Gentlemen of the North/Chapter 2

by Hugh Pendexter

 

CHAPTER II

THE BRIGADE GOES OUT

EARLY next morning a Red Sucker band of Indians came in with their families from Turtle River above us, where they had wintered. They brought sixty beaver, a bale of fox, another of wolf, a few fisher and two martens; also a skin canoe loaded with bear fat, melted the fall before and poured into bags of red deerskin. They had quite a quantity of pemmican, which had spoiled because their fear of the Sioux had prevented their taking the ordinary precautions to dry out the skin canoe at least once in each twenty-four hours. The skin canoe is made of raw buffalo hides stretched over a willow frame with the hair inside. It will carry a heavy load but is no good except for floating downstream. Unless emptied and dried over a fire or by the sun once a day, it becomes waterlogged and will sink.

One of the party had found a buffalo with a broken leg. Although their own people frequently wounded buffalo, which escaped, they took it for granted this creature had been hunted by the Sioux. They had precipitately decamped, leaving their sugar making, driven by fear to make the post. They did not dare stop and dry the big canoe until it began to settle. Before they could unload, the pemmican was soaked.

Like excited children telling some tremendous bear story they described the Sioux signs. Had we not already passed through a siege of nerves the day before their recital would have had our Indians badly frightened. As it was, their alarm fell on deaf ears. No one showed any interest in them until one of the band informed Chabot he had killed a big grizzly and must have rum to appease the spirit of the slain monster, also half a yard of red cloth to hang up as an additional conciliation.

This request, like the demand for rum to wash out grief over the dead, was reasonable. There are times when it is imperative the Indian should receive free rum rations, such as when his deepest superstitions are involved. I measured out the drink and the post idlers immediately began begging an allowance from the newcomers. Old Tabashaw, who had withstood a hundred drops of laudanum given in five doses spread over an hour, was very wide awake and urging the Red Suckers to take war tobacco with them to their summer home on the Grand Passage on the Assiniboin for distribution among the Crees. The drinking bout promptly started, but there was no danger of the men repeating yesterday's performance, as they were still afraid of the Sioux and when the shadow was over them they could be quiet enough in their drams. The Red Sucker band as hunters was worth all the Chippewas on the Lower Red, although Tabashaw's men were keen enough for fur during my first season in the department.

I found Flat Mouth at the river ready to push off my canoe. Chabot came running after me, calling out—

"Stop at the Reed and tell Probos to take his packs to our Scratching post at once!"

"Yes, sir. But if there is a chance of the brigade going out at once, I would like to know it, as I have some stuff of my own I want to pack up," I replied.

"Oh, you'll have plenty of time to do that," assured Chabot.

My errand appealed to me aside from affording me a vacation. I was curious to meet Red Dearness. Chabot had given a garbled description of him, likening him to a red ape. But they had met only the once and, as Dearness had accused my superior of sending trappers to encroach on the X. Y. line and they had come near to fighting, which must have meant death for one, if not both, I took but little stock in the master's account.

Flat Mouth had seen much of the man when he was on the upper Saskatchewan and I questioned him for details. The Pillager briefly informed me that Dearness's whiskers were fully as long as Chabot's and a vivid red, hence his nickname.

"His woman? What tribe did he take her from?"

He stared ahead at the brown current and did not seem to hear me. I repeated my query and he shook his head. Beyond his description of the man's beard, I could get nothing from him. His silence, however, and his way of speaking gave the impression he stood in awe of Dearness. The colour of the man's beard might account for this, the Indian's love for red amounting to reverence.

Without incident we covered the ten miles to the mouth of the Reed and hunted up his camp on the north bank. Neither he nor any of his Indians was to be seen. Flat Mouth said he was up at Reed Lake after sturgeon. As the lake is surrounded by a half-mile belt of swamp grass and reeds, I had no desire to search for him. Once I had tried to follow an old Indian and French path from this patch of water to Lake of the Woods, but I soon decided the roundabout way was the quickest. For taking out packs it was the only route. Not being disposed to enter the marshy country, I made myself comfortable in the camp and sent the Pillager on discovery. In a short time he returned with Probos and several Indians, the latter clamouring for "milk." I gave them all a few inches of tobacco, delivered Chabot's orders to the clerk and resumed my journey.

After leaving the Reed we came upon five bears drinking at the river. I nearly broke Flat Mouth's heart by refusing to stop while he shot them. The fur was excellent at this season and a few pelts were not to be despised, but there was something in the back of my mind that impelled me to finish my business and return to the Pembina. Twenty-four hours since I had been desperate to quit the post; now I was keen to return. I couldn't get rid of the notion that the brigade might start before I was ready to accompany it.

However, I cheered my red friend by reminding him that bear was plenty about the Pembina if an Indian would forget the Sioux and go after them. He proclaimed his willingness to go, even to the thickly wooded country of the Cheyenne just south of Devil's Lake, where, he declared, the grizzlies went in vast droves and the region must verily be the abode of the great bear manito. The explanation for this abundance of bears was simple enough, as that region was the disputed northern boundary of the Sioux hunting range.

