Books: THE PROSPECTOR
R >>
RALPH CONNOR >> THE PROSPECTOR
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21
The girl stood listening to Perault's dramatic tale, her face
growing white.
"Is father not hurt at all, then?" she asked.
"Non. Hees tough ole man, dat boss," said Perault. Then he added
lightly, "Oh! hees broke some small bone--what you call?--on de
collar, dere. Dat noting 'tall."
"Oh, Perault!" exclaimed the girl. "You're not telling me the truth.
You're keeping back something. My father is hurt."
"Non, for sure," said Perault, putting his hand over his heart.
"Hees broke dat bone on de collar. Dat noting 'tall. He not ride
ver' well, so hees come on beeg feller's buckboard. Dat's fine beeg
feller! Mon Dieu! hees not 'fraid noting! Beeg blam-fool jus' lak
boss." No higher commendation was possible from Perault.
"But why is father coming back then?" asked the girl anxiously.
"Mais oui! Bah! Dat leele fool pony got hisself dron on de Black
Dog, an' all hees stuff, so de ole boss he mus' come back for more
pony an' more stuff."
"When will they be here, Perault?" asked the girl quietly.
"Ver' soon. One--two hour. But," said Perault with some hesitation,
"de ole boss better go on bed leele spell, mebbe."
Then the girl knew that Perault had not told her the worst, turning
impatiently from him, she lifted little Patsy on to the saddle and,
disdaining Perault's offered help, sprang on herself and set off
toward the village about a mile away at full gallop.
"Das mighty smart girl," said Perault, scratching his head as he set
off after her as fast as his jaded pony could follow. "Can't mak
fool on her."
Half way to the village stood the old Prospector's house, almost
hidden in a bluff of poplar and spruce. A little further on was
Perault's shack. At her father's door the girl waited.
"Perault," she said quietly, "I left the key at your house. Will you
get it for me while I take Patsy home?"
"Bon," said Perault eagerly. "I get heem an' mak fire."
"Thank you, Perault," she replied kindly. "I'll be right back."
But it took some time to get Patsy persuaded to allow her to depart,
and by the time she had returned she found Perault had the fire lit
and Josie, his bright-eyed, pretty, little wife, busy airing the
bed-clothes and flitting about seeking opportunities to show her
sympathy.
"Ma pauvre enfant!" she exclaimed, running to Marion as she entered
and putting her arms about her.
"Josie," warned Perault gruffly, "shut up you. You go for mak fool
of yousef."
But Josie paid no attention to her husband and continued petting the
girl.
"Josie," cried Marion, fixing her eyes upon the Frenchwoman's kindly
face, "tell me, is my father badly hurt? Perault would not tell me
the truth."
"Non, ma petite, dat hur's not so ver' bad, but de cole water--das
bad ting for fader, sure."
The cloud of gloom on the girl's face deepened. She turned away
toward the door and saying, "I'll go and get some crocuses," she
mounted her pony and rode off toward the Jumping Rock.
Within half an hour the girl came galloping back.
"Josie," she cried excitedly, springing off her pony, "they're
coming. I saw them up the trail."
She tossed her flowers on the table and hurried to arrange them in
basins, cups, old tin cans, and all available vessels, till the
whole house seemed to be running over with those first and most
exquisite prairie spring-flowers. And for many following days the
spring-flowers filled the house with their own hope and cheer, when
hope and cheer were both sorely, needed.
IX
TIM CARROLL
There stood at the door Perault, Josie, and Marion, waiting for
Shock and the Old Prospector to drive up. The contrast between the
two men in the buckboard was striking. The one, a young man with
muscular frame, a strong, fresh face innocent of worldly wisdom and
marked by the frankness of an unspoiled faith in men and things; the
other, an old man, tall, slight, with a face worn and weary,
delicately, featured and kindly enough, but with a mask of
inscrutable reserve tinged with that distrust of men and things that
comes of a bitter experience of the world's falsities. For fifty
years Walter Mowbray had looked out of the piercing black eyes that
gleamed like coals of fire through his pallid face upon a world that
had continuously allured and mocked him. The piercing eyes were
those of an enthusiast, not to say fanatic. The fire in them still
burned deep and bright. The indomitable spirit, refusing to accept
defeat, still lived and hoped with a persistence at once
extraordinary and pathetic.
A gleam of light shot across his pale impassive face as his eyes
fell upon his daughter who, in the presence of a stranger, shrank
back behind Josie. He beckoned her to him.
"Come, my daughter," he said in a clear, musical voice.
Then she forgot her shyness and threw herself at him.
"Oh, father!" she cried in a low, smothered voice, her whole frame
shaking as she clung to him.
