CHAPTER XXVI
THE DEPUTATION
Kars was asleep. He was in the deep slumber of complete weariness in the shanty which had been erected for his quarters, and was shared by Bill. The bed was a mere pile of blankets spread out on a rough log trestle which sufficiently raised it from the ground.
It was a mean enough habitation. But it was substantial. Furthermore, it was weather-proof, which was all these men required. Then, too, it was set up in a position on the higher ground whence it overlooked the whole camp, with a full view of the sluices, and the operations going on about them. Adjacent were the stores, and the kitchens, all sheltered by projections of the rocky foreshore, so that substantial cover against hostile attack was afforded them.
While Kars slept the defensive preparations he had designed were being carried out feverishly under the watchful eyes of Bill and Abe Dodds, with Joe Saunders a vigorous lieutenant. He had planned for every possible emergency. Embankments of pay dirt were erected and strengthened by green logs. Loopholes were arranged for concentrated defence in any one direction. The water supply was there open to them, direct from the river, which, in its turn, afforded them a safeguard from a purely frontal attack. The Bell River Indians were no great water men, so the chief defences were set up flanking along the shore.
Kars had spent a day and two nights in unceasing labor, and now, at last, the claims of nature would no longer be denied. He had fallen asleep literally at his work. So the watchful doctor had accepted the responsibility. And the great body was left to the repose which made so small a claim upon it.
There was no man who could fight harder than John Kars, there was no man who could fight more intelligently. Just as no man could fight fairer. He accepted all conditions as he found them, and met them as necessity demanded. But all that was rugged in him remained untainted through the years of his sojourn beyond the laws of civilization. There were a hundred ways by which he could have hoped to survive. But only one suited his temperament. Then he had closed the doors of civilization behind him. He had metaphorically burnt his text-books, if he ever really possessed any. He viewed nothing through the pleasantly tinted glasses such as prevail where cities are swept and garnished daily, and bodily comfort is counted more to be desired than God-fear. He forgot that law and order must be paid for by a yearly toll in currency. But he never failed to remember that a temple had been raised in the human heart, erected firmly on the ashes of savagery.
"Now for Mister Louis Creal!"
It was the situation as he saw it. He by no means underrated the threat of the Indians. But he drove straight to the root of the matter. He believed the Indians had been bought body and soul by this bastard white for his own ends. And his own end was the gold of Bell River. It was his purpose to destroy all competition. He had murdered one partner, or perhaps employer. He hoped, no doubt, to treat the other white man similarly. Now he meant a similar mischief by this new threat to his monopoly. Kars felt it was characteristic of the bastard races. Well, he was ready for the fight. He had sought it.
With that first enemy attempt on the plateau events moved rapidly.
But they so moved on Kars' initiative. It was not his way to sit down at the enemy's pleasure. His was the responsibility for the eighty men who had responded to his call. He accepted it. He knew it would demand every ounce of courage and energy he could put forth. His wits were to be pitted against wits no less. The fate of Allan Mowbray, a man far beyond the average in courage and capacity among men of the long trail, told him this. So he had worked, and would work, to the end.
"The play's started good, boys," he had said to his white companions on his return to the camp. "The gold can wait, I guess, till we've wiped out this half-breed outfit. It's a game I know good, an' I'm going to play it for a mighty big 'jack-pot.' It's up to you to hand me all I need. After that the gold's open to all."
Then he detailed the various preparations to be made at once, and allotted to each man his task. He spoke sharply but without urgency. And the simplicity of his ideas saved the least confusion. It was only to Bill that his plans seemed hardly to fit with that cordial appreciation which he had given expression to on the plateau. "Now for Mister Louis Creal." So he had said. Yet all the plans were defensive rather than offensive.
Later this doubt found expression.
"What about Louis Creal?" Bill asked in his direct fashion.
And Kars' reply was a short, hard laugh.
"That feller's for me," he replied shortly.
That night a second trip was made across the river. This time with a canoe laden with a small party of armed men. It was Kars who led, while Bill remained behind in command of the camp.
This mission was one of remorseless purpose. It was perhaps the most difficult decision that Kars had had to force himself to. It hurt him. It was a decision for the destruction of the things he loved. To him it was like an assault against the great ruling powers of the Creator, and the sin of it left him troubled in heart and conscience. Yet he knew the necessity of it. None better. So he executed it, as he would have executed any other operation necessary in loyalty to the men supporting him and his purpose.
It was midnight when the paddles dipped again for the return to the camp, and the return journey was made under a light which had no origin in any of the heavenly bodies, nor in the fantastic measure danced by the brilliant northern lights. It was the blaze of a forest fire which lit the gorge from end to end, and filled the air with a ruddy fog of smoke, which reeked in the nostrils and set throats choking.
It had been deliberately planned. The wind was favorable for safety and success. It was blowing gently from the west. The fire was started in six places, and the resinous pines which had withstood centuries of storms yielded to the devouring flames with an ardent willingness that was pitiful. The forests crowning the opposite walls of the gorge were a desperate threat to the camp. They had to be made useless to the enemy. They must be swept away, and to accomplish this fire was the only means.
Kars watched the dreadful devastation from the camp. His eyes were thoughtful, troubled. He was paying the price which his desire for achievement required.
The dark of night was swept away by a furnace of flame. The waters of the river reflected the glare, till they took on a suggestion of liquid fire. The gloom of the gorge had passed, and left it a raging furnace, and the fierceness of the heat beaded men's foreheads as they stood at a distance with eyes filled with awe.
