CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW BOARDER
Sam tied his team to a tree and walked to the door of the shack. Within those twenty paces he experienced a complete revulsion of feeling. Having cast the die, he enjoyed that wonderful lightness of heart that follows on a period of painful indecision.
"What the deuce!" he thought. "What a simpleton I am to worry myself blind! Whatever there is about Bela she doesn't exactly hate me. Why shouldn't I jolly her along? That's the best way to get square. Lord! I'm young. Why shouldn't I have my bit of fun?"
It was in this gay humour that he crossed the threshold. Within he saw a long oilcloth-covered table reaching across the room, with half a score of men sitting about it on boxes.
"Hey, fellows! Look who's here!" cried Mahooley.
A chorus of derisive welcome, more or less good-natured, greeted the new-comer.
"Why, if it ain't Sammy the stolen kid!"
"Can I believe my eyes!"
"There's pluck for you, boys!"
"You bet! Talk about walking up to the cannon's mouth!"
"Look out, Sam! The rope and the gag are ready!"
"Don't be askeared, kid, I'll pertect you from violence!"
Sam's new-found assurance was proof against their laughter.
"You fellows think you're funny, don't you?" he returned, grinning. "Believe me, your wit is second-hand!"
Mahooley stuck his head out of the back door. "Hey, Bela!" he cried. "Come look at the new boarder I brought you!"
The crowd fell silent, and every pair of eyes turned toward the door, filled with strong curiosity to see the meeting between these two. Sam felt the tension and his heart began to beat, but he stiffened his back and kept on smiling. Bela came in wearing her most unconcerned air. They were not going to get any change out of her!
"Hello, Bela!" cried Sam. "Can I have some supper?"
She looked him over coolly. "Sure," she said. "Sit down by Stiffy."
They roared with laughter at her manner. Sam laughed, too, to hide the discomfiture he privately felt. Sam took his allotted place. The laughter of the crowd was perfectly good-natured, except in the case of one man whom Sam marked.
Opposite him sat Joe Hagland. Joe stared at Sam offensively, and continued to laugh after the others had done. Sam affected not to notice him. To himself he said:
"I've got to fight Joe, big as he is. He stands in my way."
Outside in the canvas kitchen a little comedy was in progress all unknown to the boarders. Bela came back breathing quickly, and showing a red spot in either ivory cheek. Forgetting the supper, she began to dig in her dunnage bag.
Getting out a lace collar, she flew to the mirror to put it on. Her hair dissatisfied her, and she made it fluff out a little under the rich braid which crowned her brow. Finally, she ruthlessly tore a rose from her new hat and pinned it to her girdle as she had seen Jennie Mackall do.
She turned around to find old Mary Otter staring at her open-mouthed while the turnovers in the frying-pan sent up a cloud of blue smoke.
"The cakes are burning!" stormed Bela. "What's the matter with you? All that good grease! Do I pay you to spoil good food? You gone crazy, I think!"
"Somebody else crazy I think me," muttered the old woman, rescuing the frying-pan.
Bela's boarders were not a very perspicacious lot, but when she came in again to serve the dinner the dullest among them became aware of the change in her. The lace collar and the rose in her belt were significant enough, but there was more than that.
Before she had been merely the efficient hostess, friendly to all – but sexless. Now she was woman clear through; her eyes flashed with the consciousness of it, there was coquetry in every turn of her head, and a new grace in every movement of her body.
The effect on the company was not a happy one. The men lowered jealousy on Sam. The atmosphere became highly charged. Only Sam's eyes lighted with pleasure.
Sam, Bela pointedly ignored. It was on Joe that she bestowed all her smiles. No one present was deceived by her ruse excepting Joe himself, whose vanity was enormously inflated thereby. Sam's instinct told him that it was to himself her coquetry was addressed.
After the humiliations she had put upon him, it was deliciously flattering thus to see her in her own way suing for his favour. This made him feel like a man again. He was disposed to tease her.
