Mrs. Mike Read online

  "Mike!" I got up too. I was mad at him for frightening them away.

  "Stay here, Kathy." He spoke so emphatically that I did what he told me. I stood watching as he made his way along the rocks by the beaver pool.

  But I was curious to see what he was after, and anyway why should I stay here just because Mike Flannigan told me to? So I followed him over the rocks and sand, past the pool, and then I saw what I couldn't see before because it hung gray against gray slate rock. A pole like fishing pole had been set low over the water. It had a clamp on the end of it. A mother beaver had swum into it. The trap had sprung, swinging the pole high into the air. And there the beaver hung by her forepaws, whimpering. A large hawk swooped low, and I cried out. Mike wheeled around.

  "Get back!" I saw then what he did not want me to see. The eyes of the beaver had been torn out of their sockets. Mike broke the pole and laid the animal on the ground. Then he carried me into the edge of the wood. There he sat me down with my back against a tree. He had faced me in the other direction, so I heard him go but did not see him.

  That note of distress was in my ears. I sat there seeing the empty sockets ooze blood. Then I heard the shot, and my hands

  unclenched themselves. I heard Mike coming back, but I couldn't stop crying. I could see the toes of his boots standing beside me. He bent over and touched my hair, very lightly.

  "The hawk did it, and the beaver was still alive!" I sobbed through the woods.

  "Kathy, don't think about it. I never thought—" He stopped, and when he went on his voice was calm again. "No real hunter would trap, this time of year. An Indian wouldn't. Most others wouldn't either."

  I shook my head because I couldn't talk.

  "They wait till June anyway, when the young are born." I knew he wanted me to answer him, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.

  "And it isn't like this, as a rule. Almost all the fellows set traps under water, that either drown the beaver or let it get away without mangling it. These spring poles are nasty contrivances, and not many use them. Really, Kathy."

  "How—how long had it hung there?" I choked over the words.

  "Not long." But I knew he was lying because the blood had clotted.

  "What did you do with it? Just leave it there?"

  Mike looked embarrassed. "That paw that it was caught by was almost pulled out anyway, so I put it in the beaver pool."

  I looked at him in horror. "You mean you cut off its foot and put it in the pool?"

  Mike avoided my eyes.

  "It's one of those crazy Indian customs that white men that live among Indians fall into. You feel sorry for the beaver you've had to trap, so you leave part of him, any part you can spare, in the place where he has lived, so the spirit coming back will find it and understand that the hunter made what reparation he could." Mike spoke as though he believed this. What a strange man he was!

  "I've known trappers who have worked hours boring a hole through the ice of a beaver pool to give back to the spirit a portion of what he had taken."

  A furry body hanging by a mangled forepaw, a hawk biting

  and tearing away the helpless thing's eyes . . . His words had fallen gently, like a curtain shutting those pictures from my mind. He took both my hands in his. He felt badly. I knew he did. And we had been having such a nice day. I forced a smile and then looked up to show it to him, I hadn't known he was so close. My face was streaked with tears, but he reached down and kissed it. I let him kiss me. It was something I had not known, this melting away into feeling.

  Four

  For A week I had been after Uncle John to get his permission to go to the O'Malleys' dance with Mike. And all I could get out of him was, "I'm thinking it over."

  I made a face to myself, but he caught me.

  "And what's the matter, Kathy?" he said. "Don't you believe I'm thinking it over?"

  I fired up. "You've been thinking it over night and day for a week," I said. "It's a wonder you've had time to attend to the cattle and the house and the accounts."

  "Well," he said, "when's the dance?"

  "Tonight."

  "Your mother might not be wanting you to run off to dances at your age, even if it is with a Mounty, so I'll have to continue to think it over." He turned toward the door. "But get your clothes ready, just in case . . ."

  When Mike came to pick me up, Uncle John was still thinking it over. He said he'd let me know his decision when we came back.

  We laughed together as we saddled our horses.

  "Your uncle John," said Mike, "never says anything straight on. Always hits it sideways."

