The cold Northland dawn had broken when Stane was roused from his sleep by the voice of his companion.
M'sieu! m'sieu! It ees time to eat!
Stane rubbed his eyes and looked round. Then he stood upright and stretched himself, every stiff muscle crying out against the process. He looked at the waiting breakfast and then at Bènard. One glance at the drawn face of the latter told him that he had not slept, but he refrained from comment on the fact, knowing well what thoughts must have made sleep impossible for him.
Have you seen anything yet, Jean? he asked as he seated himself again.
Not yet, m'sieu, answered the trapper. "But eef Chief George did not lie we cannot miss Chigmok—an zee oders."
But if he lied? asked Stane with a sudden accession of anxiety.
Then we shall haf to range an' find zee trail. But I do not tink he lie. He too mooch afraid! Eat, m'sieu, den we can watch zee lak' for zee comin' of Chigmok.
Stane ate his breakfast quickly, and when he had finished, accompanied Bènard a little way up the trail, which running along the base of the cliff by which they had camped, made a sudden turn between the rocks and unexpectedly opened out on a wide view.
Before him lay the snow-covered lake of the Little Moose, a narrow lake perhaps fifteen miles long. On one side ran a range of high rocky hills, a spur of which formed his own vantage place, and on the other side were lower hills covered with bush and trees almost to their crests. From the height where he stood he had an almost bird's-eye view of the lake, and he examined it carefully. Nothing moved on its virgin surface of snow. It was as blank as Modred's shield. He examined the shore at the foot of the wood-covered hills carefully. Creek by creek, bay by bay, his eye searched the shore-line for any sign of life. He found none, nowhere was there any sign of life; any thin column of smoke betokening the presence of man. He looked at the other shore of the lake, though without any expectation of finding that which he sought. It was bleak and barren, and precipitous in places, where the hills seemed to rise directly from the lake's edge. Nothing moved there, and a single glance told him that the land trail on that side was an impossibility. He looked at his companion.
Dey haf not yet arrive, said Bènard, answering his unspoken question. "Dey camp in zee woods for zee night."
If Chief George lied——
I say again I tink he not lie. We must haf zee patience, m'sieu. Dere is noding else dat we can do. We are here an' we must watch.
The minutes passed slowly, and to keep themselves from freezing the two men were forced to do sentry-go on the somewhat narrow platform where they stood, occasionally varying the line of their short march by turning down the trail towards their camp, a variation which for perhaps a couple of minutes hid the lake from view. Every time they so turned, when the lake came in sight again, Stane looked down its length with expectation in his eyes, and every time he was disappointed. An hour passed and still they watched without any sign of their quarry to cheer them. Then Jean Bènard spoke.
We tire ourselves for noding, m'sieu. We walk, walk, walk togeder, an' when Chigmok come we too tired to follow heem. It ees better dat we watch in turn.
Stane admitted the wisdom of this, and since he felt that it was impossible for himself to sit still, and suspected that his companion was sadly in need of rest, he elected to keep the first watch.
Very well, Jean, do you go and rest first; but tell me before you go where the party we are looking for should strike the lake.
Ah, I forgot to tell you dat, m'sieu. He pointed towards the southern shore of the lake, where a small tree-covered island stood about half a mile from the shore. "You see zee island, m'sieu. Just opposite dere ees a creek. Zee regular trail comes out to zee lak' just dere, an' it ees dere dat you may look for zee comin' of Chigmok."
Stane looked at the island and marked the position of the creek, then an idea struck him. "Would it not be better, Bènard, if we removed our camp to the island? We could then surprise Chigmok when he came."
Non, m'sieu! I tink of dat las' night; but I remember dat we must build a fire, an' zee smoke it tell zee tale; whilst zee odour it ees perceived afar. Den zee dogs, dey give tongue when oder dogs appear, an' where are we? Anoder ting, s'pose Chigmok not come zee regular trail; s'pose he knew anoder way through zee woods, an' come out further up zee lak'. Eef we on zee island we not see heem, but up here— he swept a hand in front of him—"we behold zee whole lak' and we not miss him."
Yes, agreed Stane. "You are right, Jean. Now go and rest. I will keep a bright look-out."
I not doubt dat, m'sieu. You haf zee prize to watch for, but I——
He turned away without finishing his sentence, and Stane resumed his sentry go, stopping from time to time to view the long expanse of the snow-covered lake, and to search the woods along the shore. As the time passed without bringing any change, and as the unbroken surface of the snow mocked him with its emptiness, he grew sick at heart, and a feverish anxiety mounted within him. He felt utterly helpless, and a fear that Chief George had lied, and had deliberately misled them, grew in him till it reached the force of conviction. Watching that empty valley of the lake, he felt, was a waste of time. To be doing nothing, when Helen was being hurried to be knew not what fate, was torture to him. It would, he thought, be better to go back on their trail, and endeavour to pick up that of the kidnappers, since that way they would at least be sure that they were on the right lines. So strongly did this idea appeal to him, that he turned down the trail to the camp to propose the plan to his companion. But when he turned the corner of the cliff, it was to find Jean Bènard fast asleep in front of the fire, and though his first impulse was to waken him, he refrained, remembering how tired the man must be, and how necessary it was that he should be as fresh as possible when the moment for action arrived.
No, he whispered, as he looked at the bent form of the sleeping man. "I will wait one hour, and then we will decide."
He himself was beginning to feel the strain of the steady marching to and fro, and decided that it would be wise to spare himself as much as possible. Accordingly he seated himself by the fire, contenting himself by walking to the top of the trail to view the lake at intervals of from twelve to fifteen minutes. Twice he did this and the second time was made aware of a change in the atmosphere. It had grown much colder and as he turned the corner of the cliff a gust of icy-wind smote him in the face. He looked downwards. The surface of the lake was still barren of life; but not of movement. Films of snow, driven by the gusty wind, drove down its narrow length, were lifted higher and then subsided as the wind fell. Overhead the sky was of a uniform leaden hue and he knew that before long there would be snow. And if snow came——
His heart stood almost still at the thought. It might snow for days, and in the storm, when all trails would be obliterated it would be an easy matter to miss Helen and her captors altogether. As he returned to the fire, his mind was full of forebodings. He was afraid, and though Jean Bènard slept on, he himself could not rest. He made up the fire, prepared bacon and moose meat for cooking, set some coffee to boil. It would be as well to have a meal in case the necessity for a start should arise. These things done he went once more to the outlook, and surveyed the snow-covered landscape. The wind was still for the moment, and there were no wandering wisps of snow. His first glance was towards the creek opposite the island. There was nothing there to arrest attention. His eyes travelled further without any light of expectation in them. Creek by creek, bay by bay, he followed the shore line, then, in a second, his gaze grew fixed. The lake was no longer devoid of life. Far-off, at least ten miles, as he swiftly calculated, a blur of black dots showed on the surface of the snow. Instantly he knew it for what it was—a team of sled dogs. His heart leaped at the sight, and the next moment he was running towards the camp.
Jean! Jean! he cried. "Jean Bènard!"
The sleeping man passed from slumber to full wakefulness with the completeness that characterizes a healthy child.
Ah, m'sieu, he said, standing upright. "Dey haf arrive?"
I do not know. But there is a dog-train a long way up the lake.
I weel tak' one look, said the trapper, beginning to walk quickly towards the head of the trail.
Stane went with him and indicated the direction.
There, where the shore sweeps inward! Do you see, Jean?
Oui, m'sieu.
With bent brows the trapper stared at the blur of dots on the white surface, and after a couple of seconds began to count softly to himself. "Un, deux, trois, quatre——" Then he stopped. "Four dogs and one man," he said, turning to his companion. "But Chigmok it ees not. Behold, m'sieu, he comes dis way."
Then who——
Dat ees not to be told. Zee men in zee wilderness are many. As he finished speaking a gust of wind drove suddenly in their faces, bringing with it a few particles of snow, and he looked up into the leaden sky. "Presently," he said, "it weel snow, m'sieu. Let us go and eat, then eef Chigmok has not appeared we weel go meet dat man out dere. He may haf zee news."
Reluctantly Stane turned with him, and went back to the camp. He had no desire for food, but he forced himself to eat, and when the meal was finished he assisted his companion to load the sledge. Then Bènard spoke again.
We weel tak' one look more, m'sieu, before we harness zee dogs.
They went up to the outlook together. The lake once more showed its white expanse unbroken; the little blot of moving dots having withdrawn. Stane stared on the waste, with an expression of blank dismay upon his face, then he turned to his companion.
Zee man, he camp, explained Bènard. "He not pushed for time, an' he know it snow b'fore long. We find heem, m'sieu, an' den—By gar! Look dere!"
As he gave vent to the exclamation, he pointed excitedly up the lake, two miles beyond the island, the neighbourhood of which Stane had gazed at so often and hopelessly during the last three hours. A dog-train had broken from the wood, and taken to the surface of the lake, three men accompanying it.
Chigmok! Behold, m'sieu!
On a mutual impulse they turned and running back to the camp, began hurriedly to harness the dogs to the sledge. A few minutes later they were on the move, and turning the corner of the cliff began the descent towards the lake. As they did so both glanced at the direction of the sled they were pursuing. It was moving straight ahead, fairly close in shore, having evidently sought the level surface of the lake for easier travelling. More than that they had not leisure to notice, for the descent to the lake was steep, and it required the weight and skill of both to keep the sled from overrunning the dogs, but in the space of four minutes it was accomplished, and with a final rush they took the level trail of the lake's frozen and snow-covered surface. As they did so a gust of wind brought a scurry of snow in their faces, and Bènard looked anxiously up into the sky.
By-an'-by it snow like anythin', m'sieu. We must race to catch Chigmok b'fore it come.
Without another word he stepped ahead, and began to make the trail for the dogs, whilst Stane took the gee-pole to guide the sledge. Bènard bent to his task and made a rattling pace, travelling in a bee-line for their quarry, since the lake's surface offered absolutely no obstructions. Stane at the gee-pole wondered how long he could keep it up, and from time to time glanced at the sled ahead, which, seen from the same level, now was half-hidden in a mist of snow. He noted with satisfaction that they seemed to be gaining on it; and rejoiced to think that, as Jean Bènard's dogs were in fine mettle and absolutely fresh, they could not be long before they overhauled it. Presently the trapper stopped to rest, and Stane himself moved ahead.
I will take a turn at trail-breaking, he said, "and do you run behind, Jean."
It was a different matter going ahead of the dogs on the unbroken snow. In a little time his muscles began to ache intolerably. It seemed as if the ligaments of the groin were being pulled by pincers, and the very bone of the leg that he had broken, seemed to burn with pain. But again, as on the previous night, he set his teeth, and defied the dreaded mal de roquette. New hope sustained him; before him, within sight as he believed, was the girl, whom, in the months of their wilderness sojourn, he had learned to love, and who on the previous night (how long ago it seemed!) in the face of imminent death, had given herself to him unreservedly. His blood quickened at the remembrance. He ignored the pangs he was enduring. The sweat, induced by the violent exertion froze on eyebrows and eyelashes, but he ignored the discomfort, and pressed on, the snow swirling past his ankles in a miniature storm. Twice or thrice he lifted his bent head and measured the distance between him and the quarry ahead. It was, he thought nearer, and cheered, he bent his body again to the nerve-racking toil.
