The Triumph of John Kars
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THE TRIUMPH OF JOHN KARS
A Story of the Yukon
by
RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of
"The Golden Woman," "The Son of His Father," "The Way of the Strong,"
"The Men Who Wrought"
With Frontispiece in Colors
[Frontispiece: The defenders were reduced to four.]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers -------- New York
Copyright, 1917, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
All rights reserved
Contents
I. AT FORT MOWBRAY
II. THE MISSION OF ST. AGATHA
III. THE LETTER
IV. ON BELL RIVER
V. IN THE NIGHT
VI. JOHN KARS
VII. AT SNAKE RIVER LANDING
VIII. TWO MEN OF THE NORTH
IX. MURRAY TELLS HIS STORY
X. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
XI. THE SECRET OF THE GORGE
XII. DR. BILL DISPENSES AID AND ARGUMENT
XIII. THE FALL TRADE
XIV. ARRIVALS IN THE NIGHT
XV. FATHER JOSE PROBES
XVI. A MAN AND A MAID
XVII. A NIGHT IN LEAPING HORSE
XVIII. ON THE NORTHERN SEAS
XIX. AT THE GRIDIRON
XX. THE "ONLOOKERS" AGAIN
XXI. DR. BILL INVESTIGATES
XXII. IN THE SPRINGTIME
XXIII. THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN
XXIV. THE FIRST STREAK OF DAWN
XXV. THE OUT-WORLD
XXVI. THE DEPUTATION
XXVII. THE BATTLE OF BELL RIVER
XXVIII. THE HARVEST OF BATTLE
XXIX. THE LAP OF THE GODS
XXX. THE END OF THE TERROR
XXXI. THE CLOSE OF THE LONG TRAIL
XXXII. THE SUMMER OF LIFE
The Triumph of John Kars
CHAPTER I
AT FORT MOWBRAY
Murray McTavish was seated at a small table, green-baized, littered
with account-books and a profusion of papers. But he was not regarding
these things. Instead, his dark, intelligent eyes were raised to the
smallish, dingy window in front of him, set in its deep casing of
centuries-old logs. Nor was the warm light shining in his eyes
inspired by the sufficiently welcome sunlight beyond. His gaze was
entirely absorbed by a fur-clad figure, standing motionless in the open
jaws of the gateway of the heavily timbered stockade outside.
It was the figure of a young woman. A long coat of beaver skin, and a
cap of the same fur pressed down low over her ruddy brown hair, held
her safe from the bitter chill of the late semi-arctic fall. She, too,
was absorbed in the scene upon which she was gazing.
Her soft eyes, so gray and gentle, searched the distance. The hills,
snow-capped and serrated. The vast incline of ancient glacier, rolling
backwards and upwards in discolored waves from the precipitate opposite
bank of Snake River. The woods, so darkly overpowering as the year
progressed towards its old age. The shaking tundra, treacherous and
hideous with rank growths of the summer. The river facets of broken
crags awaiting the cloak of winter to conceal their crude nakedness.
Then the trail, so slight, so faint. The work of sleds and moccasined
feet through centuries of native traffic, with the occasional variation
of the hard shod feet of the white adventurer.
She knew it all by heart. She read it all with the eyes of one who has
known no other outlook since first she opened them upon the world.
Yes, she knew it all. But that which she did not know she was seeking
now. Beyond all things, at that moment, she desired to penetrate some
of the secrets that lay beyond her grim horizon.
Her brows were drawn in a slight frown. The questions she was asking
peeped out of the depths of her searching eyes. And they were the
questions of a troubled mind.
A step sounded behind her, but she did not turn. A moment later the
voice of Murray McTavish challenged her.
"Why?"
The brief demand was gentle enough, yet it contained a sort of playful
irony, which, at the moment, Jessie Mowbray resented. She turned.
There was impatience in the eyes which confronted him. She regarded
him steadily.
"Why? It's always _why_--with you, when feelings get the better of me.
Maybe you never feel dread, or doubt, or worry. Maybe you never feel
anything--human. Say, you're a man and strong. I'm just a woman,
and--and he's my father. He's overdue by six weeks. He's not back
yet, and we've had no word from him all summer."
Her impatience became swallowed up by her anxiety again. The appeal of
her manner, her beauty were not lost upon the man.
