CHAPTER XIV
A Fight to the Finish
When Dale Millington reached Whitefish Lake in his second year he felt certain that his campaign against Donald was about to be successfully concluded. Before the ice had gone the next spring he had satisfied himself that Nee-tah-wee-gan would never reveal her secret. For weeks after she had told her story he had hounded her in an effort to learn what bit of proof she depended upon. With that in his possession he would have been safe, but repeated intrigues against the vengeful nature of the old woman had convinced him she would keep silent. Even when the ice had gone and she had fled from his persecution he had no fear.
In other ways Millington felt the gods had been good to him. In Corrigal's order that he watch Collinge he had seen the opportunity to cap this whole plot with a master stroke. As soon as he arrived at Fort Bruce he told the district manager a carefully built-up story and in Corrigal's attitude and expression he had read victory. He was confident his raids on Fort James territory could not be proved against him and that as soon as Donald arrived he would be shifted to another district.
As for Janet, he was content to wait until Donald's case was settled. He believed the Layards were unalterably opposed to her marriage to a man who had been bred in a wigwam and he felt certain that the girl's own interest in Donald had been due largely to sympathy and the dramatic manner in which he had risen to the best post in the district. Millington was satisfied that all this would vanish when Donald had been discredited and sent away.
Further, when Corrigal read the Englishman's reports and discovered that Whitefish Lake had set another high record he did not hide his pleasure in the fact. This gave Millington an added sense of security and his consequent high spirits added to his social facility. He was particularly agreeable to Mrs. Layard and the women of the missions, being careful not to pay noticeable attention to Janet, and before Donald arrived Millington had made himself popular throughout the post.
When the picnic party returned late in the afternoon and the news soon spread that Donald had been removed from Fort James and ordered to report to the commissioner at Winnipeg, Millington smiled his satisfaction. An accountant in the district office had heard Corrigal and Donald in a heated argument and though he did not know what had been said he had been instructed to issue an order to Donald for his salary to date.
"Bachelors' Hall" apparently was deserted when a dozen post managers and apprentice clerks entered it after the picnic, talking of Donald's fate.
"Poor Norton," Nicol MacKar said as he sat down at the long table and filled his pipe. "He came out of a wigwam, pulled himself up by his own efforts and made a success of it. It isn't square that he should have a thing like this happen to him."
"Square!" sneered Millington, who was elated by his victory. "Why not? He's a half-breed, isn't he? And he'd begun to show it. Like an Indian, he went slack when he got somewhere. The business of Fort James had been dropping steadily and Corrigal had to protect himself and his district."
"Donald may have had a half-breed mother but he is all white," MacKar declared warmly. "Corrigal is carrying this pet prejudice of his too far."
"Corrigal has had experience with them before and he knows what he is doing," Millington answered. "You've lived in the north long enough to know the truth of the old saying that it's easy for a white man to become an Indian but impossible for an Indian to become a white man."
"Donald Norton came as near doing the impossible as anyone ever did," Sandy Hay broke into the discussion. "I've known him a long time and he's always been pure white."
Millington laughed. He was sitting on the table, one leg swinging free, and he threw back his head to give expression to his mirth.
"Pure white on top," he said, "but the red's showed through at last."
Suddenly his laugh faded. He saw the group facing him had stiffened and that glances were directed past him to the rear of the hall. He turned to find Donald standing in the door of his bedroom.
"I won't ask you to repeat that, Millington, because I've heard every word you said since you came in."
Donald came forward slowly until he faced the Englishman.
"Nor am I going to ask you to take back what you have said," he continued. "You are a liar and a crook and an apology from you is as worthless as your accusation."
"Don't go too far, Norton!" Millington cried savagely as he stood up.
"I'm going far enough to finish this," Donald retorted, and now anger showed in his voice. "First, I'm going to tell you that I have known for two winters what you have been doing at Whitefish Lake and that at last I got the proof. I was going to show you up for the sneak you are but I won't now. You needn't fear me on that score.
