Part 33 (1/2)

”They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed as Polly's aunts.”

”And the Star Pack-train?”

”A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all.”

”So you're in partners.h.i.+p?”

”Why, no. Fact is, old Pete has been working thirty-five years, with his faithful eyes s.h.i.+ning behind that hair--it's silver now, eh? Well, I couldn't leave him in the lurch. And there's the Hudson's Bay to consider, with forts up north depending on us for supplies. And I suppose, when I come to think of it, I'm rather proud of the outfit.

So, in my sentimental way, I made a deed by which Pete is managing owner, with a half-interest, while Polly is sleeping partner with no right to interfere.”

”You've told Pete?”

”No. I suppose I've got to own up?”

”You don't want Pete to be cheated by his partners.”

”You're right. Just open my desk and look inside. It's the paper on top.”

I found and read the deed.

”You've read it, of course,” I said.

”It was read to me by the lawyer chap. Isn't it all right?”

”Oh, yes,” I managed to say, ”it's all right--such funny legal jargon.”

I looked at the names of the witnesses, Cultus McTavish and Low-lived Joe, the worst characters in our district. The doc.u.ment read to the old blind man had been no doubt destroyed. The deed actually signed made Polly sole owner of the famous pack-train. My friend had been cheated.

CHAPTER V

THE CARGADOR

_Kate's Narrative_

It was sixty degrees below zero. The moonlight lay in silver on the pines, the hundred-and-four-mile cabin, deep buried among the drifts, glittered along the eaves with icicles, the smoke went up into the hush of death, and the light in the frosted window would glow till nearly dawn.

Within, Pete sat upon his s.h.i.+ny bench, rolling waxed end upon his s.h.i.+ny knee, and tautened his double st.i.tches through the night, scarcely feeling the need of sleep. His new _aparejos_, stacked as they were finished, had gradually crowded poor Mrs. Pete into her last stronghold, the corner between the wood-box and the bunk. Fiercely she resented the filling of her only room with harness, of her bunk with sc.r.a.p leather, which scratched her, she said. Wedged into her last corner, she would patch disgraceful old socks, while Pete at his sewing crooned _One More River_, or some indecent ballad of the gold mines.

”Mother,” Pete would look up from his bench. ”You mind when I brung her here right to this very cabin, with Father Jared, and the Baby, David?”

”What makes you hover, Pete?”

”D'ye mind Baby David?”

”Didn't I nurse him?” said the old woman softly. ”He'd red hair like his stuck-up mother, blue eyes same as Jesse, and a birthmark on his off kidney. Now, did you ask her about that birthmark?”

”I told her,” said Pete, ”that a suspicious female, with a face like a grebe and an inquirin' mind is wishful to inspeck Dave's kidneys.”

Mother wagged her head. ”I own I'd like to believe Kate Smith is back in this country, but you're such a continuous and enduring liar.”