Black Cat Weekly #37

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3One afternoon as they topped a summit in a wide, rolling sea of grass, they got their first glimpse of their goal. On another elevation to the southward stood a low spreading house with a wide porch and four big chimneys. There were trees about it, and extensive stables and corrals in connection. There was no other house like it in the whole country. As they rode on they alternately lost it and found it as they dipped into the hollows and gained the crests.

The wind being in the south, they gave no warning of their approach until they reached the foot of the last rise. A shining slough of sweet water curved around the base of the hill. As they rode up a white man appeared at the open door of the stable where he stood as if frozen in astonishment. A tall young fellow with a hard, comely face and clean limbs, the best type of range rider. He was such a one as McNab would have chosen for a friend, consequently it made him sore to see the look of unmanly terror that spread over the young fellow’s face. Clearly he was not a party to bringing them there. What’s he afraid of? McNab asked himself.

Brinklow dismounting affected not to notice the man’s confusion. He extended his hand, saying: “Sergeant Brinklow and Trooper McNab.”

The young man shook hands in a daze. Brinklow’s name was known from one end of Canada to the other, and at the sound of it he looked even more terrified. “What do you want of us?” he stammered.

“Nothing in particular,” said Brinklow. “We’re just making a patrol.”

The other man made an effort to recover his grip. “You must excuse me,” he said. “It gave me a start to see anybody coming from that side. In all the time I have been here nobody has ever come down from the north before.”

“We’ve been trying to re-establish the old trail,” said Brinklow.

The other introduced himself as Ken Chambers. He helped them stable their horses, talking all the while about nothing in particular. Yet he was obviously not a talkative man by nature. He left them for a moment to announce their arrival at the house.

Laden with their baggage they made their way to the main door. The room they entered was of fine proportions occupying the whole centre of the house.

There was an immense fireplace at either end built of rounded stones. Superb bearskins were strewn on the floor, while various weapons and trophies of the chase hung from the log walls. McNab was astonished to observe the “outside” furniture. He had never seen anything like this north of the last town.

A door at the back of the room opened and a girl entered. McNab caught his breath at the sight of her. In any company of women she would have stood out. Her ivory skin betokened just a dash of Indian blood. She was very pale, and her dark eyes were strained with terror. She came forward with uneven steps. A moment later a young man followed her in, her brother by the look of him, and as handsome in his way as she was in hers.

Chambers introduced them: “Mrs. Tasker . . . Michel Dufranne.”

“Where’s Tasker?” asked Brinklow off-hand.

There was an ugly silence. The three young people lowered their eyes. But somebody had to speak. It was Dufranne who filled in the breach.

“He’s dead,” he said.

Brinklow rubbed his lip and made sounds of condolence. It was impossible to say of what he was thinking. McNab thought: Our work is here all right. He was sorry for the three simply because they were so good-looking. Which was illogical perhaps, but human.

“Since when?” asked Brinklow.

Dufranne made a mental calculation. “Sixteen days,” he said.

“What was the matter with him?”

Dufranne spread out his hands. “We don’t know. He just dropped down and never spoke again. We suppose it was a heart attack. There was no doctor, of course. We wanted to fetch the parson from Wehtigo Prairie, but we didn’t know how long it would take to get through the brûlé. We couldn’t keep him in summer weather.”

“Where did you bury him?” asked Brinklow.

This simple question produced another dead silence. It was only too clear that these young people taken by surprise, were desperately trying to think up a lie to meet the situation. As before it was Dufranne who finally answered. He masked his fright under an inscrutable manner that he had inherited from his red ancestor.

“We didn’t bury him,” he said.

“What!” cried the surprised Brinklow.

“Tasker hated the idea of burial,” Michel went on glibly. “He made us promise that we would lash his body to a little raft and set it adrift on the big river. He wanted to be carried down to the sea. So that is what we did.”

“If he dropped dead without warning how could he tell you all this?” asked Brinklow mildly.

Dufranne bit his lip. However, he quickly recovered himself. “He’d been sick before,” he said. “It was then that he told us.”

“Hm!” said Brinklow. It suited his purpose to ignore the ugly look of the situation; and he added with apparent sympathy: “A thing like this certainly is hard on folks when they’re cut off from everybody.”

The three young people looked relieved.

The girl bestirred herself. “You will want to wash before supper,” she said softly. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Brinklow looked humorously at his partner. That look said: Pretty soft, eh, being “shown to your room” on Pouce Longue Prairie.

The simple plan of the house was evident at a glance. The big living-room occupied the centre of the building, having windows to the front and the rear. There was a bedroom in each corner and a lean-to kitchen at the back. Their young hostess led them into one of the front rooms, which had a window opening on the porch with a view over the slough below. They were freshly surprised to discover that it contained a bedstead, a dresser and a washstand all finely made and polished. On the last-named piece there was actually a china bowl and pitcher.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Brinklow, “but how did you get these nice fixings away up here?”

“My husband made the furniture,” she answered. “It was his hobby. The china was brought in from outside. My husband liked to have nice things about him. He came of a very good family in England.”

“How long have you been married?” asked Brinklow with a fatherly air.

“Five years,” she said sadly.

He glanced at her in surprise. She did not look twenty years old.

“I was only a child when I came here,” she explained. “Fourteen years old.”

“I see,” said Brinklow gently.

She went away, but presently there was a tap on the door, and her soft voice said: “Hot water.”

“Well, if this don’t beat the Dutch!” murmured Brinklow, going to fetch it.

While they were tidying themselves, the grizzled sergeant pursed up his lips in a noiseless whistle as was his custom when he was thinking hard.

“A bad business, Brink,” murmured McNab, to draw him.

Brinklow nodded without saying anything.

“It’s clear that none of these three had any hand in bringing us here,” McNab went on. “All three of them looked as guilty as hell.”

“Guilty or scared,” said Brinklow. “It’s not always the same thing. . . . You must bear in mind they was knocked silly by the appearance of redcoats at the door.”

“Why should they be if their consciences are clear?”

Brinklow merely shrugged.

“What do you suppose has become of our artist friend?” asked McNab.

“I don’t know,” said Brinklow dryly. “But I reckon he won’t abandon us.”

“What do you make of it, anyhow, Brink?”

“I don’t make nothing of it, yet. Give me a chance to find the body first.”

“All three of them are so darn good-looking,” murmured McNab.

“Take the brother and sister,” said Brinklow. “Those of mixed blood run to extremes of beauty and ugliness. And the same goes for their characters. You are apt to find them either angels or devils!”