"Hey, Bela!" he cried. "What kind of soup is this?"
"No kind," she retorted. "Jus' soup."
"The reason I asked, a fellow told me you made your soup out of muskrat-tails and goose-grass."
"I put the goose-grass in for you," said Bela.
Shouts of laughter here.
Bela lowered her head and whispered in Joe's ear. Joe guffawed with an insolent stare across at Sam. Sam smiled undisturbed, for the provoking glance which had accompanied the whisper had been for him. Joe had not seen that.
"What's next?" demanded Sam.
"Wait and see," said Bela.
"They say your toasted bull-bats are out o' sight."
"I save them for my regular boarders."
"Count me in!" cried Sam. "It was only the yarns of the poisonous food that kept me away before. Now I'm inoculated I don't care!"
Sam proceeded to higher flights of wit. The other men stared. This was a new aspect of the stiff-necked young teamster they had known. They did not relish it overmuch. None of them dared talk back to Bela in just this strain.
Meanwhile Bela scorned Sam outrageously. Beneath it he perceived subtle encouragement. She enjoyed the game as much as he did, and little he cared how the men were pleased. The choicest morsels found their way to Sam's plate.
Sam's eyes were giving away more than he knew. "You are my mark!" they flashed on Bela, while he teased her, and Bela's delighted, scornful eyes answered back: "Get me if you can!"
In the end Sam announced his intention of investigating the kitchen mysteries. Bela chased him back to his seat, belabouring his back soundly with a broom-handle. The company looked on a little scandalized. They knew by instinct the close connection between love and horse-play.
The party broke up early. Up to to-night every man had felt that he had an equal chance, but now Bela was making distinctions. As soon as they finished eating, they wandered outside to smoke and make common cause against the interloper. For their usual card-game they adjourned to Stiffy and Mahooley's.
Only Joe and Sam were left, one sitting on each side of the fire with that look in his eyes that girls know of determination not to be the first to leave.
Bela came and sat down between them with sewing. Her face expressed a calm disinterestedness now. The young men showed the strain of the situation each according to his nature. Joe glowered and ground his teeth, while Sam's eyes glittered, and the corners of his mouth turned up obstinately.
"The fool!" thought the latter. "To give me such an advantage. He can't hide how sore he is. I will entertain the lady."
"That's a great little team of mine! They keep me laughing all day with their ways. They're in love with each other. At night I picket Sambo, and Dinah just sticks around. Well, the other night Sambo stole some of her oats when she wasn't looking, and she was sore. She didn't say anything, but waited till he went to sleep, then she stole off and hid behind the willows.
"Well, say, when he woke up there was a deuce of a time! He ran around that stake about a hundred times a minute, squealing like a pig at the sight of the knife. Miss Dinah, she heard him all right, but she just stayed behind the willows laughing.
"After a time she came walking back real slow, and looking somewhere else. Say, he nearly ate her up. All the way around the bay he was promising he'd never steal another oat, so help me Bob! but she was cool toward him."
Bela laughed demurely. She loved stories about animals.
While he talked on in his light style Sam was warily measuring his rival.
"It'll be the biggest job I ever tackled," he thought. "He's got thirty pounds on me, and ring training. But he's out of condition and I'm fit. He loses his head easily. I'll try to get him going. Maybe I can turn the trick. I've got to do it to make good up here. That would establish me for ever."
At the end of one of Sam's stories Bela stood up. "Time for go. Both!" she said succinctly.
Sam got up laughing. "Nothing uncertain about that," he said. He waited for Joe by the door.
Joe was sunk in a sullen rage. "Go ahead," he said, sneering.
"After you," Sam retorted with a smile.
Joe approached him threateningly, and they stood one on each side of the door, sizing each other up with hard eyes. The smallest move from either side would have precipitated the conflict then. Bela slipped through the other door and came around the house.
"Joe!" she called from in front.
