CHAPTER II
THE PASSING OF A DREAM
Steve and his wife were in the parlour of their little home. It was thehome which Steve had had built to replace his bachelor shanty, and whichtogether they had watched grow, and over the furnishing of which theyhad spent hours of profound thought and happy discussions.
The office was entirely separate, that is, it had its own entrance doorand no communication with the rest. The private quarters consisted ofthree rooms. The parlour, a bedroom for Steve and Nita, and, leading outof the latter, a small apartment sacred to the tiny atom of humanitywhich they had christened Coqueline, and whom the man, from the momenthis eyes had been permitted to gaze upon her, some fifteen monthsearlier, regarded as the most perfect, wonderful, priceless treasure inthe world. Beyond this, a simple lean-to kitchen provided all theyneeded for their creature comfort.
It was all characteristic of the Northern world. The walls were oflateral logs, and the roof was of a similar material, while the entireinterior was lined with red pine match-boarding. It was strong, andsquare, and proof against the fiercest storm that ever blew off theArctic ice, which was all sufficient in a country where endurance wasman's chief concern.
Nita was seated in the rocking-chair which Steve had set ready for herbeside the stove, whose warmth was welcome enough even on a summernight. She was sipping a cup of steaming coffee which he had alsoprepared. But there was nothing of the smiling delight in her eyes whichthe memory of her evening's entertainment should have left there.
The man himself was standing. He was propped against the square tableunder the window. He was smoking, and watching the girl wife he idolizedas she silently munched the slice of layer cake which he had passed her.He was wondering if the long-expected, and long-feared moment of crisisin their brief married life had arrived. He had watched its approach forweeks. And he knew that sooner or later it must be faced. He was eveninclined to force it now, for such was his way. Trouble was in her eyes,and he felt certain of its nature. Nita was not made of the stuff thatcould withstand the grind of the dour life of the Northland which heloved.
They had been married about three years and Nita had as yet spoken noactual word of complaint. But the complaint was there at the back of herpretty eyes. It had been there for months now. Steve had watched itgrow. And its growth had been rapid enough with the passing of the firstmonths of the delirious happiness which had been theirs, and which hadculminated in the precious arrival of their little daughter Coqueline.
"Guess you must have had a real good time," Steve said, by way ofbreaking the prolonged silence.
For reply the girl only nodded.
The contrast between them was strongly marked. Nita waspretty--extremely pretty, and looked as out of place in this land shewas native to as Steve looked surely a part of it. But her charm was ofthat purely physical type which gains nothing from within. Her eyeswere wide, child-like, and of a deep violet. Her hair was fair andsoftly wavy. Her colouring had all the delicacy which suggested thelaying on by an artist's brush, and which no storm or sun seemed to havepower to destroy. Her slight figure possessed all those perfect contourswhich are completely irresistible in early youth. Furthermore thesethings were supported to the utmost by the party frock she was wearing,and over which she had spent weeks of precious thought and labour.
Steve was of the trail. Face and body were beaten hard with the endlessstruggle of it all. His rough clothing, which had no relation to thesmart Inspector's uniform he was entitled to wear, bore witness to thelife that claimed him. His only claim to distinction was the sanity andstrength that looked out of his steady grey eyes, the firmness anddecision of his clean-shaven lips, and his broad, sturdy body with itsmuscles of iron.
"You'll be tired, too," he went on kindly. "You'd best get to bed whenyou've had a warm. I'll fix the chores."
He moved from his position at the table, and, passing out into thelean-to kitchen, returned a moment later with a small saucepan which heplaced on the shining top of the stove.
"Mrs. Ross seems to figure it was all sorts of a swell party," he wenton. "She guesses the boys must have worried themselves to death fixingAbe's saloon so it didn't look like--Abe's saloon."
The man's smile was gently humorous. For once he had not the courage topursue the downright course which his nature prompted. Little Coquelinewas foremost in his thoughts. Then there was the memory of all thehappiness his home meant to him, and he feared that which undueprecipitancy might bring about.
The girl looked up from the stove. Her eyes abandoned their intenseregard with seeming reluctance.
"It was all--wonderful. Just wonderful," she said in the tone of oneroused from a beautiful dream.
