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An hour ago, under the marvelous canopy of the blue northern sky,David Carrigan, Sergeant in His Most Excellent Majesty's Royal NorthwestMounted Police, had hummed softly to himself, and had thanked God that hewas alive. He had blessed McVane, superintendent of "N" Division atAthabasca Landing, for detailing him to the mission on which he was bent.He was glad that he was traveling alone, and in the deep forest, and thatfor many weeks his adventure would carry him deeper and deeper into hisbeloved north. Making his noonday tea over a fire at the edge of theriver, with the green forest crowding like an inundation on three sidesof him, he had come to the conclusion—for the hundredth time,perhaps—that it was a nice thing to be alone in the world, for hewas on what his comrades at the Landing called a "bad assignment."
"If anything happens to me," Carrigan had said to McVane, "there isn'tanybody in particular to notify. I lost out in the matter of family along time ago."
He was not a man who talked much about himself, even to thesuperintendent of "N" Division, yet there were a thousand who loved DaveCarrigan, and many who placed their confidences in him. Superintendent MeVane had one story which he might have told, but he kept it to himself,instinctively sensing the sacredness of it. Even Carrigan did not knowthat the one thing which never passed his lips was known to McVane.
Of that, too, he had been thinking an hour ago. It was the thingwhich, first of all, had driven him into the north. And though it hadtwisted and disrupted the earth under his feet for a time, it had broughtits compensation. For he had come to love the north with a passionatedevotion. It was, in a way, his God. It seemed to him that the time hadnever been when he had lived any other life than this under the openskies. He was thirty-seven now. A bit of a philosopher, as philosophycomes to one in a sun-cleaned and unpolluted air, A good-humored brotherof humanity, even when he put manacles on other men's wrists; graying alittle over the temples—and a lover of life. Above all else he wasthat. A lover of life. A worshiper at the shrine of God's Country.
So he sat, that hour ago, deep in the wilderness eighty miles north ofAthabasca Landing, congratulating himself on the present conditions ofhis existence. A hundred and eighty miles farther on was Fort McMurray,and another two hundred beyond that was Chipewyan, and still beyond thatthe Mackenzie and its fifteen- hundred-mile trail to the northern sea. Hewas glad there was no end to this world of his. He was glad there werefew people in it. But these people he loved. That hour ago he had lookedout on the river as two York boats had forged up against the stream,craft like the long, slim galleys of old, brought over through theChurchill and Clearwater countries from Hudson's Bay. There were eightrowers in each boat. They were singing. Their voices rolled between thewalls of the forests. Their naked arms and shoulders glistened in thesun. They rowed like Vikings, and to him they were symbols of the freedomof the world. He had watched them until they were gone up-stream, but itwas a long time before the chanting of their voices had died away. Andthen he had risen from beside his tiny fire, and had stretched himselfuntil his muscles cracked. It was good to feel the blood running red andstrong in one's veins at the age of thirty-seven. For Carrigan felt thethrill of these days when strong men were coming out of the north—days when the glory of June hung over the land, when out of thedeep wilderness threaded by the Three Rivers came romance and courage andred-blooded men and women of an almost forgotten people to laugh and singand barter for a time with the outpost guardians of a younger and moreprogressive world. It was north of Fifty-Four, and the waters of acontinent flowed toward the Arctic Sea. Yet soon would the strawberriesbe crushing red underfoot; the forest road was in bloom, scarletfire-flowers reddened the trail, wild hyacinths and golden-freckledviolets played hide- and-seek with the forget-me-nots in the meadows, andthe sky was a great splash of velvety blue. It was the northtriumphant—at the edge of civilization; the north triumphant, andyet paying its tribute. For at the other end were waiting the royal UpperTen Thousand and the smart Four Hundred with all the beau monde behindthem, coveting and demanding that tribute to their sex—the silkenfurs of a far country, the life's blood and labor of a land infinitelybeyond the pale of drawing-rooms and the whims of fashion.
Carrigan had thought of these things that hour ago, as he sat at theedge of the first of the Three Rivers, the great Athabasca. From down theother two, the Slave and the Mackenzie, the fur fleets of the unmappedcountry had been toiling since the first breakups of ice. Steadily, weekafter week, the north had been emptying itself of its picturesque tide oflife and voice, of muscle and brawn, of laughter and song—andwealth. Through, long months of deep winter, in ten thousand shacks andtepees and cabins, the story of this June had been written as fate hadwritten it each winter for a hundred years or more. A story of thetriumph of the fittest. A story of tears, of happiness here and there, ofhunger and plenty, of new life and quick death; a story of strong men andstrong women, living in the faith of their forefathers, with the bestblood of old England and France still surviving in their veins.
Through those same months of winter, the great captains of trade inthe city of Edmonton had been preparing for the coming of the riverbrigades. The hundred and fifty miles of trail between that last cityoutpost of civilization and Athabasca Landing, the door that opened intothe North, were packed hard by team and dog- sledge and packer bringingup the freight that for another year was to last the forest people of theThree River country—a domain reaching from the Landing to theArctic Ocean. In competition fought the drivers of Revillon Brothers andHudson's Bay, of free trader and independent adventurer. Freight thatgrew more precious with each mile it advanced must reach the beginning ofthe waterway. It started with the early snows. The tide was at full bymidwinter. In temperature that nipped men's lungs it did not cease. Therewas no let-up in the whip-hands of the masters of trade at Edmonton,Winnipeg, Montreal, and London across the sea. It was not a work ofphilanthropy. These men cared not whether Jean and Jacqueline and Pierreand Marie were well-fed or hungry, whether they lived or died, so far ashumanity was concerned. But Paris, Vienna, London, and the great capitalsof the earth must have their furs—and unless that freight wentnorth, there would be no velvety offerings for the white shoulders of theworld. Christmas windows two years hence would be bare. A feminine wailof grief would rise to the skies. For woman must have her furs, and inreturn for those furs Jean and Jacqueline and Pierre and Marie must havetheir freight. So the pendulum swung, as it had swung for a century ortwo, touching, on the one side, luxury, warmth, wealth, and beauty; onthe other, cold and hardship, deep snows and open skies—with thatprecious freight the thing between.
And now, in this year before rail and steamboat, the glory of earlysummer was at hand, and the wilderness people were coming up to meet thefreight. The Three Rivers—the Athabasca, the Slave, and theMackenzie, all joining in one great two-thousand-mile waterway to thenorthern sea—were athrill with the wild impulse and beat of life asthe forest people lived it. The Great Father had sent in his treatymoney, and Cree song and Chipewyan chant joined the age-old melodies ofFrench and half-breed. Countless canoes drove past the slower andmightier scow brigades; huge York boats with two rows of oars heaved upand down like the ancient galleys of Rome; tightly woven cribs of timber,and giant rafts made tip of many cribs were ready for their long driftinto a timberless country. On this two-thousand-mile waterway a world hadgathered. It was the Nile of the northland, and each post and gatheringplace along its length was turned into a metropolis, half savage,archaic, splendid with the strength of red blood, clear eyes, and soulsthat read the word of God in wind and tree.
And up and down this mighty waterway of wilderness trade ran thewhispering spirit of song, like the voice of a mighty god heard under thestars and in the winds.
But it was an hour ago that David Carrigan had vividly pictured thesethings to himself close to the big river, and many things may happen inthe sixty minutes that follow any given minute in a man's life. That hourago his one great purpose had been to bring in Black Roger Audemard,alive or dead—Black Roger, the forest fiend who had destroyed halfa dozen lives in a blind passion of vengeance nearly fifteen years ago.For ten of those fifteen years it had been thought that Black Roger wasdead. But mysterious rumors had lately come out of the North. He wasalive. People had seen him. Fact followed rumor. His existence becamecertainty. The Law took up once more his hazardous trail, and DavidCarrigan was the messenger it sent.
"Bring him back, alive or dead," were Superintendent McVane's lastwords.
And now, thinking of that parting injunction, Carrigan grinned, evenas the sweat of death dampened his face in the heat of the afternoon sun.For at the end of those sixty minutes that had passed since his middaypot of tea, the grimly, atrociously unexpected had happened, like athunderbolt out of the azure of the sky.
Huddled behind a rock which was scarcely larger than his body,groveling in the white, soft sand like a turtle making a nest for itseggs, Carrigan told himself this without any reservation. He was, as hekept repeating to himself for the comfort of his soul, in a deuce of afix. His head was bare—simply because a bullet had taken his hataway. His blond hair was filled with sand. His face was sweating. But hisblue eyes were alight with a grim sort of humor, though he knew thatunless the other fellow's ammunition ran out he was going to die.
For the twentieth time in as many minutes he looked about him. He wasin the center of a flat area of sand. Fifty feet from him the rivermurmured gently over yellow bars and a carpet of pebbles. Fifty feet onthe opposite side of him was the cool, green wall of the forest. Thesunshine playing in it seemed like laughter to him now, a whimsical sortof merriment roused by the sheer effrontery of the joke which fate hadinflicted upon him.
Between the river and the balsam and spruce was only the rock behindwhich he was cringing like a rabbit afraid to take to the open. And hisrock was a mere up-jutting of the solid floor of shale that was underhim. The wash sand that covered it like a carpet was not more than fouror five inches deep. He could not dig in. There was not enough of itwithin reach to scrape up as a protection. And his enemy, a hundred yardsor so away, was a determined wretch—and the deadliest shot he hadever known.
Three times Carrigan had made experiments to prove this, for he had inmind a sudden rush to the shelter of the timber. Three times he hadraised the crown of his hat slightly above the top of the rock, and threetimes the marksmanship of the other had perforated it with neatness anddispatch. The third bullet had carried his hat a dozen feet away.Whenever he showed a patch of his clothing, a bullet replied withunerring precision. Twice they had drawn blood. And the humor faded outof Carrigan's eyes.
Not long ago he had exulted in the bigness and glory of this countryof his, where strong men met hand to hand and eye to eye. There were theother kind in it, the sort that made his profession of manhunting a thingof reality and danger, but he expected these—forgot them—whenthe wilderness itself filled his vision. But his present situation wassomething unlike anything that had ever happened in his previousexperience with the outlawed. He had faced dangers. He had fought. Therewere times when he had almost died. Fanchet, the half-breed who hadrobbed a dozen wilderness mail sledges, had come nearest to trapping himand putting him out of business. Fanchet was a desperate man and had fewscruples. But even Fanchet—before he was caught—would nothave cornered a man with such bloodthirsty unfairness as Carrigan foundhimself cornered now. He no longer had a doubt as to what was in theother's mind. It was not to wound and make merely helpless. It was tokill. It was not difficult to prove this. Careful not to expose a part ofhis arm or shoulder, he drew a white handkerchief from his pocket,fastened it to the end of his rifle, and held the flag of surrender threefeet above the rock. And then, with equal caution, he slowly thrust up aflat piece of shale, which at a distance of a hundred yards might appearas his shoulder or even his head. Scarcely was it four inches above thetop of the rock before there came the report of a rifle, and the shalewas splintered into a hundred bits.
Carrigan lowered his flag and gathered himself in tighter. Theaccuracy of the other's marksmanship was appalling. He knew that if heexposed himself for an instant to use his own rifle or the heavyautomatic in his holster, he would be a dead man before he could press atrigger. And that time, he felt equally sure, would come sooner or later.His muscles were growing cramped. He could not forever double himself uplike a four-bladed jackknife behind the altogether inefficient shelter ofthe rock.
His executioner was hidden in the edge of the timber, not directlyopposite him, but nearly a hundred yards down stream. Twenty times he hadwondered why the fiend with the rifle did not creep up through thattimber and take a good, open pot-shot at him from the vantage point whichlay at the end of a straight line between his rock and the nearest spruceand balsam. From that angle he could not completely shelter himself. Butthe man a hundred yards below had not moved a foot from his ambush sincehe had fired his first shot. That had come when Carrigan was crossing theopen space of soft, white sand. It had left a burning sensation at histemple— half an inch to the right and it would have killed him.Swift as the shot itself, he dropped behind the one protection at hand,the up-jutting shoulder of shale.
For a quarter of an hour he had been making efforts to wriggle himselffree from his bulky shoulder-pack without exposing himself to acoup-de-grace. At last he had the thing off. It was a tremendous reliefwhen he thrust it out beside the rock, almost doubling the size of hisshelter. Instantly there came the crash of a bullet in it, and thenanother. He heard the rattle of pans, and wondered if his skillet wouldbe any good after today.
For the first time he could wipe the sweat from his face and stretchhimself. And also he could think. Carrigan possessed an unalterable faithin the infallibility of the mind. "You can do anything with the mind,"was his code. "It is better than a good gun."
Now that he was physically more at ease, he began reassembling hisscattered mental faculties. Who was this stranger who was pot- shottingat him with such deadly animosity from the ambush below? Who—
Another crash of lead in tinware and steel put an unpleasant emphasisto the question. It was so close to his head that it made him wince, andnow—with a wide area within reach about him—he began scrapingup the sand for an added protection. There came a long silence after thatthird clatter of distress from his cooking utensils. To David Carrigan,even in his hour of deadly peril, there was something about it that foran instant brought back the glow of humor in his eyes. It was hot,swelteringly hot, in that packet of sand with the unclouded sun almoststraight overhead. He could have tossed a pebble to where a bright-eyedsandpiper was cocking itself backward and forward, its jerky movementsaccompanied by friendly little tittering noises. Everything about himseemed friendly. The river rippled and murmured in cooling song justbeyond the sandpiper. On the other side the still cooler forest was aparadise of shade and contentment, astir with subdued and hidden life. Itwas nesting season. He heard the twitter of birds. A tiny, brown woodwarbler fluttered out to the end of a silvery birch limb, and it seemedto David that its throat must surely burst with the burden of its song.The little fellow's brown body, scarcely larger than a butternut, wasswelling up like a round ball in his effort to vanquish all othersong.
"Go to it, old man," chuckled Carrigan. "Go to it!"
The little warbler, that he might have crushed between thumb andforefinger, gave him a lot of courage.
Then the tiny chorister stopped for breath. In that interval Carriganlistened to the wrangling of two vivid-colored Canada jays deeper in thetimber. Chronic scolds they were, never without a grouch. They were likesome people Carrigan had known, born pessimists, always finding somethingto complain about, even in their love days.
And these were love days. That was the odd thought that came toCarrigan as he lay half on his face, his fingers slowly and cautiouslyworking a loophole between his shoulder-pack and the rock. They were lovedays all up and down the big rivers, where men and women sang for joy,and children played, forgetful of the long, hard days of winter. And inforest, plain, and swamp was this spirit of love also triumphant over theland. It was the mating season of all feathered things. In countlessnests were the peeps and twitters of new life; mothers of first-born wereteaching their children to swim and fly; from end to end of the forestworld the little children of the silent places, furred and feathered,clawed and hoofed, were learning the ways of life. Nature's yearlybirthday was half-way gone, and the doors of nature's school wide open.And the tiny brown songster at the end of his birch twig proclaimed thejoy of it again, and challenged all the world to beat him in hisadulation.
Carrigan found that he could peer between his pack and the rock towhere the other warbler was singing—and where his enemy laywatching for the opportunity to kill. It was taking a chance. If amovement betrayed his loophole, his minutes were numbered. But he hadworked cautiously, an inch at a time, and was confident that thebeginning of his effort to fight back was, up to the present moment,undiscovered. He believed that he knew about where the ambushed man wasconcealed. In the edge of a low-hanging mass of balsam was a fallencedar. From behind the butt of that cedar he was sure the shots hadcome.
And now, even more cautiously than he had made the tiny opening, hebegan to work the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole. As he didthis he was thinking of Black Roger Audemard. And yet, almost as quicklyas suspicion leaped into his mind, he told himself that the thing wasimpossible. It could not be Black Roger, or one of Black Roger's friends,behind the cedar log. The idea was inconceivable, when he considered howcarefully the secret of his mission had been kept at the Landing. He hadnot even said goodby to his best friends. And because Black Roger had wonthrough all the preceding years, Carrigan was stalking his prey out ofuniform. There had been nothing to betray him. Besides, Black RogerAudemard must be at least a thousand miles north, unless something hadtempted him to come up the rivers with the spring brigades. If he usedlogic at all, there was but one conclusion for him to arrive at. The manin ambush was some rascally half-breed who coveted his outfit andwhatever valuables he might have about his person.
A fourth smashing eruption among his comestibles and culinarypossessions came to drive home the fact that even that analysis of thesituation was absurd. Whoever was behind the rifle fire had small respectfor the contents of his pack, and he was surely not in grievous need of agood gun or ammunition. A sticky mess of condensed cream was running overCarrigan's hand. He doubted if there was a whole tin in his kit.
For a few moments he lay quietly on his face after the fourth shot.His eyes were turned toward the river, and on the far side, a quarter ofa mile away, three canoes were moving swiftly up the slow current of thestream. The sunlight flashed on their wet sides. The gleam of drippingpaddles was like the flutter of silvery birds' wings, and across thewater came an unintelligible shout in response to the rifle shot. Itoccurred to David that he might make a trumpet of his hands and shoutback, but the distance was too great for his voice to carry its messagefor help. Besides, now that he had the added protection of the pack, hefelt a certain sense of humiliation at the thought of showing the whitefeather. A few minutes more, if all went well, and he would settle forthe man behind the log.
He continued again the slow operation of worming his rifle barrelbetween the pack and the rock. The near-sighted little sandpiper haddiscovered him and seemed interested in the operation. It had come adozen feet nearer, and was perking its head and seesawing on its longlegs as it watched with inquisitive inspection the unusual manifestationof life behind the rock. Its twittering note had changed to an occasionalsharp and querulous cry. Carrigan wanted to wring its neck. That cry toldthe other fellow that he was still alive and moving.
It seemed an age before his rifle was through, and every moment heexpected another shot. He flattened himself out, Indian fashion, andsighted along the barrel. He was positive that his enemy was watching,yet he could make out nothing that looked like a head anywhere along thelog. At one end was a clump of deeper foliage. He was sure he saw asudden slight movement there, and in the thrill of the moment was temptedto send a bullet into the heart of it. But he saved his cartridge. Hefelt the mighty importance of certainty. If he fired once—andmissed—the advantage of his unsuspected loophole would be gone. Itwould be transformed into a deadly menace. Even as it was, if his enemy'snext bullet should enter that way—
He felt the discomfort of the thought, and in spite of himself atremor of apprehension ran up his spine. He felt an even greater desireto wring the neck of the inquisitive little sandpiper. The creature hadcircled round squarely in front of him and stood there tilting its tailand bobbing its head as if its one insane desire was to look down thelength of his rifle barrel. The bird was giving him away. If the otherfellow was only half as clever as his marksmanship was good—
Suddenly every nerve in Carrigan's body tightened. He was positivethat he had caught the outline of a human head and shoulders in thefoliage. His finger pressed gently against the trigger of his Winchester.Before he breathed again he would have fired. But a shot from the foliagebeat him out by the fraction of a second. In that precious time lost, hisenemy's bullet entered the edge of his kit—and came through. Hefelt the shock of it, and in the infinitesimal space between the physicalimpact and the mental effect of shock his brain told him the horriblething had happened. It was his head—his face. It was as if he hadplunged them suddenly into hot water, and what was left of his skull wasfilled with the rushing and roaring of a flood. He staggered up,clutching his face with both hands. The world about him was twisted andblack, a dizzily revolving thing—yet his still fighting mentalvision pictured clearly for him a monstrous, bulging-eyed sandpiper asbig as a house. Then he toppled back on the white sand, his arms flungout limply, his face turned to the ambush wherein his murderer lay.
His body was clear of the rock and the pack, but there came no othershot from the thick clump of balsam. Nor, for a time, was there movement.The wood warbler was cheeping inquiringly at this sudden change in thedeportment of his friend behind the shoulder of shale. The sandpiper, abit startled, had gone back to the edge of the river and was running arace with himself along the wet sand. And the two quarrelsome jays hadbrought their family squabble to the edge of the timber.
It was their wrangling that roused Carrigan to the fact that he wasnot dead. It was a thrilling discovery—that and the fact that hemade out clearly a patch of sunlight in the sand. He did not move, butopened his eyes wider. He could see the timber. On a straight line withhis vision was the thick clump of balsam. And as he looked, the boughsparted and a figure came out. Carrigan drew a deep breath. He found thatit did not hurt him. He gripped the fingers of the hand that was underhis body, and they closed on the butt of his service automatic. He wouldwin yet, if God gave him life a few minutes longer.
His enemy advanced. As he drew nearer, Carrigan closed his eyes moreand more. They must be shut, and he must appear as if dead, when theother came up. Then, when the scoundrel put down his gun, as he naturallywould—his chance would be at hand. If a quiver of his eyes betrayedhim—
He closed them tight. Dizziness began to creep over him, and the firein his brain grew hot again. He heard footsteps, and they stopped in thesand close beside him. Then he heard a human voice. It did not speak inwords, but gave utterance to a strange and unnatural cry. With a mightyeffort Carrigan assembled his last strength. It seemed to him that hebrought himself up quickly, but his movement was slow, painful—theeffort of a man who might be dying. The automatic hung limply in hishand, its muzzle pointing to the sand. He looked up, trying to swing intoaction that mighty weight of his weapon. And then from his own lips, evenin his utter physical impotence, fell a cry of wonder and amazement.
His enemy stood there in the sunlight, staring down at him with big,dark eyes that were filled with horror. They were not the eyes of a man.David Carrigan, in this most astounding moment of his life, found himselflooking up into the face of a woman.
For a matter of twenty seconds—even longer it seemed to Carrigan—the life of these two was expressed in a vivid and unforgettabletableau. One half of it David saw—the blue sky, the dazzling sun,the girl in between. The pistol dropped from his limp hand, and theweight of his body tottered on the crook of his under-elbow. Mentally andphysically he was on the point of collapse, and yet in those few momentsevery detail of the picture was painted with a brush of fire in hisbrain. The girl was bareheaded. Her face was as white as any face he hadever seen, living or dead; her eyes were like pools that had caught thereflection of fire; he saw the sheen of her hair, the poise of herslender body—its shock, stupefaction, horror. He sensed thesethings even as his brain wobbled dizzily, and the larger part of thepicture began to fade out of his vision. But her face remained to thelast. It grew clearer, like a cameo framed in an iris—a beautiful,staring, horrified face with shimmering tresses of jet-black hair blowingabout it like a veil. He noticed the hair, that was partly undone as ifshe had been in a struggle of some sort, or had been running fast againstthe breeze that came up the river.
He fought with himself to hold that picture of her, to utter someword, make some movement. But the power to see and to live died out ofhim. He sank back with a queer sound in his throat. He did not hear theanswering cry from the girl as she flung herself, with a quick littleprayer for help, on her knees in the soft, white sand beside him. He feltno movement when she raised his head in her arm and with her bare handbrushed back his sand- littered hair, revealing where the bullet hadstruck him. He did not know when she ran back to the river.
His first sensation was of a cool and comforting something tricklingover his burning temples and his face. It was water. Subconsciously heknew that, and in the same way he began to think. But it was hard to pullhis thoughts together. They persisted in hopping about, like a lot ofsand-fleas in a dance, and just as he got hold of one and reached foranother, the first would slip away from him. He began to get the best ofthem after a time, and he had an uncontrollable desire to say something.But his eyes and his lips were sealed tight, and to open them, a littlearmy of gnomes came out of the darkness in the back of his head, each ofthem armed with a lever, and began prying with all their might. Afterthat came the beginning of light and a flash of consciousness.
The girl was working over him. He could feel her and hear hermovement. Water was trickling over his face. Then he heard a voice, closeover him, saying something in a sobbing monotone which he could notunderstand.
With a mighty effort he opened his eyes.
"Thank LE BON DIEU, you live, m'sieu," he heard the voice say, as ifcoming from a long distance away. "You live, you live—"
"Tryin' to," he mumbled thickly, feeling suddenly a sense of greatelation. "Tryin'—"
He wanted to curse the gnomes for deserting him, for as soon as theywere gone with their levers, his eyes and his lips shut tight again, orat least he thought they did. But he began to sense things in a curioussort of way. Some one was dragging him. He could feel the grind of sandunder his body. There were intervals when the dragging operation paused.And then, after a long time, he seemed to hear more than one voice. Therewere two—sometimes a murmur of them. And odd visions came to him.He seemed to see the girl with shining black hair and dark eyes, and thenswiftly she would change into a girl with hair like blazing gold. Thiswas a different girl. She was not like Pretty Eyes, as his twisted mindcalled the other. This second vision that he saw was like a radiant bitof the sun, her hair all aflame with the fire of it and her face adifferent sort of face. He was always glad when she went away and PrettyEyes came back.
To David Carrigan this interesting experience in his life might havecovered an hour, a day, or a month. Or a year for that matter, for heseemed to have had an indefinite association with Pretty Eyes. He hadknown her for a long time and very intimately, it seemed. Yet he had nomemory of the long fight in the hot sun, or of the river, or of thesinging warblers, or of the inquisitive sandpiper that had marked out theline which his enemy's last bullet had traveled. He had entered into anew world in which everything was vague and unreal except that vision ofdark hair, dark eyes, and pale, beautiful face. Several times he saw itwith marvelous clearness, and each time he drifted away into darknessagain with the sound of a voice growing fainter and fainter in hisears.
Then came a time of utter chaos and soundless gloom. He was in a pit,where even his subconscious self was almost dead under a crushingoppression. At last a star began to glimmer in this pit, a star pale andindistinct and a vast distance away. But it crept steadily up through theeternity of darkness, and the nearer it came, the less there was of theblackness of night. From a star it grew into a sun, and with the sun camedawn. In that dawn he heard the singing of a bird, and the bird was justover his head. When Carrigan opened his eyes, and understanding came tohim, he found himself under the silver birch that belonged to the woodwarbler.