Any Indian venturing there in summer was pretty sure to remain while his hair travelled south. As there was no hunting to prevent the brutes from multiplying rapidly, I suppose they did thrive in enormous numbers. Flat Mouth was pleased with my reasoning, as it gave him a new viewpoint and inflamed him to go there. Heretofore, he said, he had kept away because of the great bear spirit. But if all he had to fear was the Sioux and almost certain death, he was keen for the trip. He measured up higher in courage than any other redskin I ever met.

For miles we swapped bear talk. He entertained me by describing the difference in the habits of grizzlies within so narrow an area as contained between the Red River and the Pembina Mountains. I have no reason for doubting his statement that in the hills, where the soil is dry and sandy, with the frost seldom penetrating more than a foot, the bears, both grizzly and black, den up in the ground. Our Red River bears took to hollow trees. Flat Mouth said they did this because the bear manito had taught them how the frost sinks into the muddy banks for more than four feet; therefore they imitated the raccoons.

I had never gone after bear in the hills, but before Chabot took over the post one of the men brought me a cub which in a way bore out the Pillager's words. The cub was as tame as a kitten and trotted after me even when I quit the fort and took to the woods. When cold weather came I had the men open up a big hollow tree near the stockade and chop up some boughs and put inside so he might be unusually cosy. The place was almost snug enough for a human being. It measured six feet across, with a two-foot shell to keep out the cold. But the cub promptly showed his hills instinct by refusing the nest and insisting on digging a hole to live in. I never saw him after he retired for the winter, but I suppose he was frozen out and took to the hills.

With stories and wood lore we beguiled the passage down. Flat Mouth talked glibly enough unless you touched upon something that was tabu. Finally we came to the Scratching, where our small post was in charge of a fellow called Desset. On the opposite side, hidden by a grove of strong woods, was the opposition post. When some distance above the post we could catch the din made by the Indians as they swallowed all the profits of their spring hunt; men, women and children all getting drunk as rapidly as possible.

It's nasty work, peddling rum to Indians. But, after theorizing and sermonizing from Montreal to the Rocky Mountain House on the MacKenzie, let some of the sanctimonious critics give out heavy debts to a race that believes successful thieving is a greater honour even than scalp-taking, and then let them see how they'll get the debts paid without rum.

To rob a trader, kill him if need be, but get his goods at any costs, would be a great coup if not for the knowledge such treatment would cut off the supplies. There was hardly an Indian in the Northwest who would not cheerfully have cut my throat for a keg of rum, if he knew it was the only keg in the world and that there could never be any more. My friend and companion was proud to call himself chief of the Pillagers-Thieves. The name wasn't given him by outsiders but was bestowed by his own people upon themselves.

After all, thievery among the Indians is only another name for looking out for one's best interests; a characteristic of the white man also. A man may take many scalps and count many coups, but the really valuable man in a tribe is he who can fetch home the most stolen horses. If getting what they want above all else—high wine—results in their women being sold and debauched, that is much their own business, not the trader's.

As we drew nearer the rival posts the hooting and singing seemed to emanate impartially from both banks and I deduced it had been going on all night. No one was down at the river when we grounded our canoe. Leaving Flat Mouth to stay with the canoe, I went up to the fort to interview Desset, the clerk. I found most of our people sick, as they were every spring when they shifted from meat to fat sturgeon.

The Indians, too, seemed to be badly off, men, women and children coughing, several being far gone with consumption. Desset obviously had been generous with the "milk," as all the Chippewas were drunk. To add to the hubbub was the Indians' excitement at having found that morning a Canada lynx in a sturgeon net some ten feet from the shore.

Desset had endeavoured to explain that the cat broke through while trying to cross the thin ice, which forms every night only to float out at midday, and had become tangled in the net and drowned. But nothing so simple as that could content a Chippewa when he could read so many signs from the curious happening. Optimistic from liquor, they read the sign favourably. The sturgeon net was the Chippewa Nation. Some of the hunters at the post were of the sturgeon gens. The lynx, of course, was a symbol for the Sioux. The Chippewas were to exterminate the Sioux. Not a shadow of a doubt about it in their minds, and already plans were perfected for sending the glad news and war-tobacco far up the Assiniboin. Had the Sioux appeared at that time in battle array, the Chippewas, firm in their faith, would have given them a terrible beating.

Desset had no control over them and spent most of his time in keeping out of the way. Several bore bloody wounds. As it wasn't my place to discipline Desset's Indians, I withdrew to a cubby-hole that served as an office and sought information concerning Red Dearness before crossing the river.

"He never comes here. He doesn't want me to go there. I never see him, only when he passes up the river or rides on the plains. Until the snow melted, I saw nothing of him or the Madame."

"What kind of a looking woman is she?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders, explaining:

"The few times I've seen her was when she was at a distance. Then she wore a capote. I've heard she's a Slave, also a Cree. I know she isn't Chippewa, or our hunters would be going over there for rum. They're afraid of Dearness and don't bother him after the first time."

