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diff --git a/6715-h/6715-h.htm b/6715-h/6715-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ece97d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/6715-h/6715-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4904 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML><HEAD><TITLE>Isobel, by James Oliver Curwood</TITLE> +<META content="MSHTML 5.50.4522.1800" name=GENERATOR> +<META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> +<META content="Curwood, James Oliver" name=AUTHOR> +<META content="" name=SUPERTITLE> +<META content=Isobel name=TITLE> +<META content="A Romance of the Northern Trail" name=SUBTITLE> +<META content=1913 name=YEAR> +<META content="" name=TRANSLATOR> +<STYLE type=text/css> +p {margin-top: 1ex; text-indent: 3ex; margin-bottom: 1px; } +h4 {text-align: center; line-height: .3;} +p.normal { } +</STYLE> + +<META content="MSHTML 5.50.4522.1800" name=GENERATOR></HEAD> +<BODY vLink=#800080 link=#0000ff bgColor=#ffffec> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Isobel, by James Oliver Curwood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Isobel + +Author: James Oliver Curwood + +Posting Date: March 19, 2014 +Release Date: October, 2004 +[This file was first posted on January 19, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISOBEL *** + + + + +Produced by Norm Wolcott + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>The Project Gutenberg EBook of Isobel, by James Oliver Curwood +<br>(#11 in our series by James Oliver Curwood)</h1> + +<H4>Isobel</H4> +<H4>A Romance of the Northern Trail</H4> +<H4>by James Oliver Curwood, 1913</H4> +<HR> + +<P class=normal align=center>TO<BR>CARLOTTA<BR>WHO IS WITH ME AND +TO<BR>VIOLA<BR>WHO FILLS FOR ME A DREAM OF THE FUTURE<BR>I AFFECTIONATELY +DEDICATE THIS BOOK</P> +<HR> + +<H4>I</H4> +<H4>THE MOST TERRIBLE THING IN THE WORLD</H4> +<P>At Point Fullerton, one thousand miles straight north of civilization, +Sergeant William MacVeigh wrote with the stub end of a pencil between his +fingers the last words of his semi-annual report to the Commissioner of the +Royal Northwest Mounted Police at Regina.</P> +<P>He concluded:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>“I beg to say that I have made every effort to run down Scottie + Deane, the murderer. I have not given up hope of finding him, but I believe + that he has gone from my territory and is probably now somewhere within the + limits of the Fort Churchill patrol. We have hunted the country for three + hundred miles south along the shore of Hudson’s Bay to Eskimo Point, and as + far north as Wagner Inlet. Within three months we have made three patrols west + of the Bay, unraveling sixteen hundred miles without finding our man or word + of him. I respectfully advise a close watch of the patrols south of the Barren + Lands.”</I></BLOCKQUOTE> +<P>“There!” said MacVeigh aloud, straightening his rounded shoulders with a +groan of relief. “It’s done.”</P> +<P>From his bunk in a corner of the little wind and storm beaten cabin which +represented Law at the top end of the earth Private Pelliter lifted a head +wearily from his sick bed and said: “I’m bloomin’ glad of it, Mac. Now mebbe +you’ll give me a drink of water and shoot that devilish huskie that keeps +howling every now and then out there as though death was after me.”</P> +<P>“Nervous?” said MacVeigh, stretching his strong young frame with another sigh +of satisfaction. “What if you had to write <I>this</I> twice a year?” And he +pointed at the report.</P> +<P>“It isn’t any longer than the letters you wrote to that girl of yours—”</P> +<P>Pelliter stopped short. There was a moment of embarrassing silence. Then he +added, bluntly, and with a hand reaching out: “I beg your pardon, Mac. It’s this +fever. I forgot for a moment that— that you two— had broken.”</P> +<P>“That’s all right,” said MacVeigh, with a quiver in his voice, as he turned +for the water.</P> +<P>“You see,” he added, returning with a tin cup, “this report is different. +When you’re writing to the Big Mogul himself something gets on your nerves. And +it has been a bad year with us, Pelly. We fell down on Scottie, and let the +raiders from that whaler get away from us. And— By Jo, I forgot to mention the +wolves!”</P> +<P>“Put in a P. S.,” suggested Pelliter.</P> +<P>“A P. S. to his Royal Nibs!” cried MacVeigh, staring incredulously at his +mate. “There’s no use of feeling your pulse any more, Pelly. The fever’s got +you. You’re sure out of your head.”</P> +<P>He spoke cheerfully, trying to bring a smile to the other’s pale face. +Pelliter dropped back with a sigh.</P> +<P>“No— there isn’t any use feeling my pulse,” he repeated. “It isn’t sickness, +Bill— not sickness of the ordinary sort. It’s in my brain— that’s where it is. +Think of it— nine months up here, and never a glimpse of a white man’s face +except yours. Nine months without the sound of a woman’s voice. Nine months of +just that dead, gray world out there, with the northern lights hissing at us +every night like snakes and the black rocks staring at us as they’ve stared for +a million centuries. There may be glory in it, but that’s all. We’re ’eroes all +right, but there’s no one knows it but ourselves and the six hundred and +forty-nine other men of the Royal Mounted. My God, what I’d give for the sight +of a girl’s face, for just a moment’s touch of her hand! It would drive out this +fever, for it’s the fever of loneliness, Mac— a sort of madness, and it’s +splitting my ’ead.”</P> +<P>“Tush, tush!” said MacVeigh, taking his mate’s hand. “Wake up, Pelly! Think +of what’s coming. Only a few months more of it, and we’ll be changed. And then— +think of what a heaven you’ll be entering. You’ll be able to enjoy it more than +the other fellows, for they’ve never had this. And I’m going to bring you back a +letter— from the little girl—”</P> +<P>Pelliter’s face brightened.</P> +<P>“God bless her!” he exclaimed. “There’ll be letters from her— a dozen of +them. She’s waited a long time for me, and she’s true to the bottom of her dear +heart. You’ve got my letter safe?”</P> +<P>“Yes.”</P> +<P>MacVeigh went back to the rough little table and added still further to his +report to the Commissioner of the Royal Mounted in the following words:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>“Pelliter is sick with a strange trouble in his head. At times + I have been afraid he was going mad, and if he lives I advise his transfer + south at an early date. I am leaving for Churchill two weeks ahead of the + usual time in order to get medicines. I also wish to add a word to what I said + about wolves in my last report. We have seen them repeatedly in packs of from + fifty to one thousand. Late this autumn a pack attacked a large herd of + traveling caribou fifteen miles in from the Bay, and we counted the remains of + one hundred and sixty animals killed over a distance of less than three miles. + It is my opinion that the wolves kill at least five thousand caribou in this + patrol each year.</I> + <P><I>“I have the honor to be, sir,</I></P> + <P align=right>“Your obedient servant, <BR>“ + WILLIAM MACVEIGH, <I>Sergeant, </I><BR><I>“In charge of detachment.” + </I></P></BLOCKQUOTE> +<P>He folded the report, placed it with other treasures in the waterproof rubber +bag which always went into his pack, and returned to Pelliter’s side.</P> +<P>“I hate to leave you alone, Pelly,” he said. “But I’ll make a fast trip of +it— four hundred and fifty miles over the ice, and I’ll do it in ten days or +bust. Then ten days back, mebbe two weeks, and you’ll have the medicines and the +letters. Hurrah!”</P> +<P>“Hurrah!” cried Pelliter.</P> +<P>He turned his face a little to the wall. Something rose up in MacVeigh’s +throat and choked him as he gripped Pelliter’s hand.</P> +<P>“My God, Bill, is that the sun?” suddenly cried Pelliter.</P> +<P>MacVeigh wheeled toward the one window of the cabin. The sick man tumbled +from his bunk. Together they stood for a moment at the window, staring far to +the south and east, where a faint red rim of gold shot up through the leaden +sky.</P> +<P>“It’s the sun,” said MacVeigh, like one speaking a prayer.</P> +<P>“The first in four months,” breathed Pelliter.</P> +<P>Like starving men the two gazed through the window. The golden light lingered +for a few moments, then died away. Pelliter went back to his bunk.</P> +<P>Half an hour later four dogs, a sledge, and a man were moving swiftly through +the dead and silent gloom of Arctic day. Sergeant MacVeigh was on his way to +Fort Churchill, more than four hundred miles away.</P> +<P>This is the loneliest journey in the world, the trip down from the solitary +little wind-beaten cabin at Point Fullerton to Fort Churchill. That cabin has +but one rival in the whole of the Northland— the other cabin at Herschel Island, +at the mouth of the Firth, where twenty-one wooden crosses mark twenty-one white +men’s graves. But whalers come to Herschel. Unless by accident, or to break the +laws, they never come in the neighborhood of Fullerton. It is at Fullerton that +men die of the most terrible thing in the world— loneliness. In the little cabin +men have gone mad.</P> +<P>The gloomy truth oppressed MacVeigh as he guided his dog team over the ice +into the south. He was afraid for Pelliter. He prayed that Pelliter might see +the sun now and then. On the second day he stopped at a cache of fish which they +had put up in the early autumn for dog feed. He stopped at a second cache on the +fifth day, and spent the sixth night at an Eskimo igloo at Blind Eskimo Point. +Late on the ninth day he came into Fort Churchill, with an average of fifty +miles a day to his credit.</P> +<P>From Fullerton men came in nearer dead than alive when they made the hazard +in winter. MacVeigh’s face was raw from the beat of the wind. His eyes were red. +He had a touch of runner’s cramp. He slept for twenty-four hours in a warm bed +without stirring. When he awoke he raged at the commanding officer of the +barrack for letting him sleep so long, ate three meals in one, and did up his +business in a hurry.</P> +<P>His heart warmed with pleasure when he sorted out of his mail nine letters +for Pelliter, all addressed in the same small, girlish hand. There was none for +himself— none of the sort which Pelliter was receiving, and the sickening +loneliness within him grew almost suffocating.</P> +<P>He laughed softly as he broke a law. He opened one of Pelliter’s letters— the +last one written— and calmly read it. It was filled with the sweet tenderness of +a girl’s love, and tears came into his red eyes. Then he sat down and answered +it. He told the girl about Pelliter, and confessed to her that he had opened her +last letter. And the chief of what he said was that it would be a glorious +surprise to a man who was going mad (only he used loneliness in place of +madness) if she would come up to Churchill the following spring and marry him +there. He told her that he had opened her letter because he loved Pelliter more +than most men loved their brothers. Then he resealed the letter, gave his mail +to the superintendent, packed his medicines and supplies, and made ready to +return.</P> +<P>On this same day there came into Churchill a halfbreed who had been hunting +white foxes near Blind Eskimo, and who now and then did scout work for the +department. He brought the information that he had seen a white man and a white +woman ten miles south of the Maguse River. The news thrilled MacVeigh.</P> +<P>“I’ll stop at the Eskimo camp,” he said to the superintendent. “It’s worth +investigating, for I never knew of a white woman north of sixty in this country. +It might be Scottie Deane.”</P> +<P>“Not very likely,” replied the superintendent. “Scottie is a tall man, +straight and powerful. Coujag says this man was no taller than himself, and +walked like a hunchback. But if there are white people out there their history +is worth knowing.”</P> +<P>The following morning MacVeigh started north. He reached the half-dozen +igloos which made up the Eskimo village late the third day. Bye-Bye, the chief +man, offered him no encouragement, MacVeigh gave him a pound of bacon, and in +return for the magnificent present Bye-Bye told him that he had seen no white +people. MacVeigh gave him another pound, and Bye-Bye added that he had not heard +of any white people. He listened with the lifeless stare of a walrus while +MacVeigh impressed upon him that he was going inland the next morning to search +for white people whom he had heard were there. That night, in a blinding +snow-storm, Bye-Bye disappeared from camp.</P> +<P>MacVeigh left his dogs to rest up at the igloo village and swung northwest on +snow-shoes with the break of arctic dawn, which was but little better than the +night itself. He planned to continue in this direction until he struck the +Barren, then patrol in a wide circle that would bring him back to the Eskimo +camp the next night. From the first he was handicapped by the storm. He lost +Bye-Bye’s snow-shoe tracks a hundred yards from the igloos. All that day he +searched in sheltered places for signs of a camp or trail. In the afternoon the +wind died away, the sky cleared, and in the wake of the calm the cold became so +intense that trees cracked with reports like pistol shots.</P> +<P>He stopped to build a fire of scrub bush and eat his supper on the edge of +the Barren just as the cold stars began blazing over his head. It was a white, +still night. The southern timberline lay far behind him, and to the north there +was no timber for three hundred miles. Between those lines there was no life, +and so there was no sound. On the west the Barren thrust itself down in a long +finger ten miles in width, and across that MacVeigh would have to strike to +reach the wooded country beyond. It was over there that he had the greatest hope +of discovering a trail. After he had finished his supper he loaded his pipe, and +sat hunched close up to his fire, staring out over the Barren. For some reason +he was filled with a strange and uncomfortable emotion, and he wished that he +had brought along one of his tired dogs to keep him company.</P> +<P>He was accustomed to loneliness; he had laughed in the face of things that +had driven other men mad. But to-night there seemed to be something about him +that he had never known before, something that wormed its way deep down into his +soul and made his pulse beat faster. He thought of Pelliter on his fever bed, of +Scottie Deane, and then of himself. After all, was there much to choose between +the three of them?</P> +<P>A picture rose slowly before him in the bush-fire, and in that picture he saw +Scottie, the man-hunted man, fighting a great fight to keep himself from being +hung by the neck until he was dead; and then he saw Pelliter, dying of the +sickness which comes of loneliness, and beyond those two, like a pale cameo +appearing for a moment out of gloom, he saw the picture of a face. It was a +girl’s face, and it was gone in an instant. He had hoped against hope that she +would write to him again. But she had failed him.</P> +<P>He rose to his feet with a little laugh, partly of joy and partly of pain, as +he thought of the true heart that was waiting for Pelliter. He tied on his +snow-shoes and struck out over the Barren. He moved swiftly, looking sharply +ahead of him. The night grew brighter, the stars more brilliant. The <I>zipp, +zipp, zipp</I> of the tails of his snow-shoes was the only sound he heard except +the first faint, hissing monotone of the aurora in the northern skies, which +came to him like the shivering run of steel sledge runners on hard snow.</P> +<P>In place of sound the night about him began to fill with ghostly life. His +shadow beckoned and grimaced ahead of him, and the stunted bush seemed to move. +His eyes were alert and questing. Within himself he reasoned that he would see +nothing, and yet some unusual instinct moved him to caution. At regular +intervals he stopped to listen and to sniff the air for an odor of smoke. More +and more he became like a beast of prey. He left the last bush behind him. Ahead +of him the starlit space was now unbroken by a single shadow. Weird whispers +came with a low wind that was gathering in the north.</P> +<P>Suddenly MacVeigh stopped and swung his rifle into the crook of his arm. +Something that was not the wind had come up out of the night. He lifted his fur +cap from his ears and listened. He heard it again, faintly, the frosty singing +of sledge runners. The sledge was approaching from the open Barren, and he +cleared for action. He took off his heavy fur mittens and snapped them to his +belt, replaced them with his light service gloves, and examined his revolver to +see that the cylinder was not frozen. Then he stood silent and waited.</P> +<H4>II</H4> +<H4>BILLY MEETS THE WOMAN</H4> +<P>Out of the gloom a sledge approached slowly. It took form at last in a dim +shadow, and MacVeigh saw that it would pass very near to him. He made out, one +after another, a human figure, three dogs, and the toboggan. There was something +appalling in the quiet of this specter of life looming up out of the night. He +could no longer hear the sledge, though it was within fifty paces of him. The +figure in advance walked slowly and with bowed head, and the dogs and the sledge +followed in a ghostly line. Human leader and animals were oblivious to MacVeigh, +silent and staring in the white night. They were opposite him before he +moved.</P> +<P>Then he strode out quickly, with a loud holloa. At the sound of his voice +there followed a low cry, the dogs stopped in their traces, and the figure ran +back to the sledge. MacVeigh drew his revolver. Half a dozen long strides and he +had reached the sledge. From the opposite side a white face stared at him, and +with one hand resting on the heavily laden sledge, and his revolver at level +with his waist, MacVeigh stared back in speechless astonishment.</P> +<P>For the great, dark, frightened eyes that looked across at him, and the +white, staring face he recognized as the eyes and the face of a woman. For a +moment he was unable to move or speak, and the woman raised her hands and pushed +back her fur hood so that he saw her hair shimmering in the starlight. She was a +white woman. Suddenly he saw something in her face that struck him with a chill, +and he looked down at the thing under his hand. It was a long, rough box. He +drew back a step.</P> +<P>“Good God!” he said. “Are you alone?”</P> +<P>She bowed her head, and he heard her voice in a half sob.</P> +<P>“Yes— alone.”</P> +<P>He passed quickly around to her side. “I am Sergeant MacVeigh, of the Royal +Mounted,” he said, gently. “Tell me, where are you going, and how does it happen +that you are out here in the Barren— alone.”</P> +<P>Her hood had fallen upon her shoulder, and she lifted her face full to +MacVeigh. The stars shone in her eyes. They were wonderful eyes, and now they +were filled with pain. And it was a wonderful face to MacVeigh, who had not seen +a white woman’s face for nearly a year. She was young, so young that in the pale +glow of the night she looked almost like a girl, and in her eyes and mouth and +the upturn of her chin there was something so like that other face of which he +had dreamed that he reached out and took her two hesitating hands in his own, +and asked again:</P> +<P>“Where are you going, and why are you out here— alone?”</P> +<P>“I am going— down there,” she said, turning her head toward the timber-line. +“I am going with him— my husband—”</P> +<P>Her voice choked her, and, drawing her hands suddenly from him, she went to +the sledge and stood facing him. For a moment there was a glow of defiance in +her eyes, as though she feared him and was ready to fight for herself and her +dead. The dogs slunk in at her feet, and MacVeigh saw the gleam of their naked +fangs in the starlight.</P> +<P>“He died three days ago,” she finished, quietly, “and I am taking him back to +my people, down on the Little Seul.”</P> +<P>“It is two hundred miles,” said MacVeigh, looking at her as if she were mad. +“You will die.”</P> +<P>“I have traveled two days,” replied the woman. “I am going on.”</P> +<P>“Two days— across the Barren!”</P> +<P>MacVeigh looked at the box, grim and terrible in the ghostly radiance that +fell upon it. Then he looked at the woman. She had bowed her head upon her +breast, and her shining hair fell loose and disheveled. He saw the pathetic +droop of her tired shoulders, and knew that she was crying. In that moment a +thrilling warmth flooded every fiber of his body, and the glory of this that had +come to him from out of the Barren held him mute. To him woman was all that was +glorious and good. The pitiless loneliness of his life had placed them next to +angels in his code of things, and before him now he saw all that he had ever +dreamed of in the love and loyalty of womanhood and of wifehood.</P> +<P>The bowed little figure before him was facing death for the man she had +loved, and who was dead. In a way he knew that she was mad. And yet her madness +was the madness of a devotion that was beyond fear, of a faithfulness that made +no measure of storm and cold and starvation; and he was filled with a desire to +go up to her as she stood crumpled and exhausted against the box, to take her +close in his arms and tell her that of such a love he had built for himself the +visions which had kept him alive in his loneliness. She looked pathetically like +a child.</P> +<P>“Come, little girl,” he said. “We’ll go on. I’ll see you safely on your way +to the Little Seul. You mustn’t go alone. You’d never reach your people alive. +My God, if I were he—”</P> +<P>He stopped at the frightened look in the white face she lifted to him.</P> +<P>“What?” she asked.</P> +<P>“Nothing— only it’s hard for a man to die and lose a woman like you,” said +MacVeigh. “There— let me lift you up on the box.”</P> +<P>“The dogs cannot pull the load,” she objected. “I have helped them—”</P> +<P>“If they can’t, I can,” he laughed, softly; and with a quick movement he +picked her up and seated her on the sledge. He stripped off his pack and placed +it behind her, and then he gave her his rifle. The woman looked straight at him +with a tense, white face as she placed the weapon across her lap.</P> +<P>“You can shoot me if I don’t do my duty,” said MacVeigh. He tried to hide the +happiness that came to him in this companionship of woman, but it trembled in +his voice. He stopped suddenly, listening.</P> +<P>“What was that?”</P> +<P>“I heard nothing,” said the woman. Her face was deadly white. Her eyes had +grown black.</P> +<P>MacVeigh turned, with a word to the dogs. He picked up the end of the +<I>babiche</I> rope with which the woman had assisted them to drag their load, +and set off across the Barren. The presence of the dead had always been +oppressive to him, but to-night it was otherwise. His fatigue of the day was +gone, and in spite of the thing he was helping to drag behind him he was filled +with a strange elation. He was in the presence of a woman. Now and then he +turned his head to look at her. He could feel her behind him, and the sound of +her low voice when she spoke to the dogs was like music to him. He wanted to +burst forth in the wild song with which he and Pelliter had kept up their +courage in the little cabin, but he throttled his desire and whistled instead. +He wondered how the woman and the dogs had dragged the sledge. It sank deep in +the soft drift-snow, and taxed his strength. Now and then he paused to rest, and +at last the woman jumped from the sledge and came to his side.</P> +<P>“I am going to walk,” she said. “The load is too heavy.”</P> +<P>“The snow is soft,” replied MacVeigh. “Come.”</P> +<P>He held out his hand to her; and, with the same strange, white look in her +face, the woman gave him her own. She glanced back uneasily toward the box, and +MacVeigh understood. He pressed her fingers a little tighter and drew her nearer +to him. Hand in hand, they resumed their way across the Barren. MacVeigh said +nothing, but his blood was running like fire through his body. The little hand +he held trembled and started uneasily. Once or twice it tried to draw itself +away, and he held it closer. After that it remained submissively in his own, +warm and thrilling. Looking down, he could see the profile of the woman’s +face.</P> +<P>A long, shining tress of her hair had freed itself from under her hood, and +the light wind lifted it so that it fell across his arm. Like a thief he raised +it to his lips, while the woman looked straight ahead to where the timber-line +began to show in a thin, black streak. His cheeks burned, half with shame, half +with tumultuous joy. Then he straightened his shoulders and shook the floating +tress from his arm.</P> +<P>Three-quarters of an hour later they came to the first of the timber. He +still held her hand. He was still holding it, with the brilliant starlight +falling upon them, when his chin shot suddenly into the air again, alert and +fighting, and he cried, softly:</P> +<P>“What was that?”</P> +<P>“Nothing,” said the woman. “I heard nothing— unless it was the wind in the +trees.”</P> +<P>She drew away from him. The dogs whined and slunk close to the box. Across +the Barren came a low, wailing wind.</P> +<P>“The storm is coming back,” said MacVeigh. “It must have been the wind that I +heard.”</P> +<H4>III</H4> +<H4>IN HONOR OF THE LIVING</H4> +<P>For a few moments after uttering those words Billy stood silent listening for +a sound that was not the low moaning of the wind far out on the Barren. He was +sure that he had heard it— something very near, almost at his feet, and yet it +was a sound which he could not place or understand. He looked at the woman. She +was gazing steadily at him.</P> +<P>“I hear it now,” she said. “It is the wind. It has frightened me. It makes +such terrible sounds at times— out on the Barren. A little while ago— I thought— +I heard— a child crying—”</P> +<P>Billy saw her clutch a hand at her throat, and there were both terror and +grief in the eyes that never for an instant left his face. He understood. She +was almost ready to give way under the terrible strain of the Barren. He smiled +at her, and spoke in a voice that he might have used to a little child.</P> +<P>“You are tired, little girl?”</P> +<P>“Yes— yes— I am tired—”</P> +<P>“And hungry and cold?”</P> +<P>“Yes.”</P> +<P>“Then we will camp <I>in the timber.”</I></P> +<P>They went on until they came to a growth of spruce so dense that it formed a +shelter from both snow and wind, with a thick carpet of brown needles under +foot. They were shut out from the stars, and in the darkness MacVeigh began to +whistle cheerfully. He unstrapped his pack and spread out one of his blankets +close to the box and wrapped the other about the woman’s shoulders.</P> +<P>“You sit here while I make a fire,” he said.</P> +<P>He piled up dry needles over a precious bit of his birchbark and struck a +flame. In the glowing light he found other fuel, and added to the fire until the +crackling blaze leaped as high as his head. The woman’s face was hidden, and she +looked as though she had fallen asleep in the warmth of the fire. For half an +hour Mac-Veigh dragged in fuel until he had a great pile of it in readiness.</P> +<P>Then he forked out a deep bed of burning coals and soon the odor of coffee +and frying bacon aroused his companion. She raised her head and threw back the +blanket with which he had covered her shoulders. It was warm where she sat, and +she took off her hood while he smiled at her companionably from over the fire. +Her reddish-brown hair tumbled about her shoulders, rippling and glistening in +the fire glow, and for a few moments she sat with it falling loosely about her, +with her eyes upon MacVeigh. Then she gathered it between her fingers, and +MacVeigh watched her while she divided it into shining strands and pleated it +into a big braid.</P> +<P>“Supper is ready,” he said. “Will you eat it there?”</P> +<P>She nodded, and for the first time she smiled at him. He brought bacon and +bread and coffee and other things from his pack and placed them on a folded +blanket between them. He sat opposite her, cross-legged. For the first time he +noticed that her eyes were blue and that there was a flush in her cheeks. The +flush deepened as he looked at her, and she smiled at him again.</P> +<P>The smile, the momentary drooping of her eyes, set his heart leaping, and for +a little while he was unconscious of taste in the food he swallowed. He told her +of his post away up at Point Fullerton, and of Pelliter, who was dying of +loneliness.</P> +<P>“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman like you,” he confided. “And +it seems like heaven. You don’t know how lonely I am!” His voice trembled. “I +wish that Pelliter could see you— just for a moment,” he added. “It would make +him live again.”</P> +<P>Something in the soft glow of her eyes urged other words to his lips.</P> +<P>“Mebbe you don’t know what it means not to see a white woman in— in— all this +time,” he went on. “You won’t think that I’ve gone mad, will you, or that I’m +saying or doing anything that’s wrong? I’m trying to hold myself back, but I +feel like shouting, I’m that glad. If Pelliter could see you—” He reached +suddenly in his pocket and drew out the precious packet of letters. “He’s got a +girl down south— just like you,” he said. “These are from her. If I get ’em up +in time they’ll bring him round. It’s not medicine he wants. It’s <I>woman—</I> +just a sight of her, and sound of her, and a touch of her hand.”</P> +<P>She reached across and took the letters. In the firelight he saw that her +hand was trembling.</P> +<P>“Are they— married?” she asked, softly.</P> +<P>“No, but they’re going to be,” he cried, triumphantly. “She’s the most +beautiful thing in the world, next to—”</P> +<P>He paused, and she finished for him.</P> +<P>“Next to one other girl— who is yours.”</P> +<P>“No, I wasn’t going to say that. You won’t think I mean wrong, will you, if I +tell you? I was going to say next to— you. For you’ve come out of the blizzard— +like an angel to give me new hope. I was sort of broke when you came. If you +disappeared now and I never saw you again I’d go back and fight the rest of my +time out, an’ dream of pleasant things. Gawd! Do you know a man has to be put up +here before he knows that life isn’t the sun an’ the moon an’ the stars an’ the +air we breathe. It’s woman— just woman.”</P> +<P>He was returning the letters to his pocket. The woman’s voice was clear and +gentle. To Billy it rose like sweetest music above the crackling of the fire and +the murmuring of the wind in the spruce tops.</P> +<P>“Men like you— ought to have a woman to care for,” she said. <I>“He</I> was +like that.”</P> +<P>“You mean—” His eyes sought the long, dark box.</P> +<P>“Yes— he was like that.”</P> +<P>“I know how you feel,” he said; and for a moment he did not look at her. +“I’ve gone through— a lot of it. Father an’ mother and a sister. Mother was the +last, and I wasn’t much more than a kid— eighteen, I guess— but it don’t seem +much more than yesterday. When you come up here and you don’t see the sun for +months nor a white face for a year or more it brings up all those things pretty +much as though they happened only a little while ago.’”</P> +<P>“All of them are— dead?” she asked.</P> +<P>“All but one. She wrote to me for a long time, and I thought she’d keep her +word. Pelly— that’s Pelliter— thinks we’ve just had a misunderstanding, and that +she’ll write again. I haven’t told him that she turned me down to marry another +fellow. I didn’t want to make him think any unpleasant things about his own +girl. You’re apt to do that when you’re almost dying of loneliness.”</P> +<P>The woman’s eyes were shining. She leaned a little toward him.</P> +<P>“You should be glad,” she said. “If she turned you down she wouldn’t have +been worthy of you— afterward. She wasn’t a true woman. If she had been, her +love wouldn’t have grown cold because you were away. It mustn’t spoil your +faith— because that is— beautiful.”</P> +<P>He had put a hand into his pocket again, and drew out now a thin package +wrapped in buckskin. His face was like a boy’s.</P> +<P>“I might have— if I hadn’t met <I>you,”</I> he said. “I’d like to let you +know— some way— what you’ve done for me. You and <I>this.”</I></P> +<P>He had unfolded the buckskin, and gave it to her. In it were the big blue +petals and dried stem of a blue flower.</P> +<P>“A blue flower!” she said.</P> +<P>“Yes. You know what it means. The Indians call it i-o-waka, or something like +that, because they believe that it is the flower spirit of the purest and most +beautiful thing in the world. I have called it <I>woman.”</I></P> +<P>He laughed, and there was a joyous sort of note in the laugh.</P> +<P>“You may think me a little mad,” he said, “but do you care if I tell you +about that blue flower?”</P> +<P>The woman nodded. There was a little quiver at her throat which Billy did not +see.</P> +<P>“I was away up on the Great Bear,” he said, “and for ten days and ten nights +I was in camp— alone— laid up with a sprained ankle. It was a wild and gloomy +place, shut in by barren ridge mountains, with stunted black spruce all about, +and those spruce were haunted by owls that made my blood run cold nights. The +second day I found company. It was a blue flower. It grew close to my tent, as +high as my knee, and during the day I used to spread out my blanket close to it +and lie there and smoke. And the blue flower would wave on its slender stem, an’ +bob at me, an’ talk in sign language that I imagined I understood. Sometimes it +was so funny and vivacious that I laughed, and then it seemed to be inviting me +to a dance. And at other times it was just beautiful and still, and seemed +listening to what the forest was saying— and once or twice, I thought, it might +be praying. Loneliness makes a fellow foolish, you know. With the going of the +sun my blue flower would always fold its petals and go to sleep, like a little +child tired out by the day’s play, and after that I would feel terribly lonely. +But it was always awake again when I rolled out in the morning. At last the time +came when I was well enough to leave. On the ninth night I watched my blue +flower go to sleep for the last time. Then I packed. The sun was up when I went +away the next morning, and from a little distance I turned and looked back. I +suppose I was foolish, and weak for a man, but I felt like crying. Blue flower +had taught me many things I had not known before. It had made me <I>think.</I> +And when I looked back it was in a pool of sunlight, and it was <I>waving</I> at +me! It seemed to me that it was calling— calling me back— and I ran to it and +picked it from the stem, and it has been with me ever since that hour. It has +been my Bible an’ my comrade, an’ I’ve known it was the spirit of the purest and +the most beautiful thing in the world— <I>woman.</I> I—” His voice broke a +little. “I— I may be foolish, but I’d like to have you take it, an’ keep it— +always— for me.”</P> +<P>He could see now the quiver of her lips as she looked across at him.</P> +<P>“Yes, I will take it,” she said. “I will take it and keep it— always.”</P> +<P>“I’ve been keeping it for a woman— somewhere,” he said. “Foolish idea, wasn’t +it? And I’ve been telling you all this, when I want to hear what happened back +there, and what you are going to do when you reach your people. Do you mind— +telling me?”</P> +<P>“He died— that’s all,” she replied, fighting to speak calmly. “I promised to +take him back— to my people, And when I get there— I don’t know— what I shall— +do—”</P> +<P>She caught her breath. A low sob broke from her lips.</P> +<P>“You don’t know— what you will do—”</P> +<P>Billy’s voice sounded strange even to himself. He rose to his feet and looked +down into her upturned face, his hands clenched, his body trembling with the +fight he was making. Words came to his lips and were forced back again— words +which almost won in their struggle to tell her again that she had come to him +from out of the Barren like an angel, that within the short space since their +meeting he had lived a lifetime, and that he loved her as no man had ever loved +a woman before. Her blue eyes looked at him questioningly as he stood above +her.</P> +<P>And then he saw the thing which for a moment he had forgotten— the long, +rough box at the woman’s back. His fingers dug deeper into his palms, and with a +gasping breath he turned away. A hundred paces back in the spruce he had found a +bare rock with a red bakneesh vine growing over it. With his knife he cut off an +armful, and when he returned with it into the light of the fire the bakneesh +glowed like a mass of crimson flowers. The woman had risen to her feet, and +looked at him speechlessly as he scattered the vine over the box. He turned to +her and said, softly:</P> +<P>“In honor of the dead!”</P> +<P>The color had faded from her face, but her eyes shone like stars. Billy +advanced toward her with his hands reaching out. But suddenly he stopped and +stood listening. After a moment he turned and asked again:</P> +<P>“What was that?”</P> +<P>“I heard the dogs— and the wind,” she replied.</P> +<P>“It’s something cracking in my head, I guess,” said MacVeigh. “It sounded +like—” He passed a hand over his forehead and looked at the dogs huddled in deep +sleep beside the sledge. The woman did not see the shiver that passed through +him. He laughed cheerfully, and seized his ax. </P> +<P>“Now for the camp,” he announced. “We’re going to get the storm within an +hour.”</P> +<P>On the box the woman carried a small tent, and he pitched it close to the +fire, filling the interior two feet deep with cedar and balsam boughs. His own +silk service tent he put back in the deeper shadows of the spruce. When he had +finished he looked questioningly at the woman and then at the box.</P> +<P>“If there is room— I would like it in there— with me,” she said, and while +she stood with her face to the fire he dragged the box into the tent. Then he +piled fresh fuel upon the fire and came to bid her good night. Her face was pale +and haggard now, but she smiled at him, and to MacVeigh she was the most +beautiful thing in the world. Within himself he felt that he had known her for +years and years, and he took her hands and looked down into her blue eyes and +said, almost in a whisper:</P> +<P>“Will you forgive me if I’m doing wrong? You don’t know how lonesome I’ve +been, and how lonesome I am, and what it means to me to look once more into a +woman’s face. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’d— I’d”— his voice broke a +little—”I’d give him back life if I could, just because I’ve seen you and know +you and— and love you.”</P> +<P>She started and drew a quick, sharp breath that came almost in a low cry.</P> +<P>“Forgive me, little girl,” he went on. “I may be a little mad. I guess I am. +But I’d die for you, and I’m going to see you safely down to your people— and— +and— I wonder— I wonder— if you’d kiss me good night—”</P> +<P>Her eyes never left his face. They were dazzlingly blue in the firelight. +Slowly she drew her hands away from him, still looking straight into his eyes, +and then she placed them against each of his arms and slowly lifted her face to +him. Reverently he bent and kissed her.</P> +<P>“God bless you!” he whispered.