Chapter X: Contraband

All night long Loseis and her girls listened in trepidation, but none approached their house. In the morning, Loseis, disdaining to remain under cover any longer, sallied out of the house to find Gault, and have it out with him. Anything was better than uncertainty.

The trader was at breakfast in the kitchen of the men’s house. Seeing Loseis at the door, he rose quickly, showing a smooth, composed face, but with eyes as hard as agate. “Good morning,” he said with extreme politeness; “I trust that you received no hurt from your ducking last night. I was coming over directly to inquire. How inexcusably careless of me! I shall never forgive myself!”

Loseis waved all this aside. “I should like a few words with you,” she said as politely as he.

“Please come in,” said Gault. He indicated the inner room.

“I would be glad if you would step outside,” said Loseis.

“Certainly!”

They walked away from the door, followed by the sharp, secret glances of the Crees. Gault rubbed his upper lip. Under the mask he wore, an uneasiness made itself felt. Certainly he had not expected Loseis to look him up, nor could he guess what was coming.

She wasted no words in coming to the point. “When you heard of my father’s death you hastened over here to help me, you said. If your intentions were good, I thank you.”

“Do you doubt it?” asked Gault sharply.

She spread out her hands. “What difference does that make now? Whether you wished to help me or not it would be impossible under the present circumstances.” She paused for a moment. It required a strong nerve to say this to Andrew Gault. “I must therefore ask you to leave the Post as soon as possible.”

There was a silence. Gault stared at her incredulously. In spite of his iron self-control a blackish flush spread under his skin. Infernal passions were raging under his mask. But he fought them down. He said nothing. He fell back a step, that Loseis could not see his face without turning squarely around.

“Well?” she said sharply. “Have you nothing to say?”

“What is there to say?” he murmured.

“You could refuse to go,” said Loseis proudly. “If you refused to go, of course I could not make you.”

“I could not refuse,” said Gault with a sort of hollow reverberation of his usual full and courteous tones. “You put me in an extraordinarily difficult position. I do not think you should be left alone here; but of course I cannot stay.”

“I shall manage very well,” said Loseis.

“I am sorry you think so badly of me,” said Gault.

“Oh, I shall not think badly of you, if you will only leave me alone,” said Loseis quickly. “I shall always be grateful to you!”

Silence again. Gault literally ground his teeth. After awhile he was able to say: “You are mixing up two things together.”

“You are mistaken,” said Loseis. “The two things are quite separate in my mind. I have had all night to think them over.”

“Do you wish me to leave Mr. Moale here to assist you?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” said Loseis firmly. “Furthermore, I should be greatly obliged if you would carry Etzooah back with you.”

For the fraction of a second the flames broke through Gault’s mask. “Suppose you needed a messenger!” he cried.

“I should not choose Etzooah to be my messenger,” said Loseis quietly.

He quickly controlled himself. “Very well,” he said; “we will be off as soon as we can get our traps together. Say to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, suit your convenience, of course,” said Loseis politely.

Gault’s expression changed. His hard eyes turned askance on the girl. “Upon consideration,” he said, more smoothly than before, “I am sure we will be able to get away late this afternoon. We can make our first camp up on the prairie, where we will at least be out of your sight.”

Loseis bowed; and they parted out in the middle of the little square.

When Gault re-entered the kitchen of the men’s house, he did not speak. The expression on his face was frightful to see. One by one the Crees, making believe to have noticed nothing amiss, slipped outside. Even Moale did not care to face that look. He sauntered out after the others. Gault sat down as if to finish his meal; but he touched no food. He merely sat there with his hands on the edge of the table and his head lowered, thinking; thinking.

Finally he rose; and going into Blackburn’s room, coolly produced a key, with which he opened a wall cupboard. From it he took an earthenware jug, one of several on the shelves; and locking up the cupboard, carried the jug back to the kitchen table. Removing the cork, he smelled of the contents, but did not taste. It was a known thing in the country that Gault was not a drinking man. He called out to have Etzooah sent to him.

When the grinning Indian stood before him, Gault said curtly: “This afternoon, just before supper time, I shall be starting away from here. You are to come with me.”

Etzooah nodded.

“Etzooah,” the trader continued, fixing his burning glance on the man, “do the Slavis know the taste of whisky?”

“Wah!” said the Indian, showing his blackened teeth; “Tatateecha know it. And some of the old men. Twenty-five years ago there was a party of Klondikers went down this river. They had whisky. They hand it round. Blackburn had whisky too, but he did not give the people any.”

