Book: The Shagganappi

E >> E. Pauline Johnson >> The Shagganappi




"I've evidently kicked up a hornets' nest," he smiled weakly to himself,
too tired and ill to care whether the hornets stung or not. Presently
Locke returned. "I tell you, Hal, it won't do; that Indian isn't a fit
representative of this college."

"The masters won't do a thing; you've got to appoint someone else.
You're disgracing the college," said Shorty at the door. "We won't
stand for it, Hal; this is no North-West Indian school. We won't have
it, I tell you!"

"Shag's going to read that address!" said Hal, sitting up with an odd
drawn but determined look around his mouth.

"Well, he isn't!" blurted Shorty. "There's a big meeting in the
classroom, and there's a row on--the biggest row you ever saw."

"Shag Larocque read that address!" yelled Simpson from the hall; "not
if I know it! He's not a decent sport, even--he won't resent an insult.
I called him a Red River halfbreed and he never said a word--just
swallowed it!"

"Shut that door!" shouted Hal, the color surging into his face, "and
shut yourselves on the outside! Go to the classroom, insult him all you
like, but you'll be sorry for it--take my word for it!"

Once more they banged the door. No sooner was it closed than Hal sprang
out of bed. His legs shook with weakness, his hands trembled with
illness, but he began to get into some clothes, and his young face
flushed scarlet and white in turn.

Out in the classroom a perfect bedlam reigned. Dozens of voices shouted,
"Shag's the man for us! Hurrah for Shag!" and dozens replied, "Who will
join the anti-Indians? Who will vote for a white man to represent white
men? This ain't an Indian school--get out with the Indians!"

Then Shorty took the floor. "Boys," he yelled, "we won't stand for it.
No Indian's going to be head of this school, and Shag Larocque isn't
even a decent Indian, he's a halfbreed, a French halfbreed, he's--"

The door burst open and Hal Bennington flung himself into the room; his
trousers were dragged up over his nightshirt, his feet were in slippers
without socks, his hair was unbrushed, his eyes were brilliant with
fever, his face was pinched and grey; but his voice rang out powerfully,
"Stop it, boys!" He had taken in the situation instantly--the crowd
breaking from all rule, two masters endeavoring to restore order, and
Shag, alone, terribly alone, his back to the wall, his face to the
tumult, standing like a wild thing driven into a corner, but yet
gloriously game. "Shorty, how dare you speak of Shag Larocque like
that?" Hal cried furiously.

"And how dare you support him?" Shorty flung back. "How dare you ask us
to have as our leader a halfbreed North-West Indian, who is the son of
your father's cook?"

"Yes, he is the son of my father's cook, and if I ever get the chance
I'll cook for him on my knees--cook for him and serve him; he saved my
life and nearly lost his own--while you, Shorty, a far better swimmer,
would have let me drown like a dog."

"He's nothing but a North-West halfbreed," sneered Shorty, hiding his
cowardice behind ill words for others.

"So is my mother a North-West halfbreed, and she's the loveliest, the
grandest woman in all Canada!" said Hal in a voice that rang clear,
sharp, strong as a man's.

There was a dead silence. "Do you hear me, you fellows?" tormented
Hal's even voice again, "you who have of your own free will placed me,
a quarter blood, as the leading boy in this school, my mother is a
halfbreed, if you wish to use that refined term, and my mother is proud
of it. Her mother, my grandmother, wore a blanket and leggings and
smoked a red stone pipe upon the Red River years ago, and I tell you my
mother is proud of it, and so am I. I have never told you fellows this
before--what was the use? I felt you would never understand, but you
hear me now! Do you quite grasp what I am telling you--that _my mother
is a halfbreed_?"

Shorty's hand went blindly to his head; he looked dazed, breathless.
"Lady Bennington a halfbreed!" was all he said.

"Yes, Lady Bennington," said Hal. "And now will you let Shag read that
address?" But Shag was at his elbow.

"Hal, Hal, oh, why did you tell them?" he cried.

Hal whirled about like one shot. "_Tell them_--what do you mean by
tell _them_? Did you know this all along?"

