CHAPTER IX
WHO RULES HIMSELF
"You won your battle the other evening," remarked Father Brochet toDunvegan a few days after. "Take care you do not lose this one."
Brochet's finger was levelled on the trail below the Hudson's BayCompany's store.
The chief trader stared and frowned. The two figures strolling over thepath, Edwin Glyndon to his morning's business as clerk and DesireeLazard for small purchases which were now growing very frequent, hadbeen too much together of late to suit the chief trader's taste.
"Brochet," he spoke darkly, "I'm jealous of that fellow. I hate hiscursed good looks, his woman's eyes, his easy manners! And mark this,Father, I could have him drafted in a minute to our farthest post. OftenI'm tempted to do it!"
The kindly priest laid a hand on Dunvegan's arm, feeling the chieftrader's muscles tighten under his inward emotions.
"Son," Brochet observed, "these are strenuous hours with the agents oftwo great companies striving for the overlordship. But in the midst ofall the conflicts, the defeats, the triumphs, who is the real victor?"
"The Hudson's Bay Company," declared Dunvegan loyally.
The priest laughed. "Not the material conqueror," he explained. "I meanwhat sort of spirit holds the real supremacy?"
"The man with the heaviest hand," was the chief trader's practicalanswer.
"No," Brochet contradicted, "the man who rules himself! If you sent awaythis handsome Edwin Glyndon out of envy, you would be only indulgingyour own petty hate. Conquer your passions, my son. That is the truekingship! If you cannot win a woman's will on your merits, don't win itat all. No benefit ever came of such a victory gained by nothing butstrength or craft."
Dunvegan paced uneasily in front of his trading room, his eyes glancingfurtively toward the blank doorway of the store through which Glyndonand Desiree had disappeared.
"Yet I go this afternoon with my men to build Kamattawa, leaving a freefield to him," he brooded. "Is that not giving Glyndon an advantagewhich you advise me not to take myself. The rule works both ways itseems to me."
"That," Brochet declared judicially, "is the natural course of things.The other is quite different. Have you any objection to his work as aclerk?"
"None! He handles the books and the pen better than any we ever had."
"Then it would be an injustice," the priest concluded. "Glyndon deserveshis chance. How about his vice?"
"There is no opportunity to pamper his appetite here," laughed Dunvegan."If he were alongside the Nor'wester's free rum barrel, I would notanswer for him. But I trust your judgment, Brochet. Things stay as theyare. Now I must finish my trading with the Indians or I shall not getaway on schedule."
"I intend paddling with you a little way to bid you farewell," thepriest announced as he started over the trail. "It may be I shall havesomeone with me in my canoe."
His brown eyes twinkled. The suspicion of a smile curved his lips.Dunvegan, looking sharply at him, flushed, and a hopeful gleam lightedhis countenance.
"Father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. That wouldplease me very much."
He watched the portly form pass on and wondered at the big heart thatbeat under the black cassock.
"Dunvegan!" called the deep voice of Malcolm Macleod.
The chief trader turned about to see the Factor standing on the verandaof his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "How manyIndians have yet to get their debt?" he asked.
"Twenty," Bruce replied. "Eight Ojibways and a dozen Wood Crees."
"Are they all in?"
"All but Running Wolf's tribe! The other Indian camps are ready tostrike their tepees. The twenty men are waiting outside the yard."
"Run them off as fast as possible," the Factor ordered. "I'll attend tothe preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may belacking. Noon should see you started."
Dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh.
"Oh, yes!" shouted Macleod, halting him. "What about Beaver Tail theIroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in thespring?"
"I cut him off the Company's book as you ordered."
"Give him his full debt," the Factor said. "The poor devil has beensickly, I understand, and not up to his usual prowess as a hunter. We'lllet him have another chance!"
It was an unexpected freak of generosity in Macleod's adamant nature.The chief trader raised his eyebrows, expressing involuntary surprise,but he made no comment. From his trading room door he beckoned to theassembled group of Indian trappers beyond the tall palings enclosing theyard. A pair of Ojibways stalked forward, Big Otter, the great oldhunter who had been on the Company's list for thirty years, and RunningFire, on the trail a scant three winters and just beginning to acquirefame as a trapper. In friendly fashion Dunvegan looked into their spare,smoky faces and hawk-like eyes which seemed to hold only surface lights.
"Running Fire, my brother," he commenced, "your debt on the Company'sbooks is three hundred beaver. Here I give you three hundred castors totrade in what you will. Take them, my brother, and because you are sofaithful on the hunt I add ten castors more. Does it satisfy you,Running Fire?"
