CHAPTER XXIII.
AND LAST.
"Police!" exclaimed Dinny Pack, as he eyed the four men who came toward us from the river. "Police nothin'! That big feller with the four-punch hat is Bill Rowan, and the short one is his partner, Joe Cass. It was them we was expectin' to find at the lakes. The other two is trappers—Bradley and White, their names is." And, stepping out, he hailed them.
Besides the four-punch hat, Rowan was wearing a ragged police tunic, his own coat, as we learned later, having been burned through carelessness in leaving it with a lighted pipe in the pocket. He had got the old police coat from an Indian, though how the latter had come by it was a mystery. Likely it was a discard which he had picked up. But this combination of hat and coat had been sufficient to stampede Ballou's outfit.
The four newcomers were hard and husky, and each carried a rifle. As soon as they heard our story, they declared themselves.
"That bunch needs cleanin' up," said little Joe Cass, "and we're the boys to do it, hey, Bill?"
"Sure," big Rowan agreed. "We'll round 'em up if they ain't flew the coop. Whereabouts is this camp of theirs?"
"Bob knows," said Dinny. "Come on, Bob; here's where we play even."
I led the way, and Ignace Mountain, in spite of his wounded leg, hobbled with us. But when we reached the site of the camp the fur thieves had gone in hasty flight in their canoes, whether up or down the stream it was impossible to say.
They had not buried Nootka Charlie and the squaw. They lay together, covered by a ragged blanket. Toft twitched back the blanket and shook his head.
"Injun work!" he said. "Nootka was due to get his through some woman. It was comin' to him, I guess. But killin' the klootch, too, is pretty hard stuff."
"It's murder," said Mr. Fothergill, with a shudder. "I have no sympathy for the man. But a woman is a woman. It seems to me we should take this Indian and deliver him to justice."
"Well, an Injun looks at things his own way," said Toft, "and the woman was an Injun, too. When you live in this country for a while among 'em, you get to look at things diff'rent. Law that works out where there's courts and such ain't always the same as justice up here. She's a raw country, and the Nitches still settle things their own way. I dunno's the law improves things much when it does butt in. Let's see what he has to say."
He turned to Ignace Mountain, who stood quietly looking at the bodies.
"You killed this man and this woman?"
The Indian nodded.
"The woman was my wife. She ran away with the man."
"And so you killed her. That was not well, Ignace Mountain."
"She hyas mesachie klootchman," the Indian returned.
"Even if she was a bad woman," said Toft, "you should not have killed her. That is murder, and for murder men are hanged. It is in our minds to take you to be tried for it by the white man's law. What have you to say?"
Ignace Mountain looked from face to face, and read condemnation. He took a step forward and threw out his hand.
"She hyas mesachie klootchman," he repeated. "You no savvy. You listen: When me marry that 'ooman me good man—me skookum, me walk straight, me have face all same other man. Me good hunter, take hiyu fur, plenty grub stop, plenty clothes stop. Me give that 'ooman all she want, me hyas yutl tumtum then—hyas happy.
"Bimeby one time me wound bear and fight him with this knife. Me kill him, but me hurt bad. My face like this, my leg no good." He touched face and limb, as he spoke, with sinewy, nervous fingers. "For long time me hiyu sick. No hunt. Then no more grub stop, no more clothes stop. That 'ooman she look at me no more. All time she see my face she turn away. Her heart is changed. She is hard to me—no laugh, no smile. In my own tepee me all some kamooks—all same dog!
"Bimeby come Nootka Challie. Him big, him skookum. She smile at him, she laugh. All time him come to my tepee. Me nanitch—me watch. Bimeby one night she try to run away with him, but me stop her. Me no beat her—me talk good to her, me talk kind. But her heart is bad to me and she say many hard things. So me take her and go away—we go si-a-a-h—and make a camp on the Wabatanisk. Then me go hunt.
"Bimeby one night her heart is good to me again. Once more she talk and smile, and give me good muckamuck. Me eat. Pretty soon me sick. Me have hiyu pain, me lie down and roll and twist all same poisoned wolf, and then me lie all same dead."
"Good Lord!" Dunleath exclaimed. "The woman gave him poison."
"Wolf bait, I guess," Toft agreed. "Was that it, Ignace?"