We talked for some time and I read the fellow pretty thoroughly. He may have been a good office hand in Montreal, but he was sadly out of tune on the Lower Red. Theoretically he understood the business of buying furs. I could see that if all Indians were exactly alike he could learn the technique. Inasmuch as they were individuals, he was helpless. His babbling revealed that much.

It was Chabot who got him the post, and I should have disliked him because of his patron had he been less inoffensive and helpless. He confessed he had but few furs and that it wouldn't take him long to make up his packs once he knew the brigade was going out. In pity for the poor fool I offered to go over his books and make sure his accounts were straight.

"That's the worst of it," he bitterly took on. "The Indians were all drunk in here a few weeks ago and threw my books on the fire. I haven't even an account showing their debts."

As he confessed this I detected him slyly watching me to read the effect of his announcement. My pitying contempt suddenly evaporated and in its place I felt a strong aversion to him. He seemed to be so weak, physically and mentally, I might have bothered much to help him out. Now I wondered if it wasn't a part of Chabot's scheme in getting him there to have the books disappear. The Pembina post would show fat returns. The Scratching post would mark up a loss. If Desset was discharged it needn't follow that anything criminal would be suspected. With the books gone and nothing but mismanagement proven it would be possible for him and Chabot to share a fat profit out of the past season, one which would make our gentlemen of the North tear their hair did they guess they were being bilked. These suspicions came to me because I believed Chabot to be a bad one and because of the furtive glances Desset gave me.

I talked some further with him and then went outside to visit the X. Y. On my way to the river I met Joe Pouliot, one of the best men the N. W. employed, and in a bantering way he made the boast he had brought in two hundred prime skins from one derouin. This, if true, was the most successful derouin ever made on the river.

I encouraged him to give me the details, which he did eagerly; and when he had finished I believed him. Now a derouin—the sending of men forth to scare up trade among the Indians instead of having them bring their hunt to the posts—was generally frowned upon by rival companies. It smacked of free trading, the great sin in a company's eyes. It tended to take the control of the fur business out of the companies' hands, besides encouraging the men to do a little sly trading for themselves, or to carry part of the skins to some rival.

Furthermore, it was disastrous because it petted up the Indians until they were too lazy even to send their packs in by their women. Now the point was this: Why, if the N. W. post on the Scratching was securing any such number of skins in this fashion, should Black Chabot be eager to strike a bargain with Red Dearness, of the X. Y., to suppress the practice?

Desset was paid a hundred a year, Halifax currency, five hundred dollars in States' money. I had pitied him for a weakling. I quickly revised my opinion when further questioning brought forth the information from Joe that the season had been a good one.

"You don't seem to have much for the brigade to pick up," I remarked.

"But we sent out twenty-six packages of ninety pounds each right after the express stopped here," said Joe.

"How was the express? Pretty drunk?" I asked.

He smiled gently, caressed his long fair moustaches as if wiping off the dew of a drink and replied:

"They was asleep when our Indians saw their canoe drifting sidewise. They woke up after we got them into the post and held a dram of rum under their noses. We sent two Indians to look after them until they got through the swift water below. After that they'd be all right to look after themselves."

It was transparent. Desset and Chabot had traded for a canoe-load of prime furs and had sent them on ahead of the brigade, consigned to someone other than Simon McTavish's company. Indian troubles, a general failure to pay their debts, the loss of the account books, would be cited to cover the empty shelves.

I wasn't hired to spy on the Scratching River outfit. If Mr. Henry should return, I would tell him what I suspected, give the facts and leave the rest to him. But the N. W. had seen fit to put Chabot in Mr. Henry's place. I would hold my tongue.

Leaving Flat Mouth behind, I took the canoe and paddled into the mouth of the Scratching and crossed over. I landed in a willow growth so thick and stout I would not have at tempted to penetrate it if not for a narrow path making down to the water's edge. On the rising ground back of this was a second growth of very big oak, elm and ash. Cutting through the strong timber, I came out on a meadow that reached nearly to the Red. As I entered the meadow I beheld an old acquaintance, and he was having trouble with his horse.

It was the "Rat," French, with a dash of Chippewa. He had worked for us during Mr. Henry's first season on the Red and was thoroughly untrustworthy. After we turned him off he had joined the X. Y. as an interpreter. When we came to the Red, there were practically no horses on the river, although the Chippewas were constantly fighting the Sioux who had many. During the last two years we had increased our number of animals so that it was common enough sight to see the Indians mounted. Besides those we and the opposition brought in were a few the Crees had traded for new medicines.

But I never saw any horses on the river, aside from those owned and cared for by white men, that were not in wretched condition. The crude wooden saddle commonly used by the Indians was largely to blame, as it ripped the hide off a nag's back in no time. I've often seen the poor, tortured beasts turn and bite their sides till the blood streamed, once the saddle was removed. The Indians never paid any attention to their condition nor tried to correct the fault. They would throw the wooden saddle on to the raw flesh and ride them as unconcernedly as a white man would use a canoe.