Half an hour passed, and though the wind was rising steadily, blowing straight in their teeth and adding greatly to their labours, the snow kept off. They were still gaining slowly, creeping forward yard by yard, the men with the train ahead apparently unaware of their pursuit. Then they struck the trail made by their quarry and the work became less arduous and the pace quickened.
By gar! cried Bènard as they hit the trail, "we get dem now, dey make zee trail for us."
Yes, answered Stane, his eyes ablaze with excitement.
A mile and three quarters now separated the two teams, and as they followed in the trail that the others had to make, their confidence seemed justified. But nature and man alike were to take a hand and upset their calculations. In the wind once more there came a smother of snow. It was severe whilst it lasted, and blotted out all vision of the team ahead. As it cleared, the two pursuers saw that their quarry had turned inshore, moving obliquely towards a tree-crowned bluff that jutted out into the lake. Jean Bènard marked the move, and spoke almost gleefully.
Dey fear zee snow, an' go to make camp. By zee mass, we get dem like a wolf in zee trap!
The sledge they pursued drew nearer the bluff, then suddenly Jean Bènard threw back his head in a listening attitude.
Hark! he cried: "what was dat?"
I heard nothing, answered Stane. "What did you fancy you——"
The sentence was never finished, for borne to him on the wind came two or three sharp sounds like the cracks of distant rifles. He looked at his companion.
The detonation of bursting trees far in the wood, he began, only to be interrupted.
Non, non! not zee trees, but rifles, look dere, m'sieu, someting ees happening.
It certainly seemed so. The sled which had almost reached the bluff, had swung from it again, and had turned towards the open lake. But now, instead of three figures, they could see only one; and even whilst they watched, again came the distant crack of a rifle—a faint far-away sound, something felt by sensitive nerves rather than anything heard—and the solitary man left with the sledge and making for the sanctuary of the open lake, plunged suddenly forward, disappearing from sight in the snow. Another fusillade, and the sled halted, just as the two men broke from the cover of the bluff and began to run across the snow in the direction of it.
By gar! By gar! cried Jean Bènard in great excitement. "Tings dey happen. Dere are oder men who want Chigmok, an' dey get heem, too."
Then with a clamouring wind came the snow, blotting out all further vision of the tragedy ahead. It hurtled about them in fury, and they could see scarcely a yard in front of them. It was snow that was vastly different from the large soft flakes of more temperate zones—a wild rain of ice-like particles that, as it struck, stung intolerably, and which, driven in the wind, seemed like a solid sheet held up to veil the landscape. It swirled and drifted about them and drove in their faces as if directed by some malevolent fury. It closed their eyes, clogged their feet, stopped their breathing, and at the moment when it was most essential, made progress impossible. Dogs and men bowed to the storm, and after two minutes of lost endeavour in attempting to face it, the course was altered and they raced for the shore and the friendly shelter of the trees. When they reached it, breathless and gasping, they stood for a moment, whilst the storm shrieked among the tree-tops and drove its icy hail like small shot against the trunks. In the shelter of one of them, Stane, as his breath came back to him, swung his rifle off his shoulder, and began to strip from it the deer-hide covering. Jean Bènard saw him, and in order to make himself heard shouted to him.
What you do, m'sieu?
I'm going after them, Jean. There's something badly wrong.
Oui! But with zee storm, what can you do, m'sieu?
I can find that girl, he said. "Think, man, if she is bound to the sled—in this——"
Oui! Oui! m'sieu, I understand, but——
I shall work my way in the cover of the trees till I reach the bluff. If the storm abates you will follow but do not pass the bluff. There will be shelter in the lee of it, and I will wait your coming there.
Go, and God go with you, m'sieu; but do not forget zee rifles which were fired dere.
I will keep them in mind, answered Stane, and then setting his face to the storm, he began to work his way along the edge of the wood.
When Hubert Stane left the burning cabin, Helen did not obey his injunctions to the letter. A full minute she was to wait in the shadow of the door before emerging, but she disregarded the command altogether in her anxiety to know what fate was to befall him. She guessed that on his emergence he expected a volley, and had bidden her remain under cover until the danger from it should have passed; and being morally certain that he was going to his death, she had a mad impulse to die with him in what was the supreme hour of her life. As the yell greeted his emergence, she caught the sound of the rifle-shot, and not knowing that it had been fired by Stane himself, in an agony of fear for him, stepped recklessly to the door. She saw him running towards the trees, saw him grappled by the Indian who barred the way, and beheld the second figure rise like a shadow by the side of the struggling men. The raised knife gleamed in the firelight, and with a sharp cry of warning that never reached Stane, she started to run towards him. The next moment something thick and heavy enveloped her head and shoulders, she was tripped up and fell heavily in the snow, and two seconds later was conscious of two pairs of hands binding her with thongs. The covering over her head, a blanket by the feel of it, was bound about her, so that she could see nothing, and whilst she could still hear, the sounds that reached her were muffled. Her feet were tied, and for a brief space of time she was left lying in the snow, wondering in an agonized way, not what was going to happen to herself, but what had already happened to her lover.
Then there came a sound that made her heart leap with hope—a sound that was the unmistakable crack of a rifle. Again the rifle spoke, three times in rapid succession, and from the sounds she conjectured that the fight was not yet over, and felt a surge of gladness in her heart. Then she was lifted from the ground, suddenly hurried forward, and quite roughly dropped on what she guessed was a sledge. Again hands were busy about her, and she knew that she was being lashed to the chariot of the North. There was a clamour of excited voices, again the crack of the rifle, then she felt a quick jerk, and found the sled was in motion.
She had no thought of outside intervention and as the sled went forward at a great pace, notwithstanding her own parlous condition, she rejoiced in spirit. Whither she was being carried, and what the fate reserved for her she had not the slightest notion; but from the rifle-shots, and the manifest haste of her captors, she argued that her lover had escaped, and believing that he would follow, she was in good heart.
That she was in any immediate danger, she did not believe. Her captors, on lashing her to the sledge, had thrown some soft warm covering over her, and that they should show such care to preserve her from the bitter cold, told her, that whatever might ultimately befall, she was in no imminent peril. With her head covered, she was as warm as if she were in a sleeping bag, the sled ran smoothly without a single jar, and the only discomfort that she suffered came from her bound limbs.
Knowing how vain any attempt at struggle would be, she lay quietly; reflecting on all the events of the night. Strong in the faith that Stane had escaped, she rejoiced that these events had forced from his lips the declaration that in the past few weeks she had seen him repress again and again. He could never recall it; and those kisses, taken in the very face of death, those were hers until the end of time. Her heart quickened as she thought of them, and her lips burned. It was, she felt, a great thing to have snatched the deepest gladness of life in such an hour, and to have received an avowal from a man who believed that he was about to die for her. And what a man!
The thought of Miskodeed occurred to her; but now it did not trouble her very greatly. That visit of the Indian girl to the cabin had at first been incomprehensible except on one hateful supposition; but Stane's words had made it clear that the girl had come to warn them, and if there was anything behind that warning, if, as she suspected, the girl loved Stane with a wild, wayward love, that was not the man's fault. She remembered his declaration that he had never seen Miskodeed except on the two occasions at Fort Malsun, and though Ainley's evil suggestions recurred to her mind, she dismissed them instantly. Her lover was her own——
The sledge came to a sudden standstill; and lying there she caught a clamour of excited voices. She listened carefully, but such words as reached her were in a tongue unknown to her. A few minutes passed, something was thrown on the sled, close by her feet, then a whip cracked, a dog yelped, and again the sledge moved forward.
She was quite warm, and except for the thongs about her, comfortable, and presently her eyes closed, at first against the rather oppressive darkness resulting from the covering blanket, then remained closed without any conscious volition, and she slept, heavily and dreamlessly.
She was awakened by the sled coming to a standstill; and then followed the sounds of men pitching camp; the crackle of a fire, the growling and yelping of dogs quarrelling over their food. She did not know how long she had slept; but after awakening, it seemed a very long time before any one came near her. Then she caught the sound of steps crunching the frozen snow. The steps halted by the sledge and hands busied themselves with the fastenings. A minute later she felt that her limbs were free; and as the blanket was jerked from her head, she looked round.
It was still night, but by the light of a fire by which two men were sitting smoking, she caught the sight of overhanging trees and of a man who was standing by the sledge, looking down upon her. His face was in shadow and could not be seen, but the voice in which he addressed her was harsh and guttural, his manner almost apologetic.
You stan' up now, mees.
As the blanket was jerked from her, Helen was conscious of a little prick of fear, but as the man spoke the fear vanished quicker than it had arisen. From the fact that he addressed her as miss, it was clear that he held her in some respect, whilst his manner spoke volumes. The words, though harshly spoken, were an invitation rather than a command, and accepting it as such, she first sat up, waited until a little attack of dizziness passed and then rose slowly to her feet. She swayed a little as she did so, and the man stretched a quick hand to steady her.
Vait min'te, he said, "zee seeckness et veel pass."
It passed quicker than the man knew, and as the man had moved, bringing his face to the light, Helen used the opportunity to survey the man behind the mittened hand which she had lifted to her head. He was, she saw, a half-breed of evil, pock-marked countenance, with cruel eyes. Who he was she had not the slightest notion, but curiosity was strong within her, and as she lowered her hand, she waited for him to speak again.
Ve vait here, leetle taime—une hour, deux, maybe tree. Zee dogs dey tire. But you veel not runs away. Dat vaire fool ting to do. Zee wood et ees so vast, an' zee wolves are plenty. You come to zee fire an' eat.
He moved towards the fire, as if certain that she would follow, and after one glance into the deep shadows of the forest, she did so. Whoever the man was, and whatever his intentions towards her, he talked sense. Flight without equipment or food, in a strange country, and in face of the menace of the arctic North would be the wildest folly. She seated herself on a log which had been placed for her convenience, accepted some fried moose-meat and unsweetened tea, whilst the other two men by the fire, both Indians, smoked stolidly, without bestowing upon her a single glance whilst she ate. When she had finished she pushed the tin plate from her, and looked at the half-breed, who had seated himself a yard or so away from her.
Who are you? she asked.
Ah not tell you dat! said the man with a grin.
Then tell me what are you going to do with me?
You fin' dat out for yourself in a vaire leetle taime, was the answer.
Then where are you taking me?
Oh—Ah tell you dat, mees! was the reply, given in a manner that implied that the speaker was glad to find something in which he could oblige her. "Ah tak' you to see lak' of zee Leetle Moose, ten, maybe douze miles away."
But why should you take me there? asked Helen.
Non! Ah not tell you dat! You fin' out all in zee good taime, was the reply stolidly given.