"Surely," spoke the Ojibway. "Strong Father has the kind heart. Beholdwhen the snows melt will I bring him a pack mightier than ever."
He took the string of wooden castors Dunvegan offered and, nodding hissatisfaction, strode off to the store where he would barter the counterswhich represented half-dollars in money value for the supplies he wouldrequire during his winter's hunt. There he would buy powder and ball,clothing, blankets. He would stock up with sugar, tea, and flour. Awonderful knife or axe might take his fancy. And what remained of hispurse would be squandered on fascinating, but useless, finery.
Big Otter traded next. The way he leaned over Dunvegan's counter showedthat they were old friends.
"Now comes my weak brother, he of the old limbs, the aged bones, thewaning strength," bantered the chief trader. "For him there is a debt ofone hundred castors recorded."
But Big Otter smiled at Dunvegan's joke, knowing that his limbs weresound as any young buck's, remembering that his catch ran well overthree hundred.
"Strong Father's tongue makes merry," he returned. "Where is theyouthful brave who can follow my tracks?"
"I don't know him," admitted the chief trader, laughing, "but RunningFire is making a mighty name. Some fine day he may follow you."
Big Otter sniffed in contradiction. "Let us wait and see," he suggested.
Dunvegan passed over a string of castors longer than the previous one.
"Three hundred and fifty castors is your debt, great one," he smiled,"and to them I add twenty. Thus you stand high with us. But in returnfor the present you must tell me how you manage to keep your peace ofmind, your strength of body."
The unweakened Ojibway chuckled quietly.
"I love not," he answered. "I hate not. I dream not."
Abruptly he strode out.
And Dunvegan, pondering, wondered if ever was born the white man whocould thus get his debt in life.
All the long forenoon the Indian trappers came to get their credit. Thesix remaining Ojibways filed up. Appeared the twelve Wood Crees. Theemaciated Iroquois Beaver Tail came humbly and in gratitude. But RunningWolf's band from the Katchawan failed to arrive. Not a hunter of histribe showed face in the palisaded yard. No canoe from his camps touchedprow on Oxford shore.
Although Malcolm Macleod had before boasted his unconcern at such anissue, the confronting of the stern truth weighed upon his taciturnspirits. The Cree chief had fallen in with Black Ferguson's party andjoined it, because he had been seen fighting in their ranks but a fewnights earlier. The fact that none of his kind had reported showed thatRunning Wolf had reached them by messenger. Doubtless by now the fieryThree Feathers and his brethren had swelled the Nor'west forces.
This knowledge plunged Macleod in a black mood. He rushed thepreparations for the departure of the brigade. He commanded. He rebuked.He dis
ciplined. He rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurssweated under the yoke. But when the noon hour was come, he had themmarshalled on the beach all ready for their journey.
Loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the bigfleet of canoes pointed over Oxford's waters. The crowd cheered madly,dinning farewells and firing continual _feu-de-joies_. They thrilled atthe sight of the brawn going forth to build Kamattawa to shut out theNor'westers from the Valley. These looked able to do it; brown-armedwhite men; swarthy post Indians; the hardy _metis_; the dashingvoyageurs. The watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for theindefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countlessbrigades on some stern mission for the Company. For him they raised astormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men ofthe fleet.
But Dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. The last glance hecast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the faceof Edwin Glyndon. Two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead,searching the island-dotted expanse of water.
Many miles of silver surface Oxford Lake unrolled before them; manylong, peaceful, shining miles! An intense calm mirrored it. The fiery,autumn sun glazed the whole. The vivid shores floated double along itssides. The sky lay down in its depths with great fish swimming among thewhite clouds; while so still swooned the water that the very veining andshading of color in the reflected foliage could be definitely traced.
As over silvered glass was the passing of the brigade. Each blotch ofcanoe bottom, each bit of overhanging duffle, each quivering sinewstraining on the paddle flashed up from below.
Lightening the labor of their stroke, the debonair voyageurs broke intotheir familiar boating song:
"_En roulant ma boule roulante----_"
And chanting more swiftly, they sang in voices which blended with theartistic charm nature alone can give:
"_Ah fils du roi, tu es mechant, En roulant ma boule, Toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent, Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant._"
By Windy Island they quickened their pace, chorusing loudly:
"_En roulant ma boule roulante, En roulant ma boule; Derriere chez-nous y-a-t-un' etang; En roulant ma boule._"
So the brigade went. And Oxford House crouched low in the distance.