For a space he did not ask himself how he had come there. He waslooking at the river and the white strip of sand. Out there were the rockand his dunnage pack. Also his rifle. Instinctively his eyes turned tothe balsam ambush farther down. That, too, was in a blaze of sunlightnow. But where he lay, or sat, or stood—he was not sure what he wasdoing at that moment—it was shady and deliciously cool. The greenof the cedar and spruce and balsam was close about him, inset with thesilver and gold of the thickly- leaved birch. He discovered that he wasbolstered up partly against the trunk of this birch and partly against aspruce sapling. Between these two, where his head rested, was a pile ofsoft moss freshly torn from the earth. And within reach of him was hisown kit pail filled with water.
He moved himself cautiously and raised a hand to his head. His fingerscame in contact with a bandage.
For a minute or two after that he sat without moving while his amazedsenses seized upon the significance of it all. In the first place he wasalive. But even this fact of living was less remarkable than the otherthings that had happened. He remembered the final moments of the unequalduel. His enemy had got him. And that enemy was a woman! Moreover, aftershe had blown away a part of his head and had him helpless in the sand,she had—in place of finishing him there—dragged him to thiscool nook and tied up his wound. It was hard for him to believe, but thepail of water, the moss behind his shoulders, the bandage, and certainvisions that were reforming themselves in his brain convinced him. Awoman had shot him. She had worked like the very devil to kill him. Andafterward she had saved him! He grinned. It was final proof that his mindhadn't been playing tricks on him. No one but a woman would have beenquite so unreasonable. A man would have completed the job.
He began to look for her up and down the white strip of sand. And inlooking he saw the gray and silver flash of the hard-working sandpiper.He chuckled, for he was exceedingly comfortable, and also exhilaratinglyhappy to know that the thing was over and he was not dead. If thesandpiper had been a man, he would have called him up to shake hands withhim. For if it hadn't been for the bird getting squarely in front of himand giving him away, there might have been a more horrible end to it all.He shuddered as he thought of the mighty effort he had made to fire ashot into the heart of the balsam ambush—and perhaps into the heartof a woman!
He reached for the pail and drank deeply of the water in it. He feltno pain. His dizziness was gone. His mind had grown suddenly clear andalert. The warmth of the water told him almost instantly that it had beentaken from the river some time ago. He observed the change in sun andshadows. With the instinct of a man trained to note details, he pulledout his watch. It was almost six o'clock. More than three hours hadpassed since the sandpiper had got in front of his gun. He did notattempt to rise to his feet, but scanned with slower and more carefulscrutiny the edge of the forest and the river. He had been mystifiedwhile cringing for his life behind the rock, but he was infinitely moreso now. Greater desire he had never had than this which thrilled him inthese present minutes of his readjustment—desire to look upon thewoman again. And then, all at once, there came back to him a mental flashof the other. He remembered, as if something was coming back to him outof a dream, how the whimsical twistings of his sick brain had made himsee two faces instead of one. Yet he knew that the first picture of hismysterious assailant, the picture painted in his brain when he had triedto raise his pistol, was the right one. He had seen her dark eyes aglow;he had seen the sunlit sheen of her black hair rippling in the wind; hehad seen the white pallor in her face, the slimness of her as she stoodover him in horror—he remembered even the clutch of her white handat her throat. A moment before she had tried to kill him. And then he hadlooked up and had seen her like that! It must have been someunaccountable trick in his brain that had flooded her hair with goldenfire at times.
His eyes followed a furrow in the white sand which led from where hesat bolstered against the tree down to his pack and the rock. It was thetrail made by his body when she had dragged him up to the shelter andcoolness of the timber. One of his laws of physical care was to keephimself trained down to a hundred and sixty, but he wondered how she haddragged up even so much as that of dead weight. It had taken a great dealof effort. He could see distinctly three different places in the sandwhere she had stopped to rest.
Carrigan had earned a reputation as the expert analyst of "N"Division. In delicate matters it was seldom that McVane did not take himinto consultation. He possessed an almost uncanny grip on the workingprocesses of a criminal mind, and the first rule he had set down forhimself was to regard the acts of omission rather than the oneoutstanding act of commission. But when he proved to himself that thechief actor in a drama possessed a normal rather than a criminal mind, hefound himself in the position of checkmate. It was a thrilling game. Andhe was frankly puzzled now, until—one after another—he addedup the sum total of what had been omitted in this instance of his ownpersonal adventure. Hidden in her ambush, the woman who had shot him hadbeen in both purpose and act an assassin. Her determination had been tokill him. She had disregarded the white flag with which he had pleadedfor mercy. Her marksmanship was of fiendish cleverness. Up to her lastshot she had been, to all intent and purpose, a murderess.
The change had come when she looked down upon him, bleeding andhelpless, in the sand. Undoubtedly she had thought he was dying. But why,when she saw his eyes open a little later, had she cried out hergratitude to God? What had worked the sudden transformation in her? Whyhad she labored to save the life she had so atrociously coveted a minutebefore?
If his assailant had been a man, Carrigan would have found an answer.For he was not robbed, and therefore robbery was not a motif. "A case ofmistaken identity," he would have told himself. "An error in visualjudgment."
But the fact that in his analysis he was dealing with a woman made hisanswer only partly satisfying. He could not disassociate himself from hereyes—their beauty, their horror, the way they had looked at him. Itwas as if a sudden revulsion had come over her; as if, looking down uponher bleeding handiwork, the woman's soul in her had revolted, and withthat revulsion had come repentance—repentance and pity.
"That," thought Carrigan, "would be just like a woman—andespecially a woman with eyes like hers."
This left him but two conclusions to choose from. Either there hadbeen a mistake, and the woman had shown both horror and desire to amendwhen she discovered it, or a too tender-hearted agent of Black RogerAudemard had waylaid him in the heart of the white strip of sand.
The sun was another hour lower in the sky when Carrigan assuredhimself in a series of cautious experiments that he was not in acondition to stand upon his feet. In his pack were a number of things hewanted—his blankets, for instance, a steel mirror, and thethermometer in his medical kit. He was beginning to feel a bit anxiousabout himself. There were sharp pains back of his eyes. His face was hot,and he was developing an unhealthy appetite for water. It was fever andhe knew what fever meant in this sort of thing, when one was alone. Hehad given up hope of the woman's return. It was not reasonable to expecther to come back after her furious attempt to kill him. She had bandagedhim, bolstered him up, placed water beside him, and had then left him towork out the rest of his salvation alone. But why the deuce hadn't shebrought up his pack?
On his hands and knees he began to work himself toward it slowly. Hefound that the movement caused him pain, and that with this pain, if hepersisted in movement, there was a synchronous rise of nausea. The twoseemed to work in a sort of unity. But his medicine case was importantnow, and his blankets, and his rifle if he hoped to signal help thatmight chance to pass on the river. A foot at a time, a yard at a time, hemade his way down into the sand. His fingers dug into the footprints ofthe mysterious gun- woman. He approved of their size. They were small andnarrow, scarcely longer than the palm and fingers of his hand—andthey were made by shoes instead of moccasins.
It seemed an interminable time to him before he reached his pack. Whenhe got there, a pendulum seemed swinging back and forth inside his head,beating against his skull. He lay down with his pack for a pillow,intending to rest for a spell. But the minutes added themselves one ontop of another. The sun slipped behind clouds banking in the west. Itgrew cooler, while within him he was consumed by a burning thirst. Hecould hear the ripple of running water, the laughter of it among pebblesa few yards away. And the river itself became even more desirable thanhis medicine case, or his blankets, or his rifle. The song of it,inviting and tempting him, blotted thought of the other things out of hismind. And he continued his journey, the swing of the pendulum in his headbecoming harder, but the sound of the river growing nearer. At last hecame to the wet sand, and fell on his face, and drank.
After this he had no great desire to go back. He rolled himself over,so that his face was turned up to the sky. Under him the wet sand wassoft, and it was comfortingly cool. The fire in his head died out. Hecould hear new sounds in the edge of the forest evening sounds. Only weaklittle twitters came from the wood warblers, driven to silence bythickening gloom in the densely canopied balsams and cedars, andfrightened by the first low hoots of the owls. There was a crash not fardistant, probably a porcupine waddling through brush on his way for adrink; or perhaps it was a thirsty deer, or a bear coming out in the hopeof finding a dead fish. Carrigan loved that sort of sound, even when apendulum was beating back and forth in his head. It was like medicine tohim, and he lay with wide-open eyes, his ears picking up one afteranother the voices that marked the change from day to night. He heard thecry of a loon, its softer, chuckling note of honeymoon days. From acrossthe river came a cry that was half howl, half bark. Carrigan knew that itwas coyote, and not wolf, a coyote whose breed had wandered hundreds ofmiles north of the prairie country.
The gloom gathered in, and yet it was not darkness as the darkness ofnight is known a thousand miles south. It was the dusky twilight of daywhere the sun rises at three o'clock in the morning and still throws itsruddy light in the western sky at nine o'clock at night; where the poplarbuds unfold themselves into leaf before one's very eyes; wherestrawberries are green in the morning and red in the afternoon; where, alittle later, one could read newspaper print until midnight by the glowof the sun— and between the rising and the setting of that sunthere would be from eighteen to twenty hours of day. It was evening timein the wonderland of the north, a wonderland hard and frozen and riddenby pain and death in winter, but a paradise upon earth in this month ofJune.
The beauty of it filled Carrigan's soul, even as he lay on his back inthe damp sand. Far south of him steam and steel were coming, and theworld would soon know that it was easy to grow wheat at the ArcticCircle, that cucumbers grew to half the size of a man's arm, that flowerssmothered the land and berries turned it scarlet and black. He haddreaded these days—days of what he called "the greatdiscovery"—the time when a crowded civilization would at lastunderstand how the fruits of the earth leaped up to the call of twentyhours of sun each day, even though that earth itself was eternally frozenif one went down under its surface four feet with a pick and shovel.
Tonight the gloom came earlier because of the clouds in the west. Itwas very still. Even the breeze had ceased to come from up the river. Andas Carrigan listened, exulting in the thought that the coolness of thewet sand was drawing the fever from him, he heard another sound. At firsthe thought it was the splashing of a fish. But after that it came again,and still again, and he knew that it was the steady and rhythmic dip ofpaddles.
A thrill shot through him, and he raised himself to his elbow. Duskcovered the river, and he could not see. But he heard low voices as thepaddles dipped. And after a little he knew that one of these was thevoice of a woman.
His heart gave a big jump. "She is coming back," he whispered tohimself. "She is coming back!"
Carrigan's first impulse, sudden as the thrill that leaped throughhim, was to cry out to the occupants of the unseen canoe. Words were onhis lips, but he forced them back. They could not miss him, could not getbeyond the reach of his voice—and he waited. After all, there mightbe profit in a reasonable degree of caution. He crept back toward hisrifle, sensing the fact that movement no longer gave him very greatdistress. At the same time he lost no sound from the river. The voiceswere silent, and the dip, dip, dip of paddles was approaching softly andwith extreme caution. At last he could barely hear the trickle of them,yet he knew the canoe was coming steadily nearer. There was a suspicioussecretiveness in its approach. Perhaps the lady with the beautiful eyesand the glistening hair had changed her mind again and was returning toput an end to him.
The thought sharpened his vision. He saw a thin shadow a little darkerthan the gloom of the river; it grew into shape; something grated lightlyupon sand and pebbles, and then he heard the guarded plash of feet inshallow water and saw some one pulling the canoe up higher. A secondfigure joined the first. They advanced a few paces and stopped. In amoment a voice called softly,
"M'sieu! M'sieu Carrigan!"
There was an anxious note in the voice, but Carrigan held his tongue.And then he heard the woman say,
"It was here, Bateese! I am sure of it!"
There was more than anxiety in her voice now. Her words trembled withdistress. "Bateese—if he is dead—he is up there close to thetrees."
"But he isn't dead," said Carrigan, raising himself a little. "He ishere, behind the rock again!"
In a moment she had run to where he was lying, his hand clutching thecold barrel of the pistol which he had found in the sand, his white facelooking up at her. Again he found himself staring into the glow of hereyes, and in that pale light which precedes the coming of stars and moonthe fancy struck him that she was lovelier than in the full radiance ofthe sun. He heard a throbbing note in her throat. And then she was downon her knees at his side, leaning close over him, her hands groping athis shoulders, her quick breath betraying how swiftly her heart wasbeating.
"You are not hurt—badly?" she cried.
"I don't know," replied David. "You made a perfect shot. I think apart of my head is gone. At least you've shot away my balance, because Ican't stand on my feet!"
Her hand touched his face, remaining there for an instant, and thepalm of it pressed his forehead. It was like the touch of cool velvet, hethought. Then she called to the man named Bateese. He made Carrigan thinkof a huge chimpanzee as he came near, because of the shortness of hisbody and the length of his arms. In the half light he might have been ahuge animal, a hulking creature of some sort walking upright. Carrigan'sfingers closed more tightly on the butt of his automatic. The woman beganto talk swiftly in a patois of French and Cree. David caught the gist ofit. She was telling Bateese to carry him to the canoe, and to be verycareful, because m'sieu was badly hurt. It was his head, she emphasized.Bateese must be careful of his head.
David slipped his pistol into its holster as Bateese bent over him. Hetried to smile at the woman to thank her for her solicitude—afterhaving nearly killed him. There was an increasing glow in the night, andhe began to see her more plainly. Out on the middle of the river was asilvery bar of light. The moon was coming up, a little pale as yet, buttriumphant in the fact that clouds had blotted out the sun an hour beforehis time. Between this bar of light and himself he saw the head ofBateese. It was a wild, savage-looking head, bound pirate- fashion roundthe forehead with a huge Hudson's Bay kerchief. Bateese might have beenold Jack Ketch himself bending over to give the final twist to a victim'sneck. His long arms slipped under David. Gently and without effort heraised him to his feet. And then, as easily as he might have lifted achild, he trundled him up in his arms and walked off with him over thesand.
Carrigan had not expected this. He was a little shocked and felt alsothe impropriety of the thing. The idea of being lugged off like a babywas embarrassing, even in the presence of the one who had deliberatelyput him in his present condition. Bateese did the thing with such beastlyease. It was as if he was no more than a small boy, a runt with no weightwhatever, and Bateese was a man. He would have preferred to stagger alongon his own feet or creep on his hands and knees, and he grunted as muchto Bateese on the way to the canoe. He felt, at the same time, that thesituation owed him something more of discussion and explanation. Evennow, after half killing him, the woman was taking a rather high-handedadvantage of him. She might at least have assured him that she had made amistake and was sorry. But she did not speak to him again. She saidnothing more to Bateese, and when the half-breed deposited him in themidship part of the canoe, facing the bow, she stood back in silence.Then Bateese brought his pack and rifle, and wedged the pack in behindhim so that he could sit upright. After that, without pausing to askpermission, he picked up the woman and carried her through the shallowwater to the bow, saving her the wetting of her feet.
As she turned to find her paddle her face was toward David, and for amoment she was looking at him.
"Do you mind telling me who you are, and where we are going?" heasked.
"I am Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain," she said. "My brigade is down theriver, M'sieu Carrigan."
He was amazed at the promptness of her confession, for as one of theworking factors of the long arm of the police he accepted it as that. Hehad scarcely expected her to divulge her name after the cold-blooded wayin which she had attempted to kill him. And she had spoken quite calmlyof "my brigade." He had heard of the Boulain Brigade. It was a nameassociated with Chipewyan, as he remembered it—or Fort McMurray. Hewas not sure just where the Boulain scows had traded freight with theupper-river craft. Until this year he was positive they had not come asfar south as Athabasca Landing. Boulain—Boulain—The namerepeated itself over and over in his mind. Bateese shoved off the canoe,and the woman's paddle dipped in and out of the water beginning toshimmer in moonlight. But he could not, for a time, get himself beyondthe pounding of that name in his brain. It was not merely that he hadheard the name before. There was something significant about it.Something that made him grope back in his memory of things. Boulain! Hewhispered it to himself, his eyes on the slender figure of the womanahead of him, swaying gently to the steady sweep of the paddle in herhands. Yet he could think of nothing. A feeling of irritation swept overhim, disgust at his own mental impotency. And the dizzying sickness wasbrewing in his head again.
"I have heard that name—somewhere—before," he said. Therewas a space of only five or six feet between them, and he spoke withstudied distinctness.
"Possibly you have, m'sieu."
Her voice was exquisite, clear as the note of a bird, yet so soft andlow that she seemed scarcely to have spoken. And it was, Carriganthought, criminally evasive—under the circumstances. He wanted herto turn round and say something. He wanted, first of all, to ask her whyshe had tried to kill him. It was his right to demand an explanation. Andit was his duty to get her back to the Landing, where the law would askan accounting of her. She must know that. There was only one way in whichshe could have learned his name, and that was by prying into hisidentification papers while he was unconscious. Therefore she not onlyknew his name, but also that he was Sergeant Carrigan of the RoyalNorthwest Mounted Police. In spite of all this she was apparently notvery deeply concerned. She was not frightened, and she did not appear tobe even slightly excited.
He leaned nearer to her, the movement sending a sharp pain between hiseyes. It almost drew a cry from him, but he forced himself to speakwithout betraying it.
"You tried to murder me—and almost succeeded. Haven't youanything to say?"
"Not now, m'sieu—except that it was a mistake. and I am sorry.But you must not talk. You must remain quiet. I am afraid your skull isfractured."
Afraid his skull was fractured! And she expressed her fear in thecasual way she might have spoken of a toothache. He leaned back againsthis dunnage sack and closed his eyes. Probably she was right. These fitsof dizziness and nausea were suspicious. They made him top-heavy andfilled him with a desire to crumple up somewhere. He was clear-mindedlyconscious of this and of his fight against the weakness. But in thosemoments when he felt better and his head was clear of pain, he had notseriously thought of a fractured skull. If she believed it, why did shenot treat him a bit more considerately? Bateese, with that strength of anox in his arms, had no use for her assistance with the paddle. She mightat least have sat facing him, even if she refused to explain matters moredefinitely.
A mistake, she called it. And she was sorry for him! She had madethose statements in a matter-of-fact way, but with a voice that was likemusic. She had spoken perfect English, but in her words were theinflection and velvety softness of the French blood which must be runningred in her veins. And her name was Jeanne Marie- Anne Boulain!
With eyes closed, Carrigan called himself an idiot for thinking ofthese things at the present time. Primarily he was a man-hunter out onimportant duty, and here was duty right at hand, a thousand miles southof Black Roger Audemard, the wholesale murderer he was after. He wouldhave sworn on his life that Black Roger had never gone at a killing moredeliberately than this same Jeanne Marie- Anne Boulain had gone after himbehind the rock!
Now that it was all over, and he was alive, she was taking himsomewhere as coolly and as unexcitedly as though they were returning froma picnic. Carrigan shut his eyes tighter and wondered if he was thinkingstraight. He believed he was badly hurt, but he was as strongly convincedthat his mind was clear. And he lay quietly with his head against thepack, his eyes closed, waiting for the coolness of the river to drive hisnausea away again.
He sensed rather than felt the swift movement of the canoe. There wasno perceptible tremor to its progress. The current and a perfectcraftsmanship with the paddles were carrying it along at six or sevenmiles an hour. He heard the rippling of water that at times was almostlike the tinkling of tiny bells, and more and more bell-like became thatsound as he listened to it. It struck a certain note for him. And to thatnote another added itself, until in the purling rhythm of the river hecaught the murmuring monotone of a nameBoulain—Boulain—Boulain. The name became an obsession. Itmeant something. And he knew what it meant—if he could only whiphis memory back into harness again. But that was impossible now. When hetried to concentrate his mental faculties, his head achedterrifically.
He dipped his hand into the water and held it over his eyes. For halfan hour after that he did not raise his head. In that time not a word wasspoken by Bateese or Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. For the forest people itwas not an hour in which to talk. The moon had risen swiftly, and thestars were out. Where there had been gloom, the world was now a flood ofgold and silver light. At first Carrigan allowed this to filter betweenhis fingers; then he opened his eyes. He felt more evenly balancedagain.
Straight in front of him was Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. The curtain ofdusk had risen from between them, and she was full in the radiance of themoon. She was no longer paddling, but was looking straight ahead. ToCardigan her figure was exquisitely girlish as he saw it now. She wasbareheaded, as he had seen tier first, and her hair hung down her backlike a shimmering mass of velvety sable in the star-and-moon glow.Something told Carrigan she was going to turn her face in his direction,and he dropped his hand over his eyes again, leaving a space between thefingers. He was right in his guess. She fronted the moon, looking at himclosely—rather anxiously, he thought. She even leaned a littletoward him that she might see more clearly. Then she turned and resumedher paddling.
Carrigan was a bit elated. Probably she had looked at him a number oftimes like that during the past half-hour. And she was disturbed. She wasworrying about him. The thought of being a murderess was beginning tofrighten her. In spite of the beauty of her eyes and hair and the slimwitchery of her body he had no sympathy for her. He told himself that hewould give a year of his life to have her down at Barracks this minute.He would never forget that three-quarters of an hour behind the rock, notif he lived to be a hundred. And if he did live, she was going to pay,even if she was lovelier than Venus and all the Graces combined. He feltirritated with himself that he should have observed in such a silly waythe sable glow of her hair in the moonlight. And her eyes. What the deucedid prettiness matter in the present situation? The sister of Fanchet,the mail robber, was beautiful, but her beauty had failed to saveFanchet. The Law had taken him in spite of the tears in Carmin Fanchet'sbig black eyes, and in that particular instance he was the Law. AndCarmin Fanchet was pretty—deucedly pretty. Even the Old Man's hearthad been stirred by her loveliness.
"A shame!" he had said to Carrigan. "A shame!" But the rascallyFanchet was hung by the neck until he was dead.
Carrigan drew himself up slowly until he was sitting erect. Hewondered what Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain would say if he told her aboutCarmin. But there was a big gulf between the names Fanchet and Boulain.The Fanchets had come from the dance halls of Alaska. They were bad, bothof them. At least, so they had judged Carmin Fanchet—along with herbrother. And Boulain—
His hand, in dropping to his side, fell upon the butt of his pistol.Neither Bateese nor the girl had thought of disarming him. It wascareless of them, unless Bateese was keeping a good eye on him frombehind.
A new sort of thrill crept into Carrigan's blood. He began to seewhere he had made a huge error in not playing his part more cleverly. Itwas this girl Jeanne who had shot him. It was Jeanne who had stood overhim in that last moment when he had made an effort to use his pistol. Itwas she who had tried to murder him and who had turned faint-hearted whenit came to finishing the job. But his knowledge of these things he shouldhave kept from her. Then, when the proper moment came, he would have beenin a position to act. Even now it might be possible to cover his blunder.He leaned toward her again, determined to make the effort.
"I want to ask your pardon," he said. "May I?"
His voice startled her. It was as if the stinging tip of a whip- lashhad touched her bare neck. He was smiling when she turned. In her faceand eyes was a relief which she made no effort to repress.
"You thought I might be dead," he laughed softly. "I'm not, MissJeanne. I'm very much alive again. It was that accursed fever—and Iwant to ask your pardon! I think—I know—that I accused you ofshooting me. It's impossible. I couldn't think of it—In my clearmind. I am quite sure that I know the rascally half-breed who pot-shotted me like that. And it was you who came in time, and frightened himaway, and saved my life. Will you forgive me—and accept mygratitude?"
There came into the glowing eyes of the girl a reflection of his ownsmile. It seemed to him that he saw the corners of her mouth tremble alittle before she answered him.
"I am glad you are feeling better, m'sieu."
"And you will forgive me for—for saying such beastly things toyou?"
She was lovely when she smiled, and she was smiling at him now. "Ifyou want to be forgiven for lying, yes," she said. "I forgive you that,because it is sometimes your business to lie. It was I who tried to killyou, m'sieu. And you know it."
"But—"
"You must not talk, m'sieu. It is not good for you: Bateese, will youtell m'sieu not to talk?"
Carrigan heard a movement behind him.
"M'sieu, you will stop ze talk or I brak hees head wit' ze paddle inmy han'!" came the voice of Bateese close to his shoulder. "Do I mak' zeword plain so m'sieu compren'?"
"I get you, old man," grunted Carrigan. "I get you—both!"
And he leaned back against his dunnage-sack, staring again at thewitching slimness of the lovely Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain as she calmlyresumed her paddling in the bow of the canoe.
In the few minutes following the efficient and unexpected warning ofBateese an entirely new element of interest entered into the situationfor David Carrigan. He had more than once assured himself that he hadmade a success of his profession of man- hunting not because he wasbrighter than the other fellow, but largely because he possessed a senseof humor and no vanities to prick. He was in the game because he lovedthe adventure of it. He was loyal to his duty, but he was not aworshipper of the law, nor did he covet the small monthly stipend ofdollars and cents that came of his allegiance to it. As a member of theScarlet Police, and especially of "N" Division, he felt the pulse andthrill of life as he loved to live it. And the greatest of all thrillscame when he was after a man as clever as himself, or cleverer.
This time it was a woman—or a girl! He had not yet made up hismind which she was. Her voice, low and musical, her poise, and thetranquil and unexcitable loveliness of her face had made him, at first,register her as a woman. Yet as he looked at the slim girlishness of herfigure in the bow of the canoe, accentuated by the soft sheen of herpartly unbraided hair, he wondered if she were eighteen or thirty. Itwould take the clear light of day to tell him. But whether a girl or awoman, she had handled him so cleverly that the unpleasantness of hisearlier experience began to give way slowly to an admiration for hercapability.