Where would it end? A forest fire in a land of little else but forest and waste. It was a question Kars dared not contemplate. So he thrust it aside. And herein lay the difference between Bill Brudenell and himself. Bill could contemplate the destruction from its necessity, while a sort of sentimental terror claimed his imagination and forced this question upon him. He felt that only the wind and Providence could answer it. If the links were there, beyond those frowning crests, between forest and forest, and the wind drifted favorably, the fire might burn for years. It would be impossible to say where the last sparks would burn themselves out. It was another of the tragedies to be set at the door of man's quest of gold.
"Makes you feel Nature's score against man's mounting big," he said, in a tone there could be no mistaking. "Seems that's going to hurt her mighty bad. She'll hit back one day. Centuries it's taken her building that way. She's nursed it in the hollows, and made it strong on the hills. She's made it good, and set it out for man's use. And man's destroyed her work because he's got a hide he guesses to keep whole. It's all a fearful contradiction. There doesn't seem much sense to life anyway. And still the scheme goes right on, and I don't guess a single blamed purpose is lost. Gee, I hate it."
The truth of Bill's words struck home on Kars. But he had no reply. He hated it, too.
The roar of flame went on all night. The boom of falling trees. The splitting and rending. The heat was sickening. Those who sought sleep lay bare to the night air, for blankets were beyond endurance. Then the smoke which clung to the open jaws of the gorge. The night breeze seemed powerless to carry it away.
With the outbreak of fire the Indian workings further up the river awoke, too. A few stray figures foregathered at the water's edge. Their numbers were quickly augmented. Long before the night was spent a great crowd was watching the fierce destruction of the haunts which it had known for generations. Fire is the Indian terror. And in the heart of these benighted creatures a superstitious awe of it remains at all times. Now they were panic-stricken.
Towards morning the fire passed out of the gorge. It swept over the crests of the enclosing hills and passed on, nursed by the fanning of the western breeze. And as it passed away, and the booming and roaring became more and more distant, so did the smoke-laden atmosphere begin to clear. But a tropical heat remained behind for many hours. Even the northland chill of spring failed to temper it rapidly.
Kars had achieved his purpose. No cover remained for any lurking foe. The hills across the river were "snatched" bald. Charred and smoldering timbers lay sprawling in every direction upon the red-hot carpet. Blackened stumps stood up, tombstones of the splendid woods that once had been. There was no cover anywhere. None at all. No lurking rifle could find a screen from behind which to pour death upon the busy camp across the waters. The position was reversed. The watchful defenders held the whole of those bald walls at the mercy of their rifles. It was a strategic victory for the defenders, but it had been purchased at a terrible cost.
Kars' dreamless slumber was broken at last by the sharp voice of Bill Brudenell, and the firm grip of a hand upon his shoulder. He awoke on the instant, his mind alert, clear, reasoning. He had slept for ten hours and all sense of fatigue had passed.
"Say, I've slept good," was his first exclamation, as he sat up on his blankets. Then his alert eyes glanced swiftly into the face before him. "What's the time? And what's—doing?"
"It's gone midday. And—there's visitors calling."
Kars' attitude was one of intentness.
"They started attacking?" he demanded. "I don't hear a thing."
He rose from his bed, moved down to the doorway and stood gazing out. His gaze encountered a group of men clustered together at a short distance from the hut. He recognized Peigan Charley. He recognized Abe Dodds, lean and silent. He recognized one or two of his own fighting men. But there were others he did not recognize. And one of them was an old, old weazened up Indian of small stature and squalid appearance.
"Visitors?" he said, without turning.
Bill came up behind him.
"A deputation," he said. "An old chief and three young men. They've got a neche with them who talks 'white.' And they're not going to quit till they've held a big pow-wow with the white chief, Kars. They've got his name good. I'd say Louis Creal's got them well primed."
"Yes."
Kars glanced round the hut. And a half smile lit his eyes at the meagre condition of the place. Bill's bed occupied one side of it. His own the other. Between the two stood a packing case on end, which served as a table. A bucket of drinking water stood in a corner with a beaker beside it. For the rest there was a kit bag for a pillow at the head of each bed, while underneath were ammunition cases filled with rifle and revolver ammunition, and the walls were decorated with a whole arsenal of weapons. But it lost nothing in its businesslike aspect, and Kars felt that its impression would not be lost upon his visitors.
"The council chamber," he said. "Have 'em come right along, Bill. Maybe they're going to hand us Louis Creal's bluff. Well, I guess we're calling any old bluff. If they're looking for what they can locate of our preparations they'll find all they need. They'll get an elegant tale to hand Louis Creal when they get back."
Five minutes later the capacity of the hut was taxed to its utmost. Kars was seated on the side of his bed. Bill and Abe Dodds occupied the other. The earth floor, from the foot of the bunks to the door, was littered by a group of squatting figures clad in buckskin and cotton blanket, and exhaling an aroma without which no Indian council chamber is complete, and which is as offensive as it is pungent. Peigan Charley, the contemptuous, blocked up the doorway ready at a moment's notice to carry out any orders his "boss" might choose to give him, and living in the hopes that such orders, when they came, might at least demand violence towards these "damn neches" who had dared to invade the camp.