  We rode off over the muddy road. A light irritating rain was falling, and I kept reaching down to make sure none of it was trickling off Rosie's back into the saddlebag. In that saddlebag was my dance dress, very carefully folded, with round twists of newspaper in the folds to prevent creases. In my mackinaw pants and beaver coat I looked like Mike's kid brother, but bouncing on Rosie's side I had a dress that would remind him that I was a girl. Blue and shining it was, with heavy ruffles and a slender waist; and my blue shoes that matched were at the very bottom so as not to crush anything.

  The O'Malley barn could be heard long before it could be seen. As we rode up the hill we heard the shrill notes of a fiddle start up, and the laughing and talk die down. Two Indians galloped by us in a wild silent race. The rain stopped for a while, and there was a pale gleam in the west where the moon was trying to break through. Mike stopped at the barn and told me to go up to the house to change. But I wanted to look in at the dance first.

  Four or five Indians were standing around the door. They were dressed in dark blue suits; and, although the suits were all the same size, the Indians weren't. Mike opened the door, and I peered into the huge dimly lit room. A few smoky oil lamps hung from the rafters, throwing long, flickering shadows on the floor. They were dancing a fast and furious square dance, but as far as I could make out there were ten men to every woman on the floor, and a few hundred more men lined up along the walls. Three fiddlers played wildly in the back, and near them a tall ferocious 'breed with a dirty handkerchief around his neck plucked at a guitar. I heard the caller yelling above the racket, "Join hands round for a Birdie in the Cage! Get your partner and swing her off the floor! Join hands round—Birdie fly out and Hawkie fly in! Hawkie fly out, give Birdie a swing! Everybody join hands and swing her all around!"

  A space cleared in the center of the floor, and I watched a heavy-shouldered giant of a man swing his partner around and

  around with everybody clapping and stamping. Her beaded moccasins barely touched the floor, her skirts billowed out, and her head was thrown back, eyes closed. I was frightened and excited and anxious to join the dance myself.

  "I'll run up to the house and change," I told Mike. I walked out, and the four Indians in their blue suits looked at me and grinned. Mike appeared, glaring.

  "I'll take you," he said.

  When we came back to the dance, it was even more crowded. White trappers, 'breeds, and Indians fought over the few Indian girls. I felt eyes staring at me from every corner. Before I threaded my way through the first square dance, I had received twenty proposals, including marriage. I was the only white girl there.

  I never had time to sit down and catch my breath. Sometimes in the patterns of a dance I would be swept away from Mike. Arms would tighten around me, and faces would flash by—dark Indian faces, gleaming with sweat and grease; red Scottish faces shining with heat; small French faces secretly smiling. The music flew by in wild, erratic rhythm, the laughter was loud and excited, and the floor of the barn shook under the heavy steps of the men.

  Unexpectedly I heard Mike's voice in my ear. "Come over to the side," he said taking my hand. "There's going to be trouble." I followed Mike's eyes and saw a pale man standing uncertainly by the door, scrutinizing the dancers. Some of them stopped and watched him curiously. He had a vague abstracted look that made you think of a sleepwal
ker or someone who had been lost for a long time. And yet he was young, and his hair was black and thick, and his face would have been handsome had he smiled.

  "George Bailey," Mike said. "And Bull MacGregor is here with the girl."

  "What girl? Who's Bull MacGregor? Where?"

  But my questions were answered quickly. Nearly everyone had stopped dancing, and a path opened. At one end of it I could see the giant who had whirled his partner in the air during "Birdie in a Cage." A six-foot-four Scotsman he was, with dirty red hair and an uneven beard. At the other end of the hushed dancers

  stood George Bailey. He didn't look at Bull MacGregor or the slender Indian girl, half his size, who stood next to him, staring at the floor. Instead, he looked over at Mike, and you could see he was annoyed by the attention he was drawing. There was whispering and talking from the crowd. Someone snickered, and the musicians went at their fiddles in an effort to start the dance again.

