It was six weeks later. The dawn came less early, and nightfall perceptibly sooner.
There was a new crispness in the air, and the leaves on the trees were losing their greenness and taking on every possible shade, from pale yellow to old gold, and from that to dusky red. Both Stane and Helen Yardely noticed the signs. Autumn was upon them and they were still in their camp by the lake, though now Stane was able to hobble about with a pair of crutches made from a couple of forked sticks, padded with moss at the forks for his arms, and covered with caribou skin. Helen herself was busy from dawn to sunset. From words that he had dropped she knew that they had lost in the race with the seasons, and that winter would be on them before he would be able to take the trail. She faced the dreary prospect light-heartedly, but under his instruction omitted no precautions that would make a winter sojourn in the wild land tolerable. Fish were caught and dried, rabbits and hares snared, not merely for meat, but for their skins, which when a sufficient number had been accumulated were fashioned into parkas and blankets against the Arctic cold which was surely marching on them.
The leaves began to fall, light frosts were succeeded by heavier ones, and one morning they awoke to find a thin film of ice on the surface of the still water of the little bay where their camp was located. Stane viewed the ice with ominous eyes. He was incapable of any heavy physical exertion as yet, and knowing the North in all its inimical aspects, he was afraid for his companion, and though he rejoiced in her frank comradeship, he regretted that she had let Ainley and the Indian depart without knowledge of her presence. Guessing that the lake was some sort of waterway between two points, daily, almost hourly, in the frequent absences of the girl, he scanned it for any sign of human presences, but in vain. The lake's surface was unbroken by the movement of canoe or boat; its shores showed no tell-tale column of smoke. They were indeed alone in the wilderness.
But one afternoon the girl returned from a hunting expedition with excitement shining in her grey eyes.
I have found something, she announced abruptly.
What is it?
There is a cabin up the lake, about three miles away.
A cabin?
Yes, and a very nice one, logs with a stone chimney and a parchment window. There was no one about, and the door was only held by a hasp and a wooden peg, so I ventured to look in. It has a stove, a rough table, a bunk and a couple of logs plainly meant for chairs.
Stane considered her news for a moment and then gave an obvious explanation. "It is some trapper's hut. He is away, and will probably return for the trapping season."
Yes, she answered with a nod. "I thought that was the explanation. But there is nothing to prevent us taking possession until the owner returns, if he ever does, is there?"
No, he answered slowly.
Then tomorrow we will remove house, she said with a little laugh. "It's the only sensible thing to do. The place is clean and warm and comfortable; and if we take possession of it we shall be under no temptation to take the trail before you are really fit."
But——
But me no buts, she cried in mock reproval. "You know that it is the really wise thing to do, for if the weather turns bad, where are we—with a canvas tent and a rather leaky birch-bark tepee? It would be the very rankest folly not to take advantage of my discovery and you know it."
Stane was compelled to admit that she was right, and said so.
Then tomorrow I will raft you up to our new abode, she answered cheerfully. "There is no wind, and has been none for days. It will be easy to pole the raft along the shore."
Having announced this decision she began to busy herself about the camp, singing softly to herself; and Stane watched her with appreciative eyes. She was thinner than when they had first met, her face was bronzed, her chestnut hair in its outer folds bleached almost golden by the strong sunlight of the past summer. She radiated health and vitality, and though she was dressed masculinely, femininity was the dominant note about her. In the weeks that had passed since he had saved her from the river she had developed amazingly. Apparently there was nothing of the softness of the over-civilized left in her. That had been eliminated by the harsh necessity of labour which circumstances had thrust upon her; and the life of the wilderness had developed in her elemental powers. She was now the strong mate-woman, quick in judgment, resourceful in action, and of swift courage in danger. His eyes glowed as he watched her, and a soft look came on his face. As it happened Helen turned and saw it.
What is it? she asked quickly, a look of expectancy in her eyes.
He hesitated. That look challenged him. He knew that if he said all that he felt she would respond. But the unfairness of such action prevented him from doing so, and though he was strongly tempted he turned aside.
Nothing that I can tell you, he said in answer to her question.
Oh! she retorted, "you are a most tantalizing person. Why cannot you tell me? If the matter is secret you have no cause to be afraid. To whom could I whisper it in this wilderness?"
She waved a hand half-round the compass as she spoke, and stood there looking at him, still with the look of expectancy in her eyes, and with a little dash of colour in her bronzed cheeks.
I am not afraid of your whispering it to any one, replied Stane, with a poor attempt at laughter.
Then why not tell me? she urged.
Because—— began the man, and then stopped. The temptation surged up anew within him, the stress of it almost broke down his resolution. Then he cried, almost violently, "No! I cannot tell you—now."
Now! she said, in tremulous laughter. "Now! 'Behold now is the accepted time and now is the day of salvation.' Unless the religious education of your youth was sadly neglected you ought to know that. The present is the only time. But if you will not tell me this tantalizing secret now, you will some time?"
Some time! he answered.
It is a promise, she insisted and now there was no laughing note in her voice, and her face was very serious.
Yes, he answered, "it is a promise."
Then I write it on the tablets of my mind. I shall hold you to it, and some day I shall demand its fulfilment.
She turned and resumed her work and singing at the same time, and Stane lay there looking at her with the love shining plainly in his eyes. He had no doubt that she divined that which he would not speak; that indeed it was no secret to her, and that she was glad in the knowledge he could hardly question. Her bearing as well as her singing told him that; and he knew that in the last few minutes they had travelled a very long way towards full revelation of each other; and that the day when he should speak would bring to her nothing that was not already within the sphere of her knowledge.
The next day was spent in removal to the cabin further up the lake, both of them working at poling the raft with all their stores. The cabin was well situated on a small bay, where a fair-sized stream emptied into the lake, and behind it stretched the forest, dark and impenetrable. As he hobbled through the open door, Stane looked round, and under the bunk discovered a number of steel-traps which the girl on her first visit had overlooked. Also on a peg in a dark corner he found a set of dogs' harness hung just as the owner had left it, probably months before. He pointed the traps out to the girl.
As I guessed, it is a trapper's cabin, Miss Yardely. Any day may bring the owner back.
Possession is nine points of the law, she laughed. "What is the term the gold-seekers use, Jump?—yes, we will jump the claim, for the present at any rate."
The owner may come back while there is open water, or he may wait for the ice.
But we are tenants of the furnished cabin meanwhile, she answered cheerfully, "and may as well make ourselves at home. I'm going to light the stove."
Inside the cabin there was a little wood-pile, and with a few well-chosen logs and dried sticks she soon had the stove roaring, and then began to bestow their possessions tidily. By the time that was accomplished the shadows were creeping across the lake and deepening in the woods, and it was time for the evening meal, and when it was ready they ate it at the rough table, with a sense of safety and comfort that had long been lacking. "This place is quite cosy," said Helen, looking round the firelit cabin. "Tomorrow I shall make a curtain for the doorway out of caribous skins."
Tomorrow, laughed Stane, "the owner may return."
But he will not turn us out, cried Helen. "The men of the wilds are all hospitable."
That is true, agreed Stane, "and I have no doubt that we should be allowed to winter here if we chose. But if the man comes there is a better way. We shall be able to engage him to take us to Fort Malsun, and so to safety and civilization."
Oh! laughed the girl, "are you so anxious to go back to civilization?"
Stane's face suddenly clouded, and the old hardness came back to it.
There is no going back for me—yet, he answered bitterly.
But you will return, some day, she answered quietly. "I have no doubt of that at all. But I was not thinking of that when I spoke, I was wondering whether you were tired of this primitive life. For my part I quite enjoy it. It is really exhilarating to know that one has to depend upon one's self, and to find unexpected qualities revealing themselves at the call of circumstances. I think I shall never be the same again, my old life seems contemptibly poor and tame when I look back upon it."
I can understand that, he answered, turning from his bitterness. "The wilderness gets into one's blood."
Particularly if it is a little wild to start with, she replied cheerfully, "as I really believe mine is."
There are men who have lived up here for years, enduring hunger and every kind of hardship, hazarding life almost daily, who having stumbled suddenly upon a fortune, have hurried southward to enjoy their luck. They have been away a year, two years, and then have drifted back to the bleak life and hazard of the North.
It is not difficult to believe that, answered Helen. "The life itself is the attraction up here."
Stane permitted himself to smile at her enthusiasm and then spoke. "But if you had to live it day by day, year in and year out, Miss Yardely, then——"
Oh then, she interrupted lightly, "it might be different. But——" She broke off suddenly and a sparkle of interest came in her eyes. Pointing to the pile of wood in the corner she cried: "Mr. Stane, I am sure there is something hidden under that wood."
Stane started and stared at the stacked-up logs, a slight look of apprehension on his face. The girl laughed as she caught the look. "It is nothing to be alarmed at; but those logs are misleading I am sure, for at one place I can see something gleaming. What it is I don't know, but I am going to find out."
Rising quickly, she began to throw down the logs and presently uncovered a large square tin that at some time or another had contained biscuits. Pursuing her investigations she uncovered two similar tins and for a moment stood regarding them with curious eyes. Then she lifted one.
It is heavy, she exclaimed. "What do you think it is—gold?"
Stane laughed. "Judging by the ease with which you lift it, I should say not."
I'm going to learn, she replied, and promptly began to operate on a close-fitting lid. It took her a little time, but at last, with the aid of Stane's knife, she managed to remove it. Then she gave an exclamation of disappointment.
What is it? asked Stane.
I don't know. It looks like—wait a minute! she took a small pinch of the contents and lifting it to her mouth, tasted it. "Flour!"
Flour! You don't say?
There was a joyous exalting note in the man's voice that made the girl swing round and look at him in surprise.
You seem delighted! she said wonderingly.
I am, he replied.
But—well I don't exactly see why! If it were gold, I could understand. One always finds gold in these deserted cabins, according to the story-books. And we find flour—and you rejoice!
I do, answered Stane joyfully. "Miss Yardely, that flour is a godsend. We were very short, as you told me, only a pound or two left, and I was afraid that we might have to live on meat and fish alone, and you don't know what that means. I do! I lived for three weeks on moose-meat last winter and I haven't forgotten it yet. For Heaven's sake open the other tins."
The girl obeyed him, and presently the remaining tins revealed their contents. One held about nine pounds of rice and the other was three parts filled with beans.
We're in luck, great luck! cried Stane. "Just the things we need. Any time during the last fortnight I would have given a thousand pounds for those stores."
I expect the owner, if he returns, will be glad to sell them you for a good deal less, she retorted with mock petulance. "It was treasure trove I was hoping for."
You can't live on gold, laughed Stane, "and you can on the contents of these tins. We must annex them. If the owner has deserted the cabin it won't matter; and if he returns he will bring fresh stores with him, those being but the surplus of his last winter's stock. Nothing could have been more fortunate."