</P> +<P>For hours after that he sat beside the fire. The wind came up stronger across +the Barren; the storm broke fresh from the north, the spruce and the balsam +wailed over his head, and he could hear the moaning sweep of the blizzard out in +the open spaces. But the sounds came to him now like a new kind of music, and +his heart throbbed and his soul was warm with joy as he looked at the little +tent wherein there lay sleeping the woman whom he loved.</P> +<P>He still felt the warmth of her lips, he saw again and again the blue +softness that had come for an instant into her eyes, and he thanked God for the +wonderful happiness that had come to him. For the sweetness of the woman’s lips +and the greater sweetness of her blue eyes told him what life held for him now. +A day’s journey to the south was an Indian camp. He would take her there, and +would hire runners to carry up Pelliter’s medicines and his letters. Then he +would go on— with the woman— and he laughed softly and joyously at the glorious +news which he would take back to Pelliter a little later. For the kiss burned on +his lips, the blue eyes smiled at him still from out of the firelit gloom, and +he knew nothing but hope.</P> +<P>It was late, almost midnight, when he went to bed. With the storm wailing and +twisting more fiercely about him, he fell asleep. And it was late when he awoke. +The forest was filled with a moaning sound. The fire was low. Beyond it the flap +of the woman’s tent was still down, and he put on fresh fuel quietly, so that he +would not awaken her. He looked at his watch and found that he had been sleeping +for nearly seven hours. Then he returned to his tent to get the things for +breakfast. Half a dozen paces from the door flap he stopped in sudden +astonishment.</P> +<P>Hanging to his tent in the form of a great wreath was the red bakneesh which +he had cut the night before, and over it, scrawled in charcoal on the silk, +there stared at him the crudely written words:</P> +<P>“In honor of the living.”</P> +<P>With a low cry he sprang back toward the other tent, and then, as sudden as +his movement, there flashed upon him the significance of the bakneesh wreath. +The woman was saying to him what she had not spoken in words. She had come out +in the night while he was asleep and had hung the wreath where he would see it +in the morning. The blood rushed warm and joyous through his body, and with +something which was not a laugh, but which was an exultant breath from the soul +itself, he straightened himself, and his hand fell in its old trick to his +revolver holster. It was empty.</P> +<P>He dragged out his blankets, but the weapon was not between them. He looked +into the corner where he had placed his rifle. That, too, was gone. His face +grew tense and white as he walked slowly beyond the fire to the woman’s tent. +With his ear at the flap he listened. There was no sound within— no sound of +movement, of life, of a sleeper’s breath; and like one who feared to reveal a +terrible picture he drew back the flap. The balsam bed which he had made for the +woman was empty, and across it had been drawn the big rough box. He stepped +inside. The box was open— and empty, except for a mass of worn and hard-packed +balsam boughs in the bottom. In another instant the truth burst in all its force +upon MacVeigh. The box had held life, and the woman—</P> +<P>Something on the side of the box caught his eyes. It was a folded bit of +paper, pinned where he must see it. He tore it off and staggered with it back +into the light of day. A low, hard cry came from his lips as he read what the +woman had written to him:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>“May God bless you for being good to me. In the storm we have + gone— my husband and I. Word came to us that you were on our trail, and we saw + your fire out on the Barren. My husband made the box for me to keep me from + cold and storm. When we saw you we changed places, and so you met me with my + dead. He could have killed you— a dozen times, but you were good to me, and so + you live. Some day may God give you a good woman who will love you as I love + him. He killed a man, but killing is not always murder. We have taken your + weapons, and the storm will cover our trail. But you would not follow. I know + that. For you know what it means to love a woman, and so you know what life + means to a woman when she loves a man. </I> + MRS. ISOBEL DEANE.”</BLOCKQUOTE> +<H4>IV</H4> +<H4>THE MAN-HUNTERS</H4> +<P>Like one dazed by a blow Billy read once more the words which Isobel Deane +had left for him. He made no sound after that first cry that had broken from his +lips, but stood looking into the crackling flames of the fire until a sudden +lash of the wind whipped the note from between his fingers and sent it scurrying +away in a white volley of fine snow. The loss of the note awoke him to action. +He started to pursue the bit of paper, then stopped and laughed. It was a short, +mirthless laugh, the kind of a laugh with which a strong man covers pain. He +returned to the tent again and looked in. He flung back the tent flaps so that +the light could enter and he could see into the box. A few hours before that box +had hidden Scottie Deane, the murderer. And <I>she</I> was his wife! He turned +back to the fire, and he saw again the red bakneesh hanging over his tent flap, +and the words she had scrawled with the end of a charred stick, “In honor of the +living.” That meant <I>him.</I> Something thick and uncomfortable rose in his +throat, and a blur that was not caused by snow or wind filled his eyes. She had +made a magnificent fight. And she had won. And it suddenly occurred to him that +what she had said in the note was true, and that Scottie Deane could easily have +killed him. The next moment he wondered why he had not done that. Deane had +taken a big chance in allowing him to live. They had only a few hours’ start of +him, and their trail could not be entirely obliterated by the storm. Deane would +be hampered in his flight by the presence of his wife. He could still follow and +overtake them. They had taken his weapons, but this would not be the first time +that he had gone after his man without weapons.</P> +<P>Swiftly the reaction worked in him. He ran beyond the fire, and circled +quickly until he came upon the trail of the outgoing sledge. It was still quite +distinct. Deeper in the forest it could be easily followed. Something fluttered +at his feet. It was Isobel Deane’s note. He picked it up, and again his eyes +fell upon those last words that she had written: <I>But you would not follow. I +know that. For you know what it means to love a woman, and so you know what life +means to a woman when she loves a man. That</I> was why Scottie Deane had not +killed him. It was because of the woman. <I>And she had faith</I> in <I>him!</I> +This time he folded the note and placed it in his pocket, where the blue flower +had been. Then he went slowly back to the fire.</P> +<P>“I told you I’d give him back his life— if I could,” he said. “And I guess +I’m going to keep my word.” He fell into his old habit of talking to himself— a +habit that comes easily to one in the big open spaces— and he laughed as he +stood beside the fire and loaded his pipe. “If it wasn’t for <I>her!”</I> he +added, thinking of Scottie Deane. “Gawd— if it wasn’t for <I>her!”</I></P> +<P>He finished loading his pipe, and lighted it, staring off into the thicker +spruce forest into which Scottie and his wife had fled. The entire force was on +the lookout for Scottie Deane. For more than a year he had been as elusive as +the little white ermine of the woods. He had outwitted the best men in the +service, and his name was known to every man of the Royal Mounted from Calgary +to Herschel Island. There was a price on his head, and fame for the man who +captured him. Those who dreamed of promotions also dreamed of Scottie Deane; and +as Billy thought of these things something that was not the man-hunting instinct +rose in him and his blood warmed with a strange feeling of brotherhood. Scottie +Deane was more than an outlaw to him now, more than a mere man. Hunted like a +rat, chased from place to place, he must be more than those things for a woman +like Isobel Deane still to cling to. He recalled the gentleness of her voice, +the sweetness of her face, the tenderness of her blue eyes, and for the first +time the thought came to him that such a woman could not love a man who was +wholly bad. And she did love him. A twinge of pain came with that truth, and yet +with it a thrill of pleasure. Her loyalty was a triumph— even for him. She had +come to him like an angel out of the storm, and she had gone from him like an +angel. He was glad. A living, breathing reality had taken the place of the dream +vision in his heart, a woman who was flesh and blood, and who was as true and as +beautiful as the blue flower he had carried against his breast. In that moment +he would have liked to grip Scottie Deane by the hand, because he was her +husband and because he was <I>man</I> enough to make her love him. Perhaps it +was Deane who had hung the wreath of bakneesh on his tent and who had scribbled +the words in charcoal. And Deane surely knew of the note his wife had written. +The feeling of brotherhood grew stronger in Billy, and thought of their faith in +him filled him with a strange elation.</P> +<P>The fire was growing low, and he turned to add fresh fuel. His eyes caught +sight of the box in the tent, and he dragged it out. He was about to throw it on +the fire when he hesitated and examined it more closely. How far had they come, +he wondered? It must have been from the other side of the Barren, for Deane had +built the box to protect Isobel from the fierce winds of the open. It was built +of light, dry wood, hewn with a belt ax, and the corners were fastened with +<I>babiche</I> cord made of caribou skin in place of nails. The balsam that had +been placed in it for Isobel was still in the box, and Billy’s heart beat a +little more quickly as he drew it out. It had been Isobel’s bed. He could see +where the balsam was thicker, where her head had rested. With a sudden +breathless cry he thrust the box on the fire.</P> +<P>He was not hungry, but he made himself a pot of coffee and drank it. Until +now he had not observed that the storm was growing steadily worse. The thick, +low-hanging spruce broke the force of it. Beyond the shelter of the forest he +could hear the roar of it as it swept through the thin scrub and open spaces of +the edge of the Barren. It recalled him once more to Pelliter. In the excitement +of Isobel’s presence and the shock and despair that had followed her flight he +had been guilty of partly forgetting Pelliter. By the time he reached the Eskimo +igloos there would be two days lost. Those two days might mean everything to his +sick comrade. He jumped to his feet, felt in his pocket to see that the letters +were safe, and began to arrange his pack. Through the trees there came now fine +white volleys of blistering snow. It was like the hardest granulated sugar. A +sudden blast of it stung his eyes; and, leaving his pack and tent, he made his +way anxiously toward the more open timber and scrub. A few hundred yards from +the camp he was forced to bow his head against the snow volleys and pull the +broad flaps of his cap down over his cheeks and ears. A hundred yards more and +he stopped, sheltering himself behind a gnarled and stunted banskian. He looked +out into the beginning of the open. It was a white and seething chaos into which +he could not see the distance of a pistol shot. The Eskimo igloos were twenty +miles across the Barren, and Billy’s heart sank. He could not make it. No man +could live in the storm that was sweeping straight down from the Arctic, and he +turned back to the camp. He had scarcely made the move when he was startled by a +strange sound coming with the wind. He faced the white blur again, a hand +dropping to his empty pistol holster. It came again, and this time he recognized +it. It was a shout, a man’s voice. Instantly his mind leaped to Deane and +Isobel. What miracle could be bringing them back?</P> +<P>A shadow grew out of the twisting blur of the storm. It quickly separated +itself into definite parts— a team of dogs, a sledge, three men. A minute more +and the dogs stopped in a snarling tangle as they saw Billy. Billy stepped +forth. Almost instantly he found a revolver leveled at his breast.</P> +<P>“Put that up, Bucky Smith,” he called. “If you’re looking for a man you’ve +found the wrong one!”</P> +<P>The man advanced. His eyes were red and staring. His pistol arm dropped as he +came within a yard of Billy.</P> +<P>“By— It’s you, is it, Billy MacVeigh!” he exclaimed. His laugh was harsh and +unpleasant. Bucky was a corporal in the service, and when Billy had last heard +of him he was stationed at Nelson House. For a year the two men had been in the +same patrol, and there was bad blood between them. Billy had never told of a +certain affair down at Norway House, the knowledge of which at headquarters +would have meant Bucky’s disgraceful retirement from the force. But he had +called Bucky out in fair fight and had whipped him within an inch of his life. +The old hatred burned in the corporal’s eyes as he stared into Billy’s face. +Billy ignored the look, and shook hands with the other men. One of them was a +Hudson’s Bay Company’s driver, and the other was Constable Walker, from +Churchill.</P> +<P>“Thought we’d never live to reach shelter,” gasped Walker, as they shook +hands. “We’re out after Scottie Deane, and we ain’t losing a minute. We’re going +to get him, too. His trail is so hot we can smell it. My God, but I’m +bushed!”</P> +<P>The dogs, with the company man at their head, were already making for the +camp. Billy grinned at the corporal as they followed.</P> +<P>“Had a pretty good chance to get me, if you’d been alone, didn’t you, Bucky?” +he asked, in a voice that Walker did not hear. “You see, I haven’t forgotten +your threat.”</P> +<P>There was a steely hardness behind his laugh. He knew that Bucky Smith was a +scoundrel whose good fortune was that he had never been found out in some of his +evil work. In a flash his mind traveled back to that day at Norway House when +Rousseau, the half Frenchman, had come to him from a sick-bed to tell him that +Bucky had ruined his young wife. Rousseau, who should have been in bed with his +fever, died two days later. Billy could still hear the taunt in Bucky’s voice +when he had cornered him with Rousseau’s accusation, and the fight had followed. +The thought that this man was now close after Isobel and Deane filled him with a +sort of rage, and as Walker went ahead he laid a hand on Bucky’s arm.</P> +<P>“I’ve been thinking about you of late, Bucky,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a +lot about that affair down at Norway, an’ I’ve been lacking myself for not +reporting it. I’m going to do it— unless you cut a right-angle track to the one +you’re taking. I’m after Scottie Deane myself!”</P> +<P>In the next breath he could have cut out his tongue for having uttered the +words. A gleam of triumph shot into Bucky’s eyes.</P> +<P>“I thought we was right,” he said. “We sort of lost the trail in the storm. +Glad we found you to set us right. How much of a start of us has he and that +squaw that’s traveling with him got?”</P> +<P>Billy’s mittened hands clenched fiercely. He made no reply, but followed +quickly after Walker. His mind worked swiftly. As he came in to the fire he saw +that the dogs had already dropped down in their traces and that they were +exhausted. Walker’s face was pinched, his eyes half closed by the sting of the +snow. The driver was half stretched out on the sledge, his feet to the fire. In +a glance he had assured himself that both dogs and men had gone through a long +and desperate struggle in the storm. He looked at Bucky, and this time there was +neither rancor nor threat in his voice when he spoke.</P> +<P>“You fellows have had a hard time of it,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. +I’m not overburdened with grub, but if you’ll dig out some of your own rations +I’ll get it ready while you thaw out.”</P> +<P>Bucky was looking curiously at the two tents.</P> +<P>“Who’s with you?” he asked.</P> +<P>Billy shrugged his shoulders. His voice was almost affable.</P> +<P>“Hate to tell you who <I>was</I> with me, Bucky,” he laughed, “I came in late +last night, half dead, and found a half-breed camped here— in that silk tent. He +was quite chummy— mighty fine chap. Young fellow, too— almost a kid. When I got +up this morning—” Billy shrugged his shoulders again and pointed to his empty +pistol holster. “Everything was gone— dogs, sledge, extra tent, even my rifle +and automatic. He wasn’t quite bad, though, for he left me my grub. He was a +funny cuss, too. Look at that!” He pointed to the bakneesh wreath that still +hung to the front of his tent. “`In honor of the living,’” he read, aloud, +“Just a sort of reminder, you know, that he might have hit me on the head with a +club if he’d wanted to.” He came nearer to Bucky, and said, good-naturedly: “I +guess you’ve got me beat this time, Bucky. Scottie Deane is pretty safe from me, +wherever he is. I haven’t even got a gun!”</P> +<P>“He must have left a trail,” remarked Bucky, eying him shrewdly.</P> +<P>“He did— out there!”</P> +<P>As Bucky went to examine what was left of the trail Billy thanked Heaven that +Deane had placed Isobel on the sledge before he left camp. There was nothing to +betray her presence. Walker had unlaced their outfit, and Billy was busy +preparing a meal when Bucky returned. There was a sneer on his lips.</P> +<P>“Didn’t know you was <I>that</I> easy,” he said. “Wonder why he didn’t take +his tent! Pretty good tent, isn’t it?”</P> +<P>He went inside. A minute later he appeared at the flap and called to +Billy.</P> +<P>“Look here!” he said, and there was a tremble of excitement in his voice. His +eyes were blazing with an ugly triumph. “Your half-breed had pretty long hair, +didn’t he?”</P> +<P>He pointed to a splinter on one of the light tent-poles. Billy’s heart gave a +sudden jump. A tress of Isobel’s long, loose hair had caught in the splinter, +and a dozen golden-brown strands had remained to give him away. For a moment he +forgot that Bucky Smith was watching him. He saw Isobel again as she had last +entered the tent, her beautiful hair flowing in a firelit glory about her, her +eyes still filled with tender gratitude. Once more he felt the warmth of her +lips, the touch of her hand, the thrill of her presence near him. Perhaps these +emotions covered any suspicious movement or word by which he might otherwise +have betrayed himself. By the time they were gone he had recovered himself, and +he turned to his companion with a low laugh.</P> +<P>“It’s a woman’s hair, all right, Bucky. He told me all sorts of nice things +about a girl `back home.’ <I>They</I> must have been true.”</P> +<P>The eyes of the two men met unflinchingly. There was a sneer on Buck’s lips; +Billy was smiling.</P> +<P>“I’m going to follow this Frenchman after we’ve had a little rest,” said the +corporal, trying to cover a certain note of excitement and triumph in his voice. +“There’s a woman traveling with Scottie Deane, you know— a white woman— and +there’s only one other north of Churchill. Of course, you’re anxious to get back +your stolen outfit?”</P> +<P>“You bet I am,” exclaimed Billy, concealing the effect of the bull’s-eye shot +Bucky had made. “I’m not particularly happy in the thought of reporting myself +stripped in this sort of way. The breed will hang to thick cover, and it won’t +be difficult to follow his trail.”</P> +<P>He saw that Bucky was a little taken aback by his ready acquiescence, and +before the other could reply he hurried out to join Walker in the preparation of +breakfast. He made a gallon of tea, fried some bacon, and brought out and +toasted his own stock of frozen bannock. He made a second kettle of tea while +the others were eating, and shook out the blankets in his own tent. Walker had +told him that they had traveled nearly all night.</P> +<P>“Better have an hour or two of sleep before you go on,” he invited.</P> +<P>The driver’s name was Conway. He was the first to accept Billy’s invitation. +When he had finished eating, Walker followed him into the tent. When they were +gone Bucky looked hard at Billy.</P> +<P>“What’s your game?” he asked.</P> +<P>“The Golden Rule, that’s all,” replied Billy, proffering his tobacco. “The +half-breed treated me square and made me comfortable, even if he did take his +pay afterward. I’m doing the same.”</P> +<P>“And what do you expect to take— afterward?”</P> +<P>Billy’s eyes narrowed as he returned the other’s searching look.</P> +<P>“Bucky, I didn’t think you were quite a fool,” he said. “You’ve got a little +decency in your hide, haven’t you? A man might as well be in jail as up here +without a gun. I expect you to contribute one— when you go after the half-breed— +you or Walker. He’ll do it if you won’t. Better go in with the others. I’ll keep +up the fire.”</P> +<P>Bucky rose sullenly. He was still suspicious of Billy’s hospitality, but at +the same time he could see the strength of Billy’s argument and the importance +of the price he was asking. He joined Walker and Conway. Fifteen minutes later +Billy approached the tent and looked in. The three men were in the deep sleep of +exhaustion. Instantly Billy’s actions changed. He had thrown his pack outside +the tent to make more room, and he quickly slipped a spare blanket in with his +provisions. Then he entered the other tent, and a flush spread over his face, +and he felt his blood grow warmer.</P> +<P>“You may be a fool, Billy MacVeigh,” he laughed, softly. “You may be a fool, +but we’re going to do it!”</P> +<P>Gently he disentangled the long silken strands of golden brown from the +tent-pole. He wound the hair about his fingers, and it made a soft and shining +ring. It was all that he would ever possess of Isobel Deane, and his breath came +more quickly as he pressed it for a moment to his rough and storm-beaten face. +He put it in his pocket, carefully wrapped in Isobel’s note, and then once more +he went back to the tent in which the three men were sleeping. They had not +moved. Walker’s holster was within reach of his hand. For a moment the +temptation to reach out and pluck the gun from it was strong. He pulled himself +away. He would win in this fight with Bucky as surely as he had won in the +other, and he would win without theft. Quickly he threw his pack over his +shoulder and struck the trail made by Deane in his flight. On his snow-shoes he +followed it in a long, swift pace. A hundred yards from the camp he looked back +for an instant. Then he turned, and his face was grim and set.</P> +<P>“If you’ve got to be caught, it’s not going to be by that outfit back there, +Mr. Scottie Deane,” he said to himself. “It’s up to yours truly, and Billy +MacVeigh is the man who can do the trick, if he hasn’t got a gun!”</P> +<H4>V</H4> +<H4>BILLY FOLLOWS ISOBEL</H4> +<P>From the first Billy could see the difficulty with which Deane and his dogs +had made their way through the soft drifts of snow piled up by the blizzard. In +places where the trees had thinned out Deane had floundered ahead and pulled +with the team. Only once in the first mile had Isobel climbed from the sledge, +and that was where traces, toboggan, and team had all become mixed up in the +snow-covered top of a fallen tree. The fact that Deane was compelling his wife +to ride added to Billy’s liking for the man. It was probable that Isobel had not +gone to sleep at all after her hard experience on the Barren, but had lain awake +planning with her husband until the hour of their flight. If Isobel had been +able to travel on snow-shoes Billy reasoned that Deane would have left the dogs +behind, for in the deep, soft snow he could have made better time without them, +and snow-shoe trails would have been obliterated by the storm hours ago. As it +was, he could not lose them. He knew that he had no time to lose if he made sure +of beating out Bucky and his men. The suspicious corporal would not sleep long. +While he had the advantage of being comparatively fresh, Billy’s snow-shoes were +smoothing and packing the trail, and the others, if they followed, would be able +to travel a mile or two an hour faster than himself. That Bucky would follow he +did not doubt for a moment. The corporal was already half convinced that Scottie +Deane had made the trail from camp and that the hair he had found entangled in +the splinter on the tent-pole belonged to the outlaw’s wife. And Scottie Deane +was too big a prize to lose.</P> +<P>Billy’s mind worked rapidly as he bent more determinedly to the pursuit. He +knew that there were only two things that Bucky could do under the +circumstances. Either he would follow after him with Walker and the driver or he +would come alone. If Walker and Conway accompanied him the fight for Scottie +Deane’s capture would be a fair one, and the man who first put manacles about +the outlaw’s wrists would be the victor. But if he left his two companions in +camp and came after him <I>alone—</I></P> +<P>The thought was not a pleasant one. He was almost sorry that he had not taken +Walker’s gun. If Bucky came alone it would be with but one purpose in mind— to +make sure of Scottie Dean by “squaring up” with him first. Billy was sure that +he had measured the man right, and that he would not hesitate to carry out his +old threat by putting a bullet into him at the first opportunity. And here would +be opportunity. The storm would cover up any foul work he might accomplish, and +his reward would be Scottie Deane— unless Deane played too good a hand for +him.</P> +<P>At thought of Deane Billy chuckled. Until now he had not taken him fully into +consideration, and suddenly it dawned upon him that there was a bit of humor as +well as tragedy in the situation. He cheerfully conceded to himself that for a +long time Deane had proved himself a better man than either Bucky or himself, +and that, after all, he was the man who held the situation well in hand even +now. He was well armed. He was as cautions as a fox, and would not be caught +napping. And yet this thought filled Billy with satisfaction rather than fear. +Deane would be more than a match for Bucky alone if he failed in beating out the +corporal. But if he <I>did</I> beat him out—</P> +<P>Billy’s lips set grimly, and there was a hard light in his eyes as he glanced +back over his shoulder. He would not only beat him out, but he would capture +Scottie Deane. It would be a game of fox against fox, and he would win. No one +would ever know why he was playing the game as he had planned to play it. Bucky +would never know. Down at headquarters they would never know. And yet deep down +in his heart he hoped and believed that Isobel would guess and understand. To +save Deane, to save Isobel, he must keep them out of the hands of Bucky Smith, +and to do that he must make them his own prisoners. It would be a terrible +ordeal at first. A picture of Isobel rose before him, her faith and trust in him +broken, her face white and drawn with grief and despair, her blue eyes flashing +at him— hatred. But he felt now that he could stand those things. One moment— +the fatal moment, when she would understand and know that he had remained true— +would repay him for what he might suffer.</P> +<P>He traveled swiftly for an hour, and paused then to get his wind where the +partly covered trail dipped down into a frozen swamp. Here Isobel had climbed +from the sledge and had followed in the path of the toboggan. In places where +the spruce and balsam were thick overhead Billy could make out the imprints of +her moccasins. Deane had led the dogs in the darkness of the storm, and twice +Billy found the burned ends of matches, where he had stopped to look at his +compass. He was striking a course almost due west. At the farther edge of the +swamp the trail struck a lake, and straight across this Deane had led his team. +The worst of the storm was over now. The wind was slowly shifting to the south +and east, and the fine, steely snow had given place to a thicker and softer +downfall. Billy shuddered as he thought of what this lake must have been a few +hours before, when Isobel and Deane had crossed it in the thick blackness of the +blizzard that had swept it like a hurricane.</P> +<P>It was half a mile across the lake, and here, fifty yards from shore, the +trail was completely covered. Billy lost no time by endeavoring to find signs of +it in the open, but struck directly for the opposite timber field and swung +along in the shelter of the scrub forest. He picked up the trail easily. Half an +hour later he stopped. Spruce and balsam grew thick about him, shutting out what +was left of the wind. Here Scottie Deane had stopped to build a fire. Close to +the charred embers was a mass of balsam boughs on which Isobel had rested. +Scottie had made a pot of boiling tea and had afterward thrown the grounds on +the snow. The warm bodies of the dogs had made smooth, round pits in the snow, +and Billy figured that the fugitives had rested for a couple of hours. They had +traveled eight miles through the blizzard without a fire, and his heart was +filled with a sickening pain as he thought of Isobel Deane and the suffering he +had brought to her. For a few moments there swept over him a revulsion for that +thing which he stood for— the <I>Law.</I> More than once in his experience he +had thought that its punishment had been greater than the crime. Isobel had +suffered, and was suffering, far more than if Deane had been captured a year +before and hanged. And Deane himself had paid a penalty greater than death in +being a witness of the suffering of the woman who had remained loyal to him. +Billy’s heart went out to them in a low, yearning cry as he looked at the balsam +bed and the black char of the fire. He wished that he could give them, life and +freedom and happiness, and his hands clenched tightly as he thought that he was +willing to surrender everything, even to his own honor, for the woman he +loved.</P> +<P>Fifteen minutes after he had struck the shelter of the camp he was again in +pursuit. His blood leaped a little excitedly when he found that Scottie Deane’s +trail was now almost as straight as a plumb-line and that the sledge no longer +became entangled in hidden windfalls and brush. It was proof that it was light +when Deane and Isobel had left their camp. Isobel was walking now, and their +sledge was traveling faster. Billy encouraged his own pace, and over two or +three open spaces he broke into a long, swinging run. The trail was +comparatively fresh, and at the end of another hour he knew that they could not +be far ahead of him. He had followed through a thin swamp and had climbed to the +top of a rough ridge when he stopped. Isobel had reached the bald cap of the +ridge exhausted. The last twenty yards he could see where Deane had assisted +her; and then she had dropped down in the snow, and he had placed a blanket +under her. They had taken a drink of tea made back over the fire, and a little +of it had fallen into the snow. It had not yet formed ice, and instinctively he +dropped behind a rock and looked down into the wooded valley at his feet. In a +few moments he began to descend.</P> +<P>He had almost reached the foot of the ridge when he brought himself short +with a sudden low cry of horror. He had reached a point where the side of the +ridge seemed to have broken off, leaving a precipitous wall. In a flash he +realized what had happened. Deane and Isobel had descended upon a “snow trap,” +and it had given way under their weight, plunging them to the rocks below. For +no longer than a breath he stood still, and in that moment there came a sound +from far behind that sent a strange thrill through him. It was the howl of a +dog. Bucky and his men were in close pursuit, and they were traveling with the +team.</P> +<P>He swung a little to the left to escape the edge of the trap and plunged +recklessly to the bottom. Not until he saw where Scottie Deane and the team had +dragged themselves from the snow avalanche did he breathe freely again. Isobel +was safe! He laughed in his joy and wiped the nervous sweat from his face as he +saw the prints of her moccasins where Deane had righted the sledge. And then, +for the first time, he observed a number of small red stains on the snow. Either +Isobel or Deane had been injured in the fall, perhaps slightly. A hundred yards +from the “trap” the sledge had stopped again, and from this point it was Deane +who rode and Isobel who walked!</P> +<P>He followed more cautiously now. Another hundred yards and he stopped to +sniff the air. Ahead of him the spruce and balsam grew close and thick, and from +that shelter he was sure that something was coming to him on the air. At first +he thought it was the odor of the balsam. A moment later he knew that it was +smoke.</P> +<P>Force of habit brought his hand for the twentieth time to his empty pistol +holster. Its emptiness added to the caution with which he approached the thick +spruce and balsam ahead of him. Taking advantage of a mass of low snow-laden +bushes, he swung out at a right angle to the trail and began making a wide +circle. He worked swiftly. Within half or three-quarters of an hour Bucky would +reach the ridge. Whatever he accomplished must be done before then. Five minutes +after leaving the trail he caught his first glimpse of smoke and began to edge +in toward the fire. The stillness oppressed him. He drew nearer and nearer, yet +he heard no sound of voice or of the dogs. At last he reached a point where he +could look out from behind a young ground spruce and see the fire. It was not +more than thirty feet away. He held his breath tensely at what he saw. On a +blanket spread out close to the fire lay Scottie Deane, his head pillowed on a +pack-sack. There was no sign of Isobel, and no sign of the sledge and dogs. +Billy’s heart thumped excitedly as he rose to his feet. He did not stop to ask +himself where Isobel and the dogs had gone. Deane was alone, and lay with his +back toward him. Fate could not have given him a better opportunity, and his +moccasined feet fell swiftly and quietly in the snow. He was within six feet of +Scottie before the injured man heard him, and scarcely had the other moved when +he was upon him. He was astonished at the ease with which he twisted Deane upon +his back and put the handcuffs about his wrists. The work was no sooner done +than he understood. A rag was tied about Deane’s head, and it was stained with +blood. The man’s arms and body were limp. He looked at Billy with dulled eyes, +and as he slowly realized what had happened a groan broke from his lips.</P> +<P>In an instant Billy was on his knees beside him. He had seen Deane twice +before, over at Churchill, but this was the first time that he had ever looked +closely into his face. It was a face worn by hardship and mental torture. The +cheeks were thinned, and the steel-gray eyes that looked up into Billy’s were +reddened by weeks and months of fighting against storm. It was the face, not of +a criminal, but of a man whom Billy would have trusted— blonde-mustached, +fearless, and filled with that clean-cut strength which associates itself with +fairness and open fighting. Hardly had he drawn a second breath when Billy +realized why this man had not killed him when he had the chance. Deane was not +of the sort to strike in the dark or from behind. He had let Billy live because +he still believed in the manhood of man, and the thought that he had repaid +Deane’s faith in him by leaping upon him when he was down and wounded filled +Billy with a bitter shame. He gripped one of Deane’s hands in his own.</P> +<P>“I hate to do this, old man,” he cried, quickly. “It’s hell to put those +things on a man who’s hurt. But I’ve got to do it. I didn’t mean to come— no, +s’elp me God, I didn’t— if Bucky Smith and two others hadn’t hit your trail back +at the old camp. They’d have got you— sure. And <I>she</I> wouldn’t have been +safe with them. Understand? <I>She</I> wouldn’t have been safe! So I made up my +mind to beat on ahead and take you myself. I want you to understand. And you +<I>do</I> know, I guess. You must have heard, for I thought you were sure-enough +dead in the box, an’ I swear to Heaven I meant all I said then. I wouldn’t have +come. I was glad you two got away. But this Bucky is a skunk and a scoundrel— +and mebbe if I take you— I can help you— later on. They’ll be here in a few +minutes.”</P> +<P>He spoke quickly, his voice quivering with the emotion that inspired his +words, and not for an instant did Scottie Deane allow his eyes to shift from +Billy’s face. When Billy stopped he still looked at him for a moment, judging +the truth of what he had heard by what he saw in the other’s face. And then +Billy felt his hand tighten for an instant about his own.</P> +<P>“I guess you’re pretty square, MacVeigh,” he said, “and I guess it had to +come pretty soon, too. I’m not sorry that it’s you— and I know you’ll take care +of <I>her.”</I></P> +<P>“I’ll do it— if I have to fight— and kill!”</P> +<P>Billy had withdrawn his hand, and both were clenched. Into Deane’s eyes there +leaped a sudden flash of fire.</P> +<P>“That’s what I did,” he breathed, gripping his fingers hard. “I killed— for +her. He was a skunk— and a scoundrel— too. And you’d have done it!” He looked at +Billy again. “I’m glad you said what you did— when I was in the box,” he added. +“If she wasn’t as pure and as sweet as the stars I’d feel different. But it’s +just sort of in my bones that you’ll treat her like a brother. I haven’t had +faith in many men. I’ve got it in you.”</P> +<P>Billy leaned low over the other. His face was flushed, and his voice +trembled.</P> +<P>“God bless you for that, Scottie!” he said.</P> +<P>A sound from the forest turned both men’s eyes.</P> +<P>“She took the dogs and went out there a little way for a load of wood,” said +Deane. “She’s coming back.”</P> +<P>Billy had leaped to his feet, and turned his face toward the ridge. He, too, +had heard a sound— another sound, and from another direction. He laughed grimly +as he turned to Deane.</P> +<P>“And <I>they’re</I> coming, too, Scottie,” he replied. “They’re climbing the +ridge. I’ll take your guns, old man. It’s just possible there may be a +fight!”</P> +<P>He slipped Deane’s revolver into his holster and quickly emptied the chamber +of the rifle that stood near.</P> +<P>“Where’s mine?” he asked.</P> +<P>“Threw ’em away,” said Deane. “Those are the only guns in the outfit.”</P> +<P>Billy waited while Isobel Deane came through low-hanging spruce with the +dogs.</P> +<H4>VI</H4> +<H4>THE FIGHT</H4> +<P>There was a smile for Deane on Isobel’s lips as she struggled through the +spruce, knee-deep in snow, the dogs tugging at the sledge behind her. And then +in a moment she saw MacVeigh, and the smile froze into a look of horror on her +face. She was not twenty feet distant when she emerged into the little opening, +and Billy heard the rattling cry in her throat. She stopped, and her hands went +to her breast. Deane had half raised himself, his pale, thin face smiling +encouragingly at her; and with a wild cry Isobel rushed to him and flung herself +upon her knees at his side, her hands gripping fiercely at the steel bands about +his wrists. Billy turned away. He could hear her sobbing, and he could hear the +low, comforting voice of the injured man. A groan of anguish rose to his own +lips, and he clenched his hands hard, dreading the terrible moment when he would +have to face the woman he loved above all else on earth.