Helen looked at the evil, cunning face, and knew that it was no use pursuing inquiries in that direction. She waited a full minute, then she began to ask another question, to her of even vaster moment:
That man who was with me in the cabin, he——
Sacree! cried the half-breed in a sudden burst of fury. "Dat man he ees dead, Par Dieu! an' eef he was not, I roast heem alive!"
Dead! As the exclamation broke from her, the girl looked at the half-breed with eyes in which gleamed a sudden fear. Then hope came to her as she remembered the shots that she had heard. "But," she protested, "he was firing on you as you left. It cannot be that he——"
Non! broke in the half-breed. "Dat man was with you he fire onlee once, den he die. Dose shots dey come from zee wood, an' I not know who fire dem. Eet was strange, I not know eef there be one man or more, so I run aways wit' you."
He had more to say upon that particular matter, but Helen Yardely had no ears for his words. Her hope was completely shattered by the half-breed's explanation of those pursuing shots. From them, believing they had come from her lover's rifle, she had argued with certainty that he had survived the attack, that he was alive; and now——
Dead! As the word beat in her brain, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair; and bowing her face suddenly in her hands gave way to her grief. Great sobs shook her shoulders, and scalding tears welled in her eyes. Her lover had indeed gone to his death after all, had given his life for hers as at the very beginning of their acquaintance he had risked it to the same end of saving her!
The callous half-breed was disturbed by the utter abandon of her grief. In his brutal nature there was a stirring of unusual compunction, and after watching her for a moment, he strove to console her, speaking in a wheedling voice.
No need to weep lik' zee rain in spring, mees! What ees one man when men are as zee leaves of zee forest? Dis man dead! True—but eet ees a small ting—zee death of a man. An' I tak' you to anodder man——
You will what? Helen looked up sharply as she asked the question. There was a light of wrath struggling with the grief in her eyes and the half-breed was startled by it.
I tak' you to anodder man who weel lov' you as white squaws desire. He——
Who is this man? she asked, suddenly interrupting him.
But the half-breed developed a sudden wariness.
Non! he said. "I not tell you dat, for why, zee surprise it veel be zee more pleasant!"
Pleasant! cried Helen, wrath uppermost in her heart once more. "Pleasant! I——" She checked herself, then as something occurred to her she asked another question.
This man whom you promise me? He pays you to bring me to him?
Oui! He pays a great price!
Why?
I not know! How can I tell what ees in zee heart of heem? But it ees in my mind dat he burns with love, dat——
Helen rose suddenly from her seat. "I will tell you something," she said in a voice that made the callous half-breed shiver. "When you bring me to this man I will kill him because that other man has died!"
I not care what you do wid heem! answered her captor with a brutal laugh. "You marrie heem, you keel heem, it ees all zee same to me, I get zee price, an' I do not love dat mans, no."
Tell me who is he—his name, and I will pay you double the price he promises.
The half-breed smiled cunningly. "Where is your double zee price? Zee price dat man pay I haf seen. Eet ees real! Eet ees a good price! Non! mees; a promise what ees dat? A red fox in zee trap ees more dan a silvaire fox in zee wood. Dis man half zee goods, an' you—what haf you?"
He lit his pipe and turned from her to the fire. Helen gave him one glance and guessed that it was useless to try to bribe him further, then she turned and began to walk restlessly to and fro. There was a set, stony look of grief on her face; but deep in the grey eyes burned a light that boded ill for the man who had brought the grief upon her.
Time passed, and she still marched to and fro. The half-breed was nodding over the fire, and his two companions were sound asleep. Under her fur parka she felt the butt of the pistol which Stane had given her, when the attack on the cabin had commenced. She looked at the three men, and with her hand on the pistol-butt the thought came to her mind that it would be a simple thing to kill them in their sleep, and to take the dogs and so effect her escape. They were murderers; they deserved to die; and she felt that she could kill them without compunction. But her eyes swept the dark circle of trees, and for a moment she stared into the darkness with fixed gaze, then her hand slipped from the pistol, and she put from her the thought that had come to her. It was not fear of the darkness or any terror at the hazards of the frozen wilderness that deterred her from the attempt; it was just that there was within her a fierce, overwhelming desire, to meet the man who was the ultimate cause of her lover's death.
When the half-breed rose, and ordered her to resume her place on the sledge, she did so without demur, making herself as comfortable as possible. She was bound to the sledge again, though, when they resumed the journey, she was less like a mere bale than she had been, and was free to lift the blanket which now was thrown over her head for protection from the extreme cold more than for any other reason. But only once before the dawn did she avail herself of this privilege to look about her, and that was when the second halt was made. She lifted the blanket to learn the cause of the delay; and made the discovery that the dog-harness having become entangled in the branch of a fallen tree, had broken and the halt was necessary for repairs. She dropped her head-covering again and lay there in the darkness, wild thoughts mingling with her grief. She chafed at the delay. Her one anxiety was for the meeting that should involve a terrible justice; the man should die as her lover had died; and her own hand should inflict upon him the recompense of God.
The sullen dawn of the Northern winter had broken when she lifted the blanket again. They were still in the forest, having lost the trail in the darkness, and presently a fresh halt was necessary, and whilst two of the men prepared a meal, her chief captor went off through the woods as she guessed to discover their whereabouts. He returned in the course of half an hour and said something to his companion which Helen did not understand; and after a rather leisurely meal they harnessed up once more.
After a time the forest began to open out. They struck a frozen river and descending the bank and taking to its smooth surface, their speed accelerated. The banks of the river widened, and in a little time they swept clear of them on to the open plain of what she easily guessed was a frozen lake. They turned sharply to the right, and a few minutes afterwards a whirl of snow caused her to cover her face. Some considerable time passed before she looked forth again. They were travelling at a great rate. The snow was flying from the shoes of the man who broke the trail. The half-breed who was acting as driver was urging the dogs with both whip and voice, and occasionally he cast an anxious look over his shoulder. Wondering why he should do so Helen also looked back. Then her heart gave a great leap. Behind them was another dog-team with two men. Was it possible that after all the half-breed was mistaken, or that he had told her a lying tale?
She did not know, she could not tell, she could only hope, and her hope was fed by her captor's evident anxiety. He whipped the dogs cruelly, and his glances back became more frequent. Helen also looked back and saw that the sled behind was gaining on them. Was it indeed her lover in pursuit, or were these men who had witnessed the attack on the cabin, and had fired the shots which had compelled the attackers to take flight? Anything now seemed possible, and as the half-breed's anxiety grew more pronounced, her own excited hopes mounted higher.
The snow came again, a blinding whirl that blotted out the whole landscape, then the half-breed gave a sharp order, and the Indian in front breaking trail turned ashore. The half-breed looked back, and then forward, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. The girl also looked forward. They were approaching a tree-crowned bluff, which was apparently their goal. Then suddenly, bewildering in its unexpectedness, came the flash and crack of a rifle from the bushes in shore.
Sacree! cried the half-breed, and the next moment three rifles spoke, and he pitched over in the snow, whilst the man at the gee-pole also fell.
The man breaking the trail in front, swerved from the bluff, and the dogs swerved after him, almost upsetting the sledge. Again a rifle, and the remaining man went down. The dogs, in excitement or fear, still moved forward, and Helen strove to free herself, but a moment later the sledge halted abruptly as two of the dogs fell, shot in their traces. She had a momentary vision of two men running towards her from the shore, then the snow came down in a thick veil. Dimly she caught the outline of one of the men by her sled, and the next moment a voice she remembered broke on her ears through the clamour of the wind.
Thank God, Helen! I am in time.
And she looked up incredulously to find Gerald Ainley looking down at her.
When Stane set his face to the storm he knew there was a difficult task before him, and he found it even more difficult than he had anticipated. The wind, bitingly cold, drove the snow before it in an almost solid wall. The wood sheltered him somewhat; but fearful of losing himself, and so missing what he was seeking, he dared not turn far into it, and was forced to follow the edge of it, that he might not wander from the lake. Time after time he was compelled to halt in the lee of the deadfalls, or shelter behind a tree with his back to the storm, whilst he recovered breath. He could see scarcely a yard before him, and more than once he was driven to deviate from the straight course, and leave the trees in order to assure himself that he had not wandered from the lake side.
The bitter cold numbed his brain; the driving snow was utterly confusing, and before he reached his objective he had only one thing clear in his mind. Blistering though it was, he must keep his face to the wind, then he could not go wrong, for the storm, sweeping down the lake, came in a direct line from the bluff in the shadow of which the tragedy which he had witnessed, had happened. As he progressed, slowly, utter exhaustion seemed to overtake him. Bending his head to the blast he swayed like a drunken man. More than once as he stumbled over fallen trees the impulse to sit and rest almost overcame him; but knowing the danger of such a course he forced himself to refrain. Once as he halted in the shelter of a giant fir, his back resting against the trunk, he was conscious of a deadly, delicious languor creeping through his frame, and knowing it for the beginning of the dreaded snow-sleep which overtakes men in such circumstances, he lurched forward again, though he had not recovered breath.
He came to a sudden descent in the trail that he was following. It was made by a small stream that in spring flooded down to the lake but which now was frozen solid. In the blinding snow-wrack he never even saw it, and stepping on air, he hurtled down the bank, and rolled in a confused heap in the deep snow at the bottom. For a full minute he lay there, out of the wind and biting snow-hail, feeling like a man who has stumbled out of bitter cold to a soft couch in a warm room. A sense of utter contentment stole upon him. For some moments he lost all his grip on realities; time and circumstances and the object of his quest were forgotten. Visions, momentary but very vivid, crowded upon him, and among them, one of a girl whom he had kissed in the face of death. That girl—Yes, there was something. His mind asserted itself again, his purpose dominated his wavering faculties, and he staggered to his feet.
Helen! he muttered. "Helen!"
He faced the bank of the stream on the other side from that which had caused his downfall. Then he paused. There was something—twenty seconds passed before he remembered. His rifle! It was somewhere in the snow, he must find it, for he might yet have need of it. He groped about, and presently recovered it; then after considering for a moment, instead of ascending to the level, he began to walk downstream, sheltered by the high banks. It was not so cold in the hollow, and though a smother of sand-like particles of snow blew at the level of his head, by stooping he was able to escape the worst of it. His numbed faculties began to assert themselves again. The struggle through the deep soft snow, out of reach of the wind's bitter breath, sent a glow through him. His brain began to work steadily. He could not be far from the bluff now, and the stream would lead him to the lake. How much time he had lost he did not know, and he was in a sweat of fear lest he should be too late after all. As he struggled on, he did not even wonder what was the meaning of the attack that he had witnessed; one thing only was before his eyes, the vision of the girl he loved helpless in the face of unknown dangers.
The banks of the stream lowered and opened suddenly. The withering force of the blast struck him, the snow buffeted him, and for a moment he stood held in his tracks, then the wind momentarily slackened, and dimly through the driving snow he caught sight of something that loomed shadowlike before him. It was the bluff that he was seeking, and as he moved towards it, the wind broken, grew less boisterous, though a steady stream of fine hard snow swept down upon him from its height. The snow blanketed everything, and he could see nothing; then he heard a dog yelp and stumbled forward in the direction of the sound. A minute later, in the shelter of some high rocks, he saw a camp-fire, beside which a team of dogs in harness huddled in the snow, anchored there by the sled turned on its side, and by the fire a man crouched and stared into the snow-wrack. As he visioned them, Stane slipped the rifle from the hollow of his arm, and staggered forward like a drunken man.
