“Wouldn’t it be just as well to give ‘em back, sir?” Mallory had been at Fort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of the north which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in the moment.
“Give ‘em back, Mallory? I’ll see him in Jericho first, unless he goes on his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp.”
“Very well, sir. But I think we’d better keep an eye open.”
“Eye open, be hanged! If he’d been going to riot he’d have done so before this. Besides, the girl—!” Mallory looked long and earnestly at his master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyes moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he said: “I’d give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I meant to marry her.” Fyles suddenly swung round. “Keep your place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One’d think you were a missionary.” Then with a sudden burst of anger: “Damn it all, if my men don’t stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I’d better get out.”
“Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I’ve served three traders here, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I’ll say it to your face, whether you like it or not, that you’re not as good a judge of the Injin as me, or even Duc the cook: and that’s straight as I can say it, Mr. Fyles.”
Fyles paced up and down in anger—not speaking; but presently threw up the glass, and looked towards Athabasca’s lodge. “They’re gone,” he said presently; “I’ll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do what I want, or there’ll be ructions.”
The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silent yard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one heeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, upon which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles’ window: no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them and fingering the hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc was laughing: he reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and threw it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walked in, seized the epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside the door Mallory clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at the epaulettes.
Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, and Duc came huddling to Mallory’s feet. For a brief instant Mallory and the Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness tossed his knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted high into the air, and came down with a broken back.
Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, and hugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached the gate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught him high in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching the epaulettes in his outstretched hands.
Fyles’ own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when he heard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into his embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders—lips closed with his—something ice-cold and hard touched his neck—he saw a bright flash at his throat.