The Rat's horse was fighting against the saddle. Its back was a ghastly sight. As I came on to the scene the maddened brute managed to break loose and ran for the plains. The Rat, in a whirlwind of rage, raised his gun, then decided the enjoyment would be too dear and started in pursuit afoot. I called out to him, and the moment he recognized me his dark face lighted up and he forgot the runaway and eagerly cried:

"Meester Chabo'? Where he ees?"

I replied that Chabot would come down the river as soon as he had packed up and had sent the Indians off some time within the next thirty days. His manner in asking the question rather puzzled me, for theoretically he should feel no enthusiasm for the head of a post that had discharged him. It was Mr. Henry who had turned the beggar loose, but according to the Red River way of thinking he should nurse resentment against all N. W. representatives.

"What do you want to see Mr. Chabot for?" I asked.

"I go to ride up the reever to see heem, to get heem to hire me," he explained.

"What are you quitting the X. Y. for?"

"Meester Chabo' ees one live man," he grinned. "Meester Dearness maybe a dead man when snow come some more."

"Who has charge of the summer men while he's away?"

"Hees gal, maybe."

"Meaning his wife?"

"When Meester Chabo' hire me I can talk," was the noncommittal reply. "I go to ride that horse, now she run away. I paddle up to meet heem."

"You'll be sure to find him at the fort," I said. "But Mr. Dearness's girl? Could she handle the summer men?"

"Han'le summer men? She can go to han'le the deveel like she want to," he emphatically assured.

Then, as if fearing he had talked too freely, he hurried away.

Now I didn't believe there was a mixed blood in the country capable of handling the Indians. Certainly there wasn't a squaw. Let her be ever so brainy, let her be educated in Quebec and made much of by the English and French, yet her Indian blood would be a terrific handicap when it came to handling her people. Such a woman could have a big influence with her people and swing trade to whatever post she favoured. But as trader, having charge of the debts and advances and the rum, she couldn't do it. The hunters would not respect her commands. If she refused them liquor, they would take it more evilly than if she were a white.

Of course, I understood the Rat had a lively imagination. There was no reason to doubt his statement to the effect that Dearness was ill. We had received reports to the same effect. When his season closed he probably would send someone back to run things until fall, when he, or his successor, would come on. If he were seriously ill, then any bargain I might make with him might be ignored by his successor.

Orders were orders, however, and I hurried on to the fort. The Rat called after me the cheering information that Dearness knew of my stopping Little Crane from taking his furs to the X. Y. and had advised the Indian to kill me. This scarcely primed me for a cordial reception, yet it was part of the game we were playing and worried me none.

The fort presented a scene of industrious activity despite the carousal going on inside the stockade. Men were making carts and fashioning wheels from solid sections from three-foot trees. A smith was turning out nails. Some sick Indians were making a sturgeon net while their women smoked tongues.

On the whole I really felt rather jealous of the discipline. Those drinking were obviously entitled to their liquor and had paid high for it. Red Dearness was like Mr. Henry in that respect; the drams were for those who had earned them. Somehow I gained the impression, probably from Chabot's sneering talk, that things were at sixes and sevens in the X. Y. post. The evidences did not support any such notions.

To be true, all was not harmony, and the master was having his rum troubles. As I entered the stockade I nearly stumbled over one of his hunters who had been stabbed six times in the side and abdomen and whom they were trying to heal with wabeno songs.

Entering the big room of the fort, I met a young man with a twisted face, who told me he was Angus, the clerk, and would I state my business.

"I want to speak with Mr. Dearness," I informed.

"You come from the N. W. post upstream?" he asked in a gloomy voice.

I answered in the affirmative and repeated my request. With much reluctance he told me I could not see the master.

"Scurvy treatment even for the X. Y. to give a N. W. man," I hotly retorted. "And I don't know that you have authority to tell me your master won't see me."

He squirmed uneasily, then blurted out: "He's drunk. He can't see anyone."

This did not square up with what I had heard about him. He traded high wine for pelts, as did every Northman, but he was exceedingly temperate in his habits. I suspected the clerk wished to hide his master's illness from the N. W.

"I can wait," I said. "Mr. Chabot sent me to see him on business. He will be sobering up some time."

The clerk shook his head discouragingly, saying:

"He sleeps like a dead man. Very, very drunken."

I was electrified, and the clerk fairly jumped from his stool, as a clear voice from an inner room called out in the Chippewa tongue:

"That is not true, Angus. You know he isn't drunk and hasn't been drunk. Tell the young man he is ill from changing from meat to sturgeon."

It was a woman's voice, undoubtedly Madame's, or his "gal's," for I was getting mixed on the relationship. And it was a wonderfully musical voice. I was tempted to advance to the room, but the curtain of rawhide was pulled snug and the woman continued:

"Ask him what he wants here with your master. Have you lost your tongue?"

"I will ask him," Angus meekly replied in Chippewa.

"Let me tell my business without being asked," I fluently spoke up, rather proud of my knowledge of Chippewa. "Mr. Chabot wishes to make a bargain with the X. Y. to the end that neither the X. Y. nor the N. W. send out men to hunt for trade."