For a single instant the old man held her to him, his pale face once
more illumined by that momentary gleam, then loosening her arms from
his neck, he said in calm tones, in which mingled surprise,
raillery, almost rebuke, "Why, my child, this is indeed an
extraordinary welcome home."
At the tone the girl shrank back, and with marvellous self-control
regained her ordinary quiet manner.
"You are hurt, father," she said so quietly that her father glanced
with quick surprise at her. He hardly knew as yet this daughter of
his, who had come to him only two months ago, and whom for fifteen
years he had not seen.
"A mere touch," he answered carelessly. "A broken collar-bone,
inconvenient, but neither painful nor dangerous, and an additional
touch of rheumatism, which, though extremely annoying, will prove
only temporary. After a few days of your nursing we shall be able to
resume our march, eh, Perault?"
"Oui! bon! dat so," said Perault, grinning his eager acquiescence.
"De ole boss he stop for noting."
"But now we shall get with all speed between the blankets, my girl.
Hot blankets, Josie, eh?"
"Oui, certainment, tout suite!" cried Josie, darting into the house.
The old man began carefully to raise himself off the seat of the
buckboard.
"Ha!" catching his breath. "Rather sharp, that, Mr. Macgregor. Oh! I
forgot. Pardon me," he continued, with fine, old-time courtesy.
"Permit me to introduce you to my daughter. Marion, this is Mr.
Macgregor, but for whose timely and heroic assistance I might even
now be tumbling about at the fitful fancy of the Black Dog. We both
have cause to be grateful to him."
With a surprised cry the girl who, during her father's words, had
been looking at him with a white face and staring eyes, sprang
towards Shock, who was standing at the pony's head, seized his hand
between hers, kissed it passionately, flung it away, and returned
hurriedly to her father's side.
"It was nothing at all," said Shock, when he had recovered from his
confusion. "Any one would have done it, and besides--"
"Not many men would have had the strength to do it," interrupted the
Old Prospector, "and few men the nerve to try. We will not forget
it, sir, I trust."
"Besides," continued Shock, addressing the girl, "I owe something to
your father, for I was helplessly lost when he found me."
With a wave of his hand the old man brushed aside Shock's statement
as of no importance.
"We shall hope for opportunity to show our gratitude, Mr.
Macgregor," he said, his clear voice taking a deeper tone than
usual. "Now," he continued briskly, "let us proceed with this
somewhat serious business of getting into blankets. Just lift my
feet round, my daughter. Ah! The long ride has stiffened the joints.
Oh! One moment, my dear." The old man's face was wet and ghastly
pale, and his breath came in quick gasps. "A difficult operation,
Mr. Macgregor," he said apologetically, "but we shall accomplish it
in time. Wait, my dear, I fancy I shall do better without your
assistance. At least, I shall be relieved of uncertainty as to
responsibility for my pains. An important consideration, Mr.
Macgregor. Uncertainty adds much to the sum of human suffering. Now,
if I can swing my legs about. Ah-h-h! Most humiliating experience,
Mr. Macgregor, the arriving at the limit of one's strength. But one
not uncommon in life, and finally inevitable," continued the old
philosopher, only the ghastly hue of his mask-like face giving token
of the agony he was enduring.
Then Shock came to him.
"Let me carry you," he said. "It will give you less pain, I am
sure."
"Well, it can hardly give more."
"Put your arms about my neck. There. Now don't try to help
yourself."
"Most sound advice. I surrender," said the old man, his philosophic
tone in striking contrast to his ghastly face. "But one most
difficult to accept."
Gently, easily, as if he had been a child, Shock lifted him from the
buckboard, carried him into the house and laid him upon his bed. The
old man was faint with his pain.
"Thank you, sir--that was distinctly easier. You are--a mighty man.
Perault! I think--I--"
His voice faded away into silence and his head fell back. The girl
sprang forward with a cry of fear, but Shock was before her.
"The brandy, Perault! Quick!" he said. "Don't fear, Miss Mowbray, he
will soon be all right."
The girl glanced into Shock's face and at once grew calm again.
Soon, under the stimulus of the brandy, the old man revived.
"Ah!" he said, drawing a long breath and looking with a faint
apologetic smile at the anxious faces about, "pardon my alarming
you. I am getting old. The long drive and the somewhat severe pain
weakened me, I fear."
"Indeed, you have no need to apologise. It is more than I could have
stood," said Shock in genuine admiration.
"Thank you," said the old man. "Now we shall get into blankets. I
have the greatest faith in blankets, sir; the greatest faith. I have
rolled myself in wet blankets in mid-winter when suffering from a
severe cold, and have come forth perfectly recovered. You remember
the Elk Valley, Perault?"