The man by the fire becoming aware of him leaped suddenly to his feet. In a twinkling his rifle was at his shoulder, and through the wild canorous note of the wind, Stane caught his hail. "Hands up! You murderer!"
Something in the voice struck reminiscently on his ears, and this, as he recognized instantly, was not the hail of a man who had just committed a terrible crime. He dropped his rifle and put up his hands. The man changed his rifle swiftly for a pistol, and began to advance. Two yards away he stopped.
Stane! by—!
Then Stane recognized him. It was Dandy Anderton, the mounted policeman, and in the relief of the moment he laughed suddenly.
You, Dandy?
Yes! What in heaven's name is the meaning of it all? Did you see anything? Hear the firing? There are two dead men out there in the snow. He jerked his head towards the lake. "And there was a dog-team, but I lost it in the storm. Do you know anything about it, Stane? I hope that you had no hand in this killing?"
The questions came tumbling over each other all in one breath, and as they finished, Stane, still a little breathless, replied:
No, I had no hand in that killing. I don't understand it at all, but that sledge, we must find it, for to the best of my belief, Miss Yardely is on it.
Miss Yardely! What on earth——
It is a long story. I haven't time to explain. We were attacked and she was carried off. Come along, Dandy, and help me to find her.
The policeman shook his head and pointed to the whirling snow. "No use, old man, we couldn't find a mountain in that stuff, and we should be mad to try. We don't know which way to look for her, and we should only lose ourselves and die in the cold."
But, man, I tell you that Helen——
Helen is in the hands of the good God for the present, my friend. I did not know she was with that sledge, and though I had only a glimpse of it, I will swear that the sledge was empty.
There were two men ran out after the firing, cried Stane. "I saw them just before the snow came. They were making for the sledge. Perhaps they took Helen——"
Sit down, Stane, and give me the facts. It's no good thinking of going out in that smother. A man might as well stand on Mount Robson and jump for the moon! Sit down and make me wise on the business, then if the storm slackens we can get busy.
Stane looked into the smother in front, and reason asserted itself. It was quite true what Anderton said. Nothing whatever could be done for the present; the storm effectually prevented action. To venture from the shelter of the bluff on to the open width of the lake was to be lost, and to be lost in such circumstances meant death from cold. Fiercely as burned the desire to be doing on behalf of his beloved, he was forced to recognize the utter folly of attempting anything for the moment. With a gesture of despair, he swept the snow from a convenient log, and seated himself heavily upon it.
The policeman stretched a hand towards a heap of smouldering ashes, where reposed a pan, and pouring some boiling coffee into a tin cup, handed it to Stane.
Drink that, Hubert, old man, it'll buck you up. Then you can give me the pegs of this business.
Stane began to sip the coffee, and between the heat of the fire and that of the coffee, his blood began to course more freely. All the numbness passed from his brain and with it passed the sense of despair that had been expressed in his gesture, and a sudden hope came to him.
One thing, he broke out, "if we can't travel, neither can anybody else."
Not far—at any rate, agreed Anderton. "A man might put his back to the storm, but he would soon be jiggered; or he might take to the deep woods; but with a dog-team he wouldn't go far or fast, unless there was a proper trail."
That's where they'll make for, as like as not, said Stane with another stab of despair.
They—who? Tell me, man, and never bother about the woods. There's a good two hundred miles of them hereabouts and till we can begin to look for the trail it is no good worrying. Who are these men——
I can't say, answered Stane, "but I'll tell you what I know."
Vividly and succinctly he narrated the events that had befallen since the policeman's departure from Chief George's camp on the trail of Chigmok. Anderton listened carefully. Twice he interrupted. The first time was when he heard how the man whom he sought had been at Chief George's camp after all.
I guessed that, he commented, "after I started on the trail to the Barrens, particularly when I found no signs of any camping place on what is the natural road for any one making that way. I swung back yesterday meaning to surprise Chief George, and rake through his tepees."
The second time was when he heard of the white man who had offered the bribe of the guns and blankets for the attack on the cabin, and the kidnapping of the girl.
Who in thunder can have done that? he asked.
I don't know, answered Stane, and explained the idea that had occurred to him that it was some one desiring to claim the reward offered by Sir James.
But why should you be killed?
Ask the man who ordered it, answered Stane with a grim laugh.
I will when I come up with him. But tell me the rest, old man.
Stane continued his narrative, and when he had finished, Anderton spoke again. "That solitary man with the team whom you saw coming down the lake, must have been me. I turned into the wood a mile or two on the other side of this bluff to camp out of the snow which I saw was coming. Then it struck me that I should do better on this side, and I worked towards it. I was just on the other side when the shooting began, and I hurried forward, but the snow came and wiped out everything, though I had an impression of a second dog-team waiting by the shore as I came round. When I looked for it I couldn't find it; and then I tumbled on this camp, and as there was nothing else to be done until the snow slackened I unharnessed."
Stane looked round. "This would be the place where the man, who was to have paid the kidnappers their price, waited for them."
And paid them in lead, no doubt with the idea of covering his own tracks completely.
That seems likely, agreed Stane.
But who—— Anderton broke off suddenly and leaped to his feet. "Great Christopher! Look there!" Stane looked swiftly in the direction indicated, and as the veil of snow broke for a moment, caught sight of a huddled form crawling in the snow.
What—— he began.
It's a man. I saw him distinctly, interrupted the policeman, and then as the snow swept down again he ran from the shelter of the camp.
A minute and a half later he staggered back, dragging a man with him. He dropped the man by the fire, poured some coffee into a pannikin, and as the new-comer, with a groan, half-raised himself to look round, he held the coffee towards him.
Here, drink this, it'll do you—— he interrupted himself sharply, then in a tone of exultation he cried: "Chigmok!"
Oui! answered the man. "I am Chigmok! And thou?"
I am the man of the Law, answered Anderton, "who has been at your heels for weeks."
So! answered the half-breed in native speech, with a hopeless gesture, "It had been better to have died the snow-death, but I shall die before they hang me, for I am hurt."
He glanced down at his shoulder as he spoke, and looking closely the two white men saw that the frozen snow on his furs was stained.
Ah! said the policeman, "I hadn't noticed that, but we'll have a look at it." He looked at Stane, who was eyeing the half-breed with a savage stare, then he said sharply: "Give me a hand, Stane. We can't let the beggar die unhelped, however he may deserve it. He's a godsend anyway, for he can explain your mystery. Besides it's my duty to get him back to the Post, and they wouldn't welcome him dead. Might think I'd plugged him, you know."
Together they lifted the man nearer the fire, and examined the injured shoulder. It had been drilled clean through by a bullet. Anderton nodded with satisfaction. "Nothing there to kill you, Chigmok. We'll bandage you up, and save you for the Law yet?"
They washed and dressed the wound, made the half-breed as comfortable as they could; then as he reposed by the fire, Anderton found the man's pipe, filled it, held a burning stick whilst he lit it, and when it was drawing nicely, spoke:
Now, Chigmok, you owe me something for all this, you know. Just tell us the meaning of the game you were playing. It can't hurt you to make a clean breast of it; because that other affair that you know of is ample for the needs of the Law.
You want me to tell? asked the half-breed in English.
Yes, we're very curious. My friend here is very anxious to know why he was attacked, and why he was to die whilst the girl who was with him was carried off.
You not know? asked the half-breed.
Well, we haven't quite got the rights of it, was the policeman's guarded answer.
Then I tell you. His dark eyes turned to Stane. "You not know me?"
No, answered Stane. "I never saw you in my life before."
But I haf seen you. Oui! I steal your canoe when you sleep!
Great Scott! cried Stane. "You——"
I run from zee poleece, an' I haf nodings but a gun. When I watch you sleep, I tink once I shoot you; but I not know who ees in zee leetle tent, an' I tink maybe dey catch me, but I know now eet vas not so.
You know who was in the tent? asked Stane sharply.
I fin' dat out zee ver' next morning, when I meet a man who ask for zee white girl. Ah I haf seen dat man b'fore. I see heem shoot zee paddle from zee girl's hand—.
Startled, Stane cried out. "You saw him shoot——"
Oui! I not know why he do eet. But I tink he want zee girl to lose herself dat he may find her. Dat I tink, but I not tell heem dat. Non! Yet I tell heem what I see, an' he ees afraid, an' say he tell zee mounters he haf seen me, eef I say he ees dat man. So I not say eet, but all zee time he ees zee man. Den he pay me to take a writing to zee camp of zee great man of zee Company, but I not take eet becos I am afraid.
Who was this man? asked Stane grimly, as the half-breed paused.
I not know; but he is zee ver' same man dat was to haf paid zee price of guns an' blankets for zee girl dat vos in zee cabin.
And who said I was to die?
Oui! He order dat! An' I tink eet ees done, an' I not care, for already I am to zee death condemned, an' it ees but once dat I can die. Also I tink when zee price ees paid, I veel go North to zee Frozen Sea where zee mounters come not. But dat man he ees one devil. He fix for me bring zee girl here, where zee price veel be paid; den when I come he begin to shoot, becos he veel not zee price pay. He keel Canif and Ligan, and he would me haf keeled to save zee guns and blankets and zee tea and tabac, dog dat he ees!
Perhaps it was not the price he was saving, said Anderton. "Perhaps he was afraid that the story would be told and that the mounters would seek out his trail, Chigmok?"
By gar! Yees, I never tink of dat, cried the half-breed as if a light had broken on him suddenly. "I tink onlee of zee price dat hee save."
What sort of a man was he? What did he look like, Chigmok?
He dark an' vhat you call han'some. He haf sometimes one glass to hees eye, an——
Ainley, by Heaven! cried Stane in extreme amazement.
I not know hees name, answered the half-breed, "but I tink he ees of zee Company."
Anderton looked doubtfully at Stane who suffered no doubt at all. "It is Ainley, unquestionably," said Stane, answering the question in his eyes. "The description is his, though it is a trifle vague and the monocle——"
He affects a monocle still then?
I have seen it, and it is so. He sported it down at Fort Malsun.
Anderton nodded, and for a moment looked into the fire, whistling thoughtfully to himself. Then he looked up. "One thing, Stane, we need not worry over now, and that is Miss Yardely's welfare. Assuming that Ainley has taken possession of her, no harm is likely to come to her at his hands. Whatever may be behind his pretty scheme, it will not involve bodily harm to her. We have that assurance in the position he occupies and the plan he made for her to be brought here alive. No doubt he will be posing as the girl's deliverer. He doesn't know that Chigmok has survived. He doesn't know that I am here to get Chigmok's story; and whilst he can hardly have been unaware of your sledge following the trail of Chigmok, it is not the least likely that he associates it with you. Probably he is under the idea that it formed part of Chigmok's outfit. No doubt a little way down the lake he will camp till the storm is over, then make a bee line for Fort Malsun—we'll get him as easy as eating toast."