But flour, and rice and beans! protested Helen in simulated disgust. "They are so unromantic! It will sound so poor if ever I tell the story in a drawing-room!"
Stane laughed again. "There's nothing romantic about straight meat without change. Those cereals are the best of treasure trove for us."
Well, conceded the girl laughing with him. "You ought to know, and if you are satisfied I must be. If these stores will carry us through the time until we start for civilization I won't grumble."
To Stane the discovery of the stores was a great relief, far greater than the girl knew. Of starvation he had had no fear, for they were in a good game country, but he knew the danger of a meat diet alone, and now that for the time being that danger was eliminated, he was correspondingly relieved; the more so when, two mornings later, the door of the hut being opened they beheld a thin powdering of shot-like snow.
Winter is here! said Helen, a little sobered at the sight of the white pall.
Yes, he answered. "You found this hut just in time."
No more snow fell for over a fortnight, and during that time, despite the cold, Stane spent many hours practising walking without crutches. The fracture had quite knit together, and though his muscles were still weak, he gained strength rapidly, and as far as possible relieved the girl of heavier tasks. He chopped a great deal of wood, in preparation for the bitter cold that was bound to come and stored much of it in the hut itself. He was indefatigable in setting snares, and one day, limping in the wood with a rifle, he surprised a young moose-bull and killed it, and cached the meat where neither the wolves nor the lynxes could reach it. Then at the close of a dull, dark day the wind began to blow across the lake, whistling and howling in the trees behind, and the cold it brought with it penetrated the cabin, driving them closer to the stove. All night it blew, and once, waking behind the tent canvas with which the bunk where she slept was screened, the girl caught a rattle on the wooden walls of the cabin, that sounded as if it were being peppered with innumerable pellets. In the morning the wind had fallen, but the cabin was unusually dark, and investigation revealed that in a single night the snow had drifted to the height of the parchment window. The cold was intense, and there was no stirring abroad; indeed, there was no reason for it, since all the wild life of the forest that they might have hunted, was hidden and still. Seated by the stove after breakfast, Helen was startled by a brace of cracks like those of a pistol. She started up.
What was that? Some one fired——
No! answered Stane quickly. "Just a couple of trees whose hearts have burst with the cold. There will be no one abroad this weather."
But in that, as events proved, he was mistaken. For when, in the early afternoon, wrapped in the fur garments which the girl had manufactured at their old camp, they ventured forth, not twenty yards away from the hut Stane came suddenly upon a broad snow-shoe trail. At the sight of it he stopped dead.
What is it? asked the girl quickly.
Some one has been here, he said, in a curious voice. Without saying anything further he began to follow the trail, and within a few minutes realized that whoever had made it had come down the lake and had been so interested in the cabin as to walk all around it. The tracks of the great webbed-shoes spoke for themselves and even Helen could read the signs plainly.
Whoever is it? she asked in a hushed voice, looking first at the sombre woods and then out on the frozen snow-wreathed lake.
Stane shook his head. "I haven't the slightest notion, but whoever it was watched the cabin for a little time. He stood there on the edge of the wood, as the deeper impression in the snow shows."
Perhaps the owner whose palace we have usurped has returned.
Stane again shook his head. "No! He would have made himself known, and besides he would most certainly have had a team of dogs with him. Whoever the visitor was he came down the lake and he went back that way."
It is very mysterious, said Helen, looking up the frozen waste of the lake.
Yes, answered Stane, "but rather reassuring. We are not quite alone in this wilderness. There must be a camp somewhere in the neighbourhood, but whether of white men or of Indians one can only guess."
And which do you guess? asked Helen quickly.
Indians, I should say, for a white man would have given us a call.
And if Indians, they may be friendly or otherwise?
Yes.
Then, she said, with a little laugh, "we shall have to keep our eyes lifting and bolt the door o' nights!"
It will be as well, agreed Stane, as he began to circle round the cabin again. "Indians are not always law-abiding, particularly in the North here. In any case we must try and find out where this one comes from, for if he is friendly we may be able to get dogs, and with dogs our journey to civilization will be easy."
He spoke lightly, but there was a grave look on his face, and as she watched him following the snow-shoe tracks to the edge of the ice-bound lake, Helen Yardely knew that he was much disturbed by the mysterious visit of the unknown man.
It was snowing again, driving across the lake in the hard wind and drifting in a wonderful wreath about the cabin. To go out of doors would have been the uttermost folly, and Stane busied himself in the fashioning of snow-shoes which now would be necessary before they could venture far afield. The girl was engaged in preparing a meal, and the cabin had an air of domesticity that would probably have utterly misled any stranger who had chanced to look in. Stane, as he worked, was very conscious of the girl's presence, and conscious also that from time to time his companion glanced at him, whilst he bent over the tamarack frames, weaving in and out the webbing of caribou raw-hide. Those glances made his heart leap, though he strove hard to appear unconscious of them. He knew that in her, as in him, the weeks of intimate companionship so dramatically begun had borne its inevitable fruit. The promise she had forced from him but a few days ago came to his mind as he stooped lower over the half-finished snow-shoe. Would he ever be able to redeem it? Would he ever be able to tell her what was in his heart, what indeed had been there since the moment of their first meeting at Fort Malsun?
Between him and the desire of his heart rose those bitter years in prison. Until the stain upon his name was removed and the judgment of the court expurged, he felt he could not tell her what he wished, what indeed he was sure she would not be averse to hearing. Of Helen herself he had no doubt. She already had declared her faith in his innocence, and the generosity of her nature in all its depth and breadth had been revealed to him. To her, the years of his prison life were as though they had never been, or at the most were an injustice which he had suffered, and his name in her eyes had suffered no soiling. That if he spoke she would respond, finely, generously, with all the fulness of her splendid womanhood, he had no doubt. And yet, he told himself, he must never speak until he could do so without blame; for whilst to her the past was nothing, the people among whom she ordinarily moved would remember, and if she united her life with his she would, like himself, become a social exile. And there was a further reason for silence. If he allowed the girl to commit herself to him whilst they were alive in the wilderness, it would be said that he had taken advantage of a rather delicate situation—using it for his selfish ends, and his pride as a man revolted against that. He clenched his teeth at the thought, and unconsciously frowned. No it should never be said that he——
Why that dark scowl? asked the girl laughingly. "Is my lord displeased with the odours of the dinner that his servant prepares?"
Stane joined in her laughter. "I was not aware that I was frowning. The dinner has a most appetising smell."
If only I had a Mrs. Beeton! sighed Helen. "Though I daresay she wouldn't give any recipe for frozen moose and rice and beans, without even an onion to flavour. The civilized cookery books don't deal with the essentials. When I return to the polite world the first thing I shall do will be to publish a pocket cookery book for happy people stranded in the wilds!"
Happy! he echoed, smilingly.
I speak for myself, she retorted lightly. "You don't suppose that I regret these weeks away from civilization. I never was happier in my life. I have, you will agree, proved myself. I can face an unprecedented situation without fainting. I can cook a dinner without killing a man who eats it. I have set a leg successfully, and built a raft that floated safely, and reared two lodges in the wilderness. I have no nerves, whilst nearly every woman I know is just a quivering bundle of them. Yesterday, when I went out to the wood-pile a big lynx came round the corner of it. His eyes simply blazed at me. Six months ago, I should have run indoors. As it was, I threw a chunk of wood at him and he bolted."
You never told me, began Stane.
What need? interrupted the girl. "You don't inform me every time you see a lynx!"
But you must be careful, replied Stane anxiously. "At this season of the year, if he is very hungry, the lynx can be a dangerous beast. Remember his claws are like knives and he has ten of them."
Oh, I will remember, answered Helen cheerfully. She stooped over the pan, and then, announced: "I think this mess of savoury venison is ready, and I don't believe our cook at home could have done it half so well. If my lord and cobbler will put away the snow-shoe we will dine, and after the washing up I will sleep."
It was in this spirit of lightness that she faced all the hardships incidental to their present life, and it was little wonder that at times, between her gaiety and her challenging presence, Stane had much ado to keep his resolve. Half a dozen times a day his resolution was tested, and one of the severest trials came on the afternoon of that very day.
The snow had ceased and the night had fallen, and desiring exercise they left the cabin together to walk in an open glade in the wood which the strong wind had swept almost clear of snow. Except themselves there was nothing moving. The vast stillness of the North was everywhere about them, and a little oppressed by the silence they walked briskly to and fro, Stane using his injured leg with a freedom that showed that it was returning to its normal strength. Suddenly the girl laid a mittened hand on his arm.
What is it? he asked quickly.
Listen! she said.
He stood there, her hand still on his arm, and a second or two later caught the sound which she had previously heard. Faintly and thinned by long distance it came, a long curdling cry.
What—— she broke off as the cry sounded afresh, and he answered the unfinished question.
The hunt-cry of a wolf calling up the pack. There is nothing to fear. It is miles away.
Oh, she said, "I am not afraid, I was only wondering what it was."
Her hand was still on his arm, and suddenly their eyes met. Something in the grey of hers pierced him like a stab of flame. A fierce joy sprang up within him, filling him with a wild intoxication. His own eyes burned. He saw the girl's gladness glow in her glance, beheld the warm blood surge in her face, and fervent words leaped to his lips, clamouring for utterance. Almost he was overcome, then Helen removed her hand, and turned as the blood cry of gathering wolves broke through the stillness. He did not speak, and Helen herself was silent as they turned towards the cabin, but each had seen deep into the other's heart, and had felt the call that is the strongest call on earth, the call of kind to kind, or mate to mate.
Back in the cabin, the man turned feverishly to the task of snow-shoe making on which he had been engaged. Through his mind with monotonous reiteration beat a phrase that he had read long ago, where, he had forgotten. "My salvation is in work, my salvation is in work!" He worked like a man possessed, without looking up, whilst the girl busied herself with unnecessary tasks. She also knew what he knew, and she held him in a new respect for his silence, understanding the reason therefor, and presently when her leaping heart had steadied a little she began to talk, on indifferent topics, desiring to break a silence that was full of constraint.
I saw you looking at the traps there, this morning. Are you thinking of using them?
Yes, he answered, "I am going to start a trapping line. It will give me something to do; and the walk will excercise my leg. If the owner of the cabin returns we shall be able to pay him rent with the pelts I take."
Isn't it time he was here now, if he is coming?
Yes! But he may be delayed.
Or he may not intend to return. He may have found a new locality for his operations.
When he went away he meant to return, or why did he leave his traps here?
You think he will come back then?
I hope so!
And when he comes you will lure him to take us to Fort Malsun?
That is my idea, replied Stane, bending over the webbing.
You are anxious to get away from here, then?
I am thinking of you, he answered quickly. "I know what a full winter in the North means."
And if I get to Fort Malsun, do you think I shall escape the winter?
No, but you will have company.