"So you stand around looking at the trail he needs to come over,
setting up a fever of trouble for yourself figgering on the traps and
things nature's laid out for us folk beyond those hills. Guess that's
a woman sure."
Hot, impatient words rose to the girl's lips, but she choked them back.
"I can't argue it," she cried, a little desperately. "Father should
have been back six weeks ago. You know that. He isn't back. Well?"
"Allan and I have run this old post ten years," Murray said soberly.
"In those ten years there's not been a single time that Allan's hit the
northern trail on a trade when he's got back to time by many
weeks--generally more than six. It don't seem to me I've seen his
little girl standing around same as she's doing now--ever before."
The girl drew her collar up about her neck. The gesture was a mere
desire for movement.
"I guess I've never felt as I do now," she said miserably.
"How?"
The girl's words came in a sudden passionate rush.
"Oh, it's no use!" she cried. "You wouldn't understand. You're a good
partner. You're a big man on the trail. Guess there's no bigger men
on the trail than you and father--unless it's John Kars. But you all
fight with hard muscle. You figure out the sums as you see them. You
don't act as women do when they don't know. I've got it all here," she
added, pressing her fur mitted hands over her bosom, her face flushed
and her eyes shining with emotion. "I know, I feel there's something
amiss. I've never felt this way before. Where is he? Where did he go
this time? He never tells us. You never tell us. We don't know.
Can't help be sent? Can't I go with an outfit and search for him?"
The man's smile had died out. His big eyes, strange, big dark eyes,
avoided the girl's. They turned towards the desolate, sunlit horizon.
His reply was delayed as though he were seeking what best to say.
The girl waited with what patience she could summon. She was born and
bred to the life of this fierce northern world, where women look to
their men for guidance, where they are forced to rely upon man's
strength for life itself.
She gazed upon the round profile, awaiting that final word which she
felt must be given. Murray McTavish was part of the life she lived on
the bitter heights of the Yukon territory. In her mind he was a
fixture of the fort which years since had been given her father's name.
He was a young man, a shade on the better side of thirty-five, but he
possessed none of the features associated with the men of the trail.
His roundness was remarkable, and emphasized by his limited stature.
His figure was the figure of a middle-aged merchant who has spent his
life in the armchair of a city office. His neck was short and fat.
His face was round and full. The only feature he possessed which
lifted him out of the ruck of the ordinary was his eyes. These were
unusual enough. There was their great size, and a subtle glowing fire
always to be discovered in the large dark pupils. They gave the man a
suggestion of tremendous passionate impulse. One look at them and the
insignificant, the commonplace bodily form was forgotten. An
impression of flaming energy supervened. The man's capacity for
effort, physical or mental, for emotion, remained undoubted.
But Jessie Mowbray was too accustomed to the man to dwell on these
things, to notice them. His easy, smiling, good-natured manner was the
man known to the inhabitants of Fort Mowbray, and the Mission of St.
Agatha on the Snake River.
The man's reply came at last. It came seriously, earnestly.
"I can't guess how this notion's got into you, Jessie," he said, his
eyes still dwelling on the broken horizon. "Allan's the hardest man in
the north--not even excepting John Kars, who's got you women-folk
mesmerized. Allan's been traipsing this land since two years before
you were born, and that is more than twenty years ago. There's not a
hill, or valley, or river he don't know like a school kid knows its
alphabet. Not an inch of this devil's playground for nigh a range of
three hundred miles. There isn't a trouble on the trail he's not been
up against, and beat every time. And now--why, now he's got a right
outfit with him, same as always, you're worrying. Say, there's only
one thing I can figger to beat Allan Mowbray on the trail. It would
need to be Indians, and a biggish outfit of them. Even then I'd bet my
last nickel on him." He shook his head with decision. "No, I guess
he'll be right along when his work's through."
"And his work?"
The girl's tone was one of relief. Murray's confidence was infectious
in spite of her instinctive fears.
The man shrugged his fleshy shoulders under his fur-lined pea-jacket.
"Trade, I guess. We're not here for health. Allan don't fight the
gods of the wilderness or the legion of elemental devils who run this
desert for the play of it. No, this country breeds just one race.