</P> +<P>It was her voice that brought him about. She had risen to her feet, and she +stood before him panting like a hunted animal, and Billy saw in her face the +thing which he had feared more than the sting of death. No longer were her blue +eyes filled with the sweetness and faith of the angel who had come to him from +out of the Barren. They were hard and terrible and filled with that madness +which made him think she was about to leap upon him. In those eyes, in the +quivering of her bare throat, in the sobbing rise and fall of her breast were +the rage, the grief, and the fear of one whose faith had turned suddenly into +the deadliest of all emotions; and Billy stood before her without a word on his +lips, his face as cold and as bloodless as the snow under his feet.</P> +<P>“And so you— <I>you</I> followed— after— that!”</P> +<P>It was all she said, and yet the voice, the significance of the choking +words, hurt him more than if she had struck him. In them there was none of the +passion and condemnation he had expected. Quietly, almost whisperingly uttered, +they stung him to the soul. He had meant to say to her what he had said to +Deane— even more. But the crudeness of the wilderness had made him slow of +tongue, and while his heart cried out for words Isobel turned and went to her +husband. And then there came the thing he had been expecting. Down the ridge +there raced a flurry of snow and a yelping of dogs. He loosened the revolver in +his holster, and stood in readiness when Bucky Smith ran a few paces ahead of +his men into the camp. At sight of his enemy’s face, torn between rage and +disappointment, all of Billy’s old coolness returned to him.</P> +<P>With a bound Bucky was at Scottie Deane’s side. He looked down at his +manacled hands and at the woman who was clasping them in her own, and then he +whirled on Billy with the quickness of a cat.</P> +<P>“You’re a liar and a sneak!” he panted. “You’ll answer for this at +headquarters. I understand now why you let ’em go back there. It was <I>her! +She</I> paid you— paid you in her own way— to free <I>him!</I> But she won’t pay +you again—”</P> +<P>At his words Deane had started as if stung by a wasp. Billy saw Isobel’s +whitened face. The meaning of Buck’s words had gone home to her as swiftly as a +lightning flash, and for an instant her eyes had <I>turned to him!</I> Bucky got +no further than those last words. Before he could add another syllable Billy was +upon him. His fist shot out— once, twice— and the blows that fell sent Bucky +crashing through the fire. Billy did not wait for him to regain his feet. A red +light blazed before his eyes. He forgot the presence of Deane and Walker and +Conway. His one thought was that the scoundrel he had struck down had flung at +Isobel the deadliest insult that a man could offer a woman, and before either +Conway or Walker could make a move he was upon Bucky. He did not know how long +or how many times he struck, but when at last Conway and Walker succeeded in +dragging him away Bucky lay upon his back in the snow, blood gushing from his +mouth and nose. Walker ran to him. Panting for breath, Billy turned toward +Isobel and Deane. He was almost sobbing. He made no effort to speak. But he saw +that the thing he had dreaded was gone. Isobel was looking at him again— and +there was the old faith in her eyes. At last— <I>she understood!</I> Dean’s +handcuffed hands were clenched. The light of brotherhood shone in his eyes, and +where a moment before there had been grief and despair in Billy’s heart there +came now a warm glow of joy. Once more <I>they had faith in him!</I></P> +<P>Walker had raised Bucky to a sitting posture, and was wiping the blood from +his face when Billy went to them. The corporal’s hand made a limp move toward +his revolver. Billy struck it away and secured the weapon. Then he spoke to +Walker.</P> +<P>“There is no doubt in your mind that I hold a sergeancy in the service, is +there, Walker?” he asked.</P> +<P>His tone was no longer one of comradeship. In it there was the ring of +authority. Walker was quick to understand.</P> +<P>“None, sir!”</P> +<P>“And you are familiar with our laws governing insubordination and conduct +unbecoming an officer of the service?”</P> +<P>Walker nodded.</P> +<P>“Then, as a superior officer and in the name of his Majesty the King, I place +Corporal Bucky Smith under arrest, and commission you, under oath of the +service, to take him under your guard to Churchill, along with the letter which +I shall give you for the officer in charge there. I shall appear against him a +little later with the evidence that will outlaw him from the service. Put the +handcuffs on him!”</P> +<P>Stunned by the sudden change in the situation, Walker obeyed without a word. +Billy turned to Conway, the driver.</P> +<P>“Deane is too badly injured to travel,” he explained, “ Put up your tent for +him and his wife close to the fire. You can take mine in exchange for it as you +go back.”</P> +<P>He went to his kit and found a pencil and paper. Fifteen minutes later he +gave Walker the letter in which he described to the commanding officer at +Churchill certain things which he knew would hold Bucky a prisoner until he +could personally appear against him. Meanwhile Conway had put up the tent and +had assisted Deane into it. Isobel had accompanied him. Billy then had a +five-minute confidential talk with Walker, and when the constable gave +instructions for Conway to prepare the dogs for the return trip there was a +determined hardness in his eyes as he looked at Bucky. In those five minutes he +had heard the story of Rousseau, the young Frenchman down at Norway House, and +of the wife whose faithlessness had killed him. Besides, he hated Bucky Smith, +as all men hated him. Billy was confident that he could rely upon him.</P> +<P>Not until dogs and sledge were ready did Bucky utter a word. The terrific +beating he had received had stunned him for a few minutes; but now he jumped to +his feet, not waiting for the command from Walker, and strode up close to Billy. +There was a vengeful leer on his bloody face and his eyes blazed almost white, +but his voice was so low that Conway and Walker could only hear the murmur of +it. His words were meant for Billy alone.</P> +<P>“For this I’m going to kill you, MacVeigh,” he said; and in spite of Billy’s +contempt for the man there was a quality in the low voice that sent a curious +shiver through him. “You can send me from the service, but you’re going to die +for doing it!”</P> +<P>Billy made no reply, and Bucky did not wait for one. He set off at the head +of the sledge, with Conway a step behind them. Billy followed with Walker until +they reached the foot of the ridge. There they shook hands, and Billy stood +watching them until they passed over the cap of the ridge.</P> +<P>He returned to the camp slowly. Deane had emerged from the tent, supported by +Isobel. They waited for him, and in Deane’s face he saw the look that had filled +it after he had struck down Bucky Smith. For a moment he dared not look at +Isobel. She saw the change in him, and her cheeks flushed. Deane would have +extended his hands, but she was holding them tightly in her own.</P> +<P>“You’d better go into the tent and keep quiet,” advised Billy. “I haven’t had +time yet to see if you’re badly hurt.”</P> +<P>“It’s not bad,” Deane assured him. “I bumped into a rock sliding down the +ridge, and it made me sick for a few minutes.”</P> +<P>Billy knew that Isobel’s eyes were on him, and he could almost feel their +questioning. He began to take wood from the sledge she had loaded and throw it +on the fire. He wished that Scottie and she had remained in the tent for a +little longer. His face burned and his blood seemed like fire when he caught a +glimpse of the steel cuffs about Deane’s wrists. Through the smoke he saw Isobel +still clasping her husband. He could see one of her little hands gripping at the +steel band, and suddenly he sprang across and faced them, no longer fearing to +meet Isobel’s eyes or Deane’s. Now his face was aflame, and he half held out his +arms to them as he spoke, as though he would clasp them both to him in this +moment of sacrifice and self-abnegation and the dawning of new life.</P> +<P>“You know— you both know why I’ve done this!” he cried, “You heard what I +said back there, Deane— when you was in the box; an’ all I said was true. She +came to me out of that storm like an angel— an’ I’ll think of her as an angel +all my life. I don’t know much about God— not the God they have down there, +where they take an eye for an eye an’ a tooth for a tooth and kill because some +one else has killed. But there’s <I>something up</I> here in the big open +places, something that makes you think and makes you want to do what’s right and +square; an’ <I>she’s</I> got all I know of God in that little Bible of mine— the +blue flower. I gave the blue flower to her, an’ now an’ forever <I>she’s</I> my +blue flower. I ain’t ashamed to tell you, Deane, because you’ve heard it before, +an’ you know I’m not thinking it in a sinful way. It ’ll help me if I can see +her face an’ hear her voice and know there’s such love as yours after you’re +gone. For I’m going to let you go, Deane, old man. That’s what I came for, to +save you from the others an’ give you back to <I>her.</I> I guess mebbe you’ll +know— now— how I feel—”</P> +<P>His voice choked him. Isobel’s glorious eyes were looking into his soul, and +he looked straight back into them and saw all his reward there. He turned to +Deane. His key clicked in the locks to the handcuffs, and as they fell into the +snow the two men gripped hands, and in their strong faces was that rarest of all +things— love of man for man.</P> +<P>“I’m glad you know,” said Billy, softly. “It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t, +Scottie. I can think of her now, an’ it won’t be mean and low. And if you ever +need help— if you’re down in South America or Africa— anywhere— I’ll come if you +send word. You’d better go to South America. That’s a good place. I’ll report to +headquarters that you died— from the fall. It’s a lie, but blue flower would do +it, and so will I. Sometimes, you know, the friend who lies is the only friend +who’s true— and <I>she’d</I> do it— a thousand times— for you.”</P> +<P>“And for you,” whispered Isobel.</P> +<P>She was holding out her hands, her blue eyes streaming with tears of +happiness, and for a moment Billy accepted one of them and held it in his own. +He looked over her head as she spoke.</P> +<P>“God will bless you for this— some day,” she said; and a sob broke in her +voice. “He will bring you happiness— happiness— in what you have dreamed of. You +will find a blue flower— sweet and pure and loyal— and then you will know, even +more fully, what life means to me with <I>him.”</I></P> +<P>And then she broke down, sobbing like a child, and with her face buried in +her hands turned into the tent.</P> +<P>“Gawd!” whispered Billy, drawing a deep breath.</P> +<P>He looked Deane in the eyes; and Deane smiled, a rare and beautiful +smile.</P> +<P>For a quarter of an hour they talked alone, and then Billy drew a wallet from +his pocket.</P> +<P>“You’ll need money, Scottie,” he said. “I don’t want you to lose a minute in +getting out of the country. Make for Vancouver. I’ve got three hundred dollars +here. You’ve got to take it or I’ll shoot you!”</P> +<P>He thrust the money into Deane’s hands as Isobel came out of the tent. Her +eyes were red, but she was smiling; and she held something in her hand. She +showed it to the two men. It was the blue flower Billy had given her. But now +its petals were torn apart, and nine of them lay in the palm of her hand.</P> +<P>“It can’t go with one.” She spoke softly and the smile died on her lips. +“There are nine petals, three for each of us.”</P> +<P>She gave three to her husband and three to Billy, and for a moment the men +stared at them as they lay in their rough and calloused palms. Then Billy drew +out the bit of buckskin in which he had placed the strands of Isobel’s hair and +slipped the blue petals in with them. Deane had drawn a worn envelope from his +pocket. Billy spoke low to Deane.</P> +<P>“I want to be alone for a while— until dinner-time. Will you go into the +tent— with her?”</P> +<P>When they were gone Billy went to the spot where he had dropped his pack +before crawling up on Deane. He picked it up and slipped it over his shoulders +as he walked. He went swiftly back over his old trail, and this time it was with +a heart leaden with a deep and terrible loneliness. When he reached the ridge he +tried to whistle, but his lips seemed thick, and there was something in his +throat that choked him. From the cap of the ridge he looked down. A thin mist of +smoke was rising from out of the spruce. It blurred before his eyes, and a +sobbing break came in his low cry of Isobel’s name. Then he turned once more +back into the loneliness and desolation of his old life.</P> +<P>“I’m coming, Pelly,” he laughed, in a strained, hard way. “I haven’t given +you exactly a square deal, old man, but I’ll hustle and make up for lost +time!”</P> +<P>A wind was beginning to moan in the spruce tops again. He was glad of that. +It promised storm. And a storm would cover up all trails.</P> +<H4>VII</H4> +<H4>THE MADNESS OF PELLITER</H4> +<P>Away up at Fullerton Point amid the storm and crash of the arctic gloom +Pelliter fought himself through day after day of fever, waiting for MacVeigh. At +first he had been filled with hope. That first glimpse of the sun they had seen +through the little window on the morning that Billy left for Fort Churchill had +come just in time to keep reason from snapping in his head. For three days after +that he looked through the window at the same hour and prayed moaningly for +another glimpse of that paradise in the southern sky. But the storm through +which Isobel had struggled across the Barren gathered over his head and behind +him, day after day of it, rolling and twisting and moaning with the roar of the +cracking fields of ice, bringing back once more the thick death-gloom of the +arctic night that had almost driven him mad. He tried to think only of Billy, of +his loyal comrade’s race into the south, and of the precious letters he would +bring back to him; and he kept track of the days by making pencil marks on the +door that opened out upon the gray and purple desolation of the arctic sea.</P> +<P>At last there came the day when he gave up hope. He believed that he was +dying. He counted the marks on the door and found that there were sixteen. Just +that many days ago Billy had set off with the dogs. If all had gone well he was +a third of the way back, and within another week would be “home.”</P> +<P>Pelliter’s thin, fever-flushed face relaxed into a wan smile as he counted +the pencil marks again. Long before that week was ended he figured that he would +be dead. The medicines— and the letters— would come too late, probably four or +five days too late. Straight out from his last mark he drew a long line, and at +the end of it added in a scrawling, almost unintelligible, hand: “Dear Billy, I +guess this is going to be my last day.” Then he staggered from the door to the +window.</P> +<P>Out there was what was killing him— loneliness, a maddening desolation, a +lifeless world that reached for hundreds of miles farther than his eyes could +see. To the north and east there was nothing but ice, piled-up masses and +grinning mountains of it, white at first, of a somber gray farther off, and then +purple and almost black. There came to him now the low, never-ceasing thunder of +the undercurrents fighting their way down from the Arctic Ocean, broken now and +then by a growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, like a great knife, +through one of the frozen mountains. He had listened to those sounds for five +months, and in those five months he had heard no other voice but his own and +MacVeigh’s and the babble of an Eskimo. Only once in four months had he seen the +sun, and that was on the morning that MacVeigh went south. So he had gone half +mad. Others had gone completely mad before him. Through the window his eyes +rested on the five rough wooden crosses that marked their graves. In the service +of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police they were called heroes. And in a short +time he, Constable Pelliter, would be numbered among them. MacVeigh would send +the whole story down to her, the true little girl a thousand miles south; and +she would always remember him— her hero— and his lonely grave at Point +Fullerton, the northernmost point of the Law. But she would never see that +grave. She could never come to put flowers on it, as she put flowers on the +grave of his mother; she would never know the whole story, not a half of it— his +terrible longing for a sound of her voice, a touch of her hand, a glimpse of her +sweet blue eyes before he died. They were to be married in August, when his +service in the Royal Mounted ended. She would be waiting for him. And in August— +or July— word would reach her that he had died.</P> +<P>With a dry sob he turned from the window to the rough table that he had drawn +close to his bunk, and for the thousandth time he held before his red and +feverish eyes a photograph. It was a portrait of a girl, marvelously beautiful +to Tommy Pelliter, with soft brown hair and eyes that seemed always to talk to +him and tell him how much she loved him. And for the thousandth time he turned +the picture over and read the words she had written on the back:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>“My own dear boy, remember that I am always with you, always + thinking of you, always praying for you; and I know, dear, that you will + always do what you would do if I were at your side.”</I></BLOCKQUOTE> +<P>“Good Lord!” groaned Pelliter. “I can’t die! I can’t! I’ve got to live— to +see her—”</P> +<P>He dropped back on his bunk exhausted. The fires burned in his head again. He +grew dizzy, and he talked to her, or thought he was talking, but it was only a +babble of incoherent sound that made Kazan, the one-eyed old Eskimo dog, lift +his shaggy head and sniff suspiciously. Kazan had listened to Pelliter’s +deliriums many times since MacVeigh had left them alone, and soon he dropped his +muzzle between his forepaws and dozed again. A long time afterward he raised his +head once more. Pelliter was quiet. But the dog sniffed, went to the door, +whined softly, and nervously muzzled the sick man’s thin hand. Then he settled +back on his haunches, turned his nose straight up, and from his throat there +came that wailing, mourning cry, long-drawn and terrible, with which Indian dogs +lament before the tepees of masters who are newly dead. The sound aroused +Pelliter. He sat up again, and he found that once more the fire and the pain had +gone from his head.</P> +<P>“Kazan, Kazan,” he pleaded, weakly, “it isn’t time— yet!”</P> +<P>Kazan had gone to the window that looked to the west, and stood with his +forefeet on the sill. Pelliter shivered.</P> +<P>“Wolves again,” he said, “or mebbe a fox.”</P> +<P>He had grown into that habit of talking to himself, which is as common as +human life itself in the far north, where one’s own voice is often the one thing +that breaks a killing monotony. He edged his way to the window as he spoke and +looked out with Kazan. Westward there stretched the lifeless Barren illimitable +and void, without rock or bush and overhung by a sky that always made Pelliter +think of a terrible picture he had once seen of Doré’s “Inferno.” It was a low, +thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always threatening to pitch itself down +in terrific avalanches, and between the earth and this sky was the thin, +smothered world which MacVeigh had once called God’s insane asylum.</P> +<P>Through the gloom Kazan’s one eye and Pelliter’s feverish vision could not +see far, but at last the man made out an object toiling slowly toward the cabin. +At first he thought it was a fox, and then a wolf, and then, as it loomed +larger, a straying caribou. Kazan whined. The bristles along his spine rose +stiff and menacing. Pelliter stared harder and harder, with his face pressed +close against the cold glass of the window, and suddenly he gave a gasping cry +of excitement. It was a man who was toiling toward the cabin! He was bent almost +double, and he staggered in a zigzag fashion as he advanced. Pelliter made his +way feebly to the door, unbarred it, and pushed it partly open. Overcome by +weakness he fell back then on the edge of his bunk,</P> +<P>It seemed an age before he heard steps. They were slow and stumbling, and an +instant later a face appeared at the door. It was a terrible face, overgrown +with beard, with wild and staring eyes; but it was a white man’s face. Pelliter +had expected an Eskimo, and he sprang to his feet with sudden strength as the +stranger came in.</P> +<P>“Something to eat, mate, for the love o’ God give me something to eat!”</P> +<P>The stranger fell in a heap on the floor and stared up at him with the +ravenous entreaty of an animal. Pelliter’s first move was to get whisky, and the +other drank it in great gulps. Then he dragged himself to his feet, and Pelliter +sank in a chair beside the table.</P> +<P>“I’m sick,” he said. “Sergeant MacVeigh has gone to Churchill, and I guess +I’m in a bad way. You’ll have to help yourself. There’s meat— ’n’ bannock—”</P> +<P>Whisky had revived the new-comer. He stared at Pelliter, and as he stared he +grinned, ugly yellow teeth leering from between his matted beard. The look +cleared Pelliter’s brain. For some reason which he could not explain, his pistol +hand fell to the place where he usually carried his holster. Then he remembered +that his service revolver was under the pillow.</P> +<P>“Fever,” said the sailor; for Pelliter knew that he was a sailor.</P> +<P>He took off his heavy coat and tossed it on the table. Then he followed +Pelliter’s instructions in quest of food, and for ten minutes ate ravenously. +Not until he was through and seated opposite him at the table did Pelliter +speak.</P> +<P>“Who are you, and where in Heaven’s name did you come from?” he asked.</P> +<P>“Blake— Jim Blake’s my name, an’ I come from what I call Starvation Igloo +Inlet, thirty miles up the coast. Five months ago I was left a hundred miles +farther up to take care of a cache for the whaler <I>John B. Sidney,</I> and the +cache was swept away by an overflow of ice. Then we struck south, hunting and +starving, me ’n’ the woman—”</P> +<P>“The woman!” cried Pelliter.</P> +<P>“Eskimo squaw,” said Blake, producing a black pipe. “The cap’n bought her to +keep me company— paid four sacks of flour an’ a knife to her husband up at +Wagner Inlet. Got any tobacco?”</P> +<P>Pelliter rose to get the tobacco. He was surprised to find that he was +steadier on his feet and that Blake’s words were clearing his brain. That had +been his and MacVeigh’s great fight— the fight to put an end to the white man’s +immoral trade in Eskimo women and girls, and Blake had already confessed himself +a criminal. Promise of action, quick action, momentarily overcame his sickness. +He went back with the tobacco, and sat down.</P> +<P>“Where’s the woman?” be asked.</P> +<P>“Back in the igloo,” said Blake, filling his pipe. “We killed a walrus up +there and built an icehouse. The meat’s gone. She’s probably gone by this time.” +He laughed coarsely across at Pelliter as he lighted his pipe. “It seems good to +get into a white man’s shack again.”</P> +<P>“She’s not dead?” insisted Pelliter.</P> +<P>“Will be— shortly,” replied Blake. “She was so weak she couldn’t walk when I +left. But them Eskimo animals die hard, ’specially the women.”</P> +<P>“Of course you’re going back for her?”</P> +<P>The other stared for a moment into Pelliter’s flushed face, and then laughed +as though he had just heard a good joke.</P> +<P>“Not on your life, my boy. I wouldn’t hike that thirty miles again— an’ +thirty back— for all the Eskimo women up at Wagner.”</P> +<P>The red in Pelliter’s eyes grew redder as he leaned over the table.</P> +<P>“See here,” he said, “you’re going back— now! Do you understand? You’re going +back!”</P> +<P>Suddenly he stopped. He stared at Blake’s coat, and with a swiftness that +took the other by surprise he reached across and picked something from it. A +startled cry broke from his lips. Between his fingers he held a single filament +of hair. It was nearly a foot long, and it was not an Eskimo woman’s hair. It +shone a dull gold in the gray light that came through the window. He raised his +eyes, terrible in their accusation of the man opposite him.</P> +<P>“You lie!” he said. “She’s not an Eskimo!”</P> +<P>Blake had half risen, his great hands clutching the ends of the table, his +brutal face thrust forward, his whole body in an attitude that sent Pelliter +back out of his reach. He was not an instant too soon. With an oath Blake sent +the table crashing aside and sprang upon the sick man.</P> +<P>“I’ll kill you!” he cried. “I’ll kill you, an’ put you where I’ve put her, +’n’ when your pard comes back I’ll—”</P> +<P>His hands caught Pelliter by the throat, but not before there had come from +between the sick man’s lips a cry of “Kazan! Kazan!”</P> +<P>With a wolfish snarl the old one-eyed sledge-dog sprang upon Blake, and the +three fell with a crash upon Pelliter’s bunk. For an instant Kazan’s attack drew +one of Blake’s powerful hands from Pelliter’s throat, and as he turned to strike +off the dog Pelliter’s hand groped out under his flattened pillow. Blake’s +murderous face was still turned when he drew out his heavy service revolver; and +as Blake cut at Kazan with a long sheath-knife which he had drawn from his belt +Pelliter fired. Blake’s grip relaxed. Without a groan he slipped to the floor, +and Pelliter staggered back to his feet. Kazan’s teeth were buried in Blake’s +leg.</P> +<P>“There, there, boy,” said Pelliter, pulling him away. “That was a close +one!”</P> +<P>He sat down and looked at Blake. He knew that the man was dead. Kazan was +sniffing about the sailor’s head with stiffened spines. And then a ray of light +flashed for an instant through the window. It was the sun— the second time that +Pelliter had seen it in four months. A cry of joy welled up from his heart. But +it was stopped midway. On the floor close beside Blake something glittered in +the fiery ray, and Pelliter was upon his knees in an instant. It was the short +golden hair he had snatched from the dead man’s coat, and partly covering it was +the picture of his sweetheart which had fallen when the table was overturned. +With the photograph in one hand and that single thread of woman’s hair between +the fingers of his other Pelliter rose slowly to his feet and faced the window. +The sun was gone. But its coming had put a new life into him. He turned joyously +to Kazan.</P> +<P>“That means something, boy,” he said, in a low, awed voice, “the sun, the +picture, and <I>this!</I> She sent it, do you hear, boy? She sent it! I can +almost hear her voice, an’ she’s telling me to go. `Tommy,’ she’s saying, `you +wouldn’t be a man if you didn’t go, even though you know you’re going to die on +the way. You can take her something to eat,’ she’s saying, boy, `an’ you can +just as well die in an igloo as here. You can leave word for Billy, an’ you can +take her grub enough to last until he comes, an’ then he’ll bring her down here, +an’ you’ll be buried out there with the others just the same.’ That’s what she’s +saying, Kazan, so we’re going!” He looked about him a little wildly. “Straight +up the coast,” he mumbled. “Thirty miles. We might make it.”</P> +<P>He began filling a pack with food. Outside the door there was a small sledge, +and after he had bundled himself in his traveling-clothes he dragged the pack to +the sledge, and behind the pack tied on a bundle of firewood, a lantern, +blankets, and oil. After he had done this he wrote a few lines to MacVeigh and +pinned the paper to the door. Then he hitched old Kazan to the sledge and +started off, leaving the dead man where he had fallen.</P> +<P>“It’s what she’d have us do,” he said again to Kazan. “She sure would have us +do this, Kazan. God bless her dear little heart!”</P> +<H4>VIII</H4> +<H4>LITTLE MYSTERY</H4> +<P>Pelliter hung close to the ice-bound coast. He traveled slowly, leading the +way for Kazan, who strained every muscle in his aged body to drag the sledge. +For a time the excitement of what had occurred gave Pelliter a strength which +soon began to ebb. But his old weakness did not entirely return. He found that +his worst trouble at first was in his eyes. Weeks of fever had enfeebled his +vision until the world about him looked new and strange. He could see only a few +hundred paces ahead, and beyond this little circle everything turned gray and +black. Singularly enough, it struck him that there was some humor as well as +tragedy in the situation, that there was something to laugh at in the fact that +Kazan had but one eye, and that he was nearly blind. He chuckled to himself and +spoke aloud to the dog.</P> +<P>“Makes me think of the games o’ hide-’n’-seek we used to play when we were +kids, boy,” he said. “She used to tie her handkerchief over my eyes, ’n’ then +I’d follow her all through the old orchard, and when I caught her it was a part +of the game she’d have to let me kiss her. Once I bumped into an apple +tree—”</P> +<P>The toe of his snow-shoe caught in an ice-hummock and sent him face downward +into the snow. He picked himself up and went on.</P> +<P>“We played that game till we was grown-ups, old man,” he went on. “Last time +we played it she was seventeen. Had her hair in a big brown braid, an’ it all +came undone so that when I caught her an’ took off the handkerchief I could just +see her eyes an’ her mouth laughing at me, and it was that time I hugged her up +closer than ever and told her I was going out to make a home for us. Then I came +up here.”</P> +<P>He stopped and rubbed his eyes; and for an hour after that, as he plodded +onward, he mumbled things which neither Kazan nor any other living thing could +have understood. But whatever delirium found its way into his voice, the +fighting spark in his brain remained sane. The igloo and the starving woman whom +Blake had abandoned formed the one living picture which he did not for a moment +forget. He must find the igloo, and the igloo was close to the sea. He could not +miss it— if he lived long enough to travel thirty miles. It did not occur to him +that Blake might have lied— that the igloo was farther than he had said, or +perhaps much nearer.</P> +<P>It was two o’clock when he stopped to make tea. He figured that he had +traveled at least eighteen miles; the fact was he had gone but a little over +half that distance. He was not hungry, and ate nothing, but he fed Kazan +heartily of meat. The hot tea, strengthened with a little whisky, revived him +for the time more than food would have done.</P> +<P>“Twelve miles more at the most,” he said to Kazan. “We’ll make it. Thank God, +we’ll make it!”</P> +<P>If his eyes had been better he would have seen and recognized the huge +snow-covered rock called the Blind Eskimo, which was just nine miles from the +cabin. As it was, he went on, filled with hope. There were sharper pains in his +head now, and his legs dragged wearily. Day ended at a little after two, but at +this season there was not much change in light and darkness, and Pelliter +scarcely noted the difference. The time came when the picture of the igloo and +the dying woman came and went fitfully in his brain. There were dark spaces. The +fighting spark was slowly giving way, and at last Pelliter dropped upon the +sledge.</P> +<P>“Go on, Kazan!” he cried, weakly. “Mush it— go on!”</P> +<P>Kazan tugged, with gaping jaws; and Pelliter’s head dropped upon the +food-filled pack.</P> +<P>What Kazan heard was a groan. He stopped and looked back, whining softly. For +a time he sat on his haunches, sniffing a strange thing which had come to him in +the air. Then he went on, straining a little faster at the sledge and still +whining. If Pelliter had been conscious he would have urged him straight ahead. +But old Kazan turned away from the sea. Twice in the next ten minutes he stopped +and sniffed the air, and each time he changed his course a little. Half an hour +later he came to a white mound that rose up out of the level waste of snow, and +then he settled himself back on his haunches, lifted his shaggy head to the dark +night sky, and for the second time that day he sent forth the weird, wailing, +mourning death-howl.</P> +<P>It aroused Pelliter. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, staggered to his feet, and +saw the mound a dozen paces away. Rest had cleared his brain again. He knew that +it was an igloo. He could make out the door, and he caught up his lantern and +stumbled toward it. He wasted half a dozen matches before he could make a light. +Then he crawled in, with Kazan still in his traces close at his heels.</P> +<P>There was a musty, uncomfortable odor in the snow-house. And there was no +sound, no movement. The lantern lighted up the small interior, and on the floor +Pelliter made out a heap of blankets and a bearskin. There was no life, and +instinctively he turned his eyes down to Kazan. The dog’s head was stretched out +toward the blankets, his ears were alert, his eyes burned fiercely, and a low, +whining growl rumbled in his throat.</P> +<P>He looked at the blankets again, moved slowly toward them. He pulled back the +bearskin and found what Blake had told him he would find— a woman. For a moment +he stared, and then a low cry broke from his lips as he fell upon his knees. +Blake had not lied, for it was an Eskimo woman. She was dead. She had not died +of starvation. Blake had killed her!</P> +<P>He rose to his feet again and looked about him. After all, did that golden +hair, that white woman’s hair, mean nothing? What was that? He sprang back +toward Kazan, his weakened nerves shattered by a sound and a movement from the +farthest and darkest part of the igloo. Kazan tugged at his traces, panting and +whining, held back by the sledge wedged in the door. The sound came again, a +human, wailing, sobbing cry.</P> +<P>With his lantern in his hand Pelliter darted across to it. There was another +roll of blankets on the floor, and as he looked he saw the bundle move. It took +him but an instant to drop beside it, as he had dropped beside the other, and as +he drew back the damp and partly frozen covering his heart leaped up and choked +him. The lantern light fell full upon the thin, pale face and golden head of a +little child. A pair of big frightened eyes were staring up at him; and as he +knelt there, powerless to move or speak in the face of this miracle, the eyes +closed again, and there came again the wailing, hungry note which Kazan had +first heard as they approached the igloo. Pelliter flung back the blanket and +caught the child in his arms.</P> +<P>“It’s a girl— a little girl!” he almost shouted to Kazan. “Quick, boy— go +back— get out!”</P> +<P>He laid the child upon the other blankets, and then thrust back Kazan. He +seemed suddenly possessed of the strength of two men as he tore at his own +blankets and dumped the contents of the pack out upon the snow. “She sent us, +boy,” he cried, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. “Where’s the milk ’n’ the +stove—”</P> +<P>In ten seconds more he was back in the igloo with a can of condensed cream, a +pan, and the alcohol lamp. His fingers trembled so that he had difficulty in +lighting the wick, and as he cut open the can with his knife he saw the child’s +eyes flutter wide for an instant and then close again.</P> +<P>“Just a minute, a half minute,” he pleaded, pouring the cream into the pan. +“Hungry, eh, little one? Hungry? Starving?” He held the pan close down over the +blue flame and gazed terrified at the white little face near him. Its thinness +and quiet frightened him. He thrust his finger into the cream and found it +warm.</P> +<P>“A cup, Kazan! Why didn’t I bring a cup?” He darted out again and returned +with a tin basin. In another moment the child was in his arms, and he forced the +first few drops of cream between her lips. Her eyes shot open. Life seemed to +spring into her little body; and she drank with a loud noise, one of her tiny +hands gripping him by the wrist. The touch, the sound, the feel of life against +<I>him</I> thrilled Pelliter. He gave her half of what the basin contained, and +then wrapped her up warmly in his thick service blanket, so that all of her was +hidden but her face and her tangled golden hair. He held her for a moment close +to the lantern. She was looking at him now, wide-eyed and wondering, but not +frightened.</P> +<P>“God bless your little soul!” he exclaimed, his amazement growing. “Who are +you, ’n’ where’d you come from? You ain’t more’n three years old, if you’re an +hour. Where’s your mama ’n’ your papa?” He placed her back on the blankets. +“Now, a fire, Kazan!” he said.</P> +<P>He held the lantern above his head and found the narrow vent through the +snow-and-ice wall which Blake had made for the escape of smoke. Then he went +outside for the fuel, freeing Kazan on the way. In a few minutes more a small +bright blaze of almost smokeless larchwood was lighting up and warming the +interior of the igloo. To his surprise, Pelliter found the child asleep when he +went to her again. He moved her gently and carried the dead body of the little +Eskimo woman through the opening and half a hundred paces from the igloo. Not +until then did he stop to marvel at the strength which had returned to him. He +stretched his arms above his head and breathed deeply of the cold air. It seemed +as though something had loosened inside of him, that a crushing weight had +lifted itself from his eyes. Kazan had followed him, and he stared down at the +dog.</P> +<P>“It’s gone, Kazan,” he cried, in a low, half-credulous voice. “I don’t feel— +sick— any more. It’s her—”</P> +<P>He turned back to the igloo. The lantern and the fire made a cheerful glow +inside, and it was growing warm. He threw off his heavy coat, drew the bearskin +in front of the fire, and sat down with the child in his arms. She still slept. +Like a starving man Pelliter stared down upon the little thin face. Gently his +rough fingers stroked back the golden curls. He smiled. A light came into his +eyes. His head bent lower and lower, slowly and a little fearfully. At last his +lips touched the child’s cheek. And then his own rough grizzled face, toughened +by wind and storm and intense cold, nestled against the little face of this new +and mysterious life he had found at the top of the world.</P> +<P>Kazan listened for a time, squatted on his haunches. Then he curled himself +near the fire and slept. For a long time Pelliter sat rocking gently back and +forth, thrilled by a happiness that was growing deeper and stronger in him each +instant. He could feel the tiny beat of the little one’s heart against his +breast; he could feel her breath against his cheek; one of her little hands had +gripped him by his thumb.</P> +<P>A hundred questions ran through his mind now. Who was this little abandoned +mite? Who were her father and her mother, and where were they? How had she come +to be with the Eskimo woman and Blake? Blake was not her father; the Eskimo +woman was not her mother. What tragedy had placed her here? Somehow he was +conscious of a sensation of joy as he reasoned that he would never be able to +answer these questions. She belonged to him. He had found her. No one would ever +come to dispossess him. Without awakening her, he thrust a hand into his breast +pocket and drew out the photograph of the sweet-faced girl who was going to be +his wife. It did not occur to him now that he might die. The old fear and the +old sickness were gone. He knew that he was going to live.