He wondered what the superintendent of "N" Division would say if hecould see Black Roger Audemard's latest trailer propped up here in thecenter of the canoe, the prisoner of a velvety-haired but dangerouslyefficient bit of feminine loveliness—and a bull- necked,chimpanzee-armed half-breed!
Bateese had confirmed the suspicion that he was a prisoner, eventhough this mysterious pair were bent on saving his life. Why it wastheir desire to keep life in him when only a few hours ago one of themhad tried to kill him was a. question which only the future could answer.He did not bother himself with that problem now. The present wasaltogether too interesting, and there was but little doubt that otherdevelopments equally important were close at hand. The attitude of bothJeanne Marie-Anne Boulain and her piratical-looking henchman wassufficient evidence of that. Bateese had threatened to knock his headoff, and he could have sworn that the girl—or woman—hadsmiled her approbation of the threat. Yet he held no grudge againstBateese. An odd sort of liking for the man began to possess him, just ashe found himself powerless to resist an ingrowing admiration forMarie-Anne. The existence of Black Roger Audemard became with him a sortof indefinite reality. Black Roger was a long way off. Marie-Anne andBateese were very near. He began thinking of her as Marie-Anne. He likedthe name. It was the Boulain part of it that worked in him with anirritating insistence.
For the first time since the canoe journey had begun, he looked beyondthe darkly glowing head and the slender figure in the bow. It was asplendid night. Ahead of him the river was like a rippling sheet ofmolten silver. On both sides, a quarter of a mile apart, rose the wallsof the forest, like low-hung, oriental tapestries. The sky seemed near,loaded with stars, and the moon, rising with almost perceptible movementtoward the zenith, had changed from red to a mellow gold. Carrigan's soulalways rose to this glory of the northern light. Youth and vigor, he toldhimself, must always exist under those unpolluted lights of the upperworlds, the unspeaking things which had told him more than he had everlearned from the mouths of other men. They stood for his religion, hisfaith, his belief in the existence of things greater than theinsignificant spark which animated his own body. He appreciated them mostwhen there was stillness. And tonight it was still. It was so quiet thatthe trickling of the paddles was like subdued music. From the forestthere came no sound. Yet he knew there was life there, wide-eyed,questing life, life that moved on velvety wing and padded foot, just ashe and Marie-Anne and the half-breed Bateese were moving in the canoe. Tohave called out in this hour would have taken an effort, for a supremeand invisible Hand seemed to have commanded stillness upon the earth.
And then there came droning upon his ears a break in the stillness,and as he listened, the shores closed slowly in, narrowing the channeluntil he saw giant masses of gray rock replacing the thick verdure ofbalsam, spruce, and cedar. The moaning grew louder, and the rocks climbedskyward until they hung in great cliffs. There could be but one meaningto this sudden change. They were close to LE SAINT-ESPRITRAPIDE—the Holy Ghost Rapids. Carrigan was astonished. That day atnoon he had believed the Holy Ghost to be twenty or thirty miles belowhim. Now they were at its mouth, and he saw that Bateese and JeanneMarie-Anne Boulain were quietly and unexcitedly preparing to run thatvicious stretch of water. Unconsciously he gripped the gunwales of thecanoe with both hands as the sound of the rapids grew into low and sullenthunder. In the moonlight ahead he could see the rock walls closing inuntil the channel was crushed between two precipitous ramparts, and themoon and stars, sending their glow between those walls, lighted up afrothing path of water that made Carrigan hold his breath. He would haveportaged this place even in broad day.
He looked at the girl in the bow. The slender figure Was a little moreerect, the glowing head held a little higher. In those moments he wouldhave liked to see her face, the wonderful something that must be in hereyes as she rode fearlessly into the teeth of the menace ahead. For hecould see that she was not afraid, that she was facing this thing with asort of exultation, that there was something about it which thrilled heruntil every drop of blood in her body was racing with the impetus of thestream itself. Eddies of wind puffing out from between the chasm wallstossed her loose hair about her back in a glistening veil. He saw a longstrand of it trailing over the edge of the canoe into the water. It madehim shiver, and he wanted to cry out to Bateese that he was a fool forrisking her life like this. He forgot that he was the one helplessindividual in the canoe, and that an upset would mean the end for him,while Bateese and his companion might still fight on. His thought and hisvision were focused on the girl—and what lay straight ahead. A massof froth, like a windrow of snow, rose up before them, and the canoeplunged into it with the swiftness of a shot. It spattered in his face,and blinded him for an instant. Then they were out of it, and he fanciedhe heard a note of laughter from the girl in the bow. In the next breathhe called himself a fool for imagining that. For the run was dead ahead,and the girl became vibrant with life, her paddle flashing in and out,while from her lips came sharp, clear cries which brought from Eateesefrog-like bellows of response. The walls shot past; inundations rose andplunged under them; black rocks whipped with caps of foam raced up-streamwith the speed of living things; the roar became a drowning voice, andthen—as if outreached by the wings of a swifter thing—droppedsuddenly behind them. Smoother water lay ahead. The channel broadened.Moonlight filled it with a clearer radiance, and Carrigan saw the girl'shair glistening wet, and her arms dripping.
For the first time he turned about and faced Bateese. The half- breedwas grinning like a Cheshire cat!
"You're a confoundedly queer pair!" grunted Carrigan, and he turnedabout again to find Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain as unconcerned as thoughrunning the Holy Ghost Rapids in the glow of the moon was nothing morethan a matter of play.
It was impossible for him to keep his heart from beating a littlefaster as he watched her, even though he was trying to regard her in amost professional sort of way. He reminded himself that she was aniniquitous little Jezebel who had almost murdered him. Carmin Fanchet hadbeen like her, an AME DAMNEE—a fallen angel— but his businesswas not sympathy in such matters as these. At the same time he could notresist the lure of both her audacity and her courage, and he foundhimself all at once asking himself the amazing question as to what herrelationship might be to Bateese. It occurred to him rather unpleasantlythat there had been something distinctly proprietary in the way thehalf-breed had picked her up on the sand, and that Bateese had shown nohesitation a little later in threatening to knock his head off unless hestopped talking to her. He wondered if Bateese was a Boulain.
The two or three minutes of excitement in the boiling waters of theHoly Ghost had acted like medicine on Carrigan. It seemed to him thatsomething had given way in his head, relieving him of an oppression thathad been like an iron hoop drawn tightly about his skull. He did not wantBateese to suspect this change in him, and he slouched lower against thedunnage-pack with his eyes still on the girl. He was finding itincreasingly difficult to keep from looking at her. She had resumed herpaddling, and Bateese was putting mighty efforts in his strokes now, sothat the narrow, birchbark canoe shot like an arrow with thedown-sweeping current of the river. A few hundred yards below was a twistin the channel, and as the canoe rounded this, taking the shoreward curvewith dizzying swiftness, a wide, still straight-water lay ahead. And fardown this Carrigan saw the glow of fires.
The forest had drawn back from the river, leaving in its place abroken tundra of rock and shale and a wide strip of black sand along theedge of the stream itself. Carrigan knew what it was—an upheaval ofthe tar-sand country so common still farther north, the beginning of thattreasure of the earth which would some day make the top of the Americancontinent one of the Eldorados of the world. The fires drew nearer, andsuddenly the still night was broken by the wild chanting of men. Davidheard behind him a choking note in the throat of Bateese. A soft wordcame from the lips of the girl, and it seemed to Carrigan that her headwas held higher in the moon glow. The chant increased in volume, arhythmic, throbbing, savage music that for a hundred and fifty years hadcome from the throats of men along the Three Rivers. It thrilled Carriganas they bore down upon it. It was not song as civilization would havecounted song. It was like an explosion, an exultation of human voiceunchained, ebullient with the love of life, savage in its good-humor. Itwas LE GAITE DE COEUR of the rivermen, who thought and sang as theirforefathers did in the days of Radisson and good Prince Rupert; it wastheir merriment, their exhilaration, their freedom and optimism, reachingup to the farthest stars. In that song men were straining their vocalmuscles, shouting to beat out their nearest neighbor, bellowing likebulls in a frenzy of sudden fun. And then, as suddenly as it had risen inthe night, the clamor of voices died away. A single shout came up theriver. Carrigan thought he heard a low rumble of laughter. A tin panbanged against another. A dog howled. The flat of an oar played a tattoofor a moment on the bottom of a boat. Then one last yell from a singlethroat—and the night was silent again.
And that was the Boulain Brigade—singing at this hour of thenight, when men should have been sleeping if they expected to be up withthe sun. Carrigan stared ahead. Shortly his adventure would take a newtwist. Something was bound to happen when they got ashore. The peculiarglow of the fires had puzzled him. Now he began to understand. JeanneMarie-Anne Boulain's men were camped in the edge of the tar-sands and hadlighted a number of natural gas-jets that came up out of the earth. Manytimes he had seen fires like these burning up and down the Three Rivers.He had lighted fires of his own; he had cooked over them and hadafterward had the fun and excitement of extinguishing them with pails ofwater. But he had never seen anything quite like this that was unfoldingitself before his eyes now. There were seven of the fires over an area ofhalf an acre—spouts of yellowish flame burning like giant torchesten or fifteen feet in the air. And between them he very soon made outgreat bustle and activity. Many figures were moving about. They lookedlike dwarfs at first, gnomes at play in a little world made out ofwitchcraft. But Bateese was sending the canoe nearer with powerfulstrokes, and the figures grew taller, and the spouts of flame higher.Then he knew what was happening. The Boulain men were taking advantage ofthe cool hours of the night and were tarring up.
He could smell the tar, and he could see the big York boats drawn upin the circle of yellowish light. There were half a dozen of them, andmen stripped to the waist were smearing the bottoms of the boats withboiling tar and pitch. In the center was a big, black cauldron steamingover a gas-jet, and between this cauldron and the boats men were runningback and forth with pails. Still nearer to the huge kettle other men werefilling a row of kegs with the precious black GOUDRON that oozed up fromthe bowels of the earth, forming here and there jet-black pools thatCarrigan could see glistening in the flare of the gas-lamps. He figuredthere were thirty men at work. Six big York boats were turned keel up inthe black sand. Close inshore, just outside the circle of light, was asingle scow.
Toward this scow Bateese sent the canoe. And as they drew nearer,until the laboring men ashore were scarcely a stone's throw away, theweirdness of the scene impressed itself more upon Carrigan. Never had heseen such a crew. There were no Indians among them. Lithe, quick-moving,bare-headed, their naked arms and shoulders gleaming in the ghostlyillumination, they were racing against time with the boiling tar andpitch in the cauldron. They did not see the approach of the canoe, andBateese did not draw their attention to it. Quietly he drove thebirchbark under the shadow of the big bateau. Hands were waiting to seizeand steady it. Carrigan caught but a glimpse of the faces. In anotherinstant the girl was aboard the scow, and Bateese was bending over him. Asecond time he was picked up like a child in the chimpanzee-like arms ofthe half-breed. The moonlight showed him a scow bigger than he had everseen on the upper river, and two-thirds of it seemed to be cabin. Intothis cabin Bateese carried him, and in darkness laid him upon whatCarrigan thought must be a cot built against the wall. He made no sound,but let himself fall limply upon it. He listened to Bateese as he movedabout, and closed his eyes when Bateese struck a match. A moment later heheard the door of the cabin close behind the half-breed. Not until thendid he open his eyes and sit up.
He was alone. And what he saw in the next few moments drew anexclamation of amazement from him. Never had he seen a cabin like this onthe Three Rivers. It was thirty feet long if an inch, and at least eightfeet wide. The walls and ceiling were of polished cedar; the floor was ofcedar closely matched. It was the exquisite finish and craftsmanship ofthe woodwork that caught his eyes first. Then his astonished sensesseized upon the other things. Under his feet was a soft rug of dark greenvelvet. Two magnificent white bearskins lay between him and the end ofthe room. The walls were hung with pictures, and at the four windows werecurtains of ivory lace draped with damask. The lamp which Bateese hadlighted was fastened to the wall close to him. It was of polished silverand threw a brilliant light softened by a shade of old gold. There werethree other lamps like this, unlighted. The far end of the room was indeep shadow, but Carrigan made out the thing he was staring at—apiano. He rose to his feet, disbelieving his eyes, and made his waytoward it. He passed between chairs. Near the piano was another door, anda wide divan of the same soft, green upholstery. Looking back, he sawthat what he had been lying upon was another divan. And dose to this werebook-shelves, and a table on which were magazines and papers and awoman's workbasket, and in the workbasket—sound asleep—acat!
And then, over the table and the sleeping cat, his eyes rested upon atriangular banner fastened to the wall. In white against a background ofblack was a mighty polar bear holding at bay a horde of Arctic wolves.And suddenly the thing he had been fighting to recall came toCarrigan—the great bear—the fighting wolves—the crestof St. Pierre Boulain!
He took a quick step toward the table—then caught at the back ofa chair. Confound his head! Or was it the big bateau rocking under hisfeet? The cat seemed to be turning round in its basket. There were half adozen banners instead of one; the lamp was shaking in its bracket; thefloor was tilting, everything was becoming hideously contorted and out ofplace. A shroud of darkness gathered about him, and through that darknessCarrigan staggered blindly toward the divan. He reached it just in timeto fall upon it like a dead man.
For what seemed to be an interminable time after the final breakdownof his physical strength David Carrigan lived in a black world where ahorde of unseen little devils were shooting red-hot arrows into hisbrain. He did not sense the fact of human presence; nor that the divanhad been changed into a bed and the four lamps lighted, and thatwrinkled, brown hands with talon-like fingers were performing a miracleof wilderness surgery upon him. He did not see the age-old face ofNepapinas—"The Wandering Bolt of Lightning"—as the bent andtottering Cree called upon all his eighty years of experience to bringhim back to life. And he did not see Bateese, stolid-faced, silent, northe dead-white face and wide-open, staring eyes of Jeanne Marie-AnneBoulain as her slim, white fingers worked with the old medicine man's. Hewas in a gulf of blackness that writhed with the spirits of torment. Hefought them and cried out against them, and his fighting and his criesbrought the look of death itself into the eyes of the girl who was overhim. He did not hear her voice nor feel the soothing of her hands, northe powerful grip of Bateese as he held him when the critical momentscame. And Nepapinas, like a machine that had looked upon death a thousandtimes, gave no rest to his claw-like fingers until the work wasdone—and it was then that something came to drive thearrow-shooting devils out of the darkness that was smotheringCarrigan.
After that Carrigan lived through an eternity of unrest, a life inwhich he seemed powerless and yet was always struggling for supremacyover things that were holding him down. There were lapses in it, like thehours of oblivion that come with sleep, and there were other times whenhe seemed keenly alive, yet unable to move or act. The darkness gave wayto flashes of light, and in these flashes he began to see things,curiously twisted, fleeting, and yet fighting themselves insistently uponhis senses. He was back in the hot sand again, and this time he heard thevoices of Jeanne Marie-Anne and Golden-Hair, and Golden-Hair flaunted abanner in his face, a triangular pennon of black on which a huge bear wasfighting white Arctic wolves, and then she would run away from him,crying out—"St. Pierre Boulain—St. Pierre Boulain—" andthe last he could see of her was her hair flaming like fire in the sun.But it was always the other—the dark hair and dark eyes —thatcame to him when the little devils returned to assault him with theirarrows. From somewhere she would come out of darkness and frighten themaway. He could hear her voice like a whisper in his ears, and the touchof her hands comforted him and quieted his pain. After a time he grew tobe afraid when the darkness swallowed her up, and in that darkness hewould call for her, and always he heard her voice in answer.
Then came a long oblivion. He floated through cool space away from theimps of torment; his bed was of downy clouds, and on these clouds hedrifted with a great shining river under him; and at last the cloud hewas in began to shape itself into walls and on these walls were pictures,and a window through which the sun was shining, and a blackpennon—and he heard a soft, wonderful music that seemed to come tohim faintly from another world. Other creatures were at work in his brainnow. They were building up and putting together the loose ends of things.Carrigan became one of them, working so hard that frequently a pair ofdark eyes came out of the dawning of things to stop him, and quietinghands and a voice soothed him to rest. The hands and the voice becamevery intimate. He missed them when they were not near, especially thehands, and he was always groping for them to make sure they had not goneaway.
Only once after the floating cloud transformed itself into the wallsof the bateau cabin did the chaotic darkness of the sands fully possesshim again. In that darkness he heard a voice. It was not the voice ofGolden-Hair, or of Bateese, or of Jeanne Marie- Anne. It was close to hisears. And in that darkness that smothered him there was somethingterrible about it as it droned slowly thewords—"HAS-ANY-ONE-SEEN-BLACK-ROGER-AUDEMARD?" He tried to answer,to call back to it, and the voice came again, repeating the words,emotionless, hollow, as if echoing up out of a grave. And still harder hestruggled to reply to it, to say that he was David Carrigan, and that hewas out on the trail of Black Roger Audemard, and that Black Roger wasfar north. And suddenly it seemed to him that the voice changed into theflesh and blood of Black Roger himself, though he could not see in thedarkness— and he reached out, gripping fiercely at the warmsubstance of flesh, until he heard another voice, the voice of JeanneMarie- Anne Boulain, entreating him to let his victim go. It was thistime that his eyes shot open, wide and seeing, and straight over him wasthe face of Jeanne Marie-Anne, nearer him than it had been even in thevisionings of his feverish mind. His fingers were clutching hershoulders, gripping like steel hooks.
"M'sieu—M'sieu David!" she was crying.
For a moment he stared; then his hands and fingers relaxed, and hisarms dropped limply. "Pardon—I—I was dreaming," he struggledweakly. "I thought—"
He had seen the pain in her face. Now, changing swiftly, it lighted upwith relief and gladness. His vision, cleared by long darkness, saw thechange come in an instant like a flash of sunshine. And then—sonear that he could have touched her—she was smiling down into hiseyes. He smiled back. It took an effort, for his face felt stiff andunnatural.
"I was dreaming—of a man—named Roger Audemard," hecontinued to apologize. "Did I—hurt you?"
The smile on her lips was gone as swiftly as it had come. "A little,m'sieu. I am glad you are better. You have been very sick."
He raised a hand to his face. The bandage was there, and also astubble of beard on his cheeks. He was puzzled. This morning he hadfastened his steel mirror to the side of a tree and shaved.
"It was three days ago you were hurt," she said quietly. "This is theafternoon of the third day. You have been in a great fever. Nepapinas, myIndian doctor, saved your life. You must lie quietly now. You have beentalking a great deal."
"About—Black Roger?" he said.
She nodded.
"And—Golden—Hair?"
"Yes, of Golden—Hair."
"And—some one else—with dark hair—and darkeyes—"
"It may be, m'sieu."
"And of little devils with bows and arrows, and of polar bears, andwhite wolves, and of a great lord of the north who calls himself St.Pierre Boulain?"
"Yes, of all those."
"Then I haven't anything more to tell you," grunted David. "I guessI've told you all I know. You shot me, back there. And here I am. Whatare you going to do next?"
"Call Bateese," she answered promptly, and she rose swiftly frombeside him and moved toward the door.
He made no effort to call her back. His wits were working slowly,readjusting themselves after a carnival in chaos, and he scarcely sensedthat she was gone until the cabin door closed behind her. Then again heraised a hand to his face and felt his beard. Three days! He turned hishead so that he could take in the length of the cabin. It was filled withsubdued sunlight now, a western sun that glowed softly, giving depth andrichness to the colors on the floor and walls, lighting up the pianokeys, suffusing the pictures with a warmth of life. David's eyes traveledslowly to his own feet. The divan had been opened and transformed into abed. He was undressed. He had on somebody's white nightgown. And therewas a big bunch of wild roses on the table where three days ago the cathad been sleeping in the work-basket. His head cleared swiftly, and heraised himself a little on one elbow, with extreme caution, and listened.The big bateau was not moving. It was still tied up, but he could hear novoices out where the tar-sands were.
He dropped back on his pillow, and his eyes rested on the blackpennon. His blood stirred again as he looked at the white bear and thefighting wolves. Wherever men rode the waters of the Three Rivers thatpennon was known. Yet it was not common. Seldom was it seen, and neverhad it come south of Chipewyan. Many things came to Carrigan now, thingsthat he had heard at the Landing and up and down the rivers. Once he hadread the tail-end of a report the Superintendent of "N" Division had sentin to headquarters.
"We do not know this St. Pierre. Few men have seen him out of his owncountry, the far headwaters of the Yellowknife, where he rules like agreat overlord. Both the Yellowknives and the Dog Ribs call him KICHEOOKIMOW, or King, and the same rumors say there is never starvation orplague in his regions; and it is fact that neither the Hudson's Bay norRevillon Brothers in their cleverest generalship and trade have been ableto uproot his almost dynastic jurisdiction. The Police have had no reasonto investigate or interfere."
At least that was the gist of what Carrigan had read in McVane'sreport. But he had never associated it with the name of Boulain. It wasof St. Pierre that he had heard stories, St. Pierre and his black pennonwith its white bear and fighting wolves. And so—it was St. PierreBOULAIN!
He closed his eyes and thought of the long winter weeks he had passedat Hay River Post, watching for Fanchet, the mail robber. It was there hehad heard most about this St. Pierre, and yet no one he had talked withhad ever seen him; no one knew whether he was old or young, a pigmy or agiant. Some stories said that he was strong, that he could twist agun-barrel double in his hands; others said that he was old, very old, sothat he never set forth with his brigades that brought down each year atreasure of furs to be exchanged for freight. And never did a Dog Rib ora Yellowknife open his mouth about KICHEOO KIMOW St. Pierre, the masterof their unmapped domains. In that great country north and west of theGreat Slave he remained an enigma and a sphinx. If he ever came out withhis brigades, he did not disclose his identity, so that if one saw afleet of boats or canoes with the St. Pierre pennon, one had to make hisown guess whether St. Pierre himself was there or not. But these thingswere known—that the keenest, quickest, and strongest men in thenorthland ran the St. Pierre brigades, that they brought out the richestcargoes of furs, and that they carried back with them into the secretfastnesses of their wilderness the greatest cargoes of freight thattreasure could buy. So much the name St. Pierre dragged out of Carrigan'smemory. It came to him now why the name "Boulain" had pounded soinsistently in his brain. He had seen this pennon with its white bear andfighting wolves only once before, and that had been over a Boulain scowat Chipewyan. But his memory had lost its grip on that incident whileretaining vividly its hold on the stories and rumors of the mystery-man,St. Pierre.
Carrigan pulled himself a little higher on his pillow and with a newinterest scanned the cabin. He had never heard of Boulain women. Yet herewas the proof of their existence and of the greatness that ran in the redblood of their veins. The history of the great northland, hidden in thedust-dry tomes and guarded documents of the great company, had alwaysbeen of absorbing interest to him. He wondered why it was that theoutside world knew so little about it and believed so little of what itheard. A long time ago he had penned an article telling briefly the storyof this half of a great continent in which for two hundred years romanceand tragedy and strife for mastery had gone on in a way to thrill thehearts of men. He had told of huge forts with thirty- foot stonebastions, of fierce wars, of great warships that had fired theirbroadsides in battle in the ice-filled waters of Hudson's Bay. He haddescribed the coming into this northern world of thousands and tens ofthousands of the bravest and best-blooded men of England and France, andhow these thousands had continued to come, bringing with them the namesof kings, of princes, and of great lords, until out of the savagery ofthe north rose an aristocracy of race built up of the strongest men ofthe earth. And these men of later days he had called Lords of theNorth—men who had held power of life and death in the hollow oftheir hands until the great company yielded up its suzerainty to theGovernment of the Dominion in 1870; men who were kings in their domains,whose word was law, who were more powerful in their wilderness castlesthan their mistress over the sea, the Queen of Britain.
And Carrigan, after writing of these things, had stuffed hismanuscript away in the bottom of his chest at barracks, for he believedthat it was not in his power to do justice to the people of thiswilderness world that he loved. The powerful old lords were gone. Likedethroned monarchs, stripped to the level of other men, they lived in thememories of what had been. Their might now lay in trade. No more couldthey set out to wage war upon their rivals with powder and ball. Keenwit, swift dogs, and the politics of barter had taken the place ofdeadlier things. LE FACTEUR could no longer slay or command that othersbe slain. A mightier hand than his now ruled the destinies of thenorthern people—the hand of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.
It was this thought, the thought that Law and one of the powerfulforces of the wilderness had met in this cabin of the big bateau, thatcame to Carrigan as he drew himself still higher against his pillow. Agreater thrill possessed him than the thrill of his hunt for Black RogerAudemard. Black Roger was a murderer, a wholesale murderer and a fiend, aMoloch for whom there could be no pity. Of all men the Law wanted BlackRoger most, and he, David Carrigan, was the chosen one to consummate itsdesire. Yet in spite of that he felt upon him the strange unrest of agreater adventure than the quest for Black Roger. It was like animpending thing that could not be seen, urging him, rousing his facultiesfrom the slough into which they had fallen because of his wound andsickness. It was, after all, the most vital of all things, a matter ofhis own life. Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain had tried to kill himdeliberately, with malice and intent. That she had saved him afterwardonly added to the necessity of an explanation, and he was determined thathe would have that explanation and settle the present matter before heallowed another thought of Black Roger to enter his head.