He drove through the door, followed by Sam.
"Anyhow he didn't make me go first," thought the latter.
Bela faced them with her most scornful air. "You are foolish! Both foolish! Lak dogs that growl. Go home!"
Somewhat sheepishly they went to their respective teams. Bela turned back into the house. As they drove out side by side they looked at each other again. Sam laughed suddenly at Joe's melodramatic scowl.
"Well, ta-ta, old scout!" he said mockingly.
"Damn you!" said Joe thickly. "Keep away from me! If you tread on my toes you're going to get hurt! I've a hard fist for them I don't like!"
Sam jeered. "Keep your toes out of my path if you don't want them trodden on. As for fists, I'll match you any time you want."
Joe drove off around the bay, and Sam headed for Grier's Point, whistling.
Next morning he awoke smiling at the sun. Somehow since yesterday the world was made over. As usual he had Grier's Point to himself. His bed was upon spruce-boughs at the edge of the stony beach. Stripping, he plunged into the icy lake, and emerged pink and gasping.
After dressing and feeding his horses, upon surveying his own grub-box – salt pork and cold bannock! – it took him about five seconds to decide to breakfast at Bela's. This meant the hard work of loading his wagon on an empty stomach. Unlocking the little warehouse, he set to work with a will.
Three hours later he drove in before the stopping-house, and, hitching his team to the tree, left them a little hay to while the time. The "resteraw" was empty. Other breakfast guests had come and gone.
"Oh, Bela!" he cried.
She stuck her head in the other door. Her expression was severely non-committal.
"Bela, my stomach's as empty as a stocking on the floor! I feel like a drawn chicken. For the love of mercy fill me up!"
"It's half-past eight," she said coldly.
"I know, but I had to load up before I could come. A couple of slices of breakfast bacon and a cup of coffee! Haven't tasted coffee in months. They say your coffee is a necktie for the gods!"
"I can't be cooking all day!" said Bela, flouncing out.
Nevertheless he heard the stove-lids clatter outside, and the sound of the kettle drawn forward. He was going to get fresh coffee at that!
In a few minutes it was set before him; not only the coffee with condensed milk, a luxury north of fifty-four, but fried fish as well, and a plate of steaming cakes. Sam fell to with a groan of ecstasy. Bela stood for a moment watching him with her inscrutable, detached air, then turned to go out.
"I say," called Sam with his mouth full, "pour yourself a cup of coffee, and come and drink it with me."
"I never eat with the boarders," she stated.
"Oh, hang it!" said Sam like a lord, "you give yourself too many airs! Go and do what you're told."
He found a delicious, subtle pleasure in ordering her about. As for Bela, she gasped a little and stared, then her eyes fell – perhaps she liked it too. Anyhow, she shrugged indifferently, cast a look out of the window to see if anyone was coming up the road, and disappeared in the kitchen. Presently she returned with a steaming cup, and, sitting opposite Sam, stirred it slowly without looking up.
Sam's eyes twinkled wickedly. "That's better. You know with all these fellows coming around and praising up your grub and everything, you're beginning to think you're the regular queen of Beaver Bay. You need to be taken down a peg!"
"What do you care?" she asked.
"Bless you, I don't care," replied Sam. "I'm only telling you for your own good. I don't like to see a nice girl get her head turned."
"What's the matter wit' you so quick?" retorted Bela. "You're talkin' pretty big since yesterday."
Sam laughed delightedly. His soul was not deceived by her scornful airs, nor was hers by his pretended hectoring. While they abused each other, each was thrilled by the sense of the other's nearness. Moreover, each knew how it was with the other.
Sam, having eaten his fill, planted his elbows, and leaned nearer to her across the narrow board. She did not draw back. Under the table their moccasined feet touched by accident, and each breast was shaken. Bela slowly drew her foot away. Their heads involuntarily came closer. The sweetness that emanated from her almost overpowered him.
