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FreeThe Fiddling Man
James Oliver Curwood
Adapt
Francois Breault's cough was not a pleasant sound. A cough can take many forms, almost too many to classify. But there is only one kind of cough when a man has a bullet through his lung and is measuring his life in minutes, perhaps seconds. Yet even as he coughed up red stains, Breault was not afraid. Death had visited him many times before, and long ago he had lost his fear of it. He had always expected to meet it suddenly, with a shock, not quietly or peacefully. That time had come. He knew he was dying, and he was calm. More than that, in dying he was achieving a triumph. The burning pain in his lung had sparked a terrible thought in his fevered brain. His great opportunity was at hand. The hour—the minute.
A last ray of the pale afternoon sun lit his black-bearded face as his eyes turned, inspired, toward his sledge. It was a face people remembered—not pleasantly, but as a fixture in shifting memory. A face strong with brute strength, hard and implacable, almost emotionless, and beyond that, a mystery.
It was the best-known face in all that part of the northland stretching from Fort McMurray to Lake Athabasca and westward to Fond du Lac and the Wholdais country. For ten years Breault had traveled that route twice yearly with the northern mails. He knew every cabin, every face, every name along the way. Yet no one welcomed him except for what he brought. But the government had found its faith in him justified. The police at lonely outposts depended on his comings and goings like day and night. They blessed his punctuality, and when he was gone, none missed him. A strange man was Breault.
Propped against a tree, where he had dragged himself after the first shock of the bullet, he took a last look at life with passionless calm. If any emotion showed, it was vindictiveness—an emotion roused by an intense and terrible hatred that now saw its vengeance fulfilled.
Few men nursed hatred as Breault had. It gave him strength when another man would have died.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 1 / 12
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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# render_mode: prose
Francois Breault's cough was not a pleasant sound. A cough can take many forms, almost too many to classify. But there is only one kind of cough when a man has a bullet through his lung and is measuring his life in minutes, perhaps seconds. Yet even as he coughed up red stains, Breault was not afraid. Death had visited him many times before, and long ago he had lost his fear of it. He had always expected to meet it suddenly, with a shock, not quietly or peacefully. That time had come. He knew he was dying, and he was calm. More than that, in dying he was achieving a triumph. The burning pain in his lung had sparked a terrible thought in his fevered brain. His great opportunity was at hand. The hour—the minute.
A last ray of the pale afternoon sun lit his black-bearded face as his eyes turned, inspired, toward his sledge. It was a face people remembered—not pleasantly, but as a fixture in shifting memory. A face strong with brute strength, hard and implacable, almost emotionless, and beyond that, a mystery.
It was the best-known face in all that part of the northland stretching from Fort McMurray to Lake Athabasca and westward to Fond du Lac and the Wholdais country. For ten years Breault had traveled that route twice yearly with the northern mails. He knew every cabin, every face, every name along the way. Yet no one welcomed him except for what he brought. But the government had found its faith in him justified. The police at lonely outposts depended on his comings and goings like day and night. They blessed his punctuality, and when he was gone, none missed him. A strange man was Breault.
Propped against a tree, where he had dragged himself after the first shock of the bullet, he took a last look at life with passionless calm. If any emotion showed, it was vindictiveness—an emotion roused by an intense and terrible hatred that now saw its vengeance fulfilled.
Few men nursed hatred as Breault had. It gave him strength when another man would have died.He measured the distance to his sledge—about a dozen paces. The dogs were still standing, tangled in their traces—eight wide-chested, thin at the groins, a wolfish pack built for endurance and speed. On the sledge lay a quarter-ton of his Majesty's mail. Toward this Breault began to crawl slowly, in great pain. Something inside him seemed to crush his lung, and blood oozed from his mouth. When he reached the sledge, red patches stained the snow behind him. With difficulty he opened a small dunnage sack, fumbled out a pencil attached to a long red string and a soiled envelope.
For the first time, a change came over his face—a ghastly smile. Above his hissing breath, which sounded like air pumped through a colander's fine mesh, rose a still more ghastly croak of exultation and triumph. He wrote laboriously. A few words, then the pencil dropped from his stiffening fingers into the snow. Around his neck he wore a long red scarf held by a big brass pin. To this pin he fastened the envelope securely.
With that done—the mystery of his death solved for anyone who might find him—an ordinary man would have given up the struggle. Breault was not ordinary. He was efficiency incarnate. He made space on the sledge, laid himself out carefully, first fastening two babiche thongs around his thighs, used at times to steady freight. Then he slid his left arm through a loop of the stout mail chest. With these precautions, he felt secure that once dead and frozen stiff, no rough trailing by the dogs could roll him off.
He was right. When the starved and exhausted malamutes dragged their silent burden into the Northwest Mounted Police outpost barracks at Crooked Bow twenty-four hours later, an axe and a sapling bar were needed to pry Francois Breault from his bier. Before that, Sergeant Fitzgerald, in charge, took the soiled envelope pinned to Breault's red scarf. The message was simple but exceedingly definite. Few men dying as Breault did could have made things easier for the police.
On the envelope he had written:
"Jan Thoreau shot me and left me for dead. Have just strength to write this—no more. Francois Breault."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 2 / 12
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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He measured the distance to his sledge—about a dozen paces. The dogs were still standing, tangled in their traces—eight wide-chested, thin at the groins, a wolfish pack built for endurance and speed. On the sledge lay a quarter-ton of his Majesty's mail. Toward this Breault began to crawl slowly, in great pain. Something inside him seemed to crush his lung, and blood oozed from his mouth. When he reached the sledge, red patches stained the snow behind him. With difficulty he opened a small dunnage sack, fumbled out a pencil attached to a long red string and a soiled envelope.
