CHAPTER XIX
Against Great Odds
Two days after his interview with Janet, Donald disappeared from Fort Bruce. He went in the night and it was thirty-six hours before his absence was discovered. Immediately the tension in the Hudson's Bay increased. Corrigal rushed his post managers back to their stations and each man was resolved to fight.
Yet the old spirit of battle of the Hudson's Bay was lacking. That spirit had always been arrogant, confident, sometimes supercilious, and often it had carried the great company to victory through the sheer belief of its servants that Hudson's Bay was unconquerable.
Now there was a new attitude. It was not alone that the Keewatin Company had made serious inroads at three posts. It was no longer the whirlwind campaign Donald had waged or his recognized ability as a fur man. It was not the unexpected that was feared in the coming winter. Rather it was the spirit that Donald himself had introduced into the fight for pelts.
Men's minds persisted in going back to the battle with Millington, to the charges that Nee-tah-wee-gan had screamed across the great enclosure, to Corrigal's grim silence, to the Layards' reticence and to the lonely figure in the new buildings down the shore. This last perhaps more than anything else influenced them. There was something ominous in Donald's intensity, in his silence and in his long hours of toil, but still more in what they believed was seething within his brain.
For no one doubted but that Donald's attack was actuated solely by hatred of Corrigal and a desire for revenge. They pictured the first as bitter and all-consuming, the second as a blazing, implacable, driving force of such intensity that even the mighty Hudson's Bay would feel its impact. There was something sinister in it, something unreal, and the very fact that each man sympathized with Donald, although perhaps unconsciously, heightened the impression.
No one knew whether this aspect of the situation affected Corrigal. Though his men found him more approachable, none accused him of seeking favor in his last resort. His back was to the wall—for no district manager survives two unsuccessful years—and yet he seemed to look forward to the winter with eagerness.
"He's fooled us," said Nicol MacKar the night before his departure. "He's made us think he cares about nothing except the company and it's the fight that gets him. He's been a different man since this happened."
"He made me think of a horse going to the post in the Derby when I talked to him this afternoon," said Harry Milner. "Why, the old chap was actually champing his bit and rearing on his hind legs. I fancy he's a regular sport after all and likes a little competition."
"Yes, and maybe it's something else," Sandy Hay declared. "Who is the one person a man can take a licking from and smile?"
"What do you mean?" Nicol demanded.
"Only that the old hag, Nee-tah-wee-gan, told the truth a year ago."
"Corrigal never did deny it," suggested Milner.
"Nor has Donald ever boasted of it," Sandy added. "There's blood in this fight, lads, and it's Nicol and Millington and me that are going to get spattered."
Before the lakes and rivers froze over that fall John Corrigal left Fort Bruce. Special messengers traveling in fast canoes had brought the news he expected. Donald had not extended his activities. He had not built new posts but would concentrate on Whitefish Lake, Fort James and Kenogami, the three places with which he was thoroughly familiar. Accordingly Corrigal had departed at once to be on the firing line at the beginning of the winter.
At Whitefish Lake he found that Donald had shifted Philip Collinge to Fort James and that a French Canadian, Joe Barrere, had taken his place.
"I don't understand that," Corrigal pondered. "Millington had Collinge thoroughly licked here at Whitefish."
"Yes, and Norton has always licked Millington," MacKar answered. "This winter he'll do it again. It's at Fort James that you can look for trouble. Donald has more than one iron in the fire."
"You mean he hates Millington as well as me?"
"I don't know as Donald hates him exactly. A man doesn't hate a snake, still he gets a strange sort of pleasure out of killing one."
Nicol apparently had ignored Corrigal's first reference to the personal relations between the district manager and Donald, but he watched closely to see what effect his statement had.
"I imagine he classes me with Millington," Corrigal said.
"I'm not in the lad's confidence. I haven't seen him since the day of that fight at Fort Bruce. He set himself up against the whole white race then."
"That's the Indian in him," insisted Corrigal.
"Maybe, but the Indian or something else, you couldn't blame him. I'd have run amuck myself," declared Nicol.
"You mean that he didn't have a square deal?"
"Do you think he did?"
