Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion. Trevena John

I show him up. This spot of dirt turned up one Sunday evening at his church, so full he couldn't see straight. He started in to work by cursing all the black sheep that had come to hear him. Of course they couldn't take that. They'd got to obey their natural instinct of hyprocrisy, though they might envy their minister's power of language. So they took Mister Man, and fired him out of the place, which is the only good deed they're ever likely to have to look back upon. Then he makes off with another deadbeat, and starts a kind of show outside the town—this was in Port Arthur, mind. He used to stand on a chair by the door of the tent, with dollar bills stuck in his hat brim, trying to catch the people's money. I tell you, what with the menagerie by day, and with shooting loaded craps by night, these two blacklegs looted a pile of dollars out of the pockets of decent citizens.'

      Denton raised his head from the half-mended coat, and said sulkily, 'You're a shameless liar, Alfred! It stamps a man for life to be seen in your company.'

      'So it does, Peter,' said the Factor, heartily; 'let's shake on that. If you're seen along with me a few more months, some folks may begin to think of trusting you. Don't lose heart, lad. There's hope even for the worst.'

      'Not when a man gets to your state,' retorted Denton.

      The Factor laughed. 'That's a sharp answer for you, Peter. You're learning fast under me. If you keep that pace—steer clear of brain fever and such diseases—you'll perhaps be able to give an answer to a ten-year-old child in another five years. Can't promise all that, Peter; but it's wonderful what perseverance will do.'

      Denton extended a denouncing and dirty forefinger at the Factor's broad chest. 'Stop your wicked judgment of fellow creatures!—you, who walk through life with the mark of Satan on your knee!'

      McAuliffe's nether garments were fashioned out of sacking originally used for packing liquor cases. Consequently, on that portion of the garment indicated, a lurid red star was visible above the stencilled letters—'Old Rye Whisky.'

      'We differ again, Peter. It's better having it on the knee than the forehead. You're wonderful jealous to-night. It's the minister talking, instead of the bar-tender.'

      'I never was a bar-tender,' said the other sullenly.

      The Factor glanced at the heavens. 'It's going to be a fine night, with full moon. Don't get spoiling it by bringing up a thunderstorm. Were you ever a minister? Let's have a bit of truth. You're getting monotonous, Peter.'

      Denton was about to return an angry reply, when the half-breed again appeared and pointed significantly to the waiting supper.

      McAuliffe paced to the door with the exclamation, 'Say, Justin, I wish those fellows were back.'

      'It's near quarter to nine,' muttered Denton.

      'And your insides are aching for grub—might as well say so right out.' The Factor turned back into the room. 'Well, if they must stay away half the night, they can't expect us to keep a look-out. Come on, Justin. Pass me over that sturgeon steak before Peter gets his teeth against it.'

      The three gathered round the crazy table, and for a few minutes there was silence of tongues.

      Thus quarter of an hour passed. Then the Factor cleaned a greasy hand upon his beard, and stretched himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He drew out his pipe, and had just commenced to shave a plug of T.&B., when Justin raised his hand and whistled in a manner peculiar. McAuliffe understood the signal. He listened, and presently there came dull, distant sounds from without.

      His face grew very grave, while the knife in his hand tapped gently upon the table. An ashen hue crept over Denton's sallow features. Nearer came the sounds and louder, as they spread towards the fort through thickening shadows and the white dews of night.

      Then McAuliffe spoke. 'That's Kitty. I know that gallop of hers. Goldam! how she's tumbling through the bush!'

      The night was fearfully still—not a breath stirring the tree tops. Above, the stars were lit one by one.

      Justin pushed back the door, and listened stolidly to the crashing of green boughs, the snapping of dead branches, the sharp click of hoofs against rock splinters. Inside—no sound, except the Factor's deep breathing, and an irregular tattoo, produced by Denton's heels tapping upon the floor. Then he turned, and, without altering a muscle in his heavy face, began to load the rifles and lay them out upon the table.

      The Factor peered into the darkness, for the moon had not yet risen. 'She'll be clear presently,' he said carelessly. 'Reckon young Winton got switched off from Billy. Then he got bothered by a touch of forest fright and lost his herd. What the devil you doing, Justin?'

      The half-breed was methodically counting out shells. He glanced up and said laconically, 'Nitchies!'

      'Pshaw! you're crazy, boy. There's no rebellion up here.'

      Justin grunted. 'You wrong. Riel send message. They paint and fight. You see.' Then he coolly fell to oiling his rifle, while a fresh wave of fear passed over the shivering Denton.

      The Factor swore quietly. The next moment a grey mare dashed furiously from the darkness. At the door she pulled up panting, with blood-red nostrils, her sides covered with foam-sweat, while a figure tumbled helplessly from the improvised saddle.

      McAuliffe caught him as he staggered forward, and half carried him inside.

      Justin stood by the mare, with his rifle at the ready, and his bead-like eyes staring into the gloom, but there was no sign of pursuer. The black trees whispered solemnly in a light breeze.

      'Fetch my whisky keg along!' bellowed McAuliffe. 'Give the boy a good dram, and damn the water.'

      Denton shuffled off to obey, while Justin's voice came rolling inside with weird effect. 'Billy!—be gone!'

      The Factor's great hands shook as he administered the liquor. Winton gasped and clutched at him.

      'Don't claw me; I'm not a nitchi. Now, then, you're right again, eh?'

      The young fellow struggled up and glared round wildly. 'So it's you, Alf?'

      'That's what. Old Billy's coming on behind?'

      Winton shuddered. The words rattled forth like shot upon a hollow wall. 'They've fixed him.'

      Justin entered in time to catch this. The long hair at the sides of his face shook solemnly. 'I tell you; nitchies fight. See, boy?'

      McAuliffe was wiping his massive forehead with an oily rag the half-breed had recently employed for gun-cleaning purposes. 'Mix me a glass, Justin—a stiff one to straighten my nerves out. Goldam! this corks me.'

      Winton blinked his eyes like an owl in the sunlight. 'He's dead. Plugged by those devilish nitchies! Then he briefly told his tale.

      'You didn't see him corpsed?' cried the Factor, eagerly.

      'Next thing. The shot, groan, the fall—all the rest.'

      'This fairly sets me on the itch,' said the Factor, pacing up and down. 'Poor old Billy. Goldam! I'd like to get my axe alongside the skull of the skunk who did the lead-pumping business. I'd set his body to pickle, I tell you.'

      'Vengeance will fall upon the wicked man who striketh his neighbour secretly,' came in a weak voice from the corner. 'Let us watch and pray.' Denton became himself again when he understood that Winton was unpursued.

      'Never mind him,' said McAuliffe, generally. 'He's only a crazy kind of fool, anyhow. He don't know what he's talking about.'

      Again Justin's dark hand shot upward, and the warning whistle sounded. He set his head forward, then remarked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, 'Boy coming.'

      Denton's heels recommenced their tattoo, while the others caught up their guns. The moon was rising now, and some silvery rays slanted through the window. Suddenly a heavy knock fell upon the door.

      'Ho!' cried the half-breed through a crack.

      'Open