His breath came quicker; his eyes were languorous and teasing. Bela gave him her eyes and he saw into them a thousand fathoms deep. It was that exquisite moment when the heart sees what the tongue will not yet acknowledge, when nearness is sweeter than touch. Yet he said with curling lip:
"You need a master!"
And she answered scornfully: "You couldn't do it."
There was a sound of wheels outside. They sprang up. Sam swore under his breath. Bela looked out of the door.
"It's Joe," she said.
Sam hardened.
"You've got to go," she said swiftly and peremptorily. "You've finished eating. I won't have no trouble here."
Sam scowled. "Well – I'll go after he comes in," he returned doggedly. "I won't run away at the sight of him."
Joe entered with a sullen air. He had already seen Sam's team outside.
"Morning," said Sam. His was the temper that is scrupulously polite to an enemy.
Joe muttered in his throat.
"Well, I'm just off," observed Sam. "How's the mud?"
Joe sneered. "No worse than usual," he replied.
It was hard for Sam to go after the sneer. He hesitated. But he had promised. He looked at Bela, but she would not meet his eye. Finally he shrugged and went out. They heard him talking to his horses outside. Joe, scowling and avoiding Bela's eye, dropped into the seat the other man had vacated.
"Breakfast," he muttered.
Bela knew very well that it was his custom to eat before he started out in the morning. She said nothing, but glanced at the clock on the dresser.
"Ah, you'll feed him any time he wants!" snarled Joe.
"I treat everybody the same," she answered coolly. "You can have breakfast if you want."
"Well, I do," he muttered.
She went into the kitchen and started her preparations. Returning, she cleared away the dirty dishes, not, however, before Joe had marked the second cup on the table.
When she put his food before him he said: "Get yourself a cup of coffee and sit down with me." He was really trying to be agreeable, not, however, with much success.
"I got work to do," Bela mildly objected.
He instantly flared up again. "Ah! I thought you treated everybody the same!"
Bela shrugged, and, bringing coffee, sat down opposite him.
There was a silence. Joe, merely playing with the food on his plate, watched her with sullen, pained eyes, trying to solve the riddle of her. One could almost see the simple mental operations. Sam got along with her by jollying her. Very well, he would do the same.
"I ain't such a bad sort when I'm took right," he began, with a ghastly attempt to be facetious.
"No?"
"I like my joke as well as another."
"Yes?"
"You're a deep one!" he said with a leer, "but you can't fool me."
"Eat your breakfast," said Bela.
"This mysteriousness is a bluff!"
"Maybe."
Lacking encouragement, he couldn't keep this up long. He fell silent again, staring at her hungrily. Suddenly, with a sound between an oath and a groan, he swept the dishes aside. Bela sprang up warily, but he was too quick for her. Flinging an arm across, he seized her wrist.
"By George! I can't stand it any longer!" he cried. "What's behind that smooth face of yours? Ain't you got no heart making a man burn in hell like me?"
"Let go my arm!" said Bela.
"You're mine!" he cried. "You've got to be! I've said it, and I stick to it. If any man tries to come between us I'll kill him!"
"Let go my arm!" she repeated.
"Not without a kiss!"
Instantly Bela was galvanized into action. Some men are foredoomed to choose the wrong moment. Joe was hopelessly handicapped by the table between them. He could not use his strength. As he sought to draw her toward him Bela, with her free hand, dealt him a stinging buffet on the ear.
They fell among the dishes. The coffee scalded him, and he momentarily relaxed his hold. Bela wriggled clear, unkissed. Joe capsized of his own weight, and, slipping off the end of the table, found himself on his back among broken dishes on the floor.
He picked himself up, scarcely improved in temper. Bela had disappeared. He sat down to wait for her, dogged, sheepish, a little inclined to weep out of self-pity.
Even now he would not admit the fact that she might like another man – a small, insignificant man – better than himself. Joe was the kind of man who will not take a refusal.