"He is sorry when he hears men are sent out on derouin," she mockingly retorted. "What about the derouin Pouliot made this winter? Bah! The man is a snake, and I have no trust in a man that goes on his business."

"I am only a clerk," I stiffly replied, glaring at the curtain. "I'm not passing any tobacco to get help for Chabot. I obey orders."

She was silent for nearly a minute, and I was about to take my departure, when she spoke, very softly this time, saying:

"I am ashamed of my words. You are not to blame if Chabot is Chabot. The good God made him, as he did the skunk and white wolf. And only the good God knows why He made him."

"For the fur trade, just as He made the skunk and wolf for the fur trade," I smartly replied.

She ignored me and continued:

"The X. Y. will agree not to send men to trade in the Indian camps. It is a bad way to trade. The N. W. has been doing it on this river. If the N. W. stops it, we won't begin."

"You talk Chippewa like a native," I complimented.

"And French like a Frenchwoman, and English like an Englishwoman," she quickly answered, using the two languages.

"And I don't know which of the three you are," I regretted. "Am I not to see you?"

The rawhide curtain rattled viciously and in Chippewa she commanded:

"Make a writing for him to sign, binding the N. W. and the X. Y. not to make a derouin."

Clerk Angus wrote rapidly, making two copies. I signed them and waited while he went to get the X. Y. signature. He did not go behind the closed curtain but to a similar recess at the opposite end of the room. He was absent for a few minutes and when he returned he was followed by Red Dearness.

The man was tall and very muscular. He was as heavy as Black Chabot, only a more graceful distribution of flesh and brawn did not allow him to look it. My first thought was, what a fight the two would make of it if they ever clashed. My second thought was one of congratulations to Chabot for having avoided a tussle.

Red Dearness's face possessed staying qualities which I knew Chabot lacked. His beard was long and full and as red as the autumn sun when the smoke from prairie fires makes it look like fresh blood. His eyes were large and deep blue but sadly sunken. His general mien was that of great melancholy. My first glance told me it was not sturgeon diet that ailed him. Nor had he been drinking. He impressed me as being marked by Death, and yet there was no falling away of the flesh, no lack of elasticity in his step as he approached me.

"I have heard what you have said and what has been said to you. I have your signature to a paper, which pretends to bind your company together with the X. Y. to post trading entirely. I have signed the agreement. I will send no man to trade, among the Indians. They must bring their hunt to the post. I agree, not because Chabot asks it, nor because I expect him to keep his agreement, but because it is the one thing a post must do if it is to exist. Your people have used me foully. You have stolen my skins from my Indians. Little Crane was robbed of a pack belonging to me."

Not even a sick man can accuse me of that without hearing my voice. Had he accused Chabot of robbing the women, I would have admitted the offence; for that was a nasty fact. Evidently he had not learned of that particular coup yet. I contented myself with saying:

"I was the man who took the skins from the Crane. He took a debt and we wanted it paid. The skins belonged to us."

"Damnation! He's taken a debt from us. Now he will never pay," fumed Dearness, his blue eyes blazing. His anger seemed to tire him, and he more quietly continued, "I am doing you the compliment of taking your word for it."

"You had better," I shortly retorted, "or when you recover your health I should have to have a reckoning with you."

"You young fool!" he contemptuously replied.

The woman behind the curtain laughed derisively. I must have coloured or in some way shown my anger, for in a more decent tone he said:

"There! There! Words are foolish as the pounding of sticks on those cursed medicine drums. If I spoke harshly, it was out of envy for your youth and health. After all, we're but a handful of white men up here and should stick together as much as the trade will allow. You will eat with us."

"Does the young lady who laughed at me eat with us?" I asked.

"She keeps quite by herself," he slowly replied, staring at me in a peculiar manner.

"And I think I will follow her example," I decided. "One word before I go. We'll call it a bonus for signing the paper. You have a man—the Rat—hired as interpreter. He's a scoundrel."

"They all are," he quietly reminded.

"It's not my business to warn the X. Y. against his tricks. I have spoken."

"I shall break his neck for his tricks some day," said Dearness. "However, I thank you for your warning. We're getting ceremonious enough for Quebec when the season is high. Now I must give you what may not set well on your stomach. Your master, Black Chabot, is a rascal."

As he spoke he leaned forward and stared round-eyed, as if expecting a hot denial.

"He's a —— rascal," I corrected.

The ghost of a smile played round his bearded lips. The tinkle of a little laugh came from behind the hide curtain.

"You should be working with honest men, working for the X. Y.," he murmured.

"The N. W. has the best men in the business. Skunks are found everywhere."

"True," he mused; "only a skunk's pelt is worth something. Sir Alexander MacKenzie appreciates young men who can do things."

"So does Simon McTavish," I added.

"It's hopeless for me to even suggest it, isn't it?"

"Quite. Now that I've done my errand I'll be going."

"You'll not change your mind and eat?"

"I'll eat at our post. It's so close it would be foolish for me not to."

He glanced toward the curtains and I flushed beneath the tan of the April wind. He was amusing himself with thinking I would have stayed gladly enough if the woman had offered to join us.

