The Cobbler In The Devils Kitchen | Page 3

from the improvident by merchants, for a
little pork, a little whiskey, a little calico. But this was an old coin with
a hole in it; a jewel worn suspended from neck or ear; the precious
trinket of a girl. On one side was rudely scratched the outline of a bird.
"Begorra!" said Owen. He hid it in one of the rock pockets, a trust in a
savings-bank, and sat down again to work, trying to discover
Blackbird's object in offering tribute to him.
About sunset he lighted a fire in his low grate to cook his supper, and
put the finished boots in a remote corner of the cave until he should get
his pay. As he expected, Léon Baudette appeared, picking a barefooted
way along the beach, with many complimentary greetings. The wary
cobbler stood between the boots and his client, and responded with
open cordiality. A voyageur who gave flesh and bone and sometimes
life itself for a hundred dollars a year, and drank that hundred dollars
up during his month of semi-civilization on Mackinac, seldom had
much about him with which to pay for his necessary mending.
Léon Baudette swore at the price, being a discontented engagé. But the
foot-wear he was obliged to have, being secretly determined to desert
to Canada before the boats went out. You may see his name marked as
a deserter in the Fur Company's books at Mackinac Island. So,
reluctantly counting out the money, he put on his shoes and crossed his
legs to smoke and chat, occupying the visitor's seat. Owen put his kettle
to boil, and sat down also to enjoy society; for why should man be
hurried?
He learned how many fights had been fought that day; how many bales
of furs were packed in the Company's yard; that Étienne St. Martin was
trying to ship with the Northern instead of the Illinois Brigade, on
account of a grudge against Charle' Charette. He learned that the
Indians were having snake and medicine dances to cure a consumptive
chief. And, to his surprise, he learned that he was considered a
medicine-man among the tribes, on account of his living unmolested in
the Devil's Kitchen.

"O oui," declared Léon. "You de wizard. You only play you mend de
shoe; but, by gar, you make de poor voyageur pay de same like it was
work! I hear dey call you Big Medicine of de Cuisine Diable."
Owen was compelled to smile with pleasure at his importance, his long
upper lip lifting its unshaven bristles in a white curd.
"Do ye moind, Leen me boy, a haythen Injun lady by the name of
Blackbird?"
"Me, I know Blackbird," responded Léon Bau-dette.
"Is the consoompted chafe that they're makin' the snake shindy for
married on her?"
"No, no. Blackbird she wife of Jean Magliss in de winter camps."
"John McGillis? Is it for marry in' on a haythen wife he is?"
"O oui. Two wives. One good Cat'olique. Jean Magliss, he dance every
night now with Amable Morin's girl. The more weddings, the more
dancing. Me," Léon shrugged, "I no want a woman eating my wages in
Mackinac. A squaw in the winter camps--'t assez."
"Two wives, the bog-trotter!" gulped Owen. "John McGillis is a
blayguard!"
"Oui, what you call Irish," assented Léon; and he dodged, but the
cobbler threw nothing at him. Owen marked with the awl on his own
leather apron.
"First a haythen and then a quarther-brade," he tallied against his
countryman. "He will be takin' his quarther-brade to the praste before
the boats go gut?"
Léon raised fat eyebrows. "Amable Morin, he no fool. It is six
daughters he has. O oui; the marriage is soon made."
"And the poor haythen, what does she do now?"

"Blackbird? She watch Jean Magliss dance. Then she leave her lodge
and take to de pine wood. Blackbird ver fond of what you call de Irish."
Owen was little richer in the gift of expression than the Indian woman,
but he could feel the tragedy of her unconfirmed marriage. A squaw
was taken to her lord's wigwam, and remained as long as she pleased
him. He could divorce her with a gift, proportioned to his means and
her worth.
When Léon Baudette departed, Owen prepared and ate his supper,
brewing himself some herb tea and seasoning it with a drop of whiskey.
The evening beauty of the lake, of coasts melting in general dimness,
and that iridescent stony hook stretched out from Round Island to
grapple passing craft, was lost on Owen. Humid air did not soften the
glower which grew and hardened on his visage as he made his
preparations for night. These were very simple. The coals of drift-wood
soon died to white ashes in his grate. To close the shop was