Pierre And His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 3.

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PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE

TALES OF THE FAR NORTH

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 3.

SHON MCGANN'S TOBOGAN RIDE
PERE CHAMPAGNE
THE SCARLET HUNTER
THE STONE

SHON McGANN'S TOBOGAN RIDE

"Oh, it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise,
With the knees pressing hard to the saddle, my men;
With the sparks from the hoofs giving light to the eyes,
And our hearts beating hard as we rode to the glen!

"And it's back with the ring of the chain and the spur,
And it's back with the sun on the hill and the moor,
And it's back is the thought sets my pulses astir!
But I'll never go back to Farcalladen more."

Shon McGann was lying on a pile of buffalo robes in a mountain hut,--an
Australian would call it a humpey,--singing thus to himself with his pipe
between his teeth. In the room, besides Shon, were Pretty Pierre, Jo
Gordineer, the Hon. Just Trafford, called by his companions simply "The
Honourable," and Prince Levis, the owner of the establishment. Not that
Monsieur Levis, the French Canadian, was really a Prince. The name was
given to him with a humorous cynicism peculiar to the Rockies. We have
little to do with Prince Levis here; but since he may appear elsewhere,
this explanation is made.

Jo Gordineer had been telling The Honourable about the ghost of Guidon
Mountain, and Pretty Pierre was collaborating with their host in the
preparation of what, in the presence of the Law--that is of the North-
West Mounted Police--was called ginger-tea, in consideration of the
prohibition statute.

Shon McGann had been left to himself--an unusual thing; for everyone had
a shot at Shon when opportunity occurred; and never a bull's-eye could
they make on him. His wit was like the shield of a certain personage of
mythology.

He had wandered on from verse to verse of the song with one eye on the
collaborators and an ear open to The Honourable's polite exclamations of
wonder. Jo had, however, come to the end of his weird tale--for weird it
certainly was, told at the foot of Guidon Mountain itself, and in a
region of vast solitudes--the pair of chemists were approaching "the
supreme union of unctuous elements," as The Honourable put it, and in the
silence that fell for a moment there crept the words of the singer:

"And it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise,
And it's swift as an arrow and straight as a spear--"

Jo Gordineer interrupted. "Say, Shon, when'll you be through that
tobogan ride of yours? Aint there any end to it?"

But Shon was looking with both eyes now at the collaborators, and he sang
softly on:

"And it's keen as the frost when the summer-time dies,
That we rode to the glen and with never a fear."

Then he added: "The end's cut off, Joey, me boy; but what's a tobogan
ride, annyway?"

"Listen to that, Pierre. I'll be eternally shivered if he knows what a
tobogan ride is!"

"Hot shivers it'll be for you, Joey, me boy, and no quinine over the bar
aither," said Shon.

"Tell him what a tobogan ride is, Pierre."

And Pretty Pierre said: "Eh, well, I will tell you. It is like-no, you
have the word precise, Joseph. Eh? What?"

Pierre then added something in French. Shon did not understand it, but
he saw The Honourable smile, so with a gentle kind of contempt he went on
singing:

"And it's hey for the hedge, and it's hey for the wall!
And it's over the stream with an echoing cry;
And there's three fled for ever from old Donegal,
And there's two that have shown how bold Irishmen die."

The Honourable then said, "What is that all about, Shon? I never heard
the song before."

"No more you did. And I wish I could see the lad that wrote that song,
livin' or dead. If one of ye's will tell me about your tobogan rides,
I'll unfold about Farcalladen Rise."

Prince Levis passed the liquor. Pretty Pierre, seated on a candle-box,
with a glass in his delicate fingers, said: "Eh, well, the Honourable has
much language. He can speak, precise--this would be better with a little
lemon, just a little,--the Honourable, he, perhaps, will tell. Eh?"

Pretty Pierre was showing his white teeth. At this stage in his career,
he did not love the Honourable. The Honourable understood that, but he
made clear to Shon's mind what toboganing is.

