The Luck of the Kid

by Ridgwell Cullum

It was at such moments that his gaze seemed inevitably to be drawn to the long, old rifle leaning against the wall just within the wide doorway. It was his life-long friend. It was his oldest associate in his lighter as well as his darker moods. And just now his mood left him yearning for the feel of its ancient trigger under a mercilessly compressing forefinger.

The man was sorting and classifying his summer trade, and preparing it for transport. Pelts lay scattered about, and the smell of pepper, and other preservatives, was in the air. The long sled was set on its runners, repaired, and ready to face the coming winter trail to Placer. And about it, littered in almost hopeless confusion, was an ill assortment of camp outfit which needed cleansing and repair. The whole scene was of the tentative preparations of the trail man. There might be many weeks before the snow and freeze-up would make the journey possible. But Usak was possessed of that restless spirit which refuses to submit to idleness, and whose sense of responsibility drove him at all times.

As the moments passed his pauses from the work of sorting and bestowing became prolonged. Once he passed to the doorway and stood out in the chill night air, and his sense of hearing was clearly directed to windward where the night breeze came directly across the white-folk’s portion of the rambling habitation. And on its breath sounds of laughter and happy voices came to him. And amongst them he was clearly able to distinguish the strong, deep tones of the big man whose presence he so deeply resented on the river.

He stood thus for some moments. Then a sharp sound escaped his set lips and he passed again within, as though in self-defence against the passions which the sound of that hated voice had stirred.

His examination of the skins had lost its deliberateness. He picked them up and flung them aside only half scrutinized. And, at last, he abandoned his task altogether. He deliberately squatted on the blackened, up-turned bottom of an iron camp kettle, and sat staring out into the dark night in the direction in which he knew lay the landing at the river bank.

There was no longer any attempt to hide the desperateness of his mood. It was in every line of his dusky features; it was in the coming and going of his turbulent breathing; it was in the smouldering fire that shone in his black eyes. The native savage was definitely uppermost. And insane passion was driving.

He remained, statue-like, on his improvised seat, and every sound that reached him from the house was noted and interpreted. Sometimes the sounds were so low as to be almost inaudible. Sometimes they were the sounds of laughter. Sometimes they smote his ears with clear definite words, for the night was very still, and the darkness rendered his animal-like hearing profoundly acute.

Suddenly there came the opening and shutting of a door, and with it a sound of voices and laughter. He started. He rose from his seat and moved almost furtively to the doorway, and his hand instinctively fell upon the muzzle of his leaning rifle.

He listened intently. The voices were still plain, but becoming rapidly fainter. Yes. He could clearly distinguish the individual tones he knew so well. He heard the voice of the Kid. And replies came in the voice of the man. There were other voices, but somehow, they seemed quite apart from these two.

He could stand it no longer. He turned about and extinguished the lamp. Then he moved over to his leaning rifle and possessed himself of his old friend. Just for one moment he remained listening. Then, with a curious movement suggesting a shrugging of his great shoulders, he passed out into the night.