“This forgiveness talk is all right, I suppose–but _I_ WANT RUNNION!”
“We’ll git him, too,” growled Lee, at which Poleon uttered a curt exclamation:
“No!”
“Why not?” said the miner.
“Wal,” the Canadian drawled, slowly, then paused to light the cigarette he had rolled in a bit of wrapping-paper, inhaled the smoke deeply to the bottom of his lungs, held it there a moment, and blew it out through mouth and nostrils before adding, “you’ll jus’ be wastin’ tam’!”
Gale looked up from beneath his thatch of brow, and asked, quietly:
“Why?”
“You ‘member–story I tol’ you wan day, two, t’ree mont’ ago,” Poleon remarked, with apparent evasion, “’bout Johnny Platt w’at I ketch on de Porcupine all et up by skeeter-bugs?”
“I do,” answered Gale.
“Wal,”–he met their eyes squarely, then drew another long breath from his cigarette–“I’m jus’ hopin’ nobody don’ pick it up dis Runnion feller de same way. Mebbe dey fin’ hees han’s tie’ behin’ ‘im wit’ piece of hees shirt-“
“Good God!” cried the trader, starting to his feet. “You–you–“
“–of course, I’m jus’ s’posin’. He was feel purty good w’en I lef’. He was feel so good I tak’ hees coat for keepin’ off dem bugs from me, biccause I lef it my own shirt on de canoe. He’s nice feller dat way; he give up easy. Ba gosh! I never see worse place for skeeters!”
Gale fell silent, and “No Creek” Lee began to swear in little, useless, ineffective oaths, which were but two ways of showing similar emotions. Then the former stepped up and laid a big hand upon Poleon’s shoulder.
“That saves us quite a trip,” he said, but “No Creek” Lee continued to swear softly.
It seemed that Poleon’s wish was to be gratified, for no news of the missing man came through in the days that followed. Only at a fishing village far down the river, where a few native families had staked their nets and weirs for salmon, a hunter told a strange tale to his brothers–a tale of the white man’s idiosyncrasies. In sooth, they were a strange people, he observed, surpassing wise in many things, yet ignorant and childish in all others, else why should a half-naked man go wandering idly through the thickets holding a knotted rag behind his back, and that when the glades were dense and the moss-chinks filled with the singing people who lived for blood? The elders of the village nodded their heads sagely, and commended the hunter for holding aloof from the inert body, for the foolishness of this man was past belief, and–well, his people were swift and cruel in their vengeance, and sometimes doubted an Indian’s word, wherefore it were best to pay no heed to their ways and say nothing. But they continued to wonder why.
Father Barnum found the three still talking in the store when he had finished an hour’s counsel with Necia, so came straight to the point. It was work that delighted his soul, for he loved the girl, and had formed a strong admiration for Burrell. Two of them took his announcement quietly, the other cried out strenuous objections. It was the one-eyed miner.
“Right away! Not on your life! It’s too onexpected. You’ve got to hold ’em apart for an hour, anyhow, till I get dressed.” He slid down from his seat upon the counter. “What do you reckon I got all them clothes for?”
“Come as you are,” urged the Father, but Lee fought his point desperately.
“I’ll bust it up if you don’t gimme time. What’s an hour or two when they’ve got a life sentence comin’ to ’em. Dammit, you jest ought to see them clothes!” And by very force of his vociferations he succeeded in exacting the promise of a brief stay in the proceedings before he bolted out, the rags of his yellow mackinaw flapping excitedly.
The priest returned to Necia, leaving the trader and Poleon alone.
“I s’pose it’s best,” said the former.
“Yes!”
“Beats the deuce, though, how things work out, don’t it?”
“I’m glad for see dis day,” said the Frenchman. “He’s good man, an’ he ain’ never goin’ to hurt her none.” He paused. “Dere’s jus’ wan t’ing I want for ask it of you, John–you ‘member dat day we stop on de birch grove, an’ you spik ’bout her an’ tol’ me dose story ’bout her moder? Wal, I was dreamin’ dat tam’, so I’m goin’ ask it you now don’ never tell her w’at I said.”