"As for my being white, I have always believed that I am a white man and until to-day I have been proud that I felt so. But if being white means that I have to be so cruel and unreasonable and unjust as Corrigal, or as cowardly as you, I'm glad I'm not. I would rather be classed with any half-breed I ever saw than with a blackguard like you."
Millington's face had become white, first with fear of what might happen to his plans and then with rage. But he was three inches taller than Donald and at least twenty pounds heavier and he did not doubt for a moment but that he could crush his adversary.
"You dirty Indian dog!" he cried furiously.
Donald sprang across the ten feet between them, but the post managers and apprentice clerks closed in. Donald fought like a trapped wolf, but weight and numbers were too much for him.
"Let me go!" he cried. "You haven't any right to stop me. He's driven me out of the service and he's got to pay for it. Let me go!"
"Easy, lad," Nicol MacKar whispered. "There's no use in getting nasty."
In a frenzy Donald wrenched himself free.
"No use!" he shouted. "I'm through with you all. White! By God, if you men are white I'm glad I'm not! I've been a fool for years making myself believe I was, trying to be one of you because I thought you were square and decent. And as for Millington——!"
He charged again and one fist reached the Englishman's face before the crowd closed in. The men bore him back, struggling and snarling. Millington, beside himself with anger, sprang forward to attack his helpless adversary.
"Here!" Sandy Hay bellowed as he locked his arms around him. "None of that!"
"Let me at him!" Millington cried as he fought to free himself.
But Sandy, huge and with a clever hold, restrained him.
"Look here, Nicol," he called. "These two are bound to have it out. Let's let 'em do it—but not here."
"That's right," MacKar agreed. "There's that spot over at the edge of the clearing where we'll be to ourselves. Get the gloves, one of you lads, and bring water and some towels."
The apprentice clerks sprang to obey his orders and the post managers, quick to get the idea, began to convey to the infuriated pair that they would be allowed to fight it out to a finish. Donald immediately regained his self-possession.
"All right," he said as his muscles relaxed, "all I want is an even chance."
Merton Layard entered the door at that moment but no one heeded him. Layard had just heard of Corrigal's action and had hurried to "Bachelors' Hall" to see Donald. One glance at Millington and he knew what had happened.
"Will you be in my corner, Sandy?" Millington asked. Hay nodded curt assent.
"I'll be in yours, lad," Nicol MacKar said to Donald.
"I don't want you," Donald retorted. "I'll get a half-breed."
He started toward the door but Merton stopped him.
"Look here," he whispered. "I don't know what's happened but don't be foolish. I'll be your second."
Donald glanced at him angrily. That afternoon he had turned against the whole cruel, unjust race of which he felt himself to be a victim and now in the rage which dominated him he forgot even the years in which he had looked upon Merton Layard almost as a father.
"You don't want to soil your hands on a half-breed," he answered bitterly.
"Donald! Get hold of yourself. Be fair. You know I've never held that against you."
Donald's mind turned instantly to that afternoon a year before when he had gone to talk to Evelyn. He believed Layard must have been aware of it and yet he had never said anything to indicate that his own stand was different. But as he was about to flare out with a reminder of the change in the Layard attitude he realized that to do so would bring Janet's name into the matter.
"All right," he said dully as he turned away, "do as you wish."
The men scattered and walked across the clearing in small groups. A number of half-breed children from the employes' quarters saw them and followed, only to be driven back. When the two principals, their seconds and the post managers and apprentice clerks were gathered they had the small, secluded opening in the spruce to themselves.
"Regular three-minute rounds with minute rests?" Sandy asked as he walked up to Donald and Merton, who stood alone.
Donald nodded and unbuttoned his shirt.
"All right," Sandy said. "Nicol will hold the watch."
Donald stripped to the waist and held out his hands while the gloves were laced on.
"He's a lot bigger, lad," Merton whispered. "Be careful."
Donald made no comment and Merton glanced up at his face, expecting to see signs of uneasiness. Instead he found himself looking into eyes that made him shiver. He said nothing more as he completed the arrangements.
"Ready?" Nicol asked.