"Abe's saloon?"
Steve's incautious satire suddenly precipitated the crisis he feared.The girl's eyes flashed a hot look of resentment. He was laughing ather. She was in no mood to be made sport of, or to have her words madesport of. She sat up with a start and leant forward in her chair in anattitude that gave force to her sharp enquiry.
"And why not?" she demanded, her violet eyes darkening under the frownof swift anger which drew her pretty brows together. "Why not Abe'ssaloon, or--or any other place?" She set her coffee cup on the floorwith a clatter, and her hands clasped the arms of her chair as thoughshe were about to spring to her feet. "Yes," she continued, withincreasing heat, "why not Abe's saloon? It's not the place. It's not thefolk, even. Those things don't matter. It's the thing itself. The wholething. The glimpse of life when you're condemned to existence on thisfierce outworld. It's the meaning of it. A dance. It doesn't sound much.Maybe it doesn't mean a thing to you but something to laugh at, or tosneer at. It's different to me, and to other folks, who--who aren'tcrazy for the long trail and the terrible country we're buried in. Thedecorations. The flags. Yes, the cheap Turkey red, and the fiddler'smusic--a half-breed fiddler--and the music of a pianist who spends mostof his time getting sober. The folks who are all different from what wesee them every day. Tough, hard-living, hard-swearing men all hidden upin their Sunday suits, and handing you ceremony as if you were somequeen. Then the sense of pleasure in every heart, with all the cares andtroubles of life pushed into the background--at least for a while. Thesethings are a glimpse of life to us poor folk who spend all our years inthe endless chores of an inhospitable country. You can smile, Steve. Youcan sneer at Abe's saloon. But I tell you you haven't a right to justbecause these things don't mean a thing to you. There's nothing meansanything to you but your work----"
"And my wife, and my kiddie, and my--home."
The man's deep voice broke in sharply upon the light, strident tones ofthe angry girl. He spoke while he stirred the contents of the saucepanhe had placed on the stove. But the interruption only seemed to add fuelto the girl's volcanic flood of bitter feeling. A laugh was the promptretort he received.
"Your wife. Oh, yes, I know. You'd have her around all the time in herhome, slaving at the chores that would break the spirit of a galleyslave. Oh, it's no use pretending. It's got to come out. It's here," sherushed on, pressing her hands hysterically against her softly roundedbosom. "The dream is past. All dreams are past. I'm awake now--to this,"she indicated the room about her, simple almost to bareness in itsfurnishing, with a gesture of indescribable feeling. "It's all I've gotto waken to. All I've got to look forward to. I've tried to tell myselfthere's a good time coming, when I can peer into the great light world,and snatch something of the joy of it all. I've tried, I've tried. Butthere isn't. It's the cold drear of this northland. It's chores fromdaylight to dark, and all the best years of life hurrying behind me asif they were yearning to make me old before I can get a chance to--live.I'm sick thinking. Show me. What is there? You're an Inspector, and weget a thousand dollars a year, and the rations we draw from the IndianAgency. You'll never get a Superintendent. You've no political pull,shut off up here well nigh in sight of the Arctic ice. I'm twenty-twowith years and years of it before me, and all the time I'll need to goon counting up my cents
how I can get through till next pay-day comesaround. Don't talk to me of your wife."
The injustice of the girl's unreasoning complaint was staggering. But itsmote the heart of the man no less for that. Whatever his inwardfeelings, however, outwardly he gave no sign. He did not even raise hiseyes from the saucepan he was stirring with so much deliberation andcare.
"You're wrong, little girl," he said with quiet emphasis, and withoutone shadow of the emotion that was stirring behind the words. "You'redead wrong. You've got all those things before you. The things you'recrazy for. And when they come along I guess they'll be all the sweeterfor the waiting, all the better for the round of chores you're hatingnow, all the more welcome for the figgering you need to do now with thecents we get each month. You don't know how I stand with Ottawa. I do.There's just two years between me and the promotion you reckon I can'tget. That's not a long time. Then we move to a big post where you canget all the dancing you need, and that won't be in Abe's saloon. Youknow that when my old father goes--and I'm not yearning for him togo--he'll pass me all he has, which is fifty thousand dollars and hisswell farm in Ontario."
