entered the shack behind Pat Kilrea and closed the door. In doing this she meant no offense to the others, who didn’t mind, knowing that with a cold of some twenty below people don’t care for an excess of ventilation. They stood, the men silently, the women putting their heads together and whispering.

“Ain’t she the brazen sassy thing?” remarked Mrs. Kilrea.

“Guess she ain’t no better’n she should be,” opined Sophy, acidly, as she watched the door keenly.

Pat Kilrea went to the bunk and for an instant considered the sick man’s face. Then he scratched his head again.

“Hello, Hugo!” he finally called out. “What’s the matter with ye? Ain’t–ain’t tryin’ to hide behind a gal’s skirts, are ye?”

His arm was seized from behind. The girl’s eyes flashed at him.

“I–I don’t know who you are!” she exclaimed. “But if–if you say such things I’ll turn that dog on you, so help me God!”

“I–I don’t reckon as I meant it,” stammered Pat. “He–he does look turriple sick, now me eyes is gettin’ used to the light. Why, why don’t you speak, man?”

But the sufferer on the bunk made no answer save in some low fast words that were disconnected and meaningless. Slowly, nearly tenderly, Pat touched a hand that felt burning hot and a forehead that was moist and clammy. Then he turned to the girl again.

“Well, I must say I’m sorry,” he acknowledged. “Looks to me like he was done for. What are ye goin’ to do for him? We–we didn’t reckon to find nothin’ like this when we come, though Papineau told us he were sick.”

“Mr. Papineau’s errand was to telegraph for the doctor,” she replied, with a hand pressed to her bosom. “At–at first, when I heard you coming, I thought he had perhaps arrived and–and that you were intending to take him away. Do–do you really think he’s going to die?”

“Well, I’m scared it looks a good deal that way. Of course we might be able to take him in the sleigh, but–but he don’t look much as if he could stand the trip–does he?–an’–an’ I don’t reckon we can do much good stayin’ round here either.”

He stepped over to the door and opened it.

“That gal’s right,” he said. “Hugo looks desperate sick.”

“Sure it ain’t nothin’ that’s ketchin’, are ye?” asked his wife, drawing back a little.

“I didn’t never hear that pistol bullets was contagious,” he answered.

“But who did it?” cried McIntosh. “And–and how d’ye know ’twas just an accident. Seems to me we’d ought to find out something more about it. It–it don’t sound just natural.”

“I tell you he was shot by accident. I did it, God forgive me,” faltered Madge.

Sophy McGurn, at this, pushed her way forward until she stood in front of Madge, and pointed an accusing finger at her. Her eyes were flashing. To Maigan her move seemed a threatening one and she recoiled as the animal crouched a little, with fangs bare and lips slavering.

“Hold him, miss, hold him quick!” cried Aleck Mclntosh. “Git back there, Sophy, what’s the matter with ye? D’ye want to be torn to pieces? What’s that ye was goin’ to say?”

“She–she never shot him by accident! She–she did it on purpose, for revenge, that’s what she did, the she-devil!”

She was still standing before Madge and her voice was shaking with excitement, while her arms and hands trembled with her passion.

“What’s all that?” cried Pat Kilrea. “Ye wasn’t here to see, was ye? How d’ye know she done it a-purpose, for revenge? Ye must have some reason for sayin’ such things. Out with ’em!”

But now Sophy was shrinking back, afraid of her own outburst, fearing that she might have revealed something. Her voice shook again as she replied.

“I–I ain’t got any reason,” she stammered. “I–I was just thinking so. It–it came to me all of a sudden. Maybe I’m mistaken.”

“Mistaken, was it?” asked Pat Kilrea. “Folks ain’t got any right to be mistaken when it comes to accusin’ others of murder. If you hadn’t had some reason to speak that way ye’d have kept yer mouth shut, I’m thinking. Why don’t ye come right out with it?”

“I–I didn’t really mean anything by it,” stammered Sophy again.

“What revenge was that you was referring to?” he persisted.

“Nothing–nothing at all. How should I know what she would do?”

“Then you ought to have kept still an’ held yer tongue,” said Pat.

“But it seems to me as if we’d ought to investigate this thing a little,” ventured Prouty. “We ain’t got anythin’ here but this ’ere young ’ooman’s word for what’s happened. She can tell us how it came about, anyways, seems to me, and we can judge if it sounds sensible and correct like.”

“That’s right,” put in Kilrea. “That’s fair and proper.”