I have company now, she retorted smilingly, "and believe me I do not feel at all lonely."
I was thinking you would have the factor's wife for——
Pooh! was the challenging reply. "Do you think a woman cannot live without women?"
He offered no answer to the question, feeling that they were in the danger zone again; and after a moment deliberately turned the conversation backward.
If I have luck with the traps, you may be able to have a set of furs for a memento of your sojourn here!
Oh! she laughed back, "if that is the only memento I am to have——"
Yes? he asked.
For a moment she did not speak, and when she did there was provocation in her voice. "Well, I shall be disappointed, that is all."
He did not ask why. He knew; and his very silence told Helen that he knew, and for a moment both of them were conscious of the surging of that elemental force which had made itself felt out in the forest.
Then the stillness was broken by a sound outside. Both of them heard it, and listened carefully.
Crunch! crunch! crunch!
Some one on snow-shoes was walking round the cabin. Whoever it was had halted by the door. Was he coming in? Half a minute passed during which they waited without moving, then Stane flashed a look at his companion. She was leaning forward, a look of curiosity and expectancy on her face, but not a single sign of fear.
He rose slowly from his seat, put the unfinished snow-shoe on the table, and crept towards the door. Whoever the intruder was he had not moved, and Stane had an odd fancy that he was listening there on the other side of the rough timbers. He meant to surprise him, but was disappointed in his purpose, for when he reached the door it was to find that the wooden bar had been dropped in position by Helen when they had re-entered the cabin. The bar fitted tightly across the door, and though he tried his best to move it without noise he failed. The bar stuck, and when at last he threw the door open, and stepped outside he knew that he was too late. He looked into the gathering night. His first swift glance was towards the dark shadows under the trees. There was no one there. He swung round towards the lake, and dimly through the darkness descried a figure retreating rapidly northwards. He looked closely, then suffering something of a surprise, gave a quick hail.
The retreating figure never paused, and never looked round, but kept on in a bee-line over the untrodden snow. Stane knew that it was useless to follow, and the bitter cold was already pinching his face and hands and chilling him to the bone. He turned and hurried into the hut, flinging the door to behind him, and as he did so, Helen rose to her feet.
You saw him? she cried in some excitement.
No. I saw her! answered Stane. "It was a woman."
Helen's surprise was as complete as his own had been. "A woman! Are you sure?"
I do not think that I can possibly have been mistaken.
But who—and why should she come here only to run away?
I do not know. I cannot guess, but when I went to the door, I had no idea that whoever was outside was standing there listening.
It is very mysterious, said Helen thoughtfully, then suddenly something occurred to her, and she looked quickly at Stane as if she were going to speak. He caught the glance.
You were about to say something?
Yes, answered Helen giving a curt little laugh. "But I think I will keep it to myself. It was only a quite silly idea that occurred to me."
Something in her manner, the curtness of her laugh, her way of speaking, puzzled Stane, and moved him to press for an answer. "Never mind the silliness," he said. "Tell me?"
It really is not worth while, she answered with a little laugh, and notwithstanding the laughter, Stane knew that it was useless to press her further, and desisted from doing so.
For a little time he sat silent, staring into the stove, wondering what was in his companion's mind, whilst the girl herself followed the odd thought which had occurred to her. Was the woman who had twice ventured into the neighbourhood of the cabin without revealing herself, Miskodeed? It was very possible, for what other woman was there likely to be in the locality who could have sufficient interest in them as to visit them in such fashion? As she pursued the idea Ainley's suggestions came back to her with hateful force, and she remembered the Indian girl's attitude after Stane's departure. Other things she remembered and her mind echoed the words which had awakened the man's anger at the time they were uttered.
Behold an idyll of the land!
She remembered the girl's wild beauty, her manifest interest in Stane, and once again she was conscious of the hot flame of jealousy in her heart. It stung her to think that possibly this man, whom she had learned to love, had an interest in this girl, who though no better than a savage was rarely beautiful. She laughed in sudden bitterness and scorn of herself, and at the laugh Stane turned quickly towards her.
What is it? he asked.
Just a thought! she answered easily, though her face flushed.
Stane did not ask her what the thought was. He was conscious of something enigmatic in her attitude, and her evident reserve for a second time prevented him from pursuing the matter further. He waited a moment, then he uttered the thought which had been in his own mind.
When the storm is over and there is a crust on the snow we will go exploring together. We may find the camp from which this woman comes. If the air keeps still through the night, it will be quite easy to follow her trail in the snow.
Helen looked at him with eyes half-veiled under her long lashes. Did he suspect who the intruder was?
You are very anxious to find this woman of mystery? she asked.
Not particularly so, he laughed in reply, "but I shall be very glad to find out who our neighbours are, and to learn whether we can secure any help from them."
The girl was reassured by the unconcerned answer. It seemed clear now that Miskodeed had not even occurred to his mind, and the reserve in her manner disappeared.
You think we shall be dependent on their help? she asked. "You are afraid that we shall not weather through by ourselves?"
Stane laughed again. "Oh no! I have no fears on that score; but it will depend on their possession of dogs whether we have to camp here all winter or not; for we could not possibly make Fort Malsun without them, particularly as I do not know the overland trail. Not that the knowledge is really essential now, since judging from the fact that Ainley went down the lake it seems likely that there is a way to Malsun river in that direction. But we simply must have dogs."
Then in the morning we follow the mysterious one's trail?
Yes, if there is no wind or snow in the night.
But in the night there was both wind and snow and on the morrow the woman's trail was quite obliterated and the snow on the lake made travelling impossible. Helen Yardely noted the fact without regret.
There will be no exploring party today, she said, "so I will go and look at my rabbit snares."
And I will accompany you, answered Stane, "the walk in the snow will help to take the stiffness out of my leg."
They set out together, but had gone but a little way when the girl gave a sharp "Hist!"
What is it? he asked quietly, thinking that she had seen game of some kind.
There is a man in those bushes in front of us, she answered in a whisper.
A man. Are you sure?
I am quite sure. I saw him slip across that open space there. He has a gun.
The bushes she had indicated were about three hundred yards away, and Stane examined them keenly. He could see nothing, however, and at the conclusion of his scrutiny he said: "I will go forward. You remain here, Miss Yardely."
No, she answered. "I will go with you, I would rather."
They advanced together, Stane with his rifle ready for action, since a presence that avoided them might well prove to be an inimical one. He watched the bushes steadily as they advanced but saw nothing and when they reached them, thinking that the girl had been mistaken, he thrust his way through them. Then he stood quite still with an anxious look upon his face. There was no one behind the bushes, but there were the marks of moccasined feet in the snow. He looked down at them, then followed the direction of them with his eyes, and stared into the forest, and as he did so, in its dim recesses, thought he saw the figure of a man slip behind a tree. He still waited and watched, but the figure did not re-appear, then Helen who had walked round the bushes spoke.
There was some one here!
Yes, he answered, "and whoever it was did not wish to encounter us. He has made his way into the wood."
What do you think it means?
I do not know, he answered, "but I am afraid that there are hostile Indians about us."
You think they are watching the cabin—watching us, for a chance to attack?
It has that appearance, answered Stane quietly.
The girl was silent for a moment, then she gave a little laugh that had in it a ring of courage. "I am not afraid, but I wish we had another rifle."
Stane flashed at her a glance of admiration, then gave another long look into the silent wood which now seemed full of menace.
Perhaps we had better return to the cabin.
No, answered the girl stubbornly. "We will look at the snares first. I'm not going to be frightened from my dinner by a wandering Indian."
And they went forward together.
"Look," cried Helen. "Look!"
They had almost reached the cabin on the return journey and were full in view of the lake. As she cried the words she pointed over its snow-laden surface, and Stane, looking in the direction indicated, saw that which made his heart leap. A dog-team was coming up the lake, with a man on snow-shoes packing the trail in front.
Who can it be? asked the girl in some excitement.
The owner of the cabin—for a certainty! answered Stane, conscious of a sudden relief from the anxiety which the morning had brought.
Then, answered the girl quietly, "you wait to welcome him, whilst I go and prepare a meal."
She passed into the cabin, whilst Stane walked down to the shore of the lake. The traveller whoever he was, was making directly for the cabin, and watching, Stane saw that he walked wearily as if he had come far, or was suffering from some weakness. It was quite an appreciable time before he saw Stane standing to welcome him, and when he did so, he gave a joyous shout. Stane answered the hail, and a few minutes later when the man halted his dogs he saw that he was mistaken in concluding the new-comer was the owner of the cabin, for he was garbed in the winter dress of the Nor-west Mounted Police.
Cheero, said the policeman in greeting. "Where's Jean Bènard?"
Stane shook his head. "Don't know. Is Jean Bènard the owner of the cabin?"
At this question the policeman glanced at him sharply.
Don't you know that? Who in thunder—Stane! By Christopher! As he made the recognition the new-comer held out his mittened hand. "Well this is a pleasure. Don't you know me, old man?"
Stane looked at him as he shook his hand. "I think I do," he said. "Your Dandy Anderton, aren't you?"
Used to be, laughed the other. "Now I'm Trooper Richard Alland Anderton of the R.N.W.M.P., and no more a dandy. But I'm mortal glad to see you, Stane, particularly as I'm a little knocked. I hurt my shoulder this morning, as——" He broke off suddenly as the sound of movement came from the cabin, and asked quickly. "You've got a mate?"
Yes, answered Stane, with a short laugh, "as good a mate as a man could have, a mate that happens to be a lady!"
A lady! Anderton whistled. "Up here! By Jove! you've both got pluck."
Well, you see, Anderton, it's not exactly a matter of choice. We were stranded together, and this cabin happened to offer itself. But loose your dogs, and come and be introduced!
Right-o! replied the policeman. "I'll be with you in two jiffs."
Stane entered the cabin to prepare Helen. As he did so the girl looked up from the stove. "Is he the owner of our palace?"
No; he is an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, who is now in the Mounted Police.
Then we shall not suffer eviction? she laughed, and to Stane it seemed there was an odd note of relief in her voice.
No; but he spells deliverance. You see if he can't do anything for us himself he can carry the news of our whereabouts to Fort Malsun, and——
At that moment a whip-stock hammered at the cabin-door, and a second later Trooper Anderton entered. For a moment he was a little taken aback by the girl's appearance, then Stane made the introduction.
Miss Yardely; Mr. Anderton!
Miss Yardely! the policeman cried. "Are you Sir James Yardely's niece, who was lost a few months ago?"
The very same, answered Helen smilingly.
There's a reward out for your discovery—five thousand dollars, no less.
I didn't know I was worth so much, laughed the girl.
Your uncle makes it; and half the trappers in the north are keeping a look-out for you; for it is known that you were found by some one——
There is my saviour, interrupted Helen, nodding towards Stane.
Lucky fellow, laughed the policeman. "How did it happen?"