First and last we're wage slaves. Maybe we're more wage slaves north
of 60 degrees than any dull-witted toiler taking his wage by the hour,
and spending it at the end of each week. We're slaves of the big
money, and every man, and many of the women, who cross 60 degrees are
ready to stake their souls as well as bodies, if they haven't already
done so, for the yellow dust that's to buy the physic they'll need to
keep their bodies alive later when they've turned their backs on a
climate that was never built for white men."
Then the seriousness passed for smiling good-nature. It was the look
his round face was made for. It was the manner the girl was accustomed
to.
"Guess this country's a pretty queer book to read," he went on. "And
there aren't any pictures to it, either. Most of us living up here
have opened its covers, and some of us have read. But I guess Allan's
read deeper than any of us. I'd say he's read deeper even than John
Kars. It's for that reason I sold my interests in Seattle an' joined
him ten years ago in the enterprise he'd set up here. It's been tough,
but it's sure been worth it," he observed reflectively. "Yep. Sure it
has." He sighed in a satisfied way. Then his smile deepened, and the
light in his eyes glowed with something like enthusiasm. "Think of it.
You can trade right here just how you darn please. You can make your
own laws, and abide by 'em or break 'em just as you get the notion.
Think of it, we're five hundred miles, five hundred miles of fierce
weather, and the devil's own country, from the coast. We're three
hundred miles from the nearest law of civilization. And, as for
newspapers and the lawmakers, they're fifteen hundred miles of tempest
and every known elemental barrier away. We're kings in our own
country--if we got the nerve. And we don't need to care a whoop so the
play goes on. Can you beat it? No. And Allan knows it all--all.
He's the only man who does--for all your John Kars. I'm glad. Say,
Jessie, it's dead easy to face anything if you feel--just glad."
As he finished speaking the eyes which had held the girl were turned
towards the gray shadows eastward. He was gazing out towards that far
distant region of the Mackenzie River which flowed northwards to empty
itself into the ice-bound Arctic Ocean. But he was not thinking of the
river.
Jessie was relieved at her escape from his masterful gaze. But she was
glad of his confidence and unquestioned strength. It helped her when
she needed help, and some of her shadows had been dispelled.
"I s'pose it's as you say," she returned without enthusiasm. "If my
daddy's safe that's all I care. Mother's good. I just love her.
And--Alec, he's a good boy. I love my mother and my brother. But
neither of them could ever replace my daddy. Yes, I'll be glad for him
to get back. Oh, so glad. When--when d'you think that'll be?"
"When his work's through."
"I must be patient. Say, I wish I'd got nerve."
The man laughed pleasantly.
"Guess what a girl needs is for her men-folk to have nerve," he said.
"I don't know 'bout your brother Alec, but your father--well, he's got
it all."
The girl's eyes lit.
"Yes," she said simply. Then, with a glance westwards at the dying
daylight, she went on: "We best get down to the Mission. Supper'll be
waiting."
Murray nodded.
"Sure. We'll get right along."
CHAPTER II
THE MISSION OF ST. AGATHA
A haunting silence prevails in the land beyond the barrier of the Yukon
watershed. It is a world apart, beyond, and the other land, the land
where the battle of civilization still fluctuates, still sways under
the violent passions of men, remains outside.
Its fascination is beyond all explanation. Yet it is as great as its
conditions are merciless. Murray McTavish had sought the explanation,
and found it in the fact that it was a land in which man could make his
own laws and break them at his pleasure. Was this really its
fascination? Hardly. The explanation must surely lie in something
deeper. Surely the primitive in man, which no civilization can
out-breed, would be the better answer.
In Allan Mowbray's case this was definitely so. Murray McTavish had
served his full apprenticeship where the laws of civilization prevail.
His judgment could scarcely be accepted in a land where only the strong
may survive.
The difference between the two men was as wide as the countries which
had bred them, and furthermore Allan had survived on the banks of the
Snake River for upwards of twenty-five years. For twenty-five years he
had lived the only life that appealed to his primitive instincts and
powers. And before that he had never so much as peeped beyond the
watershed at the world outside. His whole life was instinct with
courage. His years had been years of struggle and happiness, years in
which a loyal and devoted wife had shared his every disappointment and
success, years in which he had watched his son and daughter grow to the
ripeness of full youth.
The whole life of these people was a simple enough story of passionate
energy, and a slow, steady-growing prosperity, built out of a
wilderness where a moment's weakness would have yielded them complete
disaster. But they were merciless upon their own powers. They knew
the stake, and played for all. The man played for the tiny lives which
had come to cheer his resting moments, and the defenceless woman who
had borne them. The woman supported him with a loyal devotion and
courage that was invincible.
