Chapter XVI: With Conacher

Conacher’s spirits rose somewhat with the sun. It was impossible for a healthy man to be altogether miserable under that tender, beaming sky. The lovely, changing prospects of the parklike country through which Blackburn’s River flowed, made the heart swell. Conacher loved, and was loved in return. An apparition of the exquisite Loseis continually swam before his eyes. He was anxious; but he kept saying to himself as a civilized man will: Oh well, nothing serious can happen nowadays.

In the more open places, it was thrilling to see the long, laden train of horses stretching ahead; winding over a ridge; trotting down into the bottoms. The imagination was arrested by the thought of the riches stored in that endless succession of brown packs. It was like a picture to illustrate an old fairy tale. Thoughts of Aladdin and Sindbad flitted through the young man’s mind. Riches!—not represented by a trifling row of figures in a book, but visibly spread before his eyes. Come to think of it, Aladdin married a princess, too. An insipid miss in bloomers according to the pictures; nothing like the darkly vivid Loseis!

Among other directions for the journey, Loseis had warned Conacher not to allow the Slavis to cross the river to loiter in their village. It occurred to the young man that he would not be able to prevent this while he brought up the tail of the procession, so he took advantage of one of the river meadows to urge his horse to the head of the line. By Tatateecha’s crestfallen look at his approach, he judged that he had acted rightly. It was his first good look at the rotund, greasy little head man of the Slavis. Tatateecha was better favored than the run of the Slavis; but that was not saying much. He had a neat, Buster Brown hair-cut, and a red fillet bound around his brow.

Tatateecha edged his horse out of the line, and fell back to consult with the next man. They were like a pair of children conspiring together, with sharp, calculating glances at Conacher. The white man affected not to notice them. Presently Tatateecha came back to him all smiles. Conacher had had no experiences of the Slavis, but he knew something about the Indian nature in general. He’s going to try to put something over on me now, he thought.

Tatateecha by means of animated signs conveyed to Conacher that his village lay a short way ahead; and that it would be the best place to spell. Splendid grass for the horses.

“Not on your life!” said Conacher, with vigorous pantomime of denial. He indicated to Tatateecha that there would be no spell until the sun had traveled a space equal to two hours.

The Slavi broke into speech; but Conacher had him at a disadvantage there, by not understanding a word of it. The white man continued to point to the sun. Tatateecha became aggrieved; almost tearful in his protestations. Then, bringing his horse close to Conacher’s he signified with a winning air, that he himself was perfectly willing to go further; but the rest of the men would refuse to go at all, unless they were permitted to say good-by to their families. Conacher replied by signs that if they refused to go and fetch the grub and ammunition, when the snow covered the ground there would be no grub, no meat, and the people would starve. This argument was unanswerable, and Tatateecha fell back sulking.

Shortly afterwards the village hove in sight across the river. The people lined up on the edge of the bank yelling; and Conacher’s men yelled back. All knew that the white man could not understand their tongue; and Conacher guessed that they were making pretty free with him. It was a trying situation; but he preserved his imperturbable air.

The river issued out of the lake by means of a wide, shallow, brawling rapid. At the present high stage of water, there was but one possible place to ford, and this could not be managed even on horseback without danger of a wetting. At the point where the trail forked, Conacher backed his horse into the arm which ran down the bank, and held him there blocking the way. The Slavis jabbered angrily from one to another; the whole train was brought to a stand.

Tatateecha approached Conacher to expostulate. The white man pointed with his whip down the main trail. Tatateecha attempting to speak again, Conacher suddenly urged his horse forward, and cutting the Indian’s horse smartly across the flank, sent him careering down the main trail, the only way that was open. The train got in motion again. The other Slavis, seeing that Conacher meant what he said, filed past him sullenly. The people across the river fell silent. Conacher fell in at the tail of the procession again. Ten minutes later his feather-headed Slavis were singing and chaffing each other in the best temper imaginable.

But Conacher had to keep a sharp look-out for deserters. Time and again, one or another of the Slavis edged his horse in among the trees with the object of circling around and gaining the trail behind Conacher. The white man found that he could best defeat this maneuver by falling back a quarter of a mile. In that position he would come face to face with the astonished deserter, who thought he had already eluded him. Caught in the act, they made no attempt to resist his commanding voice. When they spelled at last, Conacher, without appearing to, anxiously counted his men. He had lost one. With dinner in prospect there was no danger of their making off. As soon as they had eaten he distributed plugs of tobacco.