Perhaps Mr. Stane will tell you later, answered the girl, "and if he doesn't, I will. But I don't want this moose steak to spoil. I take a pride in my cookery."
She laughed and turned again to the stove. Both the men watched her admiringly for a moment, and then Anderton asked: "Been up here long, Stane?"
Stane gave him an approximate date, and explained the situation by recounting his accident. The other nodded sympathetically. "You were lucky to have Miss Yardely with you. I had a narrow shave myself this morning. Just as I was starting from my last camp, a tree that two minutes before looked as stable as a pyramid, collapsed. It caught me on the shoulder and knocked me flying. Lucky thing I fell clear; but it gave me a nasty jar, and my left arm is a little out of action, with the soreness. I oughtn't to have taken the trail this morning, and wouldn't, only I'm in a tremendous hurry—a running quarry you know."
Who is it? asked Stane.
A breed, wanted for murder. He's been running for months, making this way and there's an idea that he's sought sanctuary with his mother's tribe at the top end of this lake.
Ah, then there is an encampment up here?
Yes. Didn't you know?
Stane gave an account of the mysterious visit of the previous night and of the stranger they had seen in the wood that morning and the policeman listened carefully.
The girl's a puzzler, he said, "but the stranger may be my man. He knows his life is forfeit, and he's ripe for any sort of crime. I guess I'll move on after him when I've had a rest."
We'll go with you, answered Stane thoughtfully, "we may be able to get dogs from the camp."
It's just possible, agreed Anderton, "if the Indians will sell. If not, then I'll carry the news of you back to Fort Malsun, and the factor there will send for you like a shot." He was silent for a moment, watching Helen as she laid the table; then he said hesitatingly. "By the by, Stane, did you ever get to the bottom of that unfortunate affair of yours in England?"
No, was the reply, given with some bitterness, "but the jury did."
Oh rot! exclaimed the other. "Nobody who knew you really believes that."
I have met one man up here who apparently does!
Who is that?
Ainley! You remember——
Ainley! Why, man, he—— He broke off suddenly, with a look at the girl.
Yes? said Stane, "you need not mind Miss Yardely. She knows I have been in prison."
Yes! answered Helen quickly, "and I am very sure he ought not to have been."
It was a damnable shame! broke out the policeman. "But the facts were against you at the time, Stane. The hand-writing experts——"
Oh the likenesses were there, right enough, interrupted Stane, "and I certainly had been in Harcroft's rooms, alone, and I suppose in company with his cheque book. Also I had lost rather a pot of money on the boat-race, and I am bound to admit all the other incriminating circumstances."
Yes, but you don't know everything. Long after you—er—went down, Jarlock, who was in our set, told me something about Ainley.
What was that? asked Stane quickly.
Well, it was that just at that time, Ainley was broke and borrowing money right and left, and that he had forged Jarlock's name to a bill. Jarlock became aware of the fact through the bill being presented to him for payment, and he tackled Ainley about the business. Ainley owned up, and Jarlock let the thing go, for old acquaintance' sake. But just about the time of your trouble he left the 'Varsity and went on a trip to the Cape, and it was a full year after before he even heard what had befallen you. It made him think of his own affair with Ainley, and when he met me months afterwards he took me into his confidence. We talked the matter over carefully, and knowing you as we both did, we reached the conclusion that you were innocent and that Ainley was the guilty man.
Any evidence?
No, nothing beyond that matter of the bill. We judged by general principles. Ainley always was something of a rotter, you know.
Stane laughed a trifle bitterly. "He's by way of becoming a personage of importance today. But I think you're right, the more so since I encountered him up here."
He gave a brief account of his meeting with Ainley, told how he had waited for him on two successive nights, and how on the second night he had been kidnapped without any apparent reason. The policeman listened carefully and at the end nodded his head.
Looks fishy! he commented. "The fellow was afraid of you." Then after a moment he asked, "Your question? The question you wanted to ask Ainley, I mean. What was it?"
It was about a sheet of paper with some writing on it. You shall see it.
He felt in his hip-pocket, and producing a small letter-case, took out a thin packet wrapped in oiled silk. Opening it, he unfolded a sheet of foolscap and handed it to the other.
It was covered with writing, and as Anderton looked at it, he saw that the writing was made up of two names, written over and over again, the names being those of Hubert Stane and Eric Harcroft. At first the character of the handwriting of the two names was widely different, but presently the separate characteristics were blended with a distinct leaning towards those of Harcroft, though some of the characteristics of the earlier writing of Stane's name still survived, though at the bottom of the sheet only Harcroft's name was written, and that a dozen times. The policeman whistled as he studied it.
Where did you get this, Stane?
I found it in a copy of Plato which Ainley had borrowed from me. It was returned before the forgery turned up, and that paper slipped out when I was going through my possessions after my release from Dartmoor. What do you make of it?
It is perfectly plain what the meaning of it is, answered Anderton with conviction. "Whoever did this was blending two handwritings for some purpose or other, and the purpose is not difficult to guess."
That is what I felt when I saw it, and when the significance of it dawned on me, I set out to find Ainley that I might ask him the meaning of it. He had left England, and no one whom I could ask knew his whereabouts. Things were very difficult for me at home and so I came out here, stumbled on Ainley—and you know the rest.
Helen Yardely had listened to the talk of the two men without speaking, but now she broke in. "I do not wonder Gerald Ainley did not keep his promise to see you at Fort Malsun. I only wonder that when he arranged for your deportation, as he surely did, he did not arrange for your death."
He does not know I have this paper, answered Stane with a grateful look towards her. "But when I do meet him——"
He did not finish the sentence, and after a moment the girl announced that the meal was ready. As they ate, Anderton glanced from time to time at the man whom he had known as a careless youth at Oxford. He noted the hardness of the eyes, the greying hair, the deep lines of the face, and was moved to a sudden burst of indignation.
Confound the man, Stane! If I were in your place I should be tempted to shoot him! But that's too good for him.
I will do that which will be worse for him, answered Stane quietly, "I will make him own up."
The two who heard him, looking at his resolute face, had no doubt that he would keep his word, and as each reflected what he must have been through, neither was sorry for Gerald Ainley or had any compunction at the thought of what might happen to him.
The meal was finished without any further reference to the past, and after a smoke, Anderton threw on his furs and went outside. Presently he returned and announced his intention of going up the lake to the Indian encampment.
The weather is going to hold, and it really is of the utmost importance for me to find out whether my man is here or not. I'm not in the best form after my accident this morning, but there's nothing else for it, and if the fellow has left, I shall have to follow at his heels, and wear him down. It is the only way. Duty is duty in my force, I can assure you.
Stane looked at Helen, then he said: "We will accompany you, Anderton. You represent the law, and in your company we are much more likely to receive attention and get what we want than if we go alone, whilst further, if the mysterious visits we have had were hostile in intention, the fact that we are known to you will tend to check them."
Something in that! agreed the policeman.
When Anderton had harnessed his dogs they started off, making directly up the lake, and within two hours sighted about half a score of winter tepees pitched near the store, and with sheltering woods on three sides of them. As they came into view, with the smoke of the fires curling upward in the still air, the policeman nodded.
The end of a journey of two hundred miles; or the beginning of one that may take me into the Barrens, and up to the Arctic. Lord, what a life this is!
He laughed as he spoke, and both those who heard him, knew that he found the life a good one, and was without regret for the choice he had made.
As they drew nearer the camp, two or three men, and perhaps a dozen women, with twice that number of children came from the tepees to look at them, and when the dogs came to a halt, one of the men stepped forward. He was an old man, and withered-looking, but with a light of cunning in his bleared eyes.
What want, he asked. "Me, Chief George."
The policeman looked at the bent figure clothed in mangy-looking furs, with a dirty capote over all, and then gave a swift glance at his companions, the eyelid nearest to them fluttering down in a slow wink. A second later he was addressing the chief in his own tongue.
I come, he said, "from the Great White Chief, to take away one who is a slayer of women. It is said that he has refuge in thy lodges."
The Indian's dirty face gave no sign of any resentment. "There is no such man in my lodges."
But I have heard there is, a man who is the son of thy sister, with a white father.
The old Indian looked as if considering the matter for a moment, then he said slowly. "My sister's son was here, but he departed four days ago."
Whither went he?
The Indian waved his hand northward. "Towards the Great Barrens. He took with him all our dogs."
Done! said the policeman with a quick glance at Stane. "It is certain there are no dogs here, or we should have heard or seen them."
He turned to the Indian again, whilst Stane looked at Helen. "You heard that, Miss Yardely? Our exile is not yet over."
Apparently not, agreed Helen smilingly.
Stane again gave his attention to the conversation between his friend and the Indian, but half a minute later, happening to glance at the girl, he surprised a look of intense interest on her face. She was looking towards a tepee that stood a little apart from the rest, and wondering what it was that interested her, Stane asked, "What is it, Miss Yardely? You seem to have found something very interesting."
Helen laughed a little confusedly. "It was only a girl's face at a tent-door. I was wondering whether the curiosity of my sex would bring her into the open or not."
Stane himself glanced at the tepee in question, the moose-hide flap of which was down. Apparently the girl inside had overcome her curiosity, and preferred the warmth of the tepee to the external cold. He grew absorbed in the conversation again, but Helen still watched the tepee; for the face she had seen was that of Miskodeed, and she knew that the thought she had entertained as to the identity of the woman of mystery, who had fled from the neighbourhood of the cabin, was the right one. Presently a mittened hand drew aside the tent-flap ever so small a way; and Helen smiled to herself.
Though she could see nothing through the tiny aperture so made, she knew, as certainly as if she herself had been standing in the tepee, that Miskodeed was watching them with interested eyes. Unconsciously she drew herself upright, and flashed a challenging glance towards the invisible spectator, visioning the Indian girl's wild beauty and matching it, as a jealous woman will, against her own. Not till Stane addressed her did she take her eyes from the tepee.
Anderton's through, he said. "His man has gone northward; and as you heard there are no dogs here. We shall have to go back to the cabin. Anderton tried to persuade the chief to send a couple of his young men with a message down to Fort Malsun, but the fellow says it is impossible in this weather to make the journey without dogs, which I dare say is true enough."
Then, said the girl with a gay laugh, "we have a further respite."
Respite? he said wonderingly.
Yes—from civilization. I am not absolutely yearning for it yet.
She laughed again as she spoke, and Stane laughed with her, though he did not notice the glance she flashed at the closed tepee. Then Anderton turned abruptly from Chief George.
I'm sorry, he said, "I have done what I could for you two, but this noble red man either won't or can't help you. I shall have to push on, but the first chance I get I'll send word on to Factor Rodwell. If only I could turn back——"
Please don't worry about us, Mr. Anderton, interrupted Helen cheerfully. "We shall be all right."