For years Allan Mowbray had scoured the country in search of his trade.
His outfit was known to every remote Indian race, east and west, and
north--always north. His was a figure that haunted the virgin
woodlands, the broad rivers, the unspeakable wastes of silence at all
times and seasons. Even the world outside found an echo of his labors.
These two had fought their battle unaided from the grim shelter of Fort
Mowbray. And, in the clearing of St. Agatha's Mission, at the foot of
the bald knoll, upon the summit of which the old Fort stood, their
infrequent moments of leisure were spent in the staunch log hut which
the man had erected for the better comfort of his young children.
Then had come the greater prosperity. It was the time of a prosperity
upon which the simple-minded fur-hunter had never counted. The Fort
became a store for trade. It was no longer a mere headquarters where
furs were made ready for the market. Trade developed. Real trade.
And Allan was forced to change his methods. The work was no longer
possible single-handed. The claims of the trail suddenly increased,
and both husband and wife saw that their prospects had entirely
outgrown their calculations.
Forthwith long council was taken between them. Either the trail, with
its possibilities, which had suddenly become an enormous factor in
their lives, or the store at the Fort, which was almost equally
important, must be abandoned, or a partner must be found and taken.
Allan Mowbray was not the man to yield a detail of the harvest he had
so laboriously striven for. So decision fell upon the latter course.
Murray McTavish was not twenty-five when he arrived at the Fort. He
was a man of definite personality and was consumed with an abundance of
determination and resource. His inclination to stoutness was even then
pronounced. But above all stood out his profound, concentrated
understanding of American commercial methods, and the definite, almost
fixed smile of his deeply shining eyes.
There was never a doubt of the wisdom of Allan's choice from the moment
of his arrival. Murray plunged himself unreservedly into the work of
the enterprise, searching its possibilities with a keenly businesslike
eye, and he saw that they had been by no means overestimated by his
partner. There was no delay. With methods of smiling "hustle" he took
charge of the work at the Fort, and promptly released the overburdened
Allan for the important work of the trail.
Nor was Ailsa Mowbray the least affected by the new partner's coming.
It was early made clear that her years of labor were at last to yield
her that leisure she craved for the upbringing of her little family,
which was, even now, receiving education under the cultured guidance of
the little French-Canadian priest who had set up his Mission in this
wide wilderness. For the first time in all her married life she found
herself free to indulge in the delights of a domesticity her woman's
heart desired.
It was about the end of the summer, after Murray's coming to the Fort,
that an element of trouble began to disquiet the peace of the Mission
on Snake River. It almost seemed as if the change from the old
conditions had broken the spell of the years of calm which had
prevailed. Yet the trouble was remote enough. Furthermore it seemed
natural enough.
First came rumor. It traveled the vast, silent places in that
mysterious fashion which never seems clearly accounted for. Well over
a hundred and fifty miles of mountain, and valley, and trackless
woodlands separated the Fort from the great Mackenzie River, yet, on
the wings of the wind, it seemed, was borne a story of war, of
massacre, of savage destruction. The hitherto peaceful fishing Indians
of Bell River had suddenly become the hooligans of the north. They
were carrying fire and slaughter to all lesser Indian settlements
within a radius of a hundred miles of their own sombre valley.
The Fort was disturbed. The whole Mission struck a note of panic.
Father Jose saw grave danger for his small flock of Indian converts.
He remembered the white woman and her children, too. He was seriously
alarmed. Allan was away, so he sought the advice of those remaining.
Murray was untried in the conditions of the life of the country, but
Ailsa Mowbray possessed all the little man's confidence.
In the end, however, it was Murray who decided. He took upon himself
the position of leader in his partner's absence, and claimed the right
to probe the trouble to its depths. The priest and Ailsa yielded
reluctantly. They, at least, understood the risk of his inexperience.
But Murray forcefully rejected any denial, and, with characteristic
energy, and no little skill, he gathered an outfit together and
promptly set out for Bell River.
It was the one effort needed to assure him of his permanent place in
the life of the Fort on Snake River. It left him no longer an untried
recruit, but a soldier in the battle of the wilderness.