"Yes," said Shag regretfully. "I always knew that Lady Bennington was
half Indian, but I thought that you didn't, and I promised father that
I should never tell when I came down East." But softly as he spoke, the
boys near by heard him. "Do you mean to say," Locke, gripping Shag's
shoulders in vice-like fingers, "that all this time we have been ragging
you and running on you, that you knew Hal's mother was a half Indian and
you never said a word?"

"Why should I?" asked Shag, raising his eyebrows.

"Boys," said Locke, facing the room like a man, "we've been--well, just
cads. And right here I propose that Shag Larocque read the address to
His Excellency to-day."

"And I second the motion," said Shorty--"second it heartily"; then he
walked over to Shag.

"I'm not going to ask you to shake hands with me, Larocque," he said;
"I've been too much of a cad for that. You must despise me too much to
forgive me, despise me for my cowardice in not going with you to help
Hal when he was drowning, despise me for my mean prejudices, despise me
for--oh, pshaw! I ain't fit to even ask you to forgive me. I ain't fit
to even offer you my hand."

"Hold on! hold on!" smiled Shag. "There is nothing to despise in a chap
who is big enough to offer an apology. Here's my hand, Shorty. Will you
take it at last?"

And Shorty took it.

A few hours later, just before Shag stepped out on the platform to read
the address to His Excellency, he paid a flying visit to Hal, who,
feeling much better, in fact quite on the mend, was sitting up in bed
devouring toast and broth.

"Luck to you, old Shag," he said between mouthfuls.

"Oh, Hal, you've been all the world to me," was all he could reply.

"And you'll be all the world to my dad and mother when they hear what
you have done, fishing me out of the drink and saving my life." But
Shorty shouting up the hall interrupted them.

"Come on, Shag," he called; then, as he appeared in the doorway, he
said bravely, "I haven't been so happy for years; I've been a sneak and
now that I say it I feel better. Shag, there isn't a boy living who I
consider better fitted to represent this school than you. Do you believe
me?"

"I do believe you, and I thank you, Shorty, old chap," said Shag
happily, and linking arms they left Hal's room together, for cheers
outside were announcing the approach of Lord Mortimer--and the feud
was ended forever.



The King's Coin


I

Because the doctor had forbidden Jack Cornwall to read a single line
except by daylight, the boy was spending a series of most miserable
evenings. No books, no stories, no studies, for a severe cold had left
him with an inflammation of the eyes; and, just as he was careering with
all sorts of honors through the high school, he was ordered by the great
oculist to drop everything, leave school, and--"loaf."

Young Cornwall hated "loafing." His brain and body loved activity. He
would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours
that had been forced on him to endure. To-night, particularly, time hung
very heavy on his hands. He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from
the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding
it most difficult. His father read the newspaper, his mother mended
stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra.
Presently Jack's nerves seemed to break. He sprang up impetuously, then,
controlling himself, sat down again, and said: "Oh, it is brutal, this
sitting around! I don't believe I can stand it much longer. I wish I
were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work
with my hands, if I mustn't use my eyes."

His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it _was_ hard. His
father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then,
extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said:

"John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull?
Here's news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you
in connection with it. Here's the chance of your life--the very thing
you want--a letter from your Uncle Matt. He's going up North, to the end
of civilization. Started at his old business of fur-trading again. He
says here"--and Mr. Cornwall referred to the letter, reading--"'But
there's something else taking me north besides otter and mink skins.
I'll tell it to you when I return, but just now the secret must be mine
alone. I only wish I had some decent chap to go with me; but in this
chasing-for-the-dollar age, no one seems to be able to leave their
miserable little shops for mere adventures into the wilds. I suppose
I'll have to hunt up some strapping boy as a partner, but the trouble is
to get one who is strong enough to work and starve alternately; one who
will sleep in the open, live on rabbits and beans, let his clothes dry
on him when they get wet, and who will keep his mouth shut and his ears
open. They aren't making young men like that now, I'm afraid.'"

"Yes, they are, father! Yes, they are!" cried Jack, springing to his
feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Do you think Uncle Matt will
take me?"

His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye. "You certainly
have great shoulders, my son. Why, I never really noticed them before.
You're built like an ox! How old are you?"

"Seventeen next month, and I'm not only built like an ox, I'm as strong
as one, and--I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open."

"Yes, you can do that if you are your mother's son," said his father,
glancing slyly at his mother. Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall
was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard
everything but who repeated nothing.