And Shon, on his part, with fresh and hearty voice, touched here and
there by a plaintive modulation, told about that ride on Farcalladen
Rise; a tale of broken laws, and fight and fighting, and death and exile;
and never a word of hatred in it all.

"And the writer of the song, who was he?" asked the Honourable.

"A gentleman after God's own heart. Heaven rest his soul, if he's dead,
which I'm thinkin' is so, and give him the luck of the world if he's
livin', say I. But it's little I know what's come to him. In the heart
of Australia I saw him last; and mates we were together after gold. And
little gold did we get but what was in the heart of him. And we parted
one day, I carryin' the song that he wrote for me of Farcalladen Rise,
and the memory of him; and him givin' me the word,'I'll not forget you,
Shon, me boy, whatever comes; remember that. And a short pull of the
Three-Star together for the partin' salute,' says he. And the Three-Star
in one sup each we took, as solemn as the Mass, and he went away towards
Cloncurry and I to the coast; and that's the last that I saw of him, now
three years gone. And here I am, and I wish I was with him wherever he
is."

"What was his name"? said the Honourable.

"Lawless."

The fingers of the Honourable trembled on his cigar. "Very interesting,
Shon," he said, as he rose, puffing hard till his face was in a cloud of
smoke. "You had many adventures together, I suppose," he continued.

"Adventures we had and sufferin' bewhiles, and fun, too, to the neck and
flowin' over."

"You'll spin us a long yarn about them another night, Shon"? said the
Honourable.

"I'll do it now--a yarn as long as the lies of the Government; and proud
of the chance."

"Not to-night, Shon" (there was a kind of huskiness in the voice of the
Honourable); "it's time to turn in. We've a long tramp over the glacier
to-morrow, and we must start at sunrise."

The Honourable was in command of the party, though Jo Gordineer was the
guide, and all were, for the moment, miners, making for the little Goshen
Field over in Pipi Valley.--At least Pretty Pierre said he was a miner.

No one thought of disputing the authority of the Honourable, and they all
rose.

In a few minutes there was silence in the hut, save for the oracular
breathing of Prince Levis and the sparks from the fire. But the
Honourable did not sleep well; he lay and watched the fire through most
of the night.

The day was clear, glowing, decisive. Not a cloud in the curve of azure,
not a shiver of wind down the canon, not a frown in Nature, if we except
the lowering shadows from the shoulders of the giants of the range.
Crowning the shadows was a splendid helmet of light, rich with the dyes
of the morning; the pines were touched with a brilliant if austere
warmth. The pride of lofty lineage and severe isolation was regnant over
all. And up through the splendour, and the shadows, and the loneliness,
and the austere warmth, must our travellers go. Must go? Scarcely that,
but the Honourable had made up his mind to cross the glacier and none
sought to dissuade him from his choice; the more so, because there was
something of danger in the business. Pretty Pierre had merely shrugged
his shoulders at the suggestion, and had said:

"'Nom de Dieu,' the higher we go the faster we live, that is something."

"Sometimes we live ourselves to death too quickly. In my schooldays I
watched a mouse in a jar of oxygen do that;" said the Honourable.

"That is the best way to die," remarked the halfbreed--"much."

Jo Gordineer had been over the path before. He was confident of the way,
and proud of his office of guide.

"Climb Mont Blanc, if you will," said the Honourable, "but leave me these
white bastions of the Selkirks."

Even so. They have not seen the snowy hills of God who have yet to look
upon the Rocky Mountains, absolute, stupendous, sublimely grave.

Jo Gordineer and Pretty Pierre strode on together. They being well away
from the other two, the Honourable turned and said to Shon: "What was the
name of the man who wrote that song of yours, again, Shon?"

"Lawless."

"Yes, but his first name?"

"Duke--Duke Lawless."

There was a pause, in which the other seemed to be intently studying the
glacier above them. Then he said: "What was he like?--in appearance, I
mean."