This resolution reiterated itself in his mind as the machine-likevoice of duty. He was not thinking of the Law, and yet the consciousnessof his accountability to that Law kept repeating itself. In the very faceof it Carrigan knew that something besides the moral obligation of thething was urging him, something that was becoming deeply and dangerouslypersonal. At least—he tried to think of it as dangerous. And thatdanger was his unbecoming interest in the girl herself. It was aninterest distinctly removed from any ethical code that might havegoverned him in his experience with Carmin Fanchet, for instance.Comparatively, if they had stood together, Carmin would have been thelovelier. But he would have looked longer at Jeanne Marie-AnneBoulain.
He conceded the point, smiling a bit grimly as he continued to studythat part of the cabin which he could see from his pillow. He had lostinterest—temporarily at least—in Black Roger Audemard. Notlong ago the one question to which, above all others, he had desired ananswer was, why had Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain worked so desperately tokill him and so hard to save him afterward? Now, as he looked about him,the question which repeated itself insistently was, what relationship didshe bear to this mysterious lord of the north, St. Pierre?
Undoubtedly she was his daughter, for whom St. Pierre had built thisluxurious barge of state. A fierce-blooded offspring, he thought, onelike Cleopatra herself, not afraid to kill—and equally quick tomake amends when there was a mistake.
There came the quiet opening of the cabin door to break in upon histhought. He hoped it was Jeanne Marie-Anne returning to him. It wasNepapinas. The old Indian stood over him for a moment and put a cold,claw-like hand to his forehead. He grunted and nodded his head, hislittle sunken eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Then he put his handsunder David's arms and lifted him until he was sitting upright, withthree or four pillows at his back.
"Thanks," said Carrigan. "That makes me feel better. And—if youdon't mind—my last lunch was three days ago, boiled prunes and apiece of bannock—"
"I have brought you something to eat, M'sieu David," broke in a softvoice behind him.
Nepapinas slipped away, and Jeanne Marie-Anne stood in his place.David stared up at her, speechless. He heard the door close behind theold Indian. Then Jeanne Marie-Anne drew up a chair, so that for the firsttime he could see her clear eyes with the light of day full upon her.
He forgot that a few days ago she had been his deadliest enemy. Heforgot the existence of a man named Black Roger Audemard. Her slimnesswas as it had pictured itself to him in the hot sands. Her hair was as hehad seen it there. It was coiled upon her head like ropes of spun silk,jet-black, glowing softly. But it was her eyes he stared at, and so fixedwas his look that the red lips trembled a bit on the verge of a smile.She was not embarrassed. There was no color in the clear whiteness of herskin, except that redness of her lips.
"I thought you had black eyes," he said bluntly. "I'm glad youhaven't. I don't like them. Yours are as brown as—as—"
"Please, m'sieu," she interrupted him, sitting down close beside him."Will you eat—now?"
A spoon was at his mouth, and he was forced to take it in or have itscontents spilled over him. The spoon continued to move quickly betweenthe bowl and his mouth. He was robbed of speech. And the girl's eyes, assurely as he was alive, were beginning to laugh at him. They were awonderful brown, with little, golden specks in them, like the freckles hehad seen in wood-violets. Her lips parted. Between their bewitchingredness he saw the gleam of her white teeth. In a crowd, with herglorious hair covered and her eyes looking straight ahead, one would nothave picked her out. But close, like this, with her eyes smiling at him,she was adorable.
Something of Carrigan's thoughts must have shown in his face, forsuddenly the girl's lips tightened a little, and the warmth went out ofher eyes, leaving them cold and distant. He finished the soup, and sherose again to her feet.
"Please don't go," he said. "If you do, I think I shall get up andfollow. I am quite sure I am entitled to a little something more thansoup."
"Nepapinas says that you may have a bit of boiled fish for supper,"she assured him.
"You know I don't mean that. I want to know why you shot me, and whatyou think you are going to do with me."
"I shot you by mistake—and—I don't know just what to dowith you," she said, looking at him tranquilly, but with what he thoughtwas a growing shadow of perplexity in her eyes. "Bateese says to fasten abig stone to your neck and throw you in the river. But Bateese doesn'talways mean what he says. I don't think he is quite asbloodthirsty—"
"—As the young lady who tried to murder me behind the rock,"Carrigan interjected.
"Exactly, m'sieu. I don't think he would throw you into the river—unless I told him to. And I don't believe I am going to ask him todo that," she added, the soft glow flashing back into her eyes for aninstant. "Not after the splendid work Nepapinas has done on your head.St. Pierre must see that. And then, if St. Pierre wishes to finish you,why—" She shrugged her slim shoulders and made a little gesturewith her hands.
In that same moment there came over her a change as sudden as thepassing of light itself. It was as if a thing she was hiding had brokenbeyond her control for an instant and had betrayed her. The gesture died.The glow went out of her eyes, and in its place came a light that wasalmost fear—or pain. She came nearer to Carrigan again, andsomehow, looking up at her, he thought of the little brush warblersinging at the end of its birch twig to give him courage. It must havebeen because of her throat, white and soft, which he saw pulsing like abeating heart before she spoke to him.
"I have made a terrible mistake, m'sieu David," she said, her voicebarely rising above a whisper. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I thought it wassome one else behind the rock. But I can not tell you more thanthat—ever. And I know it is impossible for us to be friends." Shepaused, one of her hands creeping to her bare throat, as if to cover thethrobbing he had seen there.
"Why is it impossible?" he demanded, leaning away from his pillows sothat he might bring himself nearer to her.
"Because—you are of the police, m'sieu."
"The police, yes," he said, his heart thrumming inside his breast. "Iam Sergeant Carrigan. I am out after Roger Audemard, a murderer. But mycommission has nothing to do with the daughter of St. Pierre Boulain.Please—let's be friends—"
He held out his hand; and in that moment David Carrigan placed anotherthing higher than duty—and in his eyes was the confession of it,like the glow of a subdued fire. The girl's fingers drew more closely ather throat, and she made no movement to accept his hand.
"Friends," he repeated. "Friends—in spite of the police."
Slowly the girl's eyes had widened, as if she saw that new-born thingriding over all other things in his swiftly beating heart. And afraid ofit, she drew a step away from him.
"I am not St. Pierre Boulain's daughter," she said, forcing the wordsout one by one. "I am—his wife."
Afterward Carrigan wondered to what depths he had fallen in the firstmoments of his disillusionment. Something like shock, perhaps even morethan that, must have betrayed itself in his face. He did not speak.Slowly his outstretched arm dropped to the white counterpane. Later hecalled himself a fool for allowing it to happen, for it was as if he hadmeasured his proffered friendship by what its future might hold for him.In a low, quiet voice Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain was saying again that shewas St. Pierre's wife. She was not excited, yet he understood now why itwas he had thought her eyes were very dark. They had changed swiftly. Theviolet freckles in them were like little flecks of gold. They were almostliquid in their glow, neither brown nor black now, and with that threatof gathering lightning in them. For the first time he saw the slightestflush of color in her cheeks. It deepened even as he held out his handagain. He knew that it was not embarrassment. It was the heat of the fireback of her eyes. "It's—funny," he said, making an effort to redeemhimself with a lie and smiling. "You rather amaze me. You see, I havebeen told this St. Pierre is an old, old man—so old that he can'tstand on his feet or go with his brigades, and if that is the truth, itis hard for me to picture you as his wife. But that isn't a reason why weshould not be friends. Is it?"
He felt that he was himself again, except for the three days' growthof beard on his face. He tried to laugh, but it was rather a poorattempt. And St. Pierre's wife did not seem to hear him. She was lookingat him, looking into and through him with those wide-open glowing eyes.Then she sat down, out of reach of the hand which he had held towardher.
"You are a sergeant of the police," she said, the softness gonesuddenly out of her voice. "You are an honorable man, m'sieu. Your handis against all wrong. Is it not so?" It was the voice of an inquisitor.She was demanding an answer of him.
He nodded. "Yes, it is so."
The fire in her eyes deepened. "And yet you say you want to be thefriend of a stranger who has tried to kill you. WHY, m'sieu?"
He was cornered. He sensed the humiliation of it, the impossibility ofconfessing to her the wild impulse that had moved him before he knew shewas St. Pierre's wife. And she did not wait for him to answer.
"This—this Roger Audemard—if you catch him—what willyou do with him?" she asked.
"He will be hanged," said David. "He is a murderer."
"And one who tries to kill—who almost succeeds—what is thepenalty for that?" She leaned toward him, waiting. Her hands were claspedtightly in her lap, the spots were brighter in her cheeks.
"From ten to twenty years," he acknowledged. "But, of course, theremay be circumstances—"
"If so, you do not know them," she interrupted him. "You say RogerAudemard is a murderer. You know I tried to kill you. Then why is it youwould be my friend and Roger Audemard's enemy? Why, m'sieu?"
Carrigan shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "I shouldn't," heconfessed. "I guess you are proving I was wrong in what I said. I oughtto arrest you and take you back to the Landing as soon as I can. But, yousee, it strikes me there is a big personal element in this. I was the manalmost killed. There was a mistake,—must have been, for as soon asyou put me out of business you began nursing me back to life again.And—"
"But that doesn't change it," insisted St. Pierre's wife. "If therehad been no mistake, there would have been a murder. Do you understand,m'sieu? If it had been some one else behind that rock, I am quite certainhe would have died. The Law, at least, would have called it murder. IfRoger Audemard is a criminal, then I also am a criminal. And an honorableman would not make a distinction because one of them is a woman!"
"But—Black Roger was a fiend. He deserves no mercy.He—"
"Perhaps, m'sieu!"
She was on her feet, her eyes flaming down upon him. In that momenther beauty was like the beauty of Carmin Fanchet. The poise of herslender body, her glowing cheeks, her lustrous hair, her gold-fleckedeyes with the light of diamonds in them, held him speechless.
"I was sorry and went back for you," she said. "I wanted you to live,after I saw you like that on the sand. Bateese says I was indiscreet,that I should have left you there to die. Perhaps he is right. Andyet—even Roger Audemard might have had that pity for you."
She turned quickly, and he heard her moving away from him. Then, fromthe door, she said,
"Bateese will make you comfortable, m'sieu."
The door opened and closed. She was gone. And he was alone in thecabin again.
The swiftness of the change in her amazed him. It was as if he hadsuddenly touched fire to an explosive. There had been the flare, but noviolence. She had not raised her voice, yet he heard in it the tremble ofan emotion that was consuming her. He had seen the flame of it in herface and eyes. Something he had said, or had done, had tremendously upsether, changing in an instant her attitude toward him. The thought thatcame to him made his face burn under its scrub of beard. Did she think hewas a scoundrel? The dropping of his hand, the shock that must havebetrayed itself in his face when she said she was St. Pierre'swife—had those things warned her against him? The heat went slowlyout of his face. It was impossible. She could not think that of him. Itmust have been a sudden giving way under terrific strain. She hadcompared herself to Roger Audemard, and she was beginning to realize herperil—that Bateese was right—that she should have left him todie in the sand!
The thought pressed itself heavily upon Carrigan. It brought himsuddenly back to a realization of how small a part he had played in thislast half hour in the cabin. He had offered to Pierre's wife a friendshipwhich he had no right to offer and which she knew he had no right tooffer. He was the Law. And she, like Roger Audemard, was a criminal. Herquick woman's instinct had told her there could be no distinction betweenthem, unless there was a reason. And now Carrigan confessed to himselfthat there had been a reason. That reason had come to him with the firstglimpse of her as he lay in the hot sand. He had fought against it in thecanoe; it had mastered him in those thrilling moments when he had beheldthis slim, beautiful creature riding fearlessly into the boiling watersof the Holy Ghost. Her eyes, her hair, the sweet, low voice that had beenwith him in his fever, had become a definite and unalterable part of him.And this must have shown in his eyes and face when he dropped hishand—when she told him she was St. Pierre's wife.
And now she was afraid of him! She was regretting that she had notleft him to die. She had misunderstood what she had seen betraying itselfduring those few seconds of his proffered friendship. She saw only a manwhom she had nearly killed, a man who represented the Law, a man whosepower held her in the hollow of his hand. And she had stepped back fromhim, startled, and had told him that she was not St. Pierre's daughter,but his wife!
In the science of criminal analysis Carrigan always placed himself inthe position of the other man. And he was beginning to see the presentsituation from the view-point of Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. He wassatisfied that she had made a desperate mistake and that until the lastmoment she had believed it was another man behind the rock. Yet she hadshown no inclination to explain away her error. She had definitelyrefused to make an explanation. And it was simply a matter of commonsense to concede that there must be a powerful motive for her refusal.There was but one conclusion for him to arrive at—the error whichSt. Pierre's wife had made in shooting the wrong man was less importantto her than keeping the secret of why she had wanted to kill some otherman.
David was not unconscious of the breach in his own armor. He hadweakened, just as the Superintendent of "N" Division had weakened thatday four years ago when they had almost quarreled over CarminFanchet.
"I'll swear to Heaven she isn't bad, no matter what her brother hasbeen," McVane had said. "I'll gamble my life on that, Carrigan!"
And because the Chief of Division with sixty years of experiencebehind him, had believed that, Carmin Fanchet had not been held as anaccomplice in her brother's evildoing, but had gone back into herwilderness uncrucified by the law that had demanded the life of herbrother. He would never forget the last time he had seen Carmin Fanchet'seyes—great, black, glorious pools of gratitude as they looked atgrizzled old McVane; blazing fires of venomous hatred when they turned onhim. And he had said to McVane,
"The man pays, the woman goes—justice indeed is blind!"
McVane, not being a stickler on regulations when it came to Carrigan,had made no answer.
The incident came back vividly to David as he waited for the promisedcoming of Bateese. He began to appreciate McVane's point of view, and itwas comforting, because he realized that his own logic was assailable. IfMcVane had been comparing the two women now, he knew what his argumentwould be. There had been no absolute proof of crime against CarminFanchet, unless to fight desperately for the life of her brother was acrime. In the case of Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain there was proof. She hadtried to kill. Therefore, of the two, Carmin Fanchet would have been thebetter woman in the eyes of McVane.
In spite of the legal force of the argument which he was bringingagainst himself, David felt unconvinced. Carmin Fanchet, had she been inthe place of St. Pierre's wife, would have finished him there in thesand. She would have realized the menace of letting him live and wouldprobably have commanded Bateese to dump him in the river. St. Pierre'swife had gone to the other extreme. She was not only repentant, but wasmaking restitution, for her mistake, and in making that restitution hadcrossed far beyond the dead-line of caution. She had frankly told him whoshe was; she had brought him into the privacy of what was undeniably herown home; in her desire to undo what she had done she had hopelesslyenmeshed herself in the net of the Law—if that Law saw fit to act.She had done these things with courage and conviction. And of such awoman, Carrigan thought, St. Pierre must be very proud.
He looked slowly about the cabin again and each thing that he saw wasa living voice breaking up a dream for him. These voices told him that hewas in a temple built because of a man's worship for a woman—andthat man was St. Pierre. Through the two western windows came the lastglow of the western sun, like a golden benediction finding its way into asacred place. Here there was— or had been—a great happiness,for only a great pride and a great happiness could have made it as itwas. Nothing that wealth and toil could drag up out of a civilization athousand miles away had been too good for St. Pierre's wife. And abouthim, looking more closely, David saw the undisturbed evidences of awoman's contentment. On the table were embroidery materials with whichshe had been working, and a lamp-shade half finished. A woman's magazineprinted in a city four thousand miles away lay open at the fashionplates. There were other magazines, and many books, and open music abovethe white keyboard of the piano, and vases glowing red and yellow withwild-flowers and silver birch leaves. He could smell the faint perfume ofthe fireglow blossoms, red as blood. In a pool of sunlight on one of thebig white bear rugs lay the sleeping cat. And then, at the far end of thecabin, an ivory- white Cross of Christ glowed for a few moments in a lasthomage of the sinking sun.
Uneasiness stole upon him. This was the woman's holy ground, hersanctuary and her home, and for three days his presence had driven herfrom it. There was no other room. In making restitution she had given upto him her most sacred of all things. And again there rose up in him thatnew-born thing which had set strange fires stirring in his heart, andwhich from this hour on he knew he must fight until it was dead.
For an hour after the last of the sun was obirterated by the westernmountains he lay in the gloom of coming darkness. Only the lapping ofwater under the bateau broke the strange stillness of the evening. Heheard no sound of life, no voice, no tread of feet, and he wondered wherethe woman and her men had gone and if the scow was still tied up at theedge of the tar-sands. And for the first time he asked himself anotherquestion, Where was the man, St. Pierref
It was utterly dark in the cabin, when the stillness was broken by lowvoices outside. The door opened, and some one came in. A moment later amatch flared up, and in the shifting glow of it Carrigan saw the darkface of Bateese, the half-breed. One after another he lighted the fourlamps. Not until he had finished did he turn toward the bed. It was thenthat David had his first good impression of the man. He was not tall, butbuilt with the strength of a giant. His arms were long. His shoulderswere stooped. His head was like the head of a stone gargoyle come tolife. Wide-eyed, heavy-lipped, with the high cheek-bones of an Indian anduncut black hair bound with the knotted red MOUCHOIR, he looked more thanever like a pirate and a cutthroat to David. Such a man, he thought,might make play out of the business of murder. And yet, in spite of hisugliness, David felt again the mysterious inclination to like theman.
Bateese grinned. It was a huge grin, for his mouth was big. "You ver'lucky fellow," he announced. "You sleep lak that in nice sof bed an' notback on san'-bar, dead lak ze feesh I bring you, m'sieu. That ees wanbeeg mistake. Bateese say, 'Tie ze stone roun' hees neck an' mak' heemwan ANGE DE MER. Chuck heem in ze river, MA BELLE Jeanne!' An' she sayno, mak heem well, an' feed heem feesh. So I bring ze feesh which shepromise, an' when you have eat, I tell you somet'ing!"
He returned to the door and brought back with him a wicker basket.Then he drew up the table beside Carrigan and proceeded to lay out beforehim the boiled fish which St. Pierre's wife had promised him. With it wasbread and an earthen pot of hot tea.
"She say that ees all you have because of ze fever. Bateese say,'Stuff heem wit' much so that he die queek!'"
"You want to see me dead. Is that it, Bateese?"
"OUI. You mak' wan ver' good dead man, m'sieu!" Bateese was no longergrinning. He stood back and pointed at the food. "You eat— queek.An' when you have finish' I tell you somet'ing!"
Now that he saw the luscious bit of whitefish before him, Carrigan waspossessed of the hungering emptiness of three days and nights. As he ate,he observed that Bateese was performing curious duties. He straightened acouple of rugs, ran fresh water into the flower vases, picked up half adozen scattered magazines, and then, to David's increasing interest,produced a dust-cloth from somewhere and began to dust. David finishedhis fish, the one slice of bread, and his cup of tea. He felttremendously good. The hot tea was like a trickle of new life throughevery vein in his body, and he had the desire to get up and try out hislegs. Suddenly Bateese discovered that his patient was laughing athim.
"QUE DIABLE!" he demanded, coming up ferociously with the cloth in hisgreat hand. "You see somet'ing ver' fonny, m'sieu?"
"No, nothing funny, Bateese," grinned Carrigan. "I was just thinkingwhat a handsome chambermaid you make. You are so gentle, so nice to lookat, so—"
"DIABLE!" exploded Bateese, dropping his dust cloth and bringing hishuge hands down upon the table with a smash that almost wrecked thedishes. "You have eat, an' now you lissen. You have never hear' before ofConcombre Bateese. An' zat ees me. See! Wit' these two hands I havechoke' ze polar bear to deat'. I am strongest man w'at ees in all nort'countree. I pack four hundre' pound ovair portage. I crack ze cariboubones wit' my teeth, lak a dog. I run sixt' or hundre' miles wit'out stopfor rest. I pull down trees w'at oder man cut wit' axe. I am not 'fraidof not'ing. You lissen? You hear w'at I say?"
"I hear you."
"BIEN! Then I tell you w'at Concombre Bateese ees goin' do wit' you,M'sieu Sergent de Police! MA BELLE Jeanne she mak' wan gran' meestake.She too much leetle bird heart, too much pity for want you to die.Bateese say, 'Keel him, so no wan know w'at happen t'ree day ago behin'ze rock.' But MA BELLE Jeanne, she say, 'No, Bateese, he ees meestake foroder man, an' we mus' let heem live.' An' then she tell me to come an'bring you feesh, an' tell you w'at is goin' happen if you try go awayfrom thees bateau. You COMPREN'? If you try run away, Bateese ees goin'keel you! See— wit' thees han's I br'ak your neck an' t'row you inriver. MA BELLE Jeanne say do zat, an' she tell oder mans-twent', thirt',almos' hundre' GARCONS—to keel you if you try run away. She tell mebring zat word to you wit' ze feesh. You listen hard w'at I say?"
If ever a worker of iniquity lived on earth, Carrigan might havejudged Bateese as that man in these moments. The half-breed had workedhimself up to a ferocious pitch. His eyes rolled. His wide mouth snarledin the virulence of its speech. His thick neck grew corded, and his hugehands clenched menacingly upon the table. Yet David had no fear. Hewanted to laugh, but he knew laughter would be the deadliest of insultsto Bateese just now. He remembered that the half-breed, fierce as apirate, had a touch as gentle as a woman's. This man, who could choke anox with his monstrous hands, had a moment before petted a cat,straightened out rugs, watered the woman's flowers, and had dusted. Hewas harmless—now. And yet in the same breath David sensed the factthat a single word from St. Pierre's wife would be sufficient to fire hisbrute strength into a blazing volcano of action. Such a henchman waspriceless—under certain conditions! And he had brought a warningstraight from the woman.
"I think I understand what you mean, Bateese," he said. "She says thatI am to make no effort to leave this bateau—that I am to be killedif I try to escape? Are you sure she said that?"
"PAR LES MILLE CORNES DU DIABLE, you t'ink Bateese lie, m'sieu?Concombre Bateese, who choke ze w'ite bear wit' hees two ban', who pulldown ze tree—"
"No, no, I don't think you lie. But I am wondering why she didn't tellme that when she was here."
"Becaus' she have too much leetle bird heart, zat ees w'y. She say:'Bateese, you tell heem he mus' wait for St. Pierre. An' you tell heemgood an' hard, lak you choke ze w'ite bear an' lak you pull down ze tree,so he mak' no meestake an' try get away.' An' she tell zat before all zeBATELIERS—all ze St. Pierre mans gathered 'bout a beegfire—an' they shout up lak wan gargon that they watch an' keel youif you try get away."
Carrigan reached out a hand. "Let's shake, Bateese. I'll give you myword that I won't try to escape—not until you and I have a goodstand-up fight with the earth under our feet, and I've whipped you. Is ita go?"
Bateese stared for a moment, and then his face broke into a wide grin."You lak ze fight, m'sieu?"
"Yes. I love a scrap with a good man like you."
One of Bateese's huge hands crawled slowly over the table and engulfedDavid's. Joy shone on his face.
"An' you promise give me zat fight, w'en you are strong?"
"If I don't, I'll let you tie a stone around my neck and drop me intothe river."
"You are brave GARCON," cried the delighted Bateese. "Up an' down zerivers ees no man w'at can whip Concombre Bateese!" Suddenly his facegrew clouded. "But ze head, m'sieu?" he added anxiously.
"It will get well quickly if you will help me, Bateese. Right now Iwant to get up. I want to stretch my legs. Was my head bad?"
"NON. Ze bullet scrape ze ha'r off—so—so—an' turn zebrain seek. I t'ink you be good fighting man in week!"
"And you will help me up?"
Bateese was a changed man. Again David felt that mighty but gentlestrength of his arms as he helped him to his feet. He was a trifleunsteady for a moment. Then, with the half-breed close at his side, readyto catch him if his legs gave way, he walked to one of the windows andlooked out. Across the river, fully half a mile away, he saw the glow offires.
"Her camp?" he asked.
"OUI, m'sieu."
"We have moved from the tar-sands?"
"Yes, two days down ze river."
"Why are they not camping over here with us?"
Bateese gave a disgusted grunt. "Becaus' MA BELLE Jeanne have suchleetle bird heart, m'sieu. She say you mus' not have noise near, lak zetalk an' laugh an' ZE CHANSONS. She say it disturb, an' zat it rnak youworse wit' ze fever. She ees mak you lak de baby, Bateese say to her. Butshe on'y laugh at zat an' snap her leetle w'ite finger. Wait St. Pierrecome! He brak yo'r head wit' hees two fists. I hope we have ze fightbefore then, m'sieu!"
"We'll have it anyway, Bateese. Where is St. Pierre, and when shall wesee him?"
Bateese shrugged his shoulders. "Mebby week, mebby more. He long wayoff."
"Is he an old man?"
Slowly Bateese turned David about until he was facing him. "You asknot'ing more about St. Pierre," he warned. "No mans talk 'bout St.Pierre. Only wan—MA BELLE Jeanne. You ask her, an' she tell youshut up. W'en you don't shut up she call Bateese to brak your head."
"You're a—a sort of all-round head-breaker, as I understand it,"grunted David, walking slowly back to his bed. "Will you bring me my packand clothes in the morning? I want to shave and dress."
Bateese was ahead of him, smoothing the pillows and straightening outthe rumpled bed-clothes. His huge hands were quick and capable as awoman's, and David could not keep himself from chuckling at this feminineingeniousness of the powerful half-breed. Once in the crush of thosegorilla-like arms that were working over his bed now, he thought, and itwould be all over with the strongest man in "N" Division. Bateese heardthe chuckle and looked up.
"Somet'ing ver' funny once more, is eet—w'at?" he demanded.
"I was thinking, Bateese—what will happen to me if you get me inthose arms when we fight? But it isn't going to happen. I fight with myfists, and I'm going to batter you up so badly that nobody will recognizeyou for a long time."