But his hopes were destined to remain unfulfilled. His boss was talking easily, and in a friendliness which disgusted his retainer. He seemed to be even deferring to this aged scallawag of a chief, as though he were some one of importance. That was one of Charley's greatest grievances against his chief. He was always too easy with "damn-fool neches." Charley felt that these miserable creatures should be "all shot up dead." Worse would come if these "coyotes" were allowed to go free. There was no such thing as murder in his mind as regards his own race. Only killing—which was, at all times, not only justifiable, but a necessity.
"The great Chief Thunder-Cloud is very welcome," Kars responded to the interpreter's translation of the introduction. "Guess he's the big chief of Bell River. The wise man of his people. And I'm sure he's come right along to talk—in the interests of peace. Good. We're right here for peace, too. Maybe Thunder-Cloud's had a look at the camp as he came in. It's a peaceful camp, just set right here to chase gold. No doubt his people, who've been around since we came, have told him that way, too."
As the white man's words were translated to him, the old Indian blinked his inflamed eyes, from which the lids and under-lids seemed to be falling away as a result of his extreme age. He wagged his head gently as though fearful of too great effort, and his sagging lips made a movement suggesting an approving expression, but failed physically to carry out his intent.
Bill was studying that senile, expressionless face. The skin hung loose and was scored with creases like crumpled parchment. The low forehead so deeply furrowed. The small eyes so offensive in their inflamed condition. The almost toothless jaws which the lips refused to cover. It was a hateful presence with nothing of the noble red man about it. It was with relief he turned to the younger examples of what this man had once been.
But the chief was talking in that staccato, querulous fashion of old age, and his white audience was waiting for the interpreter.
It was a long time before the result came. When it did it was in the scantiest of pigeon English.
"Him much pleased with white man coming," said the interpreter with visible effort at cordiality. "The great Chief Thunder-Cloud much good friend to white man. Much good friend. Him say young men fierce—very fierce. They fish plenty. They say white man come—no fish. White man come, Indian man mak' much hungry. No fish. White man eat 'em all up. Young man mak' much talk—very fierce. Young man say white man burn up land. Indians no hunt. So. Indian man starve. Indian come. Young men kill 'em all up dead. Or Indian man starve. So. White man come, Indian man starve, too. White man go, Indian man eat plenty. White man go?"
The solemn eyes of the Indians were watching the white man's face with expressionless intensity. They were striving to read where their language failed them. Kars gave no sign. His eyes were steadily regarding the wreck of humanity described as a "great chief."
"White man burn the land because neche try to kill white man," he said after a moment's consideration, in level, unemotional tones. "White man come in peace. He want no fish. He want no hunt. He want only gold—and peace. White man not go. White man stay. If Indian kill, white man kill, too. White man kill up all Indian, if Indian kill white man. Louis Creal sit by his teepee. He say white man come Louis Creal not get gold. He say to Indian go kill up white man. White man great friends with Indian. He good friend with Louis Creal, if Louis Creal lies low. Indian man very fierce. White man very fierce, too. If great Chief Thunder-Cloud not hold young men, then he soon find out. Louis Creal, too. Much war come. Much blood. White man make most killing. So."
He waited while his reply was passed on to the decrepit creature, who, for all his age and physical disability, was complete master of his emotions. Thunder-Cloud listened and gave no sign.
Then he spoke again. This time his talk was briefer and the interpreter's task seemed easier.
"Great Chief say him sorry for white man talk. Him come. Him good friend to white man. Him old. Him very old. White man not go. Then him say him finish. Him mak' wise talk to young men. Young men listen. No good. Young men impatient. Young men say speak white man. Speak plenty. Him not go? Then young man kill 'em all dead. So. Thunder-Cloud sorry. Heap sorry."
A shadowy smile flitted across Kars' rugged face. It found a reflection in the faces of all his comrades. Even Charley's contempt found a similar expression.
Kars abruptly stood up. His great size brought him within inches of the low, flat roof. His eyes had suddenly hardened. His strong jaws were set. He no longer addressed himself to the aged chief. His eyes were directed squarely into the eyes of the mean-looking interpreter. Nor did he use any pigeon English to express himself now.
"See right here, you neche," he cried, his tones strong, and full of restrained force. "You can hand this on to that darn old bunch of garbage you call a great chief. The play Louis Creal figgers on is played right out. He murdered Allan Mowbray to keep this gold to himself. Well, this gold ain't his, any more than it's mine. It's for those who got the grit to take it. If he's looking for fight he's going to get it plenty—maybe more than he's needing. We're taking no chances. We're right here to fight—if need be. We're here to stop. We're no quitters. We'll go when we fancy, and when we do the news of this strike goes with us. Louis Creal tried to murder me here, and failed, and took a bath instead. Well, if he's hoss sense he'll get it his game's played. If he don't see it that way, he best do all he knows. You an' this darn old scallawag have got just five minutes to hit the trail clear of this camp. The whole outfit of you. Guess you wouldn't get that much time only for the age of this bunch of the tailings of a misspent life. Clear. Clear quick—the whole darn outfit."
All the dignity and formality of an Indian pow-wow were banished in a moment. The interpreter conveyed the briefest gist of the white man's words, even as he hastily scrambled to his feet. Kars' tone and manner had impressed him as forcibly as his words. He was eager enough to get away. The old man, too, was on his feet far quicker than might have been expected, and he was making for the door with ludicrous haste, which robbed his going of any of the ceremony with which he had entered it.
