When John Fox came into a country
where whisky freezes solid and
may be used as a paper-weight
for a large part of the year,
he came without the ideals and
illusions that usually hamper
the progress of more delicately
nurtured adventurers. Born and
reared on the frontier fringe
of the United States, he took
with him into Canada a primitive
cast of mind, an elemental simplicity
and grip on things, as it were,
that insured him immediate success
in his new career. From a mere
servant of the Hudson Bay Company,
driving a paddle with the voyageurs
and carrying goods on his back
across the portages, he swiftly
rose to a Factorship and took
charge of a trading post at Fort
Angelus.
Here, because of his elemental
simplicity, he took to himself
a native wife, and, by reason
of the connubial bliss that followed,
he escaped the unrest and vain
longings that curse the days
of more fastidious men, spoil
their work, and conquer them
in the end. He lived contentedly,
was at single purposes with the
business he was set there to
do, and achieved a brilliant
record in the service of the
Company. About this time his
wife died, was claimed by her
people, and buried with savage
circumstance in a tin trunk in
the top of a tree.
Two sons she had borne him,
and when the Company promoted
him, he journeyed with them still
deeper into the vastness of the
North- West Territory to a place
called Sin Rock, where he took
charge of a new post in a more
important fur field. Here he
spent several lonely and depressing
months, eminently disgusted with
the unprepossessing appearance
of the Indian maidens, and greatly
worried by his growing sons who
stood in need of a mother's care.
Then his eyes chanced upon Lit-lit.
"Lit-lit--well, she is Lit-lit," was
the fashion in which he despairingly
described her to his chief clerk,
Alexander McLean.
McLean was
too fresh from his Scottish
upbringing--"not dry
behind the ears yet," John Fox
put it--to take to the marriage
customs of the country. Nevertheless
he was not averse to the Factor's
imperilling his own immortal
soul, and, especially, feeling
an ominous attraction himself
for Lit-lit, he was sombrely
content to clinch his own soul's
safety by seeing her married
to the Factor.
Nor is it to
be wondered that McLean's austere
Scotch soul
stood in danger of being thawed
in the sunshine of Lit-lit's
eyes. She was pretty, and slender,
and willowy; without the massive
face and temperamental stolidity
of the average squaw. "Lit-lit," so
called from her fashion, even
as a child, of being fluttery,
of darting about from place to
place like a butterfly, of being
inconsequent and merry, and of
laughing as lightly as she darted
and danced about.
Lit-lit was the daughter of
Snettishane, a prominent chief
in the tribe, by a half-breed
mother, and to him the Factor
fared casually one summer day
to open negotiations of marriage.
He sat with the chief in the
smoke of a mosquito smudge before
his lodge, and together they
talked about everything under
the sun, or, at least, everything
that in the Northland is under
the sun, with the sole exception
of marriage. John Fox had come
particularly to talk of marriage;
Snettishane knew it, and John
Fox knew he knew it, wherefore
the subject was religiously avoided.
This is alleged to be Indian
subtlety. In reality it is transparent
simplicity.
The hours slipped by, and Fox
and Snettishane smoked interminable
pipes, looking each other in
the eyes with a guilelessness
superbly histrionic. In the mid-afternoon
McLean and his brother clerk,
McTavish, strolled past, innocently
uninterested, on their way to
the river. When they strolled
back again an hour later, Fox
and Snettishane had attained
to a ceremonious discussion of
the condition and quality of
the gunpowder and bacon which
the Company was offering in trade.
Meanwhile Lit-lit, divining the
Factor's errand, had crept in
under the rear wall of the lodge,
and through the front flap was
peeping out at the two logomachists
by the mosquito smudge. She was
flushed and happy-eyed, proud
that no less a man than the Factor
(who stood next to God in the
Northland hierarchy) had singled
her out, femininely curious to
see at close range what manner
of man he was. Sunglare on the
ice, camp smoke, and weather
beat had burned his face to a
copper-brown, so that her father
was as fair as he, while she
was fairer. She was remotely
glad of this, and more immediately
glad that he was large and strong,
though his great black beard
half frightened her, it was so
strange.
