United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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he went on making his cigarette. The Kid jumped off the sleigh, climbed quickly into the cat and cut the throttle back. The diesel slowed to a steady rattle. “Don’t you know enough to slow it down when you get off?” The ’Breed looked at him and said nothing. He was beginning to dislike the Kid. He had too much to say, and he gave too many stupid orders. Likely didn’t know much either. He fished in his pocket for a match. He had driven cat-swing before, three times now, maybe as much as the Kid. “Get the funnel.” He brought the funnel which sat between two of the fuel barrels. He was banging the snow out of it with the palm of his hand as he walked back to the cat. “And clean the snow out of it. We don’t want any fuel trouble. Especially with the kind of drivers I’ve got.” He finished in a tone just loud enough for the ’Breed to overhear him. Joe came out of the shack. He was coughing in the cold air. He called it asthma. He watched the snow sifting down through the headlights of the cat. He didn’t want to know that he had T.B. Nothing could be done for it anyway. And he didn’t want to leave and go to a hospital. He shivered in the light breeze. “It’s a bad night.” No one paid any attention. “It’s not a good night for travelling.” He was standing on the sheltered side of the cat. His voice was rough when he raised it over the noise of the motor. “It’s a bad night,” he repeated. “Yeah,” the Kid said. Actually it was a pretty good night. “I drive all night for you Joe, you pay me your wages.” The ’Breeds voice conveyed nothing. Joe cursed inwardly. Even the ’Breed knew that he was frightened. And it would go on for maybe ten days yet. Maybe even more if they had trouble. He closed his eyes a moment and forgot about it. Maybe something would happen. “I’ll drive it,” he said. “Just kind of cold, that’s ■all. And my asthma bothering me.” The ’Breed and the Kid paid no attention to him. “Damn miserable thing.” Still they paid no attention. He coughed again, self-consciously. The cat was fueled and greased and back ahead of the train. The Kid and the ’Breed disappeared toward the caboose. The cat bumped into gear and moved out into the snow and the night. Its lights faded out a few yards ahead. There was no trail, only the lake, and somewhere ahead a couple of islands to go between and then a portage. He knew the road well; he had been across it often. The tracks rattled monotonously and the engine drummed and throbbed under the canvas. The little tractor heaved itself over the hard-packed drifts and ridges of the ice and fell heavily on the front of its tracks, jolting and jarring its way along. The cold and the darkness and the snow were everywhere, a blue-black, white- flecked emptiness that moved backward past the lights. The cat seemed not to move ahead at all, but to rest like a cork bobbing on the ripples of snow. He began to count the hours and minutes until his shift was through. He had long since learned not to live from day to day; it was not enough. He lived now from bellyfull to bellyempty, the same as the natives. Only they weren’t alone as he was. And the feeble hatred that had once been so strong and which had grown weaker year by year was directed tonight at the cold, the snow, the cat, and at the ’Breed who knew that he was afraid. The sleighs swayed through the snow and the miles fell behind. He wished he was back in his cabin with his squaw. She probably despised him the same as the others and she smelled of fish and stale sweat and dirty clothing; he had never been able to get used to that, the smell of her. But at least she was there. The wind shifted until it was almost directly on his face. He sank lower in the seat. He couldn’t see so well slouched down. He wondered if the others were asleep in the caboose. For more than two days they crept along with a steady persistence that ate away at the monotonous distance. It snowed almost continually, and the portages grew heavier and heavier. Cracks and pressure ridges in the ice were covered with a thick shroud so that every hour the chance of breaking through was greater. As Joe faced the endless, meaningless white that spread away on all sides, he could feel only the black, gurgling water underneath. He grew sullen and spoke only when the Kid or the ’Breed asked him a question. The Kid was afraid of losing the swing. And he was never confident with either of the others driving. His sharp words only fanned the growing hatred of the ’Breed. The Kid chewed him out for letting snow get into the fuel even when it was unavoidable. And if there was nothing to be found for which to blame him, he would invent something. He grew more accustomed to him and at the same time to picking on him. And even then, after so many warnings, the ’Breed refused to slow the motor when he stopped. When the Kid stopped the cat the throttle and the clutch moved together, and the motor died from a throaty roar to an easy rattle even as the tracks stopped moving. It grated on him to hear the uneven roar of an engine running empty at full throttle. It was a small thing to the ’Breed but not to him. And Joe stuck with the Kid and looked down on the ’Breed, even made a fool of him when the Kid was around. But he was afraid of him. It was on the evening of the third day that the real trouble began. There was a long portage, twelve or thirteen miles through the bush from the end of a chain of lakes across the gravel ridges and the rocks and down into a valley to a river which would eventually lead them to their destination. It had been snowing for two days and with what had fallen earlier more than three feet of it lay soft and loose along the portage, hiding the rocks and stumps. They reached the shoreline of the lake just as the sun set. The Kid took the cat himself and started across to clear the way with the dozer. He left the sleighs and the caboose behind. There was a little snow falling, small flakes no bigger than a pinhead 12