'Pon my word, I believe you will, Miss Yardely, answered the policeman in admiration. He looked down the lake, and then added: "No use my going back. It will only be time wasted. I will say good-bye here. Keep cheerful, old man," he said to Stane. "You'll work clear of that rotten business at Oxford yet. I feel it in my bones."
Helen moved a little away, and the policeman lowered his voice, "Lucky beggar! You'll ask me to be best man, won't you?"
Best man!
Pooh, man! I've got eyes in my head, haven't I? Without giving Stane a chance to reply, he walked towards Helen.
Keep cheerful, Miss Yardely, and don't let Stane get dumpy about the past.
I think you have effectually saved him from that, she answered quietly.
Jolly glad if I have! He's a good fellow, is Hubert. Till our next meeting! Au revoir, Miss Yardely! So long, Stane! The next moment he turned to his dogs. "Moosh! Moosh—Michele!"
The leading dog gave a little yelp. The harness tightened, and the sled began to move. Ten seconds later the man who carried the law through the frozen North was ahead of his sled, breaking the trail, and Stane and Helen had turned in the direction of their cabin, the girl with one last glance over her shoulder at the tepee, at the opening of which Miskodeed's beautiful face had now revealed itself, her eyes following the man whom once she had done her best to help.
The short Northland day was drawing to a close, when Stane and Helen came in sight of the cabin again. For the first time since he had known it, the man felt that the place had a desolate look; and the feeling was accentuated by the sombre woods that formed the background of the cabin. Whilst yet a hundred yards from it he gave expression to his feeling.
The cabin has a most forlorn look, he said, half-pausing to view it.
Helen, who was very tired, replied, "It certainly looks cheerless in the darkness, but that is because there is no light. A few sticks in the stove and the glare of the fire shining through the parchment window would make it seem cheerful and homey enough."
But—— he broke off suddenly. "Hark. What was that?"
I heard nothing, answered Helen.
Listen, he said.
For perhaps twenty seconds they stood perfectly still, then somewhere in the wood some unseen creature barked. Stane laughed at himself.
A fox! I believe I am getting nervous, he said, beginning to move forward. Helen moved with him, and they entered the cabin together. Striking a match and lighting a slush lamp which he had devised, Stane looked round. Things were just as they had left them on their departure, and he drew a little breath of relief. Why he should do so he could not have explained, any more than he could have explained the feeling of apprehension which had overtaken him. A few minutes passed, and soon the stove was roaring, filling the cabin with a cheerful glow. Then whilst the girl busied herself with preparations for supper, he went outside to bring in more wood. On the return journey, as he kicked open the cabin-door, for a second his slightly stooping form was outlined against the light and in that second he caught sounds which caused him to drop the logs and to jump forward, suddenly. He threw the door to hurriedly and as hurriedly dropped the bar in place. Helen looked round in surprise.
What is it? she asked quickly.
There is some one about, he answered. "I heard the twang of a bowstring and the swish of an arrow over my head. Some one aimed—Ah, there it is!"
He pointed to the wall of the cabin, where an arrow had struck, and still quivered. Going to the wall he dragged it out, and looked at it. It was ivory tipped, and must have been sent with great force. The girl looked at it with eyes that betrayed no alarm, though her face had grown pale.
An Indian! she said.
Yes, he answered. "And more than one I should fancy. That fox-bark was a signal. No doubt it gave notice of our return."
What shall we do? asked Helen quietly.
Do! he answered with a short laugh. "We will have our supper and wait developments. We can do nothing else. We shall have to wait until daylight—then we may learn something."
Helen nodded. "Yes, I suppose there is nothing else to do; and a hostile force outside is no reason why we should die of hunger within."
Calmly, as if hostile Indians were part of the daily program, she continued the preparations for supper, whilst Stane fixed a blanket over the parchment window, which was the one vulnerable point in the cabin. This he wedged with the top of a packing case, which the owner of the cabin had improvised for a shelf, and by the time he had finished, supper was almost ready. As they seated themselves at the table, the girl laughed suddenly.
I suppose we are in a state of siege?
I don't know, but I should not be surprised. It is very likely.
I feel quite excited, she said. "Do you think we shall have to fight?"
It depends what the intentions of our friends outside may be. We shall certainly have to be on the alert.
You mean we shall have to keep watch.
That I think will be necessary. They might try to rush the cabin, though I do not think they will. It is pretty solidly built.
Why should Indians attack us?
I do not know. They may think that we are interfering with their hunting-rights.
Perhaps this hostility explains why the owner of the cabin has not returned.
That is possible. This is a good fur country; but he may have felt that the furs were not worth the risk.
Yes! answered Helen, and after a moment's silence asked: "Do you think those Indians up the lake have anything to do with it?"
That is more than possible, indeed, it is very likely. I did not like that old chief. There was a very cunning look in his eyes and it is very possible that he designs to get rid of both us and Anderton. The mysterious visitants we have had, and the man in the wood this morning have a rather ominous look.
But we shall fight them?
Of course! If they are going to fight, we shall fight; though for your sake I hope that won't be necessary.
Oh, you must not mind me, was the reply, given with a little laugh. "The truth is that I think I should rather enjoy a fight."
Stane gave her a quick look of admiration. "I know you will not be afraid," he said, "and if Anderton gets through it may not be long before help arrives. Also it must be remembered that we may be disturbing ourselves unnecessarily. That," he nodded towards the arrow—"may be no more than the malicious freak of some hunter returning home, and meant to scare us."
But you do not think so? asked Helen, looking at his grave face.
Well—— he began, but the girl interrupted him.
You don't, she cried. "I know you don't. You have already admitted that you think the matter is serious, as I do myself, though I don't pretend to know anything about Indians. In a situation of this sort the truth is the best, and I know, we both know, that there is some occasion for concern. Is not that so?"
Well, he agreed, "we can't be too careful."
Then tell me what we must do, she said a little reproachfully, "and don't make me feel that I am a child."
He considered a moment, then he replied: "We must keep watch and watch through the night. Not that I think there will be any attack. These Northern Indians are wonderfully patient. They will play a waiting game, and in the end make a surprise attack. They will know that now we are on the alert, and I should not be surprised if for the present they have withdrawn altogether."
You really believe that?
Honestly and truly!
Then for the moment we are safe.
Yes! I think so; and you can go to rest with a quiet mind.
Rest! laughed the girl. "Do you think I can rest with my heart jumping with excitement? I shall keep the first watch, perhaps after that I shall be sufficiently tired—and bored—to go to sleep."
Stane smiled at her words, and admiration of her courage glowed in his eyes, but what she suggested fitted in well enough with his own desires, and he let her have her way, and himself lay down on his couch of spruce-boughs, and after a little time pretended to sleep. But in reality sleep was far from his eyes. From where he lay, he could see the girl's face, as she sat in the glowing light of the stove. There was a thoughtful, musing look upon it, but no sign of fear whatever, and he knew that her courageous demeanour was not an assumed one, but was the true index of the gay courage of her heart.
Helen was thinking of the face of Miskodeed as she had seen it over her shoulder, when they were departing from the encampment up the lake. She had read there a love for the man who was her own companion, and in the dark, wildly beautiful eyes she had seen the jealousy of an undisciplined nature. And as she sat in the glowing light of the stove, she was conscious of a feeling of antagonism to this rare daughter of the wilds who dared to love the man whom she herself loved. She understood, from the feelings she herself was conscious of, what must be the Indian girl's attitude towards herself, and was inclined to trace the hostility which had suddenly manifested itself to that source. The girl had been in the neighbourhood of the cabin once, she was sure of that, and might have come again, probably by some short path through the woods, her hand, possibly, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow which had awakened their apprehensions. But in that case, she asked herself, why had the arrow been directed against her companion rather than herself?
That she could not understand, and after a time her thoughts passed to the story which Stane had related to the policeman, and the account of the forged bill that the latter had given. The two together seemed absolutely conclusive. What a man had done once on the way of crime, he could do again, and as her conviction of Gerald Ainley's guilt grew, she was quite sure that somehow he was the moving spirit in her companion's deportation from Fort Malsun. He had not expected to see Hubert Stane, and when the latter had demanded an interview he had been afraid, and in his fear had taken steps for his removal. Ainley loved her; but now, if he were the last man left in the world, she would never——
A sound of movement interrupted her reverie, and she half-turned as Stane rose from his spruce-couch.
You have heard nothing? he asked.
Nothing! she replied.
I will take the watch now, Miss Yardely, and do you lie down and rest.
I will lie down, she said with a little laugh, "but I am afraid sleep will be another matter. My mind is in a ferment."
You can try at any rate, he said. "I will call you if any untoward thing occurs."
You promise? she asked. "I wouldn't miss one bit of anything that is happening—not for worlds."
I promise, he answered with a smile.
Though I devoutly hope there will be no need for me to keep the promise.
I'm not at all sure I do, laughed Helen, and obediently retired to her screened bunk.
Stane lit his pipe, and seated himself near the stove. He had, as he had previously told the girl, little fear of any attack developing that night, and this anticipation proved to be the correct one. The still, dead hours passed in quietness, and when the grey day broke, he cautiously opened the cabin-door and looked out. Nothing stirred anywhere, either in the forest or lakewards. He turned and looked at his companion who had just emerged from her sleeping place.
I think we have our little world to ourselves again.
Whoever made the attack may be lurking in the woods! said Helen.
That of course is more than possible, but I do not think it is likely. It is extremely cold and a night in the open would be anything but desirable. The attacker or attackers, if from the Indian encampment, probably returned there. They must know that we can't leave here, and they will probably try to lull us into a feeling of security, and then attempt a surprise. Anyway after breakfast we'll beat the neighbouring coverts, I don't fancy being kept indoors by an enemy who may prove to be very contemptible.
When breakfast was finished and the necessary morning tasks finished, Stane, who had been in and out of the hut frequently and had kept a careful watch on the wood and lake, looked at Helen.
Do you feel equal to facing the possible danger, Miss Yardely?
I am not afraid, answered Helen quickly, "and if I were I wouldn't own it—or show it, I hope."
I don't believe you would, replied Stane with a smile. "We will go out, first on the lake where we can survey the shore; and then along the path in the woods where we saw that man yesterday."
About that man, said Helen slowly. "There was something that I meant to tell you yesterday, but I forgot it again in the excitement of Mr. Anderton's arrival."
What was that? asked Stane pausing in the act of slipping on his fur parka.
Well, I had an odd fancy that he was not an Indian.
You thought he was a white man?
Yes, answered Helen, "that idea occurred to me when you spoke of Indians. The man may have been a native, but in the fleeting glimpse I had of him he did not give me that impression. Of course I may be utterly mistaken."
But what white man would run away from us? asked Stane, thoughtfully. "What could possibly be his reason for avoiding us?"
I don't know, answered Helen, with a quick laugh. "And as it may be no more than my fancy, the question of the man's racial identity is not worth worrying over. I merely thought I would tell you what my impression was."
