Mattie Mitchell Page 14

  There was one thing about the suspected thief that was in Mattie’s favour: the man was afraid of the dark. He would not be wandering in the night through a forest he knew little about. This was what Mattie was counting on. He stopped several times and studied the skyline. He knew the shapes of all the mountains and ridges that showed against the sky. It was a mental map to guide his way along. Twice he climbed to high vantage points to spend several minutes searching for a sign.

  On one high ridge he stepped up to a large she-spruce tree suitable for climbing. The lower branches hung down and some of them were even embedded in the earth around its huge trunk. Between the bole of the tree and the outer edges of its downward-growing limbs was a circular dry space. Mattie had spent many a comfortable night in such a place. The branches of the big old tree were sturdy and close together. They would make his climb hard, but he grasped a branch anyway and pulled his long body up. The tangly limbs scratched his face and hands as he went.

  It took him several minutes of hard climbing to reach more than half the height of the tree. Standing on a limb and clinging onto the tree trunk, he stared all around the country. His fingers were coated with the tree’s sticky, scented myrrh. He rubbed them together, trying to remove the gluey substance. For a long while he saw nothing, and for a minute he doubted his reasoning. Then he saw what he was looking for. A glimmer of firelight showed itself in the distance, and once he was sure he saw a few rising flankers!

  Mattie smiled in satisfaction. Now he knew he was right. The man he was following had stopped and, in typical white man fashion, had built a huge fire. There was a saying Mattie had for their kind: “Indian light fire for warm. White man light fire for fear.”

  The thief was one of them. Instead of building a small, low fire and burning dry, seasoned wood that would give off little smoke and no telling sparks, the man had built a bonfire. The Indian had little respect for such a man. In fact, he felt insulted. Did the man think he could just walk into his camp, steal from my “sport,” take his food, and expect him not to come after him? This man would regret the day he had stolen from Mattie Mitchell.

  Staring at the distant firelight, which flared and sometimes died away, Mattie knew exactly how to get to the man. A valley near him held a small, swiftly running stream that flowed toward a broad, deep river that lay in the thief’s path. He had probably left a canoe hidden close to the river for his hurried retreat back to the coast. Mattie had pulled many muskrat from that brook and had walked those riverbanks since he was a young man. He guessed the distance between him and the thief was no more than one easy mile.

  Down from the tree and with the direction he was to follow clear in his head, he pulled the pack over his shoulders and headed down over the rim without further thought. There was no need to hurry now. This man wasn’t going anywhere until the day came again.

  The anger that had possessed him when he left the camp and the preacher had subsided. It was a feeling he was not used to. He was seldom angry at anything. Still, he didn’t know how he would react when he confronted the man who had stolen what belonged to Preacher.

  HUNCHED DOWN A SAFE DISTANCE AWAY from his blazing fire, the man who had stolen from Mattie Mitchell’s camp was terrified. He wasn’t a brave man at the best of times and he regretted what he had done. More than that, he regretted where he was and hated and feared the night.

  When Mattie had left the hamlet with the rich American to go caribou hunting, he had listened to the talk around town. No one believed the stranger was of the clergy. This American man had money. No minister around here had wealth. Most of them barely got by with the scant donations from their parishioners and their own food gathered from the land and the sea.

  The thief had fought against his own inner judgment and his greed won out. The American would certainly take his money with him. He knew that when they reached the caribou barrens, Mattie and his “sport” would be away from their campsite for hours, maybe even days at a time. Looking back on what he had done, the thief smiled. He could hardly believe he had succeeded. He had followed Mattie for two days and as many nights— granted, two nights huddled in the bushes shaking in fear and without a campfire. Only his greed for the American money kept him going. He had run out of food. Luckily, Mattie Mitchell had left some caribou meat behind.

  He had hesitated before cutting the bulk of the meat from the hanging caribou quarter. The money—purse and all—belonged to the American, but the meat belonged to Mattie Mitchell. However, his hunger had defeated his caution and his greed directed his hand.