For the first time, a change came over his face—a ghastly smile. Above his hissing breath, which sounded like air pumped through a colander's fine mesh, rose a still more ghastly croak of exultation and triumph. He wrote laboriously. A few words, then the pencil dropped from his stiffening fingers into the snow. Around his neck he wore a long red scarf held by a big brass pin. To this pin he fastened the envelope securely.
With that done—the mystery of his death solved for anyone who might find him—an ordinary man would have given up the struggle. Breault was not ordinary. He was efficiency incarnate. He made space on the sledge, laid himself out carefully, first fastening two babiche thongs around his thighs, used at times to steady freight. Then he slid his left arm through a loop of the stout mail chest. With these precautions, he felt secure that once dead and frozen stiff, no rough trailing by the dogs could roll him off.
He was right. When the starved and exhausted malamutes dragged their silent burden into the Northwest Mounted Police outpost barracks at Crooked Bow twenty-four hours later, an axe and a sapling bar were needed to pry Francois Breault from his bier. Before that, Sergeant Fitzgerald, in charge, took the soiled envelope pinned to Breault's red scarf. The message was simple but exceedingly definite. Few men dying as Breault did could have made things easier for the police.
On the envelope he had written:
"Jan Thoreau shot me and left me for dead. Have just strength to write this—no more. Francois Breault."It was epic—a colossal monument to this man, thought Sergeant Fitzgerald, as they pried the frozen body loose.
The unpleasant task of going after Jan Thoreau fell to Corporal Blake. Unpleasant because Breault's starved huskies and frozen body brought with them the worst storm of the winter. In the face of that storm Blake set out, with the Sergeant's orders ringing in his ears:
"Don't come back, Blake, until you've got him, dead or alive."
That is a simple and effective formula for the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. It has created volumes of stirring history because it carries great weight and has been followed faithfully. Twice before, those words had sent Blake on extreme missions. The first time, they took him six months into the Barren Lands between Hudson's Bay and the Great Slave—he returned with his man. The second time, he was gone nearly a year along the Arctic rim—and again he came back with his man. Blake was that kind: a bulldog, a nemesis once on the trail, and, like most of his kind, without a conscience. In service records he was credited with arduous patrols and unusual exploits. "Put Blake on the trail" meant something, and "He is one of our best men" was a firm conviction at headquarters.
Only one man knew Blake as he truly was beneath his skin—and that was Blake himself. He hunted men without mercy, not because he loved the law, but because he had the inherited instincts of a hound. That comparison, if true, is unfair to the hound—for a hound is a good dog at heart.
It may have been the vengeful spirit of Francois Breault that accompanied Corporal Blake that January night, watching over his mission. As Blake sat close to his fire in the shelter of thick spruce, he felt an unusual, disturbing sense of a presence nearby. The storm raged at full force. He had weathered many storms, but tonight the wind's beating and wailing over the forest roofs seemed unnaturally concentrated, almost personal.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 3 / 12
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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It was epic—a colossal monument to this man, thought Sergeant Fitzgerald, as they pried the frozen body loose.
The unpleasant task of going after Jan Thoreau fell to Corporal Blake. Unpleasant because Breault's starved huskies and frozen body brought with them the worst storm of the winter. In the face of that storm Blake set out, with the Sergeant's orders ringing in his ears:
"Don't come back, Blake, until you've got him, dead or alive."
That is a simple and effective formula for the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. It has created volumes of stirring history because it carries great weight and has been followed faithfully. Twice before, those words had sent Blake on extreme missions. The first time, they took him six months into the Barren Lands between Hudson's Bay and the Great Slave—he returned with his man. The second time, he was gone nearly a year along the Arctic rim—and again he came back with his man. Blake was that kind: a bulldog, a nemesis once on the trail, and, like most of his kind, without a conscience. In service records he was credited with arduous patrols and unusual exploits. "Put Blake on the trail" meant something, and "He is one of our best men" was a firm conviction at headquarters.
Only one man knew Blake as he truly was beneath his skin—and that was Blake himself. He hunted men without mercy, not because he loved the law, but because he had the inherited instincts of a hound. That comparison, if true, is unfair to the hound—for a hound is a good dog at heart.
It may have been the vengeful spirit of Francois Breault that accompanied Corporal Blake that January night, watching over his mission. As Blake sat close to his fire in the shelter of thick spruce, he felt an unusual, disturbing sense of a presence nearby. The storm raged at full force. He had weathered many storms, but tonight the wind's beating and wailing over the forest roofs seemed unnaturally concentrated, almost personal.He was physically comfortable. The spruce trees were dense enough to block the storm, and a good fire burned with plenty of fuel. Yet the feeling oppressed him. He could not shake his mental image of Breault as they pried him from the sledge—his frozen features, stiffened fingers, and the odd twist of icy lips that looked almost like a grin.
Blake was not superstitious. He was too much a man of iron for that. His soul had lost its imaginative flexibility. But he could not forget Breault's grin. There was reason: on the last trip, Breault had said to him, with that same half-grin:
"M'sieu, some day you may go after my murderer, and when you do, Francois Breault will go with you."