  Mike and I watched Bull MacGregor swagger insolently past George Bailey on his way to the door. His girl half-ran, half-walked along with him, Bailey did not move; his hollow face showed no expression. MacGregor opened the door, and the wet air blew in. But the girl had turned around and stood staring at George Bailey. Her face also was expressionless, but her whole body was tense and expectant. MacGregor tapped her on the shoulder, but she did not feel it. He said something in a low voice. The girl didn't move. He flushed from his forehead into the neck of his open shirt, and he hit the girl in the face, a hard short blow.

  We all watched George Bailey. He was crossing the floor, slowly, steadily. His mouth was slightly open and his hand trembled, but he didn't quicken his pace.

  "No knives, George," said Mike.

  Bull MacGregor waited, leaning forward, swinging his huge fists, heavy as sledges. The girl scrambled to her feet and seized his arm. MacGregor flung her off, and she fell toward me and Mike. Her lip was bleeding, and there was a long purple welt on her cheek.

  "Do something, Mike!" I pushed him. "Put him in jail."

  "Yes, yes, in jail," the girl sobbed, clinging to me. "He kill him, he kill him!"

  George Bailey was about ten feet away. He stopped uncertainly, hesitated, but MacGregor rushed him with a bellow that made me understand why they called him "Bull." There was a flurry of punches. Mike and two other men stepped into the struggle, and it was all over in a second. Bull's right arm was slashed and bleeding, and Bailey lay on the floor, shaking his head

  queerly. The two men helped him to his feet and pulled him away, while Mike stood in front of MacGregor talking in a low voice.

  "I'll forget the scratch," Bull said, "but if I see him around again, I'm going to let the dirty 'breed have it."

  He turned toward the girl. "And now you, come on!" He put his hand on her shoulder and sprayed blood all over us both.

  She held my hand and repeated hysterically, "No go! No go! He kill me!"

  "Let her alone," I said. "Let her alone, you big coward. It's easy enough for a man the size of a buffalo to beat a little mite like this." And I put my arm around her, though she was a bit taller than I.

  "Sergeant Mike, put him in jail," the girl pleaded. "He beat me, he choke me, he try kill me! Look ..." and she started to undo the collar of her dress.

  "Let her alone for tonight, Bull," Mike said, "and go home."

  MacGregor growled something and turned toward the door. The blood was still trickling down his arm, but he ignored it.

  "How's the cut?" Mike said.

  MacGregor pushed his way out without answering.

  "Don't let him go!" the girl screamed.

  "Shhh," I said. "What's your name?"

  "Mart'."

  "It's all right now, Mart'," I said.

  "Please, Sergeant Mike, put him in jail."

  Mike had an annoyed look on his face.

  "Mike," I said angrily, "do something for her. That big bully! I'd just like to have seen him lay a hand on me."

  Mike grinned. "All right," he said to the girl, "he beats you?"

  "He try kill me all the time."

  "And you're through with him for good?"

  "Yes, yes, through, finished."

  "All right. Come in in the morning and sign a complaint, and we'll arrest him."

  "Yes! Yes!"

  "And you can stay here tonight. I'll speak to the O'Malleys. They'll put you up."

  Mike signed to an older woman, who came over and took Mart' away. Her fingers clung to me, and she repeated, "Yes—in jail, in jail!"

  I watched till the door shut behind her. The fiddles started up with renewed vigor, trying to erase the impression she had made. But I wasn't interested in music or dancing any more.

  "Mike," I whispered, "you will put that man in jail?"

  He sfniled. "She won't come in to sign a complaint. She won't even stay here tonight. In an hour she'll go home to Bull."

  "No!" I cried, horrified.

  "It's happened before," Mike said calmly. "They always go back."

  "Well," I said turning a little red, "if any man ever struck me, if he just laid his littlest finger on me, I'd get the biggest sharpest knife in the kitchen, and I'd whet it all day on the grindstone; and it's my belief, Sergeant Flannigan, that man wouldn't sleep long in my house."