In a few minutes, getting no sign of her, he got up and looked into the tent kitchen. Old Mary Otter was there, alone, washing dishes with a perfectly bland face.
"Where's Bela?" he demanded, scowling.
"Her gone to company house for see Beattie's wife mak' jam puddin'," answered Mary.
Joe strode out of the door scowling and drove away. His horses suffered for his anger.
CHAPTER XX
MALICIOUS ACTIVITY
Joe found the usual group of gossipers in the store of the French outfit. Beside the two traders, there were two of the latest arrivals from the outside, a policeman off duty, and young Mattison, of the surveying party, who had ridden in on a message from Graves, and was taking his time about starting back.
Up north it is unfashionable to be in a hurry. Of them all only Stiffy, in his little compartment at the back, was busy. He was totting up his beloved figures.
Joe found them talking about the night before, with references to Sam in no friendly strain. Joe had the wit to conceal from them a part of the rage that was consuming him, though it was not easy to do so. He sat down in the background, and for the most part kept his mouth shut. Anything that anybody could say against Sam was meat and drink to him.
"Blest if I can see what the girl sees in him," said Mahooley. "There are better men for her to pick from."
"He's spoiled our fun, damn him!" said another. "The place won't be the same again."
"Who is this fellow Sam?" asked one of the newcomers.
"A damn ornery little cook who's got his head swole," muttered Joe.
"He kept his place till he got a team to drive," said Mattison.
"We kep' him in it, you mean."
"What for did you want to give him the job of teaming, Mahooley?" asked Mattison.
"Matter of business," replied the trader carelessly. "He was on the spot."
"Well, you can get plenty more now. Why not fire him?"
Mahooley looked a little embarrassed.
"Business is business," he said. "I don't fancy him myself, but he's working all right."
Joe's perceptions were sharpened by hate. He saw Mahooley's hesitation, and began speculating on what reason the trader could have for not wanting to discharge Sam. He scented a mystery. Casting back in his mind, he began to fit a number of little things together.
Once, he remembered, somebody had told Mahooley one of the black horses had gone lame, and Mahooley had replied unthinkingly that it was not his concern. Why had he said that? Was somebody besides Mahooley backing Sam? If he could explode the mystery, maybe it would give him a handle against his rival.
"Well, I shouldn't think you'd let an ex-cook put it all over you," remarked the stranger.
This was too much for Joe's self-control. A dull, bricky flush crept under his skin.
"Put it over nothing!" he growled. "You come over to Bela's to-night if you want to see how I handle a cook!"
"Who is the old guy camped beside Bela's shack?" asked the stranger.
"Musq'oosis, a kind of medicine man of her tribe," answered Mahooley.
"Is he her father?"
"No; her father was a white man."
"Who was he?" Joe asked.
Mahooley shrugged. "Search me! Long before my time."
"If old Musq'oosis is no relation, what does he hang around for?" asked the first questioner.
"Oh, he's always kind of looked after her," said Mahooley. "The other Indians hate her. They think she's too uppish."
"She feeds him; I guess that's reason enough for him to stick around," remarked Mattison.
Here Stiffy spoke up from his cubby-hole: "Hell! Musq'oosis don't need anybody to feed him. He's well fixed. Got a first-class credit balance."
Joe, ever on the watch, saw Mahooley turn his head abruptly and scowl at his partner. Stiffy closed his mouth suddenly. Joe, possessed by a single idea, jumped to the conclusion that Musq'oosis had something to do with the mystery he was on the track of. Anyhow, he determined to find out.
"A good balance?" he asked carelessly.
"I mean for an Indian," returned Stiffy quickly. "Nothing to speak of."
Joe was unconvinced. He bided his time.
The talk drifted on to other matters. Joe sat thrashing his brain for an expedient whereby he might get a sight of Musq'oosis's account on Stiffy's ledger.
