The Freebooters of the Wilderness Part 41

th' neck and helped him down Smelter City trail an'-an'-an' I jugged him: that's all; an' there he is yet! When I came back up, this had happened."

"When you arrested O'Finnigan for drunkenness, where was the woman, Calamity?"

"Hidin' back among th' cottonwoods! She'd slid off her horse! Jes' as I turned down the trail, I looked back! She waz comin' peepin' out from tree t' tree!"

"How was MacDonald standing?"

"He waz standin' with his back t' her, with his hand hangin' kind o'

loose from th' hoist waitin' for 'em t' ring th' bell t' let her down t' next level!"

There was a long silence. Eleanor had turned very white. The eyes of the news editor emitted sparks.

"I expected that," commented Wayland.

"Y' d', did y'?" rumbled Matthews. "Then A 'll wager y 'll nut be expectin' what A 'll spring!"

The room suddenly filled with a rustling and whispering. Men were demonstrating exactly how it had happened. The handy man's tallow smile melted on his face; and the tortoise sh.e.l.l eyes looked sidewise at Wayland. The look wasn't malicious; and it wasn't triumphant. It was the look of a gambler saying, "Come on my four-flusher, beat that!

Show down!" The rabble outside deployed off the pavement across the street back a whole block. Eleanor could hear the hum through the open window.

The attorney was leaning across the table conferring with the coroner.

The coroner rapped the table and cried for "order."

The room suddenly silenced.

"Gentlemen, as this evidence will have to be handed in to the district attorney for what action he deems best, I wish to ask one more question. Mr. Sheriff, you know this Valley and the people in it well?"

"I do, known it for twenty years."

"Do you know of any reason why this woman Calamity would have shot or wished to shoot, her employer, MacDonald?"

The Sheriff changed a quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

Eleanor leaned forward looking straight in his eyes. Bat was eyeing Eleanor quizzically. (Had he constructed the evidence so skilfully that he had come to believe it himself?) Matthews was almost tearing the arms out of the chair where he sat.

"Well," said Sheriff Flood clasping his hands in rest across his portly person. "I guess squaw is same as any other woman in _one_ respect. I guess she had same reason for shootin' MacDonal' as any other woman in her place would o' had," and he looked up well pleased with himself at the roomful. For a moment, there was deadly heavy silence; then the hum of the crowd on the steps pouring the word out to those in the street.

"Ye lyin' scut[1]! Ye filthy cess pool o' dirt an' falsehood!"

The old frontiersman had sprung from his place and smashed his chair in twenty atoms on the table between the sheriff and the coroner.

"Y'll not offend the deceased gentleman's memory? Y'll not offend his daughter here? An' the dead can't defend themselves? An' y're all s'

verra delicate y're lettin' a stinkin' slanderous unclean unspoken d.a.m.nable h.e.l.l-sp.a.w.ned lie go forth unchallenged t' blacken a dead man's memory? Oh, A know y'r kind well! A've heard harlots lisp an' whisp'

an' half tell and d.a.m.n by a lie o' th' eye! Y' are insinuatin' this woman Calamity shot her master to avenge dishonor in her early life?

'Tis a lie! 'Tis a most d.a.m.nable black an' filthy lie! She wud a'

died for MacDonald ten thousand times over if she could, because he had long ago, before ever he came here, avenged _her_ dishonor."

The coroner had sprung back from the table. The mighty man of valor, who defended law, had precipitately put the s.p.a.ce of overturned benches between himself and the irate old frontiersman. Matthews suddenly swung to face the spectators.

"Men," he cried, "foul murder has been done; and this slander is t'

fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t' send her a scapegoat int' th' wilderness bearin' th' sins o' those higher up that A do na'

name; of y'r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o' this land! 'Twas in my boyhood days on Saskatchewan! This woman, that y' have seen wander the Black Hills sinnin' unashamed, was but a fair slip o' an Indian girl, then, pure as y'r own girls in school! She married a little Indian boy, Wandering Spirit o' the Crees at Frog Lake! The Indian Officer at Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed--he took her forcibly from Wandering Spirit t' th' Agency House! 'Twas y'r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who was fur trader then, went forcibly to th' Agency House, thrashed the Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit! A was pa.s.sin' West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency House! MacDonald had gone North. Little Wandering Spirit comes and asks me t' interpret something he has to say t' th' Master--meanin'

that danged unclean Sioux beast. Says I, 'Wandering Spirit has something not pleasant t' say t' you: Y' better get another interpreter.' The officer says, 'Spit it out! Y' can't phase me.'