He rose and followed me to the door, and either he was suddenly in physical agony, or else the sunlight revealed more than I had already noticed, for his eyes were contracted and his lips pressed firmly. We exchanged a courteous farewell and I went to my canoe, already regretting I had not accepted his invitation to eat with him. In all probability I should have seen the woman. And speech with an educated woman, as I knew this woman was educated, would be a heavenly treat after three years of isolation.

Until this day I had known of but one white woman ever being on the river. She had come with some Orkney Islanders, disguised as a boy. She betrayed her secret to one man at the Forks, who debauched her, and her child was born at our fort, the first white child born on the Red River of the North.

To return to the Dearness woman; whether she was a white or a breed I couldn't decide. Rumour and gossip had given me to understand she was mixed blood. But if such she must have been taken East when very young to be educated by the Sisters. I had met French-Indian and English-Indian girls in Montreal and Quebec who would grace any home.

This incident of calling on Red Dearness, so long in the telling, was a great adventure for me. It gave me a new train of thought. It is the lack of fresh mental food and the eternal chewing over the same thoughts which drive men mad in the lonely places. No one can appreciate the thrill and zest that such a trivial encounter can afford one who has lived in a savage rut month on month.

Accordingly I was in something of a state of mind when I returned to the post and found Desset excitedly superintending the last of the packing. The storehouse was cleared and the Indian women and children were rummaging through it in frantic search for articles overlooked. They had even taken up the whitewood flooring in hope of finding trinkets dropped through the cracks.

Desset's activity astonished me. He was like a man fighting against time.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" I asked.

He grinned sheepishly, hesitated, gave me one of his sly glances, then frankly confessed:

"I'm so keen to get out of this country. It makes me forget if I am busy."

"But it will be days and weeks before the brigade comes down. You've packed all your goods. What will you do if the Indians bring in a hunt?"

"I've got plenty of rum out and ready," he replied with a vacuous laugh.

"The Indians seem to have had enough," I observed as I caught an outburst from the stockade.

"The red beggars won't have any more," he growled.

"You'll have to give them presents when you go away," I reminded. "Ho! When did that rascal come?"

I pointed to the reeling figure of Old Crow.

"Since you came," was the careless reply.

It surprised me the Indian would come alone down the river, and I knew his wife and child would have none of his company. I couldn't believe Chabot had driven him out of the fort, as Chabot had lost his power as a disciplinarian. I sauntered up to the stockade gate and glanced inside.

It was the usual scene. Old Crow held my interest, however. He not only had had too much liquor, but he was also wearing a red hat with a round red feather in it, usually a gift for a chief. I knew he had not traded a skin for the season. I caught him by the arm as he was dancing by in a drunken line and asked——

"Who sent you here?"

"Black Face," he answered, meaning Chabot.

"What did you bring?"

"The white bark that talks," he grunted, lurching away to join the dancers.

I would have given a prime skin to know what written mes sage Black Chabot had sent to Desset. No doubt but that it concerned some of their schemes for looting the N. W. I found something to eat and heartily wished I had accepted Red Dearness's invitation to eat at the X. Y. Confusion and clamour surrounded me, Desset allowing the Indians to overrun the fort as if it had been abandoned. One fellow boldly tried to take away my sugar, and when I resented it his woman took offence. It was only by an extravagant display of anger that I brought them to their senses. If the day had not been so far advanced, I would have taken to the canoe and returned upstream.

Going to the river, I found Flat Mouth and a man of his band dragging the water for sturgeon by suspending a long net between two canoes and sweeping upstream. Mr. Henry was the first to introduce such a net to the Red. While I watched them, a man came in with eight kegs of new sugar and six beaver skins. Desset came down to the river as the man landed, but he showed no enthusiasm for the trade. He gave the impression of being annoyed and refused to trade anything but high wine, powder, and ball. An idea of how permanent alcohol stood in our trade ventures is shown from the fact that, out of twenty-eight "pieces" of assorted goods brought in by each canoe in the early fall, ten were kegs of liquor, each holding nine gallons. Gunpowder, which one might expect to hold first place, furnished only two kegs per canoe.

The fort was so noisy that night, and there was so much fighting going on, that I moved back into the woods where Flat Mouth threw together a shelter and where we built a small fire and roasted some fish and spent the night.

After our morning meal we started for our canoe, eager to be quit of the place. The Indians were quiet, either sick or sleeping, and I saw nothing of Desset. We were near the bank when out of the early shadows upriver shot a canoe, and after a glance Flat Mouth said it was the Rat. He also pulled the casing off his gun and suggested the man was fleeing from an enemy, perhaps the Sioux; this because the Rat gave an excellent exhibition of a man in a great hurry. I pooh-poohed the Sioux notion. Even if they came in such force as to take the Pembina post there would have been a few survivors to flee down the river. Instead of crossing the mouth of the Scratching and making the X. Y. post, the Rat drove full speed for our bank and was ashore almost before his canoe found the mud.

Without a word to me he started on the run for the post and I chased after him. Desset had seen him land and was at the stockade gate, his manner nervous.

