A LAND OF HIDDEN TREASURE
The voices of the bush sang a changed song during my night walk. The moon came out over the ridges and lit up the flagstaff, and faintly illumined the thread of smoke ascending from the single stove-pipe chimney of the Fort.
I walked across the furrowed fire-break, where a few pink briars lingered, and opened the door of the low, whitewashed building, with the lack of ceremony to which I had always been accustomed.
MacCaskill sat at his table, making entries in a big ledger. He looked up morosely, nodded, and his big head went again over his writing.
“Three gallons fish-oil,” he muttered, speaking each word as he set it down, “at one blanket, value four, seventy-five. Profits ain’t what they was when furs were plentiful. Well, what’s the latest racket?”
I came over to his side and opened the sheet of paper upon the table, smoothing the ragged edges with my flat hand.
The factor’s face changed, and he stopped drawing in his smoke, but looked up from the table and scanned me narrowly.
“Which goes to say,” he said in a deep voice, “that you and Redpath have been havin’ a match, and you’ve come in Number One.”
“Not a word has passed between us,” I said.
“Give me deeds every time,” muttered MacCaskill.
He brought his head nearer the table, and I waited for his next word. “Bonanza” was that word; and then a silence came between us, until the factor left his seat, and stood upright against the stove.
“What does it mean?” I exclaimed.
MacCaskill drew a sulphur match along the top of the stove, and let it splutter and burn until the flame touched his fingers. Then he dropped it unused.
“You’re twenty-one, and I’m sixty-five. You’re fresh, and I’m spoilt. You’ve got everything before you, and all mine’s ’way behind. There’s that difference between us.” Then he burst out: “I don’t know that a man can get too old for this one thing. I’ve had a bad, lonely, useless life.” He struck another match violently, flung it away, as though he tried to throw off his weight of years. “Darn me if I don’t begin all over again!” He came to me, his great face agitated. “Redpath asked you to be his pard, did he? You’ve broke with him to-night; and if you want another pard, he’s right here before you. Is it a go?”
He gave me his strong hand, and I knew that I had won a friend.
Then he spoke to me regarding Bonanza, the place of gold, my father’s secret, while I told him of my meeting with Redpath, and of the punishment I had given him.
“For a woman!” the factor said grimly. “Wait till you know the world, and you’ll find that the woman comes in everywhere. Watch out when you’re walkin’ lone in the bush, and fasten your door nights. Redpath won’t forget that knock-down; and mind, you’re standin’ in his way all the time.”
I asked him what he thought of Olaffson, and he answered with scorn:
“Just a crooked tool. He’d stick a knife into his brother if there was anything comin’ to him for the job.”
The factor reached for his straw bonnet, and announced his intention of going down to the encampment.
“I must get one of the boys to start first thing in the morning, to take a message along to Fort Determination. I want someone to take my place here right away,” he explained. “Redpath’ll have to wait for the Lac Seul. We’ll go by canoe, and get ahead of him at the start.”
We had not left the sparkling river, after visiting the native encampment, when MacCaskill asked abruptly:
“Anything else in that chest of your ole father’s, Rupe? Always been thinkin’ of it when you weren’t handy?”
What a fool I had been! I had completely forgotten that packet of letters, after I had taken and hidden them in a box under the floor. My companion proposed that he should come at once and examine them, so we turned off into the bush, where the dew showed like points of light, and on to my homestead, which was dark and silent, for Antoine was already asleep. Entering, I closed the door, and after lighting the lamp I dug out the box, and handed its contents over to MacCaskill.
One by one he glanced them through, and pronounced them for the most part unimportant.
“No use worryin’ out old man’s back life,” he said. “Most o’ these are from his gal, your mother, addressed to him at Seymour Place, Hyde Park, London, England. A copy of his marriage certificate. Another of your baptism. Better keep that. You don’t know what it means, but you will one time, maybe, if you strike a missionary. Now, here’s something a bit different: ‘Your sincere friend, Francis Redpath’; headed, ‘Forsyth Mansions, Victoria Street.’ P’r’aps that is London again. Golden Jerusalem! He’s promising to be your father’s best man; postscript, ‘Anything from J. F.?’”
MacCaskill’s busy fingers pulled out another letter, and, as he read, he fell into indistinctness. At last his hands dropped.