That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following
day, came the reply:

"Sure! Will take Jack gladly. Expect me Saturday. Be ready to start
Tuesday. MATT."

When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would
be. In the first place, he was not like one's uncle. Jack had forgotten
that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was
only six years old when she was married, and had acted "page" at the
wedding. So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a
big brother than an uncle. His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of
a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from
each temple. His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose
determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack's own mother's, but
his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life. There was
something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders,
that made Jack love him at sight.

Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else. Years of exploring the wilds
had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that
he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life,
which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible. His suit of heavy,
rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for
a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having
ever seen him wear a hat. A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very
back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.

"No, don't call me 'uncle,'" he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the
respect the relationship demanded. "You and I are just going to be pals.
All hands up north call me Larry--I suppose it's short for Larson--so
it's Larry to you, isn't it, old man?"

"Yes, Larry," replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this
extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, "and I think we will be pals,
all right," he continued.

"No 'think' about it; it's a dead sure fact!" asserted Matt Larson,
gripping Jack's hand with those splendid, sturdy fingers of his. Then,
turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle
of the "up-norther," he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped
russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said: "That's yours, boy,
never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink
of condition, ready for instant action."

Jack's poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.

"But, unc--I mean, Larry--why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading
expedition?" he asked.

Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, "There are
other things up north besides furs."

"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.

"Well," hesitated his uncle, "perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things,
too." And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject. But the
boy was very proud of his "gun," and a little curious as to just why his
uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment,
he said: "Larry, that shooter is--bully! It's great to have it. I'd
rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had
it."

"I was there once, and not so very long ago, my boy," said Matt Larson,
with a quick frown. Then, half to himself, "But the man in the mackinaw*
will never catch me unarmed again."

[*A mackinaw is a short, rough coat of material much like a grey
horse blanket. It is worn by most lumberjacks, explorers, miners
and woodsmen in the regions north of the great Canadian lakes.]


"The man in the mackinaw, eh?" echoed Jack, lifting his eyebrows
meaningly.

"Oh, ho, youngster! You're the boy for me!" grinned his uncle. "You're
sharp! You've caught on, all right. Yes; he's the man you've got to keep
your eyes in the back of your head to watch for. He's a bad lot. He may
bother us. Now, are you afraid to tackle the wilderness, since you know
there is menace--perhaps danger?"

"I'm not afraid of anything with you, Matt Larson," said the boy,
gravely, looking the other directly in the eyes.

"But suppose we should get separated, by some unlucky chance, what
then?" asked the man.

"I don't think I would be afraid--I _shall not_ be afraid, even then,"
Jack answered.

"That's the way to talk! Now I know you are game," said Larson, seizing
the boy by the shoulders and peering into his eyes. Then they shook
hands silently, but it was an unspoken pledge nevertheless.

"The man in the mackinaw," repeated Jack, slowly, as their hands
gripped. Then his eyes narrowed down to little slits of light. "I think,
Larry, I should know him by instinct."

"You're a wolf on two legs, boy!" replied Larry, with delight. "You have
the intuition of the wiser animals. Why have I never really known you
before? Why have I not had you?"

"You've got me now, anyway, and you are going to keep me, Larry," said
the boy. Then they said good-night with a bond of manly friendship
between them that was destined to last throughout their lives.

* * * * * * * *

They left the luxurious sleeping-car of the great Canadian Pacific
Railway, at a little settlement on the north shore of Lake Superior.
There were but three buildings in the place, all of logs: the railway
station, the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, and "French" Pierre's
"bunk and eating-house." The northern forest closed in on all sides, and
the little settlement in all amounted to nothing more than a clearing.

The instant they stepped from the car, Matt Larson's eyes swept the
platform, alighting with a pleased expression on the figure of a wiry,
alert-looking boy of perhaps eighteen, who stepped forward silently,
quickly, and laid his hand in Larson's, outstretched to greet him. The
boy was Indian through and through, with a fine, thin, copper-colored
face, and eyes of very rare beauty. The instant Jack Cornwall saw those
eyes, he knew that they could see almost unseeable things. But Matt
Larson was introducing them. "Fox-Foot," he said, turning to the Indian,
"here is Jack, my own sister's son. He has my confidence. He will know
all that I know. You may trust him with _everything_. Jack, old man,
this Chippewa boy, Fox-Foot, is my friend and our guide. His canoe is
ours for weeks ahead. He knows what I know. You may trust him with
_everything_. Shake hands."