And when we've got him?
Duty's duty! answered Anderton with a shrug. "I can't enumerate all the charges offhand; but there's enough to kill Mr. Ainley's goose twice over. Lor', what a whirligig life is. I never thought—Hallo! Who's this? Jean Bènard, or I'm a sinner!"
Jean Bènard it was, and his face lighted with pleasure as he staggered into the camp.
I fear for you, m'sieu, he said to Stane in simple explanation, "therefore I come. Bo'jour, M'sieu Anderton, dis ees a good meeting on zee bad day! But dat—surely dat ees Chigmok? An' zee mees where ees she?"
Stane waved a hand towards the lake. "Somewhere out there, Jean, and still to find."
But we fin' her, m'sieu. Haf no fear but dat we weel her find, when zee snow it stop!
And the ringing confidence in his tone brought new heart to Stane, still beset with fears for Helen.
As Helen Yardely caught sight of Ainley's face, for a moment she was dumb with amazement, then she cried: "You? You?"
Yes, he answered quickly, "I have been seeking you for weeks, and I find you in the nick of time. But there is no time to explain now. There were others with your captors; I saw the sledge following behind. We must get away at once."
As he spoke he cut the thongs which bound her to the sledge and helped her to rise. Then he spoke again urgently. "Quick!" he said. "There is danger. This way—I have a team waiting for you. We must take to the woods."
He took her arm, and began to hurry through the blinding snow. Helen, bewildered by the swift turn of events, did not resist, but moved forward with him, and in a couple of minutes found herself standing by a sled-team guarded by a couple of Indians.
Get on the sledge, Helen, said Ainley, brusquely. "There is no time to waste. We must hurry."
Still in a whirl of conflicting thoughts, the girl seated herself on the sledge, Ainley swiftly did what he could for her comfort, and a moment later the dogs received their command.
Moosh! Moosh!
They turned from the storm-ridden lake to the shelter of the great woods. The trail was not a good one; but the snow among the trees was far from being the hindrance it was in the open; and though their progress was slow, on the whole it was steady. Except for forced halts to unravel the harness when it caught in the bushes, they did not stop for two hours, but pressed on until they reached an open space in the woods, which they crossed in a smother of blinding snow. On the other side of this break they came to a fresh spur of forest, and when they had penetrated to the shelter of the trees once more, the first voluntary halt was made. Then for the first time since the march had begun, Ainley spoke to the girl.
Comfortable, Helen? he asked.
As comfortable as possible under the circumstances, was the reply.
I am sorry I can do no better, replied Ainley. "But we are in danger still, and a little hardship is better than the grave risk of life."
Oh! answered Helen. "I do not mind the hardship."
That is what I should expect of you, answered Ainley quickly, "but it is not for long that I ask it of you. In another hour or so, we shall be safe, I hope, then we will camp until the storm is over."
Of whom are you afraid? asked Helen.
Indians! We were forced to shoot three of your captors; and those of their friends who were following on behind may feel impelled to try and avenge their deaths.
Oh! said the girl; a note of such evident disappointment in her tone, that Ainley looked at her quickly.
Why do you speak like that, Helen? One would think that you were almost sorry that I had delivered you from the fate awaiting you.
Oh, it is not that! replied Helen quickly. "Though of course I do not know what the fate was. Do you?"
I have an idea, he said, "and I will explain when we camp. Just now I must have a word with my men. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes; and there will be bacon and biscuit, which if not exactly appetising will be sustaining."
I shall not mind bacon and biscuit, answered Helen, and as Ainley walked away a look of deep thought came on the girl's face.
Was it true, she asked herself, that he was afraid of the pursuit of revengeful Indians? She remembered the sledge which she had seen following behind, a sledge accompanied by only two men, and the evident anxiety it had occasioned her chief captor, and one thing fixed itself in her mind with all the force of a conviction, namely that whatever Gerald Ainley thought about these men behind, her captors knew nothing whatever about them; then she remembered the revelations made by the half-breed. He had owned that he had attacked the cabin and captured her for a price, a great price paid by a man who loved her. Was that man Gerald Ainley? It was an odd coincidence that he should have been waiting just where he was, which was quite evidently the place where the half-breed had been making for. His words of greeting made it clear that he had been expecting to meet her, but in that case how did it come about that he knew she was in the neighbourhood? Was he indeed the man to whom the half-breed was looking for the price? If so, why had he so ruthlessly shot down the men who were his confederates?
Instantly an explanation that fitted the facts occurred to her. He had shot down her captors in order to conceal his connection with them and with the attack upon the cabin. She remembered the man whom she had seen, and her odd fancy that he was a white man, and recalled her lover's conviction that no bodily harm was meant to her, though the same was not true of himself, and a very deep distrust of Gerald Ainley surged in her heart; a distrust that was deepened by her recollection of the policeman's story of the forged bill, and the sheet of foolscap which had been in her lover's possession.
But of this distrust she gave no sign when Ainley approached her, bearing food and coffee. She accepted the situation as if it were the most everyday one in the world; and she listened to the few words that he had to say, with real interest.
We shall resume our march in twenty minutes or so, Helen, but as I said, in an hour or so, we shall be beyond pursuit. Then, when we have camped, you shall tell me the story of your adventures.
Yes, she answered quietly, "and you shall tell me exactly how you came to find me."
That is a long story, he answered with a slight frown, "but you shall hear it all in good time. It has taken me months to find you, and I had almost begun to despair, when a fortunate chance gave me the clue to your whereabouts."
What chance was it? asked Helen quickly.
To answer that, he answered deliberately, "is to forestall my story." Then he smiled, "You must be patient a little while longer, as I am, and when you have heard it, I hope you will not deny me my reward?"
Oh, she said with a little touch of scorn creeping into her tones. "You have been working for a reward?"
No, he replied sharply. "My toil has been a labour of love. You must know that, Helen! Though it is quite true that Sir James——"
He broke off, and as he showed no signs of continuing Helen forced him to do so. "You were saying something about my uncle? Did he send you after me?"
He made me head of the search-party, because he knew I loved you, and he hinted that when I had found you I might go to him. You understand, Helen?
Yes, answered the girl enigmatically. "I think I do."
Looking at her, Ainley saw that there was nothing to be gained by pressing the matter further at that moment; and excusing himself he went to give orders to his Indians. A short time later they resumed their journey, and travelled steadily for something more than an hour; then almost in the dark they pitched camp for the night. A substantial meal was prepared of which Helen partook in the shelter of a little tent which had been erected; then when she had finished the meal, she seated herself by the big fire which had been built.
Ainley also seated himself less than a yard from her; and without giving him a chance of asking for her story, she instantly demanded his.
Now, she said, as lightly as she could, "you shall tell me everything. How you searched for me, how you got on my trail at last, and the fate from which you saved me this morning."
Ainley would have preferred to hear her story first; but he did not demur to her suggestion, and with a little deprecatory laugh he began. "It is not very easy to talk of one's own doings, but I will do my best to avoid boastfulness."
Then, carefully picking his words, he described the anxiety her non-return to her uncle's camp had given rise to; and the preliminary search made by himself and the Indian Joe. As he described his own feelings of despair at the finding of the portion of her canoe in the drift-pile beyond the falls, his voice shook with quite genuine emotion, and Helen moved so as to bring her face a little in shadow whilst she watched him. In that moment she momentarily forgot the distrust which her own questioning had awakened in her, and listened absorbed whilst he narrated the discovery of the brooch, and the new hope it occasioned, since it afforded evidence that she was in all probability still alive. Then he broke off sharply. "You were saved from the river, somehow, by that fellow Stane, who was up at Fort Malsun, were you not?"
Yes! How did you know?
I got his description from a half-breed who had met and hailed you going up the river in a canoe towards Old Fort Winagog.
But we met no half-breed, said Helen quickly, her distrust awakening in full force.
You met no half-breed? The surprise in Ainley's face was quite genuine, as Helen saw, and she realized that whatever was to come, this part of the man's story was quite true.
No, we met no one, and we never reached Fort Winagog, because our canoe was stolen whilst we slept.
Is that so? Ainley's face grew dark as he asked the question; then a troubled look came upon it. "The man must have lied to me," he said, "or have told me only half the truth, but he must have seen you, or how did he know that the man who was with you was Stane?"
Perhaps he was the man who stole our canoe, said Helen.
Yes, answered Ainley, "that will be it. But——" he broke off without finishing. "Anyway," he continued after a moment, "following his statement, I went up to Old Fort Winagog, but found no sign of you, then back by another and a quicker route that I might tell your uncle of the lack of news, and organize a regular search. After that, I started to beat the country round about steadily. Rodwell sent news of you to all the Indians and trappers in the country, whilst your uncle promised a reward. For weeks I searched, and all in vain, then one day an Indian girl came with a story of a white man and woman living in a cabin on a lake, and though she did not know their names she was able to tell me that this man and woman were Stane and you."
Who was the girl? asked Helen quickly.
It was that Indian girl who was up at Fort Malsun!
Miskodeed! cried Helen.
That I believe was her name. She looked on Stane as her lover, and she did you the honour of being jealous of you! Ainley laughed as he spoke. "Absurd, of course—But what will you? The primitive, untutored heart is very simple in its emotions and the man was her paramour!"
It is a lie! cried Helen hotly. "He had spoken to her only twice in his life."
He was scarcely likely to own to anything more, to you, answered Ainley, "and in any case I am giving you the Indian girl's version; that it accords with my own belief is of little moment. What I do know is that she cared nothing about the reward your uncle offered, and that her sole purpose seemed to be to remove you from Stane's company."
And when you heard? asked Helen prompting him as he fell silent.
When I heard, I did not waste time. I made a bee-line for the cabin on the lake, taking the girl with me. I arrived there last night——
How long were you on the way? interrupted Helen suddenly.
Four days.
And Miskodeed was with you all the time?
Of course! answered Ainley a trifle uneasily. "She was our guide."
I see, answered Helen quietly. She made no further comment on the Indian girl, but she knew now that Ainley had departed from whatever truth there was in his narrative, for Miskodeed, on the sure evidence of her own eyes had been at the Indian encampment when he claimed she had been with him. She listened quietly whilst Ainley continued:
As I was saying, I arrived in the neighbourhood of the cabin last night, to find you gone——
And Mr. Stane? she asked almost breathlessly. "Did you find him? Did you see him?"
Ainley shook his head. "No, I did not see him myself, but one of my men turned a body over that was lying in the snow. It was that of a white man, who could be no other than Stane!"
