The Triumph of John Kars Part 8

"Maybe it's not the time to talk of these things, ma'am. But--but it's mighty difficult to figger such time when it comes along. I've got a letter here makes me want to holler 'help.' It's from a feller we all know, and most of us like well enough. For me, I'm scared of him.

Scared to death. He's the only man I've ever felt that way towards in my life."

His words were accompanied by another laugh so ringing that Ailsa Mowbray was forced to a smile at his care-free way of stating his fears.

"Your terror's most alarming," she said comfortably. "Will you tell me of it?"

"Sure." Murray picked up the letter again and stared at it. "Have you got any feller fixed in your mind you're yearning for your daughter Jessie to marry?"

The question was abrupt, startling. And somehow to Ailsa Mowbray it was as though a fierce winter blast had suddenly descended upon her heart.

"I--don't think I'd thought about it--seriously," the mother replied after a pause.

Murray swung about and faced her. His eyes were serious. There could be no mistaking his earnestness.

"I can't figger how you're going to take what I've got to say, ma'am.

I said the 'thanks' might be all due from me, before we're through. I don't know. Anyway, I guess I need to get busy right away in the way it seems to me best."

"You want to marry--Jessie?"

The mother's question came without any enthusiasm. There was even coldness in it.

"More than anything in the world, ma'am."

The sincerity of the man was in every line of his face. It shone in the burning depths of his eyes. It rang in the vibrant tones of his voice.

For a moment the mother glanced about her rather helplessly. Then she gathered her faculties with an effort.

"Have--have you asked her?"

"No, ma'am."

Ailsa Mowbray further added a helpless gesture with her hands. It seemed to be the cue the man was awaiting.

"No, ma'am," he reiterated. "I'd have spoken months ago, but--for the things that's happened. Maybe you won't just get it when I say that with Allan around the position was clear as day. It was up to me to leave her folks till I'd asked her. Now it's different. Jessie has no father behind her. Only her mother. And her mother has no husband behind her to help her figger her daughter's future right. Now I come to you, ma'am. Guess I'm a plain man more ways than one. I'm just thirty-five. I've a goodish stake in this proposition of ours, and can give your daughter all she needs of the world's goods. I love her, and want her bad, ma'am. If she'll marry me, why, I'll just do all I know to make her happy."

The appeal was full of simple, straightforward honesty. There could be no denying it. Even its crudity was all in its favor. But all this pa.s.sed Ailsa Mowbray completely by.

"What made you choose this moment?" she questioned, avoiding any direct answer.

Murray laughed. It was a laugh which hid his real feelings. He held up the letter.

"John Kars is coming along up."

"And so you spoke--before he came."

"Sure." Suddenly Murray flung the letter on the desk in a fas.h.i.+on that said more than words. "I'm scared of John Kars, ma'am, because I want to marry your daughter. I'm no coward. But I know myself, and I know him. Here am I ready to meet John Kars, or a dozen of his kind, in any play known to man, except rivalry for a woman. He's got them all where he wants them from the jumping off mark. It's only natural, too. Look at him. If he'd stepped out of the picture frame of the Greek G.o.ds he couldn't have a better window dressing. He's everything a woman ever dreamed of in a man. He's all this country demands in its battles.

Then take a peek at me. You'll find a feller cussed to death with a figure that's an insult to a prime hog. What's inside don't figger a cent. The woman don't look beyond the face and figure, and the capacity to do. Maybe I can do all John Kars can do. But when it comes to face and figure, it's not a race. No, ma'am, it's a procession. And I'm taking his dust all the time."

"Do you think Jessie is--likes John Kars?" The mother's question came thoughtfully. To Murray it was evident the direction in which she was leaning.

"She'd need to be a crazy woman if she didn't," he retorted bluntly.

Then he rose from his seat, and moved over to the window. He stood gazing out of it. Ailsa Mowbray's eyes followed his movements. They regarded him closely, and she thought of his own description of himself. Yes, he was not beautiful. Wholesome, strong, capable. But he was fat--so fat. A shortish, tubby man whose figure added ten years to his age.

But with his face towards the window, his strong tones came back to her, and held her whole attention.

"Yes, ma'am. She likes him. But I don't guess it's more than that--yet. Maybe it would never become more if you discouraged it. I could even think she'd forget to remember the queer figure I cut in the eyes of a woman--if it suited you to tell her diff'rent. It seems a pretty mean proposition for a feller to have to hand his love interests over to another, even when it's the girl's mother. But whatever I can do in the affairs of the life about us, whatever my ability, ma'am, to put through the business side of our affairs, I guess I'm mighty short winded in the race for a woman's love, and--know it. Say, you guessed just now you owed me thanks for the things I figger to do for you. I'd say if you'd feel like helping me to marry Jessie I'd owe you more thanks on the balance than I can ever hope to pay off."

He abruptly turned back from the window. He stepped quickly towards her, his movements surprising in their vigor. He looked down into the woman's handsome, but now lined, face, and his eyes shone with a burning fire tremendously compelling.

