With stiffened index finger raised and held
Before the jester’s eyes, as though he spelled
The slow words out, he said: “We’ll have no jokes
In just that way about our women folks!”
And Fink guffawed.
They would have fought again,
Had not the Major stepped between the men
And talked the crisis by. And when ’twas past,
Talbeau, intent to end the strife at last,
Somehow persuaded Fink to make amends,
And, as a proof that henceforth they were friends,
Proposed the shooting of the whisky cup.
“Shure, b’y,” said Mike, “we’ll toss a copper up
And if ’tis heads I’ll thry me cunning first.
As fer me joke, the tongue of me is cursed
Wid double j’ints—so let it be forgot!”
And so it was agreed.
They cleared a spot
And flipped a coin that tinkled as it fell.
A tiny sound—yet, like a midnight bell
That sets wild faces pressing at the pane,
Talbeau would often hear that coin again,
In vivid dreams, to waken terrified.
’Twas heads.
And now the tall man stepped aside
And, beckoning Talbeau, he whispered: “Son,
If anything should happen, keep my gun
For old time’s sake. And when the Major pays
In old St. Louis, drink to better days
When friends were friends, with what he’s owing me.”
Whereat the little man laughed merrily
And said: “Old Horse, you’re off your feed today;
But if you’ve sworn an oath to blow your pay,
I guess the three of us can make it good!
Mike couldn’t miss a target if he would.”
“Well, maybe so,” said Carpenter, and smiled.
A windless noon was brooding on the wild
And in the clearing, eager for the show,
The waiting trappers chatted. Now Talbeau
Stepped off the range. The tall man took his place,
The grin of some droll humor on his face;
And when his friend was reaching for his head
To set the brimming cup thereon, he said:
“You won’t forget I gave my gun to you
And all my blankets and my fixin’s too?”
The small man laughed and, turning round, he cried:
“We’re ready, Mike!”
A murmur ran and died
Along the double line of eager men.
Fink raised his gun, but set it down again
And blew a breath and said: “I’m gittin’ dhry!
So howld yer noddle shtiddy, Bill, me b’y,
And don’t ye shpill me whisky!” Cedar-straight
The tall man stood, the calm of brooding Fate
About him. Aye, and often to the end
Talbeau would see that vision of his friend—
A man-flower springing from the fresh green sod,
While, round about, the bushes burned with God
And mating peewees fluted in the brush.
They heard a gun lock clicking in the hush.
They saw Fink sighting—heard the rifle crack,
And saw beneath the spreading powder rack
The tall man pitching forward.
Echoes fled
Like voices in a panic. Then Mike said:
“Bejasus, and yeVe shpilled me whisky, Bill!”
A catbird screamed. The crowd stood very still
As though bewitched.
“And can’t ye hear?” bawled Fink;
“I say, I’m dhry—and now ye’ve shpilled me drink!”
He stooped to blow the gasses from his gun.
And now men saw Talbeau. They saw him run
And stoop to peer upon the prostrate man
Where now the mingling blood and whisky ran
From oozing forehead and the tilted cup.
And in the hush a sobbing cry grew up:
“My God! You’ve killed him, Mike!”
Then growing loud,
A wind of horror blew among the crowd
And set it swirling round about the dead.
And over all there roared a voice that said:
“I niver mint to do it, b’ys, I swear!
The divil’s in me gun!” Men turned to stare
Wild-eyed upon the center of that sound,
And saw Fink dash his rifle to the ground,
As ’twere the hated body of his wrong.
Once more arose that wailing, like a song,
Of one who called and called upon his friend.
VII
The Third Rider
It seemed the end, and yet ’twas not the end.
A day that wind of horror and surprise
Blew high; and then, as when the tempest dies
And only aspens prattle, as they will,
Though pines win silence and the oaks are still,
By furtive twos and threes the talk survived.
To some it seemed that men were longer lived
Who quarreled not over women. Others guessed
That love was bad for marksmanship at best—
The nerves, you know! Still others pointed out
Why Mike should have the benefit of doubt;
For every man, who knew a rifle, knew
That there were days you’d split a reed in two,
Off-hand at fifty paces; then, one day,
Why, somehow, damn your eyes, you’d blaze away
And miss a bull! No doubt regarding that!
“But,” one replied, “ ’tis what you’re aiming at,
Not what you hit, determines skill, you know!”—
An abstract observation, apropos
Of nothing in particular, but made
As just a contribution to the trade
Of gunnery! And others would recall
The center of that silence in the hall
The night one lay there waiting, splendid, still,
And nothing left to wait for. Poor old Bill!
There went a man, by God! Who knew his like—
So meek in might? And some remembered Mike—
The hearth-lit room—the way he came to look
Upon that face—and how his shoulders shook
With sobbing as he moaned: “My friend! My friend!”
It seemed the end, and yet ’twas not the end,
Though men cared less to know what cunning gnome
Or eyeless thing of doom had ridden home
The deadly slug. And then there came a day
When Major Henry had a word to say
That seemed, at last, to lay the ghost to rest.
He meant to seek the River of the West
Beyond the range, immensely rich in furs,
And for the wiving prows of voyageurs
A virgin yearning. Yonder one might glide
A thousand miles to sunset, where the tide
Is tempered with an endless dream of May!
So much and more the Major had to say—
Words big with magic for the young men’s ears.
And finally he called for volunteers—
Two men to hasten to the Moreau’s mouth,
Meet Ashley’s party coming from the south
And bid them buy more horses at the Grand
Among the Rees. Then, pushing through the band,
Mike Fink stood forth, and after him, Talbeau.
Now Henry thought ’twere wiser they should go
By land, although the river trail, he knew,
Were better. But a wind of rumor blew
Up stream. About the region of the Knife,
It seemed, the Grovans tarried, nursing strife
Because the Whites were favoring their foes
With trade for guns; and, looking on their bows,
The Grovans hated. So the rumor said.
And thus it came to pass the