Helen flinched at the answer which confirmed what the half-breed had said to her about Stane being dead. She looked away, not wishing Ainley to see her face at that moment, whilst the hot tears welled in her eyes, and the man, choosing to disregard her manifest sorrow, continued his story. "We found an Indian in the snow, who had been wounded in the fight, as he told us, and on pressure he gave me the information that you had been carried away by a half-breed of the name of Chigmok, who, as the Indian averred, was making for the lake of the Little Moose, that is the lake where we rescued you. This wounded man also informed us that Chigmok had a camp on the lake, gave us instructions how to find it; and volunteered the further information that Chigmok was taking the longest route to the lake, since that was the easier way for a heavily-loaded sledge. There was a shorter way, as he informed us, a way which if we travelled hard, would bring us to the lake before Chigmok himself; and after considering the matter carefully I decided to take the shorter route, and to await your captor at his own camp, since, as he had no reason for anticipating pursuit, the surprise would be all the more complete. We arrived there in good time, and—well, you know the rest, Helen."
Not quite, answered the girl in a listless, toneless voice. "You have not yet told me what this man Chigmok proposed to do with me."
Well, the wounded Indian told us that he had fallen violently in love with you, and that he proposed to make you his squaw.
Ah!
Ainley interpreted the exclamation in his own way, but looking at the girl was surprised by a look which had come into her face. Her listlessness had fallen from her. There was a look of absorption about her which puzzled him, and he wondered what she was thinking of. He did not know what her captor had revealed to her, and so never dreamed the truth, which was that Helen was thinking that for the second time he had fallen from the truth in his narrative. But again she gave no further sign. For a little time she sat there grasping at the hope, the very little hope it gave her. He had lied twice, she was sure. What reason was there for supposing that the other parts of his narrative were true? He had owned that he had not seen Hubert Stane's body, and that he had taken the Indian's word. But what if that were a lie, what if after all there had been no body, what if that, like the other things, was a fabrication? It was true that the half-breed had said Stane was dead, but that might be a mistake. A faint hope stirred in her heart, and she determined to question Ainley's two Indians as soon as the opportunity arose. Then a new thought came to her, and she turned quickly to Ainley.
Tell me one thing, she said, "when you arrived at the cabin the attack was quite over?"
Quite, he answered.
And you did not take part in the fighting? You fired no shots at the attackers?
No, he answered. "They had gone when we arrived, all except the wounded Indian who gave me the information."
Then who was it? she cried.
Who was it? I do not understand what you mean, Helen.
Some one fired on the Indians from the wood, and he kept on firing as the Indians bound me to the sledge, and even after we had begun to flee.
Ainley rose abruptly to his feet. It was very clear to the girl that the information she had given him had astonished him. His manner betrayed perturbation as he replied in short, jerky sentences: "You amaze me! What you say is—most astonishing. Are you sure? You have not dreamed this by any chance?"
If I have, answered Helen, "another shared my dream. For when I heard the shots I thought that Mr. Stane had fired them; it was the half-breed who told me that I was mistaken, and that the shots had been fired by some one in the forest."
Ainley's perturbation did not subside at this further information. There was in his face a look of agitation that amounted almost to apprehension. "I do not understand it at all," he said, more to himself than to Helen. "It is beyond me. Good Heavens! Is it possible that Stane escaped after all? He——"
I thought one of your men saw his body? interrupted Helen, quickly.
He certainly saw the body of a white man, or so he avers, and I had no reason to suppose that it could be any one else!
Then, said the girl, "you are not sure?"
No, not in the sense you mean; but I am morally certain that—but why worry about Stane? Dead or alive he can be nothing to you.
The girl turned to him sharply, and there was a flash in her eyes and a look on her face that startled him.
Dead or alive, she said quickly, "he is more to me than you ever can be!"
Helen! there was a note of angry protest in Ainley's voice. "You cannot think what you are saying. You must have forgotten how I love you."
No, answered the girl deliberately. "I have not forgotten."
Then you are forgetting what I have endured for you—all the toil and travail of these weeks of search—the risks I have taken to find you, the risks I took this morning. Stane may have done something heroic in saving you from the river, I don't know, but I do know that, as you told me months ago, you were a hero-worshipper, and I beg of you not to be misled by a mere romantic emotion. I have risked my life a score of times to serve you. This morning I saved you from something worse than death, and surely I deserve a little consideration at your hands. Will you not think again? Since heroism is your fetish, can you find nothing heroic in my labours, in my service?
The man was in deadly earnest, pleading for something on which his heart was set, and whatever dissimulation there had been in his narrative, there was none whatever in his pleadings. But Helen remembered how her lover had gone to prison for this man's deed, and her heart was like a flint, her tone as cold as ice as she answered him.
You do not understand, she said, "you have not yet heard my story. When you have, whatever I may owe you, you will not press me again."
Tell me the story then, cried Ainley in a voice hoarse with passion. "And for God's sake, be quick about it!"
"I will," answered Helen coldly, and without further preamble began the narrative of all that had befallen her from the time she had left her uncle's camp to inspect the beaver colony. Ainley listened for a long time without interruption. Much of the story he already knew, though the girl was unaware of the fact; much more he had guessed, but some things were unknown to him, and when she gave the account of Stane's accident at the deadfall and of the camp she had made there, he broke out in chagrin: "That explains how it was we never found you. We must have passed within a very few miles of you."
You were once within a quarter of a mile of me.
How do you know that? he cried.
Because I saw you and the Indian Joe pitch your camp on the shore of the lake.
You saw—— he began, and then stopped staring at her with incredulous eyes.
Yes! I watched you make your fire, and then I went back to camp, and put out my own fire.
Why? he demanded harshly, though he had already guessed.
Because I was afraid you would discover me, answered the girl calmly. "And I, with a joyful heart, watched you departing in the morning."
Ainley rose suddenly to his feet. "Helen," he cried hoarsely, "do you know what you are saying? You are telling me that you were glad to be left alone in this god-forsaken wilderness with a man who was a discharged convict? I wonder what our world would think of that confession?"
I do not care what our world, as you call it, would think about my action. These few months in the wilderness have made me think little of those conventions which have such rigid observance in the letter but are outraged in the spirit every day.
Our acquaintances would say—— he began, with a note of bitter malice in his voice, but Helen interrupted him.
I wonder what our acquaintances would say if they knew everything about the crime for which Hubert Stane became a convict?
As she dealt this blow the girl looked at him with ruthless eyes. Now she was defending, not herself alone, but the memory of the man she loved, and who out of consideration for herself had only declared his love when he was going out to meet his death. That thought made her merciless, and as she saw him waver under the weight of the blow and his face grow white as the snow about them, she continued unflinchingly.
If they knew what I know they might say that I had made a wise choice in remaining with a convict who had suffered for something of which he was innocent, instead of going with the man who sent another man to——
Helen! You are mad! mad! cried Ainley in a voice so wild that one of the Indians, dozing at the other side of the fire, started suddenly to his feet, and looked around him as if for enemies. Ainley saw him and checked the other wild words which sprang to his lips, and after a moment the Indian sank down on his haunches and dropped his chin on his breast again.
No, answered Helen calmly. "I am not mad, I am telling the truth, as you gave me evidence just now. You did not let me finish my sentence. You knew what I was going to say. How did you know it? You could not have guessed it if the facts had not been within your knowledge." She broke off and was silent for a moment whilst Ainley stared at her with wild eyes. "I may be in your debt for what happened this morning. I do not know, for I do not, cannot trust you; but I will never forgive you for what the man I loved suffered. Never!"
You believe some lying tale of Stane's? said Ainley, in a sneering attempt to cover up his own discomfiture.
I believe what he told me; I would have believed it on his word alone, but fortunately the matter does not depend on that word only. There is evidence, and I know where that evidence is, and I will tell you what I am going to do. When we get to Fort Malsun, I shall get Mr. Rodwell to equip an expedition, and I shall recover that evidence and publish it to the world, in order to clear the memory of the man whom you have so deeply wronged.
There will be no need for that, fortunately, Miss Yardely! said a voice behind her.
The girl jumped to her feet in surprise. And Ainley took a quick step forward as a man emerged from the shadow of the trees into the circle of the firelight. It was the mounted policeman, Dandy Anderton, and behind him came another man at whom Helen stared for a moment incredulously, then with a great cry of joy ran to meet him.
Hubert! Hubert!
Yes! he answered, slipping an arm about her.
But I thought—I thought——
I was afraid you might think so, he replied in answer to her unspoken thought. "But that could not be helped. I followed after you as fast as I could, and I was at your heels when your captors were shot down on the lake and the snow came on."
Oh, how glad I am that you are alive! That you have found me.
She rested against him well-content, and Stane's arm about her tightened its grip; then they came back to the little world about them, at the sound of the policeman's voice.
Didn't know me, Ainley? I dare say not. I'm not quite the tailor's mannikin that I was in the old days at the 'Varsity. Got a man's job now, you see. And that reminds me, I'm here on duty. I happened to be up the Little Moose when that shooting took place this morning. There's a couple of dead Indians up there, and as I guess you had something to do with their sudden deaths I shall have to call on you for an explanation you know.
Ainley looked at the policeman without fear, and then for a moment his eyes turned and rested on Helen and Stane standing together in the shadow of a great fir-tree. It must have been a moment of exceeding bitterness to him, but beyond a short, abrupt laugh he gave no sign of his feelings. He turned again to the policeman. Apparently he was perfectly cool and self-possessed. He waved a hand towards the fire.
May as well make ourselves comfortable. It's rather a long story I have to tell. Where are your dogs?
Back in the wood—anchored. I'll slip back and fetch them.
No, said Stane, "I will go back for them."
He turned, and Helen turned with him.
You don't mind, she whispered.
Mind!
She walked by his side, a hand on his arm. Once when they were well in the shadows of the wood they stopped, and with his arm about her he kissed her.
My dear! he whispered, "my dear."
Helen said nothing immediately, but gave a little sobbing laugh of gladness. Then after a moment she asked, "How did you escape? How did you find me?"
It is too long a story to tell you the whole of it just now. But right in the nick of time, when I was expecting to die, the owner of our cabin, Jean Bènard came back. He saved my life; but as he knew nothing about you, the attackers got away with you, but as soon as he heard my story he got ready to pursue, and having found out that your kidnappers were making for the Little Moose we took a short cut and waited for you. We were at your heels when the rifles fired from the shore——
Then you were with that second sledge?
Yes, I and Jean Bènard!
I saw you and I wondered, cried Helen. "But the half-breed had told me you were dead."
We lost you in the snow, said Stane, continuing his explanation, "but found Anderton, and though the snow was as bad as ever, after a time we started to search for your trail. Jean Bènard found it deep in the wood where we were searching, knowing the lake was impossible for any one to travel in the storm, and after he had made the discovery, Anderton and I started to track you."
And where is Jean Bènard? asked Helen quickly. "I want to thank him for saving you, for bringing joy back to me when I thought that it was dead for ever."
He is following us, he will be here, presently.
Then I shall see him?
I hope so. But we must hurry on, dear. The dogs——
Bother the dogs—.
But I want to hear Gerald Ainley's explanation. It is important that I should.
I have already heard it, said Helen quickly. "It is full of lies."
You think so?
I know it.
All the more reason that I should hear it with Anderton. There is much more behind all this than you know, Helen.
Perhaps I guess something of what lies behind.