"A trifle more than your six feet, about your colour of hair and eyes,
and with a trick of smilin' that would melt the heart of an exciseman,
and O'Connell's own at a joke, barrin' a time or two that he got hold of
a pile of papers from the ould country. By the grave of St. Shon! thin
he was as dry of fun as a piece of blotting paper. And he said at last,
before he was aisy and free again, 'Shon,' says he, 'it's better to burn
your ships behind ye, isn't it?'

"And I, havin' thought of a glen in ould Ireland that I'll never see
again, nor any that's in it, said: 'Not, only burn them to the water's
edge, Duke Lawless, but swear to your own soul that they never lived but
in the dreams of the night.'

"'You're right there, Shon,' says he, and after that no luck was bad
enough to cloud the gay heart of him, and bad enough it was sometimes."

"And why do you fear that he is not alive?"

"Because I met an old mate of mine one day on the Frazer, and he said
that Lawless had never come to Cloncurry; and a hard, hard road it was to
travel."

Jo Gordineer was calling to them, and there the conversation ended.
In a few minutes the four stood on the edge of the glacier. Each man had
a long hickory stick which served as alpenstock, a bag hung at his side,
and tied to his back was his gold-pan, the hollow side in, of course.
Shon's was tied a little lower down than the others.

They passed up this solid river of ice, this giant power at endless
strife with the high hills, up towards its head. The Honourable was the
first to reach the point of vantage, and to look down upon the vast and
wandering fissures, the frigid bulwarks, the great fortresses of ice, the
ceaseless snows, the aisles of this mountain sanctuary through which
Nature's splendid anthems rolled. Shon was a short distance below, with
his hand over his eyes, sweeping the semi-circle of glory.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry from Pierre: "Mon Dieu! Look!"

Shon McGann had fallen on a smooth pavement of ice. The gold-pan was
beneath him, and down the glacier he was whirled-whirled, for Shon had
thrust his heels in the snow and ice, and the gold-pan performed a series
of circles as it sped down the incline. His fingers clutched the ice and
snow, but they only left a red mark of blood behind. Must he go the
whole course of that frozen slide, plump into the wild depths below?

"'Mon Dieu!--mon Dieu!'" said Pretty Pierre, piteously. The face of the
Honourable was set and tense.

Jo Gordineer's hand clutched his throat as if he choked. Still Shon
sped. It was a matter of seconds only. The tragedy crowded to the awful
end.

But, no.

There was a tilt in the glacier, and the gold-pan, suddenly swirling,
again swung to the outer edge, and shot over.

As if hurled from a catapult, the Irishman was ejected from the white
monster's back. He fell on a wide shelf of ice, covered with light snow,
through which he was tunnelled, and dropped on another ledge below, near
the path by which he and his companions had ascended. "Shied from the
finish, by God!" said Jo Gordineer. "'Le pauvre Shon!'" added Pretty
Pierre.

The Honourable was making his way down, his brain haunted by the words,
"He'll never go back to Farcalladen more."

But Jo was right.

For Shon McGann was alive. He lay breathless, helpless, for a moment;
then he sat up and scanned his lacerated fingers: he looked up the path
by which he had come; he looked down the path he seemed destined to go;
he started to scratch his head, but paused in the act, by reason of his
fingers.

Then he said: "It's my mother wouldn't know me from a can of cold meat
if I hadn't stopped at this station; but wurrawurra, what a car it was to
come in!" He examined his tattered clothes and bare elbows; then he
unbuckled the gold-pan, and no easy task was it with his ragged fingers.
"'Twas not for deep minin' I brought ye," he said to the pan, "nor for
scrapin' the clothes from me back."

Just then the Honourable came up. "Shon, my man . . . alive, thank
God! How is it with you?"

"I'm hardly worth the lookin' at. I wouldn't turn my back to ye for a
ransom."

"It's enough that you're here at all."

"Ah, 'voila!' this Irishman!" said Pretty Pierre, as his light fingers
touched Shon's bruised arm gently. This from Pretty Pierre!