By and by a breed came in with the news that a York boat was visible, approaching Grier's Point. This provided a welcome diversion for the company. A discussion arose as to whether it would be Stiffy and Mahooley's first boat of the season, or additional supplies for Graves. Finally they decided to ride down to the Point and see.
"Come on, Joe," said one.
Joe assumed an air of laziness. "What's the use?" he said. "I'll stay here and talk to Stiffy."
When they had gone Joe still sat cudgelling his brain. He was not fertile in expedients. He was afraid to speak even indirectly of the matter on his breast for fear of alarming Stiffy by betraying too much eagerness. Finally an idea occurred to him.
"I say, Stiffy, how does my account stand?"
The trader told him his balance.
"What!" cried Joe, affecting indignation. "I know it's more than that. You've made a mistake somewhere."
This touched Stiffy at his weakest. "I never make a mistake!" he returned with heat. "You fellows go along ordering stuff, and expect your balance to stay the same, like the widow's cruse. Come and look for yourself!"
This was what Joe desired. He slouched over, grumbling. Stiffy explained how the debits were on one side, the credits on the other. Each customer had a page to himself. Joe observed that before turning up his account Stiffy had consulted an index in a separate folder.
Joe allowed himself to be reluctantly satisfied, and returned to his seat by the stove. He was advanced by learning how the book was kept, but the grand difficulty remained to be solved; how to get a look at it without Stiffy's knowledge.
Here fortune unexpectedly favoured him. When he was not adding up his columns, Stiffy was for ever taking stock. By rights, he should have been the chief clerk of a great city emporium. Before the others returned he began to count the articles on the shelves.
He struck a difficulty in the cans of condensed milk. Repeated countings gave the same total. "By Gad, we've been robbed!" he cried. "Unless there's still a case in the loft."
He hastened to the stairs. The instant his weight creaked on the boards overhead the burly, lounging figure by the stove sprang into activity. Joe darted on moccasined feet to Stiffy's little sanctum, and with swift fingers turned up M in the index.
"Musq'oosis; page 452." Silently opening the big book, he thumbed the pages. The noises from upstairs kept him exactly informed of what Stiffy was doing.
Joe found the place, and there, in Stiffy's neat copper plate, was spread out all that he wished to know. It took him but a moment to get the hang of it. On the debit side: "To team, Sambo and Dinah, with wagon and harness, $578.00." Under this were entered various advances to Sam. On the other side Joe read: "By order on Gilbert Beattie, $578.00." Below were the different amounts paid by Graves for hauling.
Joe softly closed the book. So it was Musq'oosis who employed Sam! And Musq'oosis was a kind of guardian of Bela! It did not require much effort of the imagination to see a connection here. Joe's triumph in his discovery was mixed with a bitter jealousy.
However, he was pretty sure that Sam was ignorant of who owned the team he drove, and he saw an opportunity to work a pretty piece of mischief. But first he must make still more sure.
When Stiffy, having found the missing case, came downstairs again, Joe apparently had not moved.
A while later Joe entered the company store, and addressed himself to Gilbert Beattie concerning a plough he said he was thinking of importing. Beattie, seeing a disposition in the other man to linger and talk, encouraged it. This was new business. In any case, up north no man declines the offer of a gossip. Strolling outside, they sat on a bench at the door in the grateful sunshine.
From where they were they could see Bela's shack below, with smoke rising from the cook tent and the old man's tepee alongside. Musq'oosis himself was squatting at the door, engaged upon some task with his nimble fingers. Consequently, no management on Joe's part was required to bring the conversation around to him. Seeing the trader's eye fall there, he had only to say:
"Great old boy, isn't he?"
"One of the best," said Beattie warmly. "The present generation doesn't produce 'em! He's as honest as he is intelligent, too. Any trader in the country would let him have anything he wanted to take. His word is as good as his bond."
"Too bad he's up against it in his old age," suggested Joe.
"Up against it, what do you mean?" asked Beattie.
"Well, he can't do much any more. And he doesn't seem to have any folks."