“I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know about it,” asserted Madge, quietly. “I–I came here to see Mr. Ennis on a matter that–that concerns us only. And I had occasion to open my bag. Among the things in it there was a revolver. It fell out of my hands and exploded, and–and the bullet struck him. I–I never knew that he had been shot. He never even told me, and then he hitched the dog to the sleigh and took me over to Mrs. Papineau’s, where I have been staying. And it was she who discovered that he had been injured. She’ll tell you so herself if you go to her. And–and he told her it was an accident, as he would tell you now if–if he wasn’t dying.”

“You’d fixed it up to spend the night at Papineau’s?” asked Mrs. Kilrea, who had hitherto kept somewhat in the background.

“That was the arrangement we had made,” answered the girl. “There was no other place where I could stay. But I’d have gone up there alone if I’d known how badly he was hurt. I’ve stayed with them ever since, of course, for there was no one to take me back. Mr. Papineau hadn’t returned. He was trapping.”

“I don’t see but what she must be tellin’ the truth,” opined Mrs. Kilrea. “There ain’t anything wrong or improper in all this, savin’ a girl handlin’ a revolver, which ain’t wise. We can go over to Papineau’s and make sure it’s just as she says.”

“But there’s one thing ain’t clear,” said Pat Kilrea. “What business did she come on, anyways?”

Madge drew herself up and looked at him calmly.

“I’ve already told you that this concerns Mr. Ennis and myself,” she told him, “and I deny that you have any right…”

Just then there was a roar from the tote-road as big Stefan, lashing his dogs, bumped down the path at a wild gallop and, a minute later, threw himself off the sled and was among them.

“How do, peoples?” he shouted, advancing truculently towards Pat and Mclntosh. “Papineau telt me as how Hugo he get hurted bad and sick. And he say you peoples ask him whole lot qvestions about him. I vant to know vhat all you is doin’ here, und–und if I ain’t satisfied I take some of you and–and vipe up de ground vid you, hear me!”

His manner was ominously calm, but his words sent a shiver through the crowd. He was and looked a tremendous figure. He had moved to the side of the girl, as if to defend her, and his clear blue eyes went searchingly from one man to the next.

“Papineau he tells me in Carcajou it look like you come ofer here to make drouble for Hugo an’ mebbe for dis young leddy. So I come here fast like my togs can take me, sure ting. Und I vant to know vhen you vants to start droubles. Der leddies can move leetle vay to one side if dey like, to make room. Ve need plenty, I tank. Who vant to start de row now, who begin? I tak’ you vun at a time or altogedder, how you like!”

He took a step forward and the men all moved back hurriedly. The ladies had swiftly accepted his advice and were retreating fast, now and then looking back in terror.

“But look here, Stefan, what are you butting in for?” Kilrea took courage to ask while he kept discreetly out of reach. “We came to see if everything was all right and proper here. We’re satisfied now and are going back. Got to hurry away, sun’s getting low.”

The Swede sniffed at him contemptuously, and drew off a big mitt of muskrat hide. With some difficulty he drew from his clothing a huge silver watch and looked at it.

“Glad you vas in a hurry. I tank I ’elp you a bit make tings lifely. I gif you all yoost tree minutes ter get started. Den if any man he ain’t aboard dat sleigh I yoost vipes up de ground vit him a bit. If you knows vhat is good for ye, den make tracks, qvick. I ban gettin’ hurry mineself, eh!”

“But what right have you to be ordering us about?” shouted Aleck Mclntosh, imprudently.

“My frient, you’s knowed as de laziest man in Carcajou and some say in Ontario. I helps you along, sure.”

He had dashed towards him with devastating speed. The fellow turned to run, but a second later the slack of some of his garments was in Stefan’s huge hand. Struggling and backing he found himself half lifted, half propelled on the ground, all the way to the sled. There he was lifted high and dumped in, like a bag of feed.

“Any oders as need help?” roared Stefan.

But they were hastening for all they were worth. Kilrea took the reins. The three women were already seated. The others jumped in and the horses started home again, even before the Carcajou Vigilantes had finished spreading robes over their shaky knees. Striking a bit of flat bare rock, the runners spat out fire and squealed, after which the heavy sled slithered and slipped over the crackling snow, so that presently the outfit disappeared around the first bend in the tote-road.

Miss Sophy McGurn looked particularly down-hearted. None of the interesting events she expected had taken place. She had merely succeeded in nearly giving herself away and arousing suspicions.