There was that in the voice which went to Shon's heart. Who could have
guessed that this outlaw of the North would ever show a sign of sympathy
or friendship for anybody? But it goes to prove that you can never be
exact in your estimate of character. Jo Gordineer only said jestingly:
"Say, now, what are you doing, Shon, bringing us down here, when we might
be well into the Valley by this time?"

"That in your face and the hair aff your head," said Shon; "it's little
you know a tobogan ride when you see one. I'll take my share of the
grog, by the same token."

The Honourable uncorked his flask. Shon threw back his head with a
laugh.

"For it's rest when the gallop is over, me men!
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last;
And it's here's--"

But Shon had fainted with the flask in his hand and this snatch of a song
on his lips.

They reached shelter that night. Had it not been for the accident, they
would have got to their destination in the Valley; but here they were
twelve miles from it. Whether this was fortunate or unfortunate may be
seen later. Comfortably bestowed in this mountain tavern, after they had
toasted and eaten their venison and lit their pipes, they drew about the
fire.

Besides the four, there was a figure that lay sleeping in a corner on a
pile of pine branches, wrapped in a bearskin robe. Whoever it was slept
soundly.

"And what was it like--the gold-pan flyer--the tobogan ride, Shon?"
remarked Jo Gordineer.

"What was it like?--what was it like"? replied Shon. "Sure, I couldn't
see what it was like for the stars that were hittin' me in the eyes.
There wasn't any world at all. I was ridin' on a streak of lightnin',
and nivir a rubber for the wheels; and my fingers makin' stripes of blood
on the snow; and now the stars that were hittin' me were white, and thin
they were red, and sometimes blue--"

"The Stars and Stripes," inconsiderately remarked Jo Gordineer.

"And there wasn't any beginning to things, nor any end of them; and whin
I struck the snow and cut down the core of it like a cat through a glass,
I was willin' to say with the Prophet of Ireland--"

"Are you going to pass the liniment, Pretty Pierre?" It was Jo Gordineer
said that.

What the Prophet of Israel did say--Israel and Ireland were identical to
Shon--was never told.

Shon's bubbling sarcasm was full-stopped by the beneficent savour that,
rising now from the hands of the four, silenced all irrelevant speech.
It was a function of importance. It was not simply necessary to say How!
or Here's reformation! or I look towards you! As if by a common
instinct, the Honourable, Jo Gordineer, and Pretty Pierre, turned towards
Shon and lifted their glasses. Jo Gordineer was going to say: "Here's a
safe foot in the stirrups to you," but he changed his mind and drank in
silence.

Shon's eye had been blazing with fun, but it took on, all at once, a
misty twinkle. None of them had quite bargained for this. The feeling
had come like a wave of soft lightning, and had passed through them. Did
it come from the Irishman himself? Was it his own nature acting through
those who called him "partner"?

Pretty Pierre got up and kicked savagely at the wood in the big
fireplace. He ostentatiously and needlessly put another log of Norfolk-
pine upon the fire.

The Honourable gaily suggested a song.

"Sing us 'Avec les Braves Sauvages,' Pierre," said Jo Gordineer.

But Pierre waved his fingers towards Shon: "Shon, his song--he did not
finish--on the glacier. It is good we hear all. 'Hein?'"

And so Shon sang:

"Oh it's down the long side of Farcalladen Rise."

The sleeper on the pine branches stirred nervously, as if the song were
coming through a dream to him. At the third verse he started up, and an
eager, sun-burned face peered from the half-darkness at the singer. The
Honourable was sitting in the shadow, with his back to the new actor in
the scene.

"For it's rest when the gallop is over, my men I
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last!
And it's here's--"

Shon paused. One of those strange lapses of memory came to him which
come at times to most of us concerning familiar things. He could get no
further than he did on the mountain side. He passed his hand over his
forehead, stupidly:--"Saints forgive me; but it's gone from me, and sorra
the one can I get it; me that had it by heart, and the lad that wrote it
far away. Death in the world, but I'll try it again!