Upon reaching the lake the trail turned sharp to the eastward for some miles. In order to provide a firm footing it had to encircle the edge of the wooded country, far back from the water. The vast lake meadows at this season were like a saturated sponge underfoot. For three sleeps, Tatateecha explained, they would be traveling alongside these meadows; and then, climbing through a pass in the hills, would come to the prairie, where they would find the buffalo grass which made horses fat. This bottom grass filled them up, but did not stick to their ribs. Tatateecha was very ingenious in the sign language. When they spelled he was perfectly good-humored again; attaching himself to Conacher like a friendly child.

For two full hours they allowed the horses to feed, before rounding them up again. Conacher would dearly have liked to sleep (as all the Slavis did) but dared not. However, because of the tobacco he had handed out, or because they were getting too far away from home, or for some other reason, the Slavis appeared to have reconciled themselves. There were no further attempts to desert. It was impossible to tell what was going on inside their skulls.

Then for five hours longer they continued on their way. The character of the route never changed. For mile after mile the brown ribbon of earth threaded in and out amongst the trunks of the pines, climbing the little unevenness of ground; crossing small water-courses. On their left hand the vast sea of grass was generally in sight through the trees, with a suggestion of water on the horizon; sometimes for considerable distances the trail followed the actual line between grass and timber.

At about six o’clock they halted for the night. It seemed a pity not to take advantage of the four remaining hours of daylight; but when Conacher looked at the grass-fed horses, sweaty and drooping, he perceived the necessity for camping. The horses were turned out in the grass; the Slavis built their fire at the foot of the bank; while Conacher spread his bed on top in a grove of pines running out to a point, whence he could survey both horses and men.

He spent the early part of the evening fraternizing with his men amidst great laughter when, as frequently happened, the language of signs broke down. About eight o’clock he retired to his own little fire above, and rolled up in a blanket. The sun had not yet sunk out of sight; but it was planned to start at four next morning. As he lay there day-dreaming, he was greatly astonished to see a Slavi Indian quietly approaching between the trees at the back of the point.

He sat up. All the Slavis looked very much alike to him; but he instantly recognized that this was not one of those who had accompanied him all day. There was a suggestion of secrecy in his approach. A rather better physical specimen than the average Slavi, his face bore the childish, deceitful grin that was characteristic of them all. His teeth were blackened and broken; on the whole, an unpleasant-looking individual. He held out an envelope towards Conacher; and the young man leaped to his feet full of a vague alarm.

“Who are you?” he asked involuntarily.

The Indian, grinning, shook his head like a dog, and pointed to his ear; the usual sign for not understanding.

Conacher pointed to himself, and said “Conacher.” He then pointed to the Indian.

“Saltahta,” said the man.

Conacher took the envelope. It bore no superscription. Tearing it open, his heart was filled with warmth at the sight of Loseis’ signature in big round characters. The letter had been written on the typewriter in the stammering style of the beginner. Conacher had had such a letter from Loseis down river. This one was brief.

“There is something wrong here. Gault is plotting mischief. I am afraid. The man who takes this to you is a good man. Let him go with the outfit, and you come back to me.”

As he read, all Conacher’s warmth was chilled. Suspicion leaped into his mind full-grown. There was a vagueness about the letter that was not like Loseis. Moreover he doubted if she would ever confess to being afraid, even if she were afraid. And why should she sign her full name; Laurentia Blackburn. On the other letter it had been simply Laurentia. He remembered the sheets that Gault had made her sign for him, and smiled to himself. Really, the plot was too transparent. He, Conacher, was to be drawn off, and the fur diverted to Gault’s uses under guidance of this Indian. Loseis had told him of a Slavi who was in Gault’s pay.

Suddenly putting his finger on the man’s breast, Conacher said: “Etzooah.”

The Slavi looked at him with perfect, stupid blankness, and shook his head. “Saltahta,” he repeated.

“Tatateecha!” called Conacher.

The little head man came climbing up the bank. Whatever his astonishment at the sight of the newcomer, nothing showed in his face.

“Who is this man?” demanded Conacher, putting his finger on the Slavi.

“Saltahta,” said the newcomer quickly.

“Saltahta,” repeated Tatateecha like a parrot.

Conacher bit his lip. With a jerk of his head he dismissed Tatateecha. The other man made as if to follow.

“You stay where you are!” cried Conacher.

Whether or not the man understood English, the gesture which accompanied the words was amply significant, and he stopped in his tracks. He began to whine pitifully in his own tongue, pointing to his lips and hugging his stomach.

“I don’t give a damn how hungry you are,” said Conacher. “I mean to keep you under my eye until I decide what to do.”

The Indian sat down at the foot of a tree, and pathetically exhibited his empty pipe to the white man. Conacher tossed him the remainder of a plug of tobacco, which he began to shave with an air of philosophic indifference.