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The Kid had driven a swing the winter before. He was smart and he had nerve. He knew some of the dangers and some of the tricks now, and men are scarce in the north. But this was the first time he had bossed a swing himself. It belonged to his cousin at Big River a couple of hundred miles farther south. It was a good outfit, almost new, the best he had ever operated. He whistled above the rattling of the diesel. The snow ahead was clean and unbroken. There was no trail, only the endless, heaving drifts of blue-tinted snow and the shore line that dropped farther away by the hour. He pointed the cat at an island rising out of the whiteness far ahead and relaxed. The ice would be safe for the first few miles. He wished he didn’t have the ’Breed along. Still, he had to have someone, and he knew that Joe wasn’t much good any more. For one thing he was afraid of the ice. He took the job because he needed a little money to keep his squaw, the Cree he lived with now, from leaving him. She would likely leave him any¬ way, the Kid decided; they nearly always did. But still, he had to try. There was still that much white man left. He spat into the snow beside the slow- moving, bumping cat. At least Joe would be easy to handle. The caboose was six feet wide and ten feet long. There was a little oil stove in the middle and a bunk on one side. On the other side there was a table fixed to the wall, and a bench. The ’Breed was heating a can of beans on top of the stove. Joe was staring downward at the dirty wooden floor and the little pool of water which rolled back and forth with the swaying of the sleigh. “Long trip, eh Pierre?” “Uh-Huh.” He stirred the beans with a greasy spoon and started to eat. “You going to take the next shift, Pierre?” His voice was diffident. The ’Breed nodded and went on eating. Joe was a squaw man, a fool, a white man who got drunk on perfume and shaving lotion like an Indian. It was alright for a ’Breed or an Indian, but not for a white man. If white men did that, they were no good. And there were other things too. The ’Breed didn’t bother to answer any more of his questions and after a while he shut up. Towards noon they crossed a low, sandy point which stretched far out into the lake. The trail across it was good. The Kid geared the cat down and it pulled the full train across. The tracks slipped in the packed snow and kicked up bits of sand and drift¬ wood, but they made it. He laughed aloud. It was almost as though he, and not the cat, had done the job. “Making good time, Sandy point already,” Joe remarked. The ’Breed didn’t answer. “Yessir, making damn good time. Damn good time.” He subsided into silence once more and began to cough. After a while the train stopped abruptly. The ’Breed got out and walked to the front. “We’ll have to stop at four o’clock to fuel up. Keep her in fourth gear as much as you can and push the snow away with the dozer blade if the banks are more than a couple of feet deep. If you need any help call me.” The Kid turned to go, then paused. “And don’t take any chances on poor ice.” “I drove cat swing before.” He scowled. The Kid went back to the caboose, and the swing moved on again. “Do you think that ’Breed is any good Joe?” “Well, I don’t know.” He didn’t like the ’Breed either. He was a big shot in the village and he threw his weight around. “Now you take these ’Breeds around here, mostly Crees like him. Some of them is okay, but mostly not. You know what I mean.” He stabbed a tobacco-stained thumb in the direction of the cat. “He might be okay, he might not. You can’t tell about them. Like I say, you can’t tell about them. ” He didn’t often get a chance to talk to a white man like this any more. They disregarded him as though he too, were only a native. And to the Indians he was a white man who was of no more use. He was an outcast—a fact which he had long ago discovered but even now, refused to recognize. He wandered on aimlessly for a few more minutes before he surrendered to silence. The Kid was eating a cheese sandwich and a can of sardines. Already the caboose smelled of diesel fuel. “Did you ever see him get into many fights?” “Sometimes. Yeah, quite a few times. He’s a strong one, that’s for sure. Just like a moose. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him myself. Not me. He’s a strong one.” The Kid stared at the floor. He wasn’t surprised. Still, he was confident that he could keep the ’Breed in a position where he wouldn’t dare get ugly. After all, he was a lot smarter than a ’Breed. He stretched out on the bunk and made a cigarette. Joe cut a slice from his tobacco plug and watched the Kid. It started then. He tried but he couldn’t stop it. He had no choice but to remember. There had been other Kids like him, not the same one, but still the same type. Any one of those he had known could have been this one. And he had sneered at them. They had been beneath him, rough types, not stupid, but ignorant. He had been pleasant enough then, when he had been forced to meet them. They had even looked up to him, an engineer, a man with his papers. He earned a lot of money and that was what counted for them. But that had been a long time ago. A very long time. The Kid was the boss now. Darkness had fallen and the snow was beginning to drift down out of the night. It was four o’clock, the swing stopped abruptly. The Kid had been dozing on the bed. As he pulled his parka over his head and tied his moccassins he heard the cat pull along side of the caboose. The ’Breed was coming back for fuel. He went out on the platform. The cat was sitting idle at full throttle and the ’Breed was stand¬ ing beside it making a cigarette. “Idle it down!” he yelled over the uneven throb of the engine. The ’Breed apparently didn’t hear him; 11

