Part 13 (1/2)
Camillo Bill motioned the three to a small table, and when they were seated he ordered the drinks: ”We got a job to do,” he announced, plunging straight into his subject, ”An' we got to do it thorough.”
”Meanin' which?” asked Bettles.
”Meanin' to kidnap a man, an' hide him out fer a year, an' make him work like h.e.l.l every minute he ain't sleepin' or eatin'.”
”That sounds like a h.e.l.l of a contrack,” opined Swift.w.a.ter Bill. ”Who's goin' to keep him workin', an' what at, an' what for?”
”For the good of his soul,” grinned Camillo, ”The spark of a man's there yet--an' a d.a.m.n good man. But if we all don't git down an' blow like h.e.l.l the spark's goin' out.”
”Clear as mulligan,” grinned Moosehide Charlie.
Camillo Bill looked into the faces of his companions: ”Anyone saw Ace-In-The-Hole, lately?” he asked.
Bettles shook his head, and Swift.w.a.ter Bill spoke up: ”I seen him about a month ago--bought him a drink. He's on the toboggan.”
Moosehide Charlie broke in: ”I ain't seen him since spring when he saved me from gettin' doped in Cuter Malone's. Cuter floored him with a bottle an' Kitty an' I got him home an' she looked after him till he got better. I give her a sack of dust to give him, but he wouldn't take it--throw'd it out in the snow, an' Kitty dug it out an' brung it back.
If you all is figgerin' on gettin' up a stake fer him, let me in I'll go as high as the next.”
Camillo Bill shook his head: ”Nothin' doin' on the stake stuff. He wouldn't take it, an' if he did it would be the worst thing we could do to him. He'd blow it all in fer hooch. I went over to his cabin just now to turn back his claims. I've took out my million, an' only worked one of 'em. An' it ain't worked half out. They must be two or three million in 'em yet. Kitty told me the hooch had got him right--but she didn't tell it strong enough. He's in a h.e.l.l of a shape, an' thinks he's as good a man as he ever was. He's dirty, an' ragged, an' bloated with hooch an' broke--an' yet, by G.o.d--he's a man! When I seen how things was, I decided not to say anything about the claims because if he got holt of 'em now, he'd blow 'em in as fast as he could get out the dust.
But, after a while he asked me, an' I told him they'd petered out. He never batted an eye, but he says, 'Did you get out your million?
'Cause,' he says, 'if you didn't just tell me how much you're shy, an'
I'll make it good!' He thinks he's goin' somewhere over beyond the Mackenzie when the snow comes--but, h.e.l.l--he ain't in no shape to go nowheres. What we got to do is jest na'ch.e.l.ly steal him, an' put him in a cabin somewheres way out in the hills, an' hire a couple of guards for him, an' keep him workin' for a whole d.a.m.n year. It'll nearly kill him at first, but it'll put him back where he was, if it don't kill him--an'
if it does, it's better to die workin' than to freeze to death drunk like McMann did.”
”I got the place to put him,” said Swift.w.a.ter, ”The claim's no good, but it's way to h.e.l.l an' gone from here, an' there's a cabin on it.”
”Just the ticket,” agreed Camillo.
”We better send out quite a bunch of hooch. So he can kind of taper off,” suggested Moosehide Charlie.
”Taper--h.e.l.l!” cried Bettles, ”If you taper off, you taper on agin. I know. The way to quit is to quit.”
”We'll figger that out,” laughed Camillo, ”The best way is to ask the doc. I'll tend to that, an' I'll get a guard hired, an' see about grub an' tools and stuff. We'll meet here a week from tonight an' pull the deal off, an' Swift.w.a.ter he can go along fer guide--only you don't want to let him see you. I'll get guards that he don't know, an' that don't know him. We'll have to pay 'em pretty good, but it's worth it.”
Old Bettles nodded: ”He was a d.a.m.n good man, onct.”
”An' he'll be agin'!” exclaimed Camillo, ”If he lives through it. His heart's right.”
And so they parted, little thinking that when they would gather for the carrying out of their scheme, Brent would have disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.
CHAPTER IX
SNOWDRIFT RETURNS TO THE BAND
As Snowdrift plodded mile after mile, in her flight from the mission, her brain busied itself with her problem, and the first night beside her little campfire she laid her plans for the future. In her heart was no bitterness against old Wananebish--only compa.s.sion that resolved itself into an intense loyalty and a determination to stay with her and to lighten the burden that the years were heaping upon her. For she knew of the old woman's intense love for her, and the hards.h.i.+ps she willingly endured to keep her in school at the mission. The blame was the white man's blame--the blame of the man who was her father.
Her face burned hot and her eyes flashed as her hatred of white men grew upon her. Gladly would she have opened her veins and let out the last drop of white blood that coursed the length of them. At least she could renounce the white man's ways--his teachings, and his very language.
From now on she was Indian--and yet, again came that fleeting, elusive _memory_--always, ever since she had been a little girl there had been the _memory_, and when it came she would close her eyes, and press her hands to her head and try and try in vain to grasp it--to bring the picture clean-cut to her mind. Then the _memory_ would fade away--but it would return again, in a month--a year--always it would return--a log cabin--wind-tossed waters--a beautiful white woman who held her close--a big man with a beard upon his face like McTavish, the factor. At first she had told Wananebish of the _memory_, but she had laughed and said that it was the wives of the different factors and traders at the posts who were wont to make much of the little girl when the band came to trade. The explanation never quite satisfied Snowdrift, but she accepted it for want of a better. Was it a flash of memory from another existence? There was the book she had borrowed from Father Ambrose, the peculiar book that she did not understand, and that Father Ambrose said he did not understand, and did not want to understand, for it was all about some heathenish doctrine. She wondered if it could not be possible that people lived over and over again, as the book said, and if so, why couldn't they remember? Maybe last time she had been a white girl, and this time she was a half-breed, and the next time she would be an Indian--she wouldn't wait till next time! She was an Indian now. She hated the white men.