There was an agonizing struggle going on in Conacher’s breast. Though he had every reason in the world to believe that letter a trick, he found that he _could not disregard it_. There was still one chance in a thousand that it was genuine, and it was a chance he could not take. He had been unwilling enough in the first place to leave Loseis; this little doubt tipped the scale. With that doubt of her safety in his mind he recognized that it would be simply impossible for him to go on day after day always putting a greater distance between them. “Oh, to hell with the fur!” he said to himself; and in that moment his mind was made up.

But he had no notion of swallowing Gault’s bait (if such it was) whole. He lit a pipe to stimulate his mental processes, and puffed at it leaning against a tree, and gazing down at the innocent-eyed Indian speculatively. He thought: I shall take you back with me, my man. Tatateecha is a good way from home now, and he’s been over this route many times. He ought to be able to deliver the fur to Gruber. But in any case I’d sooner trust him than you. Whether you like it or not, you shall come back with me.

It seemed important to Conacher not to allow the newcomer to communicate with the other Slavis. Removing the handkerchief from about his neck, he therefore forced the astonished Indian to put his hands around the tree behind him, and firmly bound his wrists together. The captive loudly and plaintively protested; it was clear that things were not turning out in the way that he expected.

Conacher then went down the bank to consult with Tatateecha. None of the Slavis had rolled up for the night. Their faces were perfectly wooden; but the white man sensed a certain strain in the atmosphere. Evidently Tatateecha had told them of the newcomer’s arrival, and it had excited them. As well as he could, Conacher signified to the head man that he was going back to Blackburn’s Post; and that he wanted two of the least tired horses to be caught.

Pointing up to the top of the bank, Tatateecha asked an eager question.

“He goes with me,” said Conacher, illustrating with signs.

He thought he saw a look of relief appear in the Slavi faces. However they volunteered no information. Again he asked Tatateecha the man’s name, and received the same answer: “Saltahta.” Strange creatures! Apparently they knew of no way of dealing with the strong and terrifying white man except to hide as much as possible from them.

Men were sent away to catch the required horses, and Conacher took out pencil and note-book to write his letter to Gruber. He wished to do this in the sight of Tatateecha, knowing what a superstitious reverence all the remoter tribes have for the act of writing. And it was quite true that Tatateecha, out of the corners of his eyes, followed every move of the pencil with a look of uneasy awe. Conacher wrote:

“Hector Blackburn was killed on June 3rd by falling over a cliff
with his horse. Matthew Gault has come to Blackburn’s Post where
he is trying to take advantage of the helpless situation of
Blackburn’s daughter. She has written to you, but supposes that
the letter has not been allowed to go through. We are sending
you the fur in charge of Tatateecha because we have nobody else.
If you get this letter send us help quickly. Send the police if
possible; at any rate send white men. I have promised Tatateecha
a credit of one hundred skins if he places this letter in your
hands.”

“Paul Conacher, Dominion Geological Survey.”

Conacher inclosed this letter in the torn envelope, since he had no other, and offered it to Tatateecha. The Indian received it gingerly and wrapped it in a fold of the gay worsted sash he wore. Conacher explained whom it was for, and told Tatateecha he should receive goods to the value of a hundred skins when it was delivered. To convey the figure, the white man patiently broke up tiny twigs to the required number. Tatateecha’s eyes widened in delighted cupidity. In that moment he could be depended on; the question was, could his feather-head hold to a resolution long enough to carry it through?

The two horses were driven up on top of the bank. The Slavis jeered and pointed at the predicament of the one who called himself Saltahta. If it had been Tatateecha or Conacher himself, they would have done just the same. By Conacher’s orders, they offered to feed the captive, but he refused it. When his horse, which was found tied to a tree near by, was led in, it was discovered that he had plenty of bread and meat tied to his saddle.

Saddle and bridle were transferred to one of the fresher horses, and the man was bidden to mount. His hands were tied behind him; and his feet tied with a loose thong under the horse’s belly. The Slavis yelled in derision, and slapped their thighs. Conacher would have given a good deal to have understood the epithets they bestowed on the prisoner. A leading rein was improvised out of a piece of tracking line. Tying blanket and food to his own saddle, Conacher mounted, and rode off leading the other horse.

For a long time he could hear the laughter of the Slavis. He wondered if they could make any more of the situation than he could, or if their laughter was as meaningless as it sounded. In the hands of these crack-brained savages, he bitterly reflected, rested not only the fate of that fortune in skins, but also the hope of Loseis and him receiving help from the outside world.