I do not think you can. It is an extraordinary story, and there will be a dénouement presently that will surprise Ainley. Come!
They moved forward together, found the dogs, and having righted the sledge by which they had been anchored, they returned to the camp. Ainley, pipe in hand, apparently quite cool, was talking. He gave one glance at the couple as they re-entered the circle of light, watched Stane for a moment as he stooped to unharness the dogs, and then continued the story he had been telling glibly and evenly.
Having got the news, I made straight for the cabin, and had the ill-luck to arrive there half an hour too late. One of the men found a dead man, who, from the description, I mistook for Stane there, and we also found a wounded Indian, who, with a little persuasion, told us what he knew, which was that a half-breed, of the name of Chigmok, inflamed with love for Miss Yardely, had carried her off, designing to make her his squaw. I understand this Chigmok is what the Indians call a bad man—but perhaps you know him?
He broke off and looked directly at Anderton as he spoke, and waited for a reply. The mounted policeman nodded, and as casually as he could replied: "Yes, I have met him. He is—no good."
As the policeman replied, Helen, who was watching Ainley's face, saw a subtle change come over it. For one moment it lost its assurance and a flicker of doubt came in the eyes. The girl divined that he had suddenly grown uncertain of his ground, and to her it was noticeable that after Anderton's reply Ainley's glibness left him, and that he spoke hesitatingly, haltingly, with frequent pauses, like a man uncertain of his words.
Then, by all accounts, you have met a regular rogue, Anderton! But to resume, the Indian told us that Chigmok had carried off Miss Yardely. Under pressure he told also the place for which the half-breed was making, a desolate district, little travelled—the Lake of the Little Moose. Know it?
Yes, I was there this morning; Stane and I have just come from there.
Again the flicker of doubt came in Ainley's eyes, and in the glow of the firelight, Helen saw a look of apprehension come on his face. It was there for but a moment, then it was gone, but in that moment the girl had seen deeply into Ainley's heart, and knew that fear was rapidly mounting there.
Ah! you also followed Chigmok's trail, I suppose. But I was there first. I followed a shorter route and I was at his camp waiting for him when he showed up. I saw Miss Yardely on the sledge, and as for the moment we were three against three, I felt that it was not an occasion when chances should be taken, so we fired from the bushes on the three kidnappers and shot them down. Then as there was another sledge coming on behind, I removed Miss Yardely to my own sledge, and to escape further trouble we pushed the dogs hard till we got here.... And that's about all, I think.
He fell silent for a moment, and sat there watching the two white men and the white girl who had heard the conclusion of his narrative. They remained quite still, and not one of the three spoke. Ainley evidently found the silence too much for his nerves, for after a little time had passed in profound silence, he flashed out irritably:
Well, what do you think of my story?
It is a very interesting story, said Anderton at last.
A quick look of relief came into Ainley's face. "You think I was justified in shooting down those three kidnappers then?"
On the face of things—yes! If your story is the correct one there is not the slightest doubt that you followed the right course.
You don't doubt its correctness? flashed Ainley.
I have not said so, answered the policeman gravely, "but so far, as you will see, I have only your word for it."
The two men who are with me can corroborate, replied Ainley.
That will be helpful, of course, said Anderton. "But I am not trying the case, Ainley, I am only making the necessary inquiries that I may make my report at the Post. And I had better warn you that you may have a little trouble about this matter. Things in the North here are not like they were a few years back, when any wandering white man felt himself justified in potting any Indian whose presence he considered inimical. The administration of the Territories is very tender towards the natives under its charge, and watchful of their interests. It is bound to be. Since it expects the red man to accept its laws, it can do no less than compel whites to honour them."
Oh I know all that, said Ainley, a trifle contemptuously. "But you won't claim that the circumstances of this affair are anything but extraordinary."
No, agreed the policeman, "I think they are very extraordinary."
Something significant in his tones caused Ainley to look at him questioningly. The policeman, whose face was like a mask, was staring into the fire, and did not catch the look. Ainley made as if to speak, then changed his mind and remained silent. After a little time Anderton spoke again.
Seems a long time since we three men foregathered at Oxford.
Yes, agreed Ainley, apparently relieved at the change of subject. "A good bit of water has gone down the Isis since then."
And all the circumstances considered it is rather a coincidence that we three should meet like this in the wilderness.
It certainly is dramatic, admitted Ainley. "Quite a Drury Lane drama."
More so than you know, Ainley, answered Anderton quickly. "Stane, let Ainley have a look at that piece of paper you carry about with you."
A moment later Stane had opened the oilskin packet, and was unfolding the sheet of note-paper. Ainley watched him in amazement, and then as Stane held the paper towards him, and he bent over it, a look of consternation came on his face, and a quick oath broke from his lips. "God in heaven!"
You had better put that paper in safety, again, Stane, said the policeman quickly. "Ainley recognized it first glance."
It's a lie, cried Ainley. "I've never seen the thing in my life before!"
Your tongue lies better than your face, Ainley. Just now your face told the truth. You have seen that paper before. You saw it at Oxford when you prepared yourself for the forgery that sent Stane to prison. You——
I'll not stand it! cried Ainley jumping to his feet. "You are charging me with a crime of which a judge and jury found Stane guilty. It is insufferable. You can't expect any man to sit still."
Where did you find that paper, Stane? interrupted the policeman brusquely.
In a copy of Jowett's Plato which Ainley had borrowed from me, and which he returned to my scout after I was arrested.
It's a barefaced lie! A plot! cried Ainley. "I'm surprised at you, Anderton—a representative of the law too—lending yourself to such an absurd charge. You ought to know better."
I know more than you think, Ainley. You remember Jarlock who was in our set—?
Jarlock! The name broke from Ainley in a tone of consternation.
Yes, Jarlock! A good fellow, Jarlock. A friend who could forgive a friend his faults, who indeed could on occasion overlook a crime when he thought it was the crime of a hard-pressed man.
What in thunder are you gassing about? cried Ainley blusteringly.
About Jarlock and a certain promissory note which he paid, a note which bore your name and his. Your signature was quite genuine. Jarlock's—well, Jarlock denied it, and you owned that you——
He told? said Ainley. "The cur told?"
Yes, he told me in confidence, after he had heard of Stane's denial of the charge for which he was imprisoned. You see he believed in Stane, as I did myself——
And you would make me the scapegoat for Stane's crime. Ainley laughed harshly. "I will see you hung first," he cried. "I——"
He broke off abruptly as a sound of yelping dogs sounded from the wood, and stared into the darkness. Anderton rose from his seat.
I expect that will be Jean Bènard, he said quietly.
Jean Bènard? Who is Jean Bènard? cried Ainley.
He is the man who Stane and I left to bring Chigmok along.
Chigmok!
Yes, you see, Ainley, Chigmok was not dead as you meant him to be. He was only winged, and he was able to tell his story which was a much more interesting story than yours, and as I beg leave to think, a much more truthful one.
Ainley did not reply. He stood staring into the darkness with wild eyes. The glow of the fire revealed a terrible look on his face—the look of a man who in a single moment has seen his life go suddenly to pieces. He stood there dumb, his face working painfully, and then, as the dog-team broke into the circle of the firelight, he fell back into his seat by the fire in utter collapse, his face hidden in his hands.
When Ainley lifted a white, tortured face, it was to find the man whom he had used as a tool, and whom, having used, he had tried to kill, seated by the fire, staring at him with his evil eyes full of hate. The others also sat watching him, all except Helen who had withdrawn to the shadow of the wood, and was walking restlessly to and fro, unable to witness further the downfall of a man whom she had known so well. For a moment there was silence, then Anderton spoke.
Would you like to hear Chigmok's story, Ainley?
There is no need that I should, answered Ainley with a bitter, hopeless laugh. "I can guess it fairly well."
The mounted policeman was silent for a little time, then he remarked: "The implications of his story are rather serious for you, Ainley."
Oh, I know it, don't I?
Then you admit——
I admit nothing! I reserve my defence—that's the proper legal thing to do, isn't it?
It is the wise thing, anyway, said Anderton.
The wise thing, again the bitter mirthless laugh sounded. "When did I ever do the wise thing? I suppose I may consider myself under arrest."
Detained on suspicion, admitted the policeman. "I think I must trouble you for your pistol and hunting-knife."
Once more Ainley laughed his bitter laugh, and unbuckling his belt threw it to the policeman. "It isn't often you arrest an old chum," he said.
No! agreed Anderton, "thank heaven! But you understand, Ainley, I've no option. If you were my own brother it would be the same. The oath of service is a very exacting one—'without fear or favour or affection of or toward any person. So help me God!' A man can't——"
Oh, you needn't apologize, Anderton, I recognize the situation well enough. Don't mind if I lapse into silence do you? There are some letters I want to write.
He unbuttoned his furs and taking out a pocket-book and pencil began to write. Jean Bènard, having fed his dogs, began to prepare a meal for himself. Anderton sat by the fire, staring into the flames, reflecting on the irony of fate that had selected him of all men in the Mounted Service to be the one to arrest his whilom fellow-student. Stane had turned away and joined Helen, who still paced to and fro in the shadows. Her face, as her lover saw, was full of trouble.
Oh! she whispered. "It is unbearable to watch a man one has known go all to pieces!"
It is certainly very sad, agreed Stane, out of whose heart all hatred suddenly vanished. "I wish that things were not as they are."
Let us try to forget, said Helen with a quick glance towards the fire. "Tell me what happened when you went out of the cabin last night."
Well, answered her lover falling into step by her side, "when I went out, I thought I was certainly going to my death."
Ah, I knew that was in your mind!... But how did you escape?
It was a narrow thing. An Indian grappled me, and another man was hurrying towards me with an ax. I could not get away, and a third person appeared suddenly with a knife. I thought the knife was meant for me, but it was not. It was meant for my antagonist, and he went down and just after—my—my—saviour was killed by the second Indian, who also struck at me, knocking me senseless.
Who was the person with the knife? Someone with Jean Bènard?
No, answered Stane slowly, "it was the Indian girl, Miskodeed."
Miskodeed! cried Helen in utter surprise.
Yes! I did not know it at the time, but we found her afterwards, Jean Bènard and I. It was a dreadful discovery. Jean had come back to his cabin, hoping to marry her, and she had died for me!
Oh, sobbed Helen in a sudden accession of grief. "I would have done as much!"
I know, answered Stane quietly.
And last night when you were in the wood together, and I heard your voices, I was jealous of that girl; last night and at other times.
But, said the man, a note of wonder in his voice, "there was no need, Helen. You must know that?"
Oh yes, I know it now. But she was very beautiful and Gerald Ainley had suggested that you—that you——. And I am sure that she loved you. But not more than I, though she died for you!
I am very sure of that, answered Stane, earnestly, putting his arm about her and trying to comfort her.
Helen sobbed convulsively. "I shall always be grateful to her, though I was jealous of her. She saved you—for me—and she was only an Indian girl."
She had a heart of gold, said Stane. "She came to warn me and then stayed to do what she did!" Both were silent for a long time, the girl thinking of Miskodeed in her flashing beauty, the other of Jean, bent over the cold face of his dead love, and then Helen spoke again.
