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Title: The Epaulettes
Author: Gilbert Parker [
More Titles by Parker]
Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge,
staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa
his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine
buckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader had put
a great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, in
recognition of the chief's merits and in reward of his services, had
presented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some
officer in Her Majesty's service. A good, solid, honest pair of
epaulettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts
and functions at which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders.
They were the admiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the
envy of many chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably,
and was no more immobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus
honoured above his kind.
But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew not
Athabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew
naught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than
his wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for
high-handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more
as Company's serfs than as Company's friends and allies. Also, he had
an eye for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth it
took a long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires
of the young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and
dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow
and arrow, and the fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles
the white man came to sit often in Athabasca's lodge. He knew of this,
but heeded not at all. At last Konto, a young brave who very accurately
guessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse
Trail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his regard in
a fight without weapons, to the death, the survivor to give the other
burial where he fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would have
been foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people masterless
for an Indian's whim; it would have been cowardly to do nothing. So he
whipped out a revolver, and bade his rival march before him to the Fort;
which Konto very calmly did, begging the favour of a bit of tobacco as
he went.
Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should
at least banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might
have to put a bullet into Konto's refractory head if the thing were not
done. He said large things in the name of the H.B.C., and was surprised
that Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after long
consideration, during which he drank Company's coffee and ate Company's
pemmican, declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fine
offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was in
the presence of several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at the
Fort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and with
words of bluster went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's
shoulders as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief said
nothing. He got up, and reached out his hands as if to ask them back;
and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing his blanket high over
his shoulders. It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show his
badges of captaincy and alliance.
This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the
buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave
it, they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making
trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle
it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should
take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great
feasting, for then the matter would be ended.
Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his
lodge--the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He
and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been no
word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles.
The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone
after buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook were
left.
Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long
that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. "What will my
father Athabasca do?" she asked. "With idleness the flesh grows soft,
and the iron melts from the arm."
"But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men
of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow."
"It is no answer," she said: "what will my father do?"
"They were of gold," he answered, "that never grew rusty. My people were
full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as
they passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the
Great Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it
was as if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over.
When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I
do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold."
"But what will my father do?" she persisted.
"I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who
rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum,
and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I
know the way."
"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and
many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The
chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face.
"Why does my father fear to speak to his child?" she said. "I will speak
plain. I love the man: but I love my father also."
She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly
on her breast. "I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first
looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting
by the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines
made great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid
me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He
talked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no
one like my father--Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man,
Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened.
Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the
Company, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my
father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life for
Fyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out my
father's shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog.
I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I have
ridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame."
The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his look
could you have told that he heard his daughter's words. For a moment
he was silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy
brows drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she
waited, he arose, put out a hand and touched her forehead.
"Mitawawa has spoken well," he said. "There will be an end. The yokes of
gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen;
he is a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shall
fight me. I am as great as many men--I have carried the golden yokes: we
will fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved
the man more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. Has
Mitawawa seen him since the shameful day?"
"He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he brought
the epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. I
begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard as the
ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his in the
world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit."
From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses he
could follow their actions, could almost read their faces. "There'll
be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory," he said at last,
turning to his clerk. "Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet."
"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.
In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by her
father's body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. Fyles
and his men made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort.
[The end]
Gilbert Parker's short story: Epaulettes
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