“Can you teach the younger men to drink it?” asked Gault with an ugly smile.

“Wah!” said Etzooah, with his silent laugh. “No need teach! All know what whisky is. The story of the white man’s stomach-warming medicine is often told over the fire.”

“Good!” said Gault. “When we leave here to-day, you may take them that jug of Blackburn’s whisky. Let it be carried out of the house with the other things when we are packing up. Just before we start, you may go down behind the house, that the white women may not see you, and give it to Mahtsonza for all. Do not tell them that I sent it. Say that you found it in Blackburn’s room, and I never missed it, because I am not a whisky-drinker.” Gault leaned across the table, and lowered his voice. “And tell them as if not meaning anything by it, that there are four more jugs in the little cupboard on the wall of Blackburn’s room.”

“All right,” said Etzooah, grinning still. “What if there is trouble after?”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Gault coolly. He had recovered his self-control.

“All right. All right,” said Etzooah.

* * * * *

During the course of the day, Loseis cast many an anxious glance across the way. Certain obvious preparations for departure were immediately set under way; the pole on the roof was taken down, and the wire rolled up on spools; the pack-horses which had been turned out in the meadow across the creek, were rounded up, and driven into the corral attached to Blackburn’s stable. So much done, Gault could have left within an hour had he chosen, but a long time passed before any further move was made.

Finally, towards the end of the afternoon, the Crees began to carry their bedding rolls out of the kitchen. The horses were led out and saddled, their packs adjusted, and the hitches thrown. By five o’clock all was ready for the start. After another wait, Gault came marching over to the Women’s House. Loseis met him at the door.

Exhibiting his finest manner, he smiled politely. “I know this must be disagreeable to you,” he said, “but I thought it better to keep up appearances before my servants and yours. I have come to say good-by.”

“I was expecting you,” said Loseis. “I wish to return the various gifts which you . . .”

“Oh, no!” said Gault sharply. “Do not put that slight upon me before these redskins. Surely you have done enough. . . .”

“Oh,” said Loseis, “if you feel that way about it, it does not matter, of course.”

He immediately recovered himself. “Let us appear to take a friendly good-by of each other.”

“Surely,” said Loseis. “Perhaps you will take a letter out for me? I understand that the mail is carried from Fort Good Hope every month.”

“Charmed!” said Gault.

She gave him the letter which had been written during the afternoon. It was addressed to Gruber at the Crossing. She realized that if the first letters had not been sent out, this one would hardly be allowed to go; still, it was a chance that must not be neglected.

Gault, standing hat in hand, said with his polite smile: “I shall give myself the pleasure of sending over from time to time, until assistance reaches you from the outside. Though you repudiate it, I still feel responsible for you.”

Loseis smiled back—a little quizzically. Is it worth it? her smile said.

“Good-by,” said Gault, putting out his hand.

“Good-by,” said Loseis, letting hers lie within it.

He strode back to his waiting party, and swung himself into the saddle. The Crees cried to the pack-horses, and all set off briskly out of the inclosure, disappearing behind the store. Presently they were to be seen on the trail above, trotting up the incline; smart, well-found, arrogant, modeled upon the style of the old Company. Loseis breathed more freely. To be sure, they were not gone yet, for Gault had said they would camp for the night on the edge of the prairie. She was not in the least deceived by his politeness. There would be another night of anxiety to face, but not so keen as the previous night; for the violence of his rage must have abated somewhat. Loseis realized that she had not so much to fear from violence now, as from the man’s cold craft.

She went into her house. The supper was waiting. The thoughtless red girls, thinking only that Gault was gone, were all smiles. Loseis had Mary-Lou to sit down with her at table, in the effort to keep at bay that ghastly feeling of solitude that crept over her like the coming of night. Alone! Alone! Alone! And so long before she could hope for succor! She gave the girls a highly comic account of Gault’s proposal the night before, laughing loudly herself. Anything to keep the bogies at bay!

It was about an hour afterwards when they first began to realize that something was amiss in the Slavi village. There was an ungodly sound of singing going on. The Slavis frequently made the twilight hours hideous with their wordless chanting. Loseis was accustomed to it. To-night it was different; it had an insane ring; they were burlesquing their own performance, and screaming with laughter. It was significant too, that the voices of the women were not to be heard. Loseis scarcely knew what drunkenness meant, or she would have understood sooner.