“Doesn’t she know, my boy?”
“No; I ain’ never spoke ’bout love. She t’inks I’m broder wit’ her, an’–dat’s w’at I am, ba Gar!” He could not hold his voice even–it broke with him; but he avoided the old man’s gaze. Gale took him by the shoulders.
“There ain’t nothing so cruel in the world as a gentle woman,” said he; “but she wouldn’t hurt you for all the world, Poleon; only the blaze of this other thing has blinded her. She can’t see nothing for the light of this new love of hers.”
“I know! Dat’s w’y–nobody onderstan’s but you an’ me–“
Gale looked out through the open door, past the sun-lit river which came from a land of mystery and vanished into a valley of forgetfulness, past the forest and the hills, in his deep-set eyes the light of a wondrous love that had lived with him these many weary years, and said:
“Nobody else CAN understand but me–I know how it is. I had even a harder thing to bear, for you’ll know she’s happy at least, while I- -” His voice trembled, but, after a pause, he continued: “They neither of them understand what you’ve done for them, for it was you that brought her back; but some time they’ll learn how great their debt is and thank you. It’ll take them years and years, however, and when they do they’ll tell their babes of you, Poleon, so that your name will never die. I loved her mother, but I don’t think I could have done what you did.”
“She’s purty hard t’ing, for sure, but I ain’ t’ink ’bout Poleon Doret none w’en I’m doin’ it. No, I’m t’ink ’bout her all de tarn’. She’s li’l’ gal, an’ I’m beeg, strong feller w’at don’ matter much an’ w’at ain’ know much–‘cept singin’, an’ lovin’ her. I’m see for sure now dat I ain’ fit for her–I’m beeg, rough, fightin’ feller w’at can’t read, an’ she’s de beam of sunlight w’at blin’ my eyes.”
“If I was a fool I’d say you’d forget in time, but I’ve lived my life in the open, and I know you won’t. I didn’t.”
“I don’ want to forget,” the brown man cried, hurriedly. “Le bon Dieu would not let me forget–it’s all I’ve got to keep wit’ me w’en I’m lookin’ for my ‘New Countree.'”
“You’re not goin’ to look for that ‘New Country’ any more,” Gale replied.
“To-day,” said the other, quietly.
“No.”
“To-day! Dis affernoon! De blood in me is callin’ for travel, John. I’m livin’ here on dis place five year dis fall, an’ dat’s long tarn’ for voyageur. I’m hongry for hear de axe in de woods an’ de moose blow at sundown. I want for see the camp-fire t’rough de brush w’en I come from trap de fox an’ dem little wild fellers. I want to smell smoke in de dusk. My work she’s finish here, so I’m paddle away to-day, an’ I’ll fin’ dat place dis tam’, for sure–she’s over dere.” He raised his long arm and pointed to the dim mountains that hid the valley of the Koyukuk, the valley that called good men and strong, year after year, and took them to itself, while in his face the trader saw the hunger of his race, the unslaked longing for the wilderness, the driving desire that led them ever North and West, and, seeing it, he knew the man would go.
“Have you heard the news from the creeks?”
“No.”
“Your claims are blanks; your men have quit.”
The Frenchman shook his head sadly, then smiled–a wistful little smile.
“Wal, it’s better I lose dan you–or Necia; I ain’ de lucky kin’, dat’s all; an’, affer all, w’at good to me is riche gol’-mine? I ain’ got no use for money–any more.”
They stood in the doorway together, two rugged, stalwart figures, different in blood and birth and every other thing, yet brothers withal, whom the ebb and flow of the far places had thrown together and now drew apart again. And they were sad, these two, for their love was deeper than comes to other people, and they knew this was farewell; so they remained thus side by side, two dumb, sorrowful men, until they were addressed by a person who hurried from the town.
He came as an apparition bearing the voice of “No Creek” Lee, the mining king, but in no other way showing sign or symbol of their old friend. Its style of face and curious outfit were utterly foreign to the miner, for he had been bearded with the robust, unkempt growth of many years, tanned to a leathery hue, and garbed perennially in the habit of a scarecrow, while this creature was shaved and clipped and curried, and the clothes it stood up in were of many startling hues. Its face was scraped so clean of whiskers as to be a pallid white, but lack of adornment ended at this point and the rest was overladen wondrously, while from the centre of the half-brown, half- white face the long, red nose of Lee ran out. Beside it rolled his lonesome eye, alive with excitement.