And the girl was still there, with Hugo! She had believed that Hugo would be found sheepish and embarrassed, or in a regular fury, while the stranger would weep and wring her hands and seek to explain. And the invading crowd was to have manifested its indignation at this breach of all decency and proper custom, and sent the woman away, while they would have told the man what they thought of him, in spite of his rage, and warned him that he must mend his ways or quit the country.

And now they had all been driven away, and that girl had stood and spoken as if she had some right to be there, and had been indignant at any inquiry into her motives for coming to Roaring River. Worse than all Pat Kilrea and his wife seemed to have turned against her, after absolving the two of blame.

She shrank back, drawing her fur cap further down over her eyes and ears. Now the cold seemed more bitter than she had ever felt it before, in spite of the thermometer’s rise, and the road was so long and dreary that it seemed as if it never would end.

And Hugo Ennis was dying–and in her heart Sophy McGurn felt certain that the girl had shot to kill, and was waiting there until he should die. Perhaps she had rummaged about the place and found money or other valuables, for Ennis always seemed to have some funds, though he spent prudently and carefully, and never seemed to have dollars to throw away. And the end of it would be that the girl would leave and the man would be dead and all the dreams of marriage first and of a revenge following had turned into this thing, which was a nightmare.

She reached her home half frozen, in spite of the robes, and could not eat her food. Her mother had a few mild words to say about long excursions out in the back country, in this sort of weather. Then the girl left the table suddenly, and slammed the door of her room shut, in a towering rage. A little later, after she had lain down, came tears, for it seemed to her at this time that she had never truly loved Ennis until she heard that he was dying, and now he was lost to her forever.

CHAPTER XII

Help Comes

Stefan had watched the departure of those people grimly, until he felt sure that they would not return. Madge had stood near him. In her desolation it was splendid to have him there with her, to be no longer obliged to stare at the sick man’s face in lonely terror, to feel that if there was any help needed he would be at hand, with all his immense strength and courage.

“I tank dey don’t mean much badness,” the man explained to her. “Mebbe ye knows peoples in dis countree ain’t much to do in dis vintertime and dey gets fonny iteas about foolin’ araount. Dey goes home all qviet now, you bet, and don’t talk to nobotty vhat tam fools dey bin, eh!”

They both entered the shack again and the big fellow went up to the bunk upon which lay his friend. For a very long time he looked at him, finally touching a hand with infinite care and gentleness. After this he turned to Madge a face expressive of deepest pain.

“Leetle leddy,” he said, gently, “vos it true as you shot him? Papineau he telt me so. A accident, he said it vos.”

The girl looked at him imploringly, with elbows bent but hands stretched towards him, as if she were suing for forgiveness. The man was seated on a stool, waiting for her answer.

“Yes, it was an accident–a terrible accident,” sobbed Madge, whose strength and courage seemed to leave her suddenly. “You–you believe me, don’t you?”

It is hard to say whether it was weakness or the excess of her emotion that forced her down to her knees. She grasped one of the huge hands the man had extended towards her. He laid the other upon her bent back, very softly.

“In course I do, you poor leetle leddy. Yes, I sure beliefe you. Dere vosn’t anybotty vould hurt Hugo, unless dey vos grazy, you bet. He ban a goot friend to me–ay, he ban a goot friend to all peoples.”

He helped her up, very tenderly, and made her sit on a stool close to the one he occupied. There was a very long interval of silence, during which his great face and beard were hidden in the hollow of his hands. Then he spoke again, in a very low voice, as if he had been addressing the smallest of his own babes.

“You poor leetle leddy,” he repeated, “I feels most turriple sorry for Hugo, for it most tear my heart out yoost to look at him. But vhen I looks at you I feels turriple sorry for you too. I knows vhat it must be, sure ting, for a leetle leddy like you to be sittin’ here, in dis leetle shack, a-lookin’ at de man she lofe an see de life goin’ out of him. Last fall Hugo ban gone a vhiles back East again, and vhen you comes I tank mebbe you some nice gal he promise to marry. Even vhen de telegraft come I make sure it is so. I pring de bit paper here myself an’ vaits a vhiles, but he no come and I haf to go on. I vanted to see de happy face on him. I say to myself, ‘Hah! You rascal Hugo, you nefer tell nodding to your ole friend Stefan, but he know all de same.’ But vhen I got to go I couldn’t say nodding. I leaf de paper on de table here an’ I tank how happy he is vhen he come home an’ find it. You poor leetle leddy!”

