Bonanza

The men of all nations occupied the station of Gull, a summer camp upon an island bearing the same name, but the majority were Norwegians and half-breeds, with a sprinkling of natives, the latter a degraded and treacherous set, resembling my own Indians about as nearly as a red lily resembles a choke-weed.

Some hotels stood upon the island, making their profits by the saloon, where some four hundred men weekly liquidated their pay. The “shelters” were all upon the island, which a shingle beach half a mile wide connected with the mainland, and along this beach curved a railway, which conveyed the prepared lumber down to the wharf of Gull Harbour, where it was shipped into scows. The saw-mills were stationed along the main beach, and here the chimneys sent out their smoke, and the buzz-saws whirled seven days to the week, because the season was short.

The Lac Seul of the Hudson Bay Company had carried MacCaskill and myself as far as Waterhen, and we had made the portage of fifty-seven miles from that point to the shores of Lake Peace on foot. I was frightened at the sight of so many faces, and bewildered by the noise and devilry of the camp; but my companion fortunately knew where to go, and I followed him closely, as though I had been his dog.

We put up at the Tecumseh House, and the factor took me about to accustom me to the novelty of my environment. In winter this settlement would be heaped up with snow and icebergs, and the only inhabitants would be a few Norwegians, left to look after the machinery, with sufficient supplies to last them until the following May. There were no women in the lumber camp, only men, and a bad crowd of them, according to the factor.

I could not sleep in the Tecumseh House because of the all-night noise of the card-players, and the shouts and threats of drunkards, and at last I gave up the attempt. It was quite dark, although near morning, when I rose and dressed, and was about to leave the room when MacCaskill came to comprehend what I was doing. I explained that I could not sleep, and had made up my mind to go out and walk into the forest, that I might feel myself at home again.

“Watch yourself,” he grunted sleepily. “It’s a bad crowd hereabouts. If any feller speaks to ye awkward, ask him what he wants after you’ve knocked him down.”

The hotel door stood wide open night or day, the entrance only guarded by a wire mosquito frame. All about the hall were men, either lying in chairs or sprawling upon the floor, in various stages of sleep, and all fully dressed.

It was an unusually cold morning considering the season. A heavy vapour hung upon the east to proclaim the nearness of the dawn. The air was wringing with moisture; but when I reached the track my ears became gladdened by the pleasant booming of the water along the shore. Before me a few shadowy trees dripped and shivered. I shivered myself at the miserable prospect, and, for very loneliness, stopped to light my pipe, longing all the time for my little home above Yellow Sands.

It was only natural that I should desire to reach the solitude which life and custom had made me love, and I felt relieved when the last shelter had been left behind, and I felt myself alone on the neck of shingle between wind and water. Suddenly my foot went from under me, and I discovered that I had slipped upon an iron rail. I had forgotten the railway track which carried the lumber from the main beach, until I saw a red eye peering through the mist, and in the interval the metals gleaming in the cold half-light, with beyond some low black cars, all dripping with moisture, like silent monsters that had crawled there from the lake to sleep.

I walked on, and had reached the side of these open cars, when I became startled by a shadow which rose overhead, and I made out a brown-bearded face, crowned by a ragged, wet straw bonnet, the chin resting upon two filthy hands clutching the top of the car.

“Mornin’, stranger!” called this apparition.

The man was well out of my reach. So far as I could judge, from the lack of light and the little I saw of him, he was dressed in the discoloured canvas which I had already learnt was the costume of the sailors upon the inland sea of Lake Peace. I replied very shortly to his salutation, and was for passing on, when the tenant of the car shifted, and said:

“Gimme a match!”

An unmistakable rustling reached my ears, and I said as boldly as I could:

“That’s straw you’re lying on.”

“Jest a bunch, an’ leetle enough for sich a night,” grumbled the man, beating his cold hands together. “I’m ’most fruze. If I was to make a move, sudden-like, I’d have some of me bones snap. You’re around early, stranger, or late, maybe. Ben playin’ poker?”

I made a step away.

“Gimme a match, jest to start me bit o’ plug. It’s lonesome fixed here without a pard. Here’s half a pipe-load, an’ it’ll smoke good. Don’t ye be scared of a blaze this wet mornin’.”