Ailsa felt the influence he wielded. She read the strength of the man's emotion. She knew that for once she was being permitted a sight of the man behind his mask of smiling serenity. Nor were these things without effect. Furthermore, her own sense warned her that in the best interests of their affairs, of the girl, herself, Murray McTavish was certainly the husband for Jessie. But even so there was more than reluctance. There was desperate distaste. The romantic vision of John Kars, the wealthiest mine owner in Leaping Horse, the perfect adventurer of the northern trail, rose before her eyes, and made her hesitate. In the end, however, she thrust it aside and rose from her chair, and held out her hand.

"I can promise no result," she said seriously, and she knew it was subterfuge, "I'll do my best. Anyway, your cause shan't suffer at my hands. Will that do?"

Murray McTavish took her warm hand in both of his. He held it tightly for a few seconds.

"My thanks begin from now, ma'am," he said. "I guess they'll go right on to--the end."

CHAPTER VII

AT SNAKE RIVER LANDING

Jessie Mowbray left the Mission House as the last of the small crowd of copper-hued pappooses bundled pell-mell in the direction of the teepees and cabins of their dusky parents.

For a few moments she stood there in the open with pensive eyes following the movements of scurrying, toddling legs, many of them encased in the minutest of buckskin, chap-like pantaloons and the tiniest of beaded moccasins. It was a sight that yielded her a tenderness of emotion that struggled hard to dispel the cloud which her father's death had caused to settle over the joyous spirit of her young life.

In a measure it was not without success. The smallness of these Indian children, their helplessness, appealed to her woman's heart as possibly nothing else could have done. It mattered nothing to her that the fathers and mothers of these tots belonged to a low type of race without scruple, or honesty, or decency, or any one of the better features of the aboriginal. They were as low, perhaps lower than many of the beasts of the field. But these "pappooses," so quaint and small, so very helpless, were entirely dependent upon the succor of Father Jose's Mission for the hope of their future. The sight of them warmed her spirit out of the cold depths of her own personal grief, and left her yearning.

The last of the children vanished within the shelter of the surrounding woods, where the homes of their parents had been set up. Then movement in the clearing ceased. All was still in the early evening light. The soft charm, the peace of the Mission, which had been the outward and visible sign of her understanding of home all her years, settled once more, and with it fell the bitter, haunting memory of the tragedy of seven months ago.

To Jessie Mowbray the tragedy of the life about her had suddenly become the seriousness of it. In one night she had been robbed of all the buoyant optimism of youth. As yet she had failed to achieve the smile of courage under the buffet, just as she had never yet discovered that the real spirit of life is to achieve hard knocks with the same ready smile which should accompany acts of kindliness.

Her father had been her hero. And she had been robbed of her hero by the ruthless hands of the very savages whom it was her daily mission to help towards enlightenment. The bitterness of it had sunk deeply into a sensitive heart. She lacked the experiences of life of her mother.

She lacked the Christian fort.i.tude of Father Jose. She knew nothing of the iron nerve of Murray, or the youthful selfishness of her brother Alec. So she shrank under the burden of bereavement, and fostered a loyal resentment against her father's slayers.

The chill of the northern evening was already in the air. The sunlight fell athwart the great fringe of foliage which crowned the lank trunks of primordial pine woods. It lit the clearing with a mellow radiance, and left the scene tempered with a shadowed beauty, which in all Jessie's girlhood had never failed to appeal to her. Now it pa.s.sed her by. She saw only the crude outline of the great log home, which, for her, had been desolated. About her were the equally crude Mission buildings, with Father Jose's hut a few yards away. Then there was the light smoke haze from the Indian camp-fires, rising heavily on the still air, and a smell of cooking was painfully evident. Here and there a camp dog prowled, great powerful brutes reared to the burden of the trail. The sound of human voice, too, came from the woodlands, chanting the droning song of labor which the squaws love to voice without tune or meaning.

Jessie moved slowly off in the direction of her home. Half-way across the clearing she paused. Then, in a moment of inspiration, she turned away and pa.s.sed down the narrow avenue which led to the landing on the river. There was an hour to supper. The twilight of her home was less attractive now than the music of the river, which had so often borne the burden of Allan Mowbray's laden canoes.

Jessie had lost none of her youthful grace of movement. Her tall figure, so round with the charms of womanhood, yet so supple, so full of natural, unfettered grace, made her a delight to the eye. Her beauty was unquestioned. But the change in her expression was marked.

Her ripe young lips were firmer, harder even. There was, too, a slight down drooping at the corners of her mouth. Then her eyes had lost something of their inclination to smile. They were the grave eyes of one who has pa.s.sed through an age of suffering.

She moved swiftly to the landing and took up a position on one of the timber balks set for mooring. She drew her coat about her. The dying sun lit her ruddy brown hair with its wintry smile, and the song of the flowing waters caught and lulled her spirit.

Murray McTavish approached her. He came with bristling step and an air of virile energy. He dragged forward an empty crate, and, setting it near her, used it for a seat.