He came up with a strut, illumining the landscape, and inquired:
“Well, how do I look?”
“I’m darned if I know,” said Gale. “But it’s plumb unusual.”
“These here shoes leak,” said the spectacle, pulling up his baggy trousers to display his tan footgear, “because they was made for dry goin’–that’s why they left the tops off; but they’ve got a nice, healthy color, ain’t they? As a whole, it seems to me I’m sort of nifty.” He revolved slowly before their admiring gaze, and while to one versed in the manners of the Far East it would have been evident that the original owner of these clothes had come from somewhere beyond the Susquehanna, and had either been a football player or had travelled with a glee club, to these three Northmen it seemed merely that here was the modish echo of a distant civilization.
“Wat’s de matter on your face?” said Poleon. “You been fightin’?”
“I ain’t shaved in a long time, and this here excitement has kind of shattered my nerves. I didn’t have no lookin’-glass, neither, in my shack, so I had to use a lard-can cover. Does it look bad?”
“Not to my way of thinkin’,” said Gale, allaying “No Creek’s” anxiety. “It’s more desp’rate than bad, but it sort of adds expression.” At which the miner’s pride burst bounds.
“I’ll kindly ask you to note the shirt–ten dollars a copy, that’s all! I got it from the little Jew down yon. der. See them red spear- heads on the boosum? ‘Flower dee Lizzies,’ which means ‘calla lilies’ in French. Every one of ’em cost me four bits. On the level- -how am I?”
“I never see no harness jus’ lak it mese’f!” exclaimed Doret. “You look good ‘nough for tin-horn gambler. Say, don’ you wear no necktie wit’ dem kin’ of clothes?”
“No, sir! Not me. I’m a rude, rough miner, and I dress the part. Low-cut, blushin’ shoes and straw hats I can stand for, likewise collars–they go hand-in-hand with pay-streaks; but a necktie ain’t neither wore for warmth nor protection; it’s a pomp and a vanity, and I’m a plain man without conceit. Now, let’s proceed with the obsequies.”
It was a very simple, unpretentious ceremony that took place inside the long, low house of logs, and yet it was a wonderful thing to the dark, shy maid who hearkened so breathlessly beside the man she had singled out–the clean-cut man in uniform, who stood so straight and tall, making response in a voice that had neither fear nor weakness in it. When they had done he turned and took her reverently in his arms and kissed her before them all; then she went and stood beside Gale and the red wife who was no wife, and said, simply:
“I am very happy.”
The old man stooped, and for the first time in her memory pressed his lips to hers, then went out into the sunlight, where he might be alone with himself and the memory of that other Merridy, the woman who, to him, was more than all the women of the world; the woman who, each day and night, came to him, and with whom he had kept faith. The burden she had laid upon him had been heavy, but he had borne it long and uncomplainingly; and now he was very glad, for he had kept his covenant.
The first word of the wedding was borne by Father Barnum, who went alone to the cabin where the girl’s father lay, entering with trepidation; for, in spite of the pleas of justice and humanity, this stony-hearted, amply hated man had certain rights which he might choose to enforce; hence, the good priest feared for the peace of his little charge, and approached the stricken man with apprehension. He was there a long time alone with Stark, and when he returned to Gale’s house he would answer no questions.
“He is a strange man–a wonderfully strange man: unrepentant and wicked; but I can’t tell you what he said. Have a little patience and you will soon know.”