Boys, A spit it out. A gave it to him plain! The boy Indian stood in the door o' th' Agency House holdin' a loaded dog-train whip hidden behind his back. He was na' but half as big as the brute behind the Government desk! He says, 'Tell the Master he must leave my wife alone! If ever he comes near m' tepee again, A do to him like that,'

rolling a dead leaf t' powder 'tween his hands. The officer lets out a roar o' filthy oaths! I hear the little Indian give a scream like a hurt wild cat. 'He calls me a dog--a son of a dog,' he screams; an'

boys, with one leap he was over that counter with his dog whip; an'

what A did t' y'r Sheriff last week in the Pa.s.s is nothing to what that bit of an Indian boy did t' yon bullying Agent! He thrashed him, an'

he thrashed him, an' he chased him bellowin' round the Agency House till the blackguard's pants were ribbons an' the blood stripes reached down an' soaked his socks. Boys, A went on to th' Mountains! When A came back next year an' when MacDonald came back from MacKenzie River, we found that Agent had had Little Wandering Spirit arrested by the Mounted Police for a.s.sault an' battery, an' sentenced to a year in th'

penitentiary! 'Twas too late to undo the wrong! Th' girl, th' woman y' know as Calamity, had gone insane from abuse! A helped to pry her dead child from her arms! A helped the priest t' bury it in the snow!

Next year, was the Rebellion! Y'r sheepman an' his wife, Miss Eleanor here was na' born then, had come down from the North. The Indians loved him. They'd never touch _him_; but when the Rebellion broke out, 'twas Wandering Spirit went dancing mad for revenge from one end o' the Reserve t' th' other! When the ma.s.sacre came, the officer had tripped the little Indian fellow to his face an' was pointin' the old muzzle loader at the back o' his head to blow out his brains, when along comes the MacDonald man an' kicks the gun from the bully's hand! Little Wandering Spirit up an' he pours that muzzle loader into the officer's face; an' he borrows another gun an' empties that in his face; and he s.n.a.t.c.hes a knife; an' what he left o' that brute y' could bury in a coffin th' length o' y'r hand! 'Twas th' Indian's way o' vengeance; but blame fell on MacDonald; an' when Wandering Spirit was hanged for the murder, MacDonald fled from Canada; for his sympathies were with the Indians, as every right feelin' man's were;[2] for back a generation, there was Indian blood on the mother's side; but the Act o'

Amnesty has been pa.s.sed this many a year; an' A'd come to take him back to a fortune waitin' him in Scotland, to an inheritance when this happened.

"Y' know how he found her again, eatin' garbage in the Black Hills where the miners had cast her off; how he gave her an asylum an' a home; an' this is the man y'r fulthy sheriff poltroon coward says she'd shoot! Men, men o' th' Nation, murder has been done here: coward a.s.sa.s.sin murder on an innocent man! The notes on the mine have been robbed from his pocket. Who planned this murder? Who shot MacDonald by mistake? Who planned th' Rim Rocks outrage? Is it to this y' have let y'r Democracy come? Is this y'r self government workin' worse outrage than the despotism o' Russia? We'd have hanged our kings in Scotland for less sin! France would a' tanned her rulers' hide into moccasins for less! What are y' goin' to do about it." His shout rang and rang through the court. "Will ye make of self-government a farce, a screamin' shame, a shriekin' laughter in th' ears o' th' world?"

There were cries of "Sit down! Sit down! Shut up! Go on! Who is the old tow-head?" Then some one cried out "Moyese." Half the spectators cheered. Half hissed. Then a voice yelled "Wayland! Wayland!" and Eleanor felt the leap to her blood; for the crowd outside took up the cry "Wayland, Wayland? What's the matter with Wayland?"

The Sheriff and Coroner were on the table shouting for "order--order"

when some wag heaved under and upset table, sheriff, coroner and all.

The last Eleanor saw before the news editor and Wayland pushed Mrs.