Stane nodded. "Anyway, white or red he is not going to keep us from our walk. Are you ready?"
Quite, she answered, and going outside they slipped on their snow-shoes, and then made a bee-line out on the lake.
They walked forward for perhaps half-a-mile and halted at a point whence they got a wide view of the shore. Stane looked up and down the lake. Its smooth white surface was absolutely without life but for his companion and himself. Then he scrutinized the shore, point by point, creek by creek, and Helen also looked carefully.
No sign of any one, he commented at last. "No camp or fire, we might be alone in the world. If there is any one he is hidden in the deep woods, and for the present invisible. I think instead of going back to the cabin we will make a detour to the point where we surprised the stranger yesterday."
Stane leading, to break the track in the untrodden snow, they made their way shorewards and struck it well to the north of the cabin, then began to work through the woods, keeping a sharp look out as they went. They saw nothing, however, and when they reached the bushes behind which the stranger had slipped the previous day, there were no fresh tracks to awaken alarm. They stood there looking down between the serried lines of trees. Nothing save the trees was visible, and there was no sound of movement anywhere. The silence was the silence of primeval places, and somehow, possibly because of the tenseness of nerve induced by the circumstances of the walk, the girl was more conscious of it than ever she had been before.
There is something inimical in the silence up here, she said in a whisper, as she gave a little shudder. "One has a feeling as if all the world of nature were lying in wait to ambush one."
Nature red in tooth and claw, Stane quoted lightly, "only up here her teeth are white, and her claws also. And when she bares them a man has little chance. But I understand your feeling, one has the sense of a besetting menace. I felt it often last winter when I was new to the country, and it is a very nasty feeling—as if malign gods were at work to destroy one, or as if fate were about to snip with her scissors."
Yes, answered the girl, still whisperingly, then she smiled. "I have never felt quite like this before. I suppose it rises out of the real menace that may be hidden in the woods, the menace of some one watching and waiting to strike."
Very possible, answered Stane, flashing a quick look at her. He was looking for the sign of fear, but found none, and a second later he said abruptly: "Miss Yardely, I think you are very brave."
Oh, laughed the girl in some confusion, "I don't know that, but I hope I am not below the general average of my sex."
You are above it, he said with emphasis. "And I know that this, even for the bravest of women, must be rather a nerve-breaking walk."
I won't deny that I find it so, was the reply. "But I am sustained by an ideal."
Indeed? he asked inquiringly.
Yes! Years ago I read about some English women in India who were at a military station when the Mutiny broke out. The regiments in the neighbourhood were suspected of disloyalty and any sign of fear or panic would have precipitated a catastrophe. If the women had left, the Sepoys would have known that they were suspected, so they remained where they were, attending to their households, paying their ordinary calls, riding about the district as if the volcano were not bubbling under their feet, and they even got up a ball in defiance of the danger. Some people would call the latter mere bravado, but I am sure it was just a picturesque kind of courage, and in any case it impressed the Sepoys. Those particular regiments remained loyal—and it was the behaviour of the white women which saved the situation. And their courage is my ideal. I have always felt that if I were placed in a similar situation I would at least try to live up to it.
You are doing so, answered Stane with conviction. "This situation is not quite the same, but——" He broke off and looked round the silent woods, which might well be the hiding-place of implacable enemies, then added: "Well, it is a test of character and courage!"
Oh, laughed the girl a little nervously, "you do not know how I am quaking inwardly."
I am not to blame for that, he answered laughingly, "you conceal the fact so well."
In due time they reached the cabin without mishap. They had found no sign of the enemy of the previous night. If he still lurked in the wood he kept himself hidden and Stane hoped that he had withdrawn for good. But he determined to take no chances, and busied himself in the next few hours with cutting a good store of wood which he stacked in the cabin. He also chopped a considerable amount of ice which he stored as far away from the stove as possible. Some cached moose-meat, which was frozen solid as a board, he hung on the rafters of the cabin, which themselves were white with frost.
The short day had almost ended when he had completed these tasks, and he was about to enter the cabin, when through the dusk he caught sight of a figure, standing among the trees openly watching him. The garb proclaimed the figure to be that of a woman, and for a moment he was utterly startled. Then, acting on impulse, he started to walk towards the watcher, his unmittened hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip.
The watching woman made no attempt to escape, but somewhat to Stane's surprise, awaited his coming. As he drew nearer he was again startled to find that it was the girl whom he had talked with at Fort Malsun.
Miskodeed, he cried in surprise. "You! What are you doing here?"
I come to warn thee, said the girl in her own dialect. "Once before I did that, and I was too late. But now I am in time."
To warn me? he echoed, still too surprised to say more.
Yes, answered Miskodeed. "There are those who will seek to kill thee tonight."
Tonight! But why?
I do not know, fully. The thing is hidden from me, but there is some one who means to slay.
Who is it? asked Stane in sudden curiosity.
It is the son of Chief George's sister—the man for whom the officer came to the encampment yesterday.
Then he is at the camp, after all?
He was there when the officer came. The story which Chief George told about his departure to the Great Barrens was a lie.
But why should he seek to kill me?
Have I not said I do not know fully? But he promises big things if thou are slain: rifles and the water that burns and makes men sing, and tea and molasses, and blankets for the women.
But, protested Stane, "I have but one rifle and little spirit and tea. I am not worth plundering, and Chief George must know that the law will take account of his doings, and that the grip of the law reaches right up to the Frozen Sea."
He knows, answered the girl quietly, "but Chigmok—that is his sister's son—has filled him with a lying tale that the law will take no account of thee, and he believes, as Chigmok himself believes."
But—— began Stane, and broke off as the girl lifted her hand.
Chief George has seen the rifles, and the burning water, the box of tea and the bale of blankets, and his soul is hungry for them. He would kill more than thee to win them.
And the—the man who is with me?
A little flash came in the girl's dark eyes. "That man——" she said in a voice that had an edge like a knife, "tell me, is she thy squaw?"
Then you know, Miskodeed? he said, with a quick feeling of shame.
I know that man is the bright-faced woman who came to Fort Malsun. Tell me, is she thy squaw?
No? he answered sharply. "No!"
Then what does she in thy lodge?
That is due to an accident. She drifted down to the great river, and I saved her from the water, and started to take her back to Fort Malsun. Our canoe was stolen in the night, and when we took the land-trail my leg was broken and we were delayed, and by the time I was fit for travel, winter was upon us, so we sought the cabin to wait for help. That is the explanation, and now tell me, Miskodeed, is the woman to die?
The bright-faced one is to be saved alive.
Ah! That is an order?
It is necessary for the winning of the rifles, and the tea and the blankets.
Stane pursed his lips to whistle at the news. There was more behind it than appeared; and he knew that Chigmok the murderous half-breed was not the framer of the plot, however, he might be the instrument for its execution. He looked at the girl thoughtfully for a moment, and as he did so a soft look came in the wild, dark eyes that were regarding him intently.
Canst thou not leave the bright-faced woman, and I will show thee a way through the woods. We will go together——
It is impossible! Quite impossible, Miskodeed, cried Stane almost violently.
He did not know that other ears than those to which they were addressed caught those words of repudiation. Helen Yardely, missing his presence about the cabin, had stepped out to look for him, and catching a murmur of voices in the still air, had stood listening. The words, coupled with the girl's name, reached her quite clearly, and struck her like a blow. She did not wait to hear more, but retreated to the cabin, her cheeks burning with shame, her grey eyes bright with fierce scorn. She did not know to what the words referred, but, in her haste and jealousy she utterly misinterpreted the situation, and her scorn was as much for herself as for Stane as she thought how she had grown to love a man who——
The thought was an intolerable one. She could not endure it, and she began fiercely to do a totally unnecessary task in the hope of driving it from her. That was impossible, and after a minute or two she seated herself in front of the stove and stared into its glow with eyes that flashed with mingled anger and pain, the while she awaited Stane's return.
Meanwhile, the interview which had kindled such fires within her had already come to an abrupt conclusion. For as Stane declined her suggestion Miskodeed lifted a warning finger.
Hark! she whispered.
Stane listened, as did the girl. Whatever sound had made her speak the word was hushed, and after a few seconds she spoke again. "Then thou wilt die for this bright-faced woman?"
A thousand times! he answered with quiet vehemence. "Understand, Miskodeed——"
He got no further. In the recesses of the wood a fox barked sharply, and a second later the sound was repeated in two different directions.
Ah, cried the Indian girl, "They come. Thou art too late. Thou wilt die for thy bright-faced woman now—once."
A second later she turned away, and began to walk rapidly between the trees. Stane did not stand to watch her go. Without an instant's delay he made for the cabin at a run, and as he entered it, breathing rather heavily, he flung to the door and dropped the wooden bar in place. Then without a word he walked to the window and barricaded it as he had done on the previous night. Helen still seated by the stove looked at him in some wonder, and he offered what to him appeared a sufficient explanation.
Last night when we returned a fox barked in the wood, and a little after some one shot an arrow to kill me. Just now three foxes barked in quick succession in different directions, and as I have not seen a fox since we came here, I think it is as well to take precautions.
To his surprise Helen offered no comment, but sat there as if waiting for further explanations. He offered none. Being unaware of his companion's knowledge of his interview with Miskodeed he had decided to keep the incident to himself, and not to alarm her more than was necessary. Seating himself, he lit a pipe, and as his companion showed no inclination to talk, fell into thought. There was a rather strained, perplexed look on his face, and as the girl glanced at him once she wondered resentfully what thoughts accounted for it. His silence about the Indian girl told against him in her mind. If there had been nothing to be ashamed of in his relations with Miskodeed why had he not spoken openly of the incident in the wood? Jealousy, it was recorded of old, is as cruel as the grave, and as the hot flame of it grew in her heart, she almost hated the girl who was the occasion of it.
As a matter of sober fact, Stane was thinking little of Miskodeed herself, but much of the information she had brought. Whilst he kept his ears open for any unusual sounds outside the cabin, his mind was trying to probe the mystery behind the attack that, as he was sure, was preparing. Who was the inspirer of it, and why should his death be designed, whilst his companion must be spared? Miskodeed had spoken of the price that was to be paid for the attack—rifles and spirit, tea, molasses and blankets. The nature of the bribe was such as would tempt any tribe in the North and was also such as implied a white man in the background. But who was the white man who so chose his instruments for a deed from which apparently he himself shrank? The question perplexed him, and a deep furrow manifested itself between his eyes as he strove to answer it. Ainley? He dallied with the thought for a little time, and then dismissed it. Ainley was afraid of him and shrank from meeting him, but he would hardly go to such lengths as Miskodeed's statement implied; nor would he involve Helen Yardely's life in the extreme risk incidental to an attack in force on the cabin. It was unthinkable!