Donald nodded and stepped forward to face Millington.
"Go!" came the signal.
Despite his superior weight and height, Millington was no match for the boxing skill Donald had acquired in his six years with Philip Collinge at Whitefish Lake. The Englishman rushed time and again, as if to smother his smaller adversary with swinging blows and sheer force, but not once did he land effectively.
Donald, suddenly cool, never forgetting the plan he had formed as he walked across the clearing, ducked, side-stepped, leaped lightly in and away again, and all the time—smash—smash—smash—with the regularity of a machine, his gloved fists shot out and found their mark. Before the first round was over Millington's face had been cut open in two places, one eye was nearly closed and blood was streaming from his nose.
But Millington was not injured. Rather, the light, slashing blows had aroused him and had given him the impression that Donald could not hit harder. The minute's rest sent him back fresh and determined to land one of his crushing swings.
In the second round Donald contented himself with pecking away at the closed eye and puffed nose. Stung to fury, Millington rushed like a bull, swinging his long arms in a shower of aimless blows that left him wide open to Donald's unerring straight-arm jabs. The Englishman was young and strong and in good condition and he was willing to stake everything on winning with one effective punch.
But when he failed, when Donald danced away or darted inside the terrific swings to stab at the closed eye, Millington's rage and exasperation carried him to further lengths. He suddenly set himself and his right fist shot out straight from the waist.
"Rotten!" several men shouted at once. "Foul!" "A dirty trick!"
They closed in suddenly as if expecting Donald would wilt from the effects of the blow but only a few had seen him twist. Millington's glove had glanced from a hip. Then MacKar shouted, "Time!"
Donald immediately turned away but Millington did not stop. He sprang forward, swinging for Donald's head from behind. Merton shouted a warning and Donald ducked. The next moment Sandy Hay had grasped his principal from behind.
"Fight fair or I quit you!" the angry Scotchman shouted. "Do that again and you'll have to fight me when this is over."
He led Millington back to his corner and though he washed the blood from his face and body he did it roughly and with disgust.
Until now Donald had not spoken. Millington had cursed and roared as he rushed but when the third round began Donald went forward with a sneer.
"White!" he exclaimed as his left caught the battered nose again. "You white! If you are I'm glad I'm not."
He feinted, danced back and then sprang in and jabbed Millington on his closed eye.
"I may not be white but you're not either!" he jeered. "You're yellow. Inside and out. A dirty yellow. You're crooked. A sneak. You're a yellow dog. No Indian would let you hang around his camp."
With each remark a glove shot home, until Millington's face was raw and the blood streamed down his chest. Yet not once did Donald touch his opponent's left eye. It was still open. The man could see, could continue his bull-like rushes.
Then Millington began to curse. Donald's taunts drove him to a frenzy and he used all the vile names spawned in the London slums. The smile with which Donald had begun the round vanished. With each insult a glove smacked against Millington's mouth until his lips were puffed and blood streamed from them.
When the round was half over Donald suddenly ceased dancing away. He met a rush with both feet planted firmly and for the first time he left Millington's face alone. With infighting of the sort that is deadly in its effectiveness he shot blow after blow into Millington's ribs.
For a moment they stood there, swapping punches with complete abandon, and then like lightning Donald sprang away and back again. His right shot straight from the shoulder and cut Millington's left eyebrow from end to end.
Blood streamed into the Englishman's one good eye and blinded him. The attack on his body had already sapped his strength and he stood there, swaying unsteadily, his arms half raised.
Donald studied him coolly, carefully measuring the distance. Slowly he poised himself and then Millington, as if sensing what was coming, covered his head with his arms and cowered away.
"Let him have it!" several men shouted. "Finish him off!"
Donald stared at Millington. He had planned that final blow. Everything else had been preliminary, carefully gauged. He had saved his strength, had tested out his man, and he knew an uppercut to an unprotected jaw would furnish a glorious, satisfying end.
But as Millington stood there, swaying, whimpering and cringing, Donald's hands dropped to his side.
"White!" he exclaimed with utter contempt and turned away.