The mail boat, which had arrived an hour after the Mission boat, was ready to continue its run when, just as it blew a warning blast, down the street of the camp came a procession so strange for this land that men stopped, eyed it curiously, and whispered among themselves. It was a blanketed man upon a stretcher, carried by a doctor and a priest. The face was muffled so that the idlers could not make it out; and when they inquired, they received no answer from the carriers, who pursued their course impassively down the runway to the water’s edge and up the gang-plank to the deck. When the boat had gone, and the last faint cough of its towering stacks had died away, Father Barnum turned to his friends:
“He has gone away, not for a day, but for all time. He is a strange man, and some things he said I could not understand. At first I feared greatly, for when I told him what had occurred–of Necia’s return and of her marriage–he became so enraged I thought he would burst open his wounds and die from his very fury; but I talked a long, long time with him, and gradually I came to know somewhat of his queer, disordered soul. He could not bring himself to face defeat in the eyes of men, or to see the knowledge of it in their bearing; therefore, he fled. He told me that he would be a hunted animal all his life; that the news of his whipping would travel ahead of him; and that his enemies would search him out to take advantage of him. This I could not grasp, but it seemed a big thing in his eyes–so big that he wept. He said the only decent thing he could or would do was to leave the daughter he had never known to that happiness he had never experienced, and wished me to tell her that she was very much like her mother, who was the best woman in the world.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE CALL OF THE OREADS
There was mingled rejoicing and lamentation in the household of John Gale this afternoon. Molly and Johnny were in the throes of an overwhelming sorrow, the noise of which might be heard from the barracks to the Indian village. They were sparing of tears as a rule, but when they did give way to woe they published it abroad, yelling with utter abandon, their black eyes puckered up, their mouths distended into squares, from which came such a measure of sound as to rack the ears and burden the air heavily with sadness. Poleon was going away! Their own particular Poleon! Something was badly askew in the general scheme of affairs to permit of such a thing, and they manifested their grief so loudly that Burrell, who knew nothing of Doret’s intention, sought them out and tried to ascertain the cause of it. They had found the French-Canadian at the river with their father, loading his canoe, and they had asked him whither he fared. When the meaning of his words struck home they looked at each other in dismay, then, bred as they were to mask emotion, they joined hands and trudged silently back up the bank with filling eyes and chins a-quiver until they gained the rear of the house. Here they sat down all forlorn, and began to weep bitterly and in an ascending crescendo.
“What’s the matter with you tikes, anyhow?” inquired the Lieutenant. He had always filled them with a speechless awe, and at his unexpected appearance they began the slow and painful process of swallowing their grief. He was a nice man, they had both agreed long ago, and very splendid to the eye, but he was nothing like Poleon, who was one of them, only somewhat bigger.
“Come, now! Tell me all about it,” the soldier insisted. “Has something happened to the three-legged puppy?”
Molly denied the occurrence of any such catastrophe.
“Then you’ve lost the little shiny rifle that shoots with air?” But Johnny dispelled this horrible suspicion by drawing the formidable weapon out of the grass behind him.
“Well, there isn’t anything else bad enough to cause all this outlay of anguish. Can’t I help you out?”
“Poleon!” they wailed, in unison.
“Exactly! What about him?”
“He’s goin’ away!” said Johnny.
“He’s goin’ away!” echoed Molly.
“Now, that’s too bad, of course,” the young man assented; “but think what nice things he’ll bring you when he comes back.”
“He ain’t comin’ back!” announced the heir, with the tone that conveys a sorrow unspeakable.
“He ain’t comin’ back!” wailed the little girl, and, being a woman, yielded again to her weakness, unashamed.
Burrell tried to extract a more detailed explanation, but this was as far as their knowledge ran. So he sought out the Canadian, and found him with Gale in the store, a scanty pile of food and ammunition on the counter between them.
“Poleon,” said he, “you’re not going away?”
“Yes,” said Doret. “I’m takin’ li’l’ trip.”
“But when are you coming back?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Dat’s hard t’ing for tellin’. I’m res’less in my heart, so I’m goin’ travel some. I ain’ never pass on de back trail yet, so I ‘spect I keep goin’.”
“Oh, but you can’t!” cried Burrell. “I–I–” He paused awkwardly, while down the breeze came the lament of the two little Gales. “Well, I feel just as they do.” He motioned in the direction of the sound. “I wanted you for a friend, Doret; I hate to lose you.”
“I ain’ never got my satisfy yet, so I’m pass on–all de tam’ pass on. Mebbe dis trip I fin’ de place.”
