The Man From Glengarry | Page 7

solid logs
between his timber and the open water of the Nation. Black Hugh had a
temper fierce and quick, and when in full flame he was a man to avoid,

for from neither man nor devil would he turn. The only man who could
hold him was his brother Macdonald Bhain, for strong man as he was,
Black Hugh knew well that his brother could with a single swift grip
bring him to his knees.
It was unfortunate that the command of the party this day should have
been Macdonald Dubh's. Unfortunate, too, that it was Dan Murphy and
his men that happened to be blocking the river mouth. For the
Glengarry men, who handled only square timber, despised the Murphy
gang as sawlog-men; "log-rollers" or "mushrats" they called them, and
hated them as Irish "Papishes" and French "Crapeaux," while between
Dan Murphy and Macdonald Dubh there was an ancient personal
grudge, and to-day Murphy thought he had found his time. There were
only six of the enemy, he had ten times the number with him, many of
them eager to pay off old scores; and besides there was Louis LeNoir as
the "Boss Bully" of the river. The Frenchman was not only a powerful
man, active with hands and feet, but he was an adept in all kinds of
fighting tricks. Since coming to the Ottawa he had heard of the big
Macdonald, and he sought to meet him. But Macdonald avoided him
once and again till LeNoir, having never known any one avoiding a
fight for any reason other than fear, proclaimed Macdonald a coward,
and himself "de boss on de reever." Now there was a chance of meeting
his rival and of forcing a fight, for the Glengarry camp could not be far
away where the big Macdonald himself would be. So Dan Murphy,
backed up with numbers, and the boss bully LeNoir, determined that
for these Macdonald men the day of settlement had come. But they
were dangerous men, and it would be well to take all precautions, and
hence his friendly invitation to the tavern for drinks.
Macdonald Dubh, scorning to show hesitation, though he suspected
treachery, strode after Murphy to the tavern door and through the
crowd of shanty-men filling the room. They were as ferocious looking
a lot of men as could well be got together, even in that country and in
those days--shaggy of hair and beard, dressed out in red and blue and
green jerseys, with knitted sashes about their waists, and red and blue
and green tuques on their heads. Drunken rows were their delight, and
fights so fierce that many a man came out battered and bruised to death

or to life-long decrepitude. They were sitting on the benches that ran
round the room, or lounging against the bar singing, talking,
blaspheming. At the sight of Macdonald Dubh and his men there fell a
dead silence, and then growls of recognition, but Murphy was not yet
ready, and roaring out "Dh-r-r-i-n-k-s," he seized a couple of his men
leaning against the bar, and hurling them to right and left, cried,
"Ma-a-ke room for yer betthers, be the powers! Sthand up, bhoys, and
fill yirsilves!"
Black Hugh and his men lined up gravely to the bar and were
straightway surrounded by the crowd yelling hideously. But if Murphy
and his gang thought to intimidate those grave Highlanders with noise,
they were greatly mistaken, for they stood quietly waiting for their
glasses to be filled, alert, but with an air of perfect indifference. Some
eight or ten glasses were set down and filled, when Murphy, snatching
a couple of bottles from the shelf behind the bar, handed them out to
his men, crying, "Here, ye bluddy thaves, lave the glasses to the
gintlemen!"
There was no mistaking the insolence in his tone, and the chorus of
derisive yells that answered him showed that his remark had gone to
the spot.
Yankee Jim, who had kept close to Black Hugh, saw the veins in his
neck beginning to swell, and face to grow dark. He was longing to be at
Murphy's throat. "Speak him fair," he said, in a low tone, "there's rather
a good string of 'em raound." Macdonald Dubh glanced about him. His
eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious.
"Ranald," he said, angrily, "take yourself out of this. It is no place for
you whatever." The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and well-knit,
and with his father's fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.
"Go," said his father, giving him a slight cuff.
"Here, boy!" yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the
bottle to his mouth, "drink." The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat it
out. LeNoir and