His mind sought other explanations. Was there some other man, some white man who had seen Helen and by this means hoped to secure her for himself? The thought was preposterous. Then a new thought leaped up. The reward Sir James was offering for his niece's recovery! Had some man his eye on that—some unscrupulous adventurer, who fearing possibly that he himself might claim a share in it, proposed to get rid of him that there might be no division of the spoil? That seemed barely feasible, and——
His thought suffered a sudden interruption. From outside came the crunch of moccasined feet on the frozen snow. He started to his feet, and took up his rifle, glancing quickly at the girl as he did so. There was a flush of excitement in her face, but the eyes that met his chilled him with their unresponsiveness. He held out his machine pistol.
You had better have this, for the present, Miss Yardely, for I believe the attack is coming. But don't use it unless I tell you.
She took the pistol without a word, and the austerity of her manner as she did so, even in that moment, set him wondering what was the cause of it. But he had little time to dwell upon the matter for more footsteps were audible, and a voice grunted words that he did not catch. He picked up an ax, put it ready to his hand close to the door and then extinguished the slush-lamp.
The cabin was now full of shadows, though he could still see the girl's face in the glare of the stove, and marked with satisfaction that it bore no sign of fear. The position where she stood, however, was not a safe one, and he was constrained to bid her change it.
You had better come into the corner here, Miss Yardely. It is out of range of any chance arrow through the window. That barricade of mine cannot last long, and they are sure to try the window.
The girl did not answer, but she changed her position, moving to the corner he had indicated, and just as she did so, two or three blows of an ax (as he guessed) knocked out the parchment of the window, but the barricade stood firm. The attack however, continued, and as the improvised shutter began to yield, Stane raised his rifle.
There is nothing else for it, he whispered.
The next moment the rifle cracked and the sound was followed by a cry of pain.
First blood! he said, a little grimly.
There was a short lull, then something heavy smashed against the shutter and it collapsed in the room. As it did so a gun barrel was thrust in the opening, and a shot was fired apparently at random. The bullet struck the cabin wall a full two yards from where Helen was standing. Stane turned to her quickly.
As close in the corner as you can get, Miss Yardely; then there will be no danger except from a ricochet.
Helen obeyed him. The excitement of the moment banished her resentment, and as she watched him standing there, cool and imperturbable as he waited events, a frank admiration stirred within her. Whatever his sins, he was a man!
Then came a new form of attack. Arrows fired from different angles began to fly through the open space, making a vicious sound as they struck various parts of the cabin. Stane calculated the possible angles of their flight and gave a short laugh. "They're wasting labour now. That dodge won't work."
The flight of arrows, however, continued for a little time, then followed that which Stane had begun to fear. The space of the window suddenly grew plainer, outlined by a glow outside, and the next moment three blazing armfuls of combustible material were heaved in at the window. Stane fired twice during the operation, but whether he hit or not he did not know. One of the burning bundles fell in the bunk, which was soon ablaze, and the cabin began to fill with smoke. At the same time the besieged became aware of a fierce crackling outside, and the outlook in the snow-covered lake was illumined by a growing glow. Stane understood the meaning of the phenomenon at once, and looked at the girl.
They are trying to burn down the cabin, he said. "I am afraid it is a choice of evils, Miss Yardely. We must either stay here, and die of suffocation or fire, or face the music outside."
Then let us go outside, answered the girl resolutely.
I do not believe they will injure you. I believe that they have orders to the contrary, but——
Did Miskodeed tell you so?
For the moment he was utterly staggered by the question, then perceiving that she knew of his recent interview with the Indian girl, he answered frankly:
Yes! You are to be taken alive, but I am to die, according to the program as arranged!
Oh, no! no! she cried in sudden anguish. "You must not die. You must fight! You must live! live! I do not want you to die!"
In the growing light in the burning cabin he could see her face quite plainly, and the anguished concern in her eyes shook him as the dangers around him never could have done. Moved for a moment beyond himself, he stretched a hand towards her.
My dear! he stammered. "My dear——"
Oh then you know that I am that? she cried.
I have known it for months!
She made a little movement that brought her closer to him, and yielding to the surging impulse in his heart, he threw an arm round her.
If you die—— she began, and broke off as a gust of smoke rolled over them.
I think it is very likely, he answered. "But I am glad to have had this moment."
He stooped and kissed her, and a sob came from her.
I shall die too! she said. "We will die together—but it would have been splendid to live."
But you will live, he said. "You must live. There is no need that you should die."
But what shall I live for? she cried. "And why am I to be spared? Have you thought of that?"
Yes, he answered quickly, and gave her a hurried account of his own thought upon the matter. "If I am right no harm will befall you. And we must go. It is time. Look!"
A little tongue of flame was creeping through the joining of the logs at one end of the cabin, and the logs where the bunk had been were beginning to crackle and hiss ominously. The smoke had grown thicker, and the atmosphere was pungent and choking in its quality. He left her side for a moment, and returned with her furs.
You must put them on, he said, "or you will freeze outside."
He himself had slipped on his own furs, and when he had helped her into hers, he took his rifle and nodded towards the pistol which she still held.
You need not use it—outside, he said. "Keep it for—for eventualities. You understand?"
I understand, she answered calmly, knowing that in the last resource she was to do what many women of her race had done before her.
I will go first, he said. "And you must wait a full minute before emerging. I shall try and make for the woods at the back, and if I get clear you shall follow me—you understand?"
Oh my man! my man! she cried in a shaking voice, knowing that though he spoke lightly, he had little hope of escape.
Not knowing what to say, or how to comfort her, Stane took her in his arms again, and kissed her, then for a moment he stood listening. Outside all was still or whatever sounds there were were drowned by the increasing roar and crackle of the fire.
Now! he said. "Now!"
He slipped down the bar, threw the door open suddenly and plunged outside. A yell greeted his emergence and he was aware of a small group of men standing a little way from the cabin. As he ran he fired at them from the hip; and turned sharply to the left. The two men appeared suddenly from behind the trees to bar his way, so quickly that he had not time to fire the rifle before one of them grappled with him. The rifle fell from his hand, and for a moment they struggled, then whilst the second man was still running, a shadowy figure slipped from behind a broad trunk close to where the two men were locked together, and Stane caught the sudden gleam of a knife as the light from the fire glinted upon it. He was unable to help himself, and, held in his antagonist's arms, he waited for the impending stroke. Twice the knife descended, and his opponent's grip suddenly slackened and the man slid slowly to the ground. The running man had now reached the scene of the struggle. He carried a hatchet in his hand, and he struck first at the unknown one who had killed his companion, and the unknown one went down like a log. Before Stane had recovered from his surprise the ax was raised again. He leaped at the man just as the ax descended. An intervening bough turned the stroke, twisting the ax so that it caught the side of his head, knocking him senseless. As he fell to the ground, the Indian raised the ax once more. Before the blow could fall, a rifle cracked in the wood behind him, and the attacker leaped in the air, and pitched forward upon his face.
"Ah! Dat better! By gar, but I think it was New Jerusalem for you dis time!"
The words penetrated Stane's consciousness as he opened his eyes, and were followed by others which he obeyed instinctively. "Tak' anoder drink. Zee whisky veel vake you proper."
He gulped from the tin pannikin which was held to his lips, and coughed as the raw, potent spirit burned his throat. Then he sat up and looked at the man who was befriending him.
Who ... who are you? he asked weakly.
I am Jean Bènard. I come up zee lak' an' hear shots an' I see my cabin blaze like hell. I tink somethin' ver' badly wrong an' I turn to zee woods. Den I see you rush out an' I hear you shoot as you run. I see dat big man struggle with you, I see him keeled by anoder who go down, aussi, and when zee man with zee ax mak' for you I begin to shoot. I am in zee wood, an' zee divils they do not see me, an' I pick off un, deux, trois! Dey are dere still, after dey others grow afraid an' run like caribou with zee wolves at dere heels. It ees fine sport, an' I shoot as dey ran, an' presently I am left alone. I shovel snow wit' a snow-shoe on my burning cabin, for I love dat petite cabin like a child, an' den I tink I take a look at you. You not dead, so I pour hot whisky in your mouth an' you return from zee happy-huntin' grounds. Dere you have zee whole narrative.
But Helen? cried Stane, looking round. "Where——"
I haf seen not any mees! answered the trapper. "I did not know dat dere was——"
Then they have taken her, exclaimed Stane, staggering to his feet, and looking round.
Jean Bènard also looked round. Except for the figures lying prone in the snow they were quite alone. "Dey must haf done," he said, "eef dere was a mees!"
He looked at Stane, as if he doubted his sanity and Stane reassured him. "Oh I have not gone mad, Bènard. There was a white girl with me in your cabin, Miss Yardely. You must have heard——"
Mees Yardely! She ees here? cried the trapper in sudden excitement.
She was here! corrected Stane. "I think she has been carried off. We must follow!"
Oui! Oui! replied Bènard. "I haf heard of her. The factor at Fort Malsun, he tell me to keep a bright look-out. Dere ees a reward——"
We must get her! interrupted Stane. "You must help me and I will double the reward. You understand?"
Oui, I understand, m'sieu. Dis girl she ees mooch to you?
She is all the world to me.
Den we go, m'sieu. But first we feed an' rest zee dogs. We travel queeck, after, vous comprenez? I will a meal make, an' your head it will recover, den we travel lik' zee wind.
The trapper made his way into the still smouldering hut, and began to busy himself with preparations, whilst Stane looked round again. The darkness, and the figures lying in the snow gave the scene an indescribable air of desolation, and for a moment he stood without moving; then, as something occurred to him, he began to walk towards the place where he had been struck down. Three figures lay there huddled grotesquely in the snow, and to one of them he owed his life. Which of them was it? Two of the dead lay with their faces in the snow, but the third was on its back, face upward to the sky. He stood and looked into the face. It was that of the man whom he had grappled, and who had been struck down with the knife that he had expected to strike himself. He looked at the other two. An ax lay close to the hand of one, and he had no doubt that that one was the man who would have slain him. The third one was his saviour. He looked again, and as he noted the dress a cold fear gripped his heart, for it was the dress of a woman. He fell on his knees and turned the body over, then he bent over the face. As he did so, he started back, and a sharp cry came from his lips. The cry brought Jean Bènard from the hut at a run.
What ees it, m'sieu? he asked as he reached Stane who knelt there as if turned to stone.
It is a dead girl, answered Stane, brokenly—"a girl who gave her life for mine."
The trapper bent over the prostrate form, then he also cried out.
Miskodeed!
Yes! Miskodeed. I did not know it was she! She killed one of them with her knife, and she was slain by the other.