“Shall I tell you, lad, or shall I just say it’s bad and burn it, and leave you to guess?”
“Tell me,” I said, as anyone else would have done.
The factor picked up the letter, and read:
“‘It is common knowledge that you killed Joe Fagge that night, and there will be as little mercy for you as you showed to that poor old devil, when you are taken. You have deceived and ruined me, and though you are at present out of my reach, you must know, my good Petrie, that I shall find you, if I hunt long enough. I have set my mind upon having the old man’s secret, and I shall have it. If you try to withhold it from me, I am afraid I shall have to kill you. Remember me. I don’t give up a search, if I fail twenty times.’”
The factor folded up the sheet.
“That’s enough,” he said. “No address. I guess it was brought to ole Petrie by someone who wouldn’t give his hiding-place away. Now we know why he wasted his life away here. I thought maybe ’twas something like it, and Redpath’s got here, as he said he would, though he didn’t get in until old man had his notice to quit.”
His words came booming at my ears.
“Father was never a murderer,” I said.
“I knew old man, and now I know Redpath. If I was asked to pick out the murderer, I wouldn’t stop to choose. Now here’s something else. Golden gates! Listen, Rupe. Listen to this.”
He read out slowly:
“‘The true statement of James Petrie.’ That’s your father, lad. That’s old man. And this is gospel, for he never wanted it to be read while he was alive. Listen to this, I tell ye.”
I was listening with both my ears, while the night quivered and murmured around my home. MacCaskill began to read:
“‘It was late in the fall of 1874 when Joe Fagge made his accidental discovery of Bonanza. He was accompanied only by the half-breed Leblanc, who was in camp when the old man made the great find of the hole, and who was kept in ignorance, I imagine, of the whole thing. As it was too late to do anything until the next season, Fagge returned south, and settled to winter in Portage la Prairie, where he came against Redpath, who at the time was speculating in land, and, as usual, doing no good. Both he and I knew Fagge well enough, and we had often received from him useful hints regarding promising localities for gold-finding.
“‘The old man was the cleverest, and most eccentric, miner in the whole north-west; but in that winter of 1874 his brain began to fail, and when given a little liquor he could be brought to talk about his one great discovery. Redpath knew his weakness, and kept close to the old man to hinder him from giving away the secret to others; but Joe had a violent dislike for Redpath, and refused to give him any details as to the bearings of Bonanza.
“‘I had just returned to the west, as my young wife had died shortly after Rupert’s birth. I had spent all my money again, and came out to find another good digging along the gold line. Redpath sent for me from Portage la Prairie, but when I got up, Joe Fagge was little better than a madman. I kept with him, and chained him up, metaphorically speaking; but it was tough work looking after him and my little Rupert, babies both, for the old man was always crying for liquor. Redpath and I had quarrelled pretty badly just before—not for the first time. His cynicism was intolerable. I had not been what one would call a particularly straight man myself, and I knew he wasn’t much better than a scoundrel; but on the “honour among thieves” principle we hung together, and I trusted him part of the way.’”
MacCaskill turned over the leaf, and read on, his face hidden. My eyes looked over him, and rested upon the window.
“‘Joe improved a lot as the winter went out, and finally he consented to take me to Bonanza, although he would not hear of Redpath accompanying us. The break-up came early that year, and we were able to start in April. We hired a boat, but it pinched to find the money—miners are poor in the spring—and set out from Selkirk, getting safely out of the river, and away, though we found a lot of loose ice floating about the lake. Our crew consisted of Joe, Leblanc, a couple of nitchies, and myself. A boat which followed ours held Redpath and his man Olaffson. I had arranged with him to wait off the coast, until the old man had told me all he knew. I marked the course carefully as we came along, and set it down in writing; but it was plain sailing until we came under the coast, where Joe had forgotten a good deal, and we had to try a lot of places before he could recognise the shape of the beach. Leblanc, a half-breed of the worst class, was of no use. On the previous occasion they had come overland to the shore, and then worked back. The key of the discovery lay in the finding of a tunnel out of a canyon, which we called the Canyon of the North Wind, taking us through cliffs of a perfectly inaccessible nature. This pass the old man had named Mosquito Hole, and this is the name I have given it upon my map....’”
