The Barrier, Rex Beach [top books to read TXT] 📗

place w'ere I don' get too hot on de summer an' too col' on de winter; it's place w'ere birds sing an' flowers blossom an' de sun shine, an' w'ere I can sleep widout dreamin' 'bout it all de tam'."

"Why, it's the land of content—you'll never discover it by travel. I'll tell you a secret, Poleon. I've found it—yes, I have. It lies here." She laid her hand on her breast. "Father Barnum told me the story of your people, and how it lives in your blood—that hunger to find the far places; it's what drove the voyageurs and coureur du bois from Quebec to Vancouver, and from the Mississippi to Hudson's Bay. The wanderlust was their heritage, and they pushed on and on without rest, like the salmon in the spring, but they were different in this: that they never came back to die."

"Dat's me! I never see no place yet w'at I care for die on, an' I never see no place yet w'at I care for see again 'cept dis Flambeau. I lak' it, dis one, purty good so far, but I ain' know w'en I'm goin' get tire'. Dat depen's." There was a look of great tenderness in his eyes as he bent towards her and searched her face, but she was not thinking of him, and at length he continued:

"Fader Barnum, he's goin' be here nex' Sonday for cheer up dem Injun. Constantine she's got de letter."

"Why, that's the day after to-morrow!" cried Necia. "Oh, won't I be glad to see him!"

"You don' get dem kin' of mans on de beeg cities," said Poleon. "I ain' never care for preachin' much, an' dese feller w'at all de tam' pray an' sing t'rough de nose, dey mak' me seeck. But Fader Barnum—Ba Gar! She's the swell man."

"Do you know," said Necia, wistfully, "I've always wanted him to marry me."

"You t'inkin' 'bout marry on some feller, eh?" said the other, with an odd grin. "Wal! w'y not? He'll be here all day an' night. S'pose you do it. Mos' anybody w'at ain' got some wife already will be glad for marry on you—an' mebbe some feller w'at has got wife, too! If you don' lak' dem, an' if you're goin' marry on SOMEBODY, you can be wife to me."

Necia laughed lightly. "I believe you WOULD marry me if I wanted you to; you've done everything else I've ever asked. But you needn't be afraid; I won't take you up." In all her life this man had never spoken of love to her, and she had no hint of the dream he cherished. He had sung his songs to her and told her stories till his frank and boyish mind was like an open page to her; she knew the romance that was the very fibre of him, and loved his exaggerated chivalry, for it minded her of old tales she had read; but that he could care for her save as a friend, as a brother—such a thought had never dawned upon her.

While they were talking a boat had drawn inshore and made fast to the bank in front of them. An Indian landed and, approaching, entered into talk with the Frenchman.

By-and-by Poleon turned to the girl, and said:

"Dere's'hondred marten-skin come in; you min' de store w'ile I mak' trade wit' dis man."

Together the two went down to the boat, leaving Necia behind, and not long after Runnion sauntered up to the store and addressed her familiarly.

"Hello, Necia! I just heard about the strike on your claim. That's fine and dandy."

She acknowledged his congratulations curtly, for although it was customary for most of the old-timers to call her by her Christian name, she resented it from this man. She chose to let it pass, however.

"I had some good news last night myself," he continued. "One of my men has hit some good dirt, and we'll know what it means in a day or so. I'll gamble we're into the money big, though, for I always was a lucky cuss. Say, where's your father?"

"He's out at the mine."

"We've used up all of our bar sugar at the saloon, and I want to buy what you've got."

"Very well, I'll get it for you."

He followed her inside, watching her graceful movements, and attempting, with his free-and-easy insolence, to make friendly advances, but, seeing that she refused to notice him, he became piqued, and grew bolder.

"Look here, Necia, you're a mighty pretty girl. I've had my eye on you ever since I landed, and the more I see of you the better I like you."

"It isn't necessary to tell me that," she replied. "The price of the sugar will be just the same."

"Yes, and you're bright, too," he declared. "That's what I like in a woman—good looks and brains. I believe in strong methods and straight talk, too; none of this serenading and moonlight mush for me. When I see a girl I like, I go and get her. That's me. I make love like a man ought to—"

"Are you making love to me?" she inquired, curiously.

"It's a little bit sudden, I know, but a man has to begin some time. I think you'd just about suit me. We'll both have money before long, and I'll be good to you."

The girl laughed derisively in his face.

"Now don't get sore. I mean business. I don't wear a blue coat and use a lot of fancy words, and then throw you down when I've had my fun, and I don't hang around and spoil your chances with other men either."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm no soft-talking Southerner with gold buttons and highfalutin' ways. I don't care if you are a squaw, I'll take you—"

"Don't talk to me!" she cried, in disgust, her voice hot with anger and resentment.

But he continued, unheeding: "Now, cut out these airs and get down to cases. I mean what I say. I know you've been casting sheep's eyes at Burrell, but, Lord! he wouldn't have you, no matter how rich you get. Of course, you acted careless in going off alone with him, but I don't mind what they're saying around camp, for I've made little slips like that myself, and we'd get along—"

"I'll have you killed!" she hissed, through her clinched teeth, while her whole body vibrated with passion. "I'll call Poleon and have him shoot you!" She pointed to the river-bank a hundred yards away, where the Canadian was busy assorting skins.