Whom I keel with the bullet! For a moment Jean Bènard said no more, but when he spoke again there was a choking sound in his voice. "I am glad I keel dat man! eef I haf not done so, I follow heem across zee world till it was done." Something like a sob checked his utterance. "Ah, m'sieu, I love dat girl. I say to myself all zee way from Good Hope dat I weel her marry, an' I haf the price I pay her fader on zee sledge. I see her las' winter; but I not know den how it ees with me; but when I go away my heart cry out for her, an' my mind it ees make up.... An' now she ees dead! I never tink of dat! I tink only of zee happy years dat we weel haf togeder!"
He dropped suddenly in the snow, and bent over the face in its frozen beauty, sobbing as only a strong man can. He bent lower and kissed the ice-cold lips, whilst Stane staggered to his feet, and moved away. He could not endure to look on Jean Bènard's grief. As he stood staring into the darkness of the wood, he had a flashing memory of the Indian girl's face as she had whisperingly asked him if he could not leave Helen, the very note in her voice sounded in his ears, and, he knew what it was no harm for him to know then, that this child of the wilderness had given him her love, unsought. She had loved him, and she had died for him, whilst a man who had loved her, now wept over her poor body. The tragedy of it all shook him, and the irony of Jean Bènard's grief was almost beyond endurance. A great humility filled his heart, and whilst he acquitted himself of blame, he regretted deeply his vehemence of repudiation. All her words came back to him in a flood. She must have guessed that he loved Helen; yet in the greatness of her love, she had risked her life without hope, and died for him without shrinking.
He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean Bènard still knelt in the snow. The trapper's face was hidden in his mittened hands. For a moment Stane hesitated, then he placed a hand on the man's shoulder.
Jean Bènard, he said quietly, "there is work to do."
Bènard rose slowly to his feet, and in the little light reflected from the snow Stane read the grief of the man's heart in his face.
Oui! m'sieu! We must her bury; ma petite Miskodeed.
That, yes! But there is other work.
I could not endure to tink dat zee wolves get her——
I will help you, Jean. And then you will help me.
Non! m'sieu. Help I do not need. I weel myself do zee las' duty for ma pauvre Miskodeed. My hands that would haf held an' fondled her, dey shall her prepare; an' I dat would haf died for her—I shall her bury. You, m'sieu, shall say zee prayer, for I haf not zee religion, but——
Call me when you are ready! interrupted Stane, and turned away, finding the situation intolerably poignant.
He went to the hut, and busied himself with the meal which the trapper had been preparing, and presently Jean Bènard called him.
The man had swathed the dead girl in a blanket and had bent the tops of a couple of small spruce, growing close together, almost to the ground, holding them in position with a sled thong. To the trees he had lashed the corpse, and he was standing by with a knife in his hand.
Zee ground, he said in a steady voice, "ees too frozen to dig. We bury Miskodeed in zee air; an' when zee spring winds blow an' the ground grow soft again, I dig a grave. Now eef m'sieu ees ready we will haf zee words of religion."
Stane, almost choked at the poignant irony of the thing, then shaped his lips to the great words that would have been strange if not unmeaning to the dead girl.
I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead yet shall he live....
For the comfort of the man, who stood by knife in hand, he recited every word that he could remember, and when he reached the words, "We therefore commit her body to the grave," the keen knife severed the moose-hide thong, and the trees, released, bent back, carrying the girl's body to its windy sepulchre, amid a shower of snow that scattered from the neighbouring trees. Stane pronounced the benediction, waited a few moments, then again he put a hand on the other's shoulder.
Bènard, we have done what we can for the dead; now we must think of the living.
Oui, m'sieu!
You must eat! I have prepared a meal. And when you have eaten and the dogs are ready we must start on the trail of Miss Yardely.
Oui, m'sieu.
They returned to the hut together, and noting that some of the outer logs were still smouldering, the trapper shovelled snow against them with his snow-shoes, then they entered. The cabin was not so badly burned as Stane had expected to find it. The bunk had burned out, but the inner wall of the cabin had scarcely caught and the place was still tenable. Bènard blocked the window, and they sat down to eat. For a time the meal progressed in silence, Stane deliberately refraining from speech out of consideration for the feelings of his companion, though from time to time glancing at him he caught an expression of perplexity on the trapper's face. Suddenly Bènard spoke.
But, m'sieu, I do not understand eet. You haf no quarrel with zee tribe?
None, answered Stane, and then told him the facts communicated to him by Miskodeed.
Ah! then, m'sieu, dere ees a white man at zee back of things. Dat Chigmok, he ees no good, he what you call a rotter, but he not dare to do this ting heemself.
That is how I feel, answered Stane. "But how we are to get at the truth of the matter, I do not know."
We weel go to zee encampment. We weel mak' Chief George tell zee truth.
If we can! commented Stane dubiously.
As you say, eef we can. But somethings we shall learn, m'sieu, dat ees certain.
I hope so, Jean.
An hour afterwards they started, following the trail up the lake left by the fugitives, a broadly marked trail, which revealed that a sledge had been used, for there were the marks of the runners both coming and going. As they started, the trapper pointed this out.
You see, m'sieu, dey come prepared. Dey know dat your Helen she weel not walk; therefore dey bring zee sled, an' lash her thereto.
Yes! That seems likely, agreed Stane, his heart aflame with wrath at the thought of the possible indignities to which the girl might have been subjected. In silence they travelled up the lake, and after a time reached the place where the moose-hide tepees lifted their shadowy forms against the background of snow and trees. The camp was dark and silent as a place of the dead. For a moment the thought that the whole tribe had moved away, deserting their tents, held Stane's mind; but it was dispelled by the whisper of Jean Bènard.
Do you stay here with zee dogs, m'sieu, whilst I go drag out Chief George. Have zee rifle ready; an' eef dere is trouble, be prompt at zee shootin'. Vous comprenez?
Yes, answered Stane, "if there is trouble I will not hesitate."
He stood with the rifle ready, watching Bènard's progress across the snow. He saw him reach the chief's tepee, and throw open the moose-hide flap, then disappear inside. He waited for what seemed an intolerable time, and once heard a rustle from the nearest tepee, and divined that in spite of the stillness of the camp, quick eyes were watching the doings of his companion and himself. Then he caught a coughing grunt, and out of the tepee which the trapper had entered, emerged two forms, the first bent and shambling, the other that of Jean Bènard. They picked their way, walking close together, between the moose-hide tents, and as they drew near the sledge, Stane saw that the shambling form was that of Chief George, and that he walked with the muzzle of the trapper's pistol in the small of his back.
We weel go forwards up zee lak' a leetle way, m'sieu, out of arrow-shot. Den Chief George he weel talk or die.
They marched up the lake five hundred yards or more, the camp behind them maintaining the silence of the dead, then Bènard halted.
Now, he said, "we weel talk!"
Pointing his pistol at the Indian and speaking in the patois of the tribe, he addressed him.
What means the attack upon my cabin?
I know nothing, mumbled the Indian, shaking with fear or cold. "It was Chigmok—my sister's son—who led the young men away."
So! But thou hast seen the rifles and the burning water, the blankets, the tea and the molasses which are the price to be paid. I know that thou hast seen them. At the words the Chief started a little, then he made a mumbling admission:
Yes, I have seen them. They are a great price.
But who pays?
I know not. A white man, that is all I know. The rest is known to Chigmok alone.
Bènard considered the answer for a moment, and entertaining no doubt that it was the true one, wasted no further time in that direction.
Whither has the white maiden been carried?
Chief George waved his hand to the East. "Through the woods to the lake of Little Moose, there to meet the man who pays the price."
These words are the words of truth? asked the trapper, harshly. "If thou liest——"
Wherefore should I lie, since so much is already known to thee? interrupted the Indian.
It would be unwise, agreed Bènard, and then asked: "What is to be done to the white girl by the man who pays the price?"
I know not; belike he will take her for his squaw, or wherefore should he pay so great a price?
Bènard looked at Stane. "Dere ees nothing more dat he can tell. I sure of dat, an' we waste time."
Yes! Let him go.
The trapper nodded and then addressed the Indian once more. "Thou wilt go back to thy lodge now, but this is not the end. For the evil that hath been done the price will have to be paid. Later the men of the law, the riders-of-the-plains, will come and thee they will take——"
It is Chigmok, my sister's son, who planned——
But it is thee they will take for punishment and Chigmok also. Now go!
Chief George waited for no second bidding, but began to shamble off across the snow towards his encampment. The two men watched him go, in silence for a little time, and then Stane spoke.
This lake of the Little Moose, where is it?
About sixteen miles to zee East. It ees known to me. A leetle lak' desolate as hell, in zee midst of hills. We weel go there, an' find dis white man an' Mees Yardely.
We must make speed or the man may be gone, responded Stane.
Oui, I know! We weel travel through zee night. There be two ways thither, the one through zee woods an' zee oder between zee hills. Zee way of zee woods ees zee mos' easy, but dat of zee hills ees shorter. We weel take dat, an' maybe we give Chigmok and his white man one surprise.
Under the light of the stars, and helped by the occasional flashing light of the aurora, they travelled up the lake for some distance, then leaving its surface they turned abruptly eastward, following an unbroken trail through a country which began rapidly to alter in character. The great woods thinned out and the way they followed took an upward swing, whilst a steady wind with the knife-edge cold of the North began to blow in their faces. Stane at the gee-pole of the sledge, bent his head before the sharp particles of ice-like snow that it brought with it, and grew anxious lest they should be the vanguard of a storm. But looking up he saw the stars clear overhead, and guessing that the particles came from the trees and the high ground on either side of them, his fears left him.
Then a new and very real trouble assailed him. He began to have cramps in the calves of his legs, and it seemed as if his muscles were tying themselves into knots. Sharp pains in the groin made it a torture to lift his feet above the level of the snow; and once or twice he could have groaned with the pain. But he set his teeth grimly, and endured it in silence, thinking of the girl moving somewhere ahead in the hands of a lawless and ruthless man. He knew that the torture he was suffering was what was known among the voyageurs as mal de roquette, induced by a considerable tramp on snow-shoes after a long spell of inactivity, and that there was no relief from it, until it should gradually pass away of its own accord.
The trail was not an easy one, and the dogs whined as they bent to the collars, but Jean Bènard, with a frame of iron and with muscles like steel-springs marched steadily on, for what to Stane seemed hours, then in the shelter of a cliff crowned with trees he called a halt.
We rest here, he said, "an' wait for zee daylight. Den we look down on zee lak' of zee Leetle Moose. We mak' fire behind zee rock."
Without more ado, he slipped the harness from the dogs and fed them, whilst Stane collected wood for a fire, which was made as an Indian makes his fire, small and round, and which, built behind a mass of rock, was hidden from any one on the lake-side of the trail. Then a meal was prepared of which both partook heartily; and over the pipes they sat to await the dawn. After a little while Stane, in spite of his consuming anxiety for Helen, under the genial warmth of the fire and the fatigue induced by the strenuous march, began to nod, and at last fell sound asleep. But Jean Bènard watched through the night, a look of hopelessness shadowing his kindly face.