</P> +<P>“You,” he breathed, softly, “you did it, and I know you’ll be glad when I +bring her down to you.” And then to the little sleeping girl: “And if you ain’t +got a name I guess I’ll have to call you Mystery— how is that?— my Little +Mystery.”</P> +<P>When he looked from the picture again Little Mystery’s eyes were open and +gazing up at him. He dropped the picture and made a lunge for the pan of cream +warming before the fire. The child drank as hungrily as before, with Pelliter +babbling incoherent nonsense into her baby ears. When she had done he picked up +the photograph, with a sudden and foolish inspiration that she might +understand.</P> +<P>“Looky,” he cried. “Pretty—”</P> +<P>To his astonishment and joy, Little Mystery put out a hand and placed the tip +of her tiny forefinger on the girl’s face. Then she looked up into Pelliter’s +eyes.</P> +<P>“Mama,” she lisped.</P> +<P>Pelliter tried to speak, but something rose like a knot in his throat and +choked him. A fire leaped all at once through his body; the joy of that one word +blinded him with hot tears. When he spoke at last his voice was broken, like a +sobbing woman’s.</P> +<P>“That’s it.” he said. “You’re right, little one. She’s your mama!”</P> +<H4>IX</H4> +<H4>THE SECRET OF THE DEAD</H4> +<P>On the eighth day after Pelliter found the Eskimo igloo Billy MacVeigh came +up through a gray dawn with his footsore dogs, his letters, and his medicines. +He had traveled all of the preceding night, and his feet dragged heavily. It was +with a feeling of fear that he at last saw the black cliffs of Fullerton rising +above the ice. He dreaded the first opening of the cabin door. What would he +find? During the past forty-eight hours he had figured on Pelliter’s chances, +and they were two to one that he would find his partner dead in his bunk.</P> +<P>And if not, if Pelliter still lived, what a tale there would be to tell the +sick man! For he knew that he must tell some one, and Pelliter would keep his +secret. And he would understand. Day after day, as he had hurried straight into +the north, Billy’s loneliness and heartbreak weighed more and more heavily upon +him. He tried to force Isobel out of his thoughts, but it was impossible. A +thousand visions of her rose before him, and each mile that he drew himself +farther away from her seemed only to add to the nearness of her spirit at his +side and to the strange pain in his heart that rose now and then to his lips in +sobbing breaths that he fought with himself to stifle. And yet, with his own +grief and hopelessness, he experienced more and more each day a compensating +joy. It was the joy of knowing that he had given back life and hope to Isobel +and her husband. Each day he figured their progress along with his own. From the +Eskimo village he had sent a messenger back to Churchill with a long report for +the officer in command there, and in that report he had lied. He reported +Scottie Deane as having died of the injury he had received in the snow-slide. +Not for a moment had he regretted the falsehood. He also promised to report at +Churchill to testify against Bucky Smith as soon as he reached Pelliter and put +him on his feet.</P> +<P>On this last day, as he saw the towering cliffs of Fullerton ahead of him, he +wondered how much he would tell to Pelliter if he found him alive. Mentally he +rehearsed the amazing story of what came to him that night on the Barren, of the +dogs coming across the snow, the great, dark, frightened eyes of the woman, and +the long, narrow box on the sledge. He would tell pelliter all that. He would +tell how he had made a camp for her that night, and how, later, he had told her +that he loved her and had begged one kiss. And then the disclosures of the +morning, the deserted tent, the empty box, the little note from Isobel, and the +revelation that the box had contained the living body of the man for whom he and +Pelliter had patrolled this desolate country for two thousand miles. But would +he tell the truth of what had happened after that?</P> +<P>He quickened his tired pace as the dogs climbed up from the ice of the Bay to +the sloping ridge, and stared hard ahead of him. The dogs tugged harder as the +smell of home entered their nostrils. At last the roof of the cabin came in +view. MacVeigh’s bloodshot eyes were like an animal’s in their eagerness.</P> +<P>“Pelly, old boy,” he gasped to himself. “Pelly—”</P> +<P>He stared harder. And then he spoke a low word to the dogs and stopped. He +wiped his face. A deep breath of relief fell from his lips.</P> +<P>Straight up from the chimney of the cabin there rose a thick column of +smoke!</P> +<P>He came up to the door of the cabin quietly, wondering why Pelliter did not +see him or hear the three or four sharp yelps the dogs had given. He twisted off +his snow-shoes, chuckling as he thought of the surprise he would give his mate. +His hand was on the door latch when he stopped. The smile left his lips. +Startled wonderment filled his face as he bent close to the door and listened, +and for a moment his heart throbbed with a terrible fear. He had returned too +late— perhaps a day— two days. Pelliter had gone mad! He could hear him raving +inside, filling the cabin with a laughter that sent a chill of horror through +his veins. Mad! A sob broke from his lips, and he turned his face up to the gray +sky. And then the laughter turned to song. It was the sweet love song which +Pelliter had told him that the girl down south used to sing to him when they +were alone out under the stars. Suddenly it broke off short, and in its place he +heard <I>another</I> sound. With a cry he opened the door and burst in.</P> +<P>“My God!” he cried. “Pelly— Pelly—”</P> +<P>Pelliter was on his knees in the middle of the floor. But it was not the look +of wonderment and joy in his face that Billy saw first. He stared at the little +golden-haired creature on the floor in front of him. He had traveled hard, +almost day and night, and for an instant it flashed upon him that what he saw +was not real. Before he could move or speak again Pelliter was on his feet, +wringing his hands and almost crying in his gladness. There was no sign of fever +or madness in his face now. Like one in a dream Billy heard what he said.</P> +<P>“God bless you, Billy! I’m glad you’ve come!” he cried. “We’ve been waiting +’n’ watching, and not more’n a minute ago we were at the window looking along +the edge of the Bay through the binoculars. You must have been under the ridge. +My God! A little while ago I thought I was dying— I thought I was alone in the +world— alone— alone. But look— <I>look,</I> Billy, I’ve got a fam’ly!”</P> +<P>Little Mystery had climbed to her feet. She was looking at Billy wonderingly, +her golden curls tousled about her pretty face, and gripping two or three of +Pelliter’s old letters in her tiny hand. And then she smiled at Billy and held +out the letters to him. In an instant he had dropped Pelliter’s hands and caught +her up in his arms.</P> +<P>“I’ve got letters for you in my pocket, Pelly,” he gasped. “But— first— +you’ve got to tell me who she is and where you got her—”</P> +<P>Briefly Pelliter told of Blake’s visit, the fight, and of the finding of +Little Mystery.</P> +<P>“I’d have died if it hadn’t been for her, Billy,” he finished. “She brought +me back to life. But I don’t know who she is or where she came from. There +wasn’t anything in his pockets or in the igloo to tell. I buried him out there— +shallow— so you could take a look when you came back.”</P> +<P>He snatched like a starving man for food at the letters MacVeigh pulled from +his pocket. While he read Billy sat down with Little Mystery on his knees. She +laughed and put her warm little hands up to his rough face. Her eyes were blue, +like Isobel’s; and suddenly he crushed his face close down against her soft +curls and held her so close to him that for a moment she was frightened. A +little later Pelliter looked up. His eyes shone, his thin face was radiant with +joy.</P> +<P>“God bless the sweetest little girl in the world, Billy!” he whispered, +huskily. “She says she’s lonely for me. She tells me to hurry— hurry down there +to her. She says that if I don’t come soon she’ll come up to me! Read ’em, +Billy!”</P> +<P>He looked in astonishment at the change which he saw in MacVeigh’s face. +Billy accepted the letters mechanically and placed them on the edge of the bunk +near which he was sitting.</P> +<P>“I’ll read them— after a while,” he said, slowly.</P> +<P>Little Mystery clambered from his knee and ran to Pelliter. Billy was staring +straight into the other’s face.</P> +<P>“You’re sure you’ve told me everything, Pelly? There wasn’t anything in his +pockets? You searched well?”</P> +<P>“Yes. There was nothing.”</P> +<P>“But— you were sick—”</P> +<P>“That’s why I buried him shallow,” interrupted Pelliter. “He’s close to the +last cross, just under the ice and snow. I wanted you to look— for +yourself.”</P> +<P>Billy rose to his feet. He took Little Mystery in his arms again and looked +closely in her face. There was a strange look in his eyes. She laughed at him, +but he did not seem to notice it. And then he held her out to Pelliter.</P> +<P>“Pelly, did you ever— ever notice eyes— very closely?” he asked. <I>“Blue</I> +eyes?”</P> +<P>Pelliter stared at him amazed.</P> +<P>“My Jeanne has blue eyes—”</P> +<P>“And have they little brown dots in them like a wood violet?”</P> +<P>“No-o-o—”</P> +<P>“They’re blue, just <I>blue,</I> ain’t they?”</P> +<P>“Yes.”</P> +<P>“And I suppose most all blue eyes are just <I>blue,</I> without the little +brown spots. Wouldn’t you think so?”</P> +<P>“What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?” demanded Pelliter.</P> +<P>“I just wanted you to notice that <I>her</I> eyes have little brown spots in +them,” replied Billy. “I’ve only seen one other pair of eyes— just like hers.” +He turned toward the door. “I’m going out to care for the dogs and dig up +Blake,” he added. “I can’t rest until I’ve seen him.”</P> +<P>Pelliter placed Little Mystery on her feet.</P> +<P>“I’ll see to the dogs,” he said. “But I don’t want to look at Blake +again.”</P> +<P>The two men went out, and while Pelliter led the dogs to a lean-to behind the +cabin Billy began to work with an ax and spade at the spot his comrade had +pointed out to him. Ten minutes later he came to Blake. An excitement which he +had tried to hide from Pelliter overcame his sense of horror as he dragged out +the stiff and frozen corpse of the man. It was a terrible picture that the dead +man made, with his coarse bearded face turned up to the sky and his teeth still +snarling as they had snarled on the day he died. Billy knew most men who had +come into the north above Churchill, but he had never looked upon Blake before. +It was probable that the dead man had told a part of the truth, and that he was +a sailor left on the upper coast by some whaler. He shivered as he began going +through his pockets. Each moment added to his disappointment. He found a few +things— a knife, two keys, several coins, a fire-flint, and other articles— but +there was no letter or writing of any kind, and that was what he had hoped to +find. There was nothing that might solve the mystery of the miracle that had +descended upon them. He rolled the dead man into the grave, covered him over, +and went into the cabin.</P> +<P>Pelliter was in his usual place— on his hands and knees, with Little Mystery +astride his back. He paused in a mad race across the cabin floor and looked up +with inquiring eyes. The little girl held up her arms, and MacVeigh tossed her +half-way to the ceiling and then hugged her golden head close up to his chilled +face. Pelliter jumped to his feet; his face grew serious as Billy looked at him +over the child’s tousled curls.</P> +<P>“I found nothing— absolutely nothing of any account,” he said.</P> +<P>He placed Little Mystery on one of the bunks and faced the other with a +puzzled look in his eyes.</P> +<P>“I wish you hadn’t been in a fever on that day of the fight, Pelly,” he said. +“He <I>must</I> have said something— something that would give us a clue.”</P> +<P>“Mebbe he did, Billy,” replied Pelliter, looking with a shiver at the few +things MacVeigh had placed on the cabin table. “But there’s no use worrying any +more about it. It ain’t in reason that she’s got any people up here, six hundred +miles from the shack of a white man that ’d own a little beauty like her. She’s +mine. I found her. She’s mine to keep.”</P> +<P>He sat down at the table, and MacVeigh sat down opposite him, smiling +sympathetically into Pelliter’s eyes.</P> +<P>“I know you want her— want her bad, Pelly,” he said. “And I know the girl +would love her. But she’s got people— somewhere, and it’s our duty to find ’em. +She didn’t drop out of a balloon, Pelly. Do you suppose— the dead man— might be +her father?”</P> +<P>It was the first time he had asked this question, and he noted the other’s +sudden shudder of revulsion.</P> +<P>“I’ve thought of that. But it can’t be. He was a beast, and she— she’s a +little angel. Billy, her mother must have been beautiful. And that’s what made +me guess— fear—”</P> +<P>Pelliter wiped his face uneasily, and the two young men stared into each +other’s eyes. MacVeigh leaned forward, waiting.</P> +<P>“I figured it all out last night, lying awake there in my bunk,” continued +Pelliter, “and as the second best friend I have on earth <I>I</I> want to ask +you not to go any farther, Billy. She’s mine. My Jeanne, down there, will love +her like a real mother, and we’ll bring her up right. But if you go on, Billy, +you’ll find something <I>unpleasant</I>— I— I— swear you will!”</P> +<P>“You know—”</P> +<P>“I’ve <I>guessed,”</I> interrupted the other. “Billy, sometimes a beast— a +man beast— holds an attraction for a woman, and Blake was that sort of a beast. +You remember— two years ago— a sailor ran away with the wife of a whaler’s +captain away up at Narwhale Inlet. Well—”</P> +<P>Again the two men stared silently at each other. MacVeigh turned slowly +toward the child. She had fallen asleep, and he could see the dull shimmer of +her golden curls as they lay scattered over Pelliter’s pillow.</P> +<P>“Poor little devil!” he exclaimed, softly.</P> +<P>“I believe that woman was Little Mystery’s mother,” Pelliter went on. “She +couldn’t bear to leave the little kid when she went with Blake, so she took her +along. Some women do that. And after a time she died. Then Blake took up with an +Eskimo woman. You know what happened after that. We don’t want Little Mystery to +know all this when she grows up. It’s better not. She’s too little to remember, +ain’t she? She won’t ever know.”</P> +<P>“I remember the ship,” said Billy, not taking his eyes off Little Mystery. +“She was the <I>Silver Seal.</I> Her captain’s name was Thompson.”</P> +<P>He did not look at Pelliter, but he could feel the quick, tense stiffening of +the other’s body. There was a moment’s silence. Then Pelliter spoke in a low, +unnatural voice.</P> +<P>“Billy, you ain’t going to hunt him up, are you? That wouldn’t be fair to me +or to the kid. My Jeanne ’ll love her, an’ mebbe— mebbe some day <I>your</I> kid +’ll come along an’ marry her—”</P> +<P>MacVeigh rose to his feet. Pelliter did not see the sudden look of grief that +shot into his face.</P> +<P>“What do you say, Billy?”</P> +<P>“Think it over, Pelly,” came back Billy’s voice, huskily. “Think it over. I +don’t want to hurt you, and I know you think a lot of her, but— think it over. +You wouldn’t rob her father, would you? An’ she’s all he’s got left of the +woman. Think it over, Pelly, good ’n’ hard. I’m going to bed an’ sleep a +week!”</P> +<H4>X</H4> +<H4>IN DEFIANCE OF THE LAW</H4> +<P>Billy slept all that day and the night that followed, and Pelliter did not +awaken him. He aroused himself from his long sleep of exhaustion an hour or two +before dawn of the following morning, and for the first time he had the +opportunity of going over with himself all the things that had happened since +his return to Fullerton Point. His first thought was Pelliter and Little +Mystery. He could hear his comrade’s deep breathing in the bunk opposite him, +and again he wondered if Pelliter had told him everything. Was it possible that +Blake had said nothing to reveal Little Mystery’s identity, and that the igloo +and the dead Eskimo woman had not given up the secret? It seemed inconceivable +that there would not be something in the igloo that would help to clear up the +mystery. And yet, after all, he had faith in Pelliter. He knew that he would +keep nothing from him even though it meant possession of the child. And then his +mind leaped to Isobel Deane. <I>Her</I> eyes were blue, and they had in them +those same little spots of brown he had found in Little Mystery’s. They were +unusual eyes, and he had noticed the brown in them because it had added to their +loveliness and had made him think of the violets he had told Pelliter about. Was +it possible, he asked himself, that there could be some association between +Isobel and Little Mystery? He confessed that it was scarcely conceivable, and +yet it was impossible for him to get the thought out of his mind.</P> +<P>Before Pelliter awoke he had determined upon his own course of action. He +would say nothing of what had happened to himself on the Barren, at least not +for a time. He would not tell of his meeting with Isobel and her husband or of +what had followed. Until he was absolutely certain that Pelliter was keeping +nothing from him he would not confide the secret of his own treachery to him. +For he had been a traitor— to the Law. He realized that. He could tell the +story, with its fictitious ending, before they set out for Churchill, where he +would give evidence against Bucky Smith. Meanwhile he would watch Pelliter, and +wait for him to reveal whatever he might have hidden from him. He knew that if +Pelliter was concealing something he was inspired by his almost insane worship +of the little girl he had found who had saved him from madness and death. He +smiled in the darkness as he thought that if Pelliter were working to achieve +his own end— possession of Little Mystery— he was inspired by emotions no more +selfish than his own in giving back life to Isobel Deane and her husband. On +that score they were even.</P> +<P>He was up and had breakfast started before Pelliter awoke. Little Mystery was +still sleeping, and the two men moved about softly in their moccasined feet. On +this morning the sun shone brilliantly over the southern ice-fields, and +Pelliter aroused Little Mystery so that she might see it before it disappeared. +But to-day it did not drop below the gray murkiness of the snow-horizon for +nearly an hour. After breakfast Pelliter read his letters again, and then Billy +read them. In one of the letters the girl had put a tress of sunny hair, and +Pelliter kissed it shamelessly before his comrade.</P> +<P>“She says she’s making the dress she’s going to wear when we’re married, and +that if I don’t come home before it’s out of style she’ll never marry me at +all,” he cried, joyously. “Look there, on that page she’s told me all about it. +You’re— you’re goin’ to be there, ain’t you, Billy?”</P> +<P>“If I can make it, Pelly.”</P> +<P>“If you can <I>make</I> it! I thought you was going out of the Service when I +did.”</P> +<P>“I’ve sort of changed my mind.”</P> +<P>“And you’re going to stick?”</P> +<P>“Mebbe for another three years.”</P> +<P>Life in the cabin was different after this. Pelliter and Little Mystery were +happy, and Billy fought with himself every hour to keep down his own gloom and +despair. The sun helped him. It rose earlier each day and remained longer in the +sky, and soon the warmth of it began to soften the snow underfoot. The vast +fields of ice began to give evidence of the approach of spring, and the air was +more and more filled with the thunderous echoes of the “break up.” Great floes +broke from the shore-runs, and the sea began to open. Down from the north the +powerful arctic currents began to move their grinding, roaring avalanches. But +it was a full month before Billy was sure that Pelliter was strong enough to +begin the long trip south. Even then he waited for another week.</P> +<P>Late one afternoon he went out alone and stood on the cliff watching the +thunderous movement of arctic ice out in the Roes Welcome. Standing motionless +fifty paces from the little storm-beaten cabin that represented Law at this +loneliest outpost on the American continent, he looked like a carven thing of +dun-gray rock, with a dun-gray world over his head and on all sides of him, +broken only in its terrific monotony of deathlike sameness by the darker gloom +of the sky and the whiter and ghostlier gloom that hung over the ice-fields. The +wind was still bitter, and his vision was shut in by a near horizon which Billy +had often thought of as the rim of hell. On this afternoon his heart was as +leaden as the day. Under his feet the frozen earth shivered with the rumbling +reverberations of the crashing and breaking mountains of ice. His ears were +filled with a dull and steady roar, like the echoes of distant thunder, broken +now and then— when an ice-mountain split asunder— with a report like that of a +thirteen-inch gun. There were curious wailings, strange screeching sounds, and +heartbreaking moanings in the air. Two days before MacVeigh had heard the roar +of the ice ten miles inland, where he had gone for caribou.</P> +<P>But he scarcely heard that roar now. He was looking toward the warring fields +of ice, but he did not see them. It was not the dead gloom and the gray monotony +that weighted his heart, but the sounds that he heard now and then in the cabin— +the laughing of Little Mystery and of Pelliter. A few days more and he would +lose <I>them.</I> And after that what would be left for him? A cry broke from +his lips, and he gripped his hands in despair. He would be <I>alone.</I> There +was no one waiting for him down in that world to which Pelliter was going, no +girl to meet him, no father, no mother— nothing. He laughed in his pain as he +faced the cold wind from the north. The sting of that wind was like the mocking +ghost of his own past life. For all his life he had known only the stings of +pain and of loneliness. And then, suddenly, there came Pelliter’s words to him +again— “Mebbe some day <I>you’ll</I> have a kid.” A flood of warmth swept +through his veins, and in the moment of forgetfulness and hope which came with +it he turned his eyes into the south and west and saw the sweet face and +upturned lips of Isobel Deane.</P> +<P>He pulled himself together with a low laugh and faced the breaking seas of +ice and the north. The gloom of night had drawn the horizon nearer. The rumble +and thunder of crumbling floes came from out of a purple chaos that was growing +blue-black in the distance. For several minutes he stood listening and looking +into nothingness. The breaking of the ice, the moaning discontent in the air, +and the growling monotone of the giant currents had driven other men mad; but +they held a fascination for him. He knew what was happening, and he could almost +measure the strength of the unseen hands of nature. No sound was new or strange +to him. But now, as he stood there, there rose above all the other tumult a +sound that he had not heard before. His body became suddenly tense and alert as +he faced squarely to the north. For a full minute he listened, and then turned +and ran to the cabin.</P> +<P>Pelliter had lighted a lamp, and in its glow Billy’s face shone white with +excitement.</P> +<P>“Good God, Pelly, come here!” he cried from the door.</P> +<P>As Pelliter ran out he gripped him by the shoulders.</P> +<P>“Listen!” he commanded. <I>“Listen to that!”</I></P> +<P>“Wolves!” said Pelliter.</P> +<P>The wind was rising, and sent a whistling blast through the open door of the +cabin. It awakened Little Mystery, who sat up with frightened cries.</P> +<P>“No, it’s not wolves,” cried MacVeigh, and it did not sound like MacVeigh’s +voice that spoke. “I never heard wolves like that. Listen!”</P> +<P>He clutched Pelliter’s arm as on a fresh burst of the wind there came the +strange and terrible sound from out of the night. It was rapidly drawing nearer— +a wailing burst of savage voice, as if a great wolf pack had struck the fresh +and blood-stained trail of game. But with this there was the other and more +fearful sound, a shrieking and yelping as if half-human creatures were being +torn by the fangs of beasts. As Pelliter and MacVeigh stood waiting for +something to appear out of the gray-and-black mystery of the night they heard a +sound that was like the slow tolling of a thing that was half bell and half +drum.</P> +<P>“It’s not wolves,” shouted Billy. “Whatever it is, there’s men with it! +Hurry, Pelly, into the cabin with our dogs and sledge! Those are dogs we hear— +dogs who are howling because they smell us— and there are hundreds of ’em! Where +there’s dogs there’s men— but who in Heaven’s name can they be?”</P> +<P>He dragged the sledge into the cabin while Pelliter unleashed the huskies +from the lean-to. When he came in with the dogs Pelliter locked and bolted the +door.</P> +<P>Billy slipped a clipful of cartridges into his big-game Remington. His +carbine was already on the table, and as Pelliter stood staring at him in +indecision he pulled out two Savage automatics from under his bunk and gave one +of them to his companion. His face was white and set.</P> +<P>“Better get ready, Pelly,” he said, quietly. “I’ve been in this country a +long time, and I tell you they’re dogs and men. Did you hear the drum? It’s made +of seal belly, and there’s a bell on each side of it. They’re Eskimos, and there +isn’t an Eskimo village within two hundred miles of us this winter. They’re +Eskimos, and they’re not on a hunt, unless it’s for <I>us!”</I></P> +<P>In an instant Pelliter was buckling on his revolver and cartridge-belt. He +grinned as he looked at the wicked little blue-steeled Savage.</P> +<P>“I hope you ain’t mistaken, Billy,” he said, “for it ’ll be the first +excitement we’ve had in a year.”</P> +<P>None of his enthusiasm revealed itself in MacVeigh’s face.</P> +<P>“The Eskimo never fights until he’s gone mad, Pelly,” he said, “and you know +what mad<I>men</I> are. I can’t guess what they’ve got to fight over, unless +they want our grub. But if they do—” He moved toward the door, his swift-firing +Remington in his hand. “Be ready to cover me, Pelly. I’m going out. Don’t fire +until you hear me shoot.”</P> +<P>He opened the door and stepped out. The howling had ceased now, but there +came in its place strange barking voices and a cracking which Billy knew was +made by the long Eskimo whips. He advanced to meet many dim forms which he saw +breaking out of the wall of gloom, raising his voice in a loud holloa. From the +Doorway Pelliter saw him suddenly lost in a mass of dogs and men, and half flung +his carbine to his shoulder. But there was no shooting from MacVeigh. A score of +sledges had drawn up about him, and the whips of dozens of little black men +cracked viciously as their dogs sank upon their bellies in the snow. Both men +and dogs were tired, and Billy saw that they had been running long and hard. +Still as quick as animals the little men gathered about him, their +white-and-black eyes staring at him out of round, thick, dumb-looking faces. He +noted that they were half a hundred strong, and that all were armed, many with +their little javelin-like narwhal harpoons, some with spears, and others with +rifles. From the circle of strangely dressed and hideously visaged beings that +had gathered about him one advanced and began talking to him in a language that +was like the rapid clack of knuckle bones.</P> +<P>“Kogmollocks!” Billy groaned, and he lifted both hands to show that he did +not understand. Then he raised his voice. “Nuna-talmute,” he cried. +“Nuna-talmute— Nuna-talmute! Ain’t there one of that lingo among you?”</P> +<P>He spoke directly to the chief man, who stared at him in silence for a moment +and then pointed both short arms toward the lighted cabin.</P> +<P>“Come on!” said Billy. He caught the little Eskimo by one of his thick arms +and led him boldly through the breach that was made for them in the circle. The +chief man’s voice broke out in a few words of command, like a dozen quick, sharp +yelps of a dog, and six other Eskimos dropped in behind them.</P> +<P>“Kogmollocks— the blackest-hearted little devils alive when it comes to +trading wives and fighting,” said MacVeigh to Pelliter, as he came up at the +head of the seven little black men. “ Watch the door, Pelly. They’re coming +in.”</P> +<P>He stepped into the cabin, and the Eskimos followed. From Pelliter’s bunk +Little Mystery looked at the strange visitors with eyes which suddenly widened +with surprise and joy, and in another moment she had given the strange story +that Pelliter or Billy had ever heard her utter. Scarcely had that cry fallen +from her lips when one of the Eskimos sprang toward her. His black hands were +already upon her, dragging the child from the bunk, when with a warning yell of +rage Pelliter leaped from the door and sent him crashing back among his +companions. In another instant both men were facing the seven Eskimos with +leveled automatics.</P> +<P>“If you fire don’t shoot to kill!” commanded MacVeigh.</P> +<P>The chief man was pointing to Little Mystery, his weird voice rising until it +was almost a scream. Suddenly he doubled himself back and raised his javelin. +Simultaneously two streams of fire leaped from the automatics. The javelin +dropped to the floor, and with a shrill cry which was half pain and half command +the leader staggered back to the door, a stream of blood running from his +wounded hand. The others sprang out ahead of him, and Pelliter closed and bolted +the door. When he turned MacVeigh was closing and slipping the bolts to the +heavy barricades of the two windows. From Pelliter’s bunk Little Mystery looked +at them and laughed.</P> +<P>“So it’s <I>you?”</I> said Billy, coming to her, and breathing hard. “It’s +you they want, eh? Now, I wonder why?”</P> +<P>Pelliter’s face was flushed with excitement. He was reloading his automatic. +There was almost a triumph in his eyes as he met MacVeigh’s questioning +gaze.</P> +<P>They stood and listened, heard only the rumbling monotone of the drifting +ice— not the breath of a sound from the scores of men and dogs.</P> +<P>“We’ve given them a lesson,” said Pelliter, at last, smiling with the +confidence of a man who was half a tenderfoot among the little brown men.</P> +<P>Billy pointed to the door.</P> +<P>“That door is about the only place vulnerable to their bullets,” he said, as +though he had not heard Pelliter. “Keep out of its range. I don’t believe what +guns they’ve got are heavy enough to penetrate the logs. Your bunk is out of +line and safe.”</P> +<P>He went to Little Mystery, and his stern face relaxed into a smile as she put +up her arms to greet him.</P> +<P>“So it’s <I>you,</I> is it?” he asked again, taking her warm little face and +soft curls between his two hands. “They want you, an’ they want you bad. Well, +they can have grub, an’ they can have <I>me,</I> but”— he looked up to meet +Pelliter’s eyes— “I’m damned if they can have you,” he finished.</P> +<P>Suddenly the night was broken by another sound, the sharp, explosive crack of +rifles. They could hear the beat of bullets against the log wall of the cabin. +One crashed through the door, tearing away a splinter as wide as a man’s arm, +and as MacVeigh nodded to the path of the bullet he laughed. Pelliter had heard +that laugh before. He knew what it meant. He knew what the death-whiteness of +MacVeigh’s face meant. It was not fear, but something more terrible than fear. +His own face was flushed. That is the difference in men.</P> +<P>MacVeigh suddenly darted across the danger zone to the opposite half of the +cabin.</P> +<P>“If that’s your game, here goes,” he cried. “Now, damn y’, you’re so anxious +to fight— get at it ’n’ fight!”</P> +<P>He spoke the last words to Pelliter. Billy always swore when he went into +action.</P> +<H4>XI</H4> +<H4>THE NIGHT OF PERIL</H4> +<P>On his own side of the cabin Pelliter began tugging at a small, thin block +laid between two of the logs. The shooting outside had ceased when the two men +opened up the loopholes that commanded a range seaward. Almost immediately it +began again, the dull red flashes showing the location of the Eskimos, who had +drawn back to the ridge that sloped down to the Bay. As the last of five shots +left his Remington Billy pulled in his gun and faced across to Pelliter, who was +already reloading.</P> +<P>“Pelly, I don’t want to croak,” he said, “but this is the last of Law at +Fullerton Point— for you and me. Look at that!”</P> +<P>He raised the muzzle of his rifle to one of the logs over his head. Pelliter +could see the fresh splinters sticking out.</P> +<P>“They’ve got some heavy calibers,” continued Billy, “and they’ve hidden +behind the slope, where they’re safe from us for a thousand years. As soon as it +grows light enough to see they’ll fill this shack as full of holes as an old +cheese.”</P> +<P>As if to verify his words a single shot rang out and a bullet plowed through +a log so close to Pelliter that the splinters flew into his face.</P> +<P>“I know these little devils, Pelly,” went on MacVeigh. “If they were +Nuna-talmutes you could scare ’em with a sky-rocket. But they’re Kogmollocks. +They’ve murdered the crews of half a dozen whalers, and I shouldn’t wonder if +they’d got the kid in some such way. They wouldn’t let us off now, even if we +gave her up. It wouldn’t do. They know better than to let the Law get any +evidence against them. If we’re killed and the cabin burned, who’s going to say +what happened to us? There’s just two things for us to do—”</P> +<P>Another fusillade of shots came from the snow ridge, and a third bullet +crashed into the cabin.</P> +<P>“Just two things,” Billy went on, as he completely shaded the dimly burning +lamp. “We can stay here ’n’ die— or run.”</P> +<P><I>“Run!”</I></P> +<P>This was an unknown word in the Service, and in Pelliter’s voice there were +both amazement and contempt.</P> +<P>“Yes, run,” said Billy, quietly. “Run— for the kid’s sake.”</P> +<P>It was almost dark in the cabin, and Pelliter came close to his +companion.</P> +<P>“You mean—”</P> +<P>“That it’s the only way to save the kid. We might give her up, then fight it +out, but that means she’d go back to the Eskimos, ’n’ mebbe never be found +again. The men and dogs out there are bushed. We are fresh. If we can get away +from the cabin we can beat ’em out.”</P> +<P>“We’ll run, then,” said Pelliter. He went to Little Mystery, who sat stunned +into silence by the strange things that were happening, and hugged her up in his +arms, his back turned to the possible bullet that might come through the wall. +“We’re going to run, little sweetheart,” he mumbled, half laughingly, in her +curls.</P> +<P>Billy began to pack, and Pelliter put Little Mystery down on the bunk and +started to harness the six dogs, ranging them close along the wall, with old +one-eyed Kazan, the hero who had saved him from Blake, in the lead. Outside the +firing had ceased. It was evident that the Eskimos had made up their minds to +save their ammunition until dawn.</P> +<P>Fifteen minutes sufficed to load the sledge; and while Pelliter was fastening +the sledge traces MacVeigh bundled Little Mystery into her thick fur coat. The +sleeves caught, and he turned it back, exposing the white edge of the lining. On +that lining was something which drew him down close, and when the strange cry +that fell from his lips drew Pelliter’s eyes toward him he was staring down into +Little Mystery’s upturned face with the look of one who saw a vision.</P> +<P>“Mother of Heaven!” he gasped, “she’s—” He caught himself, and smothered +Little Mystery up close to him for a moment before he brought her to the sledge. +“She’s the bravest little kid in the world,” he finished; and Pelliter wondered +at the strangeness of his voice. He tucked her into a nest made of blankets and +then tied her in securely with <I>babiche</I> rope. Pelliter stood up first and +saw the hungry, staring look in MacVeigh’s face as he kept his eyes steadily +upon Little Mystery.</P> +<P>“What’s the matter, Mac?” he asked. “Are you very much afraid— for her?”</P> +<P>“No,” said MacVeigh, without lifting his head. “If you’re ready, Pelly, open +the door.” He rose to his feet and picked up his rifle. He did not seem like the +old MacVeigh; but the dogs were nipping and whining, and there was no time for +Pelliter’s questions.</P> +<P>“I’m going out first, Billy,” he said. “You can make up your mind they’re +watching the cabin pretty close, and as soon as the dogs nose the open air +they’ll begin yapping ’n’ let ’em on to us. We can’t risk her under fire. So I’m +going to back along the edge of the ridge and give it to ’em as fast as I can +work the gun. They’ll all turn to me, and that’s the time for you to open the +door and make your getaway. I’ll be with you inside of five minutes.”</P> +<P>He turned out the lights as he spoke. Then he opened the door and slipped out +into the darkness without a protesting word from MacVeigh. Hardly had he gone +when the latter fell upon his knees beside Little Mystery and in the deep gloom +crushed his rough face down against her soft, warm little body.</P> +<P>“So it’s you, is it?” he cried, softly; and then he mumbled things which the +little girl could not possibly have understood.</P> +<P>Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door with a word to faithful +old Kazan, the leader.</P> +<P>From far down the snow-ridge there came the rapid firing of Pelliter’s +rifle.</P> +<P>For a moment Billy waited, his hand on the door, to give the watching Eskimos +time to turn their attention toward Pelliter. He could perhaps have counted +fifty before he gave Kazan the leash and the six dogs dragged the sledge out +into the night. With his humanlike intelligence old Kazan swung quickly after +his master, and the team darted like a streak into the south and west, giving +tongue to that first sharp, yapping voice which it is impossible to beat or +train out of a band of huskies. As he ran Billy looked back over his shoulder. +In the hundred-yard stretch of gray bloom between the cabin and the snow-ridge +he saw three figures speeding like wolves. In a flash the meaning of this +unexpected move of the Eskimos dawned upon him. They were cutting Pelliter off +from the cabin and his course of flight.</P> +<P>“Go it, Kazan!” he cried, fiercely, bending low over the leader. “Moo-hoosh— +moo-hoosh— moo-hoosh, old man!” And Kazan leaped into a swift run, nipping and +whining at the empty air.</P> +<P>Billy stopped and whirled about. Two other figures had joined the first +three, and he opened fire. One of the running Eskimos pitched forward with a cry +that rose shrill and scarcely human above the moaning and roar of the +ice-fields, and the other four fell flat upon the snow to escape the hail of +lead that sang close over their heads. From the snow-ridge there came a +fusillade of shots, and a single figure darted like a streak in MacVeigh’s +direction. He knew that it was Pelliter; and, running slowly after Kazan and the +sledge, he rammed a fresh clipful of cartridges into the chamber of his rifle. +The figures in the open had risen again, and Pelliter’s automatic Savage trailed +out a stream of fire as he ran. He was breathing heavily when he reached +Billy.