Nicol had been in the service as long as Corrigal and he was thoroughly of the old school. He had no fear of the district manager and he waited calmly for what he believed would be an outburst. But apparently Corrigal was unruffled.
"I'd do the same thing again," he said quietly. "I believe I was right. Was Norton here this fall?"
"Yes, for a week. Then he went on to Fort James."
"Suppose he won a lot of hunters?"
"I don't know whether it was Donald or the Frenchman. Barrere is an uncanny brute. He doesn't seem to do much. For a time when the hunters were outfitting I couldn't see that he did anything but sit in the sun and tell them stories. He can talk Ojibwa better than I can talk English and he had the whole band laughing."
"I suppose he talked those hunters into taking 'debt' from him?"
"He did and I don't know how he did it. I was talking to them myself all the time and I thought I'd lined up about all we lost last winter. But he got them and a few more."
Corrigal went on to Fort James. Millington had glowing reports—so glowing the district manager spent a day going over the books to verify them. They showed that the Hudson's Bay was regaining lost ground. When Corrigal learned that Donald had gone to Kenogami he hurried there, finishing the long journey on the new ice. He found Sandy Hay in much the same plight as Nicol MacKar.
"You've got to face the situation," Sandy declared after his discouraging report. "When it comes to straight trading, Norton's got us licked. He knows every hunter at the three posts and they know him and believe in him. They'll trust him in anything. The only move that will win is to boost prices for fur."
This was the unfailing weapon of the Hudson's Bay. More than one free trader, limited in the scope of his operations by slight capital, had fallen before the vast resources of the great company. In a way it was an acknowledgment of defeat, this swinging of the heavy bludgeon, and Sandy had expected that his suggestion would arouse Corrigal's anger. But the district manager continued to stare out of the window.
"Norton has gained such headway," he said at last, "that that method, if made effective, will wipe out the profits of the entire district for two years at least."
Sandy whistled.
"Then there's only one thing to do," he said. "You will have to take him back."
Corrigal's unruffled manner, which had perplexed Sandy, vanished instantly.
"Take him back!" he shouted. "Take a man into the service who has done what he has to the company? The Hudson's Bay means nothing to him—nothing does but his desire for revenge. He's a half-breed run amuck because I pulled the props of sentiment out from under him. No, I won't surrender."
All the pride of the great company was Corrigal's. He seemed even to have forgotten that last scene when Donald had scorned him.
"We've got a stiff fight here," he continued more mildly, "but Norton will burn himself up. He can't last. Even if he does we can whip him. We've got to, Sandy. Do you hear? The Hudson's Bay never lost a fight like this. It can't."
There was a desperate note in his voice and Sandy realized that Corrigal was driven, not by fear of a personal defeat, but by the thought of the great company being forced to make terms, stooping to recognize the strength of a vengeful opponent.
"No," the district manager concluded after a moment, "we won't take him back. The Hudson's Bay doesn't give in so easily. It crushes a man like Norton, and it's going to do that now."
Thus with the first snow and the first ice Corrigal began to fight as he never had before. He drew on every resource, his long experience, his knowledge of Indian character and the driving power that had always won for him in the past. He thought only of Kenogami, Fort James and Whitefish Lake. He wore out dogs and half-breed drivers, traveling from one post to another. He spent sleepless nights in devising ways to thwart and trick the opposition. He drove the post managers as ceaselessly as he drove himself.
His efforts began to have an effect. For a time the decision hung in the balance and then the strong tide that had set in toward the Keewatin Company the previous winter began to ebb. Slowly but surely all three of the embattled Hudson's Bay posts gained headway.
In the middle of December a messenger came through with a letter from the commissioner in Winnipeg. It was a short letter—amazingly short for one that had required such effort and hardship in its passage through more than a thousand miles of wilderness. Tersely it instructed the district manager: "Get that man Norton back into the service without delay."
Corrigal smiled grimly when he read it, thrust it into a pocket and redoubled his efforts. Suddenly, as if Donald himself had known of the arrival of the order, that young man seemed to attack all along the line. There was something demoniacal in the fury with which he forced the fight and there was something uncanny about the manner in which he met every move with a counter thrust.