"Oui, for sure. I say dat tam ole boss blam-fool. Hees cough! cough!
ver' bad. Nex' mornin', by gar! he's all right."
"And will be again soon, Perault, my boy, by the help of these same
blankets," said the old man confidently. "But how to negotiate the
business is the question now."
"Let me try, sir. I have had some little experience in helping men
with broken bones and the like," said Shock.
"You're at least entitled to confidence, Mr. Macgregor," replied the
Old Prospector. "Faith is the reflection of experience. I resign
myself into your hands."
In half an hour, with Perault's assistance, Shock had the old man
between heated blankets, exhausted with pain, but resting
comfortably.
"Mr. Macgregor," said the old man, taking Shock by the hand, "I have
found that life sooner or later brings opportunity to discharge
every obligation. Such an opportunity I shall eagerly await."
"I have done no more than any man should," replied Shock simply.
"And I am only glad to have had the chance."
"Chance!" echoed the Old Prospector. "I have found that we make our
chances, sir. But now you will require lodging. I regret I cannot
offer you hospitality. Perault, go down to the Stopping Place,
present my compliments to Carroll and ask him to give Mr. Macgregor
the best accommodation he has. The best is none too good. And,
Perault, we shall need another pony and a new outfit. In a few days
we must be on the move again. See Carroll about these things and
report. Meantime, Mr. Macgregor, you will remain with us to tea."
"Carroll!" exclaimed Perault in a tone of disgust. "Dat man no good
'tall. I get you one pony cheap. Dat Carroll he's one beeg tief."
The little Frenchman's eyes glittered with hate.
"Perault," replied the Old Prospector quietly, "I quite understand
you have your own quarrel with Carroll, but these are my affairs.
Carroll will not cheat me."
"Ah! Bah!" spat Perault in a vicious undertone of disgust. "De ole
boss he blam-fool. He not see noting." And Perault departed,
grumbling and swearing, to make his deal with Carroll.
Timothy Carroll was a man altogether remarkable, even in that
country of remarkable men. Of his past history little was known. At
one time a Hudson Bay trader, then a freighter. At present he "ran"
the Loon Lake Stopping Place and a livery stable, took contracts in
freight, and conducted a general trading business in horses, cattle-
-anything, in short, that could be bought and sold in that country.
A man of powerful physique and great shrewdness, he easily dominated
the community of Loon Lake. He was a curious mixture of incongruous
characteristics. At the same time many a poor fellow had found in
him a friend in sickness or "in hard luck," and by his wife and
family he was adored. His tenderness for little lame Patsy was the
marvel of all who knew the terrible Tim Carroll. He had a furious
temper, and in wrath was truly terrifying, while in matters of trade
he was cool, cunning, and unscrupulous. Few men had ever dared to
face his rage, and few had ever worsted him in a "deal." No wonder
Perault, who had experienced both the fury of his rage and the
unscrupulousness of his trading methods, approached him with
reluctance. But, though Perault had suffered at the hands of the big
Irishman, the chief cause of his hatred was not personal. He knew,
what many others in the community suspected, that for years Carroll
had systematically robbed and had contributed largely to the ruin of
his "old boss." Walter Mowbray was haunted by one enslaving vice. He
was by temperament and by habit a gambler. It was this vice that had
been his ruin. In the madness of his passion he had risked and lost,
one fatal night in the old land, the funds of the financial
institution of which he was the trusted and honoured head. In the
agony of his shame he had fled from his home, leaving in her grave
his broken-hearted wife, and abandoning to the care of his maiden
sister his little girl of a year old, and had sought, in the
feverish search for gold, relief from haunting memory, redemption
for himself, and provision for his child. In his prospecting
experiments success had attended him. He developed in a marvellous
degree the prospector's instinct, for instinct it appeared to be;
and many of the important prospects, and some of the most valuable
mines in Southern British Columbia, had been discovered by him.