But tell me! The attack on the cabin, was that man who captured me—that man Chigmok—was he the inspirer of that?
I am afraid not!
Then it was Gerald Ainley who was to pay the price for me that the half-breed told me of, and that is why he collapsed so utterly when Chigmok came along just now?
Yes, answered Stane, simply.
But why did he shoot down Chigmok's party?
Well, I think it was to get rid of witnesses who might rise up against him. You must remember that he would be under the impression that I was dead—killed in the attack, and that was a crime that might some day have come to light if those men had lived. The pretended rescue was a sufficient excuse for getting rid of the men who knew the instigator, particularly of the half-breed.
Yes, said Helen thoughtfully. "An idea of that sort had occurred to me from something that Chigmok had said. But how dreadful it is to think that a man can so conspire to—to——"
She broke off without completing her words, and Stane nodded.
There was always a crooked strain in Ainley. But it will go hard with him now, for the half-breed will be merciless. He is the man Anderton was after when he came to the cabin, and his life is forfeit on another count. He will not spare the man who bribed him to fresh crime, and then dealt treacherously with him.
He paused in his walk and looked back towards the fire where Ainley sat writing, with Chigmok glowering at him across the fire, whilst Anderton sat staring abstractedly into the glowing logs. Then a stealthy movement of the half-breed's arrested his attention. The man had thrust his hand into his furs, and as it was withdrawn Stane caught sight of something that gleamed in the firelight. In a flash he saw what was about to happen, and shouted a hurried warning.
Look out, Ainley!
In the same second, the half-breed, standing swiftly upright, launched himself across the fire at Ainley, knife in hand. The white man who had looked up at Stane's sudden warning was bowled over in the snow with the half-breed on the top of him. The knife was lifted, but never struck, for in that second Anderton also had leaped, and gripping the half-breed's wrist he twisted the knife from his grasp, and flinging it away, dragged the attacker from his victim. By the time Stane had reached the scene, Ainley was gathering up some scattered papers, apparently none the worse for the encounter, whilst Anderton was admonishing the half-breed.
You're a nice lot, Chigmok. Winged as you are, I thought you were quite safe. Now you force me to tie you up, savvy?
He promptly proceeded to do so, whilst Ainley seated himself anew and looked up at Stane. "Thank you, Stane! The warning was more than I deserved from you!" Then he laughed bitterly. "The poor devil isn't to be blamed. I have merited what he meant to do, and you know it might have been the better way—for me."
Stane looked at him not knowing what to reply. There was something about Ainley that moved him to sudden pity. He looked like a man who had reached the end of hope and life, and his words were those of a man viewing his own end as a matter of no moment. "I'm sorry, Ainley!" said Stane awkwardly.
So am I! But what's the use? There's no going back in life; a man can only go forward or——
Or what? asked Stane.
Or go out! answered the other grimly.
You are thinking of——
Better for you not to know, Stane. I'm going to do the straight thing for once in my life, as you will discover presently. Don't you worry about me. I am plumb at the end of things and I know it. But don't communicate any suspicions you may happen to have to Anderton. He has set up that precious duty of his as a fetish, worships it, as you heard. Think of Dandy Anderton of the old days on his knees at the shrine of duty! He gave a little laugh, and then continued, "But I don't want to be offered on his altar, and I won't be. You can bank on that!" He broke off and looked towards Helen, hovering on the edge of the shadows. "If you've any sense, Stane, you'll go and persuade Helen to lie down and rest, she must be worn out by now!"
Stane nodded and turned away, and after a little more walking to and fro, Helen sought the tent, whilst Stane, after a word or two with Anderton and Jean Bènard, rolled himself in his sleeping furs, though with little hope of sleep. He lay awake some time and frequently opened his eyes to see Ainley still bent over his pocket-book, but presently drowsiness came over him. The last time his eyes alighted on Ainley the latter had ceased to write and was sitting staring into the fire with sombre eyes. Then sleep overtook him completely.
He awoke in the grey dawn with Anderton's voice in his ears, and with a powdery snow driving into his eyes.
What——
Ainley's gone. I left one of the Indians to watch—not that I thought there was any very real need—but the beggar slept, and Ainley evidently took the opportunity to bolt.
Has he taken dogs? asked Stane quickly.
No, nor anything else that I can see. He has even left his pocket-book behind with some pages bent over and addressed to you. Here it is! Out of the wood it must be snowing like the very devil, and he can't go far. I'm going after him with Jean Bènard, and I want you to look after Chigmok and these Indians of Ainley's.
All right, Anderton! But you won't catch Ainley, you know.
Why not?
Because, was the reply given with quiet significance, "I am afraid that Ainley has gone very far indeed."
A light of comprehension came into the policeman's eyes, and he whistled thoughtfully.
You think—— he began and stopped.
I am quite sure that Ainley has started on the longest trail of all. Why didn't he take dogs? How long can he last in this wilderness without? And as you say outside the wood it must be snowing heavily—which way has he gone?
His tracks are on the backward trail——
To the open country—and in a blizzard. Anderton, old man, let him go. You must guess what he is about——
Maybe I do, answered Anderton quietly.
And you'll only be wasting your strength for nothing.
I hope to God you're right! broke out the policeman vehemently. "But all the same I've got to follow him—Duty's duty—but you don't suppose I'm keen on taking an old pal to be hanged at Regina. I'm glad Ainley had the sense and grit to take the long trail on his own. But I'm bound to try and stop him; though I thank heaven that he has an hour's start. Now I must go. Keep your eye on Chigmok, he stands for my honour and credit much more than Ainley, because of his original crime. So long!"
He turned away and disappeared into the forest on the backward trail with Jean Bènard, and half an hour afterwards Helen emerged from her tent to find him bent over Ainley's pocket-book with a troubled look in his eyes.
What is it? she asked looking round. "Where is Mr. Ainley and where are——"
Ainley went away in the night. The others have gone after him. They will not catch him—at least I pray not.
You think he will get away?
He has taken a trail where they are not likely to follow.
Oh! cried Helen with a sob. "You mean that he—that he——?"
Yes! He hinted his intention to me last night——
And you did not try to stop him? she cried almost reproachfully.
No! Why should I? If you will think, Helen, you will find many reasons why this was the only thing for Ainley. He has left a long note in his pocket-book and a confession which clears me of that affair at Oxford. There is a note also for you—perhaps you would like to take the book and read the note to me as well.
He handed her the pocket-book and watched her as she returned to the little tent, then began to busy himself with preparations for breakfast. Half an hour later Helen emerged again. Her eyes were red with weeping.
I have torn my note out, she said, "there it is." She held a crumpled ball of paper in her hand. "It is the saddest thing I ever read. He tells me that he was responsible for my going adrift, that he deliberately broke my paddle in order that he might find me and pose as a hero, because he wanted me to marry him and knew that I worshipped heroism. He says that he had made what reparation was possible to you and that you will be able to clear your name. He prays for our happiness, and—and—he hints at what he was about to do, because he finishes with the old cry of the gladiators—'Hail Cæsar, we who are about to die, salute thee!' Oh! It is so sad!... No eyes but mine shall ever read it—and I—shall never read it again."
She moved her hand slightly and the crumpled ball rolled into the blaze of the fire. She watched the flickering flame leap up, and die down, then she turned to her lover with streaming eyes.
You were right to let him go, my dear! I—I pray God they will not find him.
I also! said Stane.
... They waited an hour, two hours, saying little, neither trying to hide from the other the anxiety each felt, and then through the mist of snow between the trees came Anderton and Jean Bènard. Stane flashed a question at the policeman, who shook his head.
Thank God! said Stane, whilst Jean Bènard looked at Helen.
Zee deaths een zee snow, eet ees nodings! I know. I haf seen a man die so. Eet ees as gentle as a woman's hand.
And as he finished speaking Helen turned and went to the little tent to pray for the repose of the man who had sinned, but had made the last complete reparation.
Two days later, when the storm had blown itself out, all of them took the trail to Fort Malsun, and at the end of the first day reached a small river that was unknown to Stane.
Where does this go to? he asked over the camp fire at night, pointing to the frozen waterway.
It makes a big bend and falls into the river above Fort Malsun, said Anderton.
And the other way? Where does it come from?
Don't know! answered Anderton. "Never travelled it!"
But I haf, said Jean Bènard. "I haf been up eet fiftee miles. Two days' trail from here dere ees an Engleesh Mission, where a married priest preach zee Gospel to zee Indians. He ees vaire good man, who laugh like an angel!"
A musing look came on Stane's face, and he sat for some time in thought, then when the opportunity came he walked with Helen on the edge of the wood, conversing earnestly. A burst of light laughter reached the men by the camp fire and Jean Bènard looked round.
What ees ze saying of your countrymen, p'liceman? 'Youth eet veel be served!' It veel snatch eet's happiness from zee jaws of death, eetself.
Yes! And these two deserve the happiness they will get!
When Stane and Helen returned to the fire, the former, whilst Anderton was busy elsewhere, spent some time in conversation with Jean Bènard, who, after a few moments, cried enthusiastically:
By gar! Dat ees a great plan, m'sieu! Zee dogs an' zee stores I would giv' dem you eef I vos not so poor a mans! But you can buy dem—wid pleasure!
Very well! But not a word to Anderton till morning.
Right, m'sieu. I understand. You an' your mees you giv' zee p'licemans one beeg surprise! Eees not dat so?
That is it, laughed Stane.
And Anderton's surprise was complete. Whilst it was yet dark and the stars were twinkling frostily, the three dog-teams were harnessed on the river trail.
Then the policeman made the discovery that Jean Bènard's team was headed upstream.
Hallo, Jean, he cried, "are you going to leave us?"
Not I, M'sieu Anderton, said the trapper with a grin. "I go wid you to Fort Malsun to help you look after Chigmok an' zee odders. But I zee team sold to M'sieu Stane, an' he goes to zee Engleesh Mission."
To the English Mission! Then a light broke on the policeman, and he turned to where Stane and Helen stood together, with laughter in their eyes. "I could shake you—shake you both," he said. "It is a pretty game to cheat me out of the job of best man. But, Great Christopher! it's the tip-top thing to do, to marry before you go out of the wilderness."
That missionary, laughed Stane, "is a Godsend. It would be folly not to use the opportunity he represents."
So I should think if I were in your shoes, laughed Anderton, joining in the laughter.
And Jean says he laughs like an angel, cried Helen gaily. "I want to see him, naturally. I have never seen an angel laugh!"
But I have! And so has Stane, replied the policeman. "How soon do you take the trail to Paradise? We'll wait and see you start!"
We're ready now, said Stane.
Then it's time you were off!
Hands were shaken, good-byes said, then Stane stepped ahead of the dogs, whilst Helen took her place at the gee-pole.
Moosh! Moosh! cried Jean to the dogs.
Then amid cries of well-wishes they started off on their trail to the English Mission, and overhead the lights of the Aurora, flaming suddenly, lit the trail with splendour.