But he only laughed at her show of temper, and shrugged his shoulders as he answered her, roughly:

"Understand me, I'm on the square. So think it over, and don't go up in the air like a sky-rocket."

She cried out at him to "Go—go—go!" and finally he took up his bundle, saying, as he stepped out slowly:

"All right! But I'm coming back, and you'll have to listen to me. I don't mind being called a squaw-man. You're pretty near white, and you're good enough for me. I'll treat you right—why, I'll even marry you if you're dead set on it. Sure!"

She could scarcely breathe, but checked her first inclination to call Poleon, knowing that it needed only a word from her to set that nut-brown savage at Runnion's throat. Other thoughts began to crowd her brain and to stifle her. The fellow's words had stabbed her consciousness, and done something for her that gentler means would not have accomplished; they had opened her eyes to a thing that she had forgotten—a hideous thing that had reared its fangs once before to strike, but which her dreams of happiness had driven out of her Eden. All at once she saw the wrong that had been done her, and realized from this brute's insult that those early fears had been well grounded. It suddenly occurred to her that in all the hours she had spent with her lover, in all those unspeakably sweet and intimate hours, there had never been one word of marriage. He had looked into her eyes and vowed he could not live without her, and yet he had never said the words he should have said, the words that would bind her to him. His arms and his lips had comforted her and stilled her fears, but after all he had merely made love. A cold fear crept over the girl. She recalled the old Corporal's words of a few weeks ago, and her conversation with Stark came back to her. What if it were true—that which Runnion implied? What if he did not intend to ask her, after all? What if he had only been amusing himself? She cried out sharply at this, and when Doret staggered in beneath a great load of skins he found her in a strange excitement. When he had finished his accounting with the Indian and dismissed him, she turned an agitated face to the Frenchman.

"Poleon," she said, "I'm in trouble. Oh, I'm in such awful trouble!"

"It's dat Runnion! I seen 'im pass on de store w'ile I'm down below." His brows knit in a black scowl, and his voice slid off a pitch in tone. "Wat he say, eh?"

"No, no, it's not that. He paid me a great compliment." She laughed harshly. "Why, he asked me to marry him." The man beside her cursed at this, but she continued: "Don't blame him for liking me—I'm the only woman for five hundred miles around—or I was until this crowd came—so how could he help himself? No, he merely showed me what a fool I've been."

"I guess you better tell me all 'bout dis t'ing," said Poleon, gravely. "You know I'm all tam' ready for help you, Necia. Wen you was little feller an' got bust your finger you run to me queeck, an' I feex it."

"Yes, I know, dear Poleon," she assented, gratefully. "You've been a brother to me, and I need you now more than I ever needed you before. I can't go to father; he wouldn't understand, or else he would understand too much, and spoil it all, his temper is so quick."

"I'm not w'at you call easy-goin' mese'f," the Canadian said, darkly, and it was plain that he was deeply agitated, which added to the girl's distress; but she began to speak rapidly, incoherently, her impulsiveness giving significance to her words, so that the man had no difficulty in following her drift. With quick insight he caught her meaning, and punctuated her broken sentences with a series of grave nods, assuring her that he knew and understood. He had always known, he had always understood, it seemed.

"Don't think I'm unwomanly, Poleon, for I'm not. I may be foolish and faithful and too trusting, but I'm not—unmaidenly. You see, I've never been like other girls—and he was so fine, so different, he made me love him—it's part of a soldier's training, I suppose. It was so sweet to be near him, and to hear him tell of himself and all the world he knows—I just let myself drift. I'm afraid—I'm afraid I listened too well, and my ears heard more than he said—my head is so full of books, you know."

"He should have know' dat, too," said Poleon.

"Yes," she flared up. "He knew I was only an Indian girl."

The only color in Doret's face lay now in his cheeks, where the sun had put it; but he smiled at her—his warm, engaging smile—and laid his great brown hand upon her shoulder softly.

"I've look' in hees eye an' I'm always t'ink he's good man. I don' never t'ink he'll mak' fun of poor little gal."

"But he has, Poleon; that's just what he has done." She came near to breaking down, and finished, pathetically, "They're telling the story on the street, so Runnion says."

"Dat's easy t'ing for feex," he said. "Runnion, she don' spread no more story lak' dat."

"I don't care what they say. I want the truth. I want to know what he means, what his intentions are. He swears he loves me, and yet he has never asked me to marry him. He has gone too far; he has made a fool of me to amuse himself, and—and I couldn't see it until to-day. He's laughing at me, Poleon, he's laughing at me now! Oh, I can't bear it!"

The Frenchman took up his wide hat from the counter and placed it carefully upon his head, but she stopped him as he moved towards the door, for she read the meaning of the glare in his eyes.

"Wait till you understand—wait, I say! He hasn't done anything yet."

"Dat's de trouble. I'm goin' mak' 'im do somet'ing."

"No, no! It isn't that; it's these doubts that are killing me—I'm not sure—"

"I hear plaintee," he said. "Dere's no tam' for monkey roun'."

"I tell you he may be honest," she declared. "He may mean to marry me, but I've