The man was mistaken, most honestly so, for no idea of love had ever entered Hugo’s head, and none had come to Madge. Yet the big fellow’s words seemed to stab the girl to the heart and she moaned. She felt that she could not allow Hugo’s friend to remain undeceived. There had been already too many mysteries, too many lies–she would have no share in them if she could help it.

“I–I wasn’t in love with him when I came, Stefan,” she faltered. “He–he was a stranger to me. I had never seen him–never in all my life. I came here because–because there has been some terrible mistake–in some letters, queer letters that bade me come here and–and meet a man who wanted a wife. And I–I was a poor miserable sick girl in New York and–and I just couldn’t keep body and soul together anymore–and–and be a good decent girl. And those letters seemed so beautiful that I felt I must come and see the man who wrote them, and–and I was ready to marry him if he would be kind to me and–and treat me decently and–and keep me from starvation and suffering. And when I came here he didn’t know anything about it, and–and I thought he lied. But–but I never thought to do him any harm. I took the little pistol out of the bag, because I was looking for something else, and it went off! Oh!”

She hid her face in her hands, as if the whole scene had been again enacted before her, and the man heard her sobbing.

“Hugo he nefer tell no lie,” said Stefan, softly. “I don’t know vhat all dis mean, you bet. But I am glad you ban come like a stranger. I am glad he no lofe you, and den I am sorry, too, for you so nice gal, vid voice so soft and such prettee eyes, I tank if he lofe you den you sure lofe him too. Den you two so happy in dis place, ma’am.”

He interrupted himself, striking his fist upon his chest, as if to still a pain in it, and went on again.

“You haf no idea how prettee place dis is, leetle leddy, in de summertime. A vonderful place to be happy in. De big falls dey make music all day and at night dey sings you to sleep, like de modder she sings leetle babies. Und de big birches dey lean ofer, so beautiful, and de birds dey comes all rount, nesting in all de bushes. Oh, such a vonderful place for a man and a voman to love, dem falls of dat Roaring Rifer! Hugo he cleared such a goot piece, oder side of dat leetle hill, vhere de oats vould grow fine. And down by de Rifer, on de north side, he find silver, plenty silver in big veins, like dey got east of us, in Nipissing countree. So I tank one day he ban a rich man and haf a prettee little voman and plenty nice kiddies, leetle children like one lofes to see, and dey all lif here so happy.”

His voice grew suddenly hoarse. It was with an effort that he spoke again.

“An’ now he don’ know me–or you or Maigan, and–and my goot dear frient Hugo he look like he ban dyin’!”

Stefan stopped abruptly again, apparently overcome. His face, tanned by frost and sun to a hue of dull brick, also lay in the hollow of his hands. The vastness of his grief seemed to be commensurate with his size. But when he looked up Madge saw that his eyes were dry, for he was suffering according to the way of strong men with the agony that clutches at the breast and twists a cord about the temples. In his helplessness before the peril he was pitiful to see, since all his confidence had gone, his pride in his power, his faith in his ability to surmount all things by the mere force of his will. And the present weakness of the man augmented the girl’s own sorrow, even though his being there was relief of a sort.

The Swede looked about him vaguely, and then his eyes became fixed on a point of the log wall, as if through it he had been able to discern things that lay beyond.

“Hugo an’ me,” he began again, very slowly and softly, “ve vent off north from here, a year an’ a half it is now, after de ice she vent off de lakes. And ve trafel long vays, most far as vhere de Albany she come down in James Bay. Ve vos lookin’ for silfer an’ copper an’ tings like dat. An’ dere come one day vhen ve gets awful rough water on a lake and ve get upset. Him Hugo he svim like a otter, he do, but me I svim like a stone. De shore he ban couple hundret yard off, mebbe leetle more. I hold on to de bow and Hugo he grab de stern. So he begin push for shore, svimmin’ vid his feet, but dat turriple slow going, vid de canoe all under vater, yoost holdin’ us up a bit, and it vos cold, awful turriple cold in dat vater. He calls to me ve can’t make it dat vay, ve don’t make three-four yards a minute. Den I calls for him to let go, for I ban tanking he safe his life anyvay, svimmin’ ashore vhere ve had our camp close by. Und vhat you tank he do, ma’am? He yell to me not be tam fool, dat vhat he do! He say, ‘How I look at your voman an’ de kids in de face, vhen I gets back vidout you?’ So he lets go and my end sink deep so I let go an’ vos fighting to keep up but he grab me and say to take holt of his shoulter. He swear he trown vid me if I don’t. So I done it, ma’am, and he svim, svim turriple hard, draggin’ me ashore. I yoost finds my feet on de bottom vhen he keels ofer, like dead, vid de cold and de playin’ out. So I takes him in my arms and runs in. I had matches in my screw-box but my fingers vos dat froze I couldn’t get ’em out first. But I manages make a fire, by an’ by, and I rubs de life back into him again. And–and you know vhat is first ting he say vhen he vake up?”