That had been three months ago. Blake measured the time as he sucked his pipe, eyeing his dogs curled in the firelight's outer edge.
A sudden blast of wind howled over the treetops like a monster's voice. Blake rose, rolled the big night log onto the fire, and added green timber arranged to hold fire until morning. Then he went into his silk tent and buried himself in his sleeping bag.
He did not sleep for a long time. He listened to the fire crackle, heard again that monster voice moaning and shrieking overhead. Never had a storm filled him with such unease. At last, the mystery resolved: each gust came and went in a great moaning, half shrieking sound: "B-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-aw-w-w-w!"
It shocked him—yet he was not superstitious. No, not that. He would have staked his life on it. But hearing a dead man's name shrieked by the wind was unpleasant. Under his sleeping bag flap, Blake laughed. Funny things happen, he told himself. This was a good joke. Breault had kept his promise. If it wasn't Breault's voice multiplied a thousand times, it was a fine imitation. Blake laughed again—an unpleasant laugh, like Breault's cough. He dozed off, but even sleep carried the clinging obsession that strange things would happen when he caught Jan Thoreau.
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# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 4 / 12
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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He was physically comfortable. The spruce trees were dense enough to block the storm, and a good fire burned with plenty of fuel. Yet the feeling oppressed him. He could not shake his mental image of Breault as they pried him from the sledge—his frozen features, stiffened fingers, and the odd twist of icy lips that looked almost like a grin.
Blake was not superstitious. He was too much a man of iron for that. His soul had lost its imaginative flexibility. But he could not forget Breault's grin. There was reason: on the last trip, Breault had said to him, with that same half-grin:
"M'sieu, some day you may go after my murderer, and when you do, Francois Breault will go with you."
That had been three months ago. Blake measured the time as he sucked his pipe, eyeing his dogs curled in the firelight's outer edge.
A sudden blast of wind howled over the treetops like a monster's voice. Blake rose, rolled the big night log onto the fire, and added green timber arranged to hold fire until morning. Then he went into his silk tent and buried himself in his sleeping bag.
He did not sleep for a long time. He listened to the fire crackle, heard again that monster voice moaning and shrieking overhead. Never had a storm filled him with such unease. At last, the mystery resolved: each gust came and went in a great moaning, half shrieking sound: "B-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-aw-w-w-w!"
It shocked him—yet he was not superstitious. No, not that. He would have staked his life on it. But hearing a dead man's name shrieked by the wind was unpleasant. Under his sleeping bag flap, Blake laughed. Funny things happen, he told himself. This was a good joke. Breault had kept his promise. If it wasn't Breault's voice multiplied a thousand times, it was a fine imitation. Blake laughed again—an unpleasant laugh, like Breault's cough. He dozed off, but even sleep carried the clinging obsession that strange things would happen when he caught Jan Thoreau.At gray dawn, only fresh snow marked the storm's passage. Blake was on the trail before he could see a hundred yards. He cracked his long caribou-gut whip and shouted to his dogs with defiance, dismissing the night's fancies. Breault's voice in the wind? Bah! Only a fool would think that. So he was a fool. And Jan Thoreau—taking him would be like catching a child. There would be no drama, just a quick arrest, a routine return—too ordinary to be interesting.
Perhaps the hearty supper of caribou liver was to blame; he was fond of liver, and it had played tricks on him before.
He wondered whether he'd find Jan at home. He remembered Jan vividly. The Indians called him Kitoochikun because he played a fiddle. Blake, the Iron Man, disliked him for that fiddle. Jan was never without it, on trail or off. "The Fiddling Man," Blake called him contemptuously—a baby, a woman, unfit for the big north. Tall and slim, with blond hair despite his French blood and name, a quiet, unexcitable face, and an air Blake called "damned superiority." How had the Fiddling Man screwed up enough nerve to kill Breault? Probably no fight—a quick, treacherous shot. That was like a fiddle-player. POOF! Blake had no more respect for him than if he wore women's clothing.
And Jan had a wife. They lived twenty miles off the main trail on an island in Black Bear Lake. Blake had never seen her. A poor sort of woman, he decided, to marry a fiddler. Probably a half-breed, maybe an Indian. He had no sympathy for her. Doubtless she did the trapping and cut the wood. Any man who totted a fiddle on his back—
Corporal Blake traveled fast, and by afternoon of the second day he reached the dense spruce forest around Black Bear Lake. There, something changed his plans. He met an Indian he knew—one who, for several very good reasons, dared not lie to him. This tribesman, coming straight from the Thoreau cabin, said Jan was away, gone three days to see the French missioner on one of the lower Wholdaia waterways.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 5 / 12
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
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At gray dawn, only fresh snow marked the storm's passage. Blake was on the trail before he could see a hundred yards. He cracked his long caribou-gut whip and shouted to his dogs with defiance, dismissing the night's fancies. Breault's voice in the wind? Bah! Only a fool would think that. So he was a fool. And Jan Thoreau—taking him would be like catching a child. There would be no drama, just a quick arrest, a routine return—too ordinary to be interesting.
Perhaps the hearty supper of caribou liver was to blame; he was fond of liver, and it had played tricks on him before.