"For it's rest when the gallop is over, my men!
And it's here's to the lads that have ridden their last!
And it's here's--"

Again he paused.

But from the half-darkness there came a voice, a clear baritone:

"And here's to the lasses we leave in the glen,
With a smile for the future, a sigh for the past."

At the last words the figure strode down into the firelight.

"Shon, old friend, don't you know me?"

Shon had started to his feet at the first note of the voice, and stood as
if spellbound.

There was no shaking of hands. Both men held each other hard by the
shoulders, and stood so for a moment looking steadily eye to eye.

Then Shon said: "Duke Lawless, there's parallels of latitude and
parallels of longitude, but who knows the tomb of ould Brian Borhoime?"

Which was his way of saying, "How come you here?" Duke Lawless turned to
the others before he replied. His eyes fell on the Honourable. With a
start and a step backward, and with a peculiar angry dryness in his
voice, he said:

"Just Trafford!"

"Yes," replied the Honourable, smiling, "I have found you."

"Found me! And why have you sought me? Me, Duke Lawless? I should have
thought--"

The Honourable interrupted: "To tell you that you are Sir Duke Lawless."

"That? You sought me to tell me that?"

"I did."

"You are sure? And for naught else?"

"As I live, Duke."

The eyes fixed on the Honourable were searching. Sir Duke hesitated,
then held out his hand. In a swift but cordial silence it was taken.
Nothing more could be said then. It is only in plays where gentlemen
freely discuss family affairs before a curious public. Pretty Pierre was
busy with a decoction. Jo Gordineer was his associate. Shon had drawn
back, and was apparently examining the indentations on his gold-pan.

"Shon, old fellow, come here," said Sir Duke Lawless.

But Shon had received a shock. "It's little I knew Sir Duke Lawless--"
he said.

"It's little you needed to know then, or need to know now, Shon, my
friend. I'm Duke Lawless to you here and henceforth, as ever I was then,
on the wallaby track."

And Shon believed him. The glasses were ready.

"I'll give the toast," said the Honourable with a gentle gravity. "To
Shon McGann and his Tobogan Ride!"

"I'll drink to the first half of it with all my heart," said Sir Duke.
"It's all I know about."

"Amen to that divorce," rejoined Shon.

"But were it not for the Tobogan Ride we shouldn't have stopped here,"
said the Honourable; "and where would this meeting have been?"

"That alters the case," Sir Duke remarked. "I take back the 'Amen,'"
said Shon.

II

Whatever claims Shon had upon the companionship of Sir Duke Lawless,
he knew there were other claims that were more pressing. After the toast
was finished, with an emphasised assumption of weariness, and a hint of a
long yarn on the morrow, he picked up his blanket and started for the
room where all were to sleep. The real reason of this early departure
was clear to Pretty Pierre at once, and in due time it dawned upon Jo
Gordineer.

The two Englishmen, left alone, sat for a few moments silent and smoking
hard. Then the Honourable rose, got his knapsack, and took out a small
number of papers, which he handed to Sir Duke, saying, "By slow postal
service to Sir Duke Lawless. Residence, somewhere on one of five
continents."

An envelope bearing a woman's writing was the first thing that met Sir
Duke's eye. He stared, took it out, turned it over, looked curiously at
the Honourable for a moment, and then began to break the seal.

"Wait, Duke. Do not read that. We have something to say to each other
first."

Sir Duke laid the letter down. "You have some explanation to make," he
said.

"It was so long ago; mightn't it be better to go over the story again?"

"Perhaps."

"Then it is best you should tell it. I am on my defence, you know."