"You wait!" exploded Bateese, making a horrible grimace. "I choke youlak w'ite bear, I t'row you ovair my should'r, I mash you lak leetlestrawberr', I—" He paused in his task to advance with a formidablegesture.
"Not now," warned Carrigan. "I'm still a bit groggy, Bateese." Hepointed down at the bed. "I'm driving HER from that," he said. "I don'tlike it. Is she sleepin' over there—in the camp?"
"Mebby—an' mebby not, m'sieu," growled Bateese. "You mak' guess,eh?"
He began extinguishing the lights, until only the one nearest the doorwas left burning. He did not turn toward Carrigan or speak to him again.When he Went out, David heard the click of a lock in the door. Bateesehad not exaggerated. It was the intention of St. Pierre's wife that heshould consider himself a prisoner—at least for tonight.
He had no desire to lie down again. There was an unsteadiness in hislegs, but outside of that the evil of his sickness no longer oppressedhim. The staff doctor at the Landing would probably have called him afool for not convalescing in the usual prescribed way, but Carrigan wasalready beginning to feel the demand for action. In spite of whatphysical effort he had made, his head did not hurt him, and his mind waskeenly alive. He returned to the window through which he could see thefires on the western shore, and found no difficulty in opening it. Astrong screen netting kept him from thrusting out his head and shoulders.Through it came the cool night breeze of the river. It seemed good tofill his lungs with it again and smell the fresh aroma of the forest. Itwas very dark, and the fires across the river were brighter because ofthe deep gloom. There was no promise of the moon in the sky. He could notsee a star. From far in the west he caught the low intonation ofthunder.
Carrigan turned from the window to the end of the cabin in which thepiano stood. Here, too, was the second divan, and he saw the meaning nowof two close-tied curtains, one at each side of the cabin. Drawn togetheron a taut wire stretched two inches under the ceiling, they shut off thisend of the bateau and turned at least a third of the cabin into theprivacy of the woman's bedroom. With growing uneasiness David saw theevidences that this had been her sleeping apartment. At each side of thepiano was a small door, and he opened one of these just enough todiscover that it was a wardrobe closet. A third door opened on the shoreside of the bateau, but this was locked. Shut out from the view of thelower end of the cabin by a Japanese screen were a small dresser and amirror. In the dim illumination that came from the distant lamp Davidbent over the open sheet of music on the piano. It was Mascagni's AVEMARIA.
His blood tingled. His brain was stirred by a new emotion, a growingthing that made him uneasy and filled him with a strange restlessness. Hefelt as though he had come suddenly to the edge of a great danger;somewhere within him an intelligence seized upon it and understood. Yetit was not physical enough for him to fight. It was a danger which creptup and about him, something which he could not see or touch and yet whichmade his heart beat faster and the blood come into his face. It drew him,triumphed over him, dragged his hand forth until his fingers closed upona lacy, crumpled bit of a handkerchief that lay on the edge of the pianokeys. It was the woman's handkerchief, and like a thief he raised itslowly. It smelled faintly of crushed violets; it was as if she werebending over him in his sickness again, and it was her breath that cameto him. He was not thinking of her as St. Pierre's wife. And then sharplyhe caught himself and placed the handkerchief back on the piano keys. Hetried to laugh at himself, but there was an emptiness where a momentbefore there had been that thrill of which he was now ashamed.
He turned back to the window. The thunder had come nearer. It wascoming up fast out of the west, and with it a darkness that was like theblackness of a pit. A dead stillness was preceding it now, and in thatstillness it seemed to Carrigan that he could hear the soapy, slittingsound of the streaming flashes of electrical fire that blazoned theadvance of the storm. The camp- fires across the river were dying down.One of them went out as he looked at it, and he stared into the darknessas if trying to pierce distance and gloom to see what sort of a shelterit was that St. Pierre's wife had over there. And there came over him inthese moments a desire that was almost cowardly. It was the desire toescape, to leave behind him the memory of the rock and of St. Pierre'swife, and to pursue once more his own great adventure, the quest of BlackRoger Audemard.
He heard the rain coming. At first the sound of it was like thepattering of ten million tiny feet in dry leaves; then, suddenly, it waslike the roar of an avalanche. It was an inundation, and with it camecrash after crash of thunder, and the black skies were illumined by analmost uninterrupted glare of lightning. It had been a long time sinceCarrigan had felt the shock of such a storm. He closed the window to keepthe rain out, and after that stood with his face flattened against theglass, staring over the river. The camp-fires were all gone now, blottedout like so many candles snuffed between thumb and forefinger, and heshuddered. No canvas ever made would keep that deluge out. And now therewas growing up a wind with it. The tents on the other side would bebeaten down like pegged sheets of paper, ripped up and torn to pieces. Heimagined St. Pierre's wife in that tumult and distress —the breathblown out of her, half drowned, blinded by deluge and lightning, brokenand beaten because of him. Thought of her companions did not ease hismind. Human hands were entirely inadequate to cope with a storm like thisthat was rocking the earth about him.
Suddenly he went to the door, determined that if Bateese was outsidehe would get some satisfaction out of him or challenge him to a fightright there. He beat against it, first with one fist and then with both.He shouted. There was no response. Then he exerted his strength and hisweight against the door. It was solid.
He was half turned when his eyes discovered, in a corner where thelamplight struck dimly, his pack and clothes. In thirty seconds he hadhis pipe and tobacco. After that for half an hour he paced up and downthe cabin, while the storm crashed and thundered sif bent upon destroyingall life off the face of the earth.
Comforted by the company of his pipe, Carrigan did not beat at thedoor again. He waited, and at the end of another half-hour the storm hadsoftened down into a steady patter of rain. The thunder had traveledeast, and the lightning had gone with it. David opened the window again.The air that came in was rain-sweet, soft, and warm. He puffed out acloud of smoke and smiled. His pipe always brought his good humor to thesurface, even in the worst places. St. Pierre's wife had certainly had agood soaking. And in a way the whole thing was a bit funny. He wasthinking now of a poor little golden-plumaged partridge, soaked to theskin, with its tail-feathers dragging pathetically. Grinning, he toldhimself that it was an insult to think of her and a half-drownedpartridge in the same breath. But the simile still remained, and hechuckled. Probably she was wringing out her clothes now, and the men werecursing under their breath while trying to light a fire. He watched forthe fire. It failed to appear. Probably she was hating him for bringingall this discomfort and humiliation upon her. It was not impossible thattomorrow she would give Bateese permission to brain him. And St. Pierre?What would this man, her husband, think and do if he knew that his wifehad given up her bedroom to this stranger? What complications might ariseIF HE KNEW!
It was late—past midnight—when Carrigan went to bed. Eventhen he did not sleep for a long time. The patter of the rain grew lessand less on the roof of the bateau, and as the sound of it droned itselfoff into nothingness, slumber came. David was conscious of the momentwhen the rain ceased entirely. Then he slept. At least he must have beenvery close to sleep, or had been asleep and was returning for a momentclose to consciousness, when he heard a voice. It came several timesbefore he was roused enough to realize that it was a voice. And then,suddenly, piercing his slowly wakening brain almost with the shock of oneof the thunder crashes, it came to him so distinctly that he foundhimself sitting up straight, his hands clenched, eyes staring in thedarkness, waiting for it to come again.
Somewhere very near him, in his room, within the reach of his hands, astrange and indescribable voice had cried out in the darkness the wordswhich twice before had beat themselves mysteriously into David Carrigan'sbrain—"HAS ANY ONE SEEN BLACK ROGER AUDEMARD? HAS ANY ONE SEENBLACK ROGER AUDEMARD?"
And David, holding his breath, listened for the sound of anotherbreath which he knew was in that room.
For perhaps a minute Carrigan made no sound that could have been heardthree feet away from him. It was not fear that held him quiet. It wassomething which he could not explain afterward, the sensation, perhaps,of one who feels himself confronted for a moment by a presence morepotent than that of flesh and blood. BLACK ROGER AUDEMARD! Three times,twice in his sickness, some one had cried out that name in his ears sincethe hour when St. Pierre's wife had ambushed him on the white carpet ofsand. And the voice was now in his room!
Was it Bateese, inspired by some sort of malformed humor? Carriganlistened. Another minute passed. He reached out a hand and groped abouthim, very careful not to make a sound, urged by the feeling that some onewas almost within reach of him. He flung back his blanket and stood outin the middle of the floor.
Still he heard no movement, no soft footfalls of retreat or advance.He lighted a match and held it high above his head. In its yellowillumination he could see nothing alive. He lighted a lamp. The cabin wasempty. He drew a deep breath and went to the window. It was still open.The voice had undoubtedly come to him through that window, and he fanciedhe could see where the screen netting was crushed a bit inward, as thougha face had pressed heavily against it. Outside the night was beautifullycalm. The sky, washed by storm, was bright with stars. But there was nota ripple of movement that he could hear.
After that he looked at his watch. He must have been sleeping for sometime when the voice roused him, for it was nearly three o'clock. In spiteof the stars, dawn was close at hand. When he looked out of the windowagain they were paler and more distant. He had no intention of going backto bed. He was restless and felt himself surrendering more and more tothe grip of presentiment.
It was still early, not later than six o'clock, when Bateese came inwith his breakfast. He was surprised, as he had heard no movement orsound of voices to give evidence of life anywhere near the bateau.Instantly he made up his mind that it was not Bateese who had uttered themysterious words of a few hours ago, for the half-breed had evidentlyexperienced a most uncomfortable night. He was like a rat recently pulledout of water. His clothes hung upon him sodden and heavy, his headkerchief dripped, and his lank hair was wet. He slammed the breakfastthings down on the table and went out again without so much as nodding athis prisoner.
Again a sense of discomfort and shame swept over David, as he sat downto breakfast. Here he was comfortably, even luxuriously, housed, whileout there somewhere St. Pierre's lovely wife was drenched and even moremiserable than Bateese. And the breakfast amazed him. It was not so muchthe caribou tenderloin, rich in its own red juice, or the potato, or thepot of coffee that was filling the cabin with its aroma, that roused hiswonder, but the hot, brown muffins that accompanied the other things.Muffins! And after a deluge that had drowned every square inch of theearth! How had Bateese turned the trick?
Bateese did not return immediately for the dishes, and for half anhour after he had finished breakfast Carrigan smoked his pipe and watchedthe blue haze of fires on the far side of the river. The world was ablaze of sunlit glory. His imagination carried him across the river.Somewhere over there, in an open spot where the sun was blazing, JeanneMarie-Anne was probably drying herself after the night of storm. Therewas but little doubt in his mind that she was already heaping theignominy of blame upon him. That was the woman of it.
A knock at his door drew him about. It was a light, quick TAP, TAP,TAP—not like the fist of either Bateese or Nepapinas. In anothermoment the door swung open, and in the flood of sunlight that poured intothe cabin stood St. Pierre's wife!
It was not her presence, but the beauty of her, that held himspellbound. It was a sort of shock after the vivid imaginings of his mindin which he had seen her beaten and tortured by storm. Her hair, glowingin the sun and piled up in shining coils on the crown of her head, wasnot wet. She was not the rain-beaten little partridge that had passed intragic bedragglement through his mind. Storm had not touched her. Hercheeks were soft with the warm flush of long hours of sleep. When shecame in, her lips greeting him with a little smile, all that he had builtup for himself in the hours of the night crumbled away in dust. Again heforgot for a moment that she was St. Pierre's wife. She was woman, and ashe looked upon her now, the most adorable woman in all the world.
"You are better this morning," she said. Real pleasure shone in hereyes. She had left the door open, so that the sun filled the room. "Ithink the storm helped you. Wasn't it splendid?"
David swallowed hard. "Quite splendid," he managed to say. "Have youseen Bateese this morning?"
A little note of laughter came into her throat. "Yes. I don't think heliked it. He doesn't understand why I love storms. Did you sleep well,M'sieu Carrigan?"
"An hour or two, I think. I was worrying about you. I didn't like thethought that I had turned you out into the storm. But it doesn't seem tohave touched you."
"No. I was there—quite comfortable." She nodded to the forwardbulkhead of the cabin, beyond the wardrobe closets and the piano. "Thereis a little dining-room and kitchenette ahead," she explained. "Didn'tBateese tell you that?"
"No, he didn't. I asked him where you were, and I think he told me toshut up."
"Bateese is very odd," said St. Pierre's wife. "He is exceedinglyjealous of me, M'sieu David. Even when I was a baby and he carried meabout in his arms, he was just that way. Bateese, you know, is older thanhe appears. He is fifty-one."
She was moving about, quite as if his presence was in no way going todisturb her usual duties of the day. She rearranged the damask curtainswhich he had crumpled with his hands, placed two or three chairs in theirusual places, and moved from this to that with the air of a housewife whois in the habit of brushing up a bit in the morning.
She seemed not at all embarrassed because he was her prisoner, noruncomfortably restrained because of the message she had sent to him byBateese. She was warmly and gloriously human. In her apparent unconcernat his presence he found himself sweating inwardly. A bit nervously hestruck a match to light his pipe, then extinguished it.
She noticed what he had done. "You may smoke," she said, with thatlittle note in her throat which he loved to hear, like the faintestmelody of laughter that did not quite reach her lips. "St. Pierre smokesa great deal, and I like it."
She opened a drawer in the dressing-table and came to him with a boxhalf filled with cigars.
"St. Pierre prefers these—on occasions," she said, "Do you?"
His fingers seemed all thumbs as he took a cigar from the profferedbox. He cursed himself because his tongue felt thick. Perhaps it was hissilence, betraying something of his mental clumsiness, that brought afaint flush of color into her cheeks. He noted that; and also that thetop of her shining head came just about to his chin, and that her mouthand throat, looking down on them, were bewitchingly soft and sweet.
And what she said, when her eyes opened wide and beautiful on himagain, was like a knife cutting suddenly into the heart of histhoughts.
"In the evening I love to sit at St. Pierre's feet and watch himsmoke," she said. "I am glad it doesn't annoy you, because—I liketo smoke," he replied lamely.
She placed the box on the little reading table and looked at hisbreakfast things. "You like muffins, too. I was up early this morning,making them for you!"
"You made them?" he demanded, as if her words were a most amazingrevelation to him.
"Surely, M'sieu David. I make them every morning for St. Pierre. He isvery fond of them. He says the third nicest thing about me is mymuffins!"
"And the other two?" asked David.
"Are St. Pierre's little secrets, m'sieu," she laughed softly, thecolor deepening in her cheeks. "It wouldn't be fair to tell you, wouldit?"
"Perhaps it wouldn't," he said slowly. "But there are one or two otherthings, Mrs.—Mrs. Boulain—"
"You may call me Jeanne, or Marie-Anne, if you care to," sheinterrupted him. "It will be quite all right."
She was picking up the breakfast dishes, not at all perturbed by thefact that she was offering him a privilege which had the effect ofquickening his pulse for a moment or two.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't mind telling you it is going to bedifficult for me to do that—because—well, this is a mostunusual situation, isn't it? In spite of all your kindness, includingwhat was probably your good-intentioned endeavor to put an end to myearthly miseries behind the rock, I believe it is necessary for you togive me some kind of explanation. Don't you?"
"Didn't Bateese explain to you last night?" she asked, facing him.
"He brought a message from you to the effect that I was a prisoner,that I must make no attempt to escape, and that if I did try to escape,you had given your men instructions to kill me."
She nodded, quite seriously. "That is right, M'sieu David."
His face flamed. "Then I am a prisoner? You threaten me withdeath?"
"I shall treat you very nicely if you make no attempt to escape,M'sieu David. Isn't that fair?"
"Fair!" he cried, choking back an explosion that would have venteditself on a man. "Don't you realize what has happened? Don't you knowthat according to every law of God and man I should arrest you and giveyou over to the Law? Is it possible that you don't comprehend my ownduty? What I must do?"
If he had noticed, he would have seen that there was no longer theflush of color in her cheeks. But her eyes, looking straight at him, weretranquil and unexcited. She nodded.
"That is why you must remain a prisoner, M'sieu David, It is because Ido realize, I shall not tell you why that happened behind the rock, andif you ask me, I shall refuse to talk to you. If I let you go now, youwould probably have me arrested and put in jail. So I must keep you untilSt. Pierre comes. I don't know what to do—except to keep you, andnot let you escape until then. What would you do?"
The question was so honest, so like a question that might have beenasked by a puzzled child, that his argument for the Law was struck dead.He stared into the pale face, the beautiful, waiting eyes, saw thepathetic intertwining of her slim fingers, and suddenly he was grinningin that big, honest way which made people love Dave Carrigan.
"You're—doing—absolutely—right," he said.
A swift change came in her face. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes filledwith a sudden glow that made the little violet-freckles in them dancelike tiny flecks of gold.
"From your point of view you are right," he repeated, "and I shallmake no attempt to escape until I have talked with St. Pierre. But Ican't quite see—just now—how he is going to help thesituation."
"He will," she assured him confidently.
"You seem to have an unlimited faith in St. Pierre," he replied alittle grimly.
"Yes, M'sieu David. He is the most wonderful man in the world. And hewill know what to do."
David shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps, in some nice, quiet place, hewill follow the advice Bateese gave you—tie a stone round my neckand sink me to the bottom of the river."
"Perhaps. But I don't think he will do that I should object toit."
"Oh, you would!"
"Yes. St. Pierre is big and strong, afraid of nothing in the world,but he will do anything for me. I don't think he would kill you if Iasked him not to." She turned to resume her task of cleaning up thebreakfast things.
With a sudden movement David swung one of the' big chairs close toher. "Please sit down," he commanded. "I can talk to you better that way.As an officer of the law it is my duty to ask you a few questions. Itrests in your power to answer all of them or none of them. I have givenyou my word not to act until I have seen St. Pierre, and I shall keepthat promise. But when we do meet I shall act largely on the strength ofwhat you tell me during the next tea minutes. Please sit down!"
In that big, deep chair which must have been St. Pierre's own,Marie-Anne sat facing Carrigan. Between its great arms her slim littlefigure seemed diminutive and out of place. Her brown eyes were level andclear, waiting. They were not warm or nervous, but so coolly and calmlybeautiful that they disturbed Carrigan. She raised her hands, her slimfingers crumpling for a moment in the soft, thick coils of her hair. Thatlittle movement, the unconscious feminism of it, the way she folded herhands in her lap afterward, disturbed Carrigan even more. What a glory onearth it must be to possess a woman like that! The thought made himuneasy. And she sat waiting, a vivid, softly-breathing question- markagainst the warm coloring of the upholstered chair.
"When you shot me," he began, "I saw you, first, standing over me. Ithought you had come to finish me. It was then that I saw something inyour face—horror, amazement, as though you had done something youdid not know you were doing. You see, I want to be charitable. I want tounderstand. I want to excuse you if I can. Won't you tell me why you shotme, and why that change came over you when you saw me lying there?"
"No, M'sieu David, I shall not tell." She was not antagonistic ordefiant. Her voice was not raised, nor did it betray an unusual emotion.It was simply decisive, and the unflinching steadiness of her eyes andthe way in which she sat with her hands folded gave to it an unqualifieddefiniteness.
"You mean that I must make my own guess?"
She nodded.
"Or get it out of St. Pierre?"
"If St. Pierre wishes to tell you, yes."
"Well—" He leaned a little toward her. "After that you draggedme up into the shade, dressed my wound and made me comfortable. In a hazysort of way I knew what was going on. And a curious thing happened. Attimes—" he leaned still a little nearer to her—"attimes—there seemed to be two of you!"
He was not looking at her hands, or he would have seen her fingersslowly tighten in her lap.
"You were badly hurt," she said. "It is not strange that you shouldhave imagined things, M'sieu David."
"And I seemed to hear two voices," he went on.
She made no answer, but continued to look at him steadily.
"And the other had hair that was like copper and gold fire in the sun.I would see your face and then hers, again and again—and—since then—I have thought I was a heavy load for your hands to dragup through that sand to the shade alone."
She held up her two hands, looking at them. "They are strong," shesaid.
"They are small," he insisted, "and I doubt if they could drag meacross this floor."
For the first time the quiet of her eyes gave way to a warm fire. "Itwas hard work," she said, and the note in her voice gave him warning thathe was approaching the dead-line again. "Bateese says I was a fool fordoing it. And if you saw two of me, or three or four, it doesn't matter.Are you through questioning me, M'sieu David? If so, I have a number ofthings to do."
He made a gesture of despair. "No, I am not through. But why ask youquestions if you won't answer them?"
"I simply can not. You must wait."
"For your husband?"
"Yes, for St. Pierre."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "I raved about a number ofthings when I was sick, didn't I?"
"You did, and especially about what you thought happened in the sand.You called this—this other person—the Fire Goddess. You wereso near dying that of course it wasn't amusing. Otherwise it would havebeen. You see MY hair is black, almost!" Again, in a quick movement, herfingers were crumpling the lustrous coils on the crown of her head.
"Why do you say 'almost'?" he asked.
"Because St. Pierre has often told me that when I am in the sun thereare red fires in it. And the sun was very bright that afternoon in thesand, M'sieu David."
"I think I understand," he nodded. "And I'm rather glad, too. I liketo know that it was you who dragged me up into the shade after trying tokill me. It proves you aren't quite so savage as—"
"Carmin Fanchet," she interrupted him softly. "You talked about her inyour sickness, M'sieu David. It made me terribly afraid of you—somuch so that at times I almost wondered if Bateese wasn't right. It mademe understand what would happen to me if I should let you go. Whatterrible thing did she do to you? What could she have done more terriblethan I have done?"
"Is that why you have given your men orders to kill me if I try toescape?" he asked. "Because I talked about this woman, CarminFanchet?"
"Yes, it is because of Carmin Fanchet that I am keeping you for St.Pierre," she acknowledged. "If you had no mercy for her, you could havenone for me. What terrible thing did she do to you, M'sieu?"
"Nothing—to me," he said, feeling that she was putting him wherethe earth was unsteady under his feet again. "But her brother was acriminal of the worst sort. And I was convinced then, and am convincednow, that his sister was a partner in his crimes. She was very beautiful.And that, I think, was what saved her."
He was fingering his unlighted cigar as he spoke. When he looked up,he was surprised at the swift change that had come into the face of St.Pierre's wife. Her cheeks were flaming, and there were burning firesscreened behind the long lashes of her eyes. But her voice was unchanged.It was without a quiver that betrayed the emotion which had sent the hotflush into her face.
"Then—you judged her without absolute knowledge of fact? Youjudged her—as you hinted in your fever—because she fought sodesperately to save a brother who had gone wrong?"
"I believe she was bad."
The long lashes fell lower, like fringes of velvet closing over thefires in her eyes. "But you didn't know!"
"Not absolutely," he conceded. "But investigations—"
"Might have shown her to be one of the most wonderful women that everlived, M'sieu David. It is not hard to fight for a good brother—butif he is bad, it may take an angel to do it!"
He stared, thoughts tangling themselves in his head. A slow shamecrept over him. She had cornered him. She had convicted him of unfairnessto the one creature on earth his strength and his manhood were bound toprotect—a woman. She had convicted him of judging without fact. Andin his head a voice seemed to cry out to him, "What did Carmin Fanchetever do to you?"
He rose suddenly to his feet and stood at the back of his chair, hishands gripping the top of it. "Maybe you are right," he said. "Maybe Iwas wrong. I remember now that when I got Fanchet I manacled him, and shesat beside him all through that first night. I didn't intend to sleep,but I was tired—and did. I must have slept for an hour, and SHEroused me—trying to get the key to the handcuffs. She had theopportunity then—to kill me."
Triumph swept over the face that was looking up at him. "Yes, shecould have killed you—while you slept. But she didn't. WHY?"
"I don't know. Perhaps she had the idea of getting the key and lettingher brother do the job. Two or three days later I am convinced she wouldnot have hesitated. I caught her twice trying to steal my gun. And athird time, late at night, when we were within a day or two of AthabascaLanding, she almost got me with a club. So I concede that she never didanything very terrible to me. But I am sure that she tried, especiallytoward the last."
"And because she failed, she hated you; and because she hated you,something was warped inside you, and you made up your mind she should bepunished along with her brother. You didn't look at it from a woman'sviewpoint. A woman will fight, and kill, to save one she loves. Shetried, perhaps, and failed. The result was that her brother was killed bythe Law. Was not that enough? Was it fair or honest to destroy her simplybecause you thought she might be a partner in her brother's crimes?"
"It is rather strange," he replied, a moment of indecision in hisvoice. "McVane, the superintendent, asked me that same question. Ithought he was touched by her beauty. And I'm sorry—verysorry— that I talked about her when I was sick. I don't want you tothink I am a bad sort—that way. I'm going to think about it. I'mgoing over the whole thing again, from the time I manacled Fanchet, andif I find that I was wrong—and I ever meet Carmin Fanchetagain— I shall not be ashamed to get down on my knees and ask herpardon, Marie-Anne!"
For the first time he spoke the name which she had given himpermission to use. And she noticed it. He could not help seeingthat—a flashing instant in which the indefinable confession of itwas in her face, as though his use of it had surprised her, or pleasedher, or both. Then it was gone.
She did not answer, but rose from the big chair, and went to thewindow, and stood with her back toward him, looking out over the river.And then, suddenly, they heard a voice. It was the voice he had heardtwice in his sickness, the voice that had roused him from his sleep lastnight, crying out in his room for Black Roger Audemard. It came to himdistinctly through the open door in a low and moaning monotone. He hadnot taken his eyes from the slim figure of St. Pierre's wife, and he sawa little tremor pass through her now.
"I heard that voice—again—last night," said David. "It wasin this cabin, asking for Black Roger Audemard."
She did not seem to hear him, and he also turned so that he waslooking at the open door of the cabin.