But the two boys were already shaking hands, friends at once because of
their friendship for Matt Larson. Then came the packing of duffle and
dunnage bags into the narrow bark canoe beached on the river bank, fifty
yards away. A last look at the outfit, to see if there were sufficient
matches and other prime necessities, then they were off--off on that
strange quest Jack knew so little of. His alert senses had long ago
grasped the fact that furs alone were not taking them north, that
something unspoken of was the real cause of this expedition; but he was
content to wait until the time came when he should be told. His handsome
young uncle knelt at the bow thwart, the silent Chippewa boy at the
stern. The canoe shot forth like a slender arrow, and the wilderness
closed in about them Just as they rounded the bend of the river which
was to shut the settlement from sight, Matt Larson turned his head
several times quickly, looking behind them with something of the
lightning movement and sharp rapidity of a wild animal. It struck Jack
as an odd action, betraying suspicion--suspicion perhaps that they might
be followed. That night wisdom came to him. The day had been a heavy
one, paddling upstream against a cruel current; and, after they had
pitched camp for the night at the foot of an exquisite cascade of water
called the Red Rock Falls, and eaten a tremendous supper, Jack strolled
to the water's margin to see that the canoe was properly beached high
and safe. On the opposite side of the river a slim shadow slipped
along--a canoe that contained a single man, who wore a rough coat of
indefinite greyish plaid. Jack crept noiselessly up the river bank.
"Larry, Fox-Foot," he said in a hoarse, low whisper, "look, look across
the river! A canoe, with a man in it--a man in a mackinaw!"


II

Matt Larson sprang to his feet, spitting out a strange foreign word
that boded no good to the intruder. His hand leaped to his revolver
instantly. Then he swung around to look at Fox-Foot, but the boy had
disappeared for a moment. The two stood silent, then Jack's quick eye
caught sight of the Chippewa many yards distant crawling on his belly
like a snake, in and out among the blueberry bushes upstream. "Foxy's
gone for all night; we'll never see him until daylight. He'll watch that
canoe like a lynx. He's worth his weight in gold," murmured Matt Larson.
Then he added, addressing Jack, "I thought I brought you out here
because your eyes were gone smash! Why, boy, you have an eye like a
vulture, to make out that canoe and that coat in this twilight."

Jack fairly beamed with pride at this praise. "Larry," he said, "I
believe I saw that canoe as much with my brain as with my eyes; besides,
my eyes don't hurt unless I strain them."

"Your eyes are bully; we'll take care of them, and of you, too, Jack.
You are--yes, invaluable. Well, somebody has got to sleep to-night to
be fit to work up-stream to-morrow, so, Jack, you and I shall be the
somebodies, for Foxy will never close an eye to-night. We're safe as a
church with that boy a-watch. You must paddle all to-morrow, son, while
Foxy sleeps amidships."

"I guess I'm good for it. Feel that forearm," answered Jack.

Larry ran his fingers down the tense muscles, then up to the manly
shoulder-blades. "Why, boy, you are built like an ox!" he exclaimed.

"Just father's expression!" smiled Jack.

"Well, to bed and sleep now! If you hear any creeping noise in the night
it will be Foxy. He'll never let another living soul near us while we
sleep," said Larry, as he prepared for his blanket bed.

"What are you thinking of, boy?" he added, curiously.

"I am wondering if by any chance I could possibly be right," replied
Jack. "Tell me, Larry, did that man out there, the man in the mackinaw,
have anything to do with causing those grey hairs above your ears--did
he?"

"You _certainly_ have the intuition of an animal," was the reply. "Jack,
I love you, old pal; you're white and sharp and clean right through!
Yes, he 'powder-puffed' my hair. I'll tell you about it some day. Not
to-night. You must sleep to-night, and remember, 'all's well' as long as
Foxy's at the helm."

"The man wouldn't shoot Fox-Foot, wouldn't _kill_ him, would he, Larry?"
came Jack's anxious voice.