Charley stood aside, but with an air of protest. He would willingly have robbed the old man of his last remaining locks.
The hut was cleared, and the white men emerged into the open. The air which still reeked of burning was preferable to the unwholesome stench which these bestial northern Indians exhaled.
They stood watching the precipitate retreat of their visitors. The whole camp was agog, and looked on curiously. Even the Indian packmen were stirred out of their usual indifference to things beyond their labors.
Bill laughed as the old man vanished beyond the piles of pay dirt, which had been converted into defences.
"Guess he's worried some," he said.
Abe Dodds chewed and spat.
"Worried? Gee, that don't say a thing—not a thing. Guess that old guy ain't had a shake up like that since he first choked himself with gravel when his momma wa'n't around. I allow Louis Creal, whoever he is, is going to get an earful that'll nigh bust his drums."
But Kars had no responsive smile.
"They'll be on us by nightfall," he said quietly. "We need to get busy." Then he suddenly called out. His voice was stern and threatening. "Quit that, Charley! Quit it or by——!"
His order came in the nick of time. All the pent-up spleen and hatred of Peigan Charley had culminated in an irresistible desire. He had seized a rifle from one of the camp Indians standing by, and had flung himself on the banked up defences. Even as his boss shouted, his eye was running over the sights, and his finger was on the trigger.
He flung the weapon aside with a gesture of fierce disgust, and stood scowling after the hurrying deputation, his heart tortured with the injustice of his chief in robbing him of the joy of sheer murder.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE BATTLE OF BELL RIVER
The dark of night was creeping up the gorge. A gray sky, still heavy with the smoke of the forest fire, made its progress easy and rapid. The black walls nursed its efforts, yielding their influence upon the deep valley below them. No star could penetrate the upper cloud banks. The new-born moon was lost beyond the earth-inspired canopy.
The fires of the great camp were out. No light was visible anywhere. The fighting men were at their posts on the flanking embankments. Reserves were gathered, smoking and talking in the hush of expectancy. Further afield an outpost held the entrance to the gorge to the north of the camp. A steep rugged split deeply wooded and dropping sharply from the heights above to the great foreshore. It was an admirable point to hold. No living soul could approach the camp from above that way without running the gauntlet of the ambushed rifles in skilful hands. No rush could make the passage, only costly effort. Nature had seen to that.
The white men leaders of the camp were squatting about the doorway of the shanty which had witnessed the brief interview with the chief, Thunder-Cloud. Kars occupied the sill of the doorway. His great body in its thick pea-jacket nearly filled it up. Talk was spasmodic. Kars had little enough inclination, and the others seemed to have exhausted thought upon the work of preparations.
Kars' thoughts were far away at the bald knoll of Fort Mowbray, and the little Mission nestling at its foot. Out of the gray shadows of twilight a pair of soft eyes were gazing pitifully into his, as he had seen them gaze in actual life. His mind was passing over the tragic incidents which had swept down upon that ruddy brown head with such merciless force, and a tender pity made him shrink before his thought, as no trouble of his own could have done.
The moment was perhaps the moment for such feeling. It was the moment preceding battle. It was the moment when each man realized that a thousand chances were crowding. When the uncertainties of the future were so many and so deeply hidden. Resolve alone was definite. Life and purpose were theirs to-day. To-morrow? Who could say of tomorrow? So it was that the mind groped back amongst memories which had the greatest appeal. For Kars all his memories were now centred round the home of the girl who had taught him the real meaning of life.
Bill Brudenell was sitting on a rough log, within a yard or two. He, too, was gazing out into the approaching night while he smoked on in meditative silence. His keen face and usually twinkling eyes were serious. He had small enough claims behind him. There was no woman in his life to hold his intimate regard. The present was his, and the future. The future had his life's work of healing in it. The present held his friend, beside whom he was ranged in perfect loyalty against the work of desperate men.
His purpose? Perhaps he would have found it difficult to explain. Perhaps he could not have explained at all. His was a nature that demanded more than a life of healing could give him. There was the ceaseless call of the original man in him. It was a call so insistent that it must be obeyed, even while his mental attitude spurned the folly of it.
Abe Dodds was propped on an upturned bucket with his lean shoulders squared against the log walls of the shanty. His jaw was moving rhythmically as he chewed with nervous energy. The difference in him from the others was the difference of a calculating mind always working out the sum of life from a purely worldly side. He knew the values of the Bell River strike to an ounce. It was his business to know. And he was ready to pass through any furnace, human or hellish, to seize the fortune which he knew was literally at his feet. There was neither sentiment nor feeling in his regard of that which was yet to come. This was the great opportunity. He had lived and struggled north of "sixty" for this moment. He was ready to die if necessary for the achievement of all it meant.
The men sat on, each wrapped in his own mood as the pall of night unfolded itself. The last word had been given to those at the defences, and it had been full and complete. Joe Saunders held the pass down from above. It had been at his own definite request. But the moment attack came he would be supported by one of these three. It was for this reason that he was absent from the final vigil of his fellow leaders.
It was Abe who finally broke the prolonged silence. He broke it upon indifferent ears. But then he had not the same mood for silence.