Norton was everywhere, seemingly, at once. If Corrigal made the journey between two posts in three days, he made it in two. If Corrigal slipped away secretly he arrived at his destination only to find Donald there ahead of him. If he devised some clever scheme to win hunters he discovered that Donald had already put it into practice.
Corrigal knew Donald was not paying higher prices for fur or selling goods for less than the Hudson's Bay—a fact which only stung the more because he sensed in it a reflection of his own secret determination to fight the thing out man to man, to make it a test of individual ability and not of the resources of the two companies. He forgot the letter in his pocket and plunged anew into the struggle, not only with renewed energy but with a zest he had never known before and which he could not have explained.
Yet he found himself baffled at every turn. He saw Philip Collinge, who had been down and out, a failure, suddenly develop into more than a match for the wily Millington. He saw Joe Barrere, once an itinerant free trader with nothing back of him, continue his easy, laughing, story-telling way and reap a rich harvest of pelts. He saw Sandy Hay, steady, reliable, often brilliant, struggling almost helplessly in the presence of the unknown Jack Harlan, a young fellow Donald had brought from Winnipeg to run the Kenogami post.
The previous winter the Hudson's Bay post managers had sensed the unusual in the conflict, had glimpsed Donald's fanatical driving force and had been awed by it. Now, as Corrigal hurried from post to post, as his spy system uncovered new and constantly distressing facts, as the ledgers and monthly statements stamped "true" upon rumor after rumor, the cumulative effect was inevitable.
Gradually, for all fur land is under the influence of the dreary, brooding, spirit-filled north, Corrigal's viewpoint began to be tinged by the common conception of Donald. He tried to throw off this new thought, to convince himself that no such force could win, and he started on a swift round of the three posts. After a conference with Nicol MacKar he jumped back to Fort James.
"You want to remember I'm fighting two men, not one," Millington said when he had finished his report. "I don't know what has happened to Collinge. When I saw him last at Whitefish Lake he was done for. Now he's a moose."
Corrigal did not comment. Millington babbled on:
"And Norton! I don't know what he's doing at Kenogami and Whitefish but it can't be a great deal because he spends so much time here. Early as it is, I know he has made two trips this winter and each time he has come in with a toboggan load of fur. He's going right out among the hunters, leaving Collinge to run the post. And Collinge does it."
Corrigal went on to Kenogami. He made a quick trip of it, for he found a freshly broken trail, a fact that impressed upon him through each of the one hundred and fifty miles that Donald was just ahead. As he sat in his cariole, wrapped snugly while a half-breed driver sped at the rear, it seemed that he had been doing nothing else since the first ice but follow, that the young man he had not seen since their last interview at Fort Bruce a year and a half before was always just ahead, always arriving somewhere first, always striking the first blow.
At Kenogami Sandy Hay was as blunt as Millington had been.
"I could handle Harlan," he declared. "Left alone, Jack couldn't dent us here. But Norton's on his tail all the time. He makes another man of him. Donald himself is really running the post. He's district manager, post manager and tripper besides. He got in here yesterday afternoon and this morning at four o'clock he was off again, out in the bush, talking to the hunters, buying their fur. He'll be back here in a few days with a toboggan piled high."
Corrigal said nothing. He had gotten the point. Not only had his adversary outgeneraled him but he had worked far harder. He had succeeded in instilling a fighting spirit in his men. These were the facts—facts that had been impressed upon him time and again since the winter began. In addition there was the other side of it—something vindictive, something of the supernatural.
Corrigal remained at Kenogami three days. He knew he had come to the point where he must at least compromise. Fighter though he was, victor though he always had been, he began to see that the situation was getting beyond him. He had believed that if he swung all the mighty power of the Hudson's Bay into line he could crush this young upstart, but there was a bad year behind him, the letter from the commissioner in his pocket, and the memory of that last interview with Donald.
He started back to Fort James. Not only had he seen that Donald was concentrating on Millington but he had begun to suspect the young Englishman. Something wasn't right at Fort James, though he had been unable to get a hint as to what it was.
