HAPTER IV

THE LANDLORD

_Kate's Narrative_

Of his life before he reached this province Jesse will so far tell me
nothing, yet his speech betrays him, for under the vivid dialect of the
stock range, there is a streak of sailor, and beneath that I detect
traces of brogue which may be native perhaps to Labrador. Out of a chaos
of books he has picked words which pleased him, pronounced of course to
suit himself, and used in some sense which would shock any dictionary.

His manners and customs, too, are a field for research. Of course one
expects him to be professional with rope, gun, and ax, but how did he
learn the rest? I wanted a lantern--he made one; my boot was torn--he
made one; my water-proof coat was ruined--he made one; and if I asked
for a sewing-machine, he would refuse to move camp until he had one
finished. If his name were not Smith I could prove him directly
descended from the Swiss family Robinson. If a project sounds risky, I
have to assume that it is something unusually safe, as the only way to
keep him out of danger. If I should ever wish to be a widow, I have only
to doubt his power to fly without wings.

Our journey last autumn led us into most awesome recesses of the coast
range. Heads of the sea fiords lay dismal among crowding glaciers, white
cataracts came roaring down through belt after belt of clouds, to where
a grim surf battled with black rocks. In that dread region of avalanche
and rockslide, of hanging ice-cliffs, roaring storms, ear-shattering
thunder, our camp seemed too frail a thing to claim existence, our
thread of smoke a little prayer for mercy. "Nary a dollar in sight," was
Jesse's comment. "Such microbes don't breed here. D'ye think they'll
ever vaccinate agin selfishness, Kate? That plague kills more souls than
smallpox."

Guided by his uncanny woodcraft, I began to meet the parishioners,
mountain sheep and goats, the elk and cariboo, eagles, bears,
wolverines, and certainly I shared something of Jesse's untiring
delight in all wild creatures. Even when we needed meat in camp, and
some plump goose or mallard was at the mercy of his gun, Jesse would
sometimes beg the victim off, and catch more trout. "So long as they
don't hunt us," he would say, "I'd rather tote your camera than my gun.
But thar's that dog-gone beaver down the crick, he tried to bite me
yesterday again. If he don't tame himself, I'll slap his face. Thinks
he's editor."

Were there no clouds, would we rea