"There's every sort of old chance lying around," he observed, as though following out his own long train of thought. "But I don't guess many of 'em's worth while. There's fellers 'ud hand over any sense they ever collected fer the dame that's had savvee to buy a fi' cent perfume. 'Tain't my way. There's jest one chance for me. It's the big boodle. I'm all in for that. Right up to my ear-drums." He laughed and spat. "There's a mighty big world to buy, an' when you got your fencing set up around it, why, there ain't a deal left outside that's worth corrallin'. I'd say it's only the folk who fancy the foolish house need to try an' buy a big pot on a pair o' deuces. If you stand on a 'royal' you can grab most anything. I got this thing figgered to a cent. When we're through there's those among us going to make home with a million dollars—cold."
"Ye-es."
Dr. Bill removed his pipe. His gaze was turned on the engineer, whose vigorous mind was searching only one side of the task before them. The side which appealed to him most.
"That million don't worry me a cent," he went on. "If life's just a matter of buying and selling you're li'ble to get sick of it quick."
Abe's eyes shot a swift glance in the doctor's direction.
"Then what brings you up to Bell River?" he exclaimed. "It ain't a circumstance as a health resort."
Bill smiled down at his pipe.
"Much the same as you, I guess," he said. "Say, you're talking dollars. You're figgering dollars. You've got a nightmare of all you can buy with those dollars." He shook his head. "Turn over. Maybe that way you'd see things the way they are with you. Those dollars are just a symbol. You fix your eye on them. It isn't winning the 'pot' with a 'royal.' It isn't winning anyway. It's the play that gets you. If you could walk right into the office of the president of a state bank, and come out of it with a roll of a million, with no more effort than it needed pushing one foot in front of another, guess you'd as soon light your two dollar cigar with a hundred dollar bill as a 'Frisco stinker. I've seen a heap of boys like you, Abe. I've seen them sweat, and cuss, and work like a beaver for a wage, and they've been as happy as a doped Chinaman. I've seen them later, when the dollars come plenty, and they're so sick there isn't dope enough in Leaping Horse can make them feel good. Guess I'm right here because it's good to live, and fight, and work, same as man was meant to. The other don't cut much ice, unless it is the work's made things better—someways."
Abe spat out his chew and sat up. His combative spirit, which was perhaps his chief characteristic, was easily stirred.
"It ain't stuff of that sort made John Kars the richest guy in Leaping Horse. It ain't that play set him doping around 'inside' where there ain't much else but cold, and skitters, and gold. It ain't that play set him crazy to make Bell River with an outfit to lick a bunch of scallawag neches. No, sir. He's wise to the value of dollars in a world where there's nothing much else counts. There ain't no joy to life without 'em. An' you just can't live life without joy. If you're fixed that way, why, you'll hit the trail of the long haired crank, or join the folk who make a pastime of a penitentiary. The dollars for mine. If they come on a cushion of down I'll handle 'em elegant with kid gloves on my hands. I'm sick chasin'—sick to death."
Kars became caught in the interest of the talk. His dream picture faded in the shades of night, and the reality of things about him poured in upon him. He caught at the thread of discussion in his eager, forceful way.
"You ain't right, Abe, and Bill, here, too, is wrong," he said, in his amiably decided fashion. "Human life's just one great big darn foolish 'want.' It's the wage we're asking for all we do. Don't make any Sunday-school mistake. We're asking pay for every act we play, and the purse of old Prov is open most all the time. We all got a grouch set up against life. Most of us know it. Some don't. If I know anything of human nature we'd all squat around waiting till the end, doping our senses without restraining the appetite Nature gave us, if it wasn't for that blamed wage we're always yearning after. It's the law we've got to work, and Prov sets the notion in us we want something as the only way to keep our noses to the grinding mill. Those dollars ain't the end of your want. They're just a kind of symbol, as Bill says—till you've got 'em. After that you'll still be yearning for the big opportunity same as you've been right along up to now. It's just the symbol'll be diff'rent. You'll work, and cuss, and sweat, and fight, just the same as you're ready to do now. You'll still be biting the heels of old Prov for more. And Prov'll dope it out when you've worked plenty, and He figgers you've earned your wage. Bill's here on the same argument. He's got the dollars he needs, but he's still chasing that wage. Maybe his wage is diff'rent from yours or mine. Y'see he's quite a piece older. But he's worrying old Prov just as hard. Bill's here because his notions of things lie along the line of doping out healing to the poor darn fools who haven't the sense to keep themselves whole. It don't matter who's going to be better for his work on this layout. But when he's through, why, he'll open out his hands to old Prov, and Prov'll dope out his wage. And that wage'll come to him plenty when he sets around smoking his foul old pipe over a stove, and thinks back—all to himself."
He smiled with a curious twisted sort of smile as he gazed almost affectionately at the loyal little man of medicine. Then he turned again to the night which now hid the last outlines of the stern old gorge, as he went on.
"As for me the dollars in this gorge couldn't raise a shadow of joy." He shook his head. "And if I told you the wage I'm asking, maybe you'd laff till your sides split up. I'm not telling you the wage old Prov'll have to hand out my way. But to me it's big. So big your million dollars couldn't buy a hundredth part of it. No, sir. Nor a thousandth. And maybe when Prov has checked my time sheet, and handed out, He won't be through by a sight. I'll still be yepping at His heels for more, only the—symbol'll kind of be changed. Meanwhile——"
He broke off listening. Abe started to his feet. Bill deliberately knocked out his pipe on the log, while his eyes were turned along the foreshore in the direction of the Indian workings. Kars heaved himself to his feet and stood with his keen eyes striving to penetrate the darkness in the same direction.