"Very soon! Met heem coming like ——!" exploded the Rat.

"Did he send any word?" asked Desset, his eyes brightening.

"To be ready. That is all."

Having finished his errand, the Rat ran back to his canoe and set off for the X. Y. establishment.

"Who did he meet? What's up?" I impatiently asked.

"I supposed you knew," innocently answered Desset. "Nothing's up except what happens every spring. The Pembina post brigade is going out. Mr. Chabot sends word he will be here soon and that I'm to have my packs ready to join him."

"The brigade going out?" I spluttered. "Devil's hoofs! The Rat must have lied. Nothing has been done about the planting, next season's fuel, arranging for the summer men——"

"I should think, Mr, Franklin, those were matters for your superior to worry about," tartly broke in Desset.

"I don't think he will worry about them," I slowly replied. "Maybe his superiors will, though."

He turned away to round up some Indians recovered enough from their spree to carry the packs to the shore. I walked leisurely back to the river. Chabot had told me I would have ample time to return and get together some few belongings; he had intended from the first to make this unusually early start. Mr. Henry usually went out during the last week in May or early in June. The only explanation I could scare up was that Chabot, his nerves shaken by rum, was in a panic lest our Indians rise and massacre us. Perhaps my mentioning old Tabashaw's boast that he could kill a man, white or red, by just wishing him to die was responsible. Anyway, I now knew the nature of the message Old Crow had brought to Desset. The clerk had been ordered to have everything in readiness for an immediate departure.

My personal effects at the post could await my return in the fall or be stolen. They were of not enough value to worry over. I had my double-barrel gun, my dearest possession, and I could arrange with one of the X. Y. people to go after my horse or to care for it after Flat Mouth brought it down. Probos, our clerk at the Reed, would be left in charge of the post during the summer, but I did not wish to trust the horse to him. He was honest but slow-witted. The Crees could steal his moccasins and he would never know it until he went out barefooted and got a blade of porcupine-grass through a toe.

Now a dozen canoes of Indian families turned the bend above, stringing out in a long procession; then came the post's nine canoes and two boats, a man in each, the rest of the space being heaped high with equipage and skins. This would leave twenty-odd Indian canoes unaccounted for, and I was forced to the conclusion that despite his precipitate departure Chabot had found time to make up small assortments of trade goods for the Hills and other outposts and to assign hunting territory to the summer men.

Flat Mouth, who stood beside me watching the brigade, now gave a low grunt. I observed he had shifted his attention downstream. I looked in that direction and beheld the X. Y. brigade of eight canoes was starting down-river. This was my second great surprise of the morning.

Yesterday Red Dearness had shown no symptoms of taking an early departure. Now he was off, and seemingly in great haste to precede our brigade. When Mr. Henry ruled at the Pembina post, rival brigades usually travelled to the Forks each spring in a most neighbourly fashion.

Red Dearness, enveloped in a cloak, was in the first canoe. He turned and looked back only once, and then to wave his hand to the X. Y. Fort. Dearness, I deduced, was in a serious state of health, and some sudden symptoms had forced his departure. Which of the blanketed figures was the woman who talked in English, French, and Chippewa it was impossible to determine. Angus, the clerk, stood clear of the woods on the little point and limply waved a hand in farewell.

Poor devil! I pitied him for the loneliness he must endure as summer keeper of the fort, for the stench of the decaying buffalo, for the possible plague of grasshoppers which would rival the buffalo in stinks. For when these pests came to blight the land they died in millions along the river. I've seen the shores of Winnipeg inches deep with them decaying. Oh, I had room to pity him for many things, even if he did belong to the opposition.

Our brigade swung ashore and the Indians gave a hand in unloading the skin canoes and turning them up to be dried out by the sun. Chabot arrived last, having Probos with him. I greeted him and reported on the agreement signed by me in behalf of the N. W. and by Dearness for the X. Y., by the terms of which neither in the department of the Lower Red River was to drum up trade among the Indians.

He was not interested in my report but stood and grinned ferociously down the river and boasted:

"The red rat wasn't keen to see me. According to your say, he was going to do something about the furs I took from his women. I was loaded for him. He knew it, too. Skun out ahead of me, eh? Well, maybe I'll catch up with him before he makes the Forks."

"He's a sick man," I said.

"He'll be sicker before I get through with him," he bragged.

"If you have any trouble with him, you must kill him. If you don't, he will kill you. I talked enough to know he will go the full distance. While sick, he hasn't lost his strength. Heart, probably."

Chabot lost some of his assurance and his leer changed to a dark scowl. I asked:

"How is it you go out so early? I thought I was to have time to get back and pack up some of my belongings."

"It's likely the affairs of the North West Company will be held up to make things easier for you," he sneered.

"At least tell me when you leave here. I've got to arrange to send for my horse and have him cared for."

"I start just as soon as the skin canoes get dry and Desset is ready."