Somehow I did not intend to yield to his pleading, and went on my way, whereupon the sailor changed his tactics, and shouted:

“You’re the mean pard of the white-face Icelander skunk what went by jest now. He swore at me when I spoke him perlite, ‘Gimme a match, pard,’ and I swore at him back. You’re a pair of loose cat-fish!”

I did not know at the time that the phrase, “a loose cat-fish,” signified upon Lake Peace a man’s supreme contempt for an adversary; I only observed the phrase, “a white-face Icelander,” and that was enough to stop me. We had heard nothing of Redpath or his accomplice, although MacCaskill was confident that they must have proceeded to Gull Island, which was the nearest point in communication with our common destination.

“Which way did he go?” I said, turning back.

The sailor rubbed the moisture from his heavy eyebrows.

“We’re startin’ to shout!” he said, with a husky laugh. “Gimme a match.”

I took a few sulphur matches from my pocket, and passed them into the grimy hand.

“Me mem’ry’s sorter wakin’,” went on the sailor cheerfully, “but a dollar bill would live it along surprisin’.”

I saw that I was being made a fool of, so I said sharply:

“Are you going to tell me which way the Icelander went?”

“Not unless you show silver,” said the sailor, pulling a match along his leg. “We can’t work for nothin’ in hard times.”

“I haven’t got a cent on me,” I said, and it was the truth. I might also have added, with equal truth, that I had never owned a cent of cash in my life.

“He’s only jest got by,” the man said temptingly. “When I heard ye, I thought ’twas him a-comin’ back to apologise, an’ a-beggin’ me acceptance of a paper o’ matches.”

I had played enough poker at home with my father and MacCaskill to have acquired the first principles of bluff. Had I not already succeeded with Redpath?

“I guess he went this way,” I said, moving off in the direction of the mainland.

“You’ll get left,” said the sailor, puffing contentedly. “See here, stranger! Yer pard’s gone along inter the town. That’s truth, for givin’ me the matches.”

I swung round, and went on the way I had intended, leaving the sailor cursing in the car.

Light began to prevail over the shadows as I approached the mainland beach, where great piles of prepared lumber for the markets of the world awaited shipment. Above and around, thousands of those white birds which had named the neighbourhood filled the air with the noise of their wings and their screams. It was difficult to make rapid progress, because the shingle was littered with logs, and the light was shifting and uncertain. The saw-mills took shape before me, and the half-wrecked forest gaped behind. Then a short figure began to dodge about a sheltered angle made by the wall of the nearest machine-shed, and I felt sure I had recognised my man. Coming up as quickly as I could, I thought for the moment that the rascal was trying to set fire to the shed, but when I was almost up, I encountered the stiff breeze from the lake, and understood that he was getting a light for his pipe. He was bending his back towards me; a tiny red flame shot up, and a cloud of smoke followed. The next instant I was behind him, cutting off the only way of retreat, and, while his head was still down, I called “Olaffson!”

The pipe was dashed against the corner of the shed, and fell to the shingle. An exclamation of dismay followed, not from his lips, but from mine. Before me was not the white face of Olaffson, but the dark, heavy countenance of a half-breed whom I had never seen before. I hurriedly concluded that this stranger knew Olaffson, had possibly just parted from him, the Icelander returning to the settlement, as the sailor had said, and this man coming on to the mills.

“I made sure you were Olaffson,” I said coolly, as the half-breed bent to reclaim his pipe. “Has he gone back to the camp?”

The man looked at me stupidly.

“What d’yer want wi’ Olaffson?” he muttered at last.

“I just want to know how far you are in with him and Redpath.”

The half-breed shifted, and avoided my gaze.

“Redpath ain’t here,” he growled.

I began to be delighted with myself, and went on with increased confidence:

“I know where he is.” This shot had no effect, but I remembered the Icelander’s character, and suggested meaningly: “You’re in with Olaffson against Redpath.”

The half-breed again moved awkwardly, and growled:

“That ain’t so.”

“I know Olaffson,” I said.

Possibly these simple words contained a meaning beyond my understanding. The man glanced towards me wildly, then dropped his eyes, and kicked sullenly at the wooden scantling, his face wearing that grey pallor which betokens fear in a half-black.

“And I guess you know me,” I went on. “My name is Petrie.”

That beat him. He turned shivering, and edged away, his face ghastly.

“Lemme go,” he whined. “I never done it. You can’t bring it up agin me. I tell ye I didn’t have a hand in it. Lemme go, sir.”