"—We're going to start right in earning that wage—now!"
A hot rifle fire swept over the camp with reckless disregard of all aim. It came with a sharp rattle. The bullets swept on with a biting hiss, and some of them terminated their careers with a vicious "splat" against the great overhang of rock or the woodwork of the trestle-built sluices.
In an instant the deadly calm of the night was gone, swept away by the sound of many voices, and the rush of feet, and the answering fire of the defenders.
The battle of Bell River had begun. The white men had staked their all in the great play, confident they held the winning hand. The alternative from complete victory for them had one hard, definite meaning. There was no help but that which lay in their own hands, their own wits. Death, only, was on the reverse of the victory they were claiming from Providence.
A fierce pandemonium stirred the bowels of the night. The rattle of musketry with its hundreds of needle-points of flame joined the chorus of fiercely straining human voices. The black calm of night was rent to shreds, leaving in its place only the riot of cruel, warring passions.
The white men leaders and their men received the onslaught of the savage horde with the steadfastness of a full understanding of the meaning of defeat. They were braced for the shock with the nerve of men who have bitterly learned the secret of survival in a land haunted with terror. No heart-quail showed in the wall of resistance. The secret emotions had no power before the realization of the horror which must follow on defeat. The shadow of mutilation, of torture, of unspeakable death made brave the surest weakling.
Many of the defenders were Indian, like the attacking horde, though of superior race. Some were bastard whites, that most evil thing in human production in the outlands. A few were white, other than the leaders. Men belonging to that desperate crew always clinging to the fringe of human effort, where wealth is won by the lucky turn of the spade. Reckless creatures who live sunk in the deeps of indulgence of the senses, and without a shred of the conscience with which they were born. It was a collection of humanity such as only a man of Kars' characteristics could have controlled. But for a desperate adventure it might well have been difficult to find its equal. It was their mission to fight, generally against the laws of society. But fight was their mission, and they would fulfil it.
They were ready braced at their posts, and their leaders were in their midst. The fierce yelling of advancing Indians was without effect. They met the onslaught at close quarters with a fire as coldly calculated as it was merciless. The rush of assault was doubtless calculated to brush all defence aside in the first attack. But as well might the Bell River leaders have hoped to spurn ferro concrete from their path. The method was old. It was tried. It was as old as the ages since the red man was first permitted to curse the joys of a beautiful world. It was brave as only the savage mind understands bravery. But it was as impotent before the defence as the beating of captive wings against the iron bars of a cage.
The insensate horde came like the surging tide of driven waters. It reeled before the flaming weapons like rollers on a breakwater. There came the swirl and eddy. Then, in desperate defeat, it dropped back to gather fresh impetus from the volume behind.
The conflict was shadowy, yet searching eyes outlined without difficulty the half-naked, undersized forms as they came. There was nothing wild in the defence. Fire was withheld till the moment of contact. Then it poured out at pointblank range.
The carnage of that first onslaught was horrible. But the defenders suffered only the lightest casualties. They labored under no delusion. The attack would come again and again in the hope of creating a breach, and that breach was the thought in each leader's mind. Its prevention was his sheet anchor of hope. Its realization was his nightmare.
The tide of men surged once more. It came on under a rain of reckless fire. The black wings of night were illuminated with a fiery sparkle, and the smell of battle hung heavily on the still air. Kars shouted encouragement to his men.
The response was all he could desire. The Indians surged to the embankment only to beat vainly, and to fall back decimated. But again and again they rallied, their temper growing to a pitch of fury that suggested the limit of human endurance. The defence was hard put to it, and only deliberation, and the full knowledge of consequences, saved the breach.
The numbers seemed endless, rising out of the black beyond only to take shape at the rifle muzzle. Thought and action were simultaneous. Each rifle was pressed tight into the shoulder, while the hot barrel hurled its billet of death deep into the dusky bodies.
For Kars those moments were filled to the brim with the intoxicating elixir demanded by his elemental nature. He fought with a disregard of self that left its mark upon all those who were near by. He spared nothing, and his "automatic" drove terror, as well as death, into the hearts of those with whom he was confronted. It was good to fight for life in any form. The life of ease and security had small enough attraction for him. But now—now he fought with the memory of the wrongs which, through these creatures, had been inflicted upon the girl who had taught him the true meaning of life.
Bill was no less stirred, but he possessed another incentive. He fought till the first casualties in the defence claimed mercy in exchange for the merciless, and he was forced regretfully to obey the demands of his life's mission. All his ripeness of thought, all his philosophy, gleaned under the thin veneer of civilization, had been swept away by the tidal wave of battle. The original man hugged him to his bosom, and he rested there content.
With Abe Dodds emotion held small place. A cold fury rose under the lash of motive. It was the motive of a man ready at all times to spurn obstruction from his path. His heart was without mercy where his interests were threatened. These creatures were a wolf pack, from his view-point, and he yearned to shoot them down as such. Like Peigan Charley his desire was that every shot should sink deeply into the bowels of the enemy.
In a moment of lull Bill dragged a wounded man off the embankment at Kars' side. Kars withdrew his searching gaze from the dark beyond.
"How's things?" he demanded. His voice was thick with a parching thirst.
"He's the fifth."
Bill's reply was preoccupied. Kars was thinking only of the defence.