Williams and herself through a door behind the coroner's seat to a taxicab that whirled them off to the hotel, was a wild sprawling of the Sheriff coming down in mid-air. Bat Brydges and the downy-lipped youth, chalky white as a dead birch tree, were letting themselves hastily out through a back window. Matthews was being carried down the aisle on the shoulders of a howling rabble of men and boys. His head was bare; his coat was almost torn from his shoulders. His face was pa.s.sionate with jubilant laughter. "Yell, boys! Yell for Wayland," he was urging. Could Eleanor have known what happened at the door, her heart would have beat still faster. The old frontiersman brought her word two hours later when he joined them at the hotel.

"They hauled me out to th' steps o' th' court house," he said, "an' A says 'Yell boys! Yell, Yell like h.e.l.l for Wayland!' An' they set me down on th' steps an' began yellin' 'Speech! Speech!' A held up m'

two hands like this. 'Men,' says I, 'y' ask for a word! Well, A'll give it t' you. A'll give it t' y' from the door o' y'r own sacred court o' justice, which y' have seen profaned this day by injustice, an' a lie, an' a bribe into th' bedlam o' a mob! Y' ask for a word. A will give it y', _Men o' the United States o' the World_; Men o'

Liberty; Men o' Strength; the world has its eye on ye! What will y'

do? M' word is this t' all time: M' word is th' simple word o' the old prophets that ye conned by heart at y'r mother's knee: Y' ha' seen the author o' crime an' outrage an' murder tryin' to wrest the judgment, t'

pervert the court, to slander the dead, t' send into th' wilderness a poor innocent scapegoat o' sin, to defile the vera presence o' death.

An' ye ha' seen a young man single-handed fightin' for right, to save y'r land from the looters, an' y'r forests from the timber thieves, an'

y'r mines from the coal pirates! Y' ha' seen evil an' good an' the fruits o' them! _Choose ye this day which ye will serve_!' Man alive, Wayland, ye should a' heard them! They yelled like h.e.l.l for y'! They yelled till they split the welkin! They yelled, Wayland, till A couldna' keep th' tears from m' eyes; an' then, man alive, they yelled more than ever! Whiles we were yellin' and riproarin' outside, y'r brave Sheriff man, he gets the door shut an' locked, an' the windows down, an' the shades all drawn; an' they brings in a verdict o' 'come to his death by the hands o' parties unknown.' Oh, A'll warrant 'twill be 'by the hands o' parties unknown.' They'll never more try t' fasten that crime on poor old Calamity; tho' she's no so old when y' come t'

think o' it, except in her bein' sore sinned against."

"I wonder if they'll try to come down on you for the disorder," asked Wayland.

The old frontiersman chuckled. "A wish t' G.o.d they would," he said.

"What A'm wonderin' is what y' fat Bat fellow's doin'?"

"Oh, I can tell you that," answered the news editor. "Bat is singing small! I'll bet you a five there won't be a line nor the fraction of a line of all this in the local papers; nor as much as a blank s.p.a.ce about it in any other paper. My G.o.d, if I could only lay my hand on a moneyed man who would back a paper thro' a fight like this and tell the counting rooms to go to the Devil! I know a score of editors would jump for the job and work their heads off! You needn't think we are specially keen for eating dog on this kind of a job! 'Tisn't the men inside the office bedevil us: 'tis y'r outside interest--"

Eleanor gave him a quick queer look. She was learning to think fast and decide quickly. But the news editor was quite right. Not a word of the disgraceful attempt to pervert justice appeared in either the local or any other paper. MacDonald's death was briefly recorded as accidental and the coroner's verdict given in a four line paragraph.

Do not ask me the _why_ of this, dear reader; or I shall ask you the why of a hundred other equally mysterious silences. Don't forget, as Wayland has already informed you, there are other countries besides Russia where everything is not given out to the press. And do not curse the press! It is not the fault of the press in Russia. Is it here?

[1] I can find no authority for the old frontiersman's use of the word but in a certain Elizabethan dramatist; and as he uses the word "scut"

for the bobtail of a fleeing rabbit or sheep, perhaps the meanings of the word as used are identical.--_Author_.

[2] It need scarcely be explained these are the old frontiersman's sentiments, not the writer's; but on investigation I found his statement of facts as to what transformed little Wandering Spirit into a blood-thirsty monster was absolutely true. This, of course, did not justify the Rebellion, but helps to explain it, to explain why a worthless scamp like Riel could rouse the peaceful natives to blood thirst and rapine.--_Author_.