The first night out from Kenogami he camped late, but even later, when he was smoking his after-supper pipe beside the fire, the dogs began to growl and soon he heard the tinkle of bells. A few moments later a team dashed out of the darkness and instantly bedlam broke loose.
In the confusion Corrigal waited anxiously. He suspected at once that new orders were being rushed through from Winnipeg and he feared what they might be. But as the drivers hurried to quiet their snarling animals, a figure strode into the firelight and he recognized Norton.
"Oh!" Donald exclaimed when he saw Corrigal, "I expected to find my own team here waiting for me."
He stared at the older man for an instant and then turned back toward the trail. Corrigal did not speak. He knew that he should. He wanted to. But even as he groped for an opening he heard Donald's sharp command and the strange team dashed past the camp and on towards Kenogami. Donald was running ahead, his driver at the rear, and the toboggan was high and bulging with fur.
Few things have a stronger effect on a Hudson's Bay man than the sight of fur in the hands of the opposition, yet in that moment the thing that impressed Corrigal most was the appearance of Donald himself.
He had stood there in the firelight, his parka hood thrown back, his head high, his chest extended by his exertions on the trail. His face had hardened instantly when he saw Corrigal but it was not drawn by weariness. The black shadows and the red light had brought it out, heightening the effect of the strong features and giving an impression of force and will that could not be subdued.
For a long time that night Donald's face haunted Corrigal. He had expected to see hate and cunning, exultation and contempt. He had been confident that when they did meet there would be a sneer, even a taunt, perhaps vilification. Instead there had been only dignity, quiet confidence and undeniable strength. There had been no desire to remain and revel in victory. Only a quick explanation and immediate departure.
This impression remained with Corrigal the next day as he sped on toward Fort James. At daylight when he stopped for breakfast his dogs again began to growl and he heard the tinkle of sleigh bells. A moment later a team of magnificent huskies, dogs undoubtedly imported from the far north, dashed past. Running ahead of them was Donald.
It was a little thing, being passed by another dog team, and yet in that instant it pictured clearly for Corrigal what the entire winter would be like. Late the night before Donald had been speeding toward Kenogami with a big load of fur. Now he was traveling swiftly toward Fort James. He had met his own team, sent on the harvest of pelts and was off to a new post and fresh conquests.
Corrigal leaped to his feet.
"Oh, Norton!" he called, bellowing above the clamor of the dogs.
Donald halted and looked back. Corrigal went forward until he was out of hearing of the drivers and then beckoned Donald to him.
It had been Corrigal's impulse in that first moment to capitulate but as the younger man walked up, alert, confident and wholly at ease, his own pride and that inherent pride of the great company forbade. The cold, hard mask he had always worn dropped into place.
"It's about time we got together," he began.
Donald did not speak. He only waited and his very silence made Corrigal's task more difficult.
"The commissioner has written me to ask you to come back to the company," the Hudson's Bay man continued.
"In your district?" Donald asked quietly.
"Yes."
Donald remained silent.
"Well?" Corrigal demanded at last.
"Of course the commissioner knows why I left the service?"
"Not unless you told him when you were in Winnipeg."
"I had nothing to tell him."
For a moment neither man spoke. It was evident that Donald was waiting, yet there was not a trace of arrogance in his manner. Corrigal, who had been prepared for something wholly different, could not adjust himself to conditions which he had never believed possible.
He had pictured a savage desire for revenge, an overconfident bearing, a sneering, bitter, venomous expression. Instead he found a dignity equal to his own, a complete absence of rancor and contempt and, more than anything else, he sensed a purpose so powerful it ignored any personal issue. Nothing that had happened, Donald's undeniable success, his dashing, sweeping campaign or the fire and vigor of his attack, had impressed Corrigal so much as the young man's appearance.
Outwardly calm, the mask still in place, the district manager stood there trying to find a way out of a perplexing situation. In that moment he saw what he must do but his pride did not succumb easily. While he struggled Donald spoke.
"I don't believe we can get together, Corrigal," he said as he turned away.
He walked back to his dog team, sat down on the partly loaded toboggan and was off. He did it quietly and simply, without any show of defiance. Corrigal stood still, staring after him until he was out of sight around a bend in the trail.