THE SCARS

MY friend, the old frontiersman, poked an extra supply of cobs into the stove, meditatively watched the sudden flame lick about the husks, then began this monologue after his usual manner:

Yes, I’ve got a nice place here—nice ranch. Didn’t work for it either—lied for it!

Now, I’m not given much to that sort of thing, as you will grant; but when I see a place where a good manly twisting of the truth can sweeten matters up a bit, I’m not so scrupulous.

Back in the late fifties I was living in St. Louis, pretty nigh broke, for all I’d lived a hard, industrious life up and down the river. One day I got a note bearing the postmark of some California mining town, and it informed me that I had a considerable credit with a certain St. Louis bank. I never heard directly where the money came from, but I thought I knew. I bought this place with some of that money, you see. And there’s a little story attached to this.

For a number of years I was employed by the American Fur Company as expressman. Every winter I made the trip from St. Louis to Fort Pierre, a distance of about a thousand miles. Carried messages from headquarters to the posts and from the posts back to headquarters. From St. Louis to Pierre the trip was made on horseback, and from there up, other expressmen carried the mail on dog sleds.

Great days, those! Sometimes when I get to thinking over old times, I wonder if the railroads haven’t taken some of the iron out of the blood of men.

In the winter of ’50—that was the year the gold fever was raging, you know—I got to Pierre about the middle of February. When I had delivered the mail and was making ready to start south again with the returns, old Choteau, the factor of the post, called me into the hut he called his office, and made an unusual request of me. “We’ve got a half-breed here,” said he, “who’s got to be elevated. Understand? Killed a man in the most atrocious manner. He’s due at a necktie party down at St. Louis about next spring, and I’d rather not keep him at the post; can you take him down?”

I was somewhat younger in those days, and ready for most anything new. Also, I had found the trail a little lonesome at times. Riding a preoccupied broncho through hundreds of miles of white silence, hearing the coyotes yelp, dodging Indians, and bucking blizzards weren’t ever calculated to be social functions, you know. So I was glad to have company on the trail, even if it had to be the company of a criminal. Anyway, I had been so taught in the great rough school of primitive men, that I had not that loathing for a killer of his kind that is felt by this generation.

“Certainly,” said I to the factor. “Put him on a mule, and I’ll see him into the government corral at St. Louis.” So it was arranged that I should take the man to the authorities.

I did not hear his name spoken and I didn’t take the trouble to ask. It seemed to me that a man who was being shipped out with a tag on him reading “Nowhere,” had little use for a name. No one was apt to dispute his identity.

Well, they put him on a mule, handcuffed, with a chain to his ankles passed around the belly of the mule. He was, of course, unarmed, and I drove him on ahead of me to break trail. He was a powerfully built fellow, neither tall nor short, and close-knit. He had a face that was not so bad, showing the French and Indian strains in him plainly. When we had been riding along silently for several hours, I called to him to stop and rode up beside him.

I looked into his eyes, and that look satisfied me that I was safe in doing what I had thought of. His eyes were large and black and quiet.

“I am going to take the cussed irons off your legs and arms,” I said; “you can’t keep warm this way.” He watched me taking them off and said nothing. I threw the irons away. “Go on,” I said. And he went, giving me a look that thanked me more than words could have done.

He had the eyes of a brave man. I was never much afraid of a brave man; it’s the cowards you have to watch, you know.

All day we rode, saying nothing. In the evening we made a shelter with our blankets in the bend of a creek where the plum bushes were thick. The man was a good hand at the business, and seemed anxious to please me.

We cooked and ate supper, then rolled up in our blankets. I put my two six-shooters under my head for fear that I might have somehow misread the man’s eyes.

When I awoke in the morning, he had breakfast cooked and the nags saddled. When we were eating I said: “Why didn’t you take my horse and run away? I could never have caught you with the mule.”

He searched me for a moment with his eyes.

“Because I’m not a coward,” he said.

And all day we rode again in silence, until, toward evening, he set up a wild sort of a song—a chanson of his fathers, I suppose—in a voice that was strong but sweet.