</P> +<P>“Kazan has got the kid well in the lead,” shouted the latter. “God bless that +old scoundrel! I believe he’s human.”</P> +<P>They set off swiftly, and the thick night soon engulfed all signs of the +Eskimos. Ahead of them the sledge loomed up slowly, and when they reached it +both men thrust their rifles under the blanket straps. Thus relieved of their +weight, they forged ahead of Kazan.</P> +<P>“Moo-hoosh— moo-hoosh!” encouraged Billy.</P> +<P>He glanced at Pelliter on the opposite side. His comrade was running with one +arm raised at the proper angle to reserve breath and endurance; the other hung +straight and limp at his side. A sudden fear shot through him, and he darted +ahead of the lead dog to Pelliter’s side. He did not speak, but touched the +other’s arm.</P> +<P>“One of the little devil’s winged me,” gasped Pelliter. “It’s not bad.”</P> +<P>He was breathing as though the short run was already winding him, and without +a word Billy ran up to Kazan’s head and stopped the team within twenty paces. +The open blade of his knife was ripping up Pelliter’s sleeve before his comrade +could find words to object. Pelliter was bleeding, and bleeding hard. His face +was shot with pain. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his +forearm, but had fortunately missed the main artery. With the quick deftness of +the wilderness-trained surgeon Billy drew the wound close and bound it tightly +with his own and Pelliter’s handkerchiefs. Then he thrust Pelliter toward the +sledge.</P> +<P>“You’ve got to ride, Pelly,” he said. “If you don’t you’ll go under, and that +means all of us.”</P> +<P>Far behind them there rose the yapping and howling of dogs.</P> +<P>“They’re after us with the dogs!” groaned Pelliter. “I can’t ride. I’ve got +to run— and fight!”</P> +<P>“You get on the sledge, or I’ll stave your head in!” commanded MacVeigh. +“Face the enemy, Pelly, and give ’em hell. You’ve got three rifles there. You +can do the shooting while I hustle on the dogs. And keep yourself in front of +her,” he added, pointing to the almost completely buried Little Mystery.</P> +<H4>XII</H4> +<H4>LITTLE MYSTERY FINDS HER OWN</H4> +<P>After convincing Pelliter that he must ride on the sledge Billy ran on ahead, +and the dogs started with their heavier load.</P> +<P>“Now for the timber-line,” he called down to Kazan. “It’s fifty miles, old +boy, and you’ve got to make it by dawn. If we don’t—”</P> +<P>He left the words unfinished, but Kazan tugged harder, as if he had heard and +understood. The sledge had reached the unbroken sweep of the Barren now, and +MacVeigh felt the wind in his face. It was blowing from the north and west, and +with it came sudden gusts filled with fine particles of snow. After a few +moments he fell back to see that Little Mystery’s face was completely covered. +Pelliter was crouching low on the sledge, his feet braced in the blanket straps. +His wound and the uncomfortable sensation of riding backward on a swaying sledge +were making him dizzy, and he wondered if what he saw creeping up out of the +night was a result of this dizziness or a reality. There was no sound from +behind. But a darker spot had grown within his vision, at times becoming larger, +then almost disappearing. Twice he raised his rifle. Twice he lowered it again, +convinced that the thing behind was only a shadowy fabric of his imagination. It +was possible that their pursuers would lose trace of them in the darkness, and +so he held his fire.</P> +<P>He was staring at the shadow when from out of it there leaped a little spurt +of flame, and a bullet sang past the sledge, a yard to the right. It was a +splendid shot. There was a marksman with the shadow, and Pelliter replied so +quickly that the first shot had not died away before there followed the second. +Five times his automatic sent its leaden messengers back into the night, and at +the fifth shot there came a wild outburst of pain from one of the Eskimo +dogs.</P> +<P>“Hurrah!” shouted Billy. “That’s one team out of business, Pelly. We can beat +’em in a running fight!”</P> +<P>He heard the quick metallic snap of fresh cartridges as Pelliter slipped them +into the chamber of his rifle, but beyond that sound, the wind, and the +straining of the huskies there was no other. A grim silence fell behind. The +roar of the distant ice grew less. The earth no longer seemed to shudder under +their feet at the terrific explosions of the crumbling bergs. But in place of +these the wind was rising and the fine snow was thickening. Billy no longer +turned to look behind. He stared ahead and as far as he could see on each side +of them. At the end of half an hour the panting dogs dropped into a walk, and he +walked close beside his comrade.</P> +<P>“They’ve given it up,” groaned Pelliter, weakly. “I’m glad of it, Mac, for +I’m— I’m— dizzy.” He was lying on the sledge now, with his head bolstered up on +a pile of blankets.</P> +<P>“You know how the wolves hunt, Pelly,” said MacVeigh— “in a moon-shape half +circle, you know, that closes in on the running game from <I>in front?</I> Well, +that’s how the Eskimos hunt, and I’m wondering if they’re trying to get ahead of +us— off there, and off there.” He motioned to the north and the south.</P> +<P>“They can’t,” replied Pelliter, raising himself to his elbow with an effort. +“Their dogs are bushed. Let me walk, Mac. I can—” He fell back with a sudden low +cry. “Gawd, but I’m dizzy—”</P> +<P>MacVeigh halted the dogs, and while they dropped upon their bellies, panting +and licking up the snow, he kneeled beside Pelliter. Darkness concealed the fear +in his eyes and face. His voice was strong and cheerful.</P> +<P>“You’ve got to lie still, Pelly,” he warned, arranging the blankets so that +the wounded man could rest comfortably. “You’ve got a pretty bad nip, and it’s +best for all of us that you don’t make a move. You’re right about the Eskimos +and their dogs. They’re bushed, and they’ve given the chase up as a bad job, so +what’s the use of making a fool of yourself? Ride it out, Pelly. Go to sleep +with Little Mystery if you can. She thinks she’s in a cradle.”</P> +<P>He got up and started the dogs. For a long time he was alone. Little Mystery +was sleeping and Pelliter was quiet. Now and then he dropped his mittened hand +on Kazan’s head, and the faithful old leader whined softly at his touch. With +the others it was different. They snapped viciously, and he kept his distance. +He went on for hours, halting the team now and then for a few minutes’ rest. He +struck a match each time and looked at Pelliter. His comrade breathed heavily, +with his eyes closed. Once, long after midnight, he opened them and stared at +the flare of the match and into MacVeigh’s white face.</P> +<P>“I’m all right, Billy,” he said. “Let me walk—”</P> +<P>MacVeigh forced him back gently, and went on. He was alone until the first +cold, gray break of dawn. Then he stopped, gave each of the dogs a frozen fish, +and with the fuel on the sledge built a small fire. He scraped up snow for tea, +and hung the pail over the fire. He was frying bacon and toasting hard bannock +biscuits when Pelliter aroused himself and sat up. Billy did not see him until +he faced about.</P> +<P>“Good morning, Pelly,” he grinned. “Have a good nap?”</P> +<P>Pelliter groped about on the sledge.</P> +<P>“Wish I could find a club,” he growled. “I’d— I’d brain you! You let me +sleep!”</P> +<P>He thrust out his uninjured arm, and the two shook hands. Once or twice +before they had done this after hours of great peril. It was not an ordinary +handshake.</P> +<P>Billy rose to his feet. Half a mile away the edge of the big forest for which +they had been fighting rose out of the dawn gloom.</P> +<P>“If I’d known that,” he said, pointing, “we’d have camped in shelter. Fifty +miles, Pelly. Not so bad, was it?”</P> +<P>Behind them the gray Barren was lifting itself into the light of day. The two +men ate and drank tea. During those few minutes neither gave attention to the +forest or the Barren. Billy was ravenously hungry. Pelliter could not get enough +of the tea. And then their attention went to Little Mystery, who awoke with a +wailing protest at the smothering cover of blankets over her face. Billy dug her +out and held her up to view the strange change since yesterday. It was then that +Kazan stopped licking his ashy chops to send up a wailing howl.</P> +<P>Both men turned their eyes toward the forest. Halfway between a figure was +toiling slowly toward them. It was a man, and Billy gave a low cry of +astonishment.</P> +<P>But Kazan was facing the gray Barren, and he howled again, long and +menacingly. The other dogs took up the cry, and when Pelliter and MacVeigh +followed the direction of their warning they stood for a full quarter of a +minute as if turned into stone.</P> +<P>A mile away the Barren was dotted with a dozen swiftly moving sledges and a +score of running men!</P> +<P>After all, their last stand was to be made at the edge of the +timber-line!</P> +<P>In such situations men like MacVeigh and Pelliter do not waste precious +moments in prearranging actions in words. Their mental processes are +instantaneous and correlative— and they act. Without a word Billy replaced +Little Mystery in her nest without even giving her a sip of the warm tea, and by +the time the dogs were straightened in their traces Pelliter was handing him his +Remington.</P> +<P>“I’ve ranged it for three hundred and fifty yards,” he said. “We won’t want +to waste our fire until they come that near.”</P> +<P>They set out at a trot, Pelliter running with his wounded arm down at his +side. Suddenly the lone figure between them and the forest disappeared. It had +fallen flat in the snow, where it lay only a black speck. In a moment it rose +again and advanced. Both Pelliter and Billy were looking when it fell for a +second time.</P> +<P>An unpleasant laugh came from MacVeigh’s lips.</P> +<P>The figure was climbing to its feet for the fifth time, and was only on its +hands and knees when the sledge drew up. It was a white man. His head was bare, +his face deathlike. His neck was open to the cold wind, and, to the others’ +astonishment, he wore no heavier garment over his dark flannel shirt. His eyes +burned wildly from out of a shaggy growth of beard and hair, and he was panting +like one who had traveled miles instead of a few hundred yards.</P> +<P>All this Billy saw at a glance, and then he gave a sudden unbelieving cry. +The man’s red eyes rested on his, and every fiber in his body seemed for a +moment to have lost the power of action. He gasped and stared, and Pelliter +started as if stung at the words which came first from his lips.</P> +<P>“Deane— Scottie Deane!”</P> +<P><I>An</I> amazed cry broke from Pelliter. He looked at MacVeigh, his chief. +He made an involuntary movement forward, but Billy was ahead of him. He had +flung down his rifle, and in an instant was on his knees at Deane’s side, +supporting his emaciated figure in his arms.</P> +<P>“Good God! what does this mean, old man?” he cried, forgetting Pelliter. +“What has happened? Why are you away up here? And where— where— is she?”</P> +<P>He had gripped Deane’s hand. He was holding him tight; and Deane, looking up +into his eyes, saw that he was no longer looking into the face of the Law, but +that of a brother. He smiled feebly.</P> +<P>“Cabin— back there— in edge— woods,” he gasped. “Saw you— coming. Thought +mebbe you’d pass— so— came out. I’m done for— dying.”</P> +<P>He drew a deep breath and tried to assist himself as Billy raised him to his +feet. A little wailing cry came from the sledge. Startled, Deane turned his eyes +toward that cry.</P> +<P>“My God!” he screamed.</P> +<P>He tore himself away from Billy and flung himself upon his knees beside +Little Mystery, sobbing and talking like a madman as he clasped the frightened +child in his arms. With her he leaped to his feet with new strength.</P> +<P>“She’s mine— mine!” he cried, fiercely. “She’s what brought me back! I was +going for her! Where did you get her? How—”</P> +<P>There came to them now in sudden chorus the wild voice of the Eskimo dogs out +on the plain. Deane heard the cry and faced with the others in their direction. +They were not more than half a mile away, bearing down upon them swiftly. Billy +knew that there was not a moment to lose. In a flash it had leaped upon him that +in some way Deane and Isobel and Little Mystery were associated with that +avenging horde, and as quickly as he could he told Deane what had happened. +Sanity had come back into Deane’s eyes, and no sooner had he heard than he ran +out in the face of the army of little brown men with Little Mystery in his arms. +MacVeigh and Pelliter could hear him calling to them from a distance. They were +in the edge of the forest when Deane met the Eskimos. There was a long wait, and +then Deane and Little Mystery came back— on a sledge drawn by Eskimo dogs. +Beside the sledge walked the chief who had been wounded in the cabin at +Fullerton Point. Deane was swaying, his head was bowed half upon his breast, and +the chief and another Eskimo were supporting him. He nodded to the right, and a +hundred yards away they found a cabin. The powerful little northerners carried +him in, still clutching Little Mystery in his arms, and he made a motion for +Billy to follow him— alone. Inside the cabin they placed him on a low bunk, and +with a weak cough he beckoned Billy to his side. MacVeigh knew what that cough +meant. The sick man had suffered terrible exposure, and the tissue of his lungs +was sloughing away. It was death, the most terrible death of the north.</P> +<P>For a few moments Deane lay panting, clasping one of Billy’s hands. Little +Mystery slipped to the floor and began to investigate the cabin. Deane smiled +into Billy’s eyes.</P> +<P>“You’ve come again— just in time,” he said, quite steadily. “Seems queer, +don’t it, Billy?”</P> +<P>For the first time he spoke the other’s name as if he had known him a +lifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, and in spite +of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane saw the look.</P> +<P>“She didn’t come,” he whispered. “I left her—”</P> +<P>He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to his lips. +Billy felt a choking grief.</P> +<P>“You must be quiet,” he said. “Don’t try to talk now. You have no fire, and I +will build one. Then I’ll make you something hot.”</P> +<P>He went to move away, but one of Deane’s hands detained him.</P> +<P>“Not until I’ve said something to you, Billy,” he insisted. “You know— you +understand. I’m dying. It’s liable to come any minute now, and I’ve got to tell +you— things. You must understand— before I go. I won’t be long. I killed a man, +but I’m— not sorry. He tried to insult her— my wife— an’ you— you’d have killed +him, too. You people began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north— among +the Eskimos— an’ lived there— long time. The Eskimos— they loved the little girl +an’ wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels— some sort. Then we heard +you were goin’ to hunt for me— up there— among the Eskimos. So we set out with +the box. Box was for her— to keep her from fearful cold. We didn’t dare take the +baby— so we left her up there. We were going back— soon— after you’d made your +hunt. When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in the +box— an’ so— so you found us. You know— after that. You thought it was— coffin— +an’ she told you I was dead. You were good— good to her— an’ you must go down +there where she is, and take little Isobel. We were goin’ to do as you said— an’ +go to South America. But we had to have the baby, an’ I came back. Should have +told you. We knew that— afterward. But we were afraid— to tell the secret— even +to you—”</P> +<P>He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin, cold +hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting to stifle the +sobbing grief in his breath.</P> +<P>“You were good— good— good— to her,” repeated Deane, weakly, “You loved her— +an’ it was right— because you thought I was dead an’ she was alone an’ needed +help. I’m glad— you love her. You’ve been good— ’n’ honest— an I want some one +like you to love her an’ care for her. She ain’t got nobody but me— an’ little +Isobel. I’m glad— glad— I’ve found a man— like <I>you!”</I></P> +<P>He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy’s tense face between them, +staring straight into his eyes.</P> +<P>“An’— an’— I give her to you,” he said. “She’s an angel, and she’s alone— +needs some one— an’ you— you’ll be good to her. You must go down to her— Pierre +Couchée’s cabin— on the Little Beaver. An’ you’ll be good to her— good to +her—”</P> +<P>“I will go to her,” said Billy, softly. “And I swear here on my knees before +the great and good God that I will do what an honorable man should do!”</P> +<P>Deane’s rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with a sigh of +relief.</P> +<P>“I worried— for her,” he said. “I’ve always believed in a God— though I +killed a man— an’ He sent you here in time!” A sudden questioning light came +into his eyes. “The man who stole little Isobel,” he breathed— “who was he?”</P> +<P>“Pelliter— the man out there— killed him when he came to the cabin,” said +Billy. “He said his name was Blake— Jim Blake.”</P> +<P><I>“Blake! Blake! Blake!”</I> Again Deane’s voice rose from the edge of death +to a shriek. “Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with red hair— red +beard— yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake— Blake—” He sank back again, with a +thrilling, half-mad laugh. “Then— then it’s all been a mistake— a funny +mistake,” he said; and his eyes closed, and his voice spoke the words as though +he were uttering them from out of a dream.</P> +<P>Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man’s last +words. Deane’s hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white. And then Deane +whispered:</P> +<P>“We fought— I thought I killed him— an’ threw him into the sea. His right +name was Samuelson. You knew him— by that name— but he went often— by Blake— Jim +Blake. So— so— I’m not a murderer— after all. An’ he— he came back for revenge— +and— stole— little— Isobel. I’m— I’m— not— a— murderer. You— you— will— tell— +<I>her.</I> You’ll tell her— I didn’t kill him— after all. You’ll tell her— an’— +be— good— good—”</P> +<P>He smiled. Billy bent lower.</P> +<P>“Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorable man +should do,” he replied.</P> +<P>Deane made no answer. He did not hear. The smile did not fade entirely from +his lips. But Billy knew that in this moment death had come in through the cabin +door. With a groan of anguish he dropped Deane’s stiffening hand. Little Isobel +pattered across the floor to his side. She laughed; and suddenly Billy turned +and caught her in his arms, and, crumpled down there on the floor beside the one +brother he had known in life, he sobbed like a woman.</P> +<H4>XIII</H4> +<H4>THE TWO GODS</H4> +<P>It was little Isobel who pulled MacVeigh together, and after a little he rose +with her in his arms and turned her from the wall while he covered Deane’s face +with the end of a blanket. Then he went to the door. The Eskimos were building +fires. Pelliter was seated on the sledge a short distance from the cabin, and at +Billy’s call he came toward him.</P> +<P>“If you don’t mind, you can take her over to one of the fires for a little +while,” said Billy. “Scottie is dead. Try and make the chief understand,”</P> +<P>He did not wait for Pelliter to question him, but closed the door quietly and +went back to Deane. He drew off the blanket and gazed for a moment into the +still, bearded face.</P> +<P>“My Gawd, an’ <I>she’s</I> waitin’ for you, ’n’ looking for you, an’ thinks +you’re coming back soon,” he whispered. “You ’n’ the kid!”</P> +<P>Reverently he began the task ahead of him. One after another he went into +Deane’s pockets and drew forth what he found. In one pocket there was a small +knife, some cartridges, and a match box. He knew that Isobel would prize these +and keep them because her husband had carried them, and he placed them in a +handkerchief along with other things he found. Last of all he found in Deane’s +breast pocket a worn and faded envelope. He peered into the open end before he +placed it on the little pile, and his heart gave a sudden throb when he saw the +blue flower petals Isobel had given him. When he was done he crossed Deane’s +hands upon his breast. He was tying the ends of the handkerchief when the door +opened softly behind him.</P> +<P>The little dark chief entered. He was followed by four other Eskimos. They +had left their weapons outside. They seemed scarcely to breathe as they ranged +themselves in a line and looked down upon Scottie Deane. Not a sign of emotion +came into their expressionless faces, not the flicker of an eyelash did the +immobility of their faces change. In a low, clacking monotone they began to +speak, and there was no expression of grief in their voices. Yet Billy +understood now that in the hearts of these little brown men Scottie Deane stood +enshrined like a god. Before he was cold in death they had come to chant his +deeds and his virtues to the unseen spirits who would wait and watch at his side +until the beginning of the new day. For ten minutes the monotone continued. Then +the five men turned and without a word, without looking at him, went out of the +cabin. Billy followed them, wondering if Deane had convinced them that he and +Pelliter were his friends. If he had not done that he feared that there would +still be trouble over little Isobel. He was delighted when he found Pelliter +talking with one of the men.</P> +<P>“I’ve found a flunkey here whose lingo I can get along with,” cried Pelliter. +“I’ve been telling ’em what bully friends we are, and have made ’em understand +all about Blake. I’ve shaken hands with them all three or four times, and we +feel pretty good. Better mix a little. They don’t like the idea of giving us the +kid, now that Scottie’s dead. They’re asking for the woman.”</P> +<P>Half an hour later MacVeigh and Pelliter returned to the cabin. At the end of +that time he was confident that the Eskimos would give them no further trouble +and that they expected to leave Isobel in their possession. The chief, however, +had given Billy to understand that they reserved the right to bury Deane.</P> +<P>Billy felt that he was now in a position where he would have to tell Pelliter +some of the things that had happened to him on his return to Churchill. He had +reported Deane’s death as having occurred weeks before as the result of a fall, +and when he returned to Fort Churchill he knew that he would have to stick to +that story. Unless Pelliter knew of Isobel, his love for her, and his own +defiance of the Law in giving them their freedom, his comrade might let out the +truth and ruin him.</P> +<P>In the cabin they sat down at the table. Pelliter’s arm was in a sling. His +face was drawn and haggard and blackened by powder. He drew his revolver, +emptied it of cartridges, and gave it to little Isobel to play with. He kept up +his spirits among the Eskimos, but he made no effort to conceal his dejection +now.</P> +<P>“I’ve lost her,” he said, looking at Billy. “You’re going to take her to her +mother?”</P> +<P>“Yes.”</P> +<P>“It hurts. You don’t know how it’s goin’ to hurt to lose her,” he said.</P> +<P>MacVeigh leaned across the table and spoke earnestly.</P> +<P>“Yes, I know what it means, Pelly,” he replied. “I know what it means to love +some one— and lose. I know. Listen.”</P> +<P>Quickly he told Pelliter the story of the Barren, of the coming of Isobel, +the mother, of the kiss she had given him, and of the flight, the pursuit, the +recapture, and of that final moment when he had taken the steel cuffs from +Deane’s wrists. Once he had begun the story he left nothing untold, even to the +division of the blue-flower petals and the tress of Isobel’s hair. He drew both +from his pocket and showed them to Pelliter, and at the tremble in his voice +there came a mistiness in his comrade’s eyes. When he had finished Pelliter +reached across with his one good arm and gripped the other’s hand.</P> +<P>“An’ what she said about the blue flower is comin’ true, Billy,” he +whispered. “It’s bringing happiness to you, just as she said, for you’re going +down to her—”</P> +<P>MacVeigh interrupted him.</P> +<P>“No, it’s not,” he said, softly. “She loved him— as much as the girl down +there will ever love you, Pelly, and when I tell her what has happened— her +heart will break. <I>That</I> can’t bring happiness— for me!”</P> +<P>The hours of that day bore leaden weights for Billy. The two men made their +plans. A number of the Eskimos agreed to accompany Pelliter as far as Eskimo +Point, whence he would make his way alone to Churchill. Billy would strike south +to the Little Beaver in search of Couchée’s cabin and Isobel. He was glad when +night came. It was late when he went to the door, opened it, and looked out.</P> +<P>In the edge of the timber-line it was black, black not only with the gloom of +night, but with the concentrated darkness of spruce and balsam and a sky so low +and thick that one could almost hear the wailing swish of it overhead like the +steady sobbing of surf on a seashore. It was black, save for the small circles +of light made by the Eskimo fires, about which half a hundred of the little +brown men sat or crouched. The masters of the camp were all awake, but twice as +many dogs, exhausted and footsore, lay curled in heaps, as inanimate as if dead. +There was present a strange silence and a strange and unnatural gloom that was +not of the night alone, a silence broken only by the low moaning of the wind out +on the Barren, the restlessness in the air above the tree-tops, and the +crackling of the fires. The Eskimos were as motionless as so many dead men. +Their round, expressionless eyes were wide open. They sat or crouched with their +backs to the Barren, their faces turned into the still deeper blackness of the +forest. Some distance away, like a star, there gleamed the small and steady +light in the cabin window. For two hours the eyes of those about the fires had +been fixed on that light. And at intervals there had risen from among the +stony-faced watchers the little chief, whose clacking voice joined for a few +moments each time the wailing of the wind, the swish of the low-hanging sky, and +the crackling of the fires. But there was sound of no other voice or movement. +He alone moved and spoke, for to the others the clacking sounds he made was +speech, words spoken each time for the man who lay dead in the cabin.</P> +<P>A dozen times Pelliter and MacVeigh had looked out to the fires, and looked +each time at the hour. This time Billy said:</P> +<P>“They’re moving, Pelly! They’re jumping to their feet and coming this way!” +He looked at his watch again. “They’re mighty good guessers. It’s a quarter +after twelve. When a chief or a big man dies they bury him in the first hour of +the new day. They’re coming after Deane.”</P> +<P>He opened the door and stepped out into the night. Pelliter joined him. The +Eskimos advanced without a sound and stopped in a shadowy group twenty paces +from the cabin. Five of these little fur-clad men detached themselves from the +others and filed into the cabin, with the chief man at their head. As they bent +over Deane they began to chant a low monotone which awakened little Isobel, who +sat up and stared sleepily at the strange scene. Billy went to her and gathered +her close in his arms. She was sleeping again when he put her down among the +blankets. The Eskimos were gone with their burden. He could hear the low +chanting of the tribe.</P> +<P>“I found her, and I thought she was mine,” said Pelliter’s low voice at his +side. “But she ain’t, Billy. She’s yours.”</P> +<P>MacVeigh broke in on him as though he had not heard.</P> +<P>“You better get to bed, Pelly,” he warned. “That arm needs rest. I’m going +out to see where they bury him.”</P> +<P>He put on his cap and heavy coat and went as far as the door, then turned +back. From his kit he took a belt-ax and nails.</P> +<P>The wind was blowing more strongly over the Barren, and MacVeigh could no +longer hear the low lament of the Eskimos. He moved toward their fires, and +found them deserted of men, only the dogs remained in their deathlike sleep. And +then, far down the edge of the timber, he saw a flare of light. Five minutes +later he stood hidden in a deep shadow, a few paces from the Eskimos. They had +dug the grave early in the evening, out on the great snow-plain, free of the +trees; and as the fire they had built lighted up their dark, round faces +MacVeigh saw the five little black men who had borne forth Scottie Deane leaning +over the shallow hole in the frozen earth. Scottie was already gone. The earth +and ice and frozen moss were falling in upon him, and not a sound fell now from +the thick lips of his savage mourners. In a few minutes the crude work was done, +and like a thin black shadow the natives filed back to their camp. Only one +remained, sitting cross-legged at the head of the grave, his long narwhal spear +at his back. It was O-gluck-gluck, the Eskimo chief, guarding the dead man from +the devils who come to steal body and soul during the first few hours of +burial.</P> +<P>Billy went deeper into the forest until he found a thin, straight sapling, +which he cut down with half a dozen strokes of his belt-ax. From the sapling he +stripped the bark, and then he chopped off a third of its length and nailed it +crosswise to what remained. After that he sharpened the bottom end and returned +to the grave, carrying the cross over his shoulder. Stripped to whiteness, it +gleamed in the firelight. The Eskimo watcher stared at it for a moment, his dull +eyes burning darker in the night, for he knew that after this two gods, and not +one, were to guard the grave. Billy drove the cross deep, and as the blows of +his ax fell upon it the Eskimo slunk back until he was swallowed in the gloom. +When MacVeigh was done he pulled off his cap. But it was not to pray.</P> +<P>“I’m sorry, old man,” he said to what was under the cross. “God knows I’m +sorry. I wish you was alive. I wish you was going back to her— with the kid— +instid o’ me. But I’ll keep that promise. I swear it. I’ll do— what’s right— by +her.”</P> +<P>From the forest he looked back. The Eskimo chief had returned to his somber +watch. The cross gleamed a ghostly white against the thick blackness of the +Barren. He turned his face away for the last time, and there filled him the +oppression of a leaden hand, a thing that was both dread and fear. Scottie Deane +was dead— dead and in his grave, and yet he walked with him now at his side. He +could feel the presence, and that presence was like a warning, stirring strange +thoughts within him. He turned back to the cabin and entered softly. Pelliter +was asleep. Little Isobel was breathing the sweet forgetfulness of childhood. He +stooped and kissed her silken curls, and for a long time he stood with one of +those soft curls between his fingers. In a few years more, he thought, it would +be the darker gold and brown of the woman’s hair— of the woman he loved. Slowly +a great peace entered into him. After all, there was more than hope ahead for +him. She— the older Isobel— knew that he loved her as no other man in the world +could love her. He had given proof of that. And now he was going to her.</P> +<H4>XIV</H4> +<H4>THE SNOW-MAN</H4> +<P>After his return from the scene of burial Billy undressed, put out the light, +and went to bed. He fell asleep quickly, and his slumber was filled with many +dreams. They were sweet and joyous at first, and he lived again his first +meeting with the woman; he was once more in the presence of her beauty, her +purity, her faith and confidence in him. And then more trouble visions came to +him. He awoke twice, and each time he sat up, filled with the shuddering dread +that had come to him at the graveside.</P> +<P>A third time he awakened, and he struck a match to look at his watch. It was +four o’clock. He was still exhausted. His limbs ached from the tremendous strain +of the fifty-mile race across the Barren, but he could no longer sleep. +Something— he did not attempt to ask himself what it was— was urging him to +action. He got up and dressed.</P> +<P>When Pelliter awoke two hours later MacVeigh’s pack and sledge were ready for +the trip south. While they ate their breakfast the two men finished their plans. +When the hour of parting came Billy left his comrade alone with little Isobel +and went out to hitch up the dogs. When he returned there was a fresh redness in +Pelliter’s eyes, and he puffed out thick clouds of smoke from his pipe to hide +his face. MacVeigh thought of that parting often in the days that followed. +Pelliter stood last in the door, and in his face was a look which MacVeigh +wished that he had not seen. In his own heart was the dread and the fear, the +thing which he could not name.</P> +<P>For hours he could not shake off the gloom that oppressed him. He strode at +the head of old Kazan, the leader, striking a course due south by compass. When +he fell back for the third time to look at little Isobel he found the child +buried deep in her blankets sound asleep. She did not awake until he stopped to +make tea at noon. It was four o’clock when he halted again to make camp in the +shelter of a clump of tall spruce. Isobel had slept most of the day. She was +wide awake now, laughing at him as he dug her out of her nest.</P> +<P>“Give me a kiss,” he demanded.</P> +<P>Isobel complied, putting her two little hands to his face.</P> +<P>“You’re a— a little peach,” he cried. “There ain’t been a whimper out of you +all day. And now we’re going to have a fire— a big fire.”</P> +<P>He set about his work, whistling for the first time since morning. He set up +his silk Service tent, cut spruce and balsam boughs until he had them a foot +deep inside, and then dragged in wood for half an hour. By that time it was dark +and the big fire was softening the snow for thirty feet around. He had taken off +Isobel’s thick, swaddling coat, and the child’s pretty face shone pink in the +fireglow. The light danced red and gold in her tangled curls, and as they ate +supper, both on the same blanket, Billy saw opposite him more and more of what +he knew he would find in the woman. When they had finished he produced a small +pocket comb and drew Isobel close up to him. One by one he smoothed the tangles +out of her curls, his heart beating joyously as the silken touch of them ran +through his fingers. Once he had felt that same soft touch of the woman’s hair +against his face. It had been an accidental caress, but he had treasured it in +his memory. It seemed real again now, and the thrill of it made him place little +Isobel alone again on the blanket, while he rose to his feet. He threw fresh +fuel on the fire, and then he found that the warmth had softened the snow until +it clung to his feet. The discovery gave him an inspiration. A warmth that was +not of the fire leaped into his face, and he gathered up the softened snow, +raking it into piles with a snow-shoe; and before Isobel’s astonished and +delighted eyes there grew into shape a snow-man almost as big as himself. He +gave it arms and a head, and eyes of charred wood, and when it was done he +placed his own cap on the crown of it and his pipe in its mouth. Little Isobel +screamed with delight, and together, hand in hand, they danced around and around +it, just as he and the other girls and boys had danced years and years ago. And +when they stopped there were tears of laughter and joy in the child’s eyes and a +filmy mist of another sort in Billy’s.</P> +<P>It was the snow-man that brought back to him years and years of lost hopes. +They flooded in upon him until it seemed as though the old life was the life of +yesterday and waiting for him now just beyond the edge of the black forest. Long +after Isobel was asleep in the tent he sat and looked at the snow-man; and more +and more his heart sang with a new joy, until it seemed as though he must rise +and cry out in the eagerness and hope that filled him. In the snow-man, slowly +melting before the fire, there was a heart and a soul and voice. It was calling +to him, urging him as nothing in the world had ever urged him before. He would +go back to the old home down in God’s country, to the old playmates who were men +and women now. They would welcome him— and they would welcome the woman. For he +would take her. For the first time he made himself believe that she would go. +And there, hand in hand, they would follow his boyhood footprints over the +meadows and through the hills, and he would gather flowers for her in place of +the mother that was gone, and he would tell her all the old stories of the days +that were passed.</P> +<P>It was the snow-man!</P> +<H4>XV</H4> +<H4>LE MORT ROUGE— AND ISOBEL</H4> +<P>Until late that night Billy sat beside his campfire with the snow-man. +Strange and new thoughts had come to him, and among these was the wondering one +asking himself why he had never built a snow-man before. When he went to bed he +dreamed of the snow-man and of little Isobel; and the little girl’s laughter and +happiness when she saw the curious form the dissolving snow-man had taken in the +heat of the fire when she awoke the following morning filled him again with +those boyish visions of happiness that he had seen just ahead of him. At other +times he would have told himself that he was no longer reasonable. After they +had breakfasted and started on the day’s journey he laughed and talked with baby +Isobel, and a dozen times in the forenoon he picked her up in his arms and +carried her behind the dogs.</P> +<P>“We’re going home,” he kept telling her over and over again. “We’re going +home— down to mama— mama— <I>mama!”</I> He emphasized that; and each time +Isobel’s pretty mouth formed the word mama after him his heart leaped +exultantly. By the end of that day it had become the sweetest word in the world +to him. He tried mother, but his little comrade looked at him blankly, and he +did not like it himself. <I>“Mama, mama, mama,”</I> he said a hundred times that +night beside their campfire, and before he tucked her away in her warm blankets +he said something to her about “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Isobel was too +tired and sleepy to comprehend much of that. Even after she was deep in slumber +and Billy sat alone smoking his pipe he whispered that sweetest word in the +world to himself, and took out the tress of shining hair and gazed at it +joyously in the glow of the fire. By the end of the next day little Isobel could +say almost the whole of the prayer his own mother had taught him years and years +and years ago, so far back that his vision of her was not that of a woman, but +of an elusive and wonderful angel; and the fourth day at noon she lisped the +whole of it without a word of assistance from him.</P> +<P>On the morning of the fifth day Billy struck the Gray Beaver, and little +Isobel grew serious at the change in him. He no longer amused her, but urged the +dogs along, never for an instant relaxing his vigilant quest for a sign of +smoke, a trail, a blazed tree. At his heart there began to burn a suspense that +was almost suffocating. In these last hours before he was to see Isobel there +came the inevitable reaction within him. Gloom oppressed him where a little +while before joyous anticipation had given him hope. The one terrible thought +drove out all others now— he was bringing her news of death, her +<I>husband’s</I> death. And to Isobel he knew that Deane had meant all that the +world held of joy or hope— Deane and the baby.