He paused and dipped out some of the contents of the saucepan in thespoon he was stirring it with. He tested its temperature. Then he wenton with his preparations.
"Is there a reasonable kick coming to any woman in those things?" hedemanded. "You knew most of what I'm telling you now when you guessedyou loved me enough to marry me, and to help me along the road I'dmarked out. Have I done a thing less than I promised?" he went onpassing back to the table and picking up the glass bottle lying there,and removing its top. "If I have just tell me, and I'll do all Iknow--" He shook his head. "It's all unreasonable. Maybe you're tired.Maybe----"
"It isn't unreasonable," Nita cried sharply. "That's how men always sayto a woman when they can't understand. I tell you I'm sick with thehopelessness of it all. You aren't sure of your promotion. You haven'tgot it yet. And maybe your father will live another twenty years. Oh,God, to think of another twenty years of this. Do you know you're awayfrom home nine months out of twelve? Do you know that more than half mytime I spend guessing if you're alive or dead? And all the time thegrind of the work. The same thing day after day without relief." Shewatched the man as he poured the contents of the saucepan into thebottle, and her eyes were hot with the state of hysterical anger she hadworked herself into. "Oh," she cried with a helpless, despairinggesture, as Steve returned the saucepan to the table. "I'm sick of itall. I hate it all, when I think of what life could be. The thought ofit drives me mad. I hate everything. I hate myself. I hate----"
"Stop it!"
Steve thrust the stopper into the neck of the bottle. He had turned. Hissteady eyes were sternly compelling. They were shining with a light Nitahad never witnessed in them before. She suddenly became afraid. And hersilence was instant and complete. She sat breathlessly waiting.
"I've done with this fool talk," Steve cried almost roughly. "I'velistened to too much already. I'm not figgering to let you break thingsbetween us. There's more than you and me in it. There's that poorlittle kiddie in the other room. Say, I've seen this coming. I've seenit coming--weeks. I've seen a whole heap that hurts a man that loves hiswife, and guesses he wants to see her happy. I've seen what isn't goodfor a father to see, either. You've told me the things you guess youfeel, and now I'm going to tell you the things I feel. You reckon thethings I say about your good time coming are hot air. They're not. Butyou've got to get fool notions out of your head, and work for the thingsyou want, the same as I reckon to. I'm out to make good--for you.Understand, for you, and for little Coqueline. I'm out to make good withall that's in me. And it don't matter a curse to me if all hell freezesover, I'm going to make good. Get that, and get it good. It's a sort oflife-line that ought to make things easy for you. There's just one thingthat can break my play, Nita. Only one. It's your weakening. It's up tome to see you don't weaken. You need to take hold of the notion we'repartners in this thing. And don't forget I'm senior partner, and my wordgoes. Just now my word is kind of simple. If you don't feel likecarrying on for me, you need to remember there's our little Coqueline.She's part of you. She's part of me. And she's got a claim on you thatno human law can ever rob her of. Well, the proposition between us hastwo sides. My side means the trail, and the job that's mine. I need toface it with a clear head, and an easy mind. My side means I got to getbusy with every nerve in my body to get you an ultimate good time, andsee you get all you need to make you good an' happy. That's the onepurpose I dream about. Maybe your side's different. But I don't guessit's any easier. You've got to wait around till those things come along.But you've got more to do than that. You've got to play this old gameright. Your work's by this home. It don't matter if it's winter orsummer, if it's storming or sunshine. You've got to do the chores you'reguessing you hate, and you need to do them right, and willingly. We'reman and wife. And these chores are yours by all the laws of God, and theNature that made you the mother of our little Coqueline. You've got tocut this crazy notion for fool pleasures right out, till the pleasuretime comes around. That time isn't yet. The woman who lets her child andher home suffer for joy notions isn't worth the room she'll take in helllater. Well, see and get busy, and let's have no more fool talk andcrazy notions. Here, take this," he went on, in his deliberate, forcefulway, thrusting the baby's feeding bottle into the girl's hands. "That'sthe kiddie's feed. Guess I fixed it because--well, maybe because you'retired. Take it to her. Give it to her. And, as long as you live don'tyou ever forget she's the right to your love, and to my love, and everydarn thing we know to make things right for her."