"Poison for wolf, yas," the Indian returned. "For long time me hiyu sick. Me lie like sick dog. Bimeby me mamook get up. That 'ooman gone; canoe gone; gun gone; blanket gone; grub gone. All gone. No fire stop, no match stop. Me klatawa, me eat berries and bark. Bimeby me find my people, bimeby get skookum again, bimeby get more canoe, get gun, get grub. And then me mamook nanitch for Nootka Challie and that 'ooman. When me find um, me kill um. Good! That 'ooman all same lejaub—all same devil!"
For a full minute after he had concluded, nobody spoke. He had told his story simply, in the small stock of English at his command, glossing nothing, stressing nothing; and so it was the more convincing and powerful.
I had been very sorry for the death of the Indian's wife; she must have had a fine streak in her, for she had saved me by giving me a penknife to cut my bonds. But, after listening to the Indian's dreadful story, I could not but sympathize with him.
It was a tragedy of the wilderness, of love and hate and revenge, simple, elemental; and the end of it was entirely logical, and justifiable according to Indian ideas. I do not think one of us who heard condemned him. Mr. Fothergill expressed our sentiments very aptly.
"By George!" he said. "That woman was not murdered; she was executed."
And so we buried Nootka and the klootch Lucille together, as seemed fitting, and made another grave for old Hayes and Siwash George. And we portaged the furs and canoes back to the river, and enjoyed a peaceful camp once more.
The next day we saw the last of Ignace Mountain. Murderer or executioner, whichever you like, we shook hands with him and staked him to an outfit; and I gave him the rifle which had been Siwash George's, to replace his own. He waited for us to embark before getting into his canoe. And when we looked back, as we rounded the first bend, he was still standing motionless, leaning on his paddle: a lonely figure, staring somberly at the river, seeing I know not what pictures of the past and future in its dark current.
Our homeward journey was entirely uneventful, and I was glad of that, for I had had my fill of adventure. Day after day, in the glorious weather of early fall, we swept southward along the water highway of the North, until at last we turned into the slow, brown flood of the Carcajou, and one evening about sundown I saw the logs of my landing.
And there was Peggy, with the fresh wind whipping her skirts and blowing her hair about her temples, and her eyes warm with welcome in them and a light that was not for me; and old Nelse beside her, jumping up and down and barking himself hoarse; and my uncle and old McClintock, the factor, hurrying down to meet us.
That night we had quite a jollification, and McClintock made us an offer for the furs which seemed very fair, and which subsequently his company ratified and we accepted. It gave me more money than—at that time—I knew what to do with.
And with that, to my mind, the story of the finding of the cache of old Nitche McNab ends. I never saw or heard of Ballou or McGregor or Conover or the breed again. Perhaps they still live somewhere on the outposts of the great wilderness which is being pushed back year after year. But once I did see Louis Beef. He was cook in a logging camp, and his hair was still black and abundant. He did not know me, for the years had changed my looks; and after thinking it over I decided to let sleeping dogs lie, for, in spite of the undoubted fact that he was a scoundrel, I always liked him. Of Fothergill it may be said that he left us with his passion for adventure somewhat abated, and vowing that if he ever embarked on another quest for a cache he would be less certain of his judgment of men and more apt to accept the wisdom of others.
Now, having, as it seemed to me, written all there was to write, I submitted the result to Peggy—I mean the younger Peggy, who is my niece. And she turned up her pretty nose.
"That," said Peggy, "is no way to finish a story."
"But the story is finished," I pointed out. "There is nothing more to tell."
"You must always finish the story," said Peggy wisely, "with a love scene. They all do it. And you don't say what became of mother—I mean Peggy, the dear—and Jim Dunleath."
"Nothing became of them. They got married, of course, but any one would know that."
"Nonsense!" said Peggy. "You've left out the real, artistic ending. When old McClintock made that offer for the furs, Peggy and Jim weren't there, and you went to look for them to tell him about it. And you found them down by the river, you told me, standing in the moonlight, and Jim's arm was around her."
"Both arms," I said. "And hers"
"Very well. And when you told him of McClintock's offer what did he say?"
"He said," I replied, recalling his exact words through the years: "‘The devil take McClintock and the furs! And you get out of here! You ought to know you're a crowd.’"
"That's it," said Peggy, with a soft laugh, and a dreamy light in her eyes. "That's the finish—the eternal, unavoidable, logical finish. That's just what father would say."