Sir Duke leaned back, and a frown gathered on his forehead. Strikingly
out of place on his fresh face it seemed. Looking quickly from the fire
to the face of the Honourable and back again earnestly, as if the full
force of what was required came to him, he said: "We shall get the
perspective better if we put the tale in the third person. Duke Lawless
was the heir to the title and estates of Trafford Court. Next in
succession to him was Just Trafford, his cousin. Lawless had an income
sufficient for a man of moderate tastes. Trafford had not quite that,
but he had his profession of the law. At college they had been fast
friends, but afterwards had drifted apart, through no cause save
difference of pursuits and circumstances. Friends they still were and
likely to be so always. One summer, when on a visit to his uncle,
Admiral Sir Clavel Lawless, at Trafford Court, where a party of people
had been invited for a month, Duke Lawless fell in love with Miss Emily
Dorset. She did him the honour to prefer him to any other man--at least,
he thought so. Her income, however, was limited like his own. The
engagement was not announced, for Lawless wished to make a home before he
took a wife. He inclined to ranching in Canada, or a planter's life in
Queensland. The eight or ten thousand pounds necessary was not, however,
easy to get for the start, and he hadn't the least notion of discounting
the future, by asking the admiral's help. Besides, he knew his uncle did
not wish him to marry unless he married a woman plus a fortune. While
things were in this uncertain state, Just Trafford arrived on a visit to
Trafford Court. The meeting of the old friends was cordial. Immediately
on Trafford's arrival, however, the current of events changed. Things
occurred which brought disaster. It was noticeable that Miss Emily
Dorset began to see a deal more of Admiral Lawless and Just Trafford,
and a deal less of the younger Lawless. One day Duke Lawless came back
to the house unexpectedly, his horse having knocked up on the road.
On entering the library he saw what turned the course of his life."
Sir Duke here paused, sighed, shook the ashes out of his pipe with a
grave and expressive anxiety which did not properly belong to the action,
and remained for a moment, both arms on his knees, silent, and looking at
the fire. Then he continued:

"Just Trafford sat beside Emily Dorset in an attitude of--say,
affectionate consideration. She had been weeping, and her whole manner
suggested very touching confidences. They both rose on the entrance of
Lawless; but neither tried to say a word. What could they say? Lawless
apologised, took a book from the table which he had not come for, and
left."

Again Sir Duke paused.

"The book was an illustrated Much Ado About Nothing," said the
Honourable.

"A few hours after, Lawless had an interview with Emily Dorset.
He demanded, with a good deal of feeling, perhaps,--for he was romantic
enough to love the girl,--an explanation. He would have asked it of
Trafford first if he had seen him. She said Lawless should trust her;
that she had no explanation at that moment to give. If he waited--but
Lawless asked her if she cared for him at all, if she wished or intended
to marry him? She replied lightly, 'Perhaps, when you become Sir Duke
Lawless.' Then Lawless accused her of heartlessness, and of encouraging
both his uncle and Just Trafford. She amusingly said, 'Perhaps she had,
but it really didn't matter, did it?' For reply, Lawless said her
interest in the whole family seemed active and impartial. He bade her
not vex herself at all about him, and not to wait until he became Sir
Duke Lawless, but to give preference to seniority and begin with the
title at once; which he has reason since to believe that she did. What
he said to her he has been sorry for, not because he thinks it was
undeserved, but because he has never been able since to rouse himself to
anger on the subject, nor to hate the girl and Just Trafford as he ought.
Of the dead he is silent altogether. He never sought an explanation from
Just Trafford, for he left that night for London, and in two days was on
his way to Australia. The day he left, however, he received a note from
his banker saying that L8000 had been placed to his credit by Admiral
Lawless. Feeling the indignity of what he believed was the cause of the
gift, Lawless neither acknowledged it nor used it, not any penny of it.
Five years have gone since then, and Lawless has wandered over two
continents, a self-created exile. He has learned much that he didn't
learn at Oxford; and not the least of all, that the world is not so bad
as is claimed for it, that it isn't worth while hating and cherishing
hate, that evil is half-accidental, half-natural, and that hard work in
the face of nature is the thing to pull a man together and strengthen him
for his place in the universe. Having burned his ships behind him, that
is the way Lawless feels. And the story is told."

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