He wondered whether he'd find Jan at home. He remembered Jan vividly. The Indians called him Kitoochikun because he played a fiddle. Blake, the Iron Man, disliked him for that fiddle. Jan was never without it, on trail or off. "The Fiddling Man," Blake called him contemptuously—a baby, a woman, unfit for the big north. Tall and slim, with blond hair despite his French blood and name, a quiet, unexcitable face, and an air Blake called "damned superiority." How had the Fiddling Man screwed up enough nerve to kill Breault? Probably no fight—a quick, treacherous shot. That was like a fiddle-player. POOF! Blake had no more respect for him than if he wore women's clothing.
And Jan had a wife. They lived twenty miles off the main trail on an island in Black Bear Lake. Blake had never seen her. A poor sort of woman, he decided, to marry a fiddler. Probably a half-breed, maybe an Indian. He had no sympathy for her. Doubtless she did the trapping and cut the wood. Any man who totted a fiddle on his back—
Corporal Blake traveled fast, and by afternoon of the second day he reached the dense spruce forest around Black Bear Lake. There, something changed his plans. He met an Indian he knew—one who, for several very good reasons, dared not lie to him. This tribesman, coming straight from the Thoreau cabin, said Jan was away, gone three days to see the French missioner on one of the lower Wholdaia waterways.Blake was keen on strategy. To him, man-hunting was like chess. After questioning the Indian for a quarter hour, he saw his opening. Pastamoo, the Cree, was pressed into service on the spot, with promises of torture if he betrayed him.
Blake handed over his dogs, sledge, provisions, and tent, commanding Pastamoo to camp in a cedar swamp several miles back, where he'd return for his outfit. He might be gone a day or a week. Once Pastamoo left, Blake continued to the cabin, hoping Jan's wife was either Indian or foolish. He was too old to swallow the Cree's story whole.
Jan had not gone to the missioner's. A murderer wouldn't reveal his trail so easily. The wife knew, of course. Corporal Blake wanted no better leash than a wife's loyalty. Wives were easy if handled right; they'd finished off several of his successes.
At the lake's edge, he fell back on his old trick: hunger, exhaustion, a sprained leg. The island lay a quarter mile across snow-covered ice; a thin spiral of smoke rose above the thick balsams. Five times he fell face-down, crawling like a dying man. It was a devilish performance, and when he reached the balsams he cursed his luck—no one had seen him. All that effort wasted. But he kept up the act, staggering weakly through the trees to the cabin. He had no shame, even playing on a woman. He fell against the door, pounded it, and slumped into the snow with his head bowed, as if his strength were gone.
He heard movement inside, quick steps, then the door opened. He didn't look up right away—that would be crude. When he raised his head, slowly, with anguish on his face, he stared. His body tensed; the counterfeit pain vanished in the most astonishing moment of his life. Man of iron though he was, he couldn't suppress a gasp.
Jan Thoreau's wife heard a dying man's plea. She missed the startled note beneath it. She was startled herself, frightened by his sudden collapse.
And Blake stared. This—the fiddler's wife! She clutched a brush she'd been using on her hair. The hair, jet black, was wonderful. Her eyes were even more wonderful.
She was not Indian—not half-breed—and beautiful. The loveliest face he had ever seen looked down at him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 6 / 12
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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Blake was keen on strategy. To him, man-hunting was like chess. After questioning the Indian for a quarter hour, he saw his opening. Pastamoo, the Cree, was pressed into service on the spot, with promises of torture if he betrayed him.
Blake handed over his dogs, sledge, provisions, and tent, commanding Pastamoo to camp in a cedar swamp several miles back, where he'd return for his outfit. He might be gone a day or a week. Once Pastamoo left, Blake continued to the cabin, hoping Jan's wife was either Indian or foolish. He was too old to swallow the Cree's story whole.
Jan had not gone to the missioner's. A murderer wouldn't reveal his trail so easily. The wife knew, of course. Corporal Blake wanted no better leash than a wife's loyalty. Wives were easy if handled right; they'd finished off several of his successes.
At the lake's edge, he fell back on his old trick: hunger, exhaustion, a sprained leg. The island lay a quarter mile across snow-covered ice; a thin spiral of smoke rose above the thick balsams. Five times he fell face-down, crawling like a dying man. It was a devilish performance, and when he reached the balsams he cursed his luck—no one had seen him. All that effort wasted. But he kept up the act, staggering weakly through the trees to the cabin. He had no shame, even playing on a woman. He fell against the door, pounded it, and slumped into the snow with his head bowed, as if his strength were gone.
He heard movement inside, quick steps, then the door opened. He didn't look up right away—that would be crude. When he raised his head, slowly, with anguish on his face, he stared. His body tensed; the counterfeit pain vanished in the most astonishing moment of his life. Man of iron though he was, he couldn't suppress a gasp.
Jan Thoreau's wife heard a dying man's plea. She missed the startled note beneath it. She was startled herself, frightened by his sudden collapse.
And Blake stared. This—the fiddler's wife! She clutched a brush she'd been using on her hair. The hair, jet black, was wonderful. Her eyes were even more wonderful.
She was not Indian—not half-breed—and beautiful. The loveliest face he had ever seen looked down at him.With a second gasp, he recovered. His body sagged, his amazement faded, and he let his head droop. His cap fell off. In a moment she knelt beside him in the snow.
"You are hurt, m'sieu!"
Her hair fell over him, brushing his neck and shoulders. Its perfume was like a rare flower. A strange thrill ran through him. He didn't analyze it. He was ignorant of life's finer things, unaware that a hardened man, like an athlete's body, crumbles fastest under sudden strain.
