The Cobbler In The Devils Kitchen | Page 4

to stand
upon the shoemaker's bench and reach for the ladder in his attic--a short
ladder that just performed its office and could be hidden aloft.
Drawing his stairway after him when he had ascended, Owen spread
and arranged his blankets. The ghosts that rose from tortured bodies in
the Kitchen below never worked any terror in his imagination when he
went to bed. Rather, he lay stretched in his hard cradle gloating over the
stars, his wild security, the thousand night aspects of nature which he
could make part of himself without expressing. For him the moon cast
gorgeous bridges on the water; the breathing of the woods was the
breathing of a colossal brother; and when that awful chill which
precedes the resurrection of day rose from the earth and started from
the rock, he turned comfortably in his thick bedding and taxed sleepy
eyes to catch the wanness coming over the lake.
But instead of lying down in his usual peace when the nest was made to
suit him, Owen wheeled and hung undecided legs over the edge of his
loft. Then he again put down the ladder and descended. He had trod the
three-quarters of a mile of beach to the village but once since the boats
came in. Now that his mind was fixed he took to it again with a loping

step, bending his body forward and grasping his cap to butt through
trailing foliage.
As he passed the point and neared the post, its blare and hubbub burst
on him, and its torch-light and many twinkling candles. He proceeded
beside the triple row of Indian lodges which occupied the entire
water-front. At intervals, on the very verge, evening fires were built,
throwing streamers of crimson flicker on the lake. Naked pappooses
gathered around these at play. But on an open flat betwixt encampment
and village rose a lighted tabernacle of blankets stretched on poles and
uprights; and within this the adult Indians were crowded, celebrating
the orgy of the medicine-dance. Their noise kept a continuous roll of
echoes moving across the islands.
Owen made haste to pass this carnival of invocation and plunge into the
swarming main street of Mackinac, where a thousand voyageurs roved,
ready to embrace any man and call him brother and press him to drink
with them. Broad low houses with huge chimney-stacks and
dormer-windows stood open and hospitable; for Mackinac was en fête
while the fur season lasted. One huge storage-room, a wing of the Fur
Company's building, was lighted with candles around the sides for the
nightly ball. Squared dark joists of timber showed overhead. The
fiddlers sat on a raised platform, playing in ecstasy. The dark, shining
floor was thronged with dancers, who, before primrose-color entirely
withdrew from evening twilight, had rushed to their usual amusement.
Half-breeds, quarter-breeds, sixteenth-breeds, Canadian French,
Americans, in finery that the Northwest was able to command from
marts of the world, crossed, joined hands, and whirled, the rhythmic
tread of feet sounding like the beating of a great pulse. The doors of
double timber stood open. From where he paused outside, Owen could
see mighty hinges stretching across the whole width of these doors.
And he could see John McGillis moving among the most agile dancers.
When at last the music stopped, and John led Amable Morin's girl to
one of the benches along the wall, Owen was conscious that an Indian
woman crossed the lighted space behind him, and he turned and looked
full at Blackbird, and she looked full at him. But she did not stay to be

included in the greeting of John McGillis, though English might be
better known to her than Owen had supposed.
John came heartily to the door and endeavored to pull his countryman
in. He was a much younger man than Owen, a handsome, light-haired
voyageur, with thick eyelids and cajoling blue eyes. John was the only
Irish engagé in the brigades. The sweet gift of blarney dwelt on his
broad red lips.
He looked too amiable and easily entreated, too much in love with life,
indeed, to quarrel with any one. Yet as Owen answered his invitation
by a quick pass that struck his cheek, his color mounted with zest, and
he stepped out, turning up his sleeves.
"Is it a foight ye want, ye old wizard from the Divil's Kitchen?"
laughed John, still good-natured.
"It's a foight I want," responded Owen. "It's a foight I'm shpilin' for.
Come out forninst the place, where the shlobberin' Frinch can lave a
man be, and I'll shpake me moind."
John walked bareheaded with him, and they passed around the building
to a fence enclosing the Fur Company's silent yard. Stockades of
sharp-pointed cedar posts outlined gardens near them. A smell of fur
mingled with odors of