"Shoot him! Shoot Foxy!" Then Matt Larson laughed gleefully into his
blankets. "Why, Jack, no man living could ever get a bead on Foxy in
this wilderness. No man could ever find him or see him, though he were
lying right at the man's own feet. I think too much of Foxy to expose
him to danger. But the best of it is, you can't put your eye, or your
ear, or your fingers on that boy. You can't even _smell_ him. He's the
color of the underbrush, silent as midnight, quick as lightning. You
can't detect the difference between the smell of his clothes and of his
skin and burning brushwood, or deer-hide. He can sidle up to the most
timid wild thing. Oh! don't you worry, son! Go to sleep; our Fox-Foot
is his own man, nobody else's."

"All right, Larry, but I'm here, if anyone wants me," yawned Jack.

And Matt Larson knew in his heart of hearts that Jack Cornwall spoke
truly--that he was there to stand by his uncle and Fox-Foot should he
be called upon to do so.

Dawn was breaking as they awoke--simultaneously to a slight crackling
sound outside. Larry's head burrowed out of the tent.

"Foxy cooking breakfast," was his cool remark. Then, "Jingo! He's got
a fish--a regular crackerjack! It's as long as my arm! Ha! there's a
breakfast for you!" But Jack was already up and out.

"Fine luck I have! Big fish!" smiled Fox-Foot, as fresh and alert as if
he had had a night in blankets instead of hours of watchfulness. Already
half of the freshwater beauty was sizzling in the frying-pan, the Indian
lifting and turning it with a long pointed stick. Matt Larson got busy
coffee-making. "We'll pit these two odors one against the other," he
remarked; "though I am bound to admit that the only time a frying fish
does really smell good and appetizing is when it has been dead about
twenty minutes, and is cooking over a camp-fire." Then quickly, in a
low, tense voice: "Where is he, Foxy? Where did you leave him?"

The Indian went on turning the fish, indicating with his head the
direction across the river.

"He's over there, asleep."

"He may wake at any moment; we must get away at once," hurried Larry.

"No," said Fox-Foot, with indifference, "he won't wake. There is a
flower grows here, small seeds; I creep up close, put it in his teapot.
He not see me. He boil tea, he drink it; he wake--maybe sundown
to-night."

Larry and Jack looked at each other. Then with one accord they burst
into laughter.

"Flower seeds! Where did you learn of these seeds, boy?" asked Larry.

"My mother teach me when I'm small. She said only use when pain is
great, or," he hesitated, then, with a sly, half humorous look, "or
when your enemy is great."

"Beats all, doesn't it, Jack?" said Larry. "Foxy, you're a wonder!
Did you do anything else to him?"

"No, just to his canoe," replied the boy. "I wore a hole through the
bottom with rocks; he'll think he did it himself. Takes time mend that
canoe; we be far up river by then--far beyond the forks; he not know
which headwater we take."

Matt Larson laid his hand on the straight, jet-black hair. "Bless you,
my boy!" he said comically, but his undertone held intense relief, which
did not escape Jack's ears.

The fish and coffee were ready now, and all three waded into that
breakfast with fine relish.

Then came the arduous portage around Red Rock Falls, a difficult task
which occupied more than an hour. Then away upstream once more, this
time Jack paddling bow, with young Fox-Foot, lying on a blanket
amidships, wrapped in a well-earned sleep. But once during the entire
morning the Indian stirred; he did not seem to awake as other boys do,
but more like a rabbit. His eyes opened without drowsiness; he shot to
his knees, sweeping the river bank with a glance like the boring of a
gimlet. Larry, looking at him, knew that nothing---nothing, bird, beast
or man--could escape that penetrating scrutiny. Then, without comment,
the boy curled down among his blankets again and slept.

They did not stop for "grub" at midday--just opened a can of pork and
beans, finished up the cold fried fish, and drank from the clear blue
waters of the river. Then on once more upstream, which now began to
broaden into placid lakelets, thereby lessening the current and giving
them a chance to make more rapid headway. At four o'clock they reached
the forks of the stream--one flowed towards them from the north, the
other from the west.

"Which way?" asked Larson, rousing the Chippewa. The boy got up
immediately and took the stern paddle, steering the western course. They
had paddled something over two miles up that arm when Fox-Foot beached
the canoe, built a fire, spilled out the remainder of the pork and
beans, threw the tin can on the bank, then marshalled his crew aboard
again, and deliberately steered over the course they had already come.

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