"Oh, Musq'oosis has something put by for a rainy day!" said Beattie. "For years he carried a nice little balance on my books."
"What did he do with it, then?" asked Joe carelessly.
Beattie suspected nothing more in this than idle talk.
"Transferred it to the French outfit," he said with a shrug. "I suppose he wanted Mahooley to know he's a man of means. He can't have spent any of it. I'll probably get it back some day."
"How did he get it in the first place?" asked Joe casually. "Out of fur?"
"No," said Beattie; "he was in some kind of partnership with a man called Walter Forest, a white man. Forest died, and the amount was transferred to Musq'oosis. It's twenty years ago. I inherited the debt from my predecessor here."
Joe, seeing that the trader had nothing more of special interest to tell him, let the talk pass on to other matters. By and by he rose, saying:
"Guess I'll go down and talk to the old boy until dinner's ready."
"It is always profitable," said Beattie. "Come in again."
"I'll let you know about the plough," said Joe.
"Hello, Musq'oosis!" began Joe facetiously. "Fine weather for old bones, eh?"
"Ver' good," replied Musq'oosis blandly. The old man had no great liking for this burly youth with the comely, self-indulgent face, nor did he relish his style of address; however, being a philosopher and a gentleman, this did not appear in his face. "Sit down," he added hospitably.
Musq'oosis was making artificial flies against the opening of the trout season next month. With bits of feather, hair, and thread he was turning out wonderfully lifelike specimens – not according to the conventional varieties, but as a result of his own half-century's experience on neighbouring streams. A row of the completed product was stuck in a smooth stick, awaiting possible customers.
"Out of sight!" said Joe, examining them.
"I t'ink maybe sell some this year," observed Musq'oosis. "Plenty new men come."
"How much?" asked Joe.
"Four bits."
"I'll take a couple. There's a good stream beside my place."
"Stick 'em in your hat."
After this transaction Musq'oosis liked Joe a little better. He entered upon an amiable dissertation on fly-fishing, to which Joe gave half an ear, while he debated how to lead up to what he really wanted to know. In the end it came out bluntly.
"Say, Musq'oosis, what do you know about a fellow called Walter Forest?"
Musq'oosis looked at Joe, startled. "You know him?" he asked.
"Yes," said Joe. Recollecting that Beattie had told him the man had been dead twenty years, he hastily corrected himself. "That is, not exactly. Not personally."
"Uh!" said Musq'oosis.
"I thought I'd ask you, you're such an old-timer."
"Um!" said Musq'oosis again. There was nothing in this so far to arouse his suspicions. But on principle he disliked to answer questions. Whenever it was possible he answered a question by asking another.
"Did you know him?" persisted Joe.
"Yes," replied Musq'oosis guardedly.
"What like man was he?"
"What for you want know?"
"Oh, a fellow asked me to find out," answered Joe vaguely. He gained assurance as he proceeded. "Fellow I met in Prince George. When he heard I was coming up here he said: 'See if you can find out what's become of Walter Forest. Ain't heard from him in twenty year.'"
"What this fellow call?" asked Musq'oosis.
"Er – George Smith," Joe improvised. "Big, dark-complected guy. Traveller in the cigar line."
Musq'oosis nodded.
"Walter Forest died twenty year ago," he said.
"How?" asked Joe.
"Went through the ice wit' his team."
"You don't say!" said Joe. "Well! Well! I said I'd write and tell George."
Joe was somewhat at a loss how to go on. He said "Well! Well!" again. Finally he asked: "Did you know him well?"
"He was my friend," said Musq'oosis.
"Tell me about him," said Joe. "So I can write, you know."
Musq'oosis was proud of his connection with Walter Forest. There was no reason why he should not tell the story to anybody. Had he not urged upon Bela to use her own name? It never occurred to him that anyone could trace the passage of the father's bequest from one set of books to the other. So in his simple way he told the story of Walter Forest's life and death in the country.