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driven on a stinging wind from the north west. It took him nearly eight hours to cross the portage and come back. He could hardly climb down from the cab for stiffness, and his teeth were chattering from the bone-piercing wind and cold. It was more than forty below. The ’Breed took one sleigh and pulled out. It was all that he could manage in the dark along the twist¬ ing trail. The Kid had just begun to warm up and doze in the caboose a couple of hours later when he heard the cat coming back. He tried at first to pretend that it was a dream but the clacking tracks and the headlights penciling through the light snow and the wind made it certain. He cursed with a boy’s inex¬ perience, repeating the same words several times. The cat came along side of the caboose and Stopped. When the ’Breed came in he was just putting on his parka. The cat was still running, just outside the door. Its throttle was wide open. “What’s wrong?” “A runner broke.” He was sullen and his scar was almost purple from the cold. The frost on his parka hood began to melt; the fur clung wetly to his face. “How did you do it?” “Dunno. Maybe a rock I guess.” “Well why the hell don’t you idle that thing down!” The ’Breed looked at him for a few seconds, ex¬ pressionless, debating what to do. Finally he went out and pushed the throttle in. Joe was making coffee. “Get your coat on; we’re going.” The sleigh was about halfway across the portage. The snow stopped falling before they reached it and the stars had come out from behind the clouds.. The exhaust smoke of the cat hung in a blue ribbon where the light of the rear lamp was reflected up from the snowy trail between the pines. There was room for only two in the box, the ’Breed rode on the drawbar and hung on with aching hands. It was the kind of cold that bites through three pairs of mitts. It took them maybe an hour an d a half to fix the sleigh. Joe talked on hopelessly. The ’Breed and the Kid were quiet. They were just about finished when the Kid hit him. It was an accident, the wrench slipped in his hand and the end of it slapped against the ’Breed’s nose. It was a heavy blow and in the frost the skin came away with the cold wrench. He stood up, speaking slowly with a heavy accent with his hand against his face. “Damn stupid Kid, don’t know nothing.” He lowered his hand as though to put on his mitt, then took a wild open-handed swing at the Kid’s head. He missed. “Try that again and I’ll break your greasy neck!” “Who?” “Me!” The Kid knew better than to start a fight. He still had a long way to go and whether he won or lost the ’Breed would be ugly. The ’Breed muttered something in Cree a nd turned away. Joe was still leaning against the sleigh, coughing and spitting. The ’Breed picked up the wrench and began to tighten the bolt. The Kid watched him for a minute. “Make sure it’s tight.” He didn’t answer. Afterwards Joe took the swing. The other two walked back down the portage. The snow was not packed enough to make very good walking and it was dark. Neither spoke during the whole walk. When they got back to the caboose there was a skim of ice on the coffee Joe had been making. With stops and trouble it was early on the morning of the fifth day when they finally hauled the caboose across and prepared to hook the train for the rest of the trip up the river. The ’Breed broke another sleigh runner on the same rock. The Kid knew that it was on purpose but he said nothing. This morning things seemed a little better. He knew it could have been worse. They hadn’t upset any sleighs and everything was still in shape. The weather was a little milder. The sun was shining on the trees and the glaring snow. They were at the end of the portage, just getting rigged up to move on when it happened. The ’Breed was driving the cat. He bunted one of the sleighs up behind the other with the dozer and waited for the Kid to fasten its draw chains, then backed away to push in the next. He left the motor screaming all the time. He bunted in the second sleigh and stopped. The Kid stepped in front of it and bent over to fasten the chains. His parka hood bothered him, he straightened up and pushed the hood back from his face. The ’Breed was fumbling with the gear shift, changing to reverse. The engine was wide open, belching its smoke high into the air. The Kid seemed to notice it as he pushed back his hood. He stood there, looking at the big ’Breed over the top of the sleigh. He had an open face, almost a child’s face, and everything showed on it. He was mad now. “Idle down!” he yelled, but the ’Breed didn’t seem to hear, or if he did he didn’t let on. He shouted again. The ’Breed looked up and let out the clutch with a jerk. Reverse is right beside high on the shift lever. It wasn’t in reverse. The cat rared ahead. Its tracks kicked back a little snow as it hit the sleigh. Then they both slammed ahead and stopped with a jerk as the frost-coated runners bit into the snow once more. The Kid was between the sleighs. For a second or two he looked surprised, like a boy that has cut his finger on a new knife, and then he passed out. The ’Breed jumped off the cat and ran ahead to the small space between the sleighs. Joe had been standing beside them when it happened. He moved back to the cat as fast as he could, almost running. He climbed on, brought it around and pushed the second sleigh back. The Kid slumped between them. His face was twisted and smeared with a trickle of blood. Even then he had stopped breathing. He lay crumpled on the trampled snow between the sleighs. The ’Breed made no move to come closer. Joe knelt beside him but he could see that it was too late. For a long time there was silence. The cat idled in the background. The ’Breed waited for Joe to speak. Finally he gave up and broke the silence himself. 13