Back to God's Country and Other Stories, James Oliver Curwood [hot novels to read .TXT] 📗

It was the closely hooded stranger who spoke.

“I will give a hundred dollars cash,” he said.

A look of annoyance crossed Reese Beaudin’s face.

He was close to the bronze-faced stranger, and edged nearer.

“Let the Indian have them,” he said in a low voice. “It is Meewe. I knew him years ago. He has carried me on his back. He taught me first to draw pictures.”

“But they are powerful dogs,” objected the stranger. “My team needs them.”

The Cree had risen higher out of the crowd. One arm rose above his head. He was an Indian who had seen fifty years of the forests, and his face was the face of an Egyptian.

“Nesi-tu-now Nesoo-sap umisk!” he proclaimed.

Henri Paquette hopped excitedly, and faced the stranger.

“Twenty-two beaver,” he challenged. “Twenty-two—”

“Let Meewe have them,” replied the hooded stranger.

Three minutes later a single dog was pulled up on the log platform. He was a magnificent beast, and a rumble of approval ran through the crowd.

The face of Joe Delesse was gray. He wet his lips. Reese Beaudin, watching him, knew that the time had come. And Joe Delesse, seeing no way of escape, whispered:

“It is her dog, m’sieu. It is Parka—and Dupont sells him today to show her that he is master.”

Already Paquette was advertising the virtues of Parka when Reese Beaudin, in a single leap, mounted the log platform, and stood beside him.

“Wait!” he cried.

There fell a silence, and Reese said, loud enough for all to hear:

“M’sieu Paquette, I ask the privilege of examining this dog that I want to buy.”

At last he straightened, and all who faced him saw the smiling sneer on his lips.

“Who is it that offers this worthless cur for sale?” Lac Bain heard him say. “P-s-s-st—it is a woman’s dog! It is not worth bidding for!”

“You lie!” Dupont’s voice rose in a savage roar. His huge shoulders bulked over those about him. He crowded to the edge of the platform. “You lie!”

“He is a woman’s dog,” repeated Reese Beaudin without excitement, yet so clearly that every ear heard. “He is a woman’s pet, and M’sieu Dupont most surely does lie if he denies it!”

So far as memory went back no man at Lac Bain that day had ever heard another man give Jacques Dupont the lie. A thrill swept those who heard and understood. There was a great silence, in that silence men near him heard the choking rage in Dupont’s great chest. He was staring up—straight up into the smiling face of Reese Beaudin; and in that moment he saw beyond the glossy black beard, and amazement and unbelief held him still. In the next, Reese Beaudin had the violin in his hands. He flung off the buckskin, and in a flash the instrument was at his shoulder.

“See! I will play, and the woman’s pet shall sing!”

And once more, after five years, Lac Bain listened to the magic of Reese Beaudin’s violin. And it was Elise’s old love song that he played. He played it, smiling down into the eyes of a monster whose face was turning from red to black; yet he did not play it to the end, nor a quarter of it, for suddenly a voice shouted:

“It is Reese Beaudin—come back!”

Joe Delesse, paralyzed, speechless, could have sworn it was the hooded stranger who shouted; and then he remembered, and flung up his great arms, and bellowed:

“Oui—by the Saints, it is Reese Beaudin—Reese Beaudin come back!”

Suddenly as it had begun the playing ceased, and Henri Paquette found himself with the violin in his hands. Reese Beaudin turned, facing them all, the wintry sun glowing in his beard, his eyes smiling, his head high—unfraid now, more fearless than any other man that had ever set foot in Lac Bain. And McDougall, with his arm touching Elise’s hair, felt the wild and throbbing pulse of her body. This day—this hour—this minute in which she stood still, inbreathing—had confirmed her belief in Reese Beaudin. As she had dreamed, so had he risen. First of all the men in the world he stood there now, just as he had been first in the days when she had loved his dreams, his music, and his pictures. To her he was the old god, more splendid,—for he had risen above fear, and he was facing Dupont now with that strange quiet smile on his lips. And then, all at once, her soul broke its fetters, and over the women’s heads she reached out her arms, and all there heard her voice in its triumph, its joy, its fear.

“Reese! Reese—my sakeakun!”

Over the heads of all the forest people she called him beloved! Like the fang of an adder the word stung Dupont’s brain. And like fire touched to powder, swiftly as lightning illumines the sky, the glory of it blazed in Reese Beaudin’s face. And all that were there heard him clearly:

“I am Reese Beaudin. I am the Yellow-back. I have returned to meet a man you all know—Jacques Dupont. He is a monkey-man—a whipper of boys, a stealer of women, a cheat, a coward, a thing so foul the crows will not touch him when he dies—”

There was a roar. It was not the roar of a man, but of a beast—and Jacques Dupont was on the platform!

Quick as Dupont’s movement had been it was no swifter than that of the closely-hooded stranger. He was as tall as Dupont, and about him there was an air of authority and command.

“Wait,” he said, and placed a hand on Dupont’s heaving chest. His smile was cold as ice. Never had Dupont seen eyes so like the pale blue of steel.