He rose slowly, with Marie's help. They entered the cabin, and he sank onto a cot. A tress of her hair fell across his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Marie was at the stove.
And SHE was Thoreau's wife! In that first instant, he'd forgotten the fiddler. Now he remembered, watching her slim back, her hair to her hips. He clenched his fists. Jan Thoreau, murderer, and this woman—his wife.
She brought tea, and he drank, feigning weakness.
"Sprained my leg," he said, answering her anxious look. "Dogs ran off, left me. I got here by chance. A little more—" He smiled grimly and gave a sharp cry, practiced in many cabins, along with a grimace to sell the act.
"I'm afraid—I'll be a trouble to you," he apologized. "Not broken, but bad. I won't be able to move soon. Is Jan home?"
"No, m'sieu; he is away."
"Away," Blake repeated, disappointed. "Perhaps he has told you about me. I am John Duval."
"M'sieu—DUVAL!"
Marie's eyes widened with glowing light. Her lips parted. She leaned forward, hands clasped to her breast.
"M'sieu Duval—who nursed him through the smallpox? Saved my Jan's life!"
Blake had done his homework. He knew about Duval, the barren-land trapper, and his kindness to Jan.
"Yes, I am John Duval. And I'm sorry Jan is away."
"But he'll be back in a few days," Marie cried. "You'll stay, m'sieu! You'll wait for him, yes?"
"This leg—" Blake grimaced. "Yes, I'll stay. I guess I'll have to."
At Duval's name, Marie's face flushed, her throat quivered. She envisioned Duval's lonely cabin, the dark hours of Jan's sickness, and the magnificent comradeship now brought to her own door, half-dead.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 7 / 12
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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With a second gasp, he recovered. His body sagged, his amazement faded, and he let his head droop. His cap fell off. In a moment she knelt beside him in the snow.
"You are hurt, m'sieu!"
Her hair fell over him, brushing his neck and shoulders. Its perfume was like a rare flower. A strange thrill ran through him. He didn't analyze it. He was ignorant of life's finer things, unaware that a hardened man, like an athlete's body, crumbles fastest under sudden strain.
He rose slowly, with Marie's help. They entered the cabin, and he sank onto a cot. A tress of her hair fell across his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Marie was at the stove.
And SHE was Thoreau's wife! In that first instant, he'd forgotten the fiddler. Now he remembered, watching her slim back, her hair to her hips. He clenched his fists. Jan Thoreau, murderer, and this woman—his wife.
She brought tea, and he drank, feigning weakness.
"Sprained my leg," he said, answering her anxious look. "Dogs ran off, left me. I got here by chance. A little more—" He smiled grimly and gave a sharp cry, practiced in many cabins, along with a grimace to sell the act.
"I'm afraid—I'll be a trouble to you," he apologized. "Not broken, but bad. I won't be able to move soon. Is Jan home?"
"No, m'sieu; he is away."
"Away," Blake repeated, disappointed. "Perhaps he has told you about me. I am John Duval."
"M'sieu—DUVAL!"
Marie's eyes widened with glowing light. Her lips parted. She leaned forward, hands clasped to her breast.
"M'sieu Duval—who nursed him through the smallpox? Saved my Jan's life!"
Blake had done his homework. He knew about Duval, the barren-land trapper, and his kindness to Jan.
"Yes, I am John Duval. And I'm sorry Jan is away."
"But he'll be back in a few days," Marie cried. "You'll stay, m'sieu! You'll wait for him, yes?"
"This leg—" Blake grimaced. "Yes, I'll stay. I guess I'll have to."
At Duval's name, Marie's face flushed, her throat quivered. She envisioned Duval's lonely cabin, the dark hours of Jan's sickness, and the magnificent comradeship now brought to her own door, half-dead.Many times Jan had told her how Duval had nursed him like a woman, almost sacrificing his own life. And this—THIS—was Duval? She bent over him, eyes shining. In the dim light, she didn't notice his fingers finding a lock of her hair, clutching it passionately.
"I have prayed many times that the great God might thank you, m'sieu," she said.
He raised a hand and touched her warm cheek, stroked her hair. Marie didn't shrink—that would insult him. He was Duval, more than brother to Jan, the source of her happiness.
"And you—are Marie?" said Blake.
"Yes, m'sieu."
Her voice trembled as she stepped back. Soon she lit the oil lamp, and through half-closed eyes he watched her prepare supper. Occasionally, she turned as if to speak, and he feigned fatigue. His watchfulness was catlike, filled with cunning, his face betraying nothing.
Inside, every nerve burned with monstrous desire for this woman, the murderer's wife—sudden as Breault's death.
The moment he'd seen her, it overwhelmed him. Now her footsteps filled him with exultation, a feeling of possession. In his hand he held her fate—she was the Fiddler's wife, and the Fiddler was a murderer.
Marie heard his deep breath, a gasp that would have been a triumphant cry.
"You are in pain, m'sieu," she said, turning.
"A little. Help me sit up, Marie."
She put her arms around this Pharisee and helped him rise. They ate supper across a narrow table. The half hour she sat before him erased any doubt—her love for a murderer was plain. He was cool, marshaling his crafty forces for a new fight: the fight for a woman.
He had never failed. No man had beaten him, no woman tricked him. He saw no possibility of failure. But HOW? That question twisted in his brain even as he smiled and told her of the black days of Jan's sickness.