Mentally blindfolded, I fumbled for the truth.

“Don’t you tell me you haven’t seen Olaffson this morning,” I said.

“He’s on the island,” admitted the breed. “I saw him las’ night.”

“And Redpath, too.”

But the man gave a strong denial. He declared he had not set eyes upon the English adventurer for years, and I was constrained to believe him, because I could see that he was terribly afraid of Redpath.

“What’s your name?” I said sharply.

Success had made me too bold. The question displayed the weakness of my hand, and dull as the man might be, he was quick enough to see the blunder. He stared at me in his owlish fashion, and muttered hopefully:

“You ain’t Petrie.”

“I guess so,” I said, feeling myself weaken.

“Let me out er this,” said the half-breed roughly.

He pushed by me with contempt, and I was too crestfallen to oppose him. In any case I could not have used force, because the day had broken, and men were already coming along the neck connecting Gull with the mainland. The breed slouched away towards the saw-mills, and I walked back to Tecumseh House, where I found MacCaskill starting his breakfast. When I had reported, he said:

“A half-breed, eh? I’ll go one better, and put a name to him. Don’t ye mind old man’s statement? That feller’s name will be Leblanc, the ‘half-breed of the worst class.’”

Directly the factor spoke I remembered, but the chance had passed.

All day we kept to ourselves, considering our plans; but after dark the factor impressed upon me the necessity of mixing with the crowd, as otherwise the inhabitants of Gull might conceive the idea that we imagined ourselves superior to them, and that is the way which leads to unpopularity.

To me this summer camp, with its stores and saloons, was a great, bustling centre of life, and I thought myself quite one of the world’s citizens; but when I asked my partner if Gull at all resembled the town of London, where I had first seen the light, he doubled up with laughter.

“Why, Rupe, this is only a bit of a lumber camp. You should see London, Ontario, me boy, where things do keep on the buzz. And they say that London, Ontario, ain’t in the same gang of flies wi’ London, England.”

Suddenly the lamp-lighted night-dens began to disgorge their occupants; and when everyone set their faces towards Gull Harbour, the factor stopped a flaxen-haired Swede, and asked him the reason of the excitement. He returned to me with the information that the steamship Carillon was just drawing into harbour, while the residents were turning out to put themselves into communication, so far as they might, with the outer world.

“She’s the boat we’re going by,” said my partner.

We joined the rough-voiced crowd of all nations, and came to the round, slippery logs that made the landing-stage.

To me the scene resembled a vivid dream rather than any picture of human activity. The big ship moved in slowly, her lights flickering, and presently the ropes, like lithe brown snakes, sped uncoiling through the air. Everything was silvered with wet, because clouds of spray swept continually over the wharf, and the wind freshened even while we waited. Hanging to the rough poles, above the waves that were breaking and creaming over the stones, a few greasy lanterns swayed; and in the conflict of lights hundreds of gulls circled, screamed wildly, and dropped upon the water like huge snowflakes, or wheeled away into the outer darkness. Behind the settlement tiers of black rock went up, backed by ascending terraces of sweeping trees of soft wood, right away to the dark-blue sky-line; and between, where the waves were flung upon the crags, I saw innumerable points of light lit by the fireflies, darting, going out, and starting again into light. The gangways ran out, and the canvas-clad sailors were quickly at work, rolling provision barrels over the greasy logs to an accompaniment of shouts and dialect chatter. A few bundles of newspapers were dispersed, and here and there an eager group had formed to discuss the news of the world by aid of one of the lanterns.

Presently a voice shouted close beside us:

“Watch yerselves, boys, here’s the mission-airy!”

“What’s that?” MacCaskill called, pushing forward, while I followed, unwilling to be left.

“Father Lacombe, of Three Points,” said one of the sailors, flinging a barrel up on end, and spitting on his hands before clutching another.

While he spoke I caught sight of the large, black figure of the first priest I had ever seen, stepping carefully over the logs. He was wearing a hard felt hat, and his cassock was fastened up behind by means of a safety-pin; I caught the glint of this tiny article as the priest walked away towards the settlement of Gull.

“Three Points Mission. That’s across Peace,” said MacCaskill, turning to me. “P’r’aps he’ll cross wi’ us.”

Father Lacombe walked away leisurely, his valise tucked under his arm, his cape flapping in the strong breeze, and when darkness had closed after him the crowd began to jeer.