Now something was amusing him, for as he finished he commenced chuckling. I suspected it might be the canoeload of furs he and Desset had sent off. With an oath he suddenly began raging:

"That Desset has gone and lost his accounts! Let some drunken Indians burn them up. Pretty Northman he'll make! I'd planned to leave him to look after the summer trade, but now the company will want to shift or ship him."

"He expects to go along with you. He's been busy packing ever since Old Crow brought your message."

He slowly turned and eyed me, to see if my words hid anything.

"He'll go as far as the Forks, where he'll wait for the Assiniboin brigade to come down. I ought to get orders from up country about his case. How did you know anything about my message?" The last savagely.

"I was here when the Crow came," I lied, not wishing to make trouble for the Indian. "Joe Pouliot was pretty lucky to make that derouin. Two hundred skins."

"Desset will never make a Northman. He talks too much. The X. Y. will hear of it and then they'll howl."

"He's your man. You brought him here."

"Then it's none of your business, Franklin!" he roared, his beard seeming to bristle. "I don't like your way of talking."

"All right. I'm through. Here's the Rat dancing round to speak to you."

Chabot mumbled under his breath and turned aside. The Rat, with much writhing and gesticulating, poured out a torrent of softly spoken words. Chabot listened with a frown creasing his forehead. When the Rat had finished, he answered him briefly, talking from the corner of his mouth. The Rat fell back.

"Hired him?" I inquired.

"Told him to go to ——!" Chabot growled. Which was surprising to learn after seeing how resignedly the Rat had taken it.

That night Chabot and Desset and Probos and a few of the men—whites—drank deeply from a ten-gallon keg of brandy and distributed much mixed rum not only to our Indians but also to those eagerly flocking across the river from the X. Y. post. An Indian can scent rum a mile, I believe. Open a keg in any open space with not a redskin in sight, and before you know it they will begin to drop in like crows calling on a dead buffalo.

They gave away fifteen kegs all told and speedily put a fighting edge on the Chippewas. Inside of an hour after the bout began I saw four separate combats going on at the same time. As I was leaving the hall, old Tabashaw stumbled against me in the dark. When I pushed him away he attempted to stab me. I knocked him down and threw him out. Little Shell, imagining him to be a Sioux, grabbed his hair and would have counted coup if my foot hadn't landed under his chin. Desset, under orders from Chabot, had endeavoured to collect all weapons before giving out the rum, but I never saw an Indian drinking match yet when weapons could not be produced. This night the women were largely to blame, as they persisted in smuggling knives to their men.

Early next morning we routed the Indians, but many of them were in no condition to go on. There was no intention of taking any with us except those bound for the Assiniboin, where they proposed to summer. With a hearty shower of curses Chabot assigned families to various locations for the summer hunt.

He told some to go after red deer and bear east of the Red, while others were to go after buffalo on the plains. I noticed that neither Desset nor Probos was taking any notes of these orders. The former, I knew, was booked for a home passage, but Probos would be shifted from the Reed to the Pembina. When he had finished, Chabot wheeled on me and fiercely demanded—

"So you can carry all that in your noodle, eh?"

"In my noodle?" I blankly repeated.

"You heard me say it," he growled.

"But why should your orders interest me? It's for your summer man to prick up his ears."

He grinned maliciously, fished out his orders received from the last express, placed a trembling finger on one paragraph and invited me to read. It was an order for me to remain at the Pembina post during the summer, with Probos staying at the Reed camp and keeping an eye on the Scratching River post, which was to be closed after the brigade departed. Chabot had known this all the time and had allowed me to believe I was going back east.

For fully a minute I stood stiff and motionless, frozen all over with rage and disappointment. His rough voice sounded far off as he explained:

"This post will be closed. The Reed camp will bring their trade to you at Pembina. Just remember my orders to the summer men and you'll have a mighty fine and easy time of it. Before I go, I'll take a long drink to the new master of the Pembina post."

My hand dropped to my knife, but I clinched my hands and walked away, fighting to keep my mouth shut, my fists closed until sure of myself.

My first impulse was to enter my canoe and paddle downstream to the Forks. Gradually reason stole through my black mood. After all, the orders did not originate with him. Some of the gentlemen of the North had picked me to have charge of the Lower Red River department until the brigade returned in the fall. Black Chabot's cruelty was his withholding of the information. There was nothing to compel me to remain there. I was free to refuse if I so wished.

Chabot, not done with his tormenting, came after me, perhaps to spur me into quitting the river, and arrogantly demanded:

"What do you mean? Mean you won't take this high honour—that you won't serve as master at Pembina, per orders?"

The Reed River clerk was watching us with a greedy gleam in his eyes. Chabot had brought him along, intending to promote him to the position after bullying me into refusing it. The master was expecting me to refuse, was hoping I would. Did I refuse, he would treat me well enough all the way to Montreal, satisfied in knowing the N. W. would have no more of me.

"Refuse? God bless you, no!" I cried, forcing a ringing, exulting note into my voice. "Refuse promotion from clerk to master? Why, I came out here to make a career, to become a Northman. I shall do everything necessary to keep the post fit. But, so long as I am to be master in your place, I'll make the assignments for the summer hunters."

Which was well within my right to say.