Madge shook her head.

“Him Hugo yoost say, ‘Now I kin look Mis’ Olsen in de face, vhen ve gets back, eh, old pard?’”

The man kept still again, looking anxiously at the sufferer and watching the hurried breathing. The feeling of his uselessness was evidently a torture to him, but his heart was too full for him to remain silent very long.

“An’ now I am here an’ can do nodings. I ban no more use dan–dan de tog dere. My God, leddy, tell me vhat I can do! He most trown himself an’ freeze to death to safe me dat time an’ I got sit still like a big tam fool an’ him goin’ under vidout a hand to pull him out. All de blood in my body, every drop, I gif to safe him. Don’t you beliefe? I remember vhen de vaves and de vind pring dot canoe ashore. Ve lose not a ting because eferyting is lashed tight. Py dat time he vos vhistling and singin’ alretty, like nodings efer happen. Ve had de big fire roarin’, I tell you, and vhen I say again he safe my life he yoost laugh like it is a fine yoke an’ say: ‘Oh, shut up, Stefan, ve’re a pair big fools to get upset, anyvays. And some tay you do yoost same ting for me, I bet.’ And now–now I can do nodings–nodings at all.”

He seemed to be in an agony of despair. Madge had hardly realized that the suffering of men could reach such an intensity. She rose and placed her little hand on the giant’s shoulder. The huge frame was shaking convulsively, in great sobs that brought no tears with them. Then, all at once, he rose and faced her, shamefacedly.

“Poor leetle leddy,” he faltered, “I ban makin’ you unhappy vid dem story. I ban sorry be such a big tam fool, but I can no help it. It–it is stronger as me.”

For a time he paced up and down the little shack, struggling hard to keep himself in hand. Once he seized his shaggy head in his great paws and seemed to be trying to squeeze out of it the unendurable pain that was in it.

“De sun he begin go town,” he said, stopping suddenly. “Vhy don’t dat Papineau get back? It get dark soon. I tank I take de togs an’ go down de road. Mebbe his team break down. His leader ban a young tog.”

For an instant Madge felt like begging him to remain. Ay, she could have shrieked out her terror at the idea of being left alone with the man that was dying, as she thought, but she also succeeded in controlling herself, realizing that if the man was not allowed to do something, anything that would require the strength of his thews and divert the turmoil of his brain, he might go mad.

“As–as you think best,” she assented, with her head bent low.

Stefan took his cap and fitted it over his great shock of hair, but at this moment Maigan rose and went to the door, whining.

“Some one ban comin’, but it ain’t Papineau,” said Stefan.

It proved to be Mrs. Papineau, hurrying down the path and carrying a basket. She explained that the cow had had a calf, hence her delay. Puffing and breathless she scolded them for not lighting the lamp and bustled about the place, declaring that the two watchers should have made tea and that it took an experienced mother of many to know how to handle things.

“I have made strong soup vid moose-meat,” she told them. “Heem do Monsieur Hugo moch good. I put on de stove now an’ get hot.”

She spoke confidently, just as usual, as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on in the shack, but it was a transparent effort to encourage the others, and she was not able to keep it up long. She happened to look at Hugo again, and suddenly her face fell and her hands went up, while she buried her face in her blue apron and sobbed right out.

“De good Lord Heem bring an’ de good Lord Heem take away,” was what she said, and it sounded like a knell in the ears of the others.

Since the light was beginning to fail Madge lit the little lamp. Mrs. Papineau took some of the soup out of the pot and stirred it with a spoon to cool it, and then she lifted the sick man’s head. Her voice became soft and caressing, as if she had spoken to a child.

“My leetle Hugo,” she said, “dere’s a good fellar. Try an’ drink, jus’ one bit. H’open mouth, dat way. Now you swallow, dere’s good boy. An’ now you try heem again, jus’ one more spoon. H’it is awful good, from de big moose what Philippe he get. Jus’ one more spoon an’ I not bodder you no more.”