“You sing!” said I.

Breaking off his song and turning about on his mule, he said quietly, as though he were discussing the best way to make biscuits when you haven’t any soda: “Did you ever see a dead liar?”

“Perhaps,” said I; “but none in particular.”

“And that is why you never sing.”

That was the last word that day. Up to this time the weather had been rather too warm for winter—an ominous sort of a warm, you know. A mist hung over the country, drifting with a light wind from the southeast. During the night the wind whipped into the northwest, and in the morning we had a genuine frank old blizzard howling around us; one of those fierce old boys that nobody cares to face. We had camped in a wooded nook on the south side of the river bluffs and were pretty well protected, so I decided to lay up there until things brightened up a bit.

The man, for I had not yet learned his name, which was not necessary, as the mail I carried attended to that, volunteered to gather wood; and so I lay in the tent near the fire that roared in front, smoking my pipe and swapping cusses with myself on account of the delay.

After a while the man came in with a big arm load of wood, whistling merrily. “Well, you beat ’em all,” I said. “I say a man who can whistle like that on his last trip is a game one. What’s your name and who are you? Here, want to smoke?”

I gave him my pipe. He took it and blew rings meditatively for a while. “Well,” said he, “the name doesn’t matter much, and I’m the fellow who’s elected to be elevated!”

We both laughed strangely, and I began to open my stock of yarns, truthful and otherwise, to relieve the tedium of the day. I had told a number of stories when the man seemed to brighten up all at once. His eyes became on a sudden unusually brilliant.

“I know a story that’s a fact,” said he. “It’s about a friend of mine—one of the best friends I ever had, I reckon. At least he never went back on me. Shall I tell it?”

“Go ahead,” said I.

And this is the story he told me:

“My friend’s name is Narcisse. I knew him when he was just a little shaver. I knew his mother and his father. In fact I was, at one time, just like one of the family.

“Narcisse was a wild sort of a boy always, though I do think his heart was in the right place, as they say. Never betrayed a friend, never stole, and never knuckled to an enemy. But he was a wild boy and didn’t stay at home much after he was in his first ’teens. Knocked about the world considerable, Narcisse did, and wound up out here in this God-forsaken end of creation. Worked on a cordelle gang, handled mackinaws, hammered pack mules, fought Indians, starved and feasted, froze and toasted, like all the others who come out here. Entered the fur trade as engagÉ of the Company, and was sent to a post up river.

“Now if there was a weak spot in Narcisse, it was his leaning toward womenfolks. None of your fooling, though! Narcisse loved just like he’d fight—pretty serious, you know. When he said a thing, Narcisse he meant that; and when he wanted to do something real bad, he did that—O, spite of hell he did that! You know the breed? Well, that was Narcisse.

“There was an old French trader living at a post further up—old man Desjardins. He had a daughter—Paulette—by an Indian woman who died when the girl was just a baby, and the old man raised her somehow—God knows how—till she grew to be about the prettiest girl you’d see anywhere in a year’s tramp, being a good walker. Old man doted on the girl, and until she was full-grown there wasn’t anybody could come nigh enough to her to make a sweet grin effective. But once Narcisse and his friend, Jacques Baptiste, got snowed in there on one of their trips.

“Now them two, Jacques and Narcisse, was about the best friends you ever saw, I reckon. They never had any secrets from one another; and many’s the time they had split the last bit of grub on long winter trails, and made a feast of that little; because there isn’t any feast better than a little grub split between friends, is there?

“Now Paulette was a slender little creature with black eyes and lots of black hair. Lots of hair! That makes a woman fetching, don’t you think so? Well, Narcisse and Jacques sang old French songs during the blizzard, and kind of got into the old man’s heart like. Nothing like old-time songs to fetch a man when he’s got to that place where there isn’t any way to look but back. So the old man made ’em welcome and said for ’em to come back when they could.

“On the trip from old man Desjardins’ place to Pierre, them two friends talked pretty frank, like they always did. Both of ’em was in love, and neither of ’em was ashamed of it. Told each other so.

“When they camped the first night they talked it all over and Narcisse said: ‘Jacques, we’ve always split even, but here’s where we can’t. It’s for one of us all right, but one of us has to go without. How about this?’

“And Jacques puffed at his pipe a long time, and after a while he said: ‘Let’s agree that we’ll always go up there together, and let her take her pick.’ And Narcisse agreed; so that’s the way they fixed it.

“Managed to drop in pretty often after that. But there wasn’t any way of telling which was it. One visit she’d smile more at Jacques than at Narcisse, and they’d think it was settled; and then next time it was t’other way.

“It was a game, and both of ’em played it like a game. They were too good friends to slip a bower or ace up their sleeves. They let Paulette deal the hands and they played ’em the best they could, same as honest poker, you know. And all the time old man Desjardins looked on like the man that runs the game, a-raking in the ante, which was the singing and the laughing they did and the things they brought up with ’em, for they never came empty-handed.

“Well, the next fall came; the game was still on and neither of ’em had stole a hand nor a chip that wasn’t his. And along about the first of September the factor of Pierre sent the two friends on a trip to Benton. They went up on the last boat and were to drop down again in a maciknaw before the winter set in, after doing a little business for the Company.

“On the trip up Narcisse and Jacques had a quiet little game, which was poker. They didn’t play for money—played for Paulette. Sort of made a jackpot out of the girl, and it took Jacks or better to open. One deal and a draw and the high hand could go to see the old man by himself and close the game that had hung on so long.

“Narcisse insisted on having Jacques deal.

“‘Well,’ said Jacques, after the draw, ‘the jackpot’s mine!’

“Narcisse throws down three aces. Jacques gasps a little gasp and throws his cards face up on the table, turns white and walks away. He had two pairs—kings and queens!

“There wasn’t anything more said about it; but Jacques wasn’t the same man at all. Acted like he was thinking, thinking all the time. Face got that peaked look that comes of too much thinking; eyes always looking a long ways off.

“How do I know this? W’y, Narcisse told me.

“Hurt Narcisse like everything to see this; but hadn’t he won fair? Friends can split even on grub and follow the same trail for years, but there comes a time when they must smoke their last pipe together at the forks. But it’s all part of the game and a man oughtn’t to grumble if he don’t get a pat hand, as long as the deal’s fair.

“Narcisse and Jacques got to Benton, and when they got ready to start back, the river had frozen up, because the winter came down early that year. So they had another winter trail to follow together before they reached the forks. The factor at Benton gave ’em a couple of good dogs to carry their bedding and they started out afoot.

“Jacques didn’t have much to say. With that peaked, set look on his face he went a-trudging on in the snow from sunup to sundown. Narcisse couldn’t help feeling a little happy, because Paulette was the prettiest girl that ever haunted these parts since the river was dug. It wasn’t any more than human, and he’d won fair.

“Well, they passed Union and they passed Les Mandanes and they passed Roubideaux’, and then there was a long stretch of lonesome country ahead of ’em till they got to Brown’s Landing, about two hundred miles above Pierre.

“One day it came on to blow and snow, and they made a camp in the bluff just like we did here. That’s what reminded me of the story. Jacques made camp while Narcisse was chopping wood. He cut down a dead cottonwood and when it came down, he tripped up in the deep snow and the tree fell on him. Broke his leg above the ankle. Well, there he was a couple hundred miles toward Nowhere in November with one leg.

“Pretty hard on Narcisse, wasn’t it? But Jacques all at once began to be his old self again. Set the leg as good as he could and tied it up so it would stay in place, and joked and was kind to Narcisse.

“‘Seems like old times, pard,’ said Narcisse to Jacques. ‘Danged if I wouldn’t be glad it happened if we wasn’t so far from somewheres; because we mustn’t let the trail fork, old pard. I knew you’d be the same again when I was hard run.’

“And Jacques smiled and said there never was any hard feeling, he guessed. But the peaked look didn’t go away, nor the far-away look in the eyes.

“When the weather cleared up, Jacques said he’d leave a plenty of wood and grub for Narcisse and he’d make a run for Brown’s Landing and come back with dogs and a sled. And that made Narcisse’s heart warm toward Jacques, because it was just like he was before the girl came between ’em.

“And Jacques left before sunup one morning, and when it came day Narcisse went to fix him some breakfast, and there was only enough grub left for five or six days. That scared him, because it was a long trip to Brown’s and back, and he couldn’t walk.

“But he didn’t cuss Jacques. He just said to himself: ‘He didn’t go to take so much, and it was dark when he left.’ And then he just took the hand that was dealt him and began playing against a run of hard luck. The grub lasted only about a week, and close picking at that. Jacques had plenty of wood chopped up, and Narcisse sat all day by the fire with his leg aching and his stomach a-gnawing, a-looking down the white waste towards Brown’s. And night ’d come and no dog sled. Then day ’d come and he’d begin looking, looking. And when the grub was all gone, he soaked up all the leather there was about him and sucked that. And then he’d begin looking, looking, looking into the white waste, till he got so’s he could see dozens of dog sleds coming and vanishing, coming and vanishing.

“But he didn’t cuss Jacques. He said: ‘The poor devil’s been killed like as not; he wouldn’t go back on his pard.’ And one day he felt he was getting too weak to watch much more, and so he set a pole in the snow with a strip of blanket tied to it; and that tuckered him out so’s he couldn’t hardly crawl back to shelter. And with the last strength he had, he dragged the wood that was left up close to him where he could reach it, because he knew that in another day he couldn’t get up.

“And then he began forgetting everything ’most, and having bad dreams that scared him, all the time a-worrying about the fire like as if he was half asleep, and hearing dogs barking, and trying to get up.

“And then at last he didn’t know anything, till he was on a dog sled with the feel of hot soup in his belly. And when he came to, he said: ‘I knowed you’d come, Jacques; it was hard sledding without the grub, though.’

“And then he found out it wasn’t Jacques at all; only some Jesuit missionaries travelling from the North. They’d seen his signal of distress a-flying, and had come and got him.

“And still Narcisse didn’t cuss Jacques. He said: ‘Poor devil’s got killed or something.’

“And by and by the Jesuits got him to Brown’s Landing, and he laid up there till the last of December, getting so he could walk. There wasn’t anybody at Brown’s who had seen Jacques; and Narcisse’s heart ached; he thought sure Jacques was dead.

“And when Narcisse got well, he borrowed a horse from the factor at Brown’s and went south to Pierre. It was night when he got to the post. He rode up to the cabin where he and Jacques bached together, and tied his horse. There was a cheery light coming out of the windows, and that seemed odd, seeing that Jacques was likely dead somewheres up the trail. And what seemed stranger, there was someone singing inside, and every now and then a woman’d laugh. God! man, did you ever hear a woman laughing when your heart had been aching for weeks?

“‘Beats the devil!’ Narcisse thought, ‘how quick folks fill your place when you’re dead!’ Gave him a tight feeling in the throat to think how someone was laughing inside, and Jacques somewheres up trail with the coyotes sniffing at him and the snow blowing over him all day and all night!

“Then Narcisse slips up quiet as could be to the window and peeps in. He falls back like someone had hit him hard in the face. But nobody had. All he saw inside was Paulette and Jacques!

“Narcisse leans against the cabin, dazed like, for quite a spell. Seemed like he couldn’t get it all through his head at once. Then he saw it all—the cards had been stacked on him. He should’ve been dead and he wasn’t. That was the trouble.

“Didn’t cuss Jacques even then, Narcisse didn’t. Wasn’t mad—just ached in his chest like. And by and by he goes up to the window and taps on it with his fingers. And Jacques comes out into the starlight, whistling.

“When he runs into Narcisse a-tottering around the corner like a drunken man, he gasps and leans against the cabin, a-holding on to it and staring.

“‘Good God!!’ he wheezes. ‘Good God!’

“‘Old pard,’ says Narcisse; and his voice was like it had smoke in it, ‘you win; I pass; mine’s a bob-tail flush; but you stacked the deck!’

“‘For Christ’s sake, Narcisse,’ whispers Jacques, ‘don’t let her see you! Don’t let her hear you! Come on!’

“And he takes down toward the river, a-walking like the devil was after him; but it wasn’t anybody but Narcisse, limping a little with the bad leg.

“And when they came to the river Jacques didn’t seem to have anything to say but ‘O, it’s a devil of a mess! A hell of a mess!’ Said it over and over like he was half crazy. And Narcisse said: ‘Last fall I’d have killed the man who’d said this about you, Jacques. It isn’t the girl so much, Jacques; but you and I have starved and frozen together many’s the time, and we always split fair till now. It was hard sledding up there without the grub and with only one leg. You stole the cards on me this deal, Jacques; but I’m not going to call for a new deal. I’ll play the hand.’

“Just that way Narcisse said it. And with Jacques muttering, ‘O, it’s a devil of a mess,’ they came to an air hole where the black water was gurgling and chuckling.

“And all at once Jacques flared up and snarled: ‘Why in hell didn’t you die?’ And slashing out with a long knife, he made a long gash in Narcisse’s scalp, and gave him a shove toward the hole. But he didn’t go in, Narcisse didn’t. He’s got that scar yet, but he’s got a deeper one where nobody sees.

“And then Narcisse somehow forgot the long trails they’d tramped together and the starvings and the freezings together. Couldn’t think of anything but the sting of the knife and the trickle of the blood. And the white starlight swam round him like water in a suck hole, and got red like blood, and buzzed and hummed. And he was a better man than Jacques—better fighter. And when the light quit swimming around and got white again and the stillness of the frozen night came back, Narcisse found himself sobbing and turning his heel round and round in somebody’s mouth. And it was Jacques.

“And what does Narcisse get?”

The man, after finishing his tale, took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully placed it about his throat like a halter, threw his head to one side and simulated strangulation.

We didn’t tell any more stories after that. When night came we rolled up in our blankets, after having made a rousing fire. I did not sleep much that night. The man did, however. He was the coolest I ever saw. Went to sleep like a child, knowing full well that he too had a noose awaiting him.

When I was sure that he was sound asleep, I got up and carefully took off his bearskin cap, which he had not removed night or day since we had been together.

I saw by the blue glow of the falling embers that which I had expected to see—a long, ugly gash running across his scalp. It was not yet quite healed.

In the morning, as the storm had died in the night, we saddled up. “You take the mule and go on ahead,” I said; “I’ll probably catch up with you by noon.”

The man obeyed. I did not expect to catch up with him, but along about noon I overtook him.

“You seem determined to travel my way,” I said. He stared at me for some time, and then said quietly: “I’m not a coward just because I’m going to hang.”

And we rode on together.

The next morning when we had saddled up, I said: “Narcisse, here is one of my six-shooters and some ammunition. There is the grub. If you travel west far enough, you will come at last to the gold country. Ever think of going to the gold country?”

The man gasped and placed his hand to his head. “When did I have my cap off?” said he.

“You have a good mule there,” continued I, evading his question. “You have grub, a gun and ammunition. Why don’t you go west?”

“Why are you saying that?” he said.

“Because,” I answered, “because I have seen both scars!”

A light came into his eyes.

“And you?” he questioned.

“I?” said I; “well I, while conducting a prisoner southward, was attacked by Indians. The prisoner was killed while defending me with unusual bravery. I lost all my grub, one gun, some ammunition and a mule. I barely escaped with my life, and rode like the very devil to get to the next post. Go!”

I pointed west. The man slowly fastened the grub sack on his mule, mounted, gave me a look which I have never forgotten, and rode west.

I have never seen him since. As for me, I got into the next post that evening with a worn-out horse and a tale of calamity.