  Mike burst out laughing and swung me onto the dance floor.

  It rankled in me. I mean, I didn't like Mike's callous attitude, and I didn't like that bully's roughness, and I didn't like her weakness if she went back to him, and I was just irritated all around. So I guess I acted a little cool to Mike, and soon he seemed to draw into himself and become dignified, and then we were riding home in silence.

  Finally I said, "It was a very nice dance, and I thank you."

  And he said, "Yes."

  I said, "I certainly enjoyed all the people, and the Indians, and the music."

  And he said, "Yes."

  I kicked Rosie, hard. We began to trot.

  "You're not much for talking this night?"

  "No."

  "And what is on your mind, Sergeant Flannigan?" I said.

  He turned his head and looked at me, and began to talk, fast

  and earnestly. "You think I'm hard and cynical, that I'd stand by and let a man strike a woman and do nothing about it, but you don't know the story behind it, so I'll tell it to you, and you're not to interrupt until I'm done." He reined in, and the horses settled down to a walk.

  "The girl's name is Marthe Germaine. Her mother was pure Indian, her father some kind of mixed 'breed, a man no one liked—neglected his wife, neglected his kids, ran off and disappeared one day. You remember that man who knifed Bull MacGregor? George Bailey, he's called. Part Indian. Used to be a very nice fellow, but he's changed a lot. Anyway, then he was young, good-looking, a hard worker, made a lot of friends. He fell in love with this girl, Marthe, took her up north to his trap line, made her his girl. They didn't get married, there's not many marriages like that. I mean it's rare for a man to marry an Indian girl with the priest and everything. But George loved her and was good to her, and she adored him, and worried over him, and mothered him, the way women do. George had a partner, this Bull MacGregor you saw, and as long as George was there, he kept away from the girl. MacGregor had nothing but contempt for George; he could crumble him with his bare hands. But the man was his partner, and MacGregor had his own peculiar code.

  "Well, one day George had to go down for supplies. Supposed to be back in a month. Didn't return for six months. Ran into all kinds of bad luck and trouble. Bull waited two months, then he took the girl. I guess he figured George was never coming back, so she was his by inheritance. Of course, he never asked her how she felt about it, and if she made any objection, I suppose he smashed her in the face. After all to him she was just an Indian klooch. But Marthe was pretty, and capable, and MacGregor grew fond of her; so when George Bailey came back, Bull wouldn't give the girl up.

  "Now, here's whe
re the story gets peculiar. Marthe hated MacGregor, hated him as close to murder as an Indian woman can think, and she loved George. But she was afraid, if it came to a fight, that George would get killed. So she told him she didn't

  love him any more, that she'd always loved Bull, and she sent him away. That was that, for five years.

  "Then Bull brought her down here. She was miserable. He knocked her around the way you saw tonight. Well, one day Bull beat her up worse than usual, left her unconscious, and a neighbor sent for Constable Vincent. He locked Bull up for the night, and I told the girl that if she wanted to, she could sign a complaint, and I'd hold Bull there for a month, and she could clear out. I tried to convince her that in a month she and George could lose themselves, and that Bull would never follow, it didn't mean that much to him.

  "She thought it over, and then said she was going back to Bull, he was her man, he brought her food, he built her house, she was his woman. And then she said something very funny. She said she hated George because he hadn't the courage to fight Bull like a man. Now, that I haven't figured out to this day. After all, she was the one who stopped George. And yet, tonight, remember the way she looked at him, as if daring him to come on? Well, I don't know how it's going to end, but someone's going to get hurt."

  "Well, all women aren't like that," I said.

  "No." He smiled. "But they're unpredictable creatures, all of them. For instance, right now you're sulky, and in a minute you're going to laugh." And he leaned over and squeezed my hand. I laughed. I couldn't help it.

  But then that was all. He didn't say another word. He didn't squeeze my hand again or try to kiss me. We just rode ahead under the dark clouds. And what I say is, men are unpredictable creatures, all of them.