</P> +<P>It was like a shock when he came suddenly upon the cabin, in the edge of a +small clearing. For a moment he hesitated. Then he took Isobel in his arms and +went to the door. It was slightly ajar, and after knocking upon it with his fist +he thrust it open and entered.</P> +<P>There was no one in the room in which he found himself, but there was a stove +and a fire. At the end of the room was a second door, and it opened slowly. In +another moment Isobel stood there. He had never seen her as he saw her now, with +the light from a window falling upon her. She was dressed in a loose gown, and +her long hair fell in disheveled profusion over her shoulders and bosom. +MacVeigh would have cried out her name— he had told himself a hundred times what +he would first say to her— but what he saw in her face startled him and held him +silent while their eyes met. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips burned an +unnatural red. Her eyes were glowing with strange fires. She looked at him +first, and her hands clutched at her bosom, crumpling the masses of her lustrous +hair. Not until she had looked into his eyes did she recognize what he carried +in his arms. When he held the child out to her she sprang forward with the +strangest cry he had ever heard.</P> +<P>“My baby!” she almost shrieked. “My baby— my baby—”</P> +<P>She staggered back and sank into a chair near a table, with little Isobel +clasped to her breast. For a time Billy heard only those words in her dry, +sobbing voice as she crushed her burning face down against her child’s. He knew +that she was sick, that it was fever which had sent the hot flush into her +cheeks. He gulped hard, and went near to her. Trembling, he put out a hand and +touched her. She looked up. A bit of that old, glorious light leaped into her +eyes, the light which he had seen when in gratitude she had given him her lips +to kiss.</P> +<P>“You?” she whispered. “You— brought her—”</P> +<P>She caught his hand, and the soft smother of her loose hair fell over it. He +could feel the quick rise and fall of her bosom.</P> +<P>“Yes,” he said.</P> +<P>There was a demand in her face, her eyes, her parted lips. He went on, her +hand clasping his tighter, until he could feel the swift beating of her heart. +He had never thought that he could tell the story in as few words as he told it +now, with more and more of the glorious light creeping into Isobel’s eyes. She +stopped breathing when he told her of the fight in the cabin and the death of +the man who had stolen little Isobel. A hundred words more brought him to the +edge of the forest. He stopped there. But she still questioned him in silence. +She drew him down nearer, until he could feel her breath. There was something +terrible in the demand of her eyes. He tried to find words to say, but something +rose up in his throat and choked him. She saw his effort.</P> +<P>“Go on,” she said, softly.</P> +<P>“And then— I brought her to you,” he said.</P> +<P>“You met him?”</P> +<P>Her question was so sudden that it startled him, and in an instant he had +betrayed himself.</P> +<P>Little Isobel slipped to the floor, and Isobel stood up. She came near to +him, as she came that marvelous night out on the Barren, and in her eyes there +was the same prayer as she put her two hands up to him and looked straight into +his face.</P> +<P>He thought it would be easier. But it was terrible. She did not move. No +sound came from her tight-drawn lips as he told her of the meeting with Deane, +and of her husband’s illness. She guessed what was coming before he had spoken +it. At his words, telling of death, she drew away from him slowly. She did not +cry out. Her only evidence that she had heard and understood was the low moan +that fell from her lips. She covered her face with her hands and stood for a +moment an arm’s length away, and in that moment all the force of his great love +for her swept upon MacVeigh in an overwhelming flood. He opened his arms, +longing to gather her into them and comfort her as he would have comforted a +little child. In that love he would willingly have dropped dead at her feet if +he could have given back to her the man she had lost. She raised her head in +time to see his outstretched arms, she saw the love and the pleading in his +face, and into her own eyes there leaped the fire of a tigress.</P> +<P>“You— <I>you—”</I> she cried. “It was you who killed him! He had done no +wrong— save to protect me and avenge me from the insult of a brute! He had done +no wrong. But the Law— your Law— set you after him, and you hunted him like a +beast; you drove him from our home, from me and the baby. You hunted him until +he died up there— alone. You— you killed him.”</P> +<P>With a sudden cry she turned and caught up little Isobel and ran toward the +other door. <I>And</I> as she disappeared into the room from which she had first +appeared Billy heard her moaning those terrible words.</P> +<P>“You— you— you—”</P> +<P>Like a man who had been struck a blow he swayed back to the outer door. Near +his dogs and sledge he met Pierre Couchée and his half-French wife coming in +from their trap line. He scarcely knew what explanation he gave to the +half-breed, who helped him to put up his tent. But when the latter left to +follow his wife into the cabin he said:</P> +<P>“She ess seek, ver’ seek. An’ she grow more seek each day until— mon +<I>Dieu!— my</I> wife, she ess scare!”</P> +<P>He cut a few balsam boughs and spread out his blankets, but did not trouble +to build a fire. When the half-breed returned to say that supper was waiting he +told him that he was not hungry, and that he was going to sleep. He doubled +himself up under his blankets, silent and staring, even neglecting to feed the +dogs. He was awake when the stars appeared. He was awake when the moon rose. He +was still awake when the light went out in Pierre Couchée’s cabin. The snow-man +was gone from his vision— home and hope. He had never been hurt as he was hurt +now. He was yet awake when the moon passed far over his head, sank behind the +wilderness to the west, and blackness came. Toward dawn he fell into an uneasy +slumber, and from that sleep he was awakened by Pierre Couchée’s voice.</P> +<P>When he opened his eyes it was day, and the half-breed stood at the opening +of the tent. His face was filled with horror. His voice was almost a scream when +he saw that MacVeigh was awake and sitting up.</P> +<P>“The great God in heaven!” he cried. “It is the plague, m’sieur— <I>le mort +rouge—</I> the small pox! She is dying—”</P> +<P>MacVeigh was on his feet, gripping him by the arms.</P> +<P>He turned and ran toward the cabin, and Billy saw that the half-breed’s team +was harnessed, and that Pierre’s wife was bringing forth blankets and bundles. +He did not wait to question them, but hurried into the plague-stricken cabin. +From the woman’s room came a low moaning, and he rushed in and fell upon his +knees at her side. Her face was flushed with the fever, half hidden in the +disheveled masses of her hair. She recognized him, and her dark eyes burned +madly.</P> +<P>“Take— the baby!” she panted. “My God— go— go with her!”</P> +<P>Tenderly he put out a hand and stroked back her hair from her face.</P> +<P>“You are sick— sick with the bad fever,” he said, gently.</P> +<P>“Yes— yes, it is that. I did not think— until last night— what it might be. +You— you love me! Then take her— take the baby and go— go— <I>go!”</I></P> +<P>All his old strength came back to him now. He felt no fear. He smiled down +into her face, and the silken touch of her hair set his heart leaping and the +love into his eyes.</P> +<P>“I will take her out there,” he said. “But she is all right— Isobel.” He +spoke her name almost pleadingly. “She is all right. She will not take the +fever.”</P> +<P>He picked up the child and carried her out into the larger room. Pierre and +his wife were at the door. They were dressed for travel, as he had seen them +come in off the trap line the evening before. He dropped Isobel and sprang in +front of them.</P> +<P>“What do you mean?” he demanded. “You are not going away! You cannot go!” He +turned almost fiercely upon the woman. “She will die— if you do not stay and +care for her. You shall not run away!”</P> +<P>“It is the plague,” said Pierre. “It is death to remain!”</P> +<P>“You shall stay!” said MacVeigh, still speaking to Pierre’s wife. “You are +the one woman— the only woman— within a hundred miles. She will die without you. +You shall stay if I have to tie you!”</P> +<P>With the quickness of a cat Pierre raised the butt of the heavy dog-whip +which he held in his hand and it came down with a sickening thud on Billy’s +head. As he staggered into the middle of the cabin floor, groping blindly for a +moment before he fell, he heard a strange, terrified cry, and in the open inner +door he saw the white-robed figure of Isobel Deane. Then he sank down into a pit +of blackness.</P> +<P>It was Isobel’s face that he first saw when he came from out of that black +pit. He knew that it was her voice calling to him before he had opened his eyes. +He felt the touch of her hands, and when he looked up her loose, soft hair swept +his breast. His head was bolstered up, and so he could look straight into her +face. It frightened him. He knew now what she had been saying to him as he lay +there upon the floor.</P> +<P>“You must get up! You must go!” he heard her mooning. “You must take my baby +away. And you— <I>you—</I> must go!”</P> +<P>He pulled himself half erect, then rose to his feet, swaying a little. He +came to her then, with the look in his face she had first seen out on the Barren +when he had told her that he was going with her through the forest.</P> +<P>“No, I am not going away,” he said, firmly, and yet with that same old +gentleness in his voice. “If I go you will die. So I am going to stay.”</P> +<P>She stared at him, speechless.</P> +<P>“You— you can’t,” she gasped, at last. “Don’t you see— don’t you understand? +I’m a woman— and you can’t. You must take her— my baby— and go for help.”</P> +<P>“There is no help,” said MacVeigh, quietly. “Within a few hours you will be +helpless. I am going to stay and— and— I swear to God I will care for you— as +he— would have done. He made me promise that— to care for you— to stick by +you—”</P> +<P>She looked straight into his eyes. He saw the twitching of her throat, the +quiver of her lips. In another moment she would have fallen if he had not put a +supporting arm about her.</P> +<P>“If— anything— happens,” she gasped, brokenly, “you will take care— of her— +my baby—”</P> +<P>“Yes— always.”</P> +<P>“And if I— get well—”</P> +<P>Her head swayed dizzily and dropped to his breast.</P> +<P>“If I get— well—”</P> +<P>“Yes,” he urged. “Yes—”</P> +<P>“If I—”</P> +<P>He saw her struggle and fail.</P> +<P>“Yes, I know— I understand,” he cried, quickly, as she grew heavier in his +arms. “If you get well I will go. I swear to do that. I will go away. No one +will ever know— no one— in the whole world. And I will be good to you— and care +for you—”</P> +<P>He stopped, brushed back her hair, and looked into her face. Then he carried +her into the inner room; and when he came out little Isobel was crying.</P> +<P>“You poor little kid,” he cried, and caught her up in his arms. “You poor +little—”</P> +<P>The child smiled at him through her tears, and Billy suddenly sat down on the +edge of the table.</P> +<P>“You’ve been a little brick from the beginning, and you’re going to keep it +up, little one,” he said, taking her pretty face between his two big hands. +“You’ve got to be good, for we’re going to have a— a—” He turned away, and +finished under his breath. “We’re going to have a devil of a time!”</P> +<H4>XVI</H4> +<H4>THE LAW— MURDERER OF MEN</H4> +<P>Seated on the table, little Isobel looked up into Billy’s face and laughed, +and when the laugh ended in a half wail Billy found that his fingers had +tightened on her little shoulder until they hurt. He tousled her hair to bring +back her good-humor, and put her on the floor. Then he went back to the partly +open door. It was quiet in the darkened room. He listened for a breath or a sob, +and could hear neither. A curtain was drawn over the one window, and he could +but indistinctly make out the darker shadow where Isobel lay on the bed. His +heart beat faster as he softly called Isobel’s name. There was no answer. He +looked back. Little Isobel had found something on the floor and was amusing +herself with it. Again he called the mother, and still there was no answer. He +was filled with a sort of horror. He wanted to go over to the dark shadow and +assure himself that she was breathing, but a hand seemed to thrust him back. And +then, piercing him like a knife, there came again those low, moaning words of +accusation:</P> +<P>“It was you— it was you— it was you—”</P> +<P>In that voice, low and moaning as it was, he recognized some of Pelliter’s +madness. It was the fever. He fell back a step and drew a hand across his +forehead. It was damp, clammy with a cold perspiration. He felt a burning pain +where he had been struck, and a momentary dizziness made him stagger. Then, with +a tremendous effort, he threw himself together and turned to the little girl. As +he carried her out through the door into the fresh air Isobel’s feverish words +still followed him:</P> +<P>“It was you— <I>you— you— you!”</I></P> +<P>The cold air did him good, and he hurried toward the tent with baby Isobel. +As he deposited her among the blankets and bearskins the hopelessness of his +position impressed itself swiftly upon him. The child could not remain in the +cabin, and yet she would not be immune from danger in the tent, for he would +have to spend a part of his time with her. He shuddered as he thought of what it +might mean. For himself he had no fear of the dread disease that had stricken +Isobel. He had run the risk of contagion several times before and had remained +unscathed, but his soul trembled with fear as he looked into little Isobel’s +bright blue eyes and tenderly caressed the soft curls about her face, If Couchée +and his wife had only taken <I>her!</I> At thought of them he sprang suddenly to +his feet.</P> +<P>“Looky, little one, you’ve got to stay here!” <I>he</I> commanded. +“Understand? I’m going to pin down the tent-flap, and you mustn’t cry. If I +don’t get that damned half-breed, dead or alive, my name ain’t Billy +MacVeigh.”</P> +<P>He fastened the tent-flap so that Isobel could not escape, and left her +alone, quiet and wondering. Loneliness was not new to her. Solitude did not +frighten her; and, listening with his ear close to the canvas, Billy soon heard +her playing with the armful of things he had scattered about her. He hurried to +the dogs and harnessed them to the sledge. Couchée and his wife did not have +over half an hour the start of him— three-quarters at the most. He would run the +race of his life for an hour or two, overtake them, and bring them back at the +point of his revolver. If there had to be a fight he would fight.</P> +<P>Where the trail struck into the forest he hesitated, wondering if he would +not make better speed by leaving the team and sledge behind. The excited actions +of the dogs decided him. They were sniffing at the scent left in the snow by the +rival huskies, and were waiting eagerly for the command to pursue. Billy snapped +his whip over their heads.</P> +<P>“You want a fight, do you, boys?” he cried. “So do I. Get on with you! +<I>M’hoosh! M’hoosh!”</I></P> +<P>Billy dropped upon his knees on the sledge as the dogs leaped ahead. They +needed no guidance, but followed swiftly in Couchée’s trail. Five minutes later +they broke into thin timber, and then came out into a narrow plain, dotted with +stunted scrub, through which ran the Beaver. Here the snow was soft and drifted, +and Billy ran behind, hanging to the tail-rope to keep the sledge from leaving +him if the dogs should develop an unexpected spurt. He could see that Couchée +was exerting every effort to place distance between himself and the +plague-stricken cabin, and it suddenly struck Billy that something besides fear +of <I>le mort rouge</I> was adding speed to his heels. It was evident that the +half-breed was spurred on by the thought of the blow he had struck in the cabin. +Possibly he believed that he was a murderer, and Billy smiled as he observed +where Couchée had whipped his dogs at a run through the soft drifts. He brought +his own team down to a walk, convinced that the half-breed had lost his head, +and that he would bush himself and his dogs within a few miles. He was +confident, now that he would overtake them somewhere on the plain.</P> +<P>With the elation of this thought there came again the sudden, sickening pain +in his head. It was over in an instant, but in that moment the snow had turned +black, and he had flung out his arms to keep himself from falling. The +<I>babiche</I> rope had slipped from his hand, and when things cleared before +his eyes again the sledge was twenty yards ahead of him. He overtook it, and +dropped upon it, panting as though he had run a race. He laughed as he recovered +himself, and looked over the gray backs of the tugging dogs, but in the same +breath the laugh was cut short on his lips. It was as if a knife-blade had run +in one lightning thrust from the back of his neck to his brain, and he fell +forward on his face with a cry of pain. After all, Couchée’s blow had done the +work. He realized that, and made an effort to call the dogs to a stop. For five +minutes they went on, unheeding the half-dozen weak commands that he called out +from the darkness that had fallen thickly about him. When at last he pulled +himself up from his face and the snow turned white again, the dogs had halted. +They were tangled in their traces and sniffing at the snow.</P> +<P>Billy sat up. Darkness and pain left him as swiftly as they had come. He saw +Couchée’s trail ahead, and then he looked at the dogs. They had swung at right +angles to the sledge and had pulled the nose of it deep into a drift. With a +sharp cry of command he sent the lash of his whip among them and went to the +leader’s head. The dogs slunk to their bellies, snarling at him.</P> +<P>“What the devil—” he began, and stopped.</P> +<P>He stared at the snow. Straight out from Couchée’s trail there ran another— a +snow-shoe trail. For a moment he thought that Couchée or his wife had for some +reason struck out a distance from their sledge. A second glance assured him that +in this supposition he was wrong. Both the half-breed and his wife wore the +long, narrow “bush” snow-shoes, and this second trail was made by the big, +basket-shaped shoes worn by Indians and trappers on the Barrens. In addition to +this, the trail was well beaten. Whoever had traveled it recently had gone over +it many times before, and Billy gave utterance to his joy in a low cry. He had +struck a trap line. The trapper’s cabin could not be far away, and the trapper +himself had passed that way not many minutes since. He examined the two trails +and found where the blunt, round point of a snow-shoe had covered an imprint +left by Couchée, and at this discovery Billy made a megaphone of his mittened +hands and gave utterance to the long, wailing holloa of the forest man. It was a +cry that would carry a mile. Twice he shouted, and the second time there came a +reply. It was not far distant, and he responded with a third and still louder +shout. In a flash there came again the terrible pain in his head, and he sank +down on the sledge. This time he was roused from his stupor by the barking and +snarling of the dogs and the voice of a man. When he lifted his head out of his +arms he saw some one close to the dogs. He made an effort to rise, and staggered +half to his feet. Then he fell back, and the darkness closed in about him more +thickly than before. When he opened his eyes again <I>he</I> was in a cabin. He +was conscious of warmth. The first sound that he heard was the crackling of a +fire and the closing of a stove door. And then he heard some one say:</P> +<P>“S’help me God, if it ain’t Billy MacVeigh!”</P> +<P>He stared up into the face that was looking down at him. It was a white man’s +face, covered with a scrubby red beard. The beard was new, but the eyes and the +voice he would have recognized anywhere. For two years he had messed with Rookie +McTabb down at Norway and Nelson House. McTabb had quit the Service because of a +bad leg.</P> +<P>“Rookie!” he gasped.</P> +<P>He drew himself up, and McTabb’s hands grasped his shoulders.</P> +<P>“S’help me, if it ain’t Billy MacVeigh!” he exclaimed again, amazement in his +voice and face. “Joe brought you in five minutes ago, and I ain’t had a straight +squint at you until now. Billy MacVeigh! Well, I’m—” He stopped to stare at +Billy’s forehead, where there was a stain of blood. “Hurt?” he demanded, +sharply. “Was it that damned half-breed?”</P> +<P>Billy was gripping his hands now. Over near the stove, still kneeling before +the closed door, he saw the dark face of an Indian turned toward him.</P> +<P>“It was Couchée,” he said. “He hit me with the butt of his whip, and I’ve had +funny spells ever since. Before I have another I want to tell you what I’m up +against, Rookie. My Gawd, it’s a funny chance that ran me up against <I>you—</I> +just in time! Listen.”</P> +<P>He told McTabb briefly of Scottie Deane’s death, of Couchée’s flight from the +cabin, and the present situation there.</P> +<P>“There isn’t a minute to lose,” he finished, tightening his hold on McTabb’s +hand. “There’s the kid and the mother, and I’ve got to get back to them, Rookie. +The rest is up to you. We’ve got to get a woman. If we don’t— soon—”</P> +<P>He rose to his feet and stood there looking at McTabb. The other nodded.</P> +<P>“I understand,” he said. “You’re in a bad fix, Billy. It’s two hundred miles +to the nearest white woman, away over near Du Brochet. You couldn’t get an +Indian to go within half a mile of a cabin that’s struck by the plague, and I +doubt if this white woman would come. The only game I can see is to send to Fort +Churchill or Nelson House and have the force send up a nurse. It will take two +weeks.”</P> +<P>Billy gave a gesture of despair. Indian Joe had listened attentively, and now +rose quietly from his position in front of the stove.</P> +<P>“There’s Indian camp over on Arrow Lake,” he said, facing Billy. “I know +squaw there who not afraid of plague.”</P> +<P>“Sure as fate!” cried McTabb, exultantly. “Joe’s mother is over there, and if +there is anything on earth she won’t do for Joe I can’t guess what it is. Early +this winter she came a hundred and fifty miles— alone— to pay him a visit. +She’ll come. Go after her, Joe. I’ll go Billy MacVeigh’s bond to get the Service +to pay her five dollars a day from the hour she starts!” He turned to Billy. +“How’s your head?” he asked.</P> +<P>“Better. It was the run that fixed me, I guess.”</P> +<P>“Then we’ll go over to Couchée’s cabin and I’ll bring back the kid.”</P> +<P>They left Joe preparing for his three-day trip into the south and east, and +outside the cabin McTabb insisted on Billy riding behind the dogs. They struck +back for Couchée’s trail, and when they came to it McTabb laughed.</P> +<P>“I’ll bet they’re running like rabbits,” he said. “What in thunder did you +expect to do if you caught ’em, Billy? Drag the woman back by the hair of ’er +’ead? I’m glad you tumbled where you did. You’ve got to beat a lynx to beat +Couchée. He’d have perforated you from behind a snow-drift sure as your name’s +Billy MacVeigh.”</P> +<P>Billy felt that an immense load had been lifted from him, and he was partly +inclined to tell his companion more about Isobel and himself. This, however, he +did not do. As McTabb strode ahead and urged on the dogs he figured on the +chances of Joe and his mother returning within a week. During that time he would +be alone with Isobel, and in spite of the horrible fear that never for a moment +left his heart it was impossible for him not to feel a thrill of pleasure at the +thought. Those would be days of agony for himself as well as for her, and yet he +would be near, always near, the woman he loved. And little Isobel would be safe +in Rookie’s cabin. If anything happened—</P> +<P>His hands gripped the edges of the sledge at the thought that leaped into his +brain. It was Pelliter’s thought. If anything happened to Isobel the little girl +would be his own, forever and forever. He thrust the thought from him as if it +were the plague itself. Isobel would live. He would make her live, If she +died—</P> +<P>McTabb heard the low cry that broke from his lips. He could not keep it back. +Good God, if <I>she</I> went, how empty the world would be! He might never see +her again after these days of terror that were ahead of him; but if she lived, +and he knew that the sun was shining in her bright hair, and that her blue eyes +still looked up at the stars, and that in her sweet prayers she sometimes +thought of him— along with Deane— life could not be quite so lonely for him.</P> +<P>McTabb had dropped back to his side.</P> +<P>“Head hurt?” he asked.</P> +<P>“A little,” lied Billy. “There’s a level stretch ahead, Rookie. Hustle up the +dogs!”</P> +<P>Half an hour later the sledge drew up in front of Couchée’s cabin. Billy +pointed to the tent.</P> +<P>“The little one is in there,” he said. “Go over an’ get acquainted, Rookie. +I’m going to take a look inside to see if everything is all right.”</P> +<P>He entered the cabin quietly and closed the door softly behind him. The inner +door was as he had left it, partly open, and he looked in, with a wildly beating +heart. He could no longer hesitate. He stepped in and spoke her name.</P> +<P>“Isobel!”</P> +<P>There was a movement on the bed, and he was startled by the suddenness with +which Isobel sprang to her feet. She drew aside the heavy curtain from the +window and stood in the light. For a moment Billy saw her blue eyes filled with +a strange fire as she stared at him. There was a wild flush in her cheeks, and +he could hear her dry breath as it came from between her parted lips. Her hair +was still undone and covered her in a shimmering veil.</P> +<P>“I’ve found a trapper’s cabin, Isobel, and we’re taking the baby there,” he +went on. “She will be safe. And we’re sending for help— for a woman—”</P> +<P>He stopped, horror striking him dumb. He saw more plainly the feverish +madness in Isobel’s eyes. She dropped the curtain, and they were in gloom. The +whispered words he heard were more terrible than the madness in her eyes.</P> +<P>“You won’t kill her?” she pleaded. “You won’t kill my baby? You won’t kill +her—”</P> +<P>She staggered, back toward the bed, whispering the words over and over again. +Not until she had dropped upon it did Billy move. The blood in his body seemed +to have turned cold. Be dropped upon his knees at her side. His hand buried +itself in the soft smother of her hair, but he no longer felt the touch of it. +He tried to speak, but words would not come. And then, suddenly, she thrust him +back, and he could see the glow of her eyes in the half darkness. For a moment +she seemed to have fought herself out of her delirium.</P> +<P>“It was you— <I>you—</I> who helped to kill him!” she panted. “It was the +Law— and you are the Law. It kills— kills— kills— and it never gives back when +it makes a mistake. He was innocent, but you and the Law hounded him until he +died. You are the murderers. You killed him. You have killed me. And you will +never be punished— never— never— because you are the Law— and because the Law +can kill— kill— kill—”</P> +<P>She dropped back, moaning, and MacVeigh crouched at her side, his fingers +buried in her hair, with no words to say. In a moment she breathed easier. He +felt her tense body relax. He forced himself to his feet and dragged himself +into the outer room, closing the door after him. Even in her delirium Isobel had +spoken the truth. Forever she had digged for him a black abyss between them. The +Law had killed Scottie Deane. And <I>he</I> was the Law. And for the Law there +was no punishment, even though it took the life of an innocent man.</P> +<P>He went outside. McTabb was in the tent. The gloom of evening was closing in +on a desolate world. Overhead the sky was thick, and suddenly, with a great cry, +Billy flung his arms straight up over his head and cursed that Law which could +not be punished, the Law that had killed Scottie Deane. For he was that Law, and +Isobel had called him a murderer.</P> +<H4>XVII</H4> +<H4>ISOBEL FACES THE ABYSS</H4> +<P>It was not the face of MacVeigh— the old MacVeigh— that Rookie McTabb, the +ex-constable, looked into a few moments later. Days of sickness could have laid +no heavier hand upon him than had those few minutes in the darkened room of the +cabin. His face was white and drawn. There were tense lines at the corners of +his mouth and something strange and disquieting in his eyes. McTabb did not see +the change until he came out into what remained of the day with little Isobel in +his arms. Then he stared.</P> +<P>“That blow got you bad,” he said. “You look sick. Mebbe I’d better stay with +you here to-night.”</P> +<P>“No, you hadn’t,” replied Billy, trying to throw off what he knew the other +saw. “Take the kid over to the cabin. A night’s sleep and I’ll be as lively as a +cat. I’m going to vaccinate her before you go.”</P> +<P>He went into the tent and dug out from his pack the small rubber pouch in +which he carried a few medicines and a roll of medicated cotton. In a small +bottle there were three vaccine points. He returned with these and the +cotton.</P> +<P>“Watch her close,” he said, as he rolled back the child’s sleeve. “I’m going +to give you an extra point, and if this doesn’t work by the seventh or eighth +day you must do the job over again.”</P> +<P>With the point of his knife he began to work gently on baby Isobel’s tender +pink skin. He had expected that she would cry. But she was not frightened, and +her big blue eyes followed his movements wonderingly. At last it began to hurt, +and her lips quivered. But she made no sound, and as tears welled into her eyes +Billy dropped his knife and caught her up close to his breast.</P> +<P>“God bless your dear little heart,” he cried, smothering his face in her +silken curls. “You’ve been hurt so much, an’ you’ve froze, an’ you’ve starved, +an’ you ain’t never said a word about it since that day up at Fullerton! Little +sweetheart—”</P> +<P>McTabb heard him whispering things, and little Isobel’s arms crept tightly +about his neck. After a little Billy held her out to him again, and a part of +what Rookie had seen in his face was gone.</P> +<P>“It won’t hurt any more,” he said, as he rubbed the vaccine point over the +red spot on her arm. “You don’t want to be sick, do you? And that ’ll keep you +from being sick. There—”</P> +<P>He wound a strip of the cotton about her arm, tied it, and gave part of what +remained to McTabb. Then he took her in his arms again and kissed her warm face +and her soft curls, and after that bundled her in furs and put her on the +sledge. Rookie was straightening out the dogs when, like a thief, he clipped off +one of the curls with his knife. Isobel laughed gleefully when she saw the curl +between his fingers. Before McTabb had turned it was in his pocket.</P> +<P>“I won’t see her again— soon,” MacVeigh said; and he tried to keep a +thickness out of his voice. “That is, I— I won’t see her to— to <I>handle</I> +her. I’ll come over now and then an’ look at her from the edge of the woods. You +bring ’er out, Rookie, an’ don’t you dare to let her know I’m out there. She +wouldn’t know what it meant if I didn’t come to her.”</P> +<P>He watched them as they disappeared into the gloom of night, and when they +had gone a groan of anguish broke from his lips. For he knew that little Isobel +was going from him forever. He would see her again— from the edge of the forest; +but he would never hold her in his arms, nor feel again her tender arms about +his neck or the soft smother of her hair against his face. Long before the dread +menace of the plague was lifted from the cabin and from himself he would be +gone. For that was what Isobel, the mother, had demanded, and he would keep his +promise to her. She would never know what happened in these days of her +delirium. She would not have to face him afterward. He knew already how he would +go. When help came he would slip away quietly some night, and the big wilderness +would swallow him up. His plans seemed to come without thought on his own part. +He would go to Fort Churchill and testify against Bucky Smith. And then he would +quit the Service. His term of enlistment expired in a month, and he would not +re-enlist. <I>“It was the Law that killed him— and you are the Law. It kills— +kills— kills— and it never gives back when it makes a mistake.”</I> Under the +dark sky those words seemed never to end in his ears, and each moment they added +to his hatred of the thing of which he had been a part for years. He seemed to +hear Isobel’s accusing voice in the low soughing of the night wind in the spruce +tops; and in the stillness of the world that hung heavy and close about him the +words chased each other through his brain until they seemed to leave behind them +a path of fire.</P> +<P><I>“It kills— kills— kills— and it never gives back when it makes a +mistake.”</I></P> +<P>His lips were set tensely as he faced the cabin. He remembered now more than +one instance where the Law had killed and had never given back. That was a part +of the game of man-hunting. But he had never thought of it in Isobel’s way until +she had painted for him in those few half-mad, accusing words a picture of +himself. The fact that he had fought for Scottie Deane and had given him his +freedom did not exonerate himself in his own eyes now. It was because of himself +and Pelliter chiefly that Deane and Isobel had been forced to seek refuge among +the Eskimos. From Fullerton they had watched and hunted for him as they would +have hunted for an animal. He saw himself as Isobel must see him now— the +murderer of her husband. He was glad, as he returned to the cabin, that he had +happened to come in the second or third day of her fever. He dreaded her sanity +now more than her delirium,</P> +<P>He lighted a tin lamp in the cabin and listened for a moment at the inner +door. Isobel was quiet. For the first time he made a more careful note of the +cabin. Couchée and his wife had left plenty of food. He had noticed a frozen +haunch of venison hanging outside the cabin, and he went out and chopped off +several pieces of the meat. He did not feel hungry enough to prepare food for +himself, but put the meat in a pot and placed it on the stove, that he might +have broth for Isobel.</P> +<P>He began to find signs of her presence in the room as he moved about. Hanging +on a wooden peg in the log wall he saw a scarf which he knew belonged to her. +Under the scarf there was a pair of her shoes, and then he noticed that the +crude cabin table was covered with a litter of stuff which he had not observed +before. There were needles and thread, some cloth, a pair of gloves, and a red +bow of ribbon which Isobel had worn at her throat. What held his eyes were two +bundles of old letters tied with blue ribbon, and a third pile, undone and +scattered. In the light of the lamp he saw that all of the writing on the +envelopes was in the same hand. The top envelope on the first pile was addressed +to “Mrs. Isobel Deane, Prince Albert, Saskatchewan”; the first envelope of the +other bundle to “Miss Isobel Rowland, Montreal, Canada.” Billy’s heart choked +him as he gathered the loose letters in his hands and placed them, with the +others, on a little shelf above the table. He knew that they were letters from +Deane, and that in her fever and loneliness Isobel had been reading them when he +brought to her news of her husband’s death.</P> +<P>He was about to remove the other articles from the table where a folded +newspaper clipping was uncovered by the removal of the cloth. It was a half page +from a Montreal daily, and out of it there looked straight up at him the face of +Isobel Deane. It was a younger, more girlish-looking face, but to him it was not +half so beautiful as the face of the Isobel who had come to him from out of the +Barren. His fingers trembled and his breath came more quickly as he held the +paper in the light and read the few lines under the picture:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE>ISOBEL ROWLAND, ONE OF THE LAST OF MONTREAL’S DAUGHTERS OF THE + NORTH, WHO HAS SACRIFICED A FORTUNE FOR LOVE OF A YOUNG ENGINEER</BLOCKQUOTE> +<P>In spite of the feeling of shame that crept over him at thus allowing himself +to be drawn into a past sacred to Isobel and the man who had died, Billy’s eyes +sought the date-line. The paper was eight years old. And then he read what +followed. In those few minutes, as the cold, black type revealed to him the +story of Isobel and Deane, he forgot that he was in the cabin, and that he could +almost hear the breathing of the woman whose sweet romance had ended now in +tragedy. He was with Deane that day, years ago, when he had first looked into +Isobel’s eyes in the little old cemetery of nameless and savage dead at Ste. +Anne de Beaupré; he heard the tolling of the ancient bell in the church that had +stood on the hillside for more than two hundred and fifty years; and he could +hear Deane’s voice as he told Isobel the story of that bell and how, in the days +of old, it had often called the settlers in to fight against the Indians. And +then, as he read on, he could feel the sudden thrill in Deane’s blood when +Isobel had told him who she was, and that Pierre Radisson, one of the great +lords of the north, had been her great-grandfather; that he had brought +offerings to the little old church, and that he had fought there and died close +by, and that his body was somewhere among the nameless and unmarked dead. It was +a beautiful story, and MacVeigh saw more of it between the lines than could ever +have been printed. Once he had gone to Ste. Anne de Beaupré to see the pilgrims +and the miracles there, and there flashed before him the sunlit slope +overlooking the broad St. Lawrence, where Isobel and Deane had afterward met, +and where she had told him how large a part the little old cracked bell, the +ancient church, and the plot of nameless dead had played in her life ever since +she could remember. His blood grew hot as he read of what followed the beginning +of love at the pilgrims’ shrine. Isobel had no father or mother, the paper said. +Her uncle and guardian was an iron master of the old blood— the blood that had +been a part of the wilderness and the great company since the day the first +“gentlemen adventurers” came over with Prince Rupert. He lived alone with Isobel +in a big white house on the top of a hill, shut in by stone walls and iron +pickets, and looked out upon the world with the cold hauteur of a feudal lord. +He was young David Deane’s enemy from the moment he first heard about him, +largely because he was nothing more than a struggling mining engineer, but +chiefly because he was an American and had come from across the border. The +stone walls and iron pickets were made a barrier to him. The heavy gates never +opened for him. Then had come the break. Isobel, loyal in her love, had gone to +Deane. The story ended there.