"Bully!" he exclaimed. It was the appreciation of the fighter. He had no thought for anything else. "We'll get 'em hunting their holes by daylight," he went on. Then suddenly he turned back. His rifle was ready, and he spoke over his shoulder.
"There's just one thing better than chasing the long trail, Bill. It's scrap."
With a fierce yell a dusky form leaped out of the darkness. He sprang at the embankment with hatchet upraised. Kars' rifle greeted him and he fell in his tracks.
Bill shouldered his wounded burden. A grim smile struggled to his lips as he bore it away. Nor did his muttered reply reach his now preoccupied friend.
"And we cuss the poor darn neche for a savage."
It was midnight before the final convulsions of the great storming assaults showed a waning. The first signs were the lengthening intervals between the rushes. Then gradually the rushes lessened in determination and only occasionally did they come to close quarters. To Kars the signs were the signs he looked for. They were to him the signs of first victory. But no vigilance was relaxed. The stake was far too great. None knew better than he the danger of relaxing effort under the assurance of success. And so the straining eyes of the defence were kept wide.
Minutes crept by, passed under a desultory fire from the distance. The bullets whistled widely overhead, doing no damage to life. The time lengthened into half an hour and still no fresh assault came. Kars stirred from his place. He wiped the muck sweat from his forehead, and passed down the line of embankment to where Abe Dodds held command.
"We got to get the boys fed coffee and sow-belly," he said.
Abe with his watchful eyes on the distance replied reluctantly.
"Guess we'll have to."
Kars nodded.
"I sent word to the cook-house. Pass 'em along in reliefs. There's no figgerin' on the next jolt. We can't take chances—yet."
"We'll have to—later."
Again Kars nodded.
"That's how I figger. But we got to get through this night first. There's no chances this night. Pass your men along easy. Hold 'em up on the least sign of things doing."
He was gone in a moment. And the operation he had prescribed for Abe's men was applied to his own.
Another hour passed and still there was no sign from the enemy. It almost seemed as if the victory had been more complete for the defence than had at first been thought. The men were refreshed, and the rest was more than welcome. Kars refused to leave his post. For all his faith in the defence he trusted the vigilance of no one.
A meal of sorts was sent down to him from the cook-house, and he shared it with the stalwart ruffian, Abe, and, for the most part, they quenched their thirst with the steaming beverage in silence. The thought of each man was busy. Both were contemplating the ultimate, rather than the effort of the moment.
Abe was the first to yield to the press of thought.
"How's Bill doin'?" he demanded. "What's the figures? I lost four."
"Wounded—only?"
"Wounded."
"Guess that raises the tally."
"How about your boys?"
Kars gazed in the direction of the rough storehouse now converted into a hospital.
"I'd say five. Bill was here a while back. He reckoned he'd got five then."
Abe laughed. It was not a mirthful laugh. He rarely gave way to mirth. Purpose had too profound a hold on him.
"Figger up nine by eight nights like this and you ain't got much of a crowd out of eighty."
Kars' eyes came swiftly to the lean face shadowed under the night.
"No." Then he glanced in the direction whence came the reckless Indian fire. "You mean we can't sit around, and let the neches play their own war game. That so?"
"Guess it seems that way."
"I don't reckon they're going to." Kars tipped out the coffee grounds from his pannikin with unnecessary force. He laid the cup aside and turned on the engineer. "Say, boy," he cried, with a deliberate emphasis, "I've got this thing figgered from A to Z. I've spent months of thought on it. You're lookin' on the dollars lying around, and you're yearning to grab them plenty. It's a mighty strong motive. But it's not a circumstance beside mine. I'd lose every dollar in my bank roll; I'd hand up my life without a kick, rather than lose this game. Get me? Say, don't you worry a thing, so we hold this night through. That's what matters in my figgering. If we hold this night, I got a whole stack of aces and things in my sleeve. And I'm goin' to play 'em, and play 'em—good."
The assurance of his manner had a deep effect. Passivity of resistance at no time appealed to the forceful Abe. Aggression was the chief part of his doctrine of life. He was glad to hear his chief talk in that fashion.
"That talk suits me," he said readily. "I——"
He broke off, his eyes searching the distance, his hearing straining. Kars, too, had turned, searching beyond the embankment.
"It's coming," he said. "It's coming plenty."
But Abe had not waited. His lean figure was swallowed up in the darkness as he made off to his post where his men were already assembled.
In less than two minutes the battle was raging with all its original desperation. The black night air was filled with the fury of yelling voices which vied with the rattle of firearms for domination. Bare, shadowy bodies hurled themselves with renewed impetus against the defences, and went down like grain before the reaper.
The embankments were held with even greater confidence. Earlier experience, the respite; these things had made their contribution, a contribution which told heavily against the renewed assault.
Kars wondered. He had said these men were like sheep. Now they were like sheep herded on to the slaughter-house. The senselessness of it was growing on him with his increased confidence. It all seemed unworthy of the astute half white mind lying behind the purpose. These were the thoughts which flashed through his mind as he plied his weapons and encouraged the men of his command, and they grew in conviction with each passing moment.
But there was more wit in it all than he suspected.
The battle was at its height. The insensate savages came on, regardless of the numbers who fell. The whole line of defence was resisting with all the energy and resource at its disposal. Then came the diversion.