The force of the man was irresistible. It was something the girl hadnever witnessed before. She had only known the husband, devoted, gentle,almost yielding in his great love. The man that had finished talking nowwas the man Julyman regarded above all others.
Nita took the bottle thrust into her hands, and, without a word, sherose from her chair and passed into the bedroom which the baby's roomadjoined.
Steve watched her go. His hungry eyes followed her every movement. Hisheart was torn by conflicting emotions. His love told him that he hadbeen harsh almost to brutality, but his sense warned him he had takenthe only course which could hope to achieve the peace and happinesswhich was Nita's right as well as his own.
He had meant to fight for these things as he would fight on the trailagainst the forces of Nature seeking to overwhelm him. He would yieldnothing. For all his words had cost him he was conscious of therightness of the course he had taken. But he was fighting a battle inwhich forces were arrayed against him of which he was wholly unaware.
As Nita passed into the bedroom the sound of footsteps outside broke thesilence of the room. A moment later he turned in response to a knock onhis door.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Steve was seated at the desk in his office. He was inthe company of Major Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent. The Corporal,from Reindeer, was already rolled up in the blankets which were spreadout in the corner of the room. His work had been accomplished. He wasphysically weary. And, judging by the sound of his regular breathing,Nature had claimed her own the moment his head had touched the carefullyfolded overcoat which served him for a pillow.
The bare severity of the room was uninviting. There was little displayin the work of the police. Utility and purpose was the keynote of theirlives and at the year's end the tally of work accomplished was the thingthat mattered.
Steve preferred to receive the Indian Agent in his office. Garstaing hadnever been an intimate of his. Their relations were official, and justsufficiently neighbourly for men who lived within two miles of eachother in a country where human companionship was at a premium.
The office table stood between them. The spare chair beyond the deskalways stood ready for a visitor, and Garstaing had accepted it. Stevehad moved the oil lamp on one side, that their view of each other mightbe uninterrupted.
They were both smok
ing, and Garstaing was doing the talking. At alltimes Steve preferred that his visitors should do most of the talking.
"I guessed I best come right along," he said, regarding the otherclosely. "You see, I'll be handin' out Treaty Money to the darn nechesto-morrow morning. It'll take me best part of the day." He removed thepipe from his rather wide mouth, and held it poised significantly. "Thisthing won't stand keeping. It's--murder. There's two of 'em, I guess.Traders. Marcel Brand and his partner, Cyrus Allshore. Those arethe names. Can't say I've heard of 'em before. Both of 'emdead--murdered--up there somewhere around the Unaga country. It's theIndians or Eskimo, whatever they are, who've done it."
"Yes."
Steve's gaze was directed searchingly at his visitor's good-lookingface. At the moment it almost seemed as if he were regarding the manrather than his mission. And Garstaing was a somewhat interestingpersonality. It should have been a pleasant personality, if looks wereany real indication. Garstaing was distinctly handsome. He was dark, andhis swift-moving dark eyes looked always to be ready to smile. Then hepossessed a superbly powerful body. But the threatened smile rarelymatured, and when it did it added nothing of a pleasant nature for thestudent of psychology.
In age the two men were well matched, but they had little else incommon. Garstaing's reputation, at least amongst men, was not a happyone. He was known to be a hard drinker. He was hot-headed andpleasure-loving. Furthermore he was given to an overbearing intolerance,in the indulgence of which his position as Indian Agent yielded him widescope.
He ruled the Indians with an iron hand, and for all the stories of hiscruelty and complete unscrupulousness which reached beyond the confinesof the reserve and the bitter hatred of the Indians he remained completemaster of the situation.
There was little enough which Steve had not heard of the unsavourinessof this man's administration. He by no means gave credence to all of it,but it was not without effect upon his personal attitude towards him.
"I'm not wise to your instructions," Garstaing went on as Steve offeredno further comment, "but mine are pretty clear, and they are straightfrom my Commissioner."