The sun, pouring through in a golden flood, was all at once darkened,and in the doorway—framed vividly against the day—was thefigure of a man. A tense breath came to Carrigan's lips. At first he felta shock, then an overwhelming sense of curiosity and of pity. The man wasterribly deformed. His back and massive shoulders were so twisted andbent that he stood no higher than a twelve-year-old boy; yet standingstraight, he would have been six feet tall if an inch, and splendidlyproportioned. And in that same breath with which shock and pity came tohim, David knew that it was accident and not birth that had malformed thegreat body that stood like a crouching animal in the open door. At firsthe saw only the grotesqueness of it—the long arms that almosttouched the floor, the broken back, the twisted shoulders—and then,with a deeper thrill, he saw nothing of these things but only the faceand the head of the man. There was something god- like about them,fastened there between the crippled shoulders. It was not beauty, butstrength—the strength of rock, of carven granite, as if eachfeature had been chiseled out of something imperishable and everlasting,yet lacking strangely and mysteriously the warm illumination that comesfrom a living soul. The man was not old, nor was he young. And he did notseem to see Carrigan, who stood nearest to him. He was looking at St.Pierre's wife.
The look which David saw in her face was infinitely tender. She wassmiling at the misshapen hulk in the door as she might have smiled at alittle child. And David, looking back at the wide, deep-set eyes of theman, saw the slumbering fire of a dog-like worship in them. They shiftedslowly, taking in the cabin, questing, seeking, searching for somethingwhich they could not find. The lips moved, and again he heard that weirdand mysterious monotone, as if the plaintive voice of a child were comingout of the huge frame of the man, crying out as it had cried last night,"HAS-ANY-ONE-SEEN-BLACK-ROGER-AUDEMARD?"
In another moment St. Pierre's wife was at the deformed giant's side.She seemed tall beside him. She put her hands to his head and brushedback the grizzled black hair, laughing softly into his upturned face, hereyes shining and a strange glow in her cheeks. Carrigan, looking at them,felt his heart stand still. WAS THIS MAN ST. PIERRE? The thought camelike a lightning flash—and went as quickly; it was impossible andinconceivable. And yet there was something more than pity in the voice ofthe woman who was speaking now.
"No, no, we have not seen him, Andre—we have not seen BlackRoger Audemard. If he comes, I will call you. I promise, Michiwan. I willcall you!"
She was stroking his bearded cheek, and then she put an arm about histwisted shoulders, and slowly she turned so that in a moment or two theywere facing the sun—and it seemed to Carrigan that she was talkingand sobbing and laughing in the same breath, as that great, broken hulkof a man moved out slowly from under the caress of her arm and went onhis way. For a space she looked after him. Then in a swift movement sheclosed the door and faced Carrigan. She did not speak, but waited. Herhead was high. She was breathing quickly. The tenderness that a momentbefore had filled her face was gone, and in her eyes was the blaze offighting fires as she waited for him to speak—to give voice to whatshe knew was passing in his mind.
For a space there was silence between Carrigan and St. Pierre's wife.He knew what she was thinking as she stood with her back to the door,waiting half defiantly, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes bright withthe anticipation of battle. She was ready to fight for the brokencreature on the other side of the door. She expected him to give noquarter in his questioning of her, to corner her if he could, to demandof her why the deformed giant had spoken the name of the man he wasafter, Black Roger Audemard. The truth hammered in David's brain. It hadnot been a delusion of his fevered mind after all; it was not a possibledeception of the half-breed's, as he had thought last night. Chance hadbrought him face to face with the mystery of Black Roger. St. Pierre'swife, waiting for him to speak, was in some way associated with thatmystery, and the cripple was asking for the man McVane had told him tobring in dead or alive! Yet he did not question her. He turned to thewindow and looked out from where Marie-Anne had stood a few momentsbefore.
The day was glorious. On the far shore he saw life where last night'scamp had been. Men were moving about close to the water, and a York boatwas putting out slowly into the stream. Close under the window moved acanoe with a single occupant. It was Andre, the Broken Man. With powerfulstrokes he was paddling across the river. His deformity was scarcelynoticeable in the canoe. His bare head and black beard shone in the sun,and between his great shoulders his head looked more than ever toCarrigan like the head of a carven god. And this man, like a mighty treestricken by lightning, his mind gone, was yet a thing that was more thanmere flesh and blood to Marie-Anne Boulain!
David turned toward her. Her attitude was changed. It was no longerone of proud defiance. She had expected to defend herself from something,and he had given her no occasion for defense. She did not try to hide thefact from him, and he nodded toward the window.
"He is going away in a canoe. I am afraid you didn't want me to seehim, and I am sorry I happened to be here when he came."
"I made no effort to keep him away, M'sieu David. Perhaps I wanted youto see him. And I thought, when you did—" She hesitated.
"You expected me to crucify you, if necessary, to learn the truth ofwhat he knows about Roger Audemard," he said. "And you were ready tofight back. But I am not going to question you unless you give mepermission."
"I am glad," she said in a low voice. "I am beginning to have faith inyou, M'sieu David. You have promised not to try to escape, and I believeyou. Will you also promise not to ask me questions, which I can notanswer—until St. Pierre comes?"
"I will try."
She came up to him slowly and stood facing him, so near that she couldhave reached out and put her hands on his shoulders.
"St. Pierre has told me a great deal about the Scarlet Police," shesaid, looking at him quietly and steadily. "He says that the men who wearthe red jackets never play low tricks, and that they come after a mansquarely and openly. He says they are men, and many times he has told mewonderful stories of the things they have done. He calls it 'playing thegame.' And I'm going to ask you, M'sieu David, will you play square withme? If I give you the freedom of the bateau, of the boats, even of theshore, will you wait for St. Pierre and play the rest of the game outwith him, man to man?"
Carrigan bowed his head slightly. "Yes, I will wait and finish thegame with St. Pierre."
He saw a quick throb come and go in her white throat, and with asudden, impulsive movement she held out her hand to him. For a moment heheld it close. Her little fingers tightened about his own, and the warmthrill of them set his blood leaping with the thing he was fighting down.She was so near that he could feel the throb of her body. For an instantshe bowed her head, and the sweet perfume of her hair was in hisnostrils, the lustrous beauty of it close under his lips.
Gently she withdrew her hand and stood back from him. To Carrigan shewas like a young girl now. It was the loveliness of girlhood he saw inthe flush of her face and in the gladness that was flaming unashamed inher eyes.
"I am not frightened any more," she exclaimed, her voice trembling abit. "When St. Pierre comes, I shall tell him everything. And then youmay ask the questions, and he will answer. And he will not cheat! He willplay square. You will love St. Pierre, and you will forgive me for whathappened behind the rock!"
She made a little gesture toward the door. "Everything is free to youout there now," she added. "I shall tell Bateese and the others. When weare tied up, you may go ashore. And we will forget all that has happened,M'sieu David. We will forget until St. Pierre comes."
"St. Pierre!" he groaned. "If there were no St. Pierre!"
"I should be lost," she broke in quickly. "I should want to die!"
Through the open window came the sound of a voice. It was the weirdmonotone of Andre, the Broken Man. Marie-Anne went to the window. AndDavid, following her, looked over her head, again so near that his lipsalmost touched her hair. Andre had come back. He was watching two Yorkboats that were heading for the bateau.
"You heard him asking for Black Roger Audemard," she said. "It isstrange. I know how it must have shocked you when he stood like that inthe door. His mind, like his body, is a wreck, M'sieu David. Years ago,after a great storm, St. Pierre found him in the forest. A tree hadfallen on him. St. Pierre carried him in on his shoulders. He lived, buthe has always been like that. St. Pierre loves him, and poor Andreworships St. Pierre and follows him about like a dog. His brain is gone.He does not know what his name is, and we call him Andre. And always, dayand night, he is asking that same question, 'Has any one seen Black RogerAudemard?' Sometime—if you will, M'sieu David—I should liketo have you tell me what it is so terrible that you know about RogerAudemard."
The York boats were half-way across the river, and from them came asudden burst of wild song. David could make out six men in each boat,their oars flashing in the morning sun to the rhythm of their chant.Marie-Anne looked up at him suddenly, and in her face and eyes he sawwhat the starry gloom of evening had half hidden from him in thosethrilling moments when they shot through the rapids of the Holy Ghost.She was girl now. He did not think of her as woman. He did not think ofher as St. Pierre's wife. In that upward glance of her eyes was somethingthat thrilled him to the depth of his soul. She seemed, for a moment, tohave dropped a curtain from between herself and him.
Her red lips trembled, she smiled at him, and then she faced the riveragain, and he leaned a little forward, so that a breath of wind floated ashimmering tress of her hair against his cheek. An irresistible impulseseized upon him. He leaned still nearer to her, holding his breath, untilhis lips softly touched one of the velvety coils of her hair. And then hestepped back. Shame swept over him. His heart rose and choked him, andhis fists were clenched at his side. She had not noticed what he haddone, and she seemed to him like a bird yearning to fly out through thewindow, throbbing with the desire to answer the chanting song that cameover the water. And then she was smiling up again into his face hardenedwith the struggle which he was making with himself.
"My people are happy," she cried. "Even in storm they laugh and sing.Listen, m'sieu. They are singing La Derniere Domaine. That is our song.It is what we call our home, away up there in the lost wilderness wherepeople never come—the Last Domain. Their wives and sweethearts andfamilies are up there, and they are happy in knowing that today we shalltravel a few miles nearer to them. They are not like your people inMontreal and Ottawa and Quebec, M'sieu David. They are like children. Andyet they are glorious children!"
She ran to the wall and took down the banner of St. Pierre Boulain."St. Pierre is behind us," she explained. "He is coming down with a raftof timber such as we can not get in our country, and we are waiting forhim. But each day we must float down with the stream a few miles nearerthe homes of my people. It makes them happier, even though it is but afew miles. They are coming now for my bateau. We shall travel slowly, andit will be wonderful on a day like this. It will do you good to comeoutside, M'sieu David—with me. Would you care for that? Or wouldyou rather be alone?"
In her face there was no longer the old restraint. On her lips was thewitchery of a half-smile; in her eyes a glow that flamed the blood in hisveins. It was not a flash of coquetry. It was something deeper and warmerthan that, something real—a new Marie-Anne Boulain telling himplainly that she wanted him to come. He did not know that his hands werestill clenched at his side. Perhaps she knew. But her eyes did not leavehis face, eyes that were repeating the invitation of her lips, openlyasking him not to refuse.
"I shall be happy to come," he said.
The words fell out of him numbly. He scarcely heard them or knew whathe was saying, yet he was conscious of the unnatural note in his voice.He did not know he was betraying himself beyond that, did not see thedeepening of the wild-rose flush in the cheeks of St. Pierre's wife. Hepicked up his pipe from the table and moved to accompany her.
"You must wait a little while," she said, and her hand rested for aninstant upon his arm. Its touch was as light as the touch of his lips hadbeen against her shining hair, but he felt it in every nerve of his body."Nepapinas is making a special lotion for your hurt. I will send him in,and then you may come."
The wild chant of the rivermen was near as she turned to the door.From it she looked back at him swiftly.
"They are happy, M'sieu David," she repeated softly. "And I, too, amhappy. I am no longer afraid. And the world is beautiful again. Can youguess why? It is because you have given me your promise, M'sieu David,and because I believe you!"
And then she was gone.
For many minutes he did not move. The chanting of the rivermen, asudden wilder shout, the voices of men, and after that the grating ofsomething alongside the bateau came to him like sounds from anotherworld. Within himself there was a crash greater than that of physicalthings. It was the truth breaking upon him, truth surging over him likethe waves of a sea, breaking down the barriers he had set up, inundatinghim with a force that was mightier than his own will. A voice in his soulwas crying out the truth—that above all else in the world he wantedto reach out his arms to this glorious creature who was the wife of St.Pierre, this woman who had tried to kill him and was sorry. He knew thatit was not desire for beauty. It was the worship which St. Pierre himselfmust have for this woman who was his wife. And the shock of it was like aconflagration sweeping through him, leaving him dead and shriven, likethe crucified trees standing in the wake of a fire. A breath that wasalmost a cry came from him, and his fists knotted until they were purple.She was St. Pierre's wife! And he, David Carrigan, proud of his honor,proud of the strength that made him man, had dared covet her in this hourwhen her husband was gone! He stared at the closed door, beginning to cryout against himself, and over him there swept slowly and terribly anotherthing—the shame of his weakness, the hopelessness of the thing thatfor a space had eaten into him and consumed him.
And as he stared, the door opened, and Nepapinas came in.
During the next quarter of an hour David was as silent as the oldIndian doctor. He was conscious of no pain when Nepapinas took off hisbandage and bathed his head in the lotion he had brought. Before a freshbandage was put on, he looked at himself for a moment in the mirror. Itwas the first time he had seen his wound, and he expected to find himselfmarked with a disfiguring scar. To his surprise there was no sign of hishurt except a slightly inflamed spot above his temple. He stared atNepapinas, and there was no need of the question that was in hismind.
The old Indian understood, and his dried-up face cracked and crinkledin a grin. "Bullet hit a piece of rock, an' rock, not bullet, hit umhead," he explained. "Make skull almost break—bend um in—butNepapinas straighten again with fingers, so-so." He shrugged his thinshoulders with a cackling laugh of pride as he worked his claw-likefingers to show how the operation had been done.
David shook hands with him in silence; then Nepapinas put on the freshbandage, and after that went out, chuckling again in his weird way, asthough he had played a great joke on the white man whom his wizardry hadsnatched out of the jaws of death.
For some time there had been a subdued activity outside. The singingof the boatmen had ceased, a low voice was giving commands, and lookingthrough the window, David saw that the bateau was slowly swinging awayfrom the shore. He turned from the window to the table and lighted thecigar St. Pierre's wife had given him.
In spite of the mental struggle he had made during the presence ofNepapinas, he had failed to get a grip on himself. For a time he hadceased to be David Carrigan, the man-hunter. A few days ago his blood hadrun to that almost savage thrill of the great game of one against one,the game in which Law sat on one side of the board and Lawlessness on theother, with the cards between. It was the great gamble. The cards meantlife or death; there was never a checkmate—one or the other had tolose. Had some one told him then that soon he would meet the broken andtwisted hulk of a man who had known Black Roger Audemard, every nerve inhim would have thrilled in anticipation of that hour. He realized this ashe paced back and forth over the thick rugs of the bateau floor. And heknew, even as he struggled to bring them back, that the old thrill andthe old desire were gone. It was impossible to lie to himself. St.Pierre, in this moment, was of more importance to him than RogerAudemard. And St. Pierre's wife, Marie-Anne—
His eyes fell on the crumpled handkerchief on the piano keys. Again hewas crushing it in the palm of his hand, and again the flood ofhumiliation and shame swept over him. He dropped the handkerchief, andthe great law of his own life seemed to rise up in his face and taunthim. He was clean. That had been his greatest pride. He hated the man whowas unclean. It was his instinct to kill the man who desecrated anotherman's home. And here, in the sacredness of St. Pierre's paradise, hefound himself at last face to face with that greatest fight of all theages.
He faced the door. He threw back his shoulders until they snapped, andhe laughed, as if at the thing that had risen up to point its finger athim. After all, it did not hurt a man to go through a bit offire—if he came out of it unburned. And deep in his heart he knewit was not a sin to love, even as he loved, if he kept that love tohimself. What he had done when Marie-Anne stood at the window he couldnot undo. St. Pierre would probably have killed him for touching her hairwith his lips, and he would not have blamed St. Pierre. But she had notfelt that stolen caress. No one knew—but himself. And he washappier because of it. It was a sort of sacred thing, even though itbrought the heat of shame into his face.
He went to the door, opened it, and stood out in the sunshine. It wasgood to feel the warmth of the sun in his face again and the sweet air ofthe open day in his lungs. The bateau was free of the shore and driftingsteadily towards midstream. Bateese was at the great birchwood ruddersweep, and to David's surprise he nodded in a friendly way, and his widemouth broke into a grin.
"Ah, it is coming soon, that fight of ours, little coq de bruyere!" hechuckled gloatingly. "An' ze fight will be jus' lak that,m'sieu—you ze little fool-hen's rooster, ze partridge, an' I,Concombre Bateese, ze eagle!"
The anticipation in the half-breed's eyes reflected itself for aninstant in David's. He turned back into the cabin, bent over his pack,and found among his clothes two pairs of boxing gloves. He fondled themwith the loving touch of a brother and comrade, and their velvetysmoothness was more soothing to his nerves than the cigar he was smoking.His one passion above all others was boxing, and wherever he went, eitheron pleasure or adventure, the gloves went with him. In many a cabin andshack of the far hinterland he had taught white men and Indians how touse them, so that he might have the pleasure of feeling the thrill ofthem on his hands. And now here was Concombre Bateese inviting him on,waiting for him to get well!
He went out and dangled the clumsy-looking mittens under the half-breed's nose.
Bateese looked at them curiously. "Mitaines," he nodded. "Does zelittle partridge rooster keep his claws warm in those in ze winter? Theyare clumsy, m'sieu. I can make a better mitten of caribou skin." Puttingon one of the gloves, David doubled up his fist. "Do you see that,Concombre Bateese?" he asked. "Well, I will tell you this, that they arenot mittens to keep your hands warm. I am going to fight you in them whenour time comes. With these mittens I will fight you and your naked fists.Why? Because I do not want to hurt you too badly, friend Bateese! I donot want to break your face all to pieces, which I would surely do if Idid not put on these soft mittens. Then, when you have really learned tofight—"
The bull neck of Concombre Bateese looked as if it were about toburst. His eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets, and suddenly helet out a roar. "What!—You dare talk lak that to Concombre Bateese,w'at is great'st fightin' man on all T'ree River? You talk lak that tome, Concombre Bateese, who will kill ze bear wit' hees ban's, who pulldown ze tree, who—who—"
The word-flood of his outraged dignity sprang to his lips; emotionchoked him, and then, looking suddenly over Carrigan's shoulder— hestopped. Something in his look made David turn. Three paces behind himstood Marie-Anne, and he knew that from the corner of the cabin she hadheard what had passed between them. She was biting her lips, and behindthe flash of her eyes he saw laughter.
"You must not quarrel, children," she said. "Bateese, you are steeringbadly."
She reached out her hands, and without a word David gave her thegloves. With her palm and fingers she caressed them softly, yet David sawlittle lines of doubt come into her white forehead.
"They are pretty—and soft, M'sieu David. Surely they can nothurt much! Some day when St. Pierre comes, will you teach me how to usethem?"
"Always it is 'When St. Pierre comes,'" he replied. "Shall we bewaiting long?"
"Two or three days, perhaps a little longer. Are you coming with me tothe proue, m'sieu?"
She did not wait for his answer, but went ahead of him, dangling thetwo pairs of gloves at her side. David caught a last glimpse of thehalf-breed's face as he followed Marie-Anne around the end of the cabin.Bateese was making a frightful grimace and shaking his huge fist, butscarcely were they out of sight on the narrow footway that ran betweenthe cabin and the outer timbers of the scow when a huge roar of laughterfollowed them. Bateese had not done laughing when they reached the proue,or bow-nest, a deck fully ten feet in length by eight in width, shelteredabove by an awning, and comfortably arranged with chairs, several rugs, asmall table, and, to David's amazement, a hammock. He had never seenanything like this on the Three Rivers, nor had he ever heard of a scowso large or so luxuriously appointed. Over his head, at the tip of aflagstaff attached to the forward end of the cabin, floated the black andwhite pennant of St. Pierre Boulain. And under this staff was a screeneddoor which undoubtedly opened into the kitchenette which Marie-Anne hadtold him about. He made no effort to hide his surprise. But St. Pierre'swife seemed not to notice it. The puckery little lines were still in herforehead, and the laughter had faded out of her eyes. The tiny linesdeepened as there came another wild roar of laughter from Bateese in thestern.
"Is it true that you have given your word to fight Bateese?" sheasked.
"It is true, Marie-Anne. And I feel that Bateese is looking aheadjoyously to the occasion."
"He is," she affirmed. "Last night he spread the news among all mypeople. Those who left to join St. Pierre this morning have taken thenews with them, and there is a great deal of excitement and much betting.I am afraid you have made a bad promise. No man has offered to fightBateese in three years—not even my great St. Pierre, who says thatConcombre is more than a match for him."
"And yet they must have a little doubt, as there is betting, and ittakes two to make a bet," chuckled David.
The lines went out of Marie-Anne's forehead, and a half-smile trembledon her red lips. "Yes, there is betting. But those who are for you areoffering next autumn's muskrat skins and frozen fish against lynx andfisher and marten. The odds are about thirty to one against you, M'sieuDavid!"
The look of pity which was clearly in her eyes brought a rush of bloodto David's face. "If only I had something to wager!" he groaned.
"You must not fight. I shall forbid it!"
"Then Bateese and I will steal off into the forest and have it out byourselves."
"He will hurt you badly. He is terrible, like a great beast, when hefights. He loves to fight and is always asking if there is not some onewho will stand up to him. I think he would desert even me for a goodfight. But you, M'sieu David—"
"I also love a fight," he admitted, unashamed.
St. Pierre's wife studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "With these?"she asked then, holding up the gloves.
"Yes, with those. Bateese may use his fists, but I shall use those, sothat I shall not disfigure him permanently. His face is none too handsomeas it is."
For another flash her lips trembled on the edge of a smile. Then shegave him the gloves, a bit troubled, and nodded to a chair with a deep,cushioned seat and wide arms. "Please make yourself comfortable, M'sieuDavid. I have something to do in the cabin and will return in a littlewhile."
He wondered if she had gone back to settle the matter with Bateese atonce, for it was clear that she did not regard with favor the promisedbout between himself and the half-breed. It was on the spur of a carelessmoment that he had promised to fight Bateese, and with little thoughtthat it was likely to be carried out or that it would become a matter ofimportance with all of St. Pierre's brigade. He was evidently in for it,he told himself, and as a fighting man it looked as though ConcombreBateese was at least the equal of his braggadocio. He was glad of that.He grinned as he watched the bending backs of St. Pierre's men. So theywere betting thirty to one against him! Even St. Pierre might be inducedto bet—with HIM. And if he did—
The hot blood leaped for a moment in Carrigan's veins. The thrill wentto the tips of his fingers. He stared out over the river, unseeing, asthe possibilities of the thing that had come into his mind made him for amoment oblivious of the world. He possessed one thing against which St.Pierre and St. Pierre's wife would wager a half of all they owned in theworld! And if he should gamble that one thing, which had come to him likean inspiration, and should whip Bateese—
He began to pace back and forth over the narrow deck, no longerwatching the rowers or the shore. The thought grew, and his mind wasconsumed by it. Thus far, from the moment the first shot was fired at himfrom the ambush, he had been playing with adventure in the dark. But fatehad at last dealt him a trump card. That something which he possessed wasmore precious than furs or gold to St. Pierre, and St. Pierre would notrefuse the wager when it was offered. He would not dare refuse. More thanthat, he would accept eagerly, strong in the faith that Bateese wouldwhip him as he had whipped all other fighters who had come up against himalong the Three Rivers. And when Marie-Anne knew what that wager was tobe, she, too, would pray for the gods of chance to be with ConcombreBateese!
He did not hear the light footsteps behind him, and when he turnedsuddenly in his pacing, he found himself facing Marie-Anne, who carriedin her hands the little basket he had seen on the cabin table. She seatedherself in the hammock and took from the basket a bit of lace work. For amoment he watched her fingers flashing in and out with the needles.
Perhaps his thought went to her. He was almost frightened as he sawher cheeks coloring under the long, dark lashes. He faced the rivermenagain, and while he gripped at his own weakness, he tried to count theflashings of their oars. And behind him, the beautiful eyes of St.Pierre's wife were looking at him with a strange glow in theirdepths.
"Do you know," he said, speaking slowly and still looking toward theflashing of the oars, "something tells me that unexpected things aregoing to happen when St. Pierre returns. I am going to make a bet withhim that I can whip Bateese. He will not refuse. He will accept. And St.Pierre will lose, because I shall whip Bateese. It is then that theseunexpected things will begin to happen. And I am wondering—afterthey do happen—if you will care so very much?"
There was a moment of silence. And then, "I don't want you to fightBateese," she said.
The needles were working swiftly when he turned toward her again, anda second time the long lashes shadowed what a moment before he might haveseen in her eyes.
The morning passed like a dream to Carrigan. He permitted himself tolive and breathe it as one who finds himself for a space in the heart ofa golden mirage. He was sitting so near Marie-Anne that now and then thefaint perfume of her came to him like the delicate scent of a flower. Itwas a breath of crushed violets, sweet as the air he was breathing,violets gathered in the deep cool of the forest, a whisper of sweetnessabout her, as if on her bosom she wore always the living flowers. Hefancied her gathering them last bloom-time, a year ago, alone, her feetseeking out the damp mosses, her little fingers plucking the smiling andlaughing faces of the violet flowers to be treasured away in fragrantsachets, as gentle as the wood-thrush's note, compared with the bottledaromas fifteen hundred miles south. It seemed to be a physical part ofher, a thing born of the glow in her cheeks, a living exhalation of hersoft red lips—and yet only when he was near, very near, did thelife of it reach him.