MacCaskill pushed himself back. My attention had been led astray, and the closing sentences of my father’s narrative had been lost upon me.
“The other half of the sheet’s torn away,” said the factor morosely. “Just as we were comin’ to the excitement. Old man must have thought better of it. Maybe he tore it by accident. There’s no more yarn, anyhow.”
“Don’t move,” I said softly. “There’s trouble. I have seen a face against the window.”
MacCaskill suddenly pulled a quick breath, then, throwing his body forward, burst into a hearty shout of laughter.
“Seen anything?” he muttered, after a pause.
“A shadow passed. The moon’s bright.”
“And Redpath’s worryin’ over the knock-down you gave him.”
The factor gave another loud laugh, then, getting up, pulled the blanket, which did duty for a blind, across the window. When we were concealed he turned and snatched up my late father’s old gun, while I caught at and loaded mine.
“We can step out by the window at the back,” I said.
“Leave the lamp burnin’. That’ll fool ’em.”
Passing into the kitchen, we shook up Antoine, who slept in his clothes. I carefully pushed aside the mosquito netting, and climbed through the window, which lay in darkness, for the shadow of the house fell that way, and a bluff of small pines grew right back to the wall. My companions followed, and we glided among the trees, climbed the snake fence, and entered the scrub, with the idea of working round, to watch from the bush what might be taking place in front of the house. I led the way, because I knew every inch of the ground, and MacCaskill followed, breathing like an ox, and Antoine came sleepily third. I had just reckoned that another twenty paces would bring us clear of the scrub, when I smelt smoke, and through the trees came a quick flash without noise, and the unmistakable odour of gunpowder. The factor gave a hard snort of rage, and Antoine muttered heavily, “Burn! Burn!”
“That’s powder out of their cartridges,” said MacCaskill. “Bet you they’re watchin’ that door, and think we’re trapped.”
Some rocks were scattered outside the bush, and behind one of these we took up our stand; a volume of smoke rolled over the ground, and when it had passed I saw a series of flames darting up and out suddenly. My home, the little log shanty that my father had made for a refuge, was burning, and it was useless to think of trying to save it. The loss of the shanty was in itself a small matter, because another equally good could be run up in a day, with the aid of my Indian friends; my few possessions were of very trivial value; but associations cling about a building, be it only a bush hut, when it has always been one’s home. I felt, for the second time that day, the hot, unreasoning strength coming over me from head to foot, and I rested my gun upon the shoulder of the rock when I saw a tall figure standing beside the door, leaning forward, and waiting, hoping for revenge.
“Don’t do it, Rupe,” said the deep voice behind me. “That sort of thing leaves a bad taste all a man’s life. Meet a rascal to his face, and knock hell into him, but don’t skunk behind a rock and pump lead his way, like he was a jack-rabbit.”
“Are we going to stand here?” I said, in a voice unlike my own.
“We’ll watch ’em away. You can’t save the shanty, boy, and if we go out you’ll make at Redpath. I’ll have to take on Olaffson for sympathy, and there’ll be a lot of trouble. You’ve got well out of this, and you don’t want to spoil the game now.”
The logs of my late home were cracking and splitting under the fire. Antoine was more philosophic than I, and accepted the inevitable with his customary indifference. The flames wrapped round the shanty, and the dry thatch roared, putting out the light of the moon. Then the roof smashed down, with an upburst of fireworks, and the two dark figures, the tall and the short, came together, and sneaked away, with backward glances.
My arms twitched again, and I must have made a threatening movement, because a great hairy hand seized the barrel of my gun. The figures became swallowed up, and we three were alone again.
“Say, Rupe”—MacCaskill moved back a pace, and put out his two thick arms—“I’m sixty-five, and I guess Redpath’s the wrong side o’ fifty. How should we go? If we stood together, wi’ our sleeves up, and wi’ tight waists, how would we go, eh?”
“It would be bad for Redpath,” I growled, and Antoine grunted his assent.
We three went back to the Fort. In the morning came Akshelah to tell me that a canoe belonging to the chief had been stolen during the night. Aided by a fresh north wind, which sprang up with the dawn, Redpath and Olaffson had made good their escape. At the time my maid spoke, the incendiaries would have been well away upon Lake Whispering.