</P> +<P>For a few moments Billy stood with the paper in his hand, the type a blur +before his eyes. He could almost see Isobel’s old home in Montreal. It was on +the steep, shaded road leading up to Mount Royal, where he had once watched a +string of horses “tacking” with their two-wheeled carts of coal in their arduous +journey to Sir George Allen’s basement at the end of it. He remembered how that +street had held a curious sort of fascination for him, with its massive stone +walls, its old French homes, and that old atmosphere still clinging to it of the +Montreal of a hundred years ago. Twelve years before he had gone there first and +carved his name on the wooden stairway leading to the top of the mountain. +Isobel had been there then. Perhaps it was she he had heard singing behind one +of the walls.</P> +<P>He put the paper with the letters, making a note of the uncle’s name. If +anything happened it would be his duty to send word to him— perhaps. And then, +deliberately, he tore into little pieces the slip of paper on which he had +written the name. Geoffrey Renaud had cast off his niece. And if she died why +should he— Billy MacVeigh— tell him anything about little Isobel? Since Isobel’s +terrible castigation of himself and the Law duty had begun to hold a diferent +meaning for him.</P> +<P>Several times during the next hour Billy listened at the door. Then he made +some tea and toast and took the broth from the stove. He went into the room, +leaving these on the hearth of the stove so that they would not grow cold. He +heard Isobel move, and as he went to her side she gave a little breathless +cry.</P> +<P>“David— David— is it you?” she moaned. “Oh, David, I’m so glad you have +come!”</P> +<P>Billy stood over her. In the darkness his face was ashen gray, for like a +flash of fire in the lightless room the truth rushed upon him. Shock and fever +had done their work. And in her delirium Isobel believed that he was Deane, her +husband. In the gloom he saw that she was reaching up her arms to him.</P> +<P>“David!” she whispered; and in her voice there were a love and gladness that +thrilled and terrified him to the quick of his soul.</P> +<H4>XVIII</H4> +<H4>THE FULFILMENT OF A PROMISE</H4> +<P>In the space of silence that followed Isobel’s whispered words there came to +Billy a realization of the crisis which he faced. The thought of surrendering +himself to his first impulse, and of taking Deane’s place in these hours of +Isobel’s fever, filled him instantly with a revulsion that sent him back a step +from the bed, his hands clenched until his nails hurt his calloused palms.</P> +<P>“No, no, I am not David,” he began, but the words died in his throat.</P> +<P>To tell her that, to make her know the truth— that her husband was dead— +might kill her now. Hope, belief that he was alive and with her, would help to +make her live. So quickly that he could not have spoken his thoughts in words +these things flashed upon him. If Deane were alive and at her side his presence +would save her. And if she believed that <I>he</I> was Deane he would save her. +In the end she would never know. He remembered how Pelliter had forgotten things +that had happened in his delirium. To Isobel, when she awakened into sanity, it +would only seem like a dream at most. A few words from him then would convince +her of that. If necessary, he would tell her that she had talked much about +David in her fever and had imagined him with her. She would have no suspicion +that <I>he</I> had played that part.</P> +<P>Isobel had waited a moment, but now she whispered again, as if a little +frightened at his silence.</P> +<P>“David— David—”</P> +<P>He stepped back quickly to the bed and his hands met those reaching up to +him. They were hot and dry, and Isobel’s fingers tightened about his own almost +fiercely, and drew his hands down on her breast. She gave a sigh, as though she +would rest easier now that his hands were touching her.</P> +<P>“I have been making some broth for you,” he said, scarcely daring to speak. +“Will you take some of it, Isobel? You must— and sleep.”</P> +<P>He felt the pressure of Isobel’s hands, and she spoke to him so calmly that +for a breath he thought that she must surely be herself again.</P> +<P>“I don’t like the dark, David,” she said. “I can’t see you. And I want to do +up my hair. Will you bring in a light?”</P> +<P>“Not until you are better,” he whispered. “A light will hurt your eyes. I +will stay with you— near you—”</P> +<P>She raised a hand in the darkness, and it stroked his face. In that touch +were all the love and gentleness that had lived for the man who was dead, and +the caress thrilled Billy until it seemed as though what was in his heart must +burst forth in a sobbing breath. Suddenly her hand left his face, and he heard +her moving restlessly.</P> +<P>“My hair— David—”</P> +<P>He put out a hand, and it fell in the soft smother of her hair. It was +tangled about her face and neck, and he lifted her gently while he drew out the +thick masses of it. He did not dare to speak while he smoothed out the rich +tresses and pleated them into a braid. Isobel sighed restfully when he had +done.</P> +<P>“I am going to get the broth now,” he said then.</P> +<P>He went into the outer room where the lamp was lighted. Not until he took up +the cup of broth did he notice how his hand trembled. A bit of the broth spilled +on the floor, and he dropped a piece of the toast. He, too, was passing through +the crucible with Isobel Deane.</P> +<P>He went back and lifted her so that her head rested against his shoulder and +the warmth of her hair lay against his cheek and neck. Obediently she ate the +half-dozen bits of toast he moistened in the broth, and then drank a few sips of +the liquid. She would have rested there after that, with her face turned against +his, and Billy knew that she would have slept. But he lowered her gently to the +pillow.</P> +<P>“You must go to sleep now,” he urged, softly. “Good night—”</P> +<P>“David!”</P> +<P>“Yes—”</P> +<P>“You— you— haven’t— kissed— me—”</P> +<P>There was a childish plaint in her voice, and with a sob in his own breath he +bent over her. For an instant her arms clung about his neck. He felt the sweet, +thrilling touch of her warm lips, and then he drew himself back; and, with her +“Good night, David” following him to the door, he went into the outer room, and +with a strange, broken cry flung himself on the cot in which Couchée had +slept.</P> +<P>It was an hour before he raised his face from the blankets. Yet he had not +slept. In that hour, and in the half-hour that had preceded it in Isobel’s room, +there had come lines into his face which made him look older. Once Isobel had +kissed him, and he had treasured that kiss as the sweetest thing that had come +to him in all his life. And to-night she had given him more than that, for there +had been love, and not gratitude alone, in the warmth of her lips, in the caress +of her hands and arms, and in the pressure of her feverish face against his own. +But they brought him none of the pleasure of that which she had given to him on +the Barren. Grief-stricken, he rose and faced the door. In spite of the fact +that he knew there was no alternative for him, he regarded himself as worse than +a thief. He was taking an advantage of her which filled him with a repugnance +for himself, and he prayed for the hour when sanity would return to her, though +it brought back the heartbreak and despair that were now lost in the oblivion of +her fever. Always in the northland there is somewhere the dread trail of <I>le +mort rouge,</I> the “red death,” and he was well acquainted with the course it +would have to run. He believed that the fever had stricken Isobel the third or +fourth day before, and there would follow three or four days more in which she +would not be herself. Then would come the reaction. She would awaken to the +truth then that her husband was dead, and that he had been with her alone all +that time.</P> +<P>He listened for a moment at the door. Isobel was resting quietly, and he went +out of the cabin without making a sound. The night had grown blacker and +gloomier. There was not a rift in the sullen darkness of the sky over him. A +wind had risen from out of the north and east, just enough of a wind to set the +tree-tops moaning and fill the closed-in world about him with uneasy sound. He +walked toward the tent where little Isobel had been, and there was something in +the air that choked him. He wished that he had not sent all of the dogs with +McTabb. A terrible loneliness oppressed him. It was like a clammy hand +smothering his heart in its grip, and it made him sick. He turned and looked at +the light in the cabin. Isobel was there, and he had thought that where she was +he could never be lonely. But he knew now that there lay between them a gulf +which an eternity could not bridge.</P> +<P>He shuddered, for with the night wind it seemed to him that there came again +the presence of Scottie Deane. He gripped his hands and stared out into a pit of +blackness. It was as if he had heard the Wild Horsemen passing that way, panting +and galloping through the spruce tops on their mission of gathering the souls of +the dead. Deane was with him, as his spirit had been with him on that night he +had returned to Pelliter after putting the cross over Scottie’s grave. And in a +moment or two the feeling of that presence seemed to lift the smothering weight +from his heart. He knew that Deane could understand, and the presence comforted +him. He went to the tent and looked in, though there was nothing to see. And +then he turned back to the cabin. Thought of the grave with its sapling cross +brought home to him his duty to the woman. From the rubber pouch he brought +forth his pad of paper and a pencil.</P> +<P>For more than an hour after that he worked. steadily in the dull glow of the +lamp. He knew that Isobel would return to Deane. It might be soon— or a long +time from now. But she would go. And step by step he mapped out for her the +trail that led to the little cabin on the edge of the Barren. And after that he +wrote in his big, rough hand what was overflowing from his heart.</P> +<P><I>“May God take care of you always. I would give my life to give you back +his. I won’t let his grave be lost. I will go back some day and plant blue +flowers over it. I guess you will never know what I would do to give him back to +you and make you happy.”</I></P> +<P>He knew that he had not promised what he would fail to do. He would return to +the lonely grave on the edge of the Barren. There was something that called him +to it now, something that he could not understand, and which came of his own +desolation. He folded the pages of paper, wrapped them in a clean sheet, and +wrote Isobel Deans’s name on the outside. Then he placed the packet with the +letters on the shelf over the table. He knew that she would find it with +them.</P> +<P>What happened during the terrible week that followed that night no one but +MacVeigh would ever know. To him they were seven days of a fight whose memory +would remain with him until the end of time. Sleepless nights and almost +sleepless days. A bitter struggle, almost without rest, with the horrible +specter that ever hovered within the inner room. A struggle that drew his cheeks +in and put deep lines in his face; a struggle during which Isobel’s voice spoke +tenderly and pleadingly with him in one hour and bitterly in the next. He felt +the caress of her hands. More than once she drew him down to the soft thrill of +her feverish lips. And then, in more terrible moments, she accused him of +hunting to death the man who lay back under the sapling cross. The three days of +torment lengthened into four, and the four into seven, To the bottom of his soul +he suffered, for he understood what it all meant for him. On the third and the +fifth and the seventh days he went over to McTabb’s cabin, and Rookie came out +and talked with him at a distance through a birchbark megaphone. On the seventh +day there was still no news of Indian Joe and his mother. And on this day Billy +played his last part as Deane. He went into her room at noon with broth and +toast and a dish of water, and after she had eaten a little he lifted her and +made a prop of blankets at her back so that he could brush out and braid her +beautiful hair. It was light in the room in spite of the curtain which he kept +closely drawn. Outside the sun was shining brightly, and the pale luster of it +came through the curtain and lit up the rich tresses he was brushing. When he +was done he lowered her gently to her pillow. She was looking at him strangely. +And then, with a shock that seemed to turn him cold to the depths of his soul, +he saw what was in her eyes. Sanity and reason. He saw swiftly gathering in them +the old terror, the old grief— recognition of his true self! He waited to hear +no word, but turned as he had done a hundred times before and left the room.</P> +<P>In the outer room he stood for a few silent minutes, gathering strength for +the ordeal that was near. The end was at hand— for him. He choked back his +weakness, and after a time returned to the inner door. But now he did not go in +as he had entered before. He knocked. It was the first time. And Isobel’s voice +bade him enter.</P> +<P>His heart was filled with a sudden throbbing pain when he saw that she had +turned so that she lay with her face turned away from him. He bent over her and +said, softly:</P> +<P>“You are better. The danger is past.”</P> +<P>“I am better and— and— it is over?” he heard her whisper.</P> +<P>“Yes.”</P> +<P>“The— the baby?”</P> +<P>“Is well— yes.”</P> +<P>There was a moment’s silence. The room seemed to tremble with it. Then she +said, faintly:</P> +<P>“You have been alone?”</P> +<P>“Yes— alone— for seven days.”</P> +<P>She turned her eyes upon him fully. He could see the glow of them in the +faint light. It seemed to him that she was reading him to the depths of his +soul, and that in this moment <I>she knew!</I> She knew that he had taken the +part of David, and suddenly she turned her face away from him again with a +strange, choking sob. He could feel her trembling. She seemed, struggling for +breath and strength, and he heard again the words <I>“You— you— you—”</I></P> +<P>“Yes, yes— I know— I understand,” he said, and his heart choked him. “You +must be quiet— now. I promised you that if you got well I would go. And— I will. +No one will ever know. I will go.”</P> +<P>“And you will never come to me again?” Her voice was terribly quiet and +cold.</P> +<P>“Never,” he said. “I swear that.”</P> +<P>She had drawn away from him now until he could see nothing of her but the +shimmer of her thick braid where it lay in a ray of light. But he could hear her +sobbing breath. She scarcely knew when he left the room, he went so quietly. He +closed her door after him, and this time he latched it. The outer door was open, +and suddenly he heard that for which he had been waiting and listening— the +short, sharp yelping of dogs, and a human voice.</P> +<P>In three leaps he was out in the open. Halfway across the narrow clearing +Indian Joe had halted with his team. One glance at the sledge showed Billy that +Joe’s mother had not failed him. A thin, weazened little old woman scrambled +from a pile of bearskins as he ran toward them. She had sunken eyes that watched +his approach with a ratlike glitter, and her naked hands were so emaciated that +they looked like claws; but in spite of her unprepossessing appearance Billy +almost hugged her in his delight at their coming. Maballa was her name, Rookie +had told him, and she understood and could talk English better than her son. +Billy told her of the condition in the cabin, and when he had finished she took +a small pack from the sledge, cackled a few words to Indian Joe, and followed +him without a moment’s hesitation. That she had no fear of the plague added to +Billy’s feeling of relief. As soon as she had taken off her hood and heavy +blanket she went fearlessly into the inner room, and a moment later Billy heard +her talking to Isobel.</P> +<P>It took him but a few moments to gather up the few things he possessed and +put them in his pack. Then he went out and took down his tent. Indian Joe had +already gone, and he followed in his trail. An hour later McTabb appeared at the +door of his cabin, summoned by Billy’s shout. He circled about and came up with +the wind, until he stood within fifty paces of MacVeigh. Billy told him what he +was going to do. He was going to Churchill, and would leave Isobel and the baby +in his care. From Fort Churchill he would send back an escort to take the woman +and little Isobel down to civilization. He wanted fresh clothes— anything he +could wear. Those he had on he would be compelled to burn. He suggested that he +could get into one of Indian Joe’s outfits, if he had any spare garments, and +McTabb went back to the cabin, returning a few minutes later with an armful of +clothes.</P> +<P>“Here’s everything you’ll need, except an undershirt an’ drawers,” said +McTabb, placing them in a pile on the snow. “I’ll wait a little while you’re +changing. Better burn those quick. The wind might change, and I don’t want to be +caught in a whiff of it.”</P> +<P>He moved to a safe distance while Billy secured the clothes and went into the +timber. From a birch tree he pulled off a pile of bark, and as he stripped he +put his old clothes on it. McTabb could hear the crackling and snapping of the +fire when Billy reappeared arrayed in Indian Joe’s “second best”— buckskin +trousers, a worn and tattered fur coat, a fisher-skin cap, and moccasins a size +too small for him. For fifteen minutes the two men talked, McTabb still drawing +the dead-line at fifty paces. Then he went back and brought up Billy’s dogs and +sledge.</P> +<P>“I’d like to shake hands with you, Billy,” he apologized, “but I guess it’s +best not to. I don’t suppose— we’d dare— bring out the kid?”</P> +<P>“No,” said Billy. “Good-by, Mac. I’ll see you— sometime— later. Just go back— +an’ bring her to the door, will you? I don’t want her to know I’m here, an’ I’ll +take a look at her from the bush. She wouldn’t understand, you know, if she knew +I was here an’ wouldn’t come up an’ see her.”</P> +<P>He concealed himself among the spruce as McTabb went into the cabin. A moment +later he reappeared. Isobel was in his arms, and Billy gulped back a sob. For an +instant she turned her face his way, and he could see that she was pointing in +his direction as Rookie talked to her, and then for another instant the sun lit +up the child’s hair with a golden fire, as he had first seen it on that +wonderful day at Fullerton. He wanted to cry out one word to her— at least one— +but what came was only the sob he had fought to keep back. He turned his face +into the forest. And this time he knew that the parting was final.</P> +<H4>XIX</H4> +<H4>A PILGRIMAGE TO THE BARREN</H4> +<P>The fourth night after he had left the plague-stricken cabin Billy was camped +on Lame Otter Creek, one hundred and eighty miles from Fort Churchill, over on +Hudson’s Bay. He had eaten his supper, and was smoking his pipe. It was a clear +and glorious night, with the sky afire with stars and a full moon. Several times +Billy had stared at the moon. It was what the Indians called “the bleeding +moon”— red as blood, with an uneven, dripping edge. It was the Indian +superstition that it meant misfortune to those who did not keep it at their +backs. For seven consecutive nights it had made a red trail through the skies in +that terrible year of plague nineteen years before, when a quarter of the forest +population of the north had died. Since then it had been known as the “plague +moon.” Billy had seen it only twice before. He was not superstitious, but +to-night he was filled with a strange sensation of uneasiness. He laughed an +unpleasant laugh as he stared into the crackling birch flames and wondered what +new misfortune could come to him.</P> +<P>And then, slowly, something seemed to come to him from out of the wonderful +night like a quieting hand to still the pain in his broken heart. At last, once +more, he was <I>home.</I> For the wind-swept Barrens and the forest had been his +home, and more than once he had told himself that life away from them would be +impossible for him. More deeply than ever this thought came to him to-night. He +had become a part of them and they a part of him. And as he looked up again at +the red moon the sight of it no longer brought him uneasiness, but a strange +sort of joy. For an hour he sat there, and the fire died down. About him the +rustle and whisper of the wild closed in nearer. It was <I>his</I> world, and he +breathed more deeply and listened. Lonely and sick at heart, he felt the life +and sympathy and love of it creeping into him, grieving with him in his grief, +warming him with its hope, pledging him again the eternal friendship of its +trees, its mountains, and all of the wild that it held therein. A hundred times, +in that strange man-play that comes of loneliness in the far north, he had given +life and form to the star shadows about him, to the shadows of the tall spruce, +the twisted shrub, the rocks, and even the mountains. And now it was no longer +play. With each hour that passed this night, and with each day and night that +followed, they became more real to MacVeigh; and the fires he built in the black +gloom painted him pictures as they had never painted them before; and the trees +and the rocks and the twisted shrub comforted him more and more in his +loneliness, and gave to him the presence of life in their movement, in the +coming and going of their shadow forms. Everywhere they were the same old +friends, unvarying and changeless. The spruce shadow of to-night, nodding to him +in its silent way, was the same that nodded to him last night— a hundred nights +ago; the stars were the same, the winds whispering to him in the tree-tops were +the same, everything was as it was yesterday— years ago. He knew that in these +things, and in these things alone, he would always possess Isobel. She would +return to civilization, and the shifting scenes of life down there would soon +make her forget him— almost. But in <I>his</I> world there was no change. Ten +years from now he might go over their old trail and still find the charred +remains of the campfire he had built for her that night beside the Barren. The +wilderness would bear memory of her so long as he was a part of it; and now, as +he came nearer to Churchill, he knew that he would always be a part of it.</P> +<P>Three weeks after he had left Couchée’s cabin he came into Fort Churchill. A +month had changed him so that the factor did not recognize him at first. The +inspector in charge stared at him twice, and then cried, “My God, is it you, +MacVeigh?” To Pelliter alone, who was waiting for him, did Billy tell all that +had happened down on the Little Beaver. There were several letters waiting for +him at Churchill, and one of these told him that a silver property in which he +was interested over at Cobalt had turned out well and that his share in the sale +was something over ten thousand dollars. He used this unexpected piece of +good-fortune as an excuse to the inspector when he refused to re-enlist. A week +after his arrival at Churchill Bucky Smith was dishonorably discharged from the +Service. There were several near them when Bucky came up to him with a smile on +his face and offered to shake hands.</P> +<P>“I don’t bear you any ill-will, Billy,” he said, loud enough for the others +to hear. “Only you’ve made a big mistake.” And then, in words for Billy’s ears +alone, he added: “Remember what I promised you! I’ll kill you for this if I have +to hunt you round the world!”</P> +<P>A few days later Pelliter left on the last of the slush snows in an effort to +reach Nelson House before the sledging was gone.</P> +<P>“I wish you’d go with me, Billy,” he entreated for the hundredth time. “My +girl ’d love to have you come, an’ you know how <I>I’d</I> like it.”</P> +<P>But Billy could not be moved.</P> +<P>“I’ll come and see you some day— when you’ve got the kid,” he promised, +trying to laugh, as he shook hands for the last time with his old comrade.</P> +<P>For three days after Pelliter’s departure he remained at the post. On the +morning of the fourth, with his pack on his back and without dogs, he struck off +into the north and west.</P> +<P>“I think I’ll spend next winter at Fond du Lac,” he told the inspector. “If +there’s any mail for me you can send it there if you have a chance, and if I’m +not at Fond du Lac it can be returned to Churchill.”</P> +<P>He said Fond du Lac because Deane’s grave lay between Churchill and the old +Hudson’s Bay Company’s post over in the country of the Athabasca. The Barrens +were the one thing that called to him now— the one thing to which he dared +respond. He would keep his promise to Isobel and visit Scottie’s grave. At least +he tried to make himself believe that he was keeping a promise. But deep in him +there was an undercurrent of feeling which he could not explain. It was as if +there were a spirit with him at times, walking at his side, and hovering about +his campfire at nights, and when he gave himself up to the right mood he felt +that it was the presence of Deane. He believed in strong friendship, but he had +never believed in the love of man for man. He had not thought that such a thing +could exist, except, perhaps, between father and son. With him, in all the +castles he had built and the dreams he had dreamed, the alpha and omega of love +had remained with woman. For the first time he knew what it meant to love a man— +the memory of a man.</P> +<P>Something held him from telling the secret of his mission at Churchill even +to Pelliter. The evening before he left he had smuggled an ax into the edge of +the forest, and the second day he found use for this. He came to a +straight-grained, thick birch, eighteen inches in diameter, and he put up his +tent fifty paces from it. Before he rolled himself in his blankets that night he +had cut down the tree. The next day he chopped off the butt, and before another +nightfall had hewn out a slab two inches thick, a foot wide, and three feet +long. When he took up the trail into the north and west again the following +morning he left the ax behind.</P> +<P>The fourth night he worked with his hunting-knife and his belt-ax, thinning +down the slab and making it smooth. The fifth and the sixth nights he passed in +the same way, and he ended the sixth night by heating the end of a small iron +rod in the fire and burning the first three letters of Deane’s epitaph on the +slab. For a time he was puzzled, wondering whether he should use the name +Scottie or David. He decided on David.</P> +<P>He did not travel fast, for to him spring was the most beautiful of all +seasons in the wilderness. It was underfoot and overhead now. The snow-floods +were singing between the ridges and gathering in the hollows. The poplar buds +were swollen almost to the bursting point, and the bakneesh vines were as red as +blood with the glow of new life. Seventeen days after he left Churchill he came +to the edge of the big Barren. For two days he swung westward, and early in the +forenoon of the third looked out over the gray waste, dotted with moving +caribou, over which he and Pelliter had raced ahead of the Eskimos with little +Isobel. He went to the cabin first and entered. It was evident that no one had +been there since he had left, On the bunk where Deane had died he found one of +baby Isobel’s little mittens. He had wondered where she had lost it, and had +made her a new one of lynx-skin on the way down to Couchée’s cabin. The tiny bed +that he had made for her on the floor was as she had last slept in it, and in +the part of a blanket that he had used as a pillow was still the imprint of her +head. On the wall hung a pair of old trousers that Deane had worn. Billy looked +at these things, standing silently, with his pack at his feet. There was +something in the cabin that closed in about him and choked him, and he struggled +to overcome it by whistling. His lips seemed thick. At last he turned and went +to the grave.</P> +<P>The foxes had been there, and had dug a little about the sapling cross. There +was no other change. During the remainder of the forenoon Billy cut down a +heavier sapling and sunk the butt of it three feet into the half-frozen earth at +the head of Deane’s grave. Then, with spikes he had brought with him, he nailed +on the slab. He believed that no one would ever know what the words on that slab +meant— no one except himself and the spirit of Scottie Deane. With the end of +the heated rod he had burned into the wood:</P> +<H4>DAVID DEANE</H4> +<H4><I>Died Feb. 27, 1908</I></H4> +<H4>BELOVED OF ISOBEL AND THE ONE</H4> +<H4>WHO WISHES HE COULD TAKE</H4> +<H4>YOUR PLACE AND GIVE</H4> +<H4>YOU BACK TO</H4> +<H4>HER</H4> +<H4><I>W. M. April 15, 1908</I></H4> +<P>He did not stop when it was time for dinner, but carried rocks from a ridge a +couple of hundred yards away, and built a cairn four feet high around the +sapling, so that storm or wild animals could not knock it down. Then he began a +search in the warmest and sunniest parts of the forest, where the green tips of +plant life were beginning to reveal themselves. He found snowflowers, redglow, +and bakneesh, and dug up root after root, and at last, peeping out from between +two rocks, he found the arrowlike tip of a blue flower. The bakneesh roots he +planted about the cairn, and the blue flower he planted by itself at the head of +the grave.</P> +<P>It was long past midday when he returned to the cabin, and once more he was +oppressed by the appalling loneliness of it. It was not as he had thought it +would be. Deane’s spirit and companionship had seemed to be nearer to him beside +his campfires and in the forest. He cooked a meal over the stove, but the +snapping of the fire seemed strange and unnatural in the deserted room. Even the +air he breathed was heavy with the oppression of death and broken hopes. He +found it difficult to swallow the food he had cooked, though he had eaten +nothing since morning. When he was done he looked at his watch. It was four +o’clock. The northern sun had dropped behind the distant forests and was +followed now by the thickening gloom of early evening. For a few moments Billy +stood motionless outside the cabin. Behind him an owl hooted its lonely +mating-song. Over his head a brush sparrow twittered. It was that hour, just +between the end of day and the beginning of night, when the wilderness holds its +breath and all is still. Billy clenched his hands and listened. He could not +keep back the break that was in his breath. Something out there in the silence +and the gathering darkness was calling him— calling him away from the cabin, +away from the grave, and the gray, dead waste of the Barren. He turned back into +the cabin and put his things into the pack. He took the little mitten to keep +with his other treasures, and then he went out and closed the door behind him. +He passed close to the grave and for the last time gazed upon the spot where +Deane lay buried.</P> +<P>“Good-by, old man,” he whispered. Goodby—”</P> +<P>The owl hooted louder as he turned his face into the west. It made him +shiver, and he hurried his steps into the unbroken wilderness that lay for +hundreds of miles between him and the post at Fond du Lac.</P> +<H4>XX</H4> +<H4>THE LETTER</H4> +<P>Days and weeks and months of a loneliness which Billy had never known before +followed after his pilgrimage to Deane’s grave. It was more than loneliness. He +had known loneliness, the heartbreak and the longing of it, in the black and +silent chaos of the arctic night; he had almost gone mad of it, and he had seen +Pelliter nearly die for a glimpse of the sun and the sound of a voice. But this +was different. It was something that ate deeper at his soul each day and each +night that he lived. He had believed that thought of Isobel and his memories of +her would make him happier, even though he never saw her again. But in this he +was mistaken. The wilderness does not lend to forgetfulness, and each day her +voice seemed nearer and more real to him, and she became more and more +insistently a part of his thoughts. Never an hour of the day passed that he did +not ask himself where she was. He hoped that she and the baby Isobel had +returned to the old home in Montreal, where they would surely find friends and +be cared for. And yet the dread was upon him that she had remained in the +wilderness, that her love for Deane would keep her there, and that she would +find a woman’s work at some post between the Height of Land and the Barrens. At +times there possessed him an overwhelming desire to return to McTabb’s cabin and +find where they had gone. But he fought against this desire as a man fights +against death. He knew that once he surrendered himself to the temptation to be +near her again he would lose much that he had won in his struggle during the +days of plague in Couchée’s cabin.</P> +<P>So his feet carried him steadily westward, while the invisible hands tugged +at him from behind. He did not go straight to Fond du Lac, but spent nearly +three weeks with a trapper whom he ran across on the Pipestone River. It was +June when he struck Fond du Lac, and he remained there a month. He had more than +half expected to pass the winter there, but the factor at the post proved a +disagreeable acquaintance, and he did not like the country. So early in July he +set out deeper into the Athabasca country to the west, followed the northern +shore of the big lake, and two months later came to Fort Chippewyan, near the +mouth of the Slave River.</P> +<P>He struck Chippewyan at a fortunate time. A government geological and +map-making party was just preparing to leave for the <I>terra incognita</I> +between the Great Slave and the Great Bear, and the three men who had come up +from Ottawa urged Billy to join them. He jumped at the opportunity, and remained +with them until the party returned to the Mackenzie River by the way of Fort +Providence five months later. He remained at Fort Providence until late spring, +and then came down to Fort Wrigley, where he had several friends in the service. +Fifteen months of wandering had had their effect upon him. He could no longer +resist the call of the wanderlust. It urged him from place to place, and +stronger and stronger grew in him the desire to return to his old country along +the shores of the big Bay far to the west. He had partly planned to join the +railroad builders on the new trans-continental in the mountains of British +Columbia, but in August, instead of finding himself at Edmonton or Tête Jaune +Cache, he was at Prince Albert, three hundred and fifty miles to the east. From +this point he struck northward with a party of company men into the Lac La Ronge +country, and in October swung eastward alone through the Sissipuk and Burntwood +waterways to Nelson House. He continued northward after a week’s rest, and on +the eighteenth of December the first of the two great storms which made the +winter of 1909-10 one of the most tragic in the history of the far northern +people overtook him thirty miles from York Factory. It took him five days to +reach the post, where he was held up for several weeks. These were the first of +those terrible weeks of famine and intense cold during which more than fifteen +hundred people died in the north country. From the Barren Lands to the edge of +the southern watershed the earth lay under from four to six feet of snow, and +from the middle of December until late in January the temperature did not rise +above forty degrees below zero, and remained for the most of the time between +fifty and sixty. From all points in the wilderness reports of starvation and +death came to the company’s posts. Trap lines could not be followed because of +the intense cold. Moose, caribou, and even the furred animals had buried +themselves under the snow. Indians and half-breeds dragged themselves into the +posts. Twice at York Factory Billy saw mothers who brought dead babies in their +arms. One day a white trapper came in with his dogs and sledge, and on the +sledge, wrapped in a bearskin, was his wife, who had died fifty miles back in +the forest.</P> +<P>During these terrible weeks Billy found it impossible to keep Isobel and the +baby Isobel out of his mind night or day. The fear grew in him that somewhere in +the wilderness they were suffering as others were suffering. So obsessed did he +become with the thought that he had a terrible dream one night, and in that +dream baby Isobel’s face appeared to him, a deathlike mask, white and cold and +thinned by starvation. The vision decided him. He would go to Fort Churchill, +and if McTabb had not been driven in he would go to his cabin, over on the +Little Beaver, and learn what had become of Isobel and the little girl. A few +days later, on the twenty-seventh day of January, there came a sudden rise in +the temperature, and Billy prepared at once to take advantage of the change. A +half-breed, on his way to Churchill, accompanied him, and they set out together +the following morning. On the twentieth of February they arrived at Fort +Churchill.</P> +<P>Billy went immediately to detachment headquarters. There had been several +changes in two years, and there was only one of the old force to shake hands +with him. His first inquiry was about McTabb and Isobel Deane. Neither was at +Churchill, nor had been there since the arrival of the new officer in charge. +But there was mail for Billy— three letters. There had been half a dozen others, +but they were now following up his old trails somewhere out in the wilderness. +These three had been returned recently from Fond du Lac. One was from Pelliter, +the fourth he had written, he said, without an answer. The “kid” had come— a +girl— and he wondered if Billy was dead. The second letter was from his Cobalt +partner.</P> +<P>The third he turned over several times before he opened it. It did not look +much like a letter. It was torn and ragged at the edges, and was so soiled and +water-stained that the address on it was only partly legible. It had been to +Fond du Lac, and from there it had followed him to Fort Chippewyan. He opened it +and found that the writing inside was scarcely more legible than the inscription +on the envelope. The last words were quite plain, and he gave a low cry when he +found that it was from Rookie McTabb.</P> +<P>He went close to a window and tried to make out what McTabb had written. Here +and there, where water had not obliterated the writing, he could make out a line +or a few words. Nearly all was gone but the last paragraph, and when Billy came +to this and read the first words of it his heart seemed all at once to die +within him, and he could not see. Word by word he made out the rest after that, +and when he was done he turned his stony face to the white whirl of the storm +outside the window, his lips as dry as though he had passed through a fever.</P> +<P>A part of that last paragraph was unintelligible, but enough was left to tell +him what had happened in the cabin down on the Little Beaver.</P> +<P>McTabb had written:</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>“We thought she was getting well... took sick again.... did + everything... could. But it didn’t do any good,... died just five weeks to a + day after you left. We buried her just behind the cabin. God... that kid... + You don’t know how I got to love her, Billy.... give her up...”