“I’m sorry–because–well, I’m a selfish sort of cuss–and–” Burrell pulled up blushingly, with a strong man’s display of shame at his own emotion. “I owe all my happiness to you, old man. I can’t thank you–neither of us can–we shall never live long enough for that, but you mustn’t go without knowing that I feel more than I’ll ever have words to say.”
He was making it very hard for the Frenchman, whose heart was aching already with a dull, unending pain. Poleon had hoped to get away quietly; his heart was too heavy to let him face Necia or this man, and run the risk of their reading his secret, so a plaintive wrinkle gathered between his eyes that grew into a smile. And then, as if he were not tried sufficiently, the girl herself came flying in.
“What’s this I hear?” she cried. “Alluna tells me–” She saw the telltale pile on the counter, and her face grew white. “Then it’s true! Oh, Poleon!”
He smiled, and spoke cheerily. “Yes, I been t’inkin’ ’bout dis trip long tam’.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Wal, if I fin’ dat new place w’at I’m lookin’ for I don’ never come back. You people was good frien’ to me, but I’m kin’ of shif’less feller, you know. Mebbe I forget all ’bout Flambeau, an’ stop on my ‘New Countree’–you never can tol’ w’at dose Franchemans goin’ do.”
“It’s the wander-lust,” murmured Burrell to himself; “he’ll never rest.”
“What a child you are!” cried Necia, half angrily. “Can’t you conquer that roving spirit and settle down like a man?” She laid her hand on his arm appealingly. “Haven’t I told you there isn’t any ‘far country’? Haven’t I told you that this path leads only to hardship and suffering and danger? The land you are looking for is there”–she touched his breast–“so why don’t you stay in Flambeau and let us help you to find it?”
He was deeply grateful for her blindness, and yet it hurt him so that his great heart was nigh to bursting. Why couldn’t she see the endless, hopeless yearning that consumed him, and know that if he stayed in sight and touch of her it would be like a living death? Perhaps, then, she would have given over urging him to do what he longed to do, and let him go on that search he knew was hopeless, and in which he had no joy. But she did not see; she would never see. He laughed aloud, for all the world as if the sun were bright and the fret for adventure were still keen in him, then, picking up his bundle, said:
“Dere’s no use argue wit’ Canayen man. Mebbe some day I come paddle back roun’ de ben’ down yonder, an’ you hear me singin’ dose chanson; but now de day she’s too fine, de river she’s laugh too loud, an’ de birds she’s sing too purty for Francheman to stop on shore. Ba gosh, I’m glad!” He began to hum, and they heard him singing all the way down to the river-bank, as if the spirit of Youth and Hope and Gladness were not dead within him.
“Chante, rossignal, chante!
Toi qui a le coeur gai;
Tu as le coeur a rire
Mai j’ l’ ai-ta pleurer,
Il y a longtemps que j’ t’aime
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.”
[Footnote: “Sing, little bird, oh, sing away! You with the voice so light and gay! Yours is a heart that laughter cheers, Mine is a heart that’s full of tears. Long have I loved, I love her yet; Leave her I can, but not forget.”]
A moment later they heard him expostulating with some one at the water’s edge, and then a child’s treble rose on high.
“No, no! I’m goin’, too! I’m goin’, too-o-o-o–“
“Hey! John Gale!” called Poleon. “Come ‘ere! Ba gosh! You better horry, too! I can’t hol’ dis feller long.”
When they appeared on the bank above him, he continued, “Look ‘ere w’at I fin’ on my batteau,” and held up the wriggling form of Johnny Gale. “He’s stow hisse’f away onder dem blanket. Sacre”! He’s bad feller, dis man–don’ pay for hees ticket at all; he’s reg’lar toff mug.”
“I want to go ‘long!” yelled the incorrigible stow-away. He had brought his gun with him, and this weapon, peeping forth from under Poleon’s blanket, had betrayed him. “I want to go ‘long!” shrieked the little man “I like you best of all!” At which Doret took him in his arms and hugged him fiercely.
“Wal, I guess you don’ t’ink ’bout dem beeg black bear at night, eh?” But this only awoke a keener distress in the junior Gale.