It was at this point that Carroll took a hand. Acting in collusion
with the expert agent for the British American Gold and Silver
Mining Company, he had bought for hundreds of dollars and sold for
thousands the Old Prospector's claims. Not that the old man had lost
that financial ability or that knowledge of human nature that had
given him his high place in former days, but he was possessed of a
dream of wealth so vast that ordinary fortunes shrank into
insignificance in comparison. He had fallen under the spell of an
Indian tale of a lost river of fabulous wealth in gold that
disturbed all his sense of value. In one of his prospecting tours he
had come upon an old Indian hunter, torn by a grizzly and dying. For
weeks he nursed the old Indian in his camp with tender but
unavailing care. In gratitude, the dying man had told of the lost
river that flowed over rocks and sands sown with gold. In his young
days the Indian had seen the river and had gathered its "yellow sand
and stones"; in later years, however, when he had come to know
something of the value of this "yellow sand and stones" he had
sought the river, but in vain. A mountain peak in one vast slide had
filled up the valley, diverted the course of the river, and changed
the whole face of the country. For many summers the Indian had
sought with the unfaltering patience of his race the bed of the lost
river, and at length, that very summer, he had discovered it. Deep
down in a side canyon in the bed of a trickling brook he had found
"yellow sand and stones" similar to those of the lost river of his
youth. As the dying Indian poured out from his buckskin bag the
glittering sand and rusty bits of rock, there entered into the Old
Prospector the terrible gold-lust that for thirteen years burned as
a fever in his bones and lured him on through perils and privations,
over mountains and along canyons, making him insensible to storms
and frosts and burning suns, and that even now, old man as he was,
worn and broken, still burned with unquenchable flame.
Under the spell of that dream of wealth he found it easy to pay his
"debts of honour" to Carroll with mining claims, which, however
valuable in themselves, were to him paltry in comparison with the
wealth of the Lost River, to which every year brought him nearer,
and which one day he was sure he would possess. That Carroll and his
confederate robbed him he knew well enough, but finding Carroll
useful to him, both in the way of outfitting his annual expeditions
and in providing means for the gratifying of his life-long gambling
passion, by which the deadly monotony of the long winter days and
nights was relieved, he tolerated while he scorned him and his
villainy.
Not so Perault, whose devotion to his "ole boss" was equalled only
by his hate of those who robbed while they derided him, and he set
himself to the task of thwarting their nefarious schemes. For this
Perault had incurred the savage wrath of Carroll, and more than once
had sufered bodily injury at his hands.
The Stopping Place was filled with men from the ranges, freighters
from the trail, and the nondescript driftwood that the waves of
civilisation cast up upon those far-away shores of human society.
With all of them Perault was a favourite. Carroll was out when he
entered. On all sides he was greeted with exclamations of surprise,
pleasure, and curiosity, for all knew that he had set out upon
another "annual fool hunt," as the Prospector's yearly expedition
was called. "Hello, Rainy, what's happened?" "Got yer gold dust?"
"Goin' to retire, Rainy?" "The Old Prospector struck his river yit?"
greeted him on every side.
"Oui, by gar! He struck heem, for sure," grinned Perault.
"What? The Lost River?" "What? His mine?" chorused the crowd,
awakened to more than ordinary interest.
"Non, not Los' River, but los' man, blank near." And Perault went on
to describe, with dramatic fervour and appropriate gesticulation,
the scene at the Black Dog, bringing out into strong relief his own
helplessness and stupidity, and the cool daring of the stranger who
had snatched his "ole boss" out of the jaws of the Black Dog.
"By Jove!" exclaimed a rancher when the narrative was finished, "not
bad, that. Who was the chap, Rainy?"
"Do' no me. Tink he's one what you call pries'. Your Protestan'
pries'."
"What, a preacher?" cried the rancher. "Not he. They're not made
that way."
"I don't know about that, Sinclair," said another rancher. "There's
Father Mike, you know."
"That's so," said Sinclair. "But there are hardly two of that kind
on the same range."
"Fadder Mike!" sniffed Perault contemptuously. "Dat beeg feller hees
roll Fadder Mike up in one beeg bunch an' stick heem in hees pocket.
Dat feller he's not 'fraid noting. Beeg blam-fool, jus' lak ole
boss, for sure."
"I guess he must be good stuff, Rainy, if you put him in that
class."
"Dat's hees place," averred Rainy with emphasis. "Jus' lak ole
boss."
At this point Carroll came in.
"Hello, Perault!" he said. "What the blank, blank are ye doin'
here?"
Perault spat deliberately into the ash-pan, tipped back his chair
without looking at the big Irishman, and answered coolly.
"Me? After one pack pony an' some outfit for de ole boss."
"Pony an' outfit, is it?" shouted Carroll. "What the blank, blank
d'ye mane? What 'av ye done wid that pack pony av moine, an' where's
yer blank ould fool av a boss?"
Carroll was working himself up into a fine rage.
"De boss, he's in bed," replied Perault coolly. "De pony, he's in de
Black Dog Reever, guess."
"The Black Dog? What the blank, blank d'ye mane, anyway? Why don't
ye answer? Blank ye f'r a cursed crapeau of a Frenchman? Is that
pony of moine drowned?"
"Mebbe," said Perault, shrugging his shoulders, "unless he leev
under de water lak one mush-rat."