Then it came to him. Marie saw nothing, suspected nothing. Blake's heart hammered triumph. He hobbled to the cot, leaning on her shoulder, telling her how he'd helped Jan inside just this way. He pulled her down with him—accidentally—his lips touched her head. He laughed.
For a moment, he felt drunk with joy, ready to gamble his life. But confidence didn't replace cunning. He rubbed his hands and said:
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 8 / 12
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Many times Jan had told her how Duval had nursed him like a woman, almost sacrificing his own life. And this—THIS—was Duval? She bent over him, eyes shining. In the dim light, she didn't notice his fingers finding a lock of her hair, clutching it passionately.
"I have prayed many times that the great God might thank you, m'sieu," she said.
He raised a hand and touched her warm cheek, stroked her hair. Marie didn't shrink—that would insult him. He was Duval, more than brother to Jan, the source of her happiness.
"And you—are Marie?" said Blake.
"Yes, m'sieu."
Her voice trembled as she stepped back. Soon she lit the oil lamp, and through half-closed eyes he watched her prepare supper. Occasionally, she turned as if to speak, and he feigned fatigue. His watchfulness was catlike, filled with cunning, his face betraying nothing.
Inside, every nerve burned with monstrous desire for this woman, the murderer's wife—sudden as Breault's death.
The moment he'd seen her, it overwhelmed him. Now her footsteps filled him with exultation, a feeling of possession. In his hand he held her fate—she was the Fiddler's wife, and the Fiddler was a murderer.
Marie heard his deep breath, a gasp that would have been a triumphant cry.
"You are in pain, m'sieu," she said, turning.
"A little. Help me sit up, Marie."
She put her arms around this Pharisee and helped him rise. They ate supper across a narrow table. The half hour she sat before him erased any doubt—her love for a murderer was plain. He was cool, marshaling his crafty forces for a new fight: the fight for a woman.
He had never failed. No man had beaten him, no woman tricked him. He saw no possibility of failure. But HOW? That question twisted in his brain even as he smiled and told her of the black days of Jan's sickness.
Then it came to him. Marie saw nothing, suspected nothing. Blake's heart hammered triumph. He hobbled to the cot, leaning on her shoulder, telling her how he'd helped Jan inside just this way. He pulled her down with him—accidentally—his lips touched her head. He laughed.
For a moment, he felt drunk with joy, ready to gamble his life. But confidence didn't replace cunning. He rubbed his hands and said:"By God, won't it be a surprise for Jan? I told him I'd come someday. I told him!"
He repeated the joke, and Marie, her face flushed, laughed softly at Duval's great love for her husband. Even his lost dogs and outfit couldn't spoil his pleasure. He could replace them, but three years had passed since he'd seen Jan. When Marie finished her work, he pressed his hand to his eyes.
"That storm must have hurt my eyes. The light blinds them, ma cherie. Put it out, and sit near me, so I can see you in the dark and hear all that has happened to Jan since that winter."
She dimmed the lamp and opened the stove door. In the firelight, she sat on a stool beside his cot, trustful as a child. She was twenty-two; Blake was fifteen years older. His age seemed to her immense.
This man, she felt, had been more than a brother to Jan—a father. He'd saved Jan's life. She talked to him as she might an elder brother, reverence in her voice.
It was unfortunate for her that Jan had loved Duval and spoke of him often. Blake, wary of adding lies, let her tell him about her life with Jan, her happiness, her hopes. He caught the low note of joy in her voice. With a laugh—sounding real and wholesome—he reached out in the dark and stroked her hair. She didn't flinch. She believed he was happy for them. And Blake didn't push further.
She went on, confiding Jan's life, betraying him through her innocence. She didn't know Jan had killed Breault. She believed he'd return in three days. She even told Blake how Jan had hated to leave that morning, holding her long before departing.
Had he taken his fiddle? Yes, always—next to her, he loved it. Was he jealous of it? No, no, she laughed. Blake laughed too—a big, healthy, happy laugh with a strange quiver. He stroked her hair again, his fingers resting briefly on her warm cheek.
Then, casually, he played his second card.
"A man was found dead on the trail yesterday," he said. "Someone killed him. A bullet through his lung. It was the mail-runner, Francois Breault."
At that, Blake's hand slid from her cheek to her shoulder. It was too dark to see, but he felt her go rigid, her breath halt. In the gloom, Blake smiled. He'd struck.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 9 / 12
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"By God, won't it be a surprise for Jan? I told him I'd come someday. I told him!"
He repeated the joke, and Marie, her face flushed, laughed softly at Duval's great love for her husband. Even his lost dogs and outfit couldn't spoil his pleasure. He could replace them, but three years had passed since he'd seen Jan. When Marie finished her work, he pressed his hand to his eyes.
"That storm must have hurt my eyes. The light blinds them, ma cherie. Put it out, and sit near me, so I can see you in the dark and hear all that has happened to Jan since that winter."
She dimmed the lamp and opened the stove door. In the firelight, she sat on a stool beside his cot, trustful as a child. She was twenty-two; Blake was fifteen years older. His age seemed to her immense.
This man, she felt, had been more than a brother to Jan—a father. He'd saved Jan's life. She talked to him as she might an elder brother, reverence in her voice.
It was unfortunate for her that Jan had loved Duval and spoke of him often. Blake, wary of adding lies, let her tell him about her life with Jan, her happiness, her hopes. He caught the low note of joy in her voice. With a laugh—sounding real and wholesome—he reached out in the dark and stroked her hair. She didn't flinch. She believed he was happy for them. And Blake didn't push further.