</I></BLOCKQUOTE> +<P>McTabb had written a dozen lines after that, but all of them were a +water-stained and unintelligible blur.</P> +<P>Billy crushed the letter in his hand. The new inspector wondered what +terrible news he had received as he walked out into the blinding chaos of the +storm.</P> +<H4>XXI</H4> +<H4>THE FIGHTING SPARK</H4> +<P>For ten minutes Billy buried himself blindly in the storm. He scarcely knew +which direction he took, but at last he found himself in the shelter of the +forest, and he was whispering Isobel’s name over and over again to himself.</P> +<P>“Dead— dead—” he moaned. “She is dead— dead—”</P> +<P>And then there rushed upon him, crushing back his deeper grief, a thought of +the baby Isobel. She was still with McTabb down on the Little Beaver. In the +blur of the storm he read again what he could make out of Rookie’s letter. +Something in that last paragraph struck him with a deadly fear. <I>“God... that +kid... You, don’t know how I got to love her, Billy,... give her up...”</I></P> +<P>What did it mean? What had McTabb told him in that part of the letter that +was gone?</P> +<P>The reaction came as he put the letter back into his pocket. He walked +swiftly back to the inspector’s office.</P> +<P>“I’m going down to the Little Beaver. I’m going to start to-day,” he said. +“Who is there in Churchill that I can get to go with me?”</P> +<P>Two hours later Billy was ready to start, with an Indian as a companion. Dogs +could not be had for love or money, and they set out on snowshoes with two +weeks’ supply of provisions, striking south and west. The remainder of that day +and the next they traveled with but little rest. Each hour that passed added to +Billy’s mad impatience to reach McTabb’s cabin.</P> +<P>With the morning of the third day began the second of those two terrible +storms which swept over the northland in that winter of famine and death. In +spite of the Indian’s advice to build a permanent camp until the temperature +rose again Billy insisted on pushing ahead. The fifth night, in the wild Barren +country west of the Etawney, his Indian failed to keep up the fire, and when +Billy investigated he found him half dead with a strange sickness. He made the +Indian’s balsam shelter snow and wind proof, cut wood, and waited. The +temperature continued to fall, and the cold became intense. Each day the +provisions grew less, and at last the time came when Billy knew that he was +standing face to face with the Great Peril. He went farther and farther from +camp in his search for game. Even the brush sparrows and snow-hawks were gone. +Once the thought came to him that be might take what food was left and accept +the little chance that remained of saving himself. But the idea never got +farther than a first thought. On the twelfth day the Indian died. It was a +terrible day. There was food for another twenty-four hours.</P> +<P>Billy packed it, together with his blankets and a few pieces of tinware. He +wondered if the Indian had died of a contagious disease. Anyway, he made up his +mind to put out the warning for others if they came that way, and over the dead +Indian’s balsam shelter he planted a sapling, and at the end of the sapling he +fastened a strip of red cotton cloth— the plague signal of the north.</P> +<P>Than he struck out through the deep snows and the twisting storm, knowing +that there was no more than one chance in a thousand ahead of him, and that the +one chance was to keep the wind at his back.</P> +<P>At the end of his first day’s struggle Billy built himself a camp in a bit of +scrub timber which was not much more than bush. He had observed that the timber +and that every tree and bush he had passed since noon was stripped and dead on +the side that faced the north. He cooked and ate his last food the following +day, and went on. The small timber turned to scrub, and the scrub, in time, to +vast snow wastes over which the storm swept mercilessly. All this day he looked +for game, for a flutter of bird life; he chewed bark, and in the afternoon got a +mouthful of foxbite, which made his throat swell until he could scarcely +breathe. At night he made tea, but had nothing to eat. His hunger was acute and +painful. It was torture the next day— the third— for the process of starvation +is a rapid one in this country where only the fittest survive on from four to +five meals a day. He camped, built a small bush-fire at night, and slept. He +almost failed to rouse himself on the morning that followed, and when he +staggered to his feet and felt the cutting sting of the storm still in his face +and heard the swishing wail of it over the Barren he knew that at last the hour +had come when he was standing face to face with the Almighty.</P> +<P>For some strange reason he was not frightened at the situation. He +found that even over the level spaces he could scarce drag his snow-shoes, but +this had ceased to alarm him as he had been alarmed at first. He went on, hour +after hour, weaker and weaker. Within himself there was still life which +reasoned that if death were to come it could not come in a better way. It at +least promised to be painless— even pleasant. The sharp, stinging pains of +hunger, like little electrical knives piercing him, were gone; he no longer +experienced a sensation of intense cold; he almost felt that he could lie down +in the drifted snow and sleep peacefully. He knew what it would be— a sleep +without end, with the arctic foxes to pick his bones afterward— and so he +resisted the temptation and forced himself onward. The storm still swept +straight west from Hudson’s Bay, bringing with it endless volleys of snow, round +and hard as fine shot, snow that had at first seemed to pierce his flesh and +which swished past his feet as if trying to trip him and tossed itself in +windrows and mountains in his path. If he could only find timber, shelter! That +was what he worked for now. When he had last looked at his watch it was nine +o’clock in the morning; now it was late in the afternoon. It might as well have +been night. The storm had long since half blinded him. He could not see a dozen +paces ahead. But the little life in him still reasoned bravely. It was a heroic +spark of life, a fighting spark, and hard to put out. It told him that when he +came to shelter he would at least <I>feel</I> it, and that he must fight until +the last. The pack on his back held no significance and no weight for him. He +might have traveled a mile or ten miles an hour and he would not have sensed the +difference. Most men would have buried themselves in the snow and died in +comfort, dreaming the pleasant dreams that come as a sort of recompense to the +unfortunate who dies of starvation and cold. But the fighting spark commanded +Billy to die upon his feet if he died at all. It was this spark which brought +him at last to a bit of timber thick enough to give him shelter from wind and +snow. It burned a little more warmly then. It flared up and gave him new vision. +And then, for the first time, he realized that it must be night. For a light was +burning ahead of him, and all else was gloom. His first thought was that it was +a campfire miles and miles away. Then it drew nearer, until he knew that it was +a light in a cabin window. He dragged himself toward it, and when he came to the +door he tried to shout. But no sound fell from his swollen lips. It seemed an +hour before he could twist his feet out of his snow-shoes. Then he groped for a +latch, pressed against the door, and plunged in.</P> +<P>What he saw was like a picture suddenly revealed for an instant by a +flashlight. In the cabin there were four men. Two sat at a table directly in +front of him. One held a dice box poised in the air, and had turned a rough, +bearded face toward him. The other was a younger man, and in this moment it +struck Billy as strange that he should be clutching a can of beans between his +hands. A third man stared from where he had been looking down upon the dice-play +of the other two. As Billy came in he was in the act of lowering a half-filled +bottle from his lips. The fourth man sat on the edge of a bunk, with a face so +white and thin that he might have been taken for a corpse if it had not been for +the dark glare in his sunken eyes. Billy smelled the odor of whisky; he smelled +food. He saw no sign of welcome in the faces turned toward him, but he advanced +upon them, mumbling incoherently. And then the spark, the fighting spark in him, +gave out, and he crumpled down on the floor. He heard a voice which came to him +from a great distance, and which said, “Who the hell is this?” and then, after +what seemed to be a long time, he heard that same voice say, “Pitch him back +into the snow.”</P> +<P>After that he lost consciousness. But in that last moment between light and +darkness he experienced a strange thrill that made him want to spring to his +feet, for it seemed to him that he had recognized the voice that had said “Pitch +him back into the snow.”</P> +<H4>XXII</H4> +<H4>INTO THE SOUTH</H4> +<P>A long time before he awoke Billy knew that he was not in the snow, and that +hot stuff was running down his throat. When he opened his eyes there was no +longer a light burning in the cabin. It was day. He felt strangely comfortable, +but there was something in the cabin that stirred him from his rest. It was the odor +of frying bacon. All of his hunger had come back. The joy of life, of +anticipation, shone in his thin face as he pulled himself up. Another face— the +bearded face— red-eyed, almost animal-like in its fierce questioning, bent over +him.</P> +<P>“Where’s your grub, pardner?”</P> +<P>The question was like a stab. Billy did not hear his own voice as he +explained.</P> +<P>“Got none!” The bearded man’s voice was like a bellow as he turned upon the +others, “He’s got no grub!”</P> +<P>In that moment Billy choked back the cry on his lips. He knew the voice now— +<I>and the man.</I> It was Bucky Smith! He half rose to his feet and then +dropped back. Bucky had not recognized him. His own beard, shaggy hair, and +pinched face had saved him from recognition. Fate had played his way.</P> +<P>“We’ll divvy up, Bucky,” came a weak voice. It was from the thin, white-faced +man who had sat corpselike on the edge of his bunk the night before.</P> +<P>“Divvy hell!” growled the other. “It’s up to you— you ’n’ Sweedy. You’re to +blame!”</P> +<P>You’re to blame!</P> +<P>The words struck upon Billy’s ears with a chill of horror. Starvation was in +the cabin. He had fallen among animals instead of men. He saw the thin-faced man +who had spoken for him sitting again on the edge of his bunk. Mutely he looked +to the others to see who was Sweedy. He was the young man who had clutched the +can of beans. It was he who was frying bacon over the sheet-iron stove.</P> +<P>“We’ll divvy, Henry and I,” he said. “I told you that last night.” He looked +over at Billy. “Glad you’re better,” he greeted. “You see, you’ve struck us at a +bad time. We’re on our last legs for grub. Our two Indians went out to hunt a +week ago and never came back. They’re dead, or gone, and we’re as good as dead +if the storm doesn’t let up pretty soon. You can have some of our grub— Henry’s +and mine.”</P> +<P>It was a cold invitation, lacking warmth or sympathy, and Billy felt that +even this man wished that he had died before he reached the cabin. But the man +was human; he had at least not cast his voice with the one that had wanted to +throw him back into the snow, and he tried to voice his gratitude and at the +same time to hide his hunger. He saw that there were three thin slices of bacon +in the frying-pan, and it struck him that it would be bad taste to reveal a +starvation appetite in the face of such famine. Bucky was looking straight at +him as he limped to his feet, and he was sure now that the man he had driven +from the Service had not recognized him. He approached Sweedy.</P> +<P>“You saved my life,” he said, holding out a hand. “Will you shake?”</P> +<P>Sweedy shook hands limply.</P> +<P>“It’s hell,” he said, in a low voice. “We’d have had beans this morning if I +hadn’t shook dice with him last night.” He nodded toward Bucky, who was cutting +open the top of a can. “He won!”</P> +<P>“My God—” began Billy.</P> +<P>He didn’t finish. Sweedy turned the meat, and added:</P> +<P>“He won a square meal off me yesterday— a quarter of a pound of bacon. Day +before that he won Henry’s last can of beans. He’s got his share under his +blanket over there, and swears he’ll shoot any one who goes to monkeyin’ with +his bed— so you’d better fight shy of it. Thompson— he isn’t up yet— chose the +whisky for <I>his</I> share, so you’d better fight shy of him, too. Henry and +I’ll divvy up with you.”</P> +<P>“Thanks,” said Billy, the one word choking him.</P> +<P>Henry came from his bunk, bent and wabbling. He looked like a dying man, and +for the first time Billy noticed that his hair was gray. He was a little man, +and his thin hands shook as he held them out over the stove and nodded to Billy. +Bucky had opened his can, and approached the stove with a pan of water, coming +in beside Billy without noticing him. He brought with him a foul odor of stale +tobacco smoke and whisky. After he had put his water over the fire he turned to +one of the bunks and with half a dozen coarse epithets roused Thompson, who sat +up stupidly, still half drunk. Henry had gone to a small table, and Sweedy +followed him with the bacon. Billy did not move. He forgot his hunger. His pulse +was beating quickly. Sensations filled him which he had never known or imagined +before. Was it possible that these were people of his own kind? Had a madness of +some sort driven all human instincts from them? He saw Thompson’s red eyes +fastened upon him, and he turned his face to escape their questioning, stupid +leer. Bucky was turning out the can of beans he had won. Beyond him the door +creaked, and Billy heard the wail of the storm. It came to him now as a friendly +sort of sound.</P> +<P>“Better draw up, pardner,” he heard Sweedy say. “Here’s your share.”</P> +<P>One of the thin slices of bacon and a hard biscuit were waiting for him on a +tin plate. He ate as ravenously as Henry and Sweedy, and drank a cup of hot tea. +In two minutes the meal was over. It was terribly inadequate. The few mouthfuls +of food stirred up all his craving, and he found it impossible to keep his eyes +from Bucky Smith and his beans. Bucky was the only one who seemed well fed, and +his horror increased when Henry bent over him and said, in a low whisper: “He +didn’t get my beans fair. I had three aces and a pair, of deuces, an’ he took it +on three fives and two sixes. When I objected he called me a liar an’ hit me. +Them’s my beans, or Sweedy’s!” There was something almost like murder in the +little man’s red eyes.</P> +<P>Billy remained silent. He did not care to talk or question. No one asked him +who he was or whence he came, and he felt no inclination to know more of the men +he had fallen among. Bucky finished, wiped his mouth with his hand, and looked +across at Billy.</P> +<P>“How about going out with me to get some wood?” he demanded.</P> +<P>“I’m ready,” replied Billy.</P> +<P>For the first time he took notice of himself. He was lame and sickeningly +weak, but apparently sound in other ways. The intense cold had not frozen his +ears or feet. He put on his heavy moccasins, his thick coat and fur cap, and +followed Bucky to the door. He was filled with a strange uneasiness. He was sure +that his old enemy had not recognized him, and yet he felt that recognition +might come at any moment. If Bucky recognized him— when they were out alone—</P> +<P>He was not afraid, but he shivered. He was too weak to put up a fight. He did +not catch the ugly leer which Bucky turned upon Thompson. But Henry did, and his +little eyes grew smaller and blacker. On snow-shoes the two men went out into +the storm, Bucky carrying an ax. He led the way through the bit of thin timber, +and across a wide open over which the storm swept so fiercely that their trail +was covered behind them as they traveled. Billy figured that they had gone a +quarter of a mile when they came to the edge of a ravine so steep that it was +almost a precipice. For the first time Bucky touched him. He seized him by the +arm, and in his voice there was an inhuman, taunting triumph.</P> +<P>“Didn’t think I knew you, did you, Billy?” he asked. “Well, I did, and I’ve +just been waiting to get you out alone. Remember my promise, Billy? I’ve +changed my mind since then. I ain’t going to kill you. It’s too risky. It’s +safer to let you die— by yourself— as you’re goin’ to die to-day or to-night. If +you come back to the cabin— I’ll shoot you!”</P> +<P>With a movement so quick that Billy had <I>no</I> chance to prepare himself +for it Bucky sent him plunging headlong down the side of the ravine. The deep +snow saved him in the long fall. For a few moments Billy lay stunned. Then he +staggered to his feet and looked up. Bucky was gone. His first thought was to +return to the cabin. He could easily find it and confront Bucky there before the +others. And yet he did not move. His inclination to go back grew less and less, +and after a brief hesitation he made up his mind to continue the struggle for +life by himself. After all, his situation would not be much more desperate than +that of the men he was leaving behind in the cabin. He buttoned himself up +closely, saw that his snow-shoes were securely fastened, and climbed the +opposite side of the ridge.</P> +<P>The timber thinned out again, and Billy struck out boldly into the low bush. +As he went he wondered what would happen in the cabin. He believed that Henry, +of the four, would not pull through alive, and that Bucky would come out best. +It was not until the following summer that he learned the facts of Henry’s +madness, and of the terrible manner in which he avenged himself on Bucky Smith +by sticking a knife under the latter’s ribs.</P> +<P>Billy now found himself in a position to measure the amount of energy +contained in a slice of bacon and a cold biscuit. It was not much. Long before +noon his old weakness was upon him again. He found even greater difficulty in +dragging his feet over the snow, and it seemed now as though all ambition had +left him, and that even the fighting spark was becoming disheartened. He made up +his mind to go on until the beginning of night, then he would stop, build a +fire, and go to sleep in its warmth.</P> +<P>During the afternoon he passed out of the scrub into a rougher country. His +progress was slower, but more comfortable, for at times he found himself +protected from the wind. A gloom darker and more somber than that of the storm +was falling about him when he came to what appeared to be the end of the Barren +country. The earth dropped away from under his feet, and far below him, in a +ravine shut out from wind and storm, he saw the black tops of thick spruce. He +began to scramble downward. His eyes were no longer fit to judge distance or +chance, and he slipped. He slipped a dozen times in the first five minutes, and +then there came the time when he did not make a recovery, but plunged down the +side of the mountain like a rock. He stopped with a terrific jar, and for the +first time during the fall he wanted to cry out with pain. But the voice that he +heard did not come from his own lips. It was another voice— and then two, three, +many of them, it seemed to him. His dazed eyes caught glimpses of dark objects +floundering in the deep snow about him, and just beyond these objects were four +or five tall mounds of snow, like tents, arranged in a circle. He knew what they +meant. He had fallen into an Indian camp. In his joy he tried to call out words +of greeting, but he had no tongue. Then the floundering figures caught him up, +and he was carried to the circle of snow mounds. The last that he knew was that +warmth was entering his lungs.</P> +<P>It was a face that he first saw after that, a face that seemed to come to him +slowly from out of night, approaching nearer and nearer until he knew that it +was a girl’s face, with great, dark, strangely shining eyes. In these first +moments of his returning consciousness the whimsical thought came to him that he +was dying and the face was a part of a pleasant dream. If that were not so, he +had fallen at last among friends. His eyes opened wider, he moved, and the face +drew back. Movement stimulated returning life, and reason rehabilitated itself +in great bounds. In a dozen flashes he went over all that had happened up to the +point where he had fallen down the mountain and into the Cree camp. Straight +above him he saw the funnel-like peak of a large birch wigwam, and beyond his +feet he saw an opening in the birch-bark wall through which there drifted a blue +film of smoke. He was in a wigwam. It was warm and exceedingly comfortable. +Wondering if he was hurt, he moved. The movement drew a sharp exclamation of +pain from him. It was the first real sound he had made, and in an instant the +face was over him again. He saw it plainly this time, with its dark eyes and +oval cheeks framed between two great braids of black hair. A hand touched his +brow, cool and gentle, and a low voice soothed him in half a dozen musical +words. The girl was a Cree.</P> +<P>At the sound of her voice an indian woman came up beside the girl, looked +down at him for a moment, and then went to the door of the wigwam, speaking in a +low voice to some one who was outside. When she returned a man followed in after +her. He was old and bent, and his face was thin. His cheek-bones shone, so +tightly was the skin drawn over them. Behind him came a younger man, as straight +as a tree, with strong shoulders and a head set like a piece of bronze +sculpture. This man carried in his hand a frozen fish, which he gave to the +woman. As he gave it to her he spoke words in Cree which Billy understood.</P> +<P><I>“It is the last fish.”</I></P> +<P>For a moment a terrible hand gripped at Billy’s heart and almost stopped its +beating. He saw the woman take the fish and cut it into two equal parts with a +knife, and one of these parts she dropped into a pot of boiling water which hung +over the stone fireplace built under the vent in the wall. <I>They were dividing +with him their last fish!</I> He made an effort and sat up. The younger man came +to him and put a bearskin at his back. He had picked up some of the patois of +half-blood French and English.</P> +<P>“You seek,” he said, “you hurt— and hungry! You have eat soon.”</P> +<P>He motioned with his hand to the boiling pot. There was not a flicker of +animation in his splendid face. There was something god-like in his immobility, +something that was awesome in the way he moved and breathed. He sat in silence +as the half of the last fish was brought by the girl; and not until Billy +stopped eating, choked by the knowledge that he was taking life from these +people, did he speak, and then it was to urge him to finish the fish. When he +had done, Billy spoke to the Indian in Cree. Instantly the Indian reached over +his hand, his face lighting up, and Billy gripped it hard. Mukoki told him what +had happened. There had been a camp of twenty-two, and there were now fifteen. +Seven had died— four men, two women, and one child. Each day during the great +storm the men had gone out on their futile search for game, and every few days +one of them had failed to return. Thus four had died. The dogs were eaten. Corn +and fish were gone; there remained but a little flour, and this was for the +women and the children. The men had eaten nothing but bark and roots for five +days. And there seemed to be no hope. It was death to stray far from camp. That +morning two men had set out for the nearest post, but Mukoki said calmly that +they would never return.</P> +<P>That night and the next day and the terrible night and day that followed were +filled with hours that Billy would never forget. He had sprained one hip badly +in his fall, and could not rise from the cot Mukoki was often at his side, his +face thinner, his eyes more lusterless. The second day, late in the afternoon, +there came a low wailing grief from one of the tepees, a moaning sound that +pitched itself to the key of the storm until it seemed to be a part of it. A +child had died, and the mother was mourning. That night another of the camp +huntsmen failed to return at dusk. But the next day there came at the same time +the end of both storm and famine. With dawn the sun shone. And early in the day +one of the hunters ran in from the forest nearly crazed with joy. He had +ventured farther away than the others, and had found a moose-yard. He had killed +two of the animals and brought with him meat for the first feast.</P> +<P>This last great storm of the winter of 1910 passed well into the “break-up” +season, and, once the temperature began to rise, the change was swift. Within a +week the snow was growing soft underfoot. Two days later Billy hobbled from his +cot for the first time. And then, in the passing of a single day and night, the +glory of the northern spring burst upon the wilderness. <I>The</I> sun rose warm +and golden. From the sides of the mountains and in the valleys water poured +forth in rippling, singing floods. The red bakneesh glowed on bared rocks. +Moose-birds and jays and wood-thrushes flitted about the camp, and the air was +filled with the fragrant smells of new life bursting from earth and tree and +shrub.</P> +<P>With return of health and strength Billy’s impatience to reach McTabb’s cabin +grew hourly. He would have set out before his hip was in condition to travel had +not Mukoki kept him back. At last the day came when he bade his forest friends +good-by and started into the south.</P> +<H4>XXIII</H4> +<H4>AT THE END OF THE TRAIL</H4> +<P>The long days and nights of inactivity which Billy had passed in the Indian +camp had given him the opportunity to think more calmly of the tragedy which had +come into his life, and with returning strength he had drawn himself partly out +from the pit of hopelessness and despair into which he had fallen. Deane was +dead. Isobel was dead. But the baby Isobel still lived; and in the hope of +finding and claiming her for his own he built other dreams for himself out of +the ashes of all that had gone for him. He believed that he would find McTabb at +the cabin and he would find the child there. So confident had he been that +Isobel would live that he had not told McTabb of the uncle who had driven her +from the old home in Montreal. He was glad that he had kept this to himself, for +there would not be much of a chance of Rookie having found the child’s relative. +And he made up his mind that he would not give the little Isobel up. He would +keep her for himself. He would return to civilization, for he would have her to +live for. He would build a home for her, with a garden and dogs and birds and +flowers. With his silver-claim money he had fifteen thousand dollars laid away, +and she would never know what it meant to be poor. He would educate her and buy +her a piano and she would have no end of pretty dresses and things to make her a +lady. They would be together and inseparable always, and when she grew up he +prayed deep down in his soul that she would be like the older Isobel, her +mother.</P> +<P>His grief was deep. He knew that he could never forget, and that the old +memories of the wilderness and of the woman he had loved would force themselves +upon him, year after year, with their old pain. But these new thoughts and plans +for the child made his grief less poignant.</P> +<P>It was late in the afternoon of a day that had been filled with sunlight and +the warmth of spring that he came to the Little Beaver, a short distance above +McTabb’s cabin. He almost ran from there to the clearing, and the sun was just +sinking behind the forest in the west when he paused on the edge of the break in +the forest and saw the cabin. It was from here that he had last seen little +Isobel. The bush behind which he had concealed himself was less than a dozen +paces away. He noticed this, and then he observed things which made his heart +sink in a strange, cold way. A path had led into the forest at the point where +he stood. Now it was almost obliterated by a tangle of last year’s weeds and +plants. Rookie must have made a new path, he thought. And then, fearfully, he +looked about the clearing and at the cabin. Everywhere there was the air of +desolation. There was no smoke rising from the chimney. The door was closed. +There were no evidences of life outside. Not the sound of a dog, of a laugh, or +of a voice broke the dead stillness.</P> +<P>Scarcely breathing, Billy advanced, his heart choked more and more by the +fear that gripped him. The door to the cabin was not barred. He opened it. There +was nothing inside. The old stove was broken. The bare cots had not been used +for months— perhaps for two years. As he took another step an ermine scampered +away ahead of him. He heard the mouselike squeal of its young a moment later +under the sapling floor. He went back to the door and stood in the open.</P> +<P>“My God!” he moaned.</P> +<P>He looked in the direction of Couchée’s cabin, where Isobel had died. Was +there a chance there, he wondered? There was little hope, but he started quickly +over the old trail. The gloom of evening fell swiftly about him. It was almost +dark when he reached the other clearing. And again his voice broke in a groaning +cry. There was no cabin here. McTabb had burned it after the passing of the +plague. Where it had stood was now a black and charred mass, already partly +covered by the verdure of the wilderness. Billy gripped his hands hard and +walked back from it searchingly. A few steps away he found what McTabb had told +him that he would find, a mound and a sapling cross. And then, in spite of all +the fighting strength that was in him, he flung himself down upon Isobel’s +grave, and a great, broken cry of grief burst from his lips.</P> +<P>When he raised his head a long time afterward the stars were shimmering in +the sky. It was a wonderfully still night, and all that he could hear was the +ripple and song of the spring floods in the Little Beaver. He rose silently to +his feet and stood for a few moments as motionless as a statue over the grave. +Then he turned and went back over the old trail, and from the edge of the +clearing he looked back and whispered to himself and to her:</P> +<P>“I’ll come back for you, Isobel. I’ll come back.”</P> +<P>At McTabb’s cabin he had left his pack. He put the straps over his shoulder +and started south again. There was but one move for him to make now. McTabb was +known at Le Pas. He got his supplies and sold his furs there. Some one at Le Pas +would know where he had gone with little Isobel.</P> +<P>Not until he was several miles distant from the scene of death and his own +broken hopes did he spread out his blanket and lie down for the night. He was up +and had breakfast at dawn. On the fourth day he came to the little wilderness +outpost— the end of rail— on the Saskatchewan. Within an hour he discovered that +Rookie McTabb had not been to Le Pas for nearly two years. No one had seen him +with a child. That same night a construction train was leaving for Etomami, down +on the main line, and Billy lost no time in making up his mind what he would do. +He would go to Montreal. If little Isobel was not there she was still somewhere +in the wilderness with McTabb. Then he would return, and he would find her if it +took him a lifetime.</P> +<P>Days and nights of travel followed, and during those days and nights Billy +prayed that he would not find her in Montreal. If by some chance McTabb had +discovered her relatives, if Isobel had revealed her secret to him before she +died, his last hope in life was gone. He did not think of wasting time in the +purchase of new clothes. That would have meant the missing of a train. He still +wore his wilderness outfit, even to his fur cap. As he traveled farther eastward +people began to regard him curiously. He got the porter to shave off his beard. +But his hair was long. His moccasins and German socks were ragged and torn, and +there were rents in his caribou-skin coat and his heavy Hudson’s Bay +sweater-shirt. The hardships he had gone through had left their lines in his +face. There was something about him, outside of his strange attire, that made +men look at him more than once. Women, more keenly observant than the men, saw +the deep-seated grief in his eyes. As he approached Montreal he kept himself +more and more aloof from the others.</P> +<P>When at last the train came to a stop at the big station in the heart of the +city he walked through the gates and strode up the hill toward Mount Royal. It +was an hour or more past noon, and he had eaten nothing since morning. But he +had no thought of hunger. Twenty minutes later he was at the foot of the street +on which Isobel had told him that she had lived. One by one he passed the old +houses of brick and stone, sheltered behind their solid walls. There had been no +change in the years since he had been there. Half-way up the hill to the base of +the mountain he saw an old gardener trimming ivy about an ancient cannon near a +driveway. He stopped and asked:</P> +<P>“Can you tell me where Geoffrey Renaud lives?”</P> +<P>The old gardener looked at him curiously for a moment without speaking. Then +he said:</P> +<P>“Renaud? Geoffrey Renaud? That is his house up there behind the red-sandstone +wall. Is it the house you want to see— or Renaud?”</P> +<P>“Both,” said Billy.</P> +<P>“Geoffrey Renaud has been dead for three years,” informed the gardener. “Are +you a— relative?”</P> +<P>“No, no,” cried Billy, trying to keep his voice steady as he asked the next +question. “There are others there. Who are they?”</P> +<P>The old man shook his head.</P> +<P>“I don’t know.”</P> +<P>“There is a little girl there— four— five years old, with golden hair—”</P> +<P>“She was playing in the garden when I came along a few moments ago,” replied +the gardener. “I heard her— with the dog—”</P> +<P>Billy waited to hear no more. Thanking his informant, he walked swiftly up +the hill to the red-sandstone wall. Before he came to the rusted iron gate he, +too, heard a child’s laughter, and it set his heart beating wildly. It was just +over the wall. In his eagerness he thrust the toe of his moccasined foot into a +break in the stone and drew himself up. He looked down into a great garden, and +a dozen steps away, close to a thick clump of shrubbery, he saw a child playing +with a little puppy. The sun gleamed in her golden hair. He heard her joyous +laughter; and then, for an instant, her face was turned toward him.</P> +<P>In that moment he forgot everything, and with a great, glad cry he drew +himself up and sprang to the ground on the other side.</P> +<P>“Isobel— Isobel— my little Isobel!”</P> +<P>He was beside her, on his knees, with her in his hungry arms, and for a brief +space the child was so frightened that she held her breath and stared at him +without a sound.</P> +<P>“Don’t you know me— don’t you know me—” he almost sobbed. “Little Mystery— +Isobel—”</P> +<P>He heard a sound, a strange, stifled cry, and he looked up. From behind the +shrubbery there had come a woman, and she was staring at Billy MacVeigh with a +face as white as chalk. He staggered to his feet, and he believed that at last +he had gone mad. For it was the vision of Isobel Deane that he saw there, and +her blue eyes were glowing at him as he had seen them for an instant that night +a long time ago on the edge of the Barren. He could not speak. And then, as he +staggered another step back toward the wall, he held out his ragged arms, +without knowing what he was doing, and called her name as he had spoken it a +hundred times at night beside his lonely campfires. Starvation, his injury, +weeks of illness, and his almost superhuman struggle to reach McTabb’s cabin, +and after that civilization, had consumed his last strength. For days he had +lived on the reserve forces of a nervous energy that slipped away from him now, +leaving him dizzy and swaying. He fought to overcome the weakness that seemed to +have taken the last ounce of strength from his exhausted body, but in spite of +his strongest efforts the sunlit garden suddenly darkened before his eyes. In +that moment the vision became real, and as he turned toward the wall Isobel +Deane called him by name; and in another moment she was at his side, clutching +him almost fiercely by the arms and calling him by name over and over again. The +weakness and dizziness passed from him in a moment, but in that space he seemed +only to realize that he must get back— over the wall.</P> +<P>“I wouldn’t have come— but— I— I— thought you were— dead,” he said. “They +told me— you were dead. I’m glad— glad— but I wouldn’t have come—”</P> +<P>She felt the weight of him for an instant on her arm. She knew the things +that were in his face— starvation, pain, the signs of ravage left behind by +fever. In these moments Billy did not see the wonderful look that had come into +her own face or the wonderful glow in her eyes.</P> +<P>“It was Indian Joe’s mother who died,” he heard her say. “And since then we +have been waiting— waiting— waiting— little Isobel and I. I went away north, to +David’s grave, and I saw what you had done, and what you had burned into the +wood. Some day, I knew, you’d come back to me. We’ve been waiting— for you—”</P> +<P>Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but Billy heard it; and all at once +his dizziness was gone, and he saw the sunlight shining in Isobel’s bright hair +and the look in her face and eyes.</P> +<P>“I’m sorry— sorry— so sorry I said what I did— about you— killing him,” she +went on. “You remember— I said that if I got well—”</P> +<P>“Yes—”</P> +<P>“And you thought I meant that if I got well you should go away— and you +promised— and kept your promise. But I couldn’t finish. It didn’t seem right— +then. I wanted to tell you— out there— that I was sorry— and that if I got well +you could come to me again— some day somewhere— and then—”</P> +<P>“Isobel!”</P> +<P>“And now— you may tell me again what you told me out on the Barren— a long +time ago.”</P> +<P>“Isobel— Isobel—”</P> +<P>“You understand”— she spoke softly— “you understand, it cannot happen now— +perhaps not for another year. But now”— she drew a little nearer— “you may kiss +me,” she said. “And then you must kiss little Isobel. And we don’t want you to +go very far away again. It’s lonely— terribly lonely all by ourselves in the +city— and we’re glad you’ve come— so glad—”</P> +<P>Her voice broke to a sobbing whisper, and as Billy opened his great, ragged +arms and caught her to him he heard that whisper again, saying, “We’re glad— +glad— glad you’ve come back to us.”</P> +<P>“And I— may— stay?”</P> +<P>She raised her face, glorious in its welcome.</P> +<P>“If you want me— still.”</P> +<P>At last he believed. But he could not speak. He bent his face to hers, and +for a moment they stood thus, while from behind the shrubbery came the sound of +little Isobel’s joyous laughter.</P> +<H4>THE END</H4> +<HR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Isobel, by James Oliver Curwood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISOBEL *** + +***** This file should be named 6715-h.htm or 6715-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/7/1/6715/ + +Produced by Norm Wolcott + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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