“Oh, maybe de bear will get you, Poleon! Let me go long, and I’ll keep dem off. Two men is better dan one–please, Poleon!”
It took the efforts of Necia and the trader combined to tear the lad from the Frenchman, and even then the foul deed was accomplished only at the cost of such wild acclaim and evidence of undying sorrow that little Molly came hurrying from the house, her round face stained and tearful, her mouth an inverted crescent. She had gone to the lame puppy for comfort, and now strangled him absent-mindedly in her arms, clutching him to her breast so tightly that his tongue lolled out and his three legs protruded stiffly, pawing an aimless pantomime. When Johnny found that no hope remained, he quelled his demonstrations of emotion and, as befitted a stout-hearted gentleman of the woods, bore a final present to his friend. He took the little air-gun and gave it into Poleon’s hands against that black night when the bears would come, and no man ever made a greater sacrifice. Doret picked him up by the elbows and kissed him again and again, then set him down gently, at which Molly scrambled forward, and without word or presentation speech gave him her heart’s first treasure. She held out the three-legged puppy, for a gun and a dog should ever go together; then, being of the womankind aforesaid, she began to cry as she kissed her pet good-bye on its cold, wet nose.
“Wat’s dis?” said Poleon, and his voice quavered, for these childish fingers tore at his heart-strings terribly.
“He’s a very brave doggie,” said the little girl. “He will scare de bears away!” And then she became dissolved in tears at the anguish her offering cost her.
Doret caressed her as he had her brother, then placed the puppy carefully upon the blankets in the canoe, where it wagged a grateful and amiable stump at him and regained its breath. It was the highest proof of Molly’s affection for her Poleon that she kept her tear- dimmed eyes fixed upon the dog as long as it was visible.
The time had come for the last good-bye–that awkward moment when human hearts are full and spoken words are empty. Burrell gripped the Frenchman’s hand. He was grateful, but he did not know.
“Good-luck and better hunting!” he said. “A heavy purse and a light heart for you always, Poleon. I have learned to love you.”
“I want you to be good husban’, M’sieu’. Dat’s de bes’ t’ing I can wish for you.”
Gale spoke to him in patois, and all he said was:
“May you not forget, my son.”
They did not look into each other’s eyes; there was no need. The old man stooped, and, taking both his children by the hand, walked slowly towards the house.
“Dis tam’ I’ll fin’ it for sure,” smiled Poleon to Necia.
Her eyes were shining through the tears, and she whispered, fervently:
“I hope so, brother. God love you–always.”
It was grief at losing a playmate, a dear and well-beloved companion. He knew it well, and he was glad now that he had never said a word of love to her. It added to his pain, but it lightened hers, and that had ever been his wish. He gazed on her for a long moment, taking in that blessed image which would ever live with him- -in his eyes was the light of a love as pure and clean as ever any maid had seen, and in his heart a sorrow that would never cease.
“Good-bye, li’l’ gal,” he said, then dropped her hand and entered his canoe. With one great stroke he drove it out and into the flood, then headed away towards the mists and colors of the distant hills, where the Oreads were calling to him. He turned for one last look, and flung his paddle high; then, fearing lest they might see the tears that came at last unhindered, he began to sing:
“Chante, rossignol, chante!
Toi qui a le coeur gai;
Tu as le coeur a rire
Mai j’ l’ ai-t-a pleurer.”
He sang long and lustily, keeping time to the dip of his flashing paddle and defying his bursting heart. After all, was he not a voyageur, and life but a song and a tear, and then a dream or two?
“I wish I might have known him better,” sighed Meade Burrell, as he watched the receding form of the boatman.
“You would have loved him as we do,” said Necia, “and you would have missed him as we will.”
“I hope some time he will be happy.”
“As happy as you, my soldier?”
“Yes; but that he can never be,” said her husband; “for no man could love as I love you.”
“Yours is a heart that laughter cheers, Mine is a heart that’s full of tears. Long have I loved, I love her yet;
Leave her I can, but not forget–“
came the voice of the singer far down the stream. And thus Poleon of the Great Heart went away.
THE END