She went on, confiding Jan's life, betraying him through her innocence. She didn't know Jan had killed Breault. She believed he'd return in three days. She even told Blake how Jan had hated to leave that morning, holding her long before departing.
Had he taken his fiddle? Yes, always—next to her, he loved it. Was he jealous of it? No, no, she laughed. Blake laughed too—a big, healthy, happy laugh with a strange quiver. He stroked her hair again, his fingers resting briefly on her warm cheek.
Then, casually, he played his second card.
"A man was found dead on the trail yesterday," he said. "Someone killed him. A bullet through his lung. It was the mail-runner, Francois Breault."
At that, Blake's hand slid from her cheek to her shoulder. It was too dark to see, but he felt her go rigid, her breath halt. In the gloom, Blake smiled. He'd struck."Francois—Breault," she whispered at last, as if fighting something. "Dead—killed by someone—"
She rose, a shadow moving toward the stove. He heard a match strike. When she turned with the oil lamp, her face was pale, her eyes wide. Blake controlled his pulse, savoring an inquisitor's thrill. Not yet time to reveal himself. He waited, calculating. When the trap sprang, there'd be no escape.
"You are sure—it was Francois Breault?"
He nodded. "Yes, the mail-runner. You knew him?"
She clutched the table's edge. A long pause, her gaze distant. Blake, ferret-like, watched. Fate was cooperating.
He rose, hobbled painfully, seized her hand. It was cold.
"Ma cherie—my dear child—why do you look like that? What has Breault's death to do with you and Jan?"
His voice was friendly, brotherly. Last winter his same tone had won a wife's trust, and her husband had been hanged. Marie's lips trembled, her eyes searching his.
"Tell me, ma cherie," he whispered. "I am Duval. I love Jan."
He drew her back to the cot, sat her down, held her hand, patting it. Color returned to her cheeks; she gave a tremulous little laugh.
"Tell me, Marie."
She shuddered.
"They had a fight—here—in this cabin—three days ago," she confessed. "It must have been—the day—he was killed."
Blake knew the wild thought in her heart. He looked over her head as if seeing something beyond the walls. Marie grabbed his hand, her voice agonized.
"No, no, no—it was not Jan," she moaned. "Not Jan who killed him!"
"Hush!" said Blake, glancing around as if someone might hear. The acting was superb. His expression pierced her. She clutched tighter. She understood: it WAS Jan.
Instead, he said: "You must tell me everything, Marie. How did it happen? Why did they fight? Why did Jan leave so soon after? For Jan's sake, tell me—everything."
He waited, listening to her inner struggle.
Then she told the story in broken pieces. A woman's story, from the beginning. Perhaps once she'd enjoyed the rivalry between Jan and Breault, but now there was no pride, only fear.
"Yes—we grew up together at Wollaston Post," she said. "Jan carried me on his shoulders. He played violin. I loved Jan always. When I was seventeen, Francois Breault came."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 10 / 12
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Francois—Breault," she whispered at last, as if fighting something. "Dead—killed by someone—"
She rose, a shadow moving toward the stove. He heard a match strike. When she turned with the oil lamp, her face was pale, her eyes wide. Blake controlled his pulse, savoring an inquisitor's thrill. Not yet time to reveal himself. He waited, calculating. When the trap sprang, there'd be no escape.
"You are sure—it was Francois Breault?"
He nodded. "Yes, the mail-runner. You knew him?"
She clutched the table's edge. A long pause, her gaze distant. Blake, ferret-like, watched. Fate was cooperating.
He rose, hobbled painfully, seized her hand. It was cold.
"Ma cherie—my dear child—why do you look like that? What has Breault's death to do with you and Jan?"
His voice was friendly, brotherly. Last winter his same tone had won a wife's trust, and her husband had been hanged. Marie's lips trembled, her eyes searching his.
"Tell me, ma cherie," he whispered. "I am Duval. I love Jan."
He drew her back to the cot, sat her down, held her hand, patting it. Color returned to her cheeks; she gave a tremulous little laugh.
"Tell me, Marie."
She shuddered.
"They had a fight—here—in this cabin—three days ago," she confessed. "It must have been—the day—he was killed."
Blake knew the wild thought in her heart. He looked over her head as if seeing something beyond the walls. Marie grabbed his hand, her voice agonized.
"No, no, no—it was not Jan," she moaned. "Not Jan who killed him!"
"Hush!" said Blake, glancing around as if someone might hear. The acting was superb. His expression pierced her. She clutched tighter. She understood: it WAS Jan.
Instead, he said: "You must tell me everything, Marie. How did it happen? Why did they fight? Why did Jan leave so soon after? For Jan's sake, tell me—everything."
He waited, listening to her inner struggle.
Then she told the story in broken pieces. A woman's story, from the beginning. Perhaps once she'd enjoyed the rivalry between Jan and Breault, but now there was no pride, only fear.
"Yes—we grew up together at Wollaston Post," she said. "Jan carried me on his shoulders. He played violin. I loved Jan always. When I was seventeen, Francois Breault came."She trembled. "Jan has told me some," lied Blake. "Tell me the rest."
"I knew I'd be Jan's wife. But he hadn't spoken. It was my fault! Francois loved me, and I toyed with him to make Jan jealous. I didn't understand. Jan and I married. A week before, Francois came, and I confessed, asked forgiveness. He went mad. If Jan hadn't heard my cries—" She took a breath.
