Watty had been dead these thirty years.
Then Pete sat down on the bedside, and the two miners prattled about the new flume, and the price of flour in a camp now overgrown with jungle.
A word to Billy would have been enough to get the aparejos to a place of safety, pending the settlement of Pete's just claim as partner. But the cargador knew well that death had come to take the one man he loved. This was no time for sordid business, disturbing Bolt Taylor's peace. It was better to go quietly.
* * * * * *
The sky was full of stars as Pete went homeward. The stars were big and round; the forest in an ecstasy kept vigil all alert, all silent, and the little streams of the thaw were saying their prayers before the frost sleep of the later hours. The man was at peace. It is not so very much to be cargador; but it is a very big thing indeed to be unselfish. The trees kept vigil, the little streams crooned sleepy prayers, the stars in glory humbly served as lamps, and the man made no cry in his pain. Far down in the valley he saw a red flame rise.
* * * * * *
Mother saw Brooke ride off to inspect his Star mules in their pasture far away down the Fraser Cañon. She blacked the stove with malice, she shook the bedding in enmity, set the furniture to rights as though it were being punished, then sat on the damp floor brooding, while twilight deepened over a world of treachery. Brooke was a thief, the lying boss had used Pete and thrown him away wrung dry. And Pete was an old fool who would forgive.
She had dreaded the lonely summer when she was left with only squirrels for company. Now Pete would be "settin'" around, ruined, and out of work, the man who had been used and thrown aside, the laughing-stock of the teamsters who saw his pride brought low.
Cold and hot by turns, mother made herself tidy against Pete's return, got the supper ready, and sat watching the door-step. She smoked his spare corn-cob pipe devising vengeance, while the night closed over her head.
The frontier breeds fierce women, with narrow venomous enmities toward the foes of the house. Even if Pete suffered, Brooke should not prosper, or the boss who had failed her man. Mother dragged two five-gallon cans of petroleum from the lean-to, and staggering under their weight, poured the oil over all Brooke's harness. Breathing heavily with her labor, she carried loads of swampy hay, and cord-wood, until the aparejos were but part of a bonfire. Then with a brand from the stove she set the hay alight. There should be no public shame to break Pete's heart, there should be no pack-train unless he were cargador.