The Crimson West

by Alex Philip

CHAPTER XVII

Donald’s announcement that Labour Day would be celebrated at the Lake was received with good-natured approval by the men of the camp, who spoke of the coming event as the “dry” holiday. The rain, which had brought such blessed relief to the hearts of the guardians of the forest, had cleansed the air of the last vestige of haze that had overhung the valley for the past month.

The morning of the holiday dawned auspiciously. The hot days of August had given place to the mellow sunshine of Indian summer. Through the crystal clear atmosphere the mountains seemed much nearer, standing out sharply against the blue sky. Near the top there had been a fresh fall of snow that had covered the bare ice of the glaciers like a white mantle. The brilliant rays of the September sun were reflected from this virgin covering with a brilliancy that was dazzling to the eye.

Janet arrived for the occasion, bringing with her a score of her friends. All through the previous day the trail from the north had brought strings of cayuses from the Indian Reserve, their dusky riders gaily bedecked in holiday attire. “Klahowya, tillicum!” they shouted, their coffee-coloured faces lighting up with a grin that betokened a gala day spirit. Their tents dotted the lake-shore, their camp fires glowing cheerfully throughout the night.

The sports committee had arranged a varied list of events. A rowing race between the two camps; a sack race, free for all; a baseball game between the whites and the Indians; a sawing race in which two “buckers” from each camp would participate; a hundred-yard dash; a log-rolling contest between a man from the State of Maine and a citizen of New Brunswick. But these were mere preliminaries to the real event of the day, the much advertised horse-race. The men from the other camps, arrayed in their “Sunday clothes” made their appearance early in the day.

Each camp brought its quota of sandwiches and cakes, but the brunt of the work fell on Andy and his assistants, who piled tier upon tier of sandwiches on the long tables under the willows by the lake-shore. The lemonade was in half-barrels at each end of the tables, with a “help yourself” sign attached.

Old Klootchmen, with stolid, sombre faces, etched deep with cross-hatching of wrinkles, walked through the throng laden with baskets they were trying to sell. “Mika tika basket,” quavered their aged voices as they held forth their wares.

About eleven o’clock Mr. Wainwright appeared alone.

“Where’s Connie?” asked Donald.

“As you are aware, Mr. McLean, Connie is very shy. I could not induce her to accompany me.”

“That will never do,” said Donald quickly. “I am going after her.”

“I am afraid that your trip will avail you nothing,” smiled Wainwright in his absent-minded way.

Donald borrowed a cayuse and set off up the trail. He hitched the horse at the edge of the clearing and proceeded on foot down the path, his shoes making no sound on the soft dark earth. As he turned a clump of alders and came in view of the cabin he stopped short, arrested by a sight that evidently elicited his amused interest.

Connie stood outside the door before a small mirror hung on the rough log walls of the house. She was attempting to place her heavy hair in a knob at the top of her head. A page cut from a magazine was tacked to a log near the mirror. She studied the photograph carefully, then returned to the attack with renewed vigour. But she could not get it to suit her. She tried and tried, but the heavy shining coils would elude her slender fingers and fall in a golden cascade over her slight shoulders. Her efforts to reach a satisfactory result brought her to the verge of tears. She stamped her little foot impetuously. At last she got it arranged in a fair semblance to that of the envied actress. The effect was so startling that Donald fairly gasped. The child of the moment before was transformed, as if by a fairy’s wand, to a woman of wondrous grace and beauty.

Connie perked her head saucily, then half smiled to show her small milk-white teeth; apparently she was pleased with the reflection she saw in the glass. From the clothes-line she took a flour sack that had been split open and washed to be used for drying dishes. Draping this from her waist-line, she pinned it securely. Assuming a haughty pose, she walked past the mirror with a sinuous, undulating movement. The little artist was so perfect in her mimicry that Donald’s lips involuntarily formed the word “Janet.” Twice she passed before the tiny mirror with a regal step, her head turning with its characteristic bird-like motion to catch the reflection.

Gradually the queenly pose slipped from her. She stopped abruptly, throwing out her arms with a forlorn gesture. Her golden head fell forward. Two big tears welled from her blue eyes and ran down the small freckled nose. Her small hands plucked convulsively at her faded blue overalls. A sob like a stab [of] pain shook her slender body. One arm came up slowly to cover her tear-wet face as she threw herself face forward on the grass. Her slender shoulders were shaking with such an agony of weeping that Donald’s throat felt constricted and his eyes grew suddenly dim.

Her spotted cayuse, grazing nearby, raised his head at the sound of Connie’s hysterical sobbing and moved to the small figure of his mistress. With ears bent forward and a look of bewilderment in his soft eyes, he nuzzled her neck with his velvety nose. The sobbing continued, but her brown hand came up to pat his head lovingly.

Donald tiptoed softly back to the trail. He stood for some time with his hand on the saddle, his head bowed in deep thought. “Poor little kid,” he said gently, then whistling a lively tune, he slowly retraced his steps to the cabin. He entered the clearing just in time to see Connie as she disappeared in the timber across the field. He did not want her to know that he was aware of her flight, so he knocked loudly on the door and shouted her name. A raven croaked derisively from the top of a dead tree. The pony raised his head to eye him silently. Connie’s pet deer came around the corner of the barn, a look of gentle questioning in her beautiful big eyes.

Donald rode slowly back to camp. Connie’s distress had touched his heart; her heart-breaking sobs were still ringing in his ears. “It is not that Wainwright does not love his daughter,” mused Donald. “It must be that he is very poor.

“Don’t see how I can help,” his thoughts ran on. “One can’t very well suggest to a father that he buy clothes for his child.”

Andy rang the lunch-bell, and there was a wild but good-natured scramble for the tables.

A long table had been arranged in the big dining-room for the officials and Janet’s party to which Donald had invited Mr. Wainwright.

“Did you find Connie?” queried Wainwright.

“No,” lied Donald, “I couldn’t find her.”

Janet’s friends were having a merry time. There was laughter, jesting and gay repartee from all sides. Douglas was in his element, his quips and brilliant sallies keeping the diners in a continual uproar.

As Donald glanced around the big table at the laughing faces of the gay party, he tried to visualize Connie dressed as one of these fashionably-clad girls who represented Vancouver’s “younger set.” The vision he conjured caused him to smile dreamily.

Janet had manœuvred to secure a seat beside Donald. In spite of all her artful contriving, she had been unable to have more than a few words with her father’s busy general superintendent since her arrival. She noticed the dreamy smile on his face and wondered what could be the cause.

“You seem rather distraught,” she said with an arch smile, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh yes,” he replied absently.

“You were gone for some time this morning,” she stated.

“Yes,” he concurred, “I went up to bring Connie.”

“Oh!”

Janet’s fine eyebrows lifted slightly, and she looked at Donald with a curious intentness. “Why didn’t she come?”

“She wasn’t home.”

Her woman’s intuition long ago had told her that the “wood-sprite”—as Donald called Connie—was madly in love with him. As she looked at him now and noticed his pre-occupied air, a pang of jealousy shot through her heart like an arrow. Was it possible that he had begun to realise that the wild girl of the woods was not a child, and that a love for her had been kindled in his heart? The thought made her feel faint and she tried to put it from her mind.

Lunch was finished now and they were walking back to the lake. Douglas invited the party to take a trip around the lake in a motor-boat, to which they assented gleefully.

Janet hesitated as Donald turned away with Wainwright. “Aren’t you coming, Mr. McLean?” she called.

Donald turned and shook his head. “I may be needed here,” he said briefly.

Janet flushed to the roots of her dark hair and bit her lip in anger. She was not used to being thwarted in her desires.

Donald and Wainwright seated themselves on a bench under the willows and lighted cigarettes. Donald was ill at ease. The sound of Connie’s tragic sobbing was ringing in his ears. He could see her little figure writhing on the ground in a tempest of grief that had torn at his heart-strings. He sprang involuntarily to his feet and began pacing the ground with quick, nervous strides. Wainwright glanced up at him interrogatively.

“You seem worried,” he volunteered.

“I am,” Donald admitted briefly.

“Can I assist you in any way?”

Donald was in a welter of indecision. How should he broach this delicate subject? Although poor as the proverbial church-mouse, Connie’s father had the pride of Lucifer. There was natural dignity in his bearing, a certain aloofness in his manner, that in no way interfered with his unfailing courtesy, but had always precluded exchange of intimacies. He had resided in this wilderness for many years, but none could say that they had any more knowledge of his affairs at this moment than on the day of his arrival.

Donald decided to take the plunge. He sat down on the bench beside Connie’s father and related the scene he had witnessed that morning—of Connie’s preening before the mirror with the magazine page pinned to the logs; of the struggle with her hair; of the flour sack, and of the piteous sobbing of the heart-broken child.

Wainwright’s face flushed painfully. There was a look of poignant suffering in his grave eyes. Of all the races in the world, the English—especially of the better class—fight most stoically to hide their distress.

Wainwright leaned forward, his throat working convulsively as he struggled to regain composure.

“I hope you do not consider me presumptuous,” said Donald, a note of anxiety in his tone.

Wainwright’s hand reached forth to clasp Donald’s firmly. “No, I do not doubt your sincerity. An inordinate sense of pride has kept me in my present circumstances. This circumstance you have related has brought me to a realization that it is a selfish pride, as it has denied Connie the privileges to which she is entitled. There is nothing I can say,” he went on in bitter self-condemnation, “that can even partially condone or palliate my stupidity. I should have known that she would require proper clothing now that she is grown up. As a matter of fact”—he paused, his distress acute—“my finances are at a very low ebb.”

“How old is Connie?” asked Donald, hoping to relieve Wainwright’s embarrassment.

“Nineteen.”

Donald’s head came up with a jerk. “What!” he almost shouted.

“She is nineteen,” Wainwright reiterated, a peculiar expression in his eyes as he noticed Donald’s bewilderment.

“Nineteen!” Donald re-echoed, a bemused look on his face. “Great Scot! This is a surprise. I thought of Connie as being not more than fourteen or fifteen.”

“Connie’s healthful outdoor life has tended to keep her young, and her mode of dressing enchances the youthful effect,” said her father as he sat down wearily, a far-away look in his eyes. “Her mother,” he went on softly, a tremor in his voice, “was just like her; at the age of twenty-five she looked almost a child.” He turned to Donald. “No doubt you have wondered why I buried myself in this wilderness?”

Donald nodded. At this moment they were interrupted by members of the Sports Committee, who wanted Donald’s advice on a matter pertaining to the afternoon’s programme.

It was evident to Donald as he withdrew that Wainwright had been about to disclose his past history, a history which had been locked in his heart these many years.

At three o’clock the crowd began drifting toward the race-course. The centre of the valley had been cleared of under-brush, and the long grass burned under the watchful eye of the fire-ranger. A small creek and a few swampy places had been “corduroyed” with cedar poles and then covered with soil. A judges’ stand, with a few hastily erected seats for Janet’s party, stood near the finishing point. The horse-race, as has been said, was to be the feature event of the day. The crowd surged happily from the lake-shore to line up in orderly ranks about the oval.

The brilliant and diversified colours of the Klootchmen’s skirts and head-gear showed in bright contrast to the drab wearing apparel of the white men. The Siwash Indians were dressed in nondescript clothing as to trousers and coat, but one and all wore side-brimmed cowboy hats and displayed silk handkerchiefs of gorgeous hues, knotted at the throat to drape their shoulders carelessly.

Three husky farmers’ sons from Pemberton rode to the starting-line amid hearty hand-clapping and shouting from their friends. A swarthy-skinned rider, mounted on a spirited black cayuse, came prancing through the crowd. He lifted his hat and smiled in acknowledgment of the plaudits of the spectators. This was Joe Lafonte, the half-breed who had won first prize at the Lillooet races for the past two seasons.

The wise ones averred that Paul John, of the Indian contingent, would give him a hard race. Paul John’s cayuse was young, but the previous year he had run the half-breed’s horse a close second. Money was being placed on all sides, particularly by the Indians, who are inveterate gamblers. Amid an excited babble in Chinook, nine Indian riders came laughing and shouting, with much waving of hats, to prance about and display their horsemanship before the admiring crowd.

Donald, with Andy, Gillis and Wainwright, stood leaning over the edge of the judges’ stand watching the animated scene below.

At this moment there was an agitation at the far end of the oval, where the crowd opened to admit a horse and rider that came tearing down the course like the wind.

“Look!” Donald shouted excitedly as he seized Wainwright’s arm. “It’s Connie!”

Down the course, riding like a spirit of the woods, came the girl, her golden hair blowing about her face, sitting astride her mettlesome horse and riding as if the wilderness belonged to her alone.

Pegasus was not used to crowds. With arched neck and quivering flanks he reared on his hindlegs to poise an instant, then leaped forward like a rabbit. Connie sat on the bare back of her adored cayuse as though a part of the animal, her slender body moving in gentle undulations in perfect co-ordination with the movements of the horse. She was hard set to keep from running over the other riders, who sat with mouths agape.

Connie was unknown to the greater part of the crowd. To them this child-like equestrienne, with her mass of shining hair, appeared as an apparition. Her firm little hands soon checked her turbulent mount, who stood trembling with nervousness. The crowd gave her a rousing welcome as soon as they had recovered from their astonishment.

“Who is she? Where does she come from?” they shouted.

Connie kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She was outwardly calm and serene; inwardly she was as nervous as her fretting cayuse, and did not dare raise her flushed face to meet the battery of eyes around her.

Donald turned to Wainwright. “Are you going to let her run? Is it safe for her to enter a race with all those men?”

“I couldn’t stop her now, and besides,” he added with a touch of pride, “she can hold her own with any of them.”

The old trapper made his way to Donald’s side. His leathery old face, with its multitudinous wrinkles, wore a perturbed expression. “That feller Lafonte is cultus. He’s full of dirty tricks; ’tain’t safe for Connie to ride.”

Donald turned anxiously to Wainwright.

Connie’s father shook his head. “I am afraid it is too late now.” Then in a lower voice he added: “You must know the reason for her entering this race.”

Donald looked puzzled for an instant. Suddenly it dawned on him. “The purse?”

Wainwright nodded. “It would break her heart if I forbade her to ride, now that she has gone this far. She must have decided suddenly, as she never mentioned it to me.”

The Rennie Company had put up a purse of two hundred and fifty dollars. There was to be a collection taken after the race to add to this purse.

The horses trotted down the course. Connie’s was rearing and prancing, and it was with difficulty that she managed to get him to join the others. She leaned forward to whisper words of quieting in his twitching ears. Down the course they came. They were in nice alignment as they passed the judges’ stand.

“Go!”

Connie on her spotted cayuse showed as a bright splash of colour in the midst of her darker competitors.

Lafonte’s dark face lighted with a savage gleam as he swung his horse to the inside or “pole.”

Running neck and neck with him was his hated rival, Paul John, leaning low on his horse’s neck and shouting unintelligibly in Chinook. Connie was with the stragglers five lengths in the rear. This was new to Pegasus, and he was bewildered by the crowding horses about him. As they turned the corner of the course, Lafonte’s horse stumbled, and before he righted Paul John had slipped into the lead. Cursing wildly, Lafonte settled himself in the saddle, his horse’s head at the flank of his rival.

Hundreds of times Pegasus had travelled this field with Connie clinging to his back, slowing up for shrubs and trees and making sudden bursts of speed in the open. That had been vastly different to being surrounded by running horses and listening to the wild cries of their riders and the roaring of the excited crowd.

At the moment Lafonte lost the point of vantage to his rival, Connie leaned forward and emitted a peculiar clucking sound, at the same time striking her moccasined feet into the horse’s sides. Pegasus’s ears twitched back at the sound of the voice he loved. “Now I know what you want,” he seemed to say, as his beautiful neck stretched out and his hoofs spurned the ground. His graceful body lowered until it appeared to the spectators as though he were just skimming the earth. He moved with a springy stride, the muscles of his sinewy frame working with a sliding movement beneath the glossy skin. Gradually he drew away from the horses travelling with him. Foot by foot he crawled up on the leaders.

The party in the judges’ stand came to their feet to shout approval. The girls were cheering wildly for Connie as she crept nearer the front.

Donald was leaning forward with flushed face, his eyes glued to the spotted cayuse, a deep admiration in his heart for the intrepid little rider.

Little Andy jumped on the rail. “Strike me pink!” he yelled, “look at that ’oss run!” His eyes were bright with excitement. “A ’undred dollars on the spotted ’oss!” he shouted hysterically.

“I’ll take you,” said a voice.

“ ’Ere you are, mate; let’s make ’er two ’undred. I’m for me ’ome girl. She saved me blinkin’ life, God bless ’er!”

As they neared one of the corduroy bridges Connie was neck and neck with Lafonte. The latter glanced up as Pegasus came opposite. The roar of the crowd came dimly to Connie’s ears above the swish of air and the rumble of hoofs as they struck the culvert. An evil look crossed the half-breed’s face. He swung his horse sharply to the right. Connie’s horse floundered. Struggling to right himself, he fell off the bridge and landed with a dull thud on the soft ground below. The forward motion of the cayuse had stopped so suddenly that Connie was thrown like a projectile to a clump of bushes fifteen feet distant.

For an instant the big crowd was paralyzed. Then there went up a great groan of horror. The old trapper came to his feet, his eyes flaming, a hectic flush on his cheeks. Like a flash his hand flew to his six-shooter, and the long-barrelled Colt was trained on Lafonte. As he pulled the trigger Douglas struck his arm and the bullet sped harmlessly over the horseman’s head.

“My God!”

The words whistled through the set teeth of big Jack Gillis. “Let me get at him!” he cried hoarsely, as, pale of face, he struggled through the crowd. He would have thrown himself in front of the oncoming rider if strong hands had not clutched and held him. Connie’s father fell back a step as if struck a sudden blow, his eyes wide and staring. Andy’s head fell forward, and he groaned aloud. Janet covered her face with her hands and sat down weakly.

Donald leaned from the judges’ stand, his face pale as death. A vision of Connie’s broken body came before his eyes. “Oh, God!” he cried aloud in a voice vibrant with pain. He covered his eyes as though in dread of looking at the spot where she had fallen.

A shout came from the crowd—then a cheer that seemed to rock the hills. “Look! look!” they shouted.

Donald’s heart was beating tumultuously. Could he believe his eyes? Connie was standing upright. She appeared to sway slightly; then, like a flash, she was at her horse’s head.

Trembling and snorting, Pegasus came to his feet. With a bound she was on his back and seized the reins. Pegasus reared like a stag and was off down the course at the tail end of the race.

As Connie passed the judges’ stand she was well up with the tail-riders and gaining steadily. Her face was pale and tense. A smear of red showed on her arm, and a little stream of blood trickled down her forehead from the wound invisible in the thickness of her hair.

The crowd became suddenly quiet as Connie thundered past—a silent tribute to her glorious pluck. But as she crept toward her original position they roared their applause. Pegasus was showing an endurance and speed that had never been equalled in all of that district. As they turned to come down the home-stretch Connie was a good fifty yards behind the leaders. Lafonte’s wiry cayuse was again in the lead by a few feet.

The shock and strain were beginning to tell on Connie. She leaned forward and in a broken, trembling voice she cried: “Oh, Peggy! Win, Peggy! Please! Please! I don’t want to lose! I’ve got to win! Go! Go!” She was sobbing hysterically now, and her small hands were patting the horse’s neck.

Pegasus had never heard that tone of supplication in the sweet voice of his mistress before. Nobly he responded to the call. She felt his body lower under her as he set himself to the herculean task of overcoming his rival’s enormous lead.

Lafonte was using the whip. Paul John, hanging so persistently to his flank, angered him. They thundered across the corduroy, and at the sound of Pegasus’s hoofs on the cedar poles Lafonte turned to glance behind. A look of astonishment crossed his face as he saw the golden-haired rider so close. With a curse he struck his horse a brutal blow that caused the animal to lose its stride momentarily and fall back in line with Paul John.

Slowly, but surely, Connie’s spotted cayuse was closing the gap between himself and the two leaders, sweeping along at a terrific pace, his body and limbs moving with the rhythmic grace of a thoroughbred. Connie was leaning so low that the heavy white mane of her horse was brushing her face. Her hair was streaming in the wind like fine-spun gold. The party in the judges’ stand rushed to the railing, leaned anxiously forward to get a glimpse of the running horses as they turned the corner, and cheered lustily as the three riders thundered over the small bridge and came toward the finishing line. Connie was at Lafonte’s flank now.

Pegasus’s remarkable speed fanned the spectators’ excitement to a fever heat. Andy had done so much shouting that his voice was reduced to a whisper. Standing on the top rail, his arms waving, he was shouting huskily, “Come on, Connie! Come on, Connie!”

Donald’s dark eyes were glowing as he watched the slender figure clinging to the flying horse’s bare back. “What a pity if she loses,” he said under his breath. Leaping to the rail, he joined in the shouts of encouragement to the straining Pegasus.

With one hundred yards to go, Connie uttered one last appeal to her flying steed. Above the drumming of hoofs the spectators heard her voice ring in passionate entreaty. “Now, Peg! Now! Go! Go!”

With nostrils distended, his breath coming in choking gasps, his eyes bulging, and the voice of his adored mistress ringing in his ears, the gallant animal with a burst of speed that made the onlookers marvel, ranged himself alongside his labouring rivals.

Ten yards from the finish—five yards—they were neck and neck. Then, summoning his last ounce of strength, Pegasus leaped forward as though he would annihilate time and distance. With eyes nearly blinded with dirt, tears and the roaring air, Connie saw Pegasus hurl himself past the winning post—a winner by half a length!

The ear-splitting roar that went up from the race-mad crowd must have caused the marmots on the slides near the distant glaciers to seek their holes in terror. A flock of mallard ducks, which had floated peacefully near the centre of the placid lake throughout the day’s commotion, rose with frightened cries to seek a more secluded spot in which to finish their afternoon’s siesta.

The crowd had seemingly gone mad. The atmosphere pulsated with a wild tumult of sound. Hats were thrown in air and throats were strained with shouting.

Donald found himself with his arms about Andy, dancing and cheering in a frenzy of joy.

Connie made no attempt to check her cayuse’s onward flight. She was in no mood to listen to the kudos of the admiring crowd; she wanted only to get away from the scene as quickly as possible. The movement toward the centre gave her the opportunity she desired, and she urged the weary cayuse through an opening on her left. Many hands were reached up to congratulate her, but she pushed her way through to the trail.

At the sound of hoof-beats behind her she turned to see Lafonte urging his tired mount toward the Pemberton trail and looking back apprehensively over his shoulder.

Several men were running after him, shaking their fists and uttering loud imprecations. A man leaped from behind a jack-pine to land in the path in front of the half-breed, lunged for the reins, missed, then caught the stirrup. Lafonte struck the man a blow with his heavy whip that loosened his hold and felled him to the ground.

Connie saw Gillis break from the crowd, jump to the saddle of a cayuse and start after the fleeing man just as the latter disappeared in the woods. Gillis waved his hand to her and vanished in pursuit. She urged Pegasus to the shelter of the timber as she saw her father and Donald running toward her.

The strenuous race and the spectacular fall had left both horse and rider in a badly shaken condition. Connie’s body was bruised and sore, and her head ached horribly. The cayuse’s strained muscles were stiffening, he was limping badly, and his head drooped wearily as he dragged his tired limbs up the steep trail.

At the barn door Connie dismounted stiffly, removed the horse’s bridle, then threw her arms passionately around his neck and stroked his symmetrical head with soft caresses. “I’m so sorry, Peggy darling,” she said in a choking voice.

The horse nipped her shoulder in a weak attempt at playfulness, as if to signify that he quite understood.

Connie’s eyes brightened at a sudden thought. “Peggy dear,” she whispered softly as she nestled her cheek against his soft mane, “do you know that I can have some nice clothes now? Lots and lots of nice things. I am going to buy you a blanket—a nice thick one for winter—and some ribbons for your mane. And you, Peggy”—with a flood of tenderness in her voice—“you won all this for me.”

She was crooning sweet nothings in his ear that only Pegasus could understand when her father appeared, breathless from running, his face grey and anxious.

“Are you all right, Constance darling?”

Connie stepped forward. She was pale and weak, but her colourless lips tried to form a smile.

“Yes, Daddy dear—I’m—all—ri——” Her voice trailed to a whisper and the blue eyes closed as darkness fell upon her like a cloud. Swaying uncertainly for an instant, she fell like a broken flower into her father’s outstretched arms. For the first time in her life Connie had fainted. She lay like a child in his trembling arms, her upturned face wearing the pallor of death.

With a prayer on his lips and an agony of fear in his heart, her father carried her to the cabin and tenderly stretched the bruised little body on the coarse blankets of her bunk.