“M’sieu Dupont, you are about to avenge a great insult. It must be done fairly. If you have weapons, throw them away. I will search this—this Reese Beaudin, as he calls himself! And if there is to be a fight, let it be a good one. Strip yourself to that great garment you have on, friend Dupont. See, our friend—this Reese Beaudin—is already stripping!”

He was unbuttoning the giant’s heavy Hudson’s Bay coat. He pulled it off, and drew Dupont’s knife from its sheath. Paquette, like a stunned cat that had recovered its ninth life, was scrambling from the platform. The Indian was already gone. And Reese Beaudin had tossed his coat to Joe Delesse, and with it his cap. His heavy shirt was closely buttoned; and not only was it buttoned, Delesse observed, but also was it carefully pinned. And even now, facing that monster who would soon be at him, Reese Beaudin was smiling.

For a moment the closely hooded stranger stood between them, and Jacques Dupont crouched himself for his vengeance. Never to the people of Lac Bain had he looked more terrible. He was the gorilla-fighter, the beast fighter, the fighter who fights as the wolf, the bear and the cat—crushing out life, breaking bones, twisting, snapping, inundating and destroying with his great weight and his monstrous strength. He was a hundred pounds heavier than Reese Beaudin. On his stooping shoulders he could carry a tree. With his giant hands he could snap a two-inch sapling. With one hand alone he had set a bear-trap. And with that mighty strength he fought as the cave-man fought. It was his boast there was no trick of the Chippewan, the Cree, the Eskimo or the forest man that he did not know. And yet Reese Beaudin stood calmly, waiting for him, and smiling!

In another moment the hooded stranger was gone, and there was none between them.

“A long time I have waited for this, m’sieu,” said Reese, for Dupont’s ears alone. “Five years is a long time. And my Elise still loves me.”

Still more like a gorilla Jacques Dupont crept upon him. His face was twisted by a rage to which he could no longer give voice. Hatred and jealousy robbed his eyes of the last spark of the thing that was human. His great hands were hooked, like an eagle’s talons. His lips were drawn back, like a beast’s. Through his red beard yellow fangs were bared.

And Reese Beaudin no longer smiled. He laughed!

“Until I went away and met real men, I never knew what a pig of a man you were, M’sieu Dupont,” he taunted amiably, as though speaking in jest to a friend. “You remind me of an aged and over-fat porcupine with his big paunch and crooked arms. What horror must it have been for my Elise to have lived in sight of such a beast as you!”

With a bellow Dupont was at him. And swifter than eyes had ever seen man move at Lac Bain before, Reese Beaudin was out of his way, and behind him; and then, as the giant caught himself at the edge of the platform, and turned, he received a blow that sounded like the broadside of a paddle striking water. Reese Beaudin had struck him with the flat of his unclenched hand!

A murmur of incredulity rose out of the crowd. To the forest man such a blow was the deadliest of insults. It was calling him an Iskwao—a woman—a weakling—a thing too contemptible to harden one’s fist against. But the murmur died in an instant. For Reese Beaudin, making as if to step back, shot suddenly forward—straight through the giant’s crooked arms—and it was his fist this time that landed squarely between the eyes of Dupont. The monster’s head went back, his great body wavered, and then suddenly he plunged backward off the platform and fell with a crash to the ground.

A yell went up from the hooded stranger. Joe Delesse split his throat. The crowd drowned Reese Beaudin’s voice. But above it all rose a woman’s voice shrieking forth a name.

And then Jacques Dupont was on the platform again. In the moments that followed one could almost hear his neighbor’s heart beat. Nearer and still nearer to each other drew the two men. And now Dupont crouched still more, and Joe Delesse held his breath. He noticed that Reese Beaudin was standing almost on the tips of his toes—that each instant he seemed prepared, like a runner, for sudden flight. Five feet—four—and Dupont leapt in, his huge arms swinging like the limb of a tree, and his weight following with crushing force behind his blow. For an instant it seemed as though Reese Beaudin had stood to meet that fatal rush, but in that same instant—so swiftly that only the hooded stranger knew what had happened—he was out of the way, and his left arm seemed to shoot downward, and then up, and then his right straight out, and then again his left arm downward, and up—and it was the third blow, all swift as lightning, that brought a yell from the hooded stranger. For though none but the stranger had seen it, Jacques Dupont’s head snapped back—and all saw the fourth blow that sent him reeling like a man struck by a club.

There was no sound now. A mental and a vocal paralysis seized upon the inhabitants of Lac Bain. Never had they seen fighting like this fighting of Reese Beaudin. Until now had they lived to see the science of the sawdust ring pitted against the brute force of Brobdingnagian, of Antaeus and Goliath. For Reese Beaudin’s fighting was a fighting without tricks that they could see. He used his fists, and his fists alone. He was like a dancing man. And suddenly, in the midst of the miracle, they saw Jacques Dupont go down. And the second miracle was that Reese Beaudin did not leap on him when he had fallen. He stood back a little, balancing himself in that queer fashion on the balls and toes of his