"I've to place myself entirely at your disposal."
Steve's reply came without any hesitation. His tone suggested unconcern.Garstaing's dark eyes snapped. Then they smiled their approval. It wasthat smile which added nothing pleasant to his personality.
"I guessed it was that way from the instructions they handed me," hesaid. Then he withdrew a bunch of papers from an inner pocket, andopened them, and selected a particular sheet. "Here it is," he said, andpromptly read out an extract from the letter. "'You will at once placeyourself in touch with the police in your district, and see that thewhole matter is investigated--forthwith.'"
He glanced up as he uttered the final word.
"You know what that means?" he enquired, searching the eyes that were soprofoundly observing him across the table.
Steve nodded.
"Sure."
"It means you'll have to make the Unaga country right away."
"Sure."
Again came Steve's monosyllabic agreement.
"It means one hell of a long trip," the Agent went on.
"Two years."
The simple finality of the police officer's reply left the otherspeechless for the moment. The tone of it amazed him. He had hastenedacross from the Agency directly he had received the Corporal's dispatch,not because he had to pay out Treaty Money in the morning, not becausethe whole matter would not keep even a week if necessary. Instantly onreading his instructions from the Indian Commissioner all thought of thecrime to be investigated had passed out of his mind. His thoughts hadflown to Steve Allenwood, and from him they had passed on to another. Avision of a sweet face with deep, violet eyes, and softly waving fairhair had leapt to his mind. Furthermore he still retained the sensationof a soft, warm hand which had been clasped within his under cover ofthe friendly fur robe as he drove the wagon back from the dance atDeadwater.
Two years. The man had spoken with as much indifference as if he hadbeen contemplating a trip of two days. Garstaing drew a deep breath,and, returning his pipe to his capacious mouth ignited a match over thelamp chimney and re-lit it. Then, with a quick, nervous movement hepicked up a separate bunch of the papers on the table before him andflung them across to his host.
"There you are," he cried, "that's the whole darn official story. Youbest keep it awhile, and read it. I got orders to hand you all you need.Indians, dog-team, rations. Any old thing you fancy. But--" he paused.His quick-moving eyes became suddenly still. They were gazing directlyinto those of the husband beyond the table. "You'll need to startout--right away."
Steve rose from his seat with a nod.
"I shall know when to start," he replied shortly.
Then he raised his arms above his head and stretched himself luxuriouslywhile Garstaing sat watching him, endeavouring to penetrate the man'stremendous barrier of reserve. But it remained impenetrable, and therewas nothing left for him but to comply with his host's tacit invitation.He, too, rose from his seat.
"You best take a copy of the story," he said, as Steve moved towards thedoor. "Anyway I'll need the original later."
He was talking because the other compelled him to talk. And because hehad that in his mind which made it impossible for him to remain silent.
Steve opened the door and peered out. The night was brilliantlystar-lit. Garstaing was close behind him.
"It's tough on you, Allenwood," he said in a tone intended to expresssympathy. "Two years. Gee!"
Steve's only reply was to move aside to let him pass out. It was asthough Garstaing's expression of sympathy had at last found a weaknessin his armour of reserve. His movement had been abrupt--startlinglyabrupt.
"So long," he said coldly.
Just for one moment their eyes met. Steve's were frigidly non-committal.There was neither friendliness nor dislike in them. There was no emotionwhatsoever. Garstaing's were questioning, searching, and full of animpulse that might have meant anything. But it was the police officerwho controlled the situation, and the headstrong, intolerant IndianAgent who was obeying. He passed out, and his "So long" came back to theman in the doorway as the night swallowed him up.
Steve moved back to the table. In his deliberate fashion he leant overthe lamp chimney and blew the light out. Then he passed out of the roomand closed the door gently. He paused for a moment outside, and stoodgazing in the direction which he knew Garstaing had taken. Presently heraised one hand and passed it across his broad forehead. It remainedfor a moment pressed against the skin, which had suddenly become coldlymoist. His fingers searched their way up through his abundant dark hair.It was a movement that expressed something like helpless bewilderment.
"Two years!" he muttered. "Two years!"
Then his arm dropped almost nervelessly to his side.