Being very young, she was unversed
in the ways of men. Seventeen
times she had seen the sun travel
south and lose itself beyond
the sky-line, and seventeen times
she had seen it travel back again
and ride the sky day and night
till there was no night at all.
And through these years she had
been cherished jealously by Snettishane,
who stood between her and all
suitors, listening disdainfully
to the young hunters as they
bid for her hand, and turning
them away as though she were
beyond price. Snettishane was
mercenary. Lit-lit was to him
an investment. She represented
so much capital, from which he
expected to receive, not a certain
definite interest, but an incalculable
interest.
And having thus been reared
in a manner as near to that of
the nunnery as tribal conditions
would permit, it was with a great
and maidenly anxiety that she
peeped out at the man who had
surely come for her, at the husband
who was to teach her all that
was yet unlearned of life, at
the masterful being whose word
was to be her law, and who was
to mete and bound her actions
and comportment for the rest
of her days.
But, peeping through the front
flap of the lodge, flushed and
thrilling at the strange destiny
reaching out for her, she grew
disappointed as the day wore
along, and the Factor and her
father still talked pompously
of matters concerning other things
and not pertaining to marriage
things at all. As the sun sank
lower and lower toward the north
and midnight approached, the
Factor began making unmistakable
preparations for departure. As
he turned to stride away Lit-lit's
heart sank; but it rose again
as he halted, half turning on
one heel.
"Oh, by the way, Snettishane," he
said, "I want a squaw to wash
for me and mend my clothes."
Snettishane grunted and suggested
Wanidani, who was an old woman
and toothless.
"No, no," interposed the Factor. "What
I want is a wife. I've been kind
of thinking about it, and the
thought just struck me that you
might know of some one that would
suit."
Snettishane looked interested,
whereupon the Factor retraced
his steps, casually and carelessly
to linger and discuss this new
and incidental topic.
"Kattou?" suggested
Snettishane.
"She has but one eye," objected
the Factor.
"Laska?"
"Her knees
be wide apart when she stands
upright. Kips, your
biggest dog, can leap between
her knees when she stands upright."
"Senatee?" went
on the imperturbable Snettishane.
But John Fox
feigned anger, crying: "What
foolishness is this? Am I old,
that thou shouldst
mate me with old women? Am I
toothless? lame of leg? blind
of eye? Or am I poor that no
bright-eyed maiden may look with
favour upon me? Behold! I am
the Factor, both rich and great,
a power in the land, whose speech
makes men tremble and is obeyed!"
Snettishane was inwardly pleased,
though his sphinx-like visage
never relaxed. He was drawing
the Factor, and making him break
ground. Being a creature so elemental
as to have room for but one idea
at a time, Snettishane could
pursue that one idea a greater
distance than could John Fox.
For John Fox, elemental as he
was, was still complex enough
to entertain several glimmering
ideas at a time, which debarred
him from pursuing the one as
single-heartedly or as far as
did the chief.
Snettishane calmly continued
calling the roster of eligible
maidens, which, name by name,
as fast as uttered, were stamped
ineligible by John Fox, with
specified objections appended.
Again he gave it up and started
to return to the Fort. Snettishane
watched him go, making no effort
to stop him, but seeing him,
in the end, stop himself.
"Come to think of it," the
Factor remarked, "we both of
us forgot Lit-lit. Now I wonder
if she'll suit me?"
Snettishane met the suggestion
with a mirthless face, behind
the mask of which his soul grinned
wide. It was a distinct victory.
Had the Factor gone but one step
farther, perforce Snettishane
would himself have mentioned
the name of Lit-lit, but--the
Factor had not gone that one
step farther.
The chief was non-committal
concerning Lit-lit's suitability,
till he drove the white man into
taking the next step in order
of procedure.
"Well," the Factor meditated
aloud, "the only way to find
out is to make a try of it." He
raised his voice. "So I will
give for Lit- lit ten blankets
and three pounds of tobacco which
is good tobacco."
Snettishane replied with a
gesture which seemed to say that
all the blankets and tobacco
in all the world could not compensate
him for the loss of Lit-lit and
her manifold virtues. When pressed
by the Factor to set a price,
he coolly placed it at five hundred
blankets, ten guns, fifty pounds
of tobacco, twenty scarlet cloths,
ten bottles of rum, a music-box,
and lastly the good-will and
best offices of the Factor, with
a place by his fire.
The Factor apparently suffered
a stroke of apoplexy, which stroke
was successful in reducing the
blankets to two hundred and in
cutting out the place by the
fire--an unheard-of condition
in the marriages of white men
with the daughters of the soil.
In the end, after three hours
more of chaffering, they came
to an agreement. For Lit-lit
Snettishane was to receive one
hundred blankets, five pounds
of tobacco, three guns, and a
bottle of rum, goodwill and best
offices included, which according
to John Fox, was ten blankets
and a gun more than she was worth.
And as he went home through the
wee sma' hours, the three-o'clock
sun blazing in the due north-east,
he was unpleasantly aware that
Snettishane had bested him over
the bargain.
Snettishane, tired and victorious,
sought his bed, and discovered
Lit-lit before she could escape
from the lodge.
He grunted
knowingly: "Thou
hast seen. Thou has heard. Wherefore
it be plain to thee thy father's
very great wisdom and understanding.
I have made for thee a great
match. Heed my words and walk
in the way of my words, go when
I say go, come when I bid thee
come, and we shall grow fat with
the wealth of this big white
man who is a fool according to
his bigness."
The next day
no trading was done at the
store. The Factor
opened whisky before breakfast,
to the delight of McLean and
McTavish, gave his dogs double
rations, and wore his best moccasins.
Outside the Fort preparations
were under way for a POTLATCH.
Potlatch means "a giving," and
John Fox's intention was to signalize
his marriage with Lit-lit by
a potlatch as generous as she
was good- looking. In the afternoon
the whole tribe gathered to the
feast. Men, women, children,
and dogs gorged to repletion,
nor was there one person, even
among the chance visitors and
stray hunters from other tribes,
who failed to receive some token
of the bridegroom's largess.
Lit-lit, tearfully shy and
frightened, was bedecked by her
bearded husband with a new calico
dress, splendidly beaded moccasins,
a gorgeous silk handkerchief
over her raven hair, a purple
scarf about her throat, brass
ear-rings and finger-rings, and
a whole pint of pinchbeck jewellery,
including a Waterbury watch.
Snettishane could scarce contain
himself at the spectacle, but
watching his chance drew her
aside from the feast.
"Not this night, nor the next
night," he began ponderously, "but
in the nights to come, when I
shall call like a raven by the
river bank, it is for thee to
rise up from thy big husband,
who is a fool, and come to me.
"Nay, nay," he went on hastily,
at sight of the dismay in her
face at turning her back upon
her wonderful new life. "For
no sooner shall this happen than
thy big husband, who is a fool,
will come wailing to my lodge.
Then it is for thee to wail likewise,
claiming that this thing is not
well, and that the other thing
thou dost not like, and that
to be the wife of the Factor
is more than thou didst bargain
for, only wilt thou be content
with more blankets, and more
tobacco, and more wealth of various
sorts for thy poor old father,
Snettishane. Remember well, when
I call in the night, like a raven,
from the river bank."
Lit-lit nodded; for to disobey
her father was a peril she knew
well; and, furthermore, it was
a little thing he asked, a short
separation from the Factor, who
would know only greater gladness
at having her back. She returned
to the feast, and, midnight being
well at hand, the Factor sought
her out and led her away to the
Fort amid joking and outcry,
in which the squaws were especially
conspicuous.
Lit-lit quickly found that
married life with the head-man
of a fort was even better than
she had dreamed. No longer did
she have to fetch wood and water
and wait hand and foot upon cantankerous
menfolk. For the first time in
her life she could lie abed till
breakfast was on the table. And
what a bed!--clean and soft,
and comfortable as no bed she
had ever known. And such food!
Flour, cooked into biscuits,
hot-cakes and bread, three times
a day and every day, and all
one wanted! Such prodigality
was hardly believable.
To add to her
contentment, the Factor was
cunningly kind.
He had buried one wife, and he
knew how to drive with a slack
rein that went firm only on occasion,
and then went very firm. "Lit-lit
is boss of this place," he announced
significantly at the table the
morning after the wedding. "What
she says goes. Understand?" And
McLean and McTavish understood.
Also, they knew that the Factor
had a heavy hand.
But Lit-lit did not take advantage.
Taking a leaf from the book of
her husband, she at once assumed
charge of his own growing sons,
giving them added comforts and
a measure of freedom like to
that which he gave her. The two
sons were loud in the praise
of their new mother; McLean and
McTavish lifted their voices;
and the Factor bragged of the
joys of matrimony till the story
of her good behaviour and her
husband's satisfaction became
the property of all the dwellers
in the Sin Rock district.
Whereupon Snettishane, with
visions of his incalculable interest
keeping him awake of nights,
thought it time to bestir himself.
On the tenth night of her wedded
life Lit-lit was awakened by
the croaking of a raven, and
she knew that Snettishane was
waiting for her by the river
bank. In her great happiness
she had forgotten her pact, and
now it came back to her with
behind it all the childish terror
of her father. For a time she
lay in fear and trembling, loath
to go, afraid to stay. But in
the end the Factor won the silent
victory, and his kindness plus
his great muscles and square
jaw, nerved her to disregard
Snettishane's call.
But in the morning she arose
very much afraid, and went about
her duties in momentary fear
of her father's coming. As the
day wore along, however, she
began to recover her spirits.
John Fox, soundly berating McLean
and McTavish for some petty dereliction
of duty, helped her to pluck
up courage. She tried not to
let him go out of her sight,
and when she followed him into
the huge cache and saw him twirling
and tossing great bales around
as though they were feather pillows,
she felt strengthened in her
disobedience to her father. Also
(it was her first visit to the
warehouse, and Sin Rock was the
chief distributing point to several
chains of lesser posts), she
was astounded at the endlessness
of the wealth there stored away.
This sight
and the picture in her mind's
eye of the bare
lodge of Snettishane, put all
doubts at rest. Yet she capped
her conviction by a brief word
with one of her step-sons. "White
daddy good?" was what she asked,
and the boy answered that his
father was the best man he had
ever known. That night the raven
croaked again. On the night following
the croaking was more persistent.
It awoke the Factor, who tossed
restlessly for a while. Then
he said aloud, "Damn that raven," and
Lit-lit laughed quietly under
the blankets.
In the morning,
bright and early, Snettishane
put in an
ominous appearance and was set
to breakfast in the kitchen with
Wanidani. He refused "squaw food," and
a little later bearded his son-in-law
in the store where the trading
was done. Having learned, he
said, that his daughter was such
a jewel, he had come for more
blankets, more tobacco, and more
guns--especially more guns. He
had certainly been cheated in
her price, he held, and he had
come for justice. But the Factor
had neither blankets nor justice
to spare. Whereupon he was informed
that Snettishane had seen the
missionary at Three Forks, who
had notified him that such marriages
were not made in heaven, and
that it was his father's duty
to demand his daughter back.
"I am good Christian man now," Snettishane
concluded. "I want my Lit-lit
to go to heaven."
The Factor's reply was short
and to the point; for he directed
his father-in-law to go to the
heavenly antipodes, and by the
scruff of the neck and the slack
of the blanket propelled him
on that trail as far as the door.
But Snettishane sneaked around
and in by the kitchen, cornering
Lit-lit in the great living-room
of the Fort.
"Mayhap thou didst sleep over-sound
last night when I called by the
river bank," he began, glowering
darkly.
"Nay, I was awake and heard." Her
heart was beating as though it
would choke her, but she went
on steadily, "And the night before
I was awake and heard, and yet
again the night before."
And thereat, out of her great
happiness and out of the fear
that it might be taken from her,
she launched into an original
and glowing address upon the
status and rights of woman--the
first new-woman lecture delivered
north of Fifty-three.
But it fell
on unheeding ears. Snettishane
was still in the
dark ages. As she paused for
breath, he said threateningly, "To-night
I shall call again like the raven."
At this moment the Factor entered
the room and again helped Snettishane
on his way to the heavenly antipodes.
That night the raven croaked
more persistently than ever.
Lit-lit, who was a light sleeper,
heard and smiled. John Fox tossed
restlessly. Then he awoke and
tossed about with greater restlessness.
He grumbled and snorted, swore
under his breath and over his
breath, and finally flung out
of bed. He groped his way to
the great living-room, and from
the rack took down a loaded shot-gun--loaded
with bird-shot, left therein
by the careless McTavish.
The Factor crept carefully
out of the Fort and down to the
river. The croaking had ceased,
but he stretched out in the long
grass and waited. The air seemed
a chilly balm, and the earth,
after the heat of the day, now
and again breathed soothingly
against him. The Factor, gathered
into the rhythm of it all, dozed
off, with his head upon his arm,
and slept.
Fifty yards away, head resting
on knees, and with his back to
John Fox, Snettishane likewise
slept, gently conquered by the
quietude of the night. An hour
slipped by and then he awoke,
and, without lifting his head,
set the night vibrating with
the hoarse gutturals of the raven
call.
The Factor roused, not with
the abrupt start of civilized
man, but with the swift and comprehensive
glide from sleep to waking of
the savage. In the night-light
he made out a dark object in
the midst of the grass and brought
his gun to bear upon it. A second
croak began to rise, and he pulled
the trigger. The crickets ceased
from their sing-song chant, the
wildfowl from their squabbling,
and the raven croak broke midmost
and died away in gasping silence.
John Fox ran to the spot and
reached for the thing he had
killed, but his fingers closed
on a coarse mop of hair and he
turned Snettishane's face upward
to the starlight. He knew how
a shotgun scattered at fifty
yards, and he knew that he had
peppered Snettishane across the
shoulders and in the small of
the back. And Snettishane knew
that he knew, but neither referred
to it
"What dost thou here?" the
Factor demanded. "It were time
old bones should be in bed."
But Snettishane was stately
in spite of the bird-shot burning
under his skin.
"Old bones will not sleep," he
said solemnly. "I weep for my
daughter, for my daughter Lit-lit,
who liveth and who yet is dead,
and who goeth without doubt to
the white man's hell."
"Weep henceforth on the far
bank, beyond ear-shot of the
Fort," said John Fox, turning
on his heel, "for the noise of
thy weeping is exceeding great
and will not let one sleep of
nights."
"My heart is sore," Snettishane
answered, "and my days and nights
be black with sorrow."
"As the raven is black," said
John Fox.
"As the raven is black," Snettishane
said.
Never again was the voice of
the raven heard by the river
bank. Lit-lit grows matronly
day by day and is very happy.
Also, there are sisters to the
sons of John Fox's first wife
who lies buried in a tree. Old
Snettishane is no longer a visitor
at the Fort, and spends long
hours raising a thin, aged voice
against the filial ingratitude
of children in general and of
his daughter Lit-lit in particular.
His declining years are embittered
by the knowledge that he was
cheated, and even John Fox has
withdrawn the assertion that
the price for Lit-lit was too
much by ten blankets and a gun.
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