She did not know he was thinking these things. There was nothing inhis voice, he thought, to betray him. He was sure she was unconscious ofthe fight he was making. Her eyes smiled and laughed with him, shecounted her stitches, her fingers worked, and she talked to him as shemight have talked to a friend of St. Pierre's. She told him how St.Pierre had made the barge, the largest that had ever been on the river,and that he had built it entirely of dry cedar, so that it floated like afeather wherever there was water enough to run a York boat. She told himhow St. Pierre had brought the piano down from Edmonton, and how he hadsaved it from pitching in the river by carrying the full weight of it onhis shoulders when they met with an accident in running through adangerous rapids bringing it down. St. Pierre was a very strong man, shesaid, a note of pride in her voice. And then she added,
"Sometimes, when he picks me up in his arms, I feel that he is goingto squeeze the life out of me!"
Her words were like a sharp thrust into his heart. For an instant theypainted a vision for him, a picture of that slim and adorable creaturecrushed close in the great arms of St. Pierre, so close that she couldnot breathe. In that mad moment of his hurt it was almost a living,breathing reality for him there on the golden fore-deck of the scow. Heturned his face toward the far shore, where the wilderness seemed toreach off into eternity. What a glory it was—the green seas ofspruce and cedar and balsam, the ridges of poplar and birch rising likesilvery spume above the darker billows, and afar off, mellowed in thesun-mists, the guardian crests of Trout Mountains sentineling the countrybeyond! Into that mystery-land on the farther side of the Wabiskawwaterways Carrigan would have loved to set his foot four days ago. It wasthat mystery of the unpeopled places that he most desired, their silence,the comradeship of spaces untrod by the feet of man. And now, what a foolhe was! Through vast distances the forests he loved seemed to whisper itto him, and ahead of him the river seemed to look back, nodding over itsshoulder, beckoning to him, telling him the word of the forests was true.It streamed on lazily, half a mile wide, as if resting for the splashingand roaring rush it would make among the rocks of the next rapids, and inits indolence it sang the low and everlasting song of deep and slowlypassing water. In that song David heard the same whisper, that he was afool! And the lure of the wilderness shores crept in on him and grippedhim as of old. He looked at the rowers in the two York boats, and thenhis eyes came back to the end of the barge and to St. Pierre's wife.
Her little toes were tapping the floor of the deck. She, too, waslooking out over the wilderness. And again it seemed to him that she waslike a bird that wanted to fly.
"I should like to go into those hills," she said, without looking athim. "Away off yonder!"
"And I—I should like to go with you."
"You love all that, m'sieu?" she asked.
"Yes, madame!"
"Why 'madame,' when I have given you permission to call me 'Marie-Anne'?" she demanded.
"Because you call me 'm'sieu'."
"But you—you have not given me permission—"
"Then I do now," he interrupted quickly.
"Merci! I have wondered why you did not return the courtesy," shelaughed softly. "I do not like the m'sieu. I shall call you 'David'!"
She rose out of the hammock suddenly and dropped her needles and lacework into the little basket. "I have forgotten something. It is for youto eat when it comes dinner-time, m'sieu—I mean David. So I mustturn fille de cuisine for a little while. That is what St. Pierresometimes calls me, because I love to play at cooking. I am going to bakea pie!"
The dark-screened door of the kitchenette closed behind her, andCarrigan walked out from under the awning, so that the sun beat down uponhim. There was no longer a doubt in his mind. He was more than fool. Heenvied St. Pierre, and he coveted that which St. Pierre possessed. Andyet, before he would take what did not belong to him, he knew he wouldput a pistol to his head and blow his life out. He was confident ofhimself there. Yet he had fallen, and out of the mire into which he hadsunk he knew also that he must drag himself, and quickly, or beeverlastingly lowered in his own esteem. He stripped himself naked anddid not lie to that other and greater thing of life that was in him.
He was not only a fool, but a coward. Only a coward would have touchedthe hair of St. Pierre's wife with his lips; only a coward would have letlive the thoughts that burned in his brain. She was St. Pierre'swife—and he was anxious now for the quick homecoming of the chiefof the Boulains. After that everything would happen quickly. He thankedGod that the inspiration of the wager had come to him. After the fight,after he had won, then once more would he be the old Dave Carrigan,holding the trump hand in a thrilling game.
Loud voices from the York boats ahead and answering cries from Bateesein the stern drew him to the open deck. The bateau was close to shore,and the half-breed was working the long stern sweep as if the power of asteam-engine was in his mighty arms. The York boats had shortened theirtowline and were pulling at right angles within a few yards of a gravellybeach. A few strokes more, and men who were bare to the knees jumped outinto shallow water and began tugging at the tow rope with their hands.David looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. Never in his life had timepassed so swiftly as that morning on the forward deck of the barge. Andnow they were tying up, after a drop of six or eight miles down theriver, and he wondered how swiftly St. Pierre was overtaking them withhis raft.
He was filled with the desire to feel the soft crush of the earthunder his feet again, and not waiting for the long plank that Bateese wasalready swinging from the scow to the shore, he made a leap that put himon the sandy beach, St. Pierre's wife had given him this permission, andhe looked to see what effect his act had on the half-breed. The face ofConcombre Bateese was like sullen stone. Not a sound came from his thicklips, but in his eyes was a deep and dangerous fire as he looked atCarrigan. There was no need for words. In them were suspicion, warning,the deadly threat of what would happen if he did not come back when itwas time to return. David nodded. He understood. Even though St. Pierre'swife had faith in him, Bateese had not. He passed between the men, and toa man their faces turned on him, and in their quiet and watchful eyes hesaw again that warning and suspicion, the unspoken threat of what wouldhappen if he forgot his promise to Marie-Anne Boulain. Never, in a singleoutfit, had he seen such splendid men. They were not a mongrel assortmentof the lower country. Slim, tall, clean-cut, sinewy—they were stockof the old voyageurs of a hundred years ago, and all of them were young.The older men had gone to St. Pierre. The reason for this dawned uponCarrigan. Not one of these twelve but could beat him in a race throughthe forest; not one that could not outrun him and cut him off though hehad hours the start!
Passing beyond them, he paused and looked back at the bateau. On theforward deck stood Marie-Anne, and she, too, was looking at him now. Evenat that distance he saw that her face was quiet and troubled withanxiety. She did not smile when he lifted his hat to her, but gave only alittle nod. Then he turned and buried himself in the green balsams thatgrew within fifty paces of the river. The old joy of life leaped into himas his feet crushed in the soft moss of the shaded places where the sundid not break through. He went on, passing through a vast and silentcathedral of spruce and cedar so dense that the sky was hidden, and camethen to higher ground, where the evergreen was sprinkled with birch andpoplar. About him was an invisible choir of voices, the low twittering oftimid little gray-backs, the song of hidden— warblers, the scoldingof distant jays. Big-eyed moose-birds stared at him as he passed,fluttering so close to his face that they almost touched his shoulders intheir foolish inquisitiveness. A porcupine crashed within a dozen feet ofhis trail. And then he came to a beaten path, and other paths worn deepin the cool, damp earth by the hoofs of moose and caribou. Half a milefrom the bateau he sat down on a rotting log and filled his pipe withfresh tobacco, while he listened to catch the subdued voice of the lifein this land that he loved.
It was then that the curious feeling came over him that he was notalone, that other eyes than those of beast and bird were watching him. Itwas an impression that grew on him. He seemed to feel their stare,seeking him out from the darkest coverts, waiting for him to shove on,dogging him like a ghost. Within him the hound- like instincts of theman-hunter rose swiftly to the suspicion of invisible presence.
He began to note the changes in the cries of certain birds. A hundredyards on his right a jay, most talkative of all the forest things, wasscreeching with a new note in its voice. On the other side of him, in adense pocket of poplar and spruce, a warbler suddenly brought its song toa jerky end. He heard the excited Pe- wee—Pe-wee—Pe-wee of astartled little gray-back giving warning of an unwelcome intruder nearits nest. And he rose to his feet, laughing softly as he thumbed down thetobacco in his pipe. Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain might believe in him, butBateese and her wary henchmen had ways of their own of strengtheningtheir faith.
It was close to noon when he turned back, and he did not return by themoose path. Deliberately he struck out a hundred yards on either side ofit, traveling where the moss grew thick and the earth was damp and soft.And five times he found the moccasin- prints of men.
Bateese, with his sleeves up, was scrubbing the deck of the bateauwhen David came over the plank.
"There are moose and caribou in there, but I fear I disturbed yourhunters," said Carrigan, grinning at the half-breed. "They are too clumsyto hunt well, so clumsy that even the birds give them away. I am afraidwe shall go without fresh meat tomorrow!"
Concombre Bateese stared as if some one had stunned him with a blow,and he spoke no word as David went on to the forward deck. Marie-Anne hadcome out under the awning. She gave a little cry of relief andpleasure.
"I am glad you have come back, M'sieu David!"
"So am I, madame," he replied. "I think the woods are unhealthful totravel in!"
Out of the earth he felt that a part of the old strength had returnedto him. Alone they sat at dinner, and Marie-Anne waited on him and calledhim David again—and he found it easier now to call her Marie-Anneand look into her eyes without fear that he was betraying himself. A partof the afternoon he spent in her company, and it was not difficult forhim to tell her something of his adventuring in the north, and how, bodyand soul, the northland had claimed him, and that he hoped to die in itwhen his time came. Her eyes glowed at that. She told him of two yearsshe had spent in Montreal and Quebec, of her homesickness, her joy whenshe returned to her forests. It seemed, for a time, that they hadforgotten St. Pierre. They did not speak of him. Twice they saw Andre,the Broken Man, but the name of Roger Audemard was not spoken. And alittle at a time she told him of the hidden paradise of the Boulains awayup in the unmapped wildernesses of the Yellowknife beyond the Great Bear,and of the great log chateau that was her home.
A part of the afternoon he spent on shore. He filled a moosehide bagfull of sand and suspended it from the limb of a tree, and forthree-quarters of an hour pommeled it with his fists, much to thecuriosity and amusement of St. Pierre's men, who could see nothing ofman-fighting in these antics. But the exercise assured David that he hadlost but little of his strength and that he would be in form to meetBateese when the time came. Toward evening Marie- Anne joined him, andthey walked for half an hour up and down the beach. It was Bateese whogot supper. And after that Carrigan sat with Marie-Anne on the foredeckof the barge and smoked another of St. Pierre's cigars.
The camp of the rivermen was two hundred yards below the bateau,screened between by a finger of hardwood, so that except when they brokeinto a chorus of laughter or strengthened their throats with snatches ofsong, there was no sound of their voices. But Bateese was in the stern,and Nepapinas was forever flitting in and out among the shadows on theshore, like a shadow himself, and Andre, the Broken Man, hovered near asnight came on. At last he sat down in the edge of the white sand of thebeach, and there he remained, a silent and lonely figure, as the twilightdeepened. Over the world hovered a sleepy quiet. Out of the forest camethe droning of the wood-crickets, the last twitterings of the day birds,and the beginning of night sounds. A great shadow floated out over theriver close to the bateau, the first of the questing, blood- seeking owlsadventuring out like pirates from their hiding-places of the day. Oneafter another, as the darkness thickened, the different tribes of thepeople of the night answered the summons of the first stars. A mile downthe river a loon gave its harsh love-cry; far out of the west came thefaint trail-song of a wolf; in the river the night-feeding trout splashedlike the tails of beaver; over the roof of the wilderness came thecoughing, moaning challenge of a bull moose that yearned for battle. Andover these same forest tops rose the moon, the stars grew thicker andbrighter, and through the finger of hardwood glowed the fire of St.Pierre Boulain's men—while close beside him, silent in these hoursof silence, David felt growing nearer and still nearer to him thepresence of St. Pierre's wife.
On the strip of sand Andre, the Broken Man, rose and stood like thestub of a misshapen tree. And then slowly he moved on and was swallowedup in the mellow glow of the night.
"It is at night that he seeks," said St. Pierre's wife, for it was asif David had spoken the thought that was in his mind.
David, for a moment, was silent. And then he said, "You asked me totell you about Black Roger Audemard. I will, if you care to have me. Doyou?"
He saw the nodding of her head, though the moon and star-mist veiledher face.
"Yes. What do the Police say about Roger Audemard?"
He told her. And not once in the telling of the story did she speak ormove. It was a terrible story at best, he thought, but he did not weakenit by smoothing over the details. This was his opportunity. He wanted herto know why he must possess the body of Roger Audemard, if not alive,then dead, and he wanted her to understand how important it was that helearn more about Andre, the Broken Man.
"He was a fiend, this Roger Audemard," he began. "A devil in manshape, afterward called 'Black Roger' because of the color of hissoul."
Then he went on. He described Hatchet River Post, where the tragedyhad happened; then told of the fight that came about one day betweenRoger Audemard and the factor of the post and his two sons. It was anunfair fight; he conceded that—three to one was cowardly in afight. But it could not excuse what happened afterward. Audemard wasbeaten. He crept off into the forest, almost dead. Then he came back onestormy night in the winter with three strange friends. Who the friendswere the Police never learned. There was a fight, but all through thefight Black Roger Audemard cried out not to kill the factor and his sons.In spite of that one of the sons was killed. Then the terrible thinghappened. The father and his remaining son were bound hand and foot andfastened in the ancient dungeon room under the Post building. Then BlackRoger set the building on fire, and stood outside in the storm andlaughed like a madman at the dying shrieks of his victims. It was theseason when the trappers were on their lines, and there were but fewpeople at the post. The company clerk and one other attempted tointerfere, and Black Roger killed them with his own hands. Five deathsthat night—two of them horrible beyond description!
Resting for a moment, Carrigan went on to tell of the long years ofunavailing search made by the Police after that; how Black Roger wascaught once and killed his captor. Then came the rumor that he was dead,and rumor grew into official belief, and the Police no longer hunted forhis trails. Then, not long ago, came the discovery that Black Roger wasstill living, and he, Dave Carrigan, was after him.
For a time there was silence after he had finished. Then St. Pierre'swife rose to her feet. "I wonder," she said in a low voice, "what RogerAudemard's own story might be if he were here to tell it?"
She stepped out from under the awning, and in the full radiance of themoon he saw the pale beauty of her face and the crowning luster of herhair.
"Good night!" she whispered.
"Good night!" said David.
He listened until her retreating footsteps died away, and for hoursafter that he had no thought of sleep. He had insisted that she takepossession of her cabin again, and Bateese had brought out a bundle ofblankets. These he spread under the awning, and when he drowsed off, itwas to dream of the lovely face he had seen last in the glow of themoon.
It was in the afternoon of the fourth day that two thingshappened—one that he had prepared himself for, and another sounexpected that for a space it sent his world crashing out of its orbit.With St. Pierre's wife he had gone again to the ridge-line for flowers,half a mile back from the river. Returning a new way, they came to ashallow stream, and Marie-Anne stood at the edge of it, and there waslaughter in her shining eyes as she looked to the other side of it. Shehad twined flowers into her hair. Her cheeks were rich with color. Herslim figure was exquisite in its wild pulse of life.
Suddenly she turned on him, her red lips smiling their witchery in hisface. "You must carry me across," she said.
He did not answer. He was a-tremble as he drew near her. She raisedher arms a little, waiting. And then he picked her up. She was againsthis breast. Her two hands went to his shoulders as he waded into thestream; he slipped, and they clung a little tighter. The soft note oflaughter was in her throat when the current came to his knees out in themiddle of the stream. He held her tighter; and then stupidly, he slippedagain, and the movement brought her lower in his arms, so that for aspace her head was against his breast and his face was crushed in thesoft masses of her hair. He came with her that way to the opposite shoreand stood her on her feet again, standing back quickly so that she wouldnot hear the pounding of his heart. Her face was radiantly beautiful, andshe did not look at David, but away from him.
"Thank you," she said.
And then, suddenly, they heard running feet behind them, and inanother moment one of the brigade men came dashing through the stream. Atthe same time there came from the river a quarter of a mile away athunderous burst of voice. It was not the voice of a dozen men, but ofhalf a hundred, and Marie-Anne grew tense, listening, her eyes on fireeven before the messenger could get the words out of his mouth.
"It is St. Pierre!" he cried then. "He has come with the great raft,and you must hurry if you would reach the bateau before he lands!"
In that moment it seemed to David that Marie-Anne forgot he was alive.A little cry came to her lips, and then she left him, running swiftly,saying no word to him, flying with the speed of a fawn to St. PierreBoulain! And when David turned to the man who had come up behind them,there was a strange smile on the lips of the lithe-limbed forest-runneras his eyes followed the hurrying figure of St. Pierre's wife.
Until she was out of sight he stood in silence and then he said:
"Come, m'sieu. We, also, must meet St. Pierre!"
David moved slowly behind the brigade man. He had no desire to hurry.He did not wish to see what happened when Marie-Anne met St. PierreBoulain. Only a moment ago she had been in his arms; her hair hadsmothered his face; her hands had clung to his shoulders; her flushedcheeks and long lashes had for an instant lain close against his breast.And now, swiftly, without a word of apology, she was running away fromhim to meet her husband.
He almost spoke that word aloud as he saw the last of her slim figureamong the silver birches. She was going to the man to whom she belonged,and there was no hesitation in the manner of her going. She was glad. Andshe was entirely forgetful of him, Dave Carrigan, in that gladness.
He quickened his steps, narrowing the distance between him and thehurrying brigade man. Only the diseased thoughts in his brain had madethe happening in the creek anything but an accident. It was all anaccident, he told himself. Marie-Anne had asked him to carry her acrossjust as she would have asked any one of her rivermen. It was his fault,and not hers, that he had slipped in mid-stream, and that his arms hadclosed tighter about her, and that her hair had brushed his face. Heremembered she had laughed, when it seemed for a moment that they weregoing to fall into the stream together. Probably she would tell St.Pierre all about it. Surely she would never guess it had been nearertragedy than comedy for him.
Once more he was convinced he had proved himself a weakling and afool. His business now was with St. Pierre, and the hour was at hand whenthe game had ceased to be a woman's game. He had looked ahead to thishour. He had prepared himself for it and had promised himself action thatwould be both quick and decisive. And yet, as he went on, his heart wasstill thumping unsteadily, and in his arms and against his face remainedstill the sweet, warm thrill of his contact with Marie-Anne. He could notdrive that from him. It would never completely go. As long as he lived,what had happened in the creek would live with him. He did not deny thatcrying voice inside him. It was easy for his mouth to make words. Hecould call himself a fool and a weakling, but those words were purelymechanical, hollow, meaningless. The truth remained. It was a blazingfire in his breast, a conflagration that might easily get the best ofhim, a thing which he must fight and triumph over for his own salvation.He did not think of danger for Marie-Anne, for such a thought wasinconceivable. The tragedy was one-sided. It was his own folly, his owndanger. For just as he loved Marie-Anne, so did she love her husband, St.Pierre.
He came to the low ridge close to the river and climbed up through thethick birches and poplars. At the top was a bald knob of sandstone, overwhich the riverman had already passed. David paused there and looked downon the broad sweep of the Athabasca.
What he saw was like a picture spread out on the great breast of theriver and the white strip of shoreline. Still a quarter of a mileupstream, floating down slowly with the current, was a mighty raft, andfor a space his eyes took in nothing else. On the Mackenzie, theAthabasca, the Saskatchewan, and the Peace he had seen many rafts, butnever a raft like this of St. Pierre Boulain. It was a hundred feet inwidth and twice and a half times as long, and with the sun blazing downupon it from out of a cloudless sky it looked to him like a little cityswept up from out of some archaic and savage desert land to betransplanted to the river. It was dotted with tents and canvas shelters.Some of these were gray, and some were white, and two or three werestriped with broad bands of yellow and red. Behind all these was a cabin,and over this there rose a slender staff from which floated the black andwhite pennant of St. Pierre. The raft was alive. Men were running betweenthe tents. The long rudder sweeps were flashing in the sun. Rowers withnaked arms and shoulders were straining their muscles in four York boatsthat were pulling like ants at the giant mass of timber. And to David'sears came a deep monotone of human voices, the chanting of the men asthey worked.
Nearer to him a louder response suddenly made answer to it. A dozensteps carried him round a projecting thumb of brush, and he could see theopen shore where the bateau was tied. Marie-Anne had crossed the strip ofsand, and Bateese was helping her into a waiting York boat. Then Bateeseshoved it off, and the four men in it began to row. Two canoes werealready half-way to the raft, and David recognized the occupant of one ofthem as Andre, the Broken Man. Then he saw Marie-Anne rise in the Yorkboat and wave something white in her hand.
He looked again toward the raft. The current and the sweeps and thetugging boats were drawing it steadily nearer. Standing at the very edgeof it he saw now a solitary figure, and in the clear sunlight the manstood out clean-cut as a carven statue. He was a giant in size. His headand arms were bare, and he was looking steadily toward the bateau and theapproaching York boat. He raised an arm, and a moment later the movementwas followed by a voice that rose above all other voices. It boomed overthe river like the rumble of a gun. In response to it Marie-Anne wavedthe white thing in her hand, and David thought he heard her voice in ananswering cry. He stared again at the solitary figure of the man, seeingnothing else, hearing no other sound but the booming of the deep cry thatcame again over the river. His heart was thumping. In his eyes was agathering fire. His body grew tense. For he knew that at last he waslooking at St. Pierre, chief of the Boulains, and husband of the woman heloved.
As the significance of the situation grew upon him, a flash of his oldhumor returned. It was the same grim humor that had possessed him behindthe rock, when he had thought he was going to die. Fate had played him adishonest turn then, and it was doing the same thing by him now. Unlesshe deliberately turned his face away, he was going to see the reunion ofMarie-Anne and St. Pierre.
Yesterday he had strapped his binoculars to his belt. Today Marie-Anne had looked through them a dozen times. They had been a source ofpleasure and thrill to her. Now, David thought, they would be goodmedicine for him. He would see the whole thing through, and at closerange. He would leave himself no room for doubt. He had laughed behindthe rock, when bullets were zipping close to his head, and the same grimsmile came to his lips now as he focused his glasses on the solitaryfigure at the head of the raft.
The smile died away when he saw St. Pierre. It was as if he couldreach out and touch him with his hand. And never, he thought, had he seensuch a man. A moment before, a flashing vision had come to him from outof an Arabian desert; the multitude of colored tents, the half-naked men,the great raft floating almost without perceptible motion on the placidbreast of the river had stirred his imagination until he saw a strangepicture. But there was nothing Arabic, nothing desert-like, in this manhis binoculars brought within a few feet of his eyes. He was more like aviking pirate who had roved the sea a few centuries ago. One great, barearm was raised as David looked, and his booming voice was rolling overthe river again. His hair was shaggy, and untrimmed, and red; he wore ashort beard that glistened in the sun—he was laughing as he wavedand shouted to Marie-Anne—a joyous, splendid giant of a man whoseemed almost on the point of leaping into the water in his eagerness toclasp in his naked arms the woman who was coming to him.
David drew a deep breath, and there came an unconscious tightening athis heart as he turned his glasses upon Marie-Anne. She was stillstanding in the bow of the York boat, and her back was toward him. Hecould see the glisten of the sun in her hair. She was waving herhandkerchief, and the poise of her slim body told him that in hereagerness she would have darted from the bow of the boat had shepossessed wings.
Again he looked at St. Pierre. And this was the man who was no matchfor Concombre Bateese! It was inconceivable. Yet he heard Marie-Anne'svoice repeating those very words in his ear. But she had surely beenjoking with him. She had been storing up this little surprise for him.She had wanted him to discover with his own eyes what a splendid man wasthis chief of the Boulains. And yet, as David stared, there came to himan unpleasant thought of the incongruity of this thing he was lookingupon. It struck upon him like a clashing discord, the fact of matehoodbetween these two—a condition inconsistent and out of tune with thebeautiful things he had built up in his mind about the woman. In his soulhe had enshrined her as a lovely wildflower, easily crushed, easilydestroyed, a sweet treasure to be guarded from all that was rough andsavage, a little violet-goddess as fragile as she was brave and loyal.And St. Pierre, standing there at the edge of his raft, looked as if hehad come up out of the caves of a million years ago! There was somethingbarbaric about him. He needed only a club and a shield and the skin of abeast about his loins to transform him into prehistoric man. At leastthese were his first impressions—impressions roused by thought ofMarie-Anne's slim, beautiful body crushed close in the embrace of thatlaughing, powerful-lunged giant. Then the reaction swept over him. St.Pierre was not a monster, even though his disturbed mind unconsciouslymade an effort to conceive him as such. There were gladness and laughterin his face. There was the contagion of joy and good cheer in the voicethat boomed over the water. Laughter and shouts answered it from theshore. The rowers in Marie-Anne's York boat burst into a wild andexultant snatch of song and made their oars fairly crack. There came asolitary yell from Andre, the Broken Man, who was close to the head ofthe raft now. And from the raft itself came a slowly swelling volume ofsound, the urge and voice and exultation of red-blooded men a-thrill withthe glory of this day and the wild freedom of their world. The truth cameto David. St. Pierre Boulain was the beloved Big Brother of hispeople.
He waited, his muscles tense, his jaws set tight. Good medicine, hecalled it again, a righteous sort of punishment set upon him for themoral cowardice he had betrayed in falling down in worship at the feet ofanother man's wife. The York boat was very close to the head of the raftnow. He saw Marie-Anne herself fling a rope to St. Pierre. Then the boatswung alongside. In another moment St. Pierre had leaned over, andMarie-Anne was with him on the raft. For a space everything else in theworld was obliterated for David. He saw St. Pierre's arms gather the slimform into their embrace. He saw Marie-Anne's hands go up fondly to thebearded face. And then—
Carrigan cut the picture there. He turned his shoulder to the raft andsnapped the binoculars in the case at his belt. Some one was coming inhis direction from the bateau. It was the riverman who had brought toMarie-Anne the news of St. Pierre's arrival. David went down to meet him.From the foot of the ridge he again turned his eyes in the direction ofthe raft. St. Pierre and Marie-Anne were just about to enter the littlecabin built in the center of the drifting mass of timber.