  The thief had not even stopped to count the money until just before dark came. He had put several miles behind him, he figured, though he knew he had deviated from his original course. Stumbling upon the bubbling brook more by accident than plan, he was relieved to discover that it was the way back to the river where his leaky canoe waited. He hated the dark. Behind every shadow lurked his fears. The night sounds always startled him.

  A roaring fire that demanded constant fuel allayed his fears some and he began to relax. He had pulled it off, done what no one else had ever done. He had stolen from the famed Mattie Mitchell and was beginning to feel proud of his feat. After all, Mattie was nothing more than a damn Indian. What gave him the right to take rich Americans into the hills anyway? Maybe Mattie would steal the money himself. Everyone knew the Indians were nothing more than lazy, good-for-nothing thieves.

  Well, by God, this white man wasn’t afraid of Mattie Mitchell. He would be the talk of his drinking buddies. The idea of drinking brought the money to mind. How much was in the fancy leather purse? How much rum would it buy? He wondered if it was American money. Spending foreign currency in the local community would arouse suspicion, for sure, but he knew where it could be done easily enough.

  Unable to wait any longer, he yanked the purse from his pocket, squirmed closer to the crackling fire, and pulled the wad of bills free in one excited motion. He gasped when he saw the money. He had not expected it to be so much. The talk around the village was right. The American was rich and clearly not a man of the cloth.

  There must be thousands of dollars here!

  He shuffled the bills back and forth between his hands, relishing the feel of so much wealth. How he had obtained the money, and the fear of the big Indian, passed. He was far away from the campsite and no one could follow him in the dark, not even Mattie Mitchell. Besides, he figured Mitchell would not be back to his camp that night anyway. The money was his alone. At first light he would be away and down the river to his canoe, and he wouldn’t stop until he had paddled along the coast to another community.

  The money that filled his hand was all in small denominations. The American had purposely selected low-value bills, rightly figuring that larger ones would be difficult to cash here in these isolated outports. The thief eagerly counted his wondrous booty. Pulling one bill at a time from his hand, he held it to the light, said its worth out loud—he wasn’t good at counting—placed it on the ground between his legs, and fetched another one.

  Once, he thought he heard a sound coming from the darkness outside the blazing firelight. He listened for only a second. It was only the echo of his crackling fire, he thought. For a moment his old dread of the night returned, but the lure of the money quickly calmed him and he again returned to his pilfered gains.

  By his excited count he had reached $400 and there were many bills left in his hand. He was rich! It had been easy. Why the hell was everyone so scared of Mattie Mitchell anyway? His recent feat against the famed Indian guide gave him a towering sense of bravado. He felt hungry and reached for a piece of the stolen meat warming by the edge of the fire.

  THE SOUND THAT HAD ALERTED THE THIEF came from a twig broken under the weight of Mattie’s foot. He would not allow it to happen again. He steeled himself when, from his position no more than a few steps away from the man’s back, he saw the thief straighten for a moment in alarm.

  Scarcely allowing breath, Mattie waited. It didn’t
take long. The man resumed whatever he was doing and Mattie angled closer. The fire was a big one. It was just as Mattie figured it would be. The thief hunched over as near to it as he dared, and the human form danced in the firelight before Mattie’s eyes.

  The man was counting money. Mattie could see the piece of meat he had stolen from his camp. The rogue stopped fondling the bills and reached for it. Mattie noticed the man had unusually big feet for his stature.

  Once again, Mattie Mitchell felt the terrible urge to kill the man who had stolen from him. He would get his revenge and he knew how. He would cut the man’s throat with his deadly knife. Pulling the long Bowie from its leather sheath, he stepped silently toward the man.

  The bearded thief reached from his crouched position for another piece of the stolen meat laying by the fire. It wasn’t yet hot enough for his liking, but his ravenous appetite would not wait any longer. He selected the biggest piece and leaned back, still in a squatting position, when he was savagely grabbed from behind.

  So sudden was the attack that he saw and heard nothing before his breathing was abruptly stopped by a tremendous pressure against his trachea. His head was yanked backwards by the hair so violently that his throat—above the pressure hold that threatened to strangle him—stretched as tightly as new leather on an old drum.

  His startled, gagging yell was reduced to a thin, frightened whine. He tried to swallow. His nostrils flared for oxygen. The piece of meat fell from his limp fingers. His knees collapsed underneath him and his lower body sank to the ground in a shocked, trembling bundle of fear. Only his stretched neck and tilted head stayed in place by the force of Mattie Mitchell’s powerful arms. The Indian’s ferocious grip on the tangled hair on the back of the man’s neck caused a burning, tearing pain that made his eyes water and forced an agonized gasp to escape from his clenched jaws.

  At first he thought he had been attacked by one of his feared night demons. Then the great crushing pressure was released from his gagging throat. His hair was wrenched more tightly, pulling his head back even farther. His hairy throat stretched farther still, and to Mattie his red, sweat-glazed Adam’s apple looked like the bulging breast of a drumming grouse in mating season.

  In that same terrible instant, a large brown hand wielding a huge knife appeared in front of his bulging eyes. The razor-sharp swedge of the weapon glinted in the firelight. He tried to turn his neck and his head was thrust farther back. His attacker’s knife edge pressed against his unshaven throat.

  In absolute terror, the thief realized the knife was on the left side of his throat and lodged against his pulsating carotid artery. There was more to add to his terror. The knife edge was slanted upward so that, if the tearing hold on his scalp was released or if he tried to pull away from the burning pain, he would cut his own throat. In that same fearful moment he knew without seeing who had him in his deadly grip. Through clenched rotten teeth he whined a stammered plea.

  “M-Mattie. W-what are you doing ’ere?”

  The knife edge burned against his stretched skin. He suddenly felt a wet, sticky substance trickle along his skin.

  “N-no, Mattie. Don’t, p-please don’t kill me! I-I’ll give you half the money.”

  “I take all the money. Den maybe I open your blood vein like caribou!” Mattie’s voice rumbled in the night air.

  A fire coal suddenly popped. The thief jumped as though he had been shot. The knife pressed harder against his skin.

  “Oh my God, Mattie, don’t cut me no more! I didn’t know ’twas your camp. Take the money and let me go.”

  “You not only thief, you liar, too. Ever’one know my valley. Maybe I dry shave you before I cut you!”

  And with that the burning knife tilted back and travelled up over his skin. His coarse black neck hairs fell free as it went. The scrape of the terrible knife edge was a burst of sound in the man’s head. Hot urine soaked through the crotch of his pants and ran down his shaking left leg. The knife finished its upward stroke and slowly dragged back down against the grain, over the exposed raw flesh, until it rested once more against the throbbing blood vein.

  “You knows I w-wouldn’ steal from you Mattie! ’Twas the ’Merican I took the money from. I’d never take anything of yours, Mattie.” The thief finished in a desperate plea for mercy.

  “You steal poke from the preacher. You steal from me. You ver’ amassit—foolish—man. Wot about my smoked deer meat warmin’ by your fire?”

  Mattie tore the man’s head back farther. Now the thief’s upturned eyes were looking up at the angry Indian’s lean face. It frightened him all the more.

  “You c-can’t do it, Mattie! I knows you don’t kill people,” he cried through rotten teeth.

  Mattie lowered his face closer to the begging thief and in a voice that hissed loathing said, “No man steal from me before.”

  The stench emanating from the sweating, unwashed thief reached Mattie’s sensitive nose. He turned his head and breathed deeply from the night air. The clean draft of oxygen calmed him. Looking down at the cowardly man between his legs, all thoughts of killing left him.

  Somewhere, during his walk through the dark forest, he had felt a shred of grudging respect for the thief who had made his way into the mountains and stolen from him. Now all trace of respect vanished and he released the smelly man from his hold. Bending over the scattered bills, he began stuffing them into his pack.

  The thief lay where he had fallen and said nothing as he stared at the Indian. When the last of the American money had disappeared inside his pack, Mattie grabbed the haunch of brown venison and stepped toward the cowering man again.

  “You say you not steal from me. Whose deer meat dis?”

  The thief saw the flash of anger appear in Mattie’s eyes again and found he couldn’t speak. He shrank back on his skinny elbows like a beaten pup, his wet crotch plainly visible. He looked down sheepishly.

  “You scared the piss out of me, Mattie,” he whimpered.

  “Smells like more dan dat scared from you,” said Mattie, his voice dripping with his utter disgust for the man.

  Stepping back to the fire’s edge, he hurriedly gathered up each piece of meat, even the piece the thief had tried to eat. He placed them all inside his pack, pulled the leather thongs tight, and swung the bag up on his shoulders. Relieved that Mattie wasn’t going to kill him, the man found his voice again.

  “Save me some meat, Mattie, please! I’ve run out of grub and ’tis two days back to the coast fer sure. I’ll starve!” he cried.

  “Good. You starve. Save me from cutting you next time I see you.” The intent in Mattie’s voice was clear.

  Turning his back on him, Mattie Mitchell strode away from the firelight and vanished into the night forest. He walked carefully back the way he had come until he found the tree he had climbed to spot the campfire. He crawled under the tangled canopy and, with his head on his pack, curled into a fetal position and went to sleep.

  THE EASTERN SKY OF MATTIE’S GREY dawn time was smeared with red and pink when he stepped through the door of his wigwam. Kneeling before a small fire Worcester had started in the firepit, Mattie first drew the stolen meat from his pack. Then he upended the bag and watched Worcester’s astonished grin as every single bill of his stolen money fluttered to the dirt floor.

  Worcester was ashamed to look at his friend. At first he had thought that Mattie himself had taken his money. The big feet, the tall shadow, and Mattie’s knowledge of the money had corrupted his better judgment of the man. Worcester could not bring himself to hurt his friend by telling him of his doubt. He wondered for a moment if Mattie would ever forgive him in such a case and somehow knew that he would indeed. But Worcester knew he would never forgive himself. After this day, whenever he looked into the Indian’s dark, honest eyes, he was ashamed he had once thought of him as a thief.

  Worcester returned to his home in the States before the winter winds came to Newfoundland’s shores. He had moored his schooner in a sheltered cove in Bay o
f Islands before leaving. He returned to his house one day and found his wife in a bit of a quandary. She had received a heavy and roughly constructed wooden box from the north, she said, with his name on it. She had to pay $26 to get it from the postal express. What could it be?

  Worcester assured his wife that he hadn’t ordered anything from the north, nor was he expecting anything from anywhere else. Upon observing the box, which the postal people had deposited on his front stoop, he read the box was indeed from the northern nation of Newfoundland. Inside he found thirteen tins of canned lobster. The tins were at least a quart in size and weighed, in his estimation, ten pounds each.

  Worcester proceeded to open the cans. He found the metal very strong and he had to use his hunting knife to cut through the lid. With a big plate ready on his kitchen table, he prepared for an succulent meal of northern lobster. When he finally pried the lid open, he saw, much to his chagrin, a piece of red flannel. He recognized it immediately as one of Mattie Mitchell’s shirts.

  Puzzled, he emptied the can over the porcelain plate and was amazed to hear a rattling sound come from a small cloth bag that had dropped out. Inside the bag were sixty glistening pearls! Worcester couldn’t believe it. As he searched the rest of the cans, he discovered that Mattie Mitchell had cleverly disguised and shipped to his friend hundreds of pearls that he had laboriously obtained from the cold waters of Newfoundland’s western rivers.

  MATTIE MITCHELL’S KNOWLEDGE OF THE wild country where he spent almost all of his time was, and still is, the stuff of legend. The northwest part of Newfoundland with its windswept barrens and unusual flat-topped and very high mountains, its heavily forested ridges and deep valleys, and raging rivers that twist through sheer gorges only to plunge suddenly out over vast tracts of open, flat verges, was home to this “chil’ of the wilderness.” Hunting and trapping, his favourite way to make a living for his wife, Mary Anne Webb, and himself, always took him away to the hills.