"It was like that again three days ago. He came back, mad, wanting to kill Jan. They fought here. I was going to shoot, but Francois sprang back and cried, 'Jan Thoreau, I am mad—mad! What have I done?' Then he fled."
"And Jan left later that day," Blake whispered.
"Yes, to his trap-line."
Blake took her face between his hands. "My dear girl, I must tell you the truth. Jan didn't go to his trap-line. He followed Breault and killed him.
I am not John Duval. I am Corporal Blake, and I've come to take Jan to be hanged. But I've changed my mind. I've seen you, and for you I'd spare even a murderer. Do you understand? For YOU—"
And then he swept her into his arms, crushing her, his hot lips on her face. The world went dark. For a moment, she was paralyzed. But his next words roused her from her stupor. She heard clearly:
"Jan is a murderer. He's always been a murderer at heart. You're mine now."
She broke free with a wild cry, staggered to the bedroom door. Blake didn't follow. He let the darkness swallow her. He had told her—and she understood.
He stood, shrugged, walked to the door, and looked at the starry, quiet night.
Inside the room, Marie flung herself into a corner, beyond the bed. Her hand touched something cold—Jan's goose-gun, loaded with buckshot. She drew it toward her, leveled it across the bed, cocked the hammer. A metallic click. Blake, at the door, didn't hear.
Marie waited. She wasn't thinking, only aware of the serpent in the other room that she must kill. She'd shoot as he crossed the doorway. Then she'd follow Jan's trail, find him, and they'd flee. Her whole being focused on the twelve-inch opening between door and room. The serpent would appear. And then—
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 11 / 12
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She trembled. "Jan has told me some," lied Blake. "Tell me the rest."
"I knew I'd be Jan's wife. But he hadn't spoken. It was my fault! Francois loved me, and I toyed with him to make Jan jealous. I didn't understand. Jan and I married. A week before, Francois came, and I confessed, asked forgiveness. He went mad. If Jan hadn't heard my cries—" She took a breath.
"It was like that again three days ago. He came back, mad, wanting to kill Jan. They fought here. I was going to shoot, but Francois sprang back and cried, 'Jan Thoreau, I am mad—mad! What have I done?' Then he fled."
"And Jan left later that day," Blake whispered.
"Yes, to his trap-line."
Blake took her face between his hands. "My dear girl, I must tell you the truth. Jan didn't go to his trap-line. He followed Breault and killed him.
I am not John Duval. I am Corporal Blake, and I've come to take Jan to be hanged. But I've changed my mind. I've seen you, and for you I'd spare even a murderer. Do you understand? For YOU—"
And then he swept her into his arms, crushing her, his hot lips on her face. The world went dark. For a moment, she was paralyzed. But his next words roused her from her stupor. She heard clearly:
"Jan is a murderer. He's always been a murderer at heart. You're mine now."
She broke free with a wild cry, staggered to the bedroom door. Blake didn't follow. He let the darkness swallow her. He had told her—and she understood.
He stood, shrugged, walked to the door, and looked at the starry, quiet night.
Inside the room, Marie flung herself into a corner, beyond the bed. Her hand touched something cold—Jan's goose-gun, loaded with buckshot. She drew it toward her, leveled it across the bed, cocked the hammer. A metallic click. Blake, at the door, didn't hear.
Marie waited. She wasn't thinking, only aware of the serpent in the other room that she must kill. She'd shoot as he crossed the doorway. Then she'd follow Jan's trail, find him, and they'd flee. Her whole being focused on the twelve-inch opening between door and room. The serpent would appear. And then—She heard the cabin door close, Blake's footsteps. Her finger was steady on the trigger. He stopped just at the threshold. She could see his arm, his shoulder—not enough. Another half step, six inches, four—she'd fire. Her heart pounded.
Then her blood froze. The outer door had opened; someone entered. She knew it must be Jan. But Blake had moved. And now, her finger trembling on the trigger, she heard his cry:
"Sergeant Fitzgerald!"
"Yes. Put up your gun, Corporal. Do you have Jan Thoreau?"
"He's gone."
"That's lucky," said the sergeant, relief in his voice. "I traveled fast to catch you. Matao, the half-breed, was stabbed in a quarrel after you left. Before he died, he confessed to killing Breault. The evidence is conclusive. This fire feels good! Anybody home?"
"Yes," said Blake slowly. "Mrs. Thoreau—is—at home."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-00a181e7b0424407874bac0ab13543a0
# book_title: The Fiddling Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-fiddling-man
# chapter_title: The Fiddling Man
# book_page: 12 / 12
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She heard the cabin door close, Blake's footsteps. Her finger was steady on the trigger. He stopped just at the threshold. She could see his arm, his shoulder—not enough. Another half step, six inches, four—she'd fire. Her heart pounded.
Then her blood froze. The outer door had opened; someone entered. She knew it must be Jan. But Blake had moved. And now, her finger trembling on the trigger, she heard his cry:
"Sergeant Fitzgerald!"
"Yes. Put up your gun, Corporal. Do you have Jan Thoreau?"
"He's gone."
"That's lucky," said the sergeant, relief in his voice. "I traveled fast to catch you. Matao, the half-breed, was stabbed in a quarrel after you left. Before he died, he confessed to killing Breault. The evidence is conclusive. This fire feels good! Anybody home?"
"Yes," said Blake slowly. "Mrs. Thoreau—is—at home."
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