It was easy for Carrigan to guess why the riverman had turned back forhim. Men were busy about the bateau, and Concombre Bateese stood in thestern, a long pole in his hands, giving commands to the others. Thebateau was beginning to swing out into the stream when he leaped aboard.A wide grin spread over the half-breed's face. He eyed David keenly andlaughed in his deep chest, an unmistakable suggestiveness in the note ofit.
"You look seek, m'sieu," he said in an undertone, for David's earsalone, "You look ver' unhappy, an' pale lak leetle boy! Wat happen w'enyou look t'rough ze glass up there, eh? Or ees it zat you grow frightenbecause ver' soon you stan' up an' fight Concombre Bateese? Eh, coq debruyere? Ees it zat?"
A quick thought came to David. "Is it true that St. Pierre can notwhip you, Bateese?"
Bateese threw out his chest with a mighty intake of breath. Then heexploded: "No man on all T'ree River can w'ip Concombre Bateese."
"And St. Pierre is a powerful man," mused David, letting his eyestravel slowly from the half-breed's moccasined feet to the top of hishead. "I measured him well through the glasses, Bateese. It will be agreat fight. But I shall whip you!"
He did not wait for the half-breed to reply, but went into the cabinand closed the door behind him. He did not like the taunting note ofsuggestiveness in the other's words. Was it possible that Bateesesuspected the true state of his mind, that he was in love with the wifeof St. Pierre, and that his heart was sick because of what he had seenaboard the raft? He flushed hotly. It made him uncomfortable to feel thateven the half-breed might have guessed his humiliation.
David looked through the window toward the raft. The bateau wasdrifting downstream, possibly a hundred feet from the shore, but it wasquite evident that Concombre Bateese was making no effort to bring itclose to the floating mass of timber, which had made no change in itscourse down the river. David's mind painted swiftly what was happening inthe cabin into which Marie-Anne and St. Pierre had disappeared. At thismoment Marie-Anne was telling of him, of the adventure in the hot patchof sand. He fancied the suppressed excitement in her voice as sheunburdened herself. He saw St. Pierre's face darken, his musclestighten—and crouching in silence, he seemed to see the misshapenhulk of Andre, the Broken Man, listening to what was passing between theother two. And he heard again the mad monotone of Andre's voice, cryingplaintively, "HAS ANY ONE SEEN BLACK ROGER AUDEMARD?"
His blood ran a little faster, and his old craft was a dominantlyliving thing within him once more. Love had dulled both his ingenuity andhis desire. For a space a thing had risen before him that was mightierthan the majesty of the Law, and he had TRIED to miss thebull's-eye—because of his love for the wife of St. Pierre Boulain.Now he shot squarely for it, and the bell rang in his brain. Two timestwo again made four. Facts assembled themselves like arguments in fleshand blood. Those facts would have convinced Superintendent McVane, andthey now convinced David. He had set out to get Black Roger Audemard,alive or dead. And Black Roger, wholesale murderer, a monster who hadpainted the blackest page of crime known in the history of Canadian law,was closely and vitally associated with Marie-Anne and St. PierreBoulain!
The thing was a shock, but Carrigan no longer tried to evade thepoint. His business was no longer with a man supposed to be a thousand orfifteen hundred miles farther north. It was with Marie-Anne, St. Pierre,and Andre, the Broken Man. And also with Concombre Bateese.
He smiled a little grimly as he thought of his approaching battle withthe half-breed. St. Pierre would be astounded at the proposition he hadin store for him. But he was sure that St. Pierre would accept. And then,if he won the fight with Bateese—
The smile faded from his lips. His face grew older as he looked slowlyabout the bateau cabin, with its sweet and lingering whispers of awoman's presence. It was a part of her. It breathed of her fragrance andher beauty; it seemed to be waiting for her, crying softly for herreturn. Yet once had there been another woman even lovelier than the wifeof St. Pierre. He had not hesitated then. Without great effort he hadtriumphed over the loveliness of Carmin Fanchet and had sent her brotherto the hangman. And now, as he recalled those days, the truth came to himthat even in the darkest hour Carmin Fanchet had made not the slightesteffort to buy him off with her beauty. She had not tried to lure him. Shehad fought proudly and defiantly. And had Marie- Anne done that? Hisfingers clenched slowly, and a thickening came in his throat. Would shetell St. Pierre of the many hours they had spent together? Would sheconfess to him the secret of that precious moment when she had lain closeagainst his breast, her arms about him, her face pressed to his? Wouldshe speak to him of secret hours, of warm flushes that had come to herface, of glowing fires that at times had burned in her eyes when he hadbeen very near to her? Would she reveal EVERYTHING to St. Pierre—her husband? He was powerless to combat the voice that told him no.Carmin Fanchet had fought him openly as an enemy and had not employed herbeauty as a weapon. Marie-Anne had put in his way a great temptation.What he was thinking seemed to him like a sacrilege, yet he knew therecould be no discriminating distinctions between weapons, now that he wasdetermined to play the game to the end, for the Law.
When Carrigan went out on deck, the half-breed was sweating from hisexertion at the stern sweep. He looked at the agent de police who wasgoing to fight him, perhaps tomorrow or the next day. There was a changein Carrigan. He was not the same man who had gone into the cabin an hourbefore, and the fact impressed itself upon Bateese. There was somethingin his appearance that held back the loose talk at the end of Concombre'stongue. And so it was Carrigan himself who spoke first.
"When will this man St. Pierre come to see me?" he demanded. "If hedoesn't come soon, I shall go to him."
For an instant Concombre's face darkened. Then, as he bent over thesweep with his great back to David, he chuckled audibly, and said:
"Would you go, m'sieu? Ah—it is le malade d'amour over there inthe cabin. Surely you would not break in upon their love-making?"
Bateese did not look over his shoulder, and so he did not see the hotflush that gathered in David's face. But David was sure he knew it wasthere and that Concombre had guessed the truth of matters. There was asly note in his voice, as if he could not quite keep to himself hisexultation that beauty and bright eyes had played a clever trick on thisman who, if his own judgment had been followed, would now be restingpeacefully at the bottom of the river. It was the final stab to Carrigan.His muscles tensed. For the first time he felt the desire to shoot anaked fist into the grinning mouth of Concombre Bateese. He laid a handon the half-breed's shoulder, and Bateese turned about slowly. He sawwhat was in the other's eyes.
"Until this moment I have not known what a great pleasure it will beto fight you, Bateese," said David quietly. "Make it tomorrow— inthe morning, if you wish. Take word to St. Pierre that I will make him agreat wager that I win, a gamble so large that I think he will be afraidto cover it. For I don't think much of this St. Pierre of yours, Bateese.I believe him to be a big-winded bluff, like yourself. And also a coward.Mark my word, he will be so much afraid that he will not accept mywager!"
Bateese did not answer. He was looking over David's shoulder. Heseemed not to have heard what the other had said, yet there had come asudden gleam of exultation in his eyes, and he replied, still gazingtoward the raft,
"Diantre, m'sieu coq de bruyere may keep ze beeg word in hees mout'!See!—St. Pierre, he ees comin' to answer for himself. Mon Dieu, Ihope he does not wring ze leetle rooster's neck, for zat would spoil wangreat, gran' fight tomorrow!"
David turned toward the big raft. At the distance which separated themhe could make out the giant figure of St. Pierre Boulain getting into acanoe. The humped-up form already in that canoe he knew was the BrokenMan. He could not see Marie-Anne.
Very lightly Bateese touched his arm. "M'sieu will go into ze cabin,"he suggested softly. "If somet'ing happens, it ees bes' too many eyes donot see it. You understan', m'sieu agent de police?"
Carrigan nodded. "I understand," he said.
In the cabin David waited. He did not look through the window to watchSt. Pierre's approach. He sat down and picked up a magazine from thetable upon which Marie-Anne's work-basket lay. He was cool as ice now.His blood flowed evenly and his pulse beat unhurriedly. Never had he felthimself more his own master, more like grappling with a situation. St.Pierre was coming to fight. He had no doubt of that. Perhaps notphysically, at first. But, one way or another, something dynamic wasbound to happen in the bateau cabin within the next half-hour. Now thatthe impending drama was close at hand, Carrigan's scheme of luring St.Pierre into the making of a stupendous wager seemed to him ratherridiculous. With calculating coldness he was forced to concede that St.Pierre would be somewhat of a fool to accept the wager he had in mind,when he was so completely in St. Pierre's power. For Marie-Anne and thechief of the Boulains, the bottom of the river would undoubtedly be thebest and easiest solution, and the half- breed's suggestion might beacted upon after all.
As his mind charged itself for the approaching struggle, David foundhimself staring at a double page in the magazine, given up entirely toimpossibly slim young creatures exhibiting certain bits of illusive andmysterious feminine apparel. Marie-Anne had expressed her approbation inthe form of pencil notes under several of them. Under a cobwebby affairthat wreathed one of the slim figures he read, "St. Pierre will lovethis!" There were two exclamation points after that particularnotation!
David replaced the magazine on the table and looked toward the door.No, St. Pierre would not hesitate to put him at the bottom of the river,for her. Not if he, Dave Carrigan, made the solution of the matter anecessity. There were times, he told himself, when it was confoundedlyembarrassing to force the letter of the law. And this was one of them. Hewas not afraid of the river bottom. He was thinking again ofMarie-Anne.
The scraping of a canoe against the side of the bateau recalled himsuddenly to the moment at hand. He heard low voices, and one of them, heknew, was St. Pierre's. For an interval the voices continued, frequentlyso low that he could not distinguish them at all. For ten minutes hewaited impatiently. Then the door swung open, and St. Pierre came in.
Slowly and coolly David rose to meet him, and at the same moment thechief of the Boulains closed the door behind him. There was no greetingin Carrigan's manner. He was the Law, waiting, unexcited, sure ofhimself, impassive as a thing of steel. He was ready to fight. Heexpected to fight. It only remained for St. Pierre to show what sort offight it was to be. And he was amazed at St. Pierre, without betrayingthat amazement. In the vivid light that shot through the western windowsthe chief of the Boulains stood looking at David. He wore a gray flannelshirt open at the throat, and it was a splendid throat David saw, and asplendid head above it, with its reddish beard and hair. But what he sawchiefly were St. Pierre's eyes. They were the sort of eyes he disliked tofind in an enemy—a grayish, steely blue that reflected sunlightlike polished flint. But there was no flash of battle-glow in them now.St. Pierre was neither excited nor in a bad humor. Nor did Carrigan'sattitude appear to disturb him in the least. He was smiling; his eyesglowed with almost boyish curiosity as he stared appraisingly atDavid—and then, slowly, a low chuckle of laughter rose in his deepchest, and he advanced with an outstretched hand.
"I am St. Pierre Boulain," he said. "I have heard a great deal aboutyou, Sergeant Carrigan. You have had an unfortunate time!"
Had the man advanced menacingly, David would have felt morecomfortable. It was disturbing to have this giant come to him with anextended hand of apparent friendship when he had anticipated an entirelydifferent sort of meeting. And St. Pierre was laughing at him! There wasno doubt of that. And he had the colossal nerve to tell him that he hadbeen unfortunate, as though being shot up by somebody's wife was a fairlydecent joke!
Carrigan's attitude did not change. He did not reach out a hand tomeet the other. There was no responsive glimmer of humor in his eyes oron his lips. And seeing these things, St. Pierre turned his extended handto the open box of cigars, so that he stood for a moment with his backtoward him.
"It's funny," he said, as if speaking to himself, and with only adrawling note of the French patois in his voice. "I come home, find myJeanne in a terrible mix-up, a stranger in her room—and thestranger refuses to let me laugh or shake hands with him. Tonnerre, I sayit is funny! And my Jeanne saved his life, and made him muffins, and gavehim my own bed, and walked with him in the forest! Ah, the ungratefulcochon!"
He turned, laughing openly, so that his deep voice filled the cabin."Vous aves de la corde de pendu, m'sieu—yes, you are a lucky dog!For only one other man in the world would my Jeanne have done that. Youare lucky because you were not ended behind the rock; you are luckybecause you are not at the bottom of the river; you are lucky—"
He shrugged his big shoulders hopelessly. "And now, after all ourkindness and your good luck, you wait for me like an enemy, m'sieu.Diable, I can not understand!"
For the life of him Carrigan could not, in these few moments, measureup his man. He had said nothing. He had let St. Pierre talk. And now St.Pierre stood there, one of the finest men he had ever looked upon, as ifhonestly overcome by a great wonder. And yet behind that apparentincredulity in his voice and manner David sensed the deep underflow ofanother thing. St. Pierre was all that Marie-Anne had claimed for him,and more. She had given him assurance of her unlimited confidence thather husband could adjust any situation in the world, and Carriganconceded that St. Pierre measured up splendidly to that particular typeof man. The smile had not left his face; the good humor was still in hiseyes.
David smiled back at him coldly. He recognized the cleverness of theother's play. St. Pierre was a man who would smile like that even as hefought, and Carrigan loved a smiling fighter, even when he had to slipsteel bracelets over his wrists.
"I am Sergeant Carrigan, of 'N' Division, Royal Northwest MountedPolice," he said, repeating the formula of the law. "Sit down, St.Pierre, and I will tell you a few things that have happened. Andthen—"
"Non, non, it is not necessary, m'sieu. I have already listened for anhour, and I do not like to hear a story twice. You are of the Police. Ilove the Police. They are brave men, and brave men are my brothers. Youare out after Roger Audemard, the rascal! Is it not so? And you were shotat behind the rock back there. You were almost killed. Ma foi, and it wasmy Jeanne who did the shooting! Yes, she thought you were another man."The chuckling, drum-like note of laughter came again out of St. Pierre'sgreat chest. "It was bad shooting. I have taught her better, but the sunwas blinding there in the hot, white sand. And after that—I knoweverything that has happened. Bateese was wrong. I shall scold him forwanting to put you at the bottom of the river—perhaps. Oui, ce quefemme veut, Dieu le veut—that is it. A woman must have her way, andmy Jeanne's gentle heart was touched because you were a brave andhandsome man, M'sieu Carrigan. But I am not jealous. Jealousy is a wormthat does not make friendship! And we shall be friends. Only as a friendcould I take you to the Chateau Boulain, far up on the Yellowknife. Andwe are going there."
In spite of what might have been the entirely proper thing to do atthis particular moment, Carrigan's face broke into a smile as he drew asecond chair up close to the table. He was swift to readjust himself. Itcame suddenly back to him how he had grinned behind the rock, when deathseemed close at hand. And St. Pierre was like that now. David measuredhim again as the chief of the Boulains sat down opposite him. Such a mancould not be afraid of anything on the face of the earth, even of theLaw. The gleam that lay in his eyes told David that as they met his ownover the table. "We are smiling now because it happens to please us,"David read in them. "But in a moment, if it is necessary, we shallfight."
Carrigan leaned a little over the table. "You know we are not going tothe Chateau Boulain, St. Pierre," he said. "We are going to stop at FortMcMurray, and there you and your wife must answer for a number of thingsthat have happened. There is one way out— possibly. That is largelyup to you. Why did your wife try to kill me behind the rock? And what didyou know about Black Roger Audemard?"
St. Pierre's eyes did not for an instant leave Carrigan's face. Slowlya change came into them; the smile faded, the blue went out, and up frombehind seemed to come another pair of eyes that were hard as steel andcold as ice. Yet they were not eyes that threatened, nor eyes thatbetrayed excitement or passion. And St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke,lacked the deep and vibrant note that had been in it. It was as if he hadplaced upon it the force of a mighty will, chaining it back, just assomething hidden and terrible lay chained behind his eyes.
"Why play like little children, M'sieu Carrigan?" he asked. "Why notcome out squarely, honestly, like men? I know what has happened. MonDieu, it was bad! You were almost killed, and you heard that poor wreck,Andre, call for Roger Audemard. My Jeanne has told you aboutthat—how I found him in the forest with his broken mind and body.And about my Jeanne—" St. Pierre's fists grew into knotted lumps onthe table. "Non, I will die—I will kill you—before I willtell you why she shot at you behind the rock! We are men, both of us. Weare not afraid. And you—in my place—what would YOU do,m'sieu?"
In the moment's silence each man looked steadily at the other.
"I would—fight," said David slowly. "If it was for her, I ampretty sure I would fight."
He believed that he was drawing the net in now, that it would catchSt. Pierre. He leaned a little farther over the table.
"And I, too, must fight," he added. "You know our law, St. Pierre. Wedon't go back without our man—unless we happen to die. And I wouldbe stupid if I did not understand the situation here. It would be quiteeasy for you to get rid of me. But I don't believe you are a murderer,even if your Jeanne tried to be." A flicker of a smile crossed his lips."And Marie-Anne—I beg pardon!—your wife—"
St. Pierre interrupted him. "It will please me to have you call herMarie-Anne. And it will please her also, m'sieu. Dieu, if we only hadeyes that could see what is in a woman's heart! Life is funny, m'sieu. Itis a great joke, I swear it on my soul!"
He shrugged his shoulders, smiling again straight into David's eyes."See what has happened! You set out for a murderer. My Jeanne makes agreat mistake and shoots you. Then she pities you, saves your life,brings you here, and—ma foi! it is true—learns to care foryou more than she should! But that does not make me want to kill you.Non, her happiness is mine. Dead men tell no tales, m'sieu, but there aretimes when living men also keep tales to themselves. And that is what youare going to do, M'sieu Carrigan. You are going to keep to yourself thething that happened behind the rock. You are going to keep to yourselfthe mumblings of our poor mad Andre. Never will they pass your lips. Iknow. I swear it. I stake my life on it!" St. Pierre was talking slowlyand unexcitedly. There was an immeasurable confidence in his deep voice.It did not imply a threat or a warning. He was sure of himself. And hiseyes had deepened into blue again and were almost friendly.
"You would stake your life?" repeated Carrigan questioningly. "Youwould do that?"
St. Pierre rose to his feet and looked about the cabin with a shininglight in his eyes that was both pride and exaltation. He moved toward theend of the room, where the piano stood, and for a moment his big fingerstouched the keys; then, seeing the lacy bit of handkerchief that laythere, he picked it up—and placed it back again. Carrigan did noturge his question, but waited. In spite of his effort to fight it down hefound himself in the grip of a mysterious and growing thrill as hewatched St. Pierre. Never had the presence of another man had the sameeffect upon him, and strangely the thought came to him that he wasmatched—even overmatched. It was as if St. Pierre had brought withhim into the cabin something more than the splendid strength of his body,a thing that reached out in the interval of silence between them, warningCarrigan that all the law in the world would not swerve the chief of theBoulains from what was already in his mind. For a moment the thoughtpassed from David that fate had placed him up against the hazard ofenmity with St. Pierre. His vision centered in the man alone. And as he,too, rose to his feet, an unconscious smile came to his lips as herecalled the boastings of Bateese.
"I ask you," said he, "if you would really stake your life in a mattersuch as that? Of course, if your words were merely accidental, and meantnothing—"
"If I had a dozen lives, I would stake them, one on top of the other,as I have said," interrupted St. Pierre. Suddenly his laugh boomed outand his voice became louder. "M'sieu Carrigan, I have come to offer youjust that test! Oui, I could kill you now. I could put you at the bottomof the river, as Bateese thinks is right. Mon Dieu, how completely Icould make you disappear! And then my Jeanne would be safe. She would notgo behind prison bars. She would go on living, and laughing, and singingin the big forests, where she belongs. And Black Roger Audemard, therascal, would be safe for a time! But that would be like destroying alittle child. You are so helpless now. So you are going on to the ChateauBoulain with us, and if at the end of the second month from today you donot willingly say I have won my wager—why— m'sieu—Iwill go with you into the forest, and you may shoot out of me the lifewhich is my end of the gamble. Is that not fair? Can you suggest a betterway—between men like you and me?"
"I can at least suggest a way that has the virtue of saving time,"replied David. "First, however, I must understand my position here. I am,I take it, a prisoner."
"A guest, with certain restrictions placed upon you, m'sieu,"corrected St. Pierre.
The eyes of the two men met on a dead level.
"Tomorrow morning I am going to fight Bateese," said David. "It is alittle sporting event we have fixed up between us for the amusementof—your men. I have heard that Bateese is the best fighting manalong the Three Rivers. And I—I do not like to have any other manclaim that distinction when I am around."
For the first time St. Pierre's placidity seemed to leave him. Hisbrow became clouded, a moment's frown grew in his face, and there was acertain disconsolate hopelessness in the shrug of his shoulders. It wasas if Carrigan's words had suddenly robbed the day of all its sunshinefor the chief of the Boulains. His voice, too, carried an unhappy anddisappointed note as he made a gesture toward the window.
"M'sieu, on that raft out there are many of my men, and they havescarcely rested or slept since word was brought to them that a strangerwas to fight Concombre Bateese. Tonnerre, they have gambled without everseeing you until the clothes on their backs are in the hazard, and theyhave cracked their muscles in labor to overtake you! They have prayedaway their very souls that it would be a good fight, and that Bateesewould not eat you up too quickly. It has been a long time since we haveseen a good fight, a long time since the last man dared to stand upagainst the half- breed. Ugh, it tears out my heart to tell you that thefight can not be!"
St. Pierre made no effort to suppress his emotion. He was like a huge,disappointed boy. He walked to the window, peered forth at the raft, andas he shrugged his big shoulders again something like a groan came fromhim.
The thrill of approaching triumph swept through David's blood. Theflame of it was in his eyes when St. Pierre turned from the window.
"And you are disappointed, St. Pierre? You would like to see thatfight!"
The blue steel in St. Pierre's eyes flashed back. "If the price were ayear of my life, I would give it—if Bateese did not eat you up tooquickly. I love to look upon a good fight, where there is no venom ofhatred in the blows!"
"Then you shall see a good fight, St. Pierre."
"Bateese would kill you, m'sieu. You are not big. You are not hismatch."
"I shall whip him, St. Pierre—whip him until he avows me hismaster."
"You do not know the half-breed, m'sieu. Twice I have tried him infriendly combat myself and have been beaten."
"But I shall whip him," repeated Carrigan. "I will wager youanything—anything in the world—even life againstlife—that I whip him!"
The gloom had faded from the face of St. Pierre Boulain. But in amoment it clouded again.
"My Jeanne has made me promise that I will stop the fight," hesaid.
"And why—why should she insist in a matter such as this, whichproperly should be settled among men?" asked David.
Again St. Pierre laughed; with an effort, it seemed, "She isgentle-hearted, m'sieu. She laughed and thought it quite a joke whenBateese humbled me. 'What! My great St. Pierre, with the blood of oldFrance in his veins, beaten by a man who has been named after avegetable!' she cried. I tell you she was merry over it, m'sieu! Shelaughed until the tears came into her eyes. But with you it is different.She was white when she entreated me not to let you fight Bateese. Yes,she is afraid you will be badly hurt. And she does not want to see youhurt again. But I tell you that I am not jealous, m'sieu! She does nottry to hide things from me. She tells me everything, like a little child.And so—"
"I am going to fight Bateese," said David. He wondered if St. Pierrecould hear the thumping of his heart, or if his face gave betrayal of thehot flood it was pumping through his body. "Bateese and I have pledgedourselves. We shall fight, unless you tie one of us hand and foot. And asfor a wager—"
"Yes—what have you to wager?" demanded St. Pierre eagerly.
"You know the odds are great," temporized Carrigan.
"That I concede, m'sieu."
"But a fight without a wager would be like a pipe without tobacco, St.Pierre."
"You speak truly, m'sieu."
David came nearer and laid a hand on the other's arm. "St. Pierre, Ihope you—and your Jeanne—will understand what I am about tooffer. It is this. If Bateese whips me, I will disappear into theforests, and no word shall ever pass my lips of what has passed sincethat hour behind the rock—and this. No whisper of it will everreach the Law. I will forget the attempted murder and the suspiciousmumblings of your Broken Man. You will be safe. Your Jeanne will besafe—if Bateese whips me."
He paused, and waited. St. Pierre made no answer, but amazement cameinto his face, and after that a slow and burning fire in his eyes whichtold how deeply and vitally Carrigan's words had struck into hissoul.
"And if I should happen to win," continued David, turning a bitcarelessly toward the window, "why, I should expect as large a paymentfrom you. If I win, your fulfillment of the wager will be to tell me inevery detail why your wife tried to kill me behind the rock, and you willalso tell me all that you know about the man I am after, Black RogerAudemard. That is all. I am asking for no odds, though you concede thehandicap is great."
He did not look at St. Pierre. Behind him he heard the other's deepbreathing. For a space neither spoke. Outside they could hear the softswish of water, the low voices of men in the stern, and a shout and thebarking of a dog coming from the raft far out on the river. For David themoment was one of suspense. He turned again, a bit carelessly, as if hisproposition were a matter of but little significance to him. St. Pierrewas not looking at him. He was staring toward the door, as if through ithe could see the powerful form of Bateese bending over the stern sweep.And Carrigan could see that his face was flaming with a great desire, andthat the blood in his body was pounding to the mighty urge of it.
Suddenly he faced Carrigan.
"M'sieu, listen to me," he said. "You are a brave man. You are a manof honor, and I know you will bury sacredly in your heart what I am goingto tell you now, and never let a word of it escape— even to myJeanne. I do not blame you for loving her. Non! You could not help that.You have fought well to keep it within yourself, and for that I honoryou. How do I know? Mon Dieu, she has told me! A woman's heartunderstands, and a woman's ears are quick to hear, m'sieu. When you weresick, and your mind was wandering, you told her again and again that youloved her—and when she brought you back to life, her eyes saw morethan once the truