XXII
It was all very well for George Quin, who had brought all the trouble on himself by running after other people's klootchmen, to say the police were fools, but as a matter of fact they had done as much as could be expected of them, and perhaps more, seeing that Quin wasn't very popular with them. His Mill with its Shack-Town gave them more trouble than the whole of the City, and within a year two "damn plismen," as Annie called them, had been laid out cold with clubs in its vicinity. And nobody had gone into the penitentiary for the murderous assaults. Nevertheless they had searched every likely hole and corner for Pete, from his old native hang-out, Pitt River, down to the Serpentine and beyond it. They had beaten the brush along both sides of the Fraser, North and South Arm and the Island. And, indeed, they came within a throw of the dice of catching Pete. One of them missed him and his canoe by a hair's-breadth, and the Sitcum Siwash had been about to cave in and show himself when the man turned aside.
As it was, the very search for Pete worked him up to desperation just as he was beginning to get cold on revenge and to think rather of escape. If the police were so keen as to search the brush and go up and down the river, how was he to get away? Like most of his sort he didn't know the country, and would have been puzzled to get even as far as Whatcom. And even if he did there would be someone waiting for him. And to go down stream in the dug-out would be to run right into a trap, like a salmon. His rage began to burn in him again, and to this was added hunger. He had over a hundred dollars in his pocket but hadn't eaten for four-and-twenty hours. He would have given his soul for a square meal and a long drink, and as hunger bit him he knew that if he lingered any longer mere famine would induce him to give himself up. Then he would be hanged, and get nothing more than he had got already as the price of his neck. When the second night fell he was wholly desperate.
"I fix heem to-night, or they catch me," said Pete. "One ting or the other, Pete, my boy!"
If he only could get a drink! With a drink inside him he would be equal to anything. He wondered if he dare trust any of his old tilikums of the Mill. He thought of Chihuahua and of Chihuahua's klootchman, Annawillee, and then of old Annie. They would give him away for a dollar; he knew that, and very likely there was a price on his head. If poor old Skookum hadn't been killed he would have done anything for him. Pete was very sorry he had killed Skookum, very sorry indeed.
But he kept on thinking about that drink. If there was one woman or man in Shack-Town who always managed to have liquor in her shanty, it was old Annie.
"I'd choke her for it," said Pete, as he shoved off in his dug-out and paddled lightly against the last of the flood coming in from the great Pacific. "I'd choke her for it."
The night was moonless and cloudy and as dark as it ever gets on the Fraser in summer. There was even a touch of an easterly wind about, and the faint chill of it made him shiver. Without a drink he felt almost hopeless.
"I try," said Pete in sudden desperation. The lights were out all over the town. Hardly a solitary lamp starred the opposing darkness of the hill above the river. The world was asleep. There was only a moving lamp in the Mill. He knew it belonged to the night-watchman, a sleepy-headed old German, once a worker in the Planing Mill with old Papp. But since he lost his hand he had been made night-watchman.
"I give heem plenty light by-by," said Pete. He slanted across the river and came to an old deserted rotten wharf a little above the Mill. There in the black shadow he ran his canoe ashore and stepped into the mud. He crept silently to where the shore shelved, and, climbing up, thrust his head out between some broken flooring of the wharf. The world was quiet as a tomb. There was even peace in Shack-Town. Whether he got that drink or not he had business there that night. Though Chihuahua most likely wouldn't give him a drink, Pete meant to make the Mexican help him. For at the back of Chihuahua's shanty, which was only a one-room hiding hole, there was a little outhouse. In that Chihuahua always kept some kerosene.
Pete slipped across the road like a shadow, dodging among the piles of lumber as he went. His senses were as alert as a cougar's. And the sawdust under foot made his steps soundless. On the other side of the road he waited to be sure that no one moved. There was only one light in Shack-Town, and it was at Annie's. That meant that she was either awake or had fallen asleep drunk on the floor, forgetful of her lamp. Perhaps she had a bottle, said Pete thirstily. He felt cold and nervous and forgot about the kerosene. He ran lightly across the road and came to Annie's. He had a sheath knife in his belt. It had once belonged to Jack Mottram, but Pete had stolen it. He had no intention of using it on Annie, that is unless he had to, of course. He carried a heavy stick in his hand.
He looked into Annie's window, which was naturally enough foul within and without. He saw nothing at first but the dim light of the lamp, but as everything was quiet he rubbed the glass of one pane with his cap. Then he saw that Annie was lying on the floor, a mere bundle of rags. Was that a bottle by her?
You bet it was, tilikum! Pete knew a bottle when he saw it. Perhaps by good luck it wasn't empty. He shortened the club in his hand and tapped lightly on the door with it. Annie never moved. He pushed the door open, and still she didn't move. He crept in like a cat until he could reach out and touch the bottle. It lay on its side and the cork was out. Nevertheless, a bottle can hold quite a good drink in it even on its side. It was as full as it could be in such a position, and careless of the silent woman he drank it to its fiery dregs. Hot life ran through his veins. It was fire: such fire as makes murder light and easy. He grinned happily and put the bottle down again by Annie's limp hand.
His life ran warm within him and all his desire of vengeance grew in alcohol as grass will grow in a warm rain of spring.
He found the kerosene in Chihuahua's little den, and started, not for the Mill, but for George Quin's house.
"My klootchman, ha," said Pete fiercely. "She have a papoose!"
The papoose slumbered in his loving mother's arms. By her side big George lay. The night was so sweet and quiet. If George could marry her he would. Oh, wonderful, sorrowful world that it was. And here was the world within her arms and within her reach.
"I just love Tchorch and baby!"
She woke and slept. Oh, heavenly night and heavenly day when baby slept, or waked, or stared solemnly, as Indian blood will and must, at the strange hard world that meets its wondering eyes.
The summer had been warm and rainless, everything was dry with the good warmth of summer. The brush showed brown: the paths were white: the lumber, whether in stacked piles or in framed houses, was ready for fire. A spark would light it: a single match might cause a conflagration as it would in a dry forest of red cedar or the resinous spruce.
And Pete carried kerosene. He drenched a southern wall of boards with it and laid against the wall dry brush and pieces of sawed lumber that lay about from the building of the house. He knew the wood must flame like tinder. If it ran unchecked for a minute it would take the river to put it out. And it was high above the river. He grinned and lighted a match.
The next minute he was running down the hill like a deer. In less than a minute he dropped, still carrying the half-emptied kerosene can, through the hole in the wharf. Then he waited and saw a warm blaze high upon the hill.
"That fix heem and her," said Pete, intoxicated with his deed and with the alcohol. "That teach heem, damn Shautch Quin, heh! I kill his blother, heh, and burn his house!"
His heart was warm within him as fire. It seemed so good to be revenged. Now they would wake, and perhaps would not escape. All the world would wake and go up there, and then the Mill would be left alone. Already the flame on the hill was so fierce that many must see it.
And, indeed, many saw it, and some came running and there was a growing sound of men, and far off he heard men call. And then from up above there came the sound of firearms, used as an alarm. By this he knew that Quin was up.
"I fix heem and now I fix his Mill;" said Pete hoarsely. He had forgotten all they had told him of the scheme by which a man pays a little so that he shall not lose all. What did it matter? The Mill was Quin's, and he loved it. Pete knew that.
As all the town woke he dropped down stream in his canoe and came to the Mill.
It was built, as all such are when they border on a river or any water, partly on the land and partly on great piles sunk in the river bed. The wharves, where scows and steamboats and schooners loaded the lumber, were even further towards the deep water. At high tide a boat could pass underneath them all, and get beneath the deep shadow of the Mill. There fish played constantly, schools of little candle-fish, the oolachan that the fur-seals love, that is so fat that when it dries it drips oil. And there were places in the Mill that dripped oil, as there are in all works where machinery moves swiftly, and bearings are apt to grow hot. For many years the Mill had never ceased to run, save when heavy frost fixed the moving river in thick-ribbed ice, and it was saturated with all that burns. In every crack dry sawdust lay that was almost explosive: the bearings of belts were fat with oil. Pete knew it would burn like tinder, like dry, dead resinous spruce, like the bark of red cedar.
As he moved in the darkness, over the sound of the lapping water he heard the sound of the waking city. Where so much was built of wood, fire was dreadfully interesting. He knew the world would wake and be upon the hill. Now he saw the glimmer of the fire he had lighted show a gleam upon the water under the sky. He laughed to himself quietly, and, holding on to a pile, listened. Was there anyone above him on the floor of the Mill? Or had even the watchman run to Quin's house to help? He knew how fire drew a man, how it drew all men.
There was no sound above him. He ran his canoe into deeper darkness and left it on the mud and climbed straight among crossing interlaced timbers to the first floor, where the Shingler worked and laths were made. He moved lightly, his feet in silent mocassins, and entered the dark hole under the Chinee Trimmer. Above him was the chute by which matched-flooring came down to the Chinamen, who carried it to the Planers and the machines that worked it. He heard the hum of a far-off crowd and saw the light of the burning house. He climbed into the upper Mill. And as he thrust his head out of the chute at the left hand of the Trimmer, then idle in the casing, he saw the house itself through the great side chute of the Mill, down which he had fallen the day he struck Quin with the pickareen.
The Mill was empty. He looked round cautiously and then leapt out upon the floor. There was sufficient light for him to see by, and he saw that some man had at least taken precautions against him. There were buckets of water here and there: there was even a hose-pipe with a pump, a force-pump. There was another hose coming from the Engine-Room. These things showed him he had been feared: they showed him it would be hard to get away. But he had no time to think. With a savage grin he pulled out his knife and sliced the hose into pieces. He capsized the buckets as they stood. Then he fetched his oil-can from where he had put it, close to the Pony Saw, and emptied it at a spot which he chose, because the oil would run upon the sawdust carrier and go down past the fine cedar dust from the Shingler. Below the Shingle Mill was the water. He knew exactly where to find the spot where the oil would drip into the river. He ran back to the chute by which he had ascended and as he slipped into the chute he heard someone call.
"Hallo, Dutchy, Dutchy!" said a voice.
But Dutchy, the old one-handed German watchman, did not answer. Pete heard him who spoke break out swearing.
"Goldarn the old idiot, I believe he ain't here," said the voice. It was the voice of Long Mac, a man to be feared, a strong man, a keen and quick man, a man with brains and skill and grit.
Pete heard him enter the Mill and run upstairs, and he knew that in another moment Mac would know someone had been there, although old Dutchy had done what he should not have done, and had left the Mill to go to the other fire. There was no time to lose. He went silently for the canoe, and found it, got into it, and worked his way to the space under the Shingle Mill. Now the light of the burning house was bright upon the lip of the river, running on the first of the ebb against a warm Chinook wind.
He heard Mac burst out into blasphemy. He had found no Dutchy, but cut hose instead. And then old Dutchy came running. He heard Mac curse him.
"What did I tell you, you old fool? Didn't I say look out lively here! That swine's about now, by God! He's cut the hose, maybe lighted the Mill already!"
"Ach, mein Gott, mein Gott," said Dutchy, "I haf not been afay von minute."
"Oh, to hell," said Mac.
He found the capsized buckets and burst out again. He spoke rapidly, and Pete, as he clutched at a pile, caught but a word or two.
"Run—police—boat!"
He understood what this meant: if he didn't do it now, he would have no time. At the sound of old Dutchy's steps on the boards as he ran overhead Pete struck a match and lighted dripping kerosene. The flame circled on a patch of board, and burnt blue and flickered, drawing upward through a crack. The Mill was fired!
"I fix heem," said Pete; "if they catch me I fix heem all the same."
He thrust his canoe for the open water and then stayed aghast. It seemed that the world was very light. His lip fell a little. And he heard a voice speak overhead, a voice which was like a bow drawn at a venture.
"I know you're about hyar, Pete," said Mac in a roar like that of a wild beast. "I know you're hyar!"
He didn't know, but his instincts and his knowledge told him the truth. Underneath him somewhere lay the incendiary. In some dark hole or corner the beast of fire was hidden. Pete's heart stood still and he knew what a fool he had been to meddle with aught on the upper floor.
And he heard the light crackle of his new fire.
"Come out, you hound," cried Mac. And then the flame caught the sawdust carrier and Mac saw the creep of light under a crack and knew the Mill was fired—fired irredeemably and beyond hope. He pulled his gun and shot down through the floor at a venture, and by a wonderful chance the bullet cleared any beam and struck the water close by Pete. The Siwash let go and thrust the dug-out into the stream.
And in the Mill the fire was like an explosion. It ran along the carriers and the ways of the belts and reached out into inaccessible corners where lay the warm dust of years and grew up through a thousand cracks like red-hot weeds at the breath of spring in a tropic garden.
"Oh, my God," said Mac. The breath of the fire choked him: he ran back from it: it burst up about him: to escape he leapt over it, but before he got to the great Chute the flame spurted from beneath the Big Hoes and licked at the teeth of shining steel. Then it played about the Pony Saw and far off under the Bull-Wheel it grew up and danced. Then it went like a fiery creeper, like a red climbing rose, and touched the dusty roof. In the next moment the body of the Mill was fire. Mac went back, missed his footing and slipped headlong down the chute, even as Pete had once fallen. He rose with a shout which was half a shriek, for he had dislocated his shoulder, and folks running in the road to the lesser fire, turned to the greater and saw the Mill ablaze.
And out in the river Pete was paddling hard. But the lamp that he had lighted was a very bright one, that made the river suddenly a golden pool and shone afar off on the other side of the white roof of the Big Cannery. One man on the wharf saw him and called to Mac, who came fast.
"By the Lord, that's Pete," said Mac, "that's Pete and my shoulder's out. Get a boat, boys, get a boat! There's one under the wharf at the other end. Get a boat and go after him!"
But to go out on the river at midnight after a killer and an incendiary from mere love of the law or even of hunting was beyond those who heard the man from Michigan speak.
"Oh, hell, not me! Tain't my funeral," they said. And then Quin came running to them. He was white as the ashes of his house would be on the morrow, but he saw what Mac and the others saw. That must be Pete on the river!
"He's got us, Sir, he's got us," said Mas.
Even in that moment Quin saw how he held his arm.
"You're hurt?"
"I fell down the chute, Sir, the fire almost caught me."
The flames roared now. The inside of the Mill was a furnace. Fire played fantastic games on the high sloping roof.
"There's a boat——"
"I know," said Quin.
"These hoosiers ain't game," said Mac.
A bigger crowd of those who weren't game to tackle wild beasts gathered round them. Faces were white in the glow of the fire.
"At the house, Sir——"
"They're all right. I'll go after him," said Quin. He ran, and Mac cried—
"Take my gun, Sir——"
But Quin did not hear him. He ran round the end of the Mill and was lost.
In another moment they saw him in the boat out upon the river. Pete went out of sight. The crowd watched till Quin was out of sight, too.
"What's the bettin' we'll see either of em' again?" asked a man in the crowd.
The odds were against it.
"I fix heem all right," said Pete.