"Blank yer impudence," roared Carroll, "to be sittin' there laughin'
in me face at the loss av me property. It's no better than a pack of
thieves ye are."
"Tieves!" answered Perault, in quick anger. "Dere's one beeg, black,
hairy tief not far 'way dat's got hees money for dat pony two--three
tam overe."
Choking with rage, Carroll took one step toward him, kicked his
chair clean from under him, and deposited the Frenchman on the floor
amid a shout of laughter from the crowd. In blazing wrath Perault
was on his feet with a bound, and, swinging his chair around his
head, hurled it full in the face of his enemy. Carroll caught it on
his arm and came rushing at the Frenchman.
"You one beeg black tief," shrieked Perault, drawing a knife and
striking savagely at the big Irishman. As he delivered his blow
Carroll caught him by the wrist, wrenched the knife from his grasp,
seizing him by the throat proceeded to choke him. The crowd stood
looking on, hesitating to interfere. A fight was understood in that
country to be the business of no man save those immediately
concerned. Besides this, Carroll was dreaded for his great strength
and his furious temper, and no man cared to imperil his life by
attacking him.
"Blank yer cursed soul!" cried Carroll through his clenched teeth.
"It's this Oi've been waintin' f'r many a day, an' now by the powers
Oi'll be takin' the life of yez, so Oi will."
His threat would undoubtedly have been carried out, for Perault was
bent far back, his face was black, and his tongue protruded from his
wide opens mouth. But at this moment the door opened and Shock
quietly stepped in. For a single instant he stood gazing in
amazement upon the strange scene, then stepping quickly behind
Carroll, whose back was toward the door, he caught his wrist.
"You are killing the man," he said quietly.
"Oi am that same!" hissed Carroll, his eyes bloodshot with the light
of murder in them. "An' by all the powers of hell Oi'll be havin'
yer heart's blood if ye don't kape aff."
"Indeed, then, he's too small a man for you, and as to myself, we
can see about that later," said Shock quietly.
He closed his fingers on the wrist he held. The hand gripping
Perault's throat opened quickly, allowing the Frenchman to fall to
the floor. Swinging round with a hoarse cry, the big Irishman aimed
a terrific blow at Shock's head. But Shock, catching the blow on his
arm, drew Carroll sharply toward him, at the same time giving a
quick downward twist to the wrist he held, a trick of the Japanese
wrestlers the 'Varsity men had been wont to practise. There was a
slight crack, a howl of pain, and Carroll sank writhing on the
floor, with Shock's grip still on his wrist.
"Let me up," he roared.
"Will you let the little man alone?" asked Shock quietly.
"Let me up, blank ye! It's yer heart's blood will pay for this."
"Will you leave the little man alone?" asked Shock in a relentlessly
even tone.
"Yis, yis," groaned Carroll. "Me wrist's bruk, so it is. But Oi'll
be afther doin' f'r yez, ye blank, blank--"
Carroll's profanity flowed in a copious stream.
"As to that," said Shock, quietly stepping back from him, "we can
discuss that later; but it is a shame for a man like you to be
choking a little chap like that."
The old football scrimmage smile was on Shock's face as he stood
waiting for Carroll to rise. The whole incident had occurred so
unexpectedly and so suddenly that the crowd about stood amazed,
quite unable to realise just what had happened.
After a time the big Irishman slowly rose, holding his wounded wrist
and grinding out curses. Then suddenly seizing with his uninjured
hand the chair which Perault had thrown at him, he raised it aloft
and with a wild yell brought it down upon Shock's head. With his
yell mingled a shrill cry. It was little Patsy. He had stolen in
behind his father, and with eyes growing wider and wider had stood
listening to his father's groans and curses.
Gradually the meaning of the scene dawned upon little Patsy's mind.
His father had been hurt, and there stood the man who had hurt him.
In a fury the little lad hurtled across the room, and just as his
father delivered his terrific blow he threw himself, with crutch
uplifted, at the astonished Shock and right in the way of the
descending chair.
Instead of starting back to avoid the blow, as he might easily have
done, Shock without a moment's hesitation sprang towards the child,
taking the full weight of the blow upon' his arm and head, but
without entirely saving Patsy. Together they fell, Shock bleeding
profusely from a deep cut on the head.
Two men sprang to his aid, while Carroll stood stupidly gazing down
upon the white face of the little boy.
"Never mind me," said Shock, recovering consciousness quickly, "look
to the child. Is he hurt?"
"He's dead, I guess," said Sinclair.
"It's a lie!" cried Carroll, in a hoarse voice. "It's a blank lie, I
tell you!"
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21