It came by water. It came with a swirl of paddles in the black void enveloping the great river. Out of the darkness grew the shadowy outlines of four laden canoes, and the beaching of the craft was the first inkling Abe Dodds, who held the left defences, had of the adventure.
Action and thought were almost one with him. Claiming the men nearest him he hurled himself on the invaders with a ferocity which had for its inspiration a full understanding of the consequences of disaster in such a direction. Outflanking stared at him with all its ugly meaning, and as he went he shouted hoarsely back to Kars his ill-omened news. Kars needed no second warning. He passed the call on to Bill. He claimed the reinforcement which only desperate emergency had the right to demand. Then he flung himself to the task of making good the depleted defence where Abe had withdrawn his men.
The crisis was more deadly than could have seemed possible a moment before. The whole aspect of the scene had been changed. The breach, that dreaded breach with all its deadly meaning, was achieved in something that amounted only to seconds.
The neches swarmed on the embankments on the lower foreshore. The defenders who had been left were driven back before the fierce onslaught. They were already giving ground when Kars flung himself to their support. The whole position looked like being turned.
It was no longer a battle of coldly calculated method. Here at least it had become a conflict where individual nerve and ability alone could win out. Already some dozen of the half-nude savages had forced themselves across the embankment, and more were pressing on behind. It was a moment to blast the sternest courage. It was a moment when the whole edifice of the white man's purpose looked to be tottering, if not falling headlong. Kars understood. He had the measure of the threat to the last fraction, and he flung himself into the battle with a desperateness of energy and resolve that bore almost immediate fruit.
His coming had checked the breaking of the defenders. But he knew it was like patching rotten material. His influence could not last without Bill and his reinforcements. He plied his guns with a discrimination which no heat or excitement could disturb, and the first invaders fell under his attack amidst a din of fierce-throated cries. His men rallied. But he knew they were fighting now with a shadow at the back of their minds. It was his purpose to remove that shadow, and he strove with voice and act to do so.
The first support of his coming passed with the emptying of his pistols. He flung them aside without a moment's hesitation, and grabbed a rifle from a fallen neche. It was the act of a man who knew the value of every second gained. He knew, even more, the value of his own gigantic strength.
The weapon in his hands became a far-reaching club. And, swinging it like a fiercely driven flail, he rushed into the crowd of savages, scattering them like chaff in a gale. The smashing blows fell on heads that split under their superlative force, and the ground about him became like a shambles. In a moment he discovered another figure in the shadowy darkness, fighting in a similar fashion, and he knew by the crude, disjointed oaths which were hurled with each blow, so full of a venomous hate, that Peigan Charley had somehow come to his support. His heart warmed, and his onslaught increased in its bitter ferocity.
He was holding. Just holding the rush, and that was all. Without the reinforcements he had claimed he could not hope to drive his attack home. He knew. Nor did he attempt to blind himself. The whole thing was a matter of minutes now. Defeat, complete disaster hung by a thread, and the fever of the knowledge fired his muscles to an effort that was almost superhuman.
He drove his way through the raging savages, whose crude weapons for close quarters were aimed at him from every direction. He was fighting for time. He was fighting to hold—simply hold. He was fighting to demoralize the rush, and drive terror into savage hearts. And he knew his limits were steadily approaching.
His first call had reached the ears of the man for whom it was intended. Nor had they been indifferent. A call for help from Kars was an irresistible clarion of appeal to Bill Brudenell. Mercy? There was no consideration of healing or mercy could claim him from his friend's succor. He flung aside his drugs, his bandages. He had no thought for his wounded. He had no thought for himself.
To collect reinforcements from the northern defences was the work of a few minutes. Even the elderly breed cook at the cook-house was claimed, though his only weapons were an ancient patterned revolver and a pick-haft he had snatched up. Fifteen men in all he was able to collect and at the head of them he rushed for the battle-ground.
Nor was he a moment too soon. Kars' vigor was rapidly exhausting itself. Peigan Charley was fighting with a demoniac fury, but weakening. The handful of men who were still supporting were nearly defeated.
Bill knew the value of creating panic. As he came he set up a yell. His men took it up, and it sounded like the advance of a legion of demons. In a moment they were caught in the whirl of battle, and the flash of their weapons lit the scene, while the clatter of firearms, and the hoarse-throated shouting, gave an impression of overwhelming force. Back reeled the yelling horde in face of the onslaught. Back and still back. Confusion with those pressing on behind set up a panic. The wretched creatures fell like flies in the darkness. Then came flight. Headlong flight. The panic which Bill had sought.
In half an hour from the moment of the first break the position was restored. Within an hour Kars knew the Battle of Bell River had been won. But it had been won at a cost he had never reckoned upon. The margin of victory had been the narrowest.
Abe had been able to complete his work in the cold businesslike manner which was all his own. The attack from the river was an unsupported diversion with forces limited to its need. How nearly it had succeeded no doubt remained. But in that direction Abe's heavy hand had fallen in no measured fashion. Those of the landing party who were not awaiting burial on the foreshore were meeting death in the deep waters of the swiftly flowing river. Even the smashed canoes were flotsam on the bosom of the tide.
The battle degenerated from the moment of the failure of the intended breach. There was no further attack in force. Small, isolated raids came at intervals only to be swept back by rifle fire from the embankments. These, and a desultory and notoriously wild fire, which, to the defence, was a mere expression of impotent, savage rage, wore the long night through. Kars had achieved his desire. The night had been fought out, and the defence had held.