She went to the little window at the end of the room which overlooked the river flat. Though it was eight o’clock the sun had not yet dropped out of sight. All the Slavi men were gathered in a rough circle around a fire on the creek bank. There was no order in the company; some lay about; some danced with extravagant gestures. The ordinary dance of the Slavis was a decorous shuffle. The women were nowhere to be seen. Every moment the scene became more confused, and the yelling louder.

Leaving the window, Loseis said: “I am going down to see what is the matter.”

Mary-Lou flung herself upon her mistress: “No! No! No!” she cried in despair.

Loseis was very pale. She firmly detached the clinging hands. “There is nothing else to be done,” she said simply. “If I do not notice this, my influence over them is gone!”

Loseis went sedately down the grassy rise, neither hurrying, nor hanging back. Her back was straight; her face composed. Her look of proud scorn lent a strange poignancy to her childishness. Her heart might have been fluttering like a frightened child’s, but nobody could have guessed it. Mary-Lou, seeing her face, wept aloud, without knowing what it was that had moved her so.

As Loseis came near, the Slavis around the fire fell quiet and still. Only one of them jumped up, and ran away, carrying something. Loseis recognized the figure of Mahtsonza. He ran across the stepping-stones of the creek, and climbed up the further bank. The rest of them were orderly enough now: but their drunken, swimming eyes and hanging mouths told a tale.

Loseis stepped into the middle of the circle. “What means this howling that beats against my ears?” she demanded. “Are your brains full of ice? (The Slavi phrase for insanity.) Is this a pack of coyotes or men?”

None answered her. They merely looked stupid.

Mahtsonza, a furlong off by this time, and feeling himself safe, turned around exhibiting the earthenware jug. He insolently turned it up to his lips.

Loseis recognized the style of the jug. Her heart sank at the young man’s act of open defiance; but no muscle of her face changed. “Now I understand,” she said coldly. “Blackburn’s whisky has been stolen.”

“No steal,” muttered the man called Ahchoogah. “It was a gift.”

“Who gave it?” demanded Loseis.

There was no answer.

Loseis stepped to the nearest tepee, and stuck her head through the opening. Within, a crowd of dejected women and children, crouched around a tiny fire on the ground.

“Where did they get it?” demanded Loseis.

A voice answered: “Etzooah brought it.”

All was clear to Loseis. She sickened with disgust that a man big and powerful as Gault could stoop to so cowardly a trick.

Returning to the men she said in a voice of scorn: “Call Mahtsonza back. Drink what is left. Drink until you lie like rotten logs! When you return to yourselves you shall be punished!”

By this she meant that a fine would be entered against each man’s name on the books. Letting her eyes sweep around the circle as if to fix each face in her memory, she stepped out of the circle, and returned to her house without looking back.

The moment the door closed after her, the yelling broke out again, now with a clear note of defiance and derision. They wished her to understand that though they could not face out her strong glance, behind her back they spat at her. Looking out of the end window she could see them capering about, indulging like children in an outrageous pantomime of derision directed towards her house. Loseis quickly turned away. It was a bitter, bitter dose for her pride to swallow. “They should be whipped! They should be whipped!” she said, with the tears of anger springing to her eyes.

However, she felt a little better when she reflected that there was only one gallon of whisky between about forty men. It was only because they were totally unused to the stuff that it had affected them as quickly and so violently. The effect could not last long.

As on a former occasion at the suggestion of danger, Loseis found that the three Slavi girls had quietly vanished. “Let them go!” she said shrugging. “They would only be in our way.”

Loseis determined that she and Mary-Lou should sleep in the store. As long as she could keep them out of the store, she held the whip hand. When the two of them appeared outside the house, carrying their beds across the square, jeers and yells greeted them from below. Mary-Lou’s coppery cheeks turned grayish with fear; but Loseis’ chin went higher.

“Cowardly dogs!” she said. “If I went down there, their voices would dry up in their throats.”

As soon as it began to grow dark, she set the lighted lamp in the window of the store, to remind the Slavis that she was on guard.

Shortly afterwards the whole gang swept up into the little square within the buildings. They all carried branches and sticks; one or two had lighted brands from the fire below. Yelling and capering like demons, they piled their fuel in the center of the space, and set fire to it. In a few seconds the flames were leaping high, illuminating every corner of the square, and throwing the fantastic leaping shadows of the savages against the house fronts. Through the little window of the store, Loseis watched them with a stony face. To bring their orgy within the very confines of the Post! A hideous chill struck into her breast. If they dared so far, what might they not dare!

