The Huntress Part 46

Dominion Surveyor.

Mahooley whistled. This was no longer a joke. He looked at the old man with new respect.

"Well, that's a sharp trick," he said. "How did you get it?"

"Graves my friend," replied Musq'oosis with dignity. "We talk moch comin' up. He say I got good sense." The old man got up.

"Sit down!" cried Mahooley. "I got as good horses as the company."

"Want too much price, I t'ink," said Musq'oosis.

"Let's talk it over. There's my black team, Sambo and Dinah."

This was what Musq'oosis wanted, but nothing of his desire showed in his face. "Too small," he said.

"Small nothing!" cried Mahooley. "Those horses are bred in the country. They will thrive on shavings. They run out all winter."

"How moch wit' wagon and harness?" asked Musq'oosis indifferently.

"Six hundred and fifty."

"Wa!" said Musq'oosis. "You t'ink you got race-horses. I give five-fifty."

"Nothing doing!"

"All right, I go see Beattie."

"Hold on."

Thus it raged back and forth all afternoon. Half a dozen times they went out to look at the horses. Musq'oosis had to admit they were a nervy pair, though small. A dozen times the negotiations were called off, only to be renewed again.

"Be reasonable," said Mahooley plaintively. "I suppose you want a year's credit. I've got to count that."

"I pay cash," said Musq'oosis calmly.

Mahooley stared. "Where the h.e.l.l will you get it?"

"I got it now."

"Let me see it."

Musq'oosis declined.

Mahooley finally came down to six hundred, and Musq'oosis went up to five-seventy-eight. There they stuck for an hour.

"Five-seventy-eight!" said Mahooley sarcastically. "Why don't you add nineteen cents or so?"

"Tak' it or leave it," said Musq'oosis calmly.

Mahooley finally took it. "Now, let me see the colour of your money,"

he said.

Musq'oosis produced another little paper. This one read:

I promise to pay the Indian, Musq'oosis, five hundred and seventy-eight dollars ($578.00) on demand.

GILBERT BEATTIE.

Mahooley looked discomfited. He whistled.

"That's good money, ain't it?" asked Musq'oosis.

"Sure! Where did you get it?" demanded the trader. "I never heard of this."

"Beattie and me got business," replied Musq'oosis with dignity.

Mahooley was obliged to swallow his curiosity.

"Well, who are you going to get to drive?" he asked.

Musq'oosis's air for the first time became ingratiating. "I tell you," he returned. "Let you and I mak' a deal. You want me do somesing. I want you do somesing."

"What is it?" demanded Mahooley suspiciously.

"You do w'at I want, I promise I tell the Fish-Eaters come to your store."

Mahooley's eyes gleamed. "Well, out with it!"

"I want you not tell n.o.body I buy your team. n.o.body but Stiffy. I want hire white man to drive, see? Maybe he not lak work for red man. So you mak' out he workin' for you, see?"

"All right," agreed Mahooley. "That's easy. But who can you get?"

"Sam."

Mahooley indignantly exploded. Sam, the white slave, the b.u.t.t of the whole camp, the tramp without a coat to his back or a hat to cover his head. He a.s.sured Musq'oosis more than once that he was crazy.

It may be that with his scorn was mixed a natural anxiety not to lose a cheap cook. Anyhow, Musq'oosis, calm and smiling, stuck to the point, and, of course, when it came to it the chance of getting the Fish-Eater's trade was too good to be missed. They finally shook hands on the deal.

Of the night that followed little need be said. As a result of the day's excitement the crowd stopping at the kitchen was in an uplifted state, anyway, and from some mysterious source a jug of illicit spirits was produced. It circulated in the bunk-room until far into the night.

They were not a hopelessly bad lot as men go, only uproarious. There was not one among them inhuman enough of himself to have tortured a fellow-creature, but in a crowd each dreaded to appear better than his fellows, and it was a case of egging each other on. Sam, who had thought he had already drained his cup of bitterness, found that it could be filled afresh.

If he had been a tame spirit it would not have hurt him, and before this the game would have lost its zest for them. It was his helpless rage which nearly killed him, and which provided their fun. Mahooley, keeping what had happened to himself, led his tormentors. Sam was prevented from escaping the place.

Next morning, after he had fed them and they had gone out, he sat down in his kitchen, worn out and sick with discouragement, trying to think what to do.

This was his darkest hour. His brain was almost past clear thinking.