A month later he returned from his perilous enterprise with his work
well and truly done. The information he brought was comprehensive and
not without comfort. The Bell River Indians had certainly taken to the
war-path. But it was only in defence of their fishing on the river
which meant their whole existence. They were defending it
successfully, but, in their success, their savage instincts had run
amuck. Not content with slaying the invaders they had annexed their
enemy's property and squaws. Then, with characteristic ruthlessness,
they had set about carrying war far and near, but only amongst the
Indians. Their efforts undoubtedly had a dual purpose, The primary
object was the satisfying of a war lust suddenly stirred into being in
savage hearts by their first successes. The other was purely politic.
They meant to establish a terror, and so safeguard their food supplies
for all time.
Murray's story was complete. It was thorough. It had not been easy.
His capacity henceforth became beyond all question.
So the cloud passed for the moment. But it did not disappear. The
people at the Fort, even Allan Mowbray, himself, when he returned,
dismissed the matter without further consideration. He laughed at the
panic which had arisen in his absence, while yet he commended Murray's
initiative and courage.
After the first lull, however, fresh stories percolated through. They
reached the Fort again and again, at varying intervals, until the Bell
River Valley became a black, dangerous spot in the minds of all people,
and both Indians, and any chance white adventurer, who sought shelter
at the Fort, received due warning to avoid this newly infected plague
spot.
It was nearly ten years since these things had occurred. And during
all that time the primitive life on the banks of Snake River had
continued to progress in its normal calm. Each year brought its added
prosperity, which found little enough outward display beyond the
constant bettering of trade conditions which went on under Murray's
busy hands. A certain added comfort reached the mother's home in the
Mission clearing. But otherwise the outward and visible signs of the
wealth that was being stored up were none.
Father Jose's Mission grew in extent. The clearing widened and the
numbers of savage converts increased definitely. The charity and
medical skill of the little priest, and the Mission's adjacency to a
big trading post, were responsible for drawing about the place every
begging Indian and the whole of his belongings. The old man received
them, and his benefits were placed at their service; the only return he
demanded was an attendance at his religious services, and that the
children should be sent to the classes which he held in the Mission
House. It was a pastoral that held every element of beauty, but as an
anachronism in the fierce setting north of "sixty" it was even more
perfect.
Allan Mowbray looked on at all these things in his brief enough
leisure. Nor was he insensible to the changed conditions of comfort in
his own home, due to the persistent genius of his partner. The old,
rough furnishings had gone to be replaced by modern stuff, which must
have demanded a stupendous effort in haulage from the gold city of
Leaping Horse, nearly three hundred miles distant. But Ailsa was
pleased. That was his great concern. Ailsa was living the life he had
always desired for her, and he was free to roam the wilderness at his
will. He blessed the day that had brought Murray McTavish into the
enterprise.
Just now Allan had been away from the Fort nearly the whole of the open
season. His return was awaited by all. These journeys of his brought,
as a result, a rush of business to the Fort, and an added life to the
Mission. Then there was the mother, and her now grown children,
waiting to welcome the man who was their all.
But Allan Mowbray had not yet returned, and Jessie, young, impulsive,
devoted, was living in a fever of apprehension such as her experienced
mother never displayed.
Supper was ready at the house when Murray and Jessie arrived from the
Fort. Ailsa Mowbray was awaiting them. She regarded them smilingly as
they came. Her eyes, twins, in their beauty and coloring, with her
daughter's, were full of that quiet patience which years of struggle
had inspired. For all she was approaching fifty, she was a handsome,
erect woman, taller than the average, with a figure of physical
strength quite unimpaired by the hard wear of that bitter northern
world. Her greeting was the greeting of a mother, whose chief concern
is the bodily welfare of her children, and a due regard for her
domestic arrangements.
"Jessie's young yet, and maybe that accounts for a heap. But you,
Murray, being a man, ought to know when it's food time. I guess it's
been waiting a half hour. Come right in, and we'll get on without
waiting for Alec. The boy went out with his gun, an' I don't think
we'll see him till he's ready."
Jessie's serious eyes had caught her mother's attention. Ailsa Mowbray
possessed all a mother's instinct. Her watch over her pretty daughter,
though unobtrusive, was never for a moment relaxed. Some day she
supposed the child would have to marry. Well, the choice was small
enough. It scarcely seemed a thing to concern herself with. But she
did. And her feelings and opinions were very decided.