Soon, like the savages they were, they lost interest in their bonfire. The noise quieted down somewhat. Loseis ventured to hope that the effect of the spirit might be beginning to wear off. The jug was not visible. Presently she noticed that their attention was concentrated on her father’s house. Some of them were nosing around it like animals; others stood senselessly trying to peer through the dark panes; near the door a man was haranguing his fellows, waving his hand towards the house, Loseis could not hear his words.

The crowd around the door increased. Finally one ventured to put his hand on the latch. The door was not locked. It swung inward, and all the Slavis fell backward in affright. The same man who had opened the door, crept back on all fours, and sticking his head inside, uttered a senseless yell. The others shrieked with laughter. Still, they dared not venture in. They gathered together in a close body outside the door, and the sound of their jabbering reached Loseis faintly. Suddenly those at the back began to push, and the first ones were thrust inside. Instantly they all swept in. With a sickness of the heart, Loseis saw one run back to the fire, and snatch up a pine branch with a burning end.

The girl groaned. It affected her like an act of sacrilege. Blackburn was indeed dead when these miserable savages feared not to overrun his house. She expected to see his private papers scattered out of the door; she waited for the house to burst into flames.

However, destruction was not their present aim. They reappeared almost immediately, yelling in triumph. He who came first held another jug aloft; and others followed; Loseis counted: two . . . three . . . four! Her chin went down on her breast. Well . . . this is the end, she thought.

Mary-Lou had seen, too. “Quick! we must go!” she gasped. “They will kill now! Quick! through the little window at the back!”

Loseis slowly shook her head. “No! You can go. I stay. As long as I am here they will not dare to enter the store.”

“Look! Look!” cried Mary-Lou. “What they care now? They will kill you!”

“Maybe,” said Loseis somberly; “but I will not run from Slavis. You go.”

Mary-Lou dropped to her knees, and hid her face in Loseis’ skirt. “No! No!” she whispered. “I never leave you.”

Pandemonium had broken loose outside. Some had rifled Blackburn’s wood pile; and armful after armful of fresh fuel was thrown on the fire. The Slavis took leave of what little humanity they had. The jugs were snatched from hand to hand; tipped up to thirsty mouths; and snatched away again. But even in their drunkenness they did not fight amongst themselves. The fighting instinct was absent in this degenerate people. It was an ugly thing to see the miserable little creatures, born under the shadow of fear, and obliged to cringe to all men, now released of their fears by whisky. They expressed their freedom by throwing their heads back and howling like dogs; and by dancing around the fire with legs and arms all abroad like jumping-jacks. The great, round moon, rising a little higher to-night, looked down on this scene with her accustomed serenity.

Finally they began to turn their attention to the store. At first they did not dare to approach; but one or another would hide behind his fellows and squall derisively in the direction of Loseis. The others would laugh in the childish way of savages. These were merely animal cries, without words. Later Loseis began to hear the word Burn! cried from one to another. She shivered internally. Meanwhile the jugs were still circulating, rousing them to a pitch of frenzy.

At last a man snatched up a stick with a burning end. Instantly a dozen others followed his example. Loseis knocked out a pane of glass with her elbow; and put the barrel of her gun through the hole.

But the Slavis never reached the store. Something caused them to freeze where they stood. The whole mad, shifting scene suddenly became fixed like a picture. Then they dropped their torches and fled; vanishing in the silent manner peculiar to themselves. You could scarcely see how it happened; you looked again, and they were not there. A moment or two after the sound had reached their ears it came to Loseis within the house. It was the distant pounding of many hoofs on the trail.

When Gault and his men rode into the little square, Loseis was standing at the open door of the store. She still had the gun over her arm. Gault flung himself off his horse.

“Good God! what has happened?” he cried. “I heard the racket clear to my camp, and jumped on my horse. Are you hurt?”

Loseis slowly shook her head.

“Is any damage done?”

Loseis indicated the empty jugs lying scattered about. “None; except that my father’s whisky has been drunk up,” she said dryly.

“My God!” cried Gault. “The brutes! I hated to leave you this afternoon, but I didn’t expect to see my fears materialize this way. Now you see, don’t you, that I was right. You cannot be left here alone.”

Loseis did not speak. She looked at him steadily, her lips curving in a slow smile of scorn. She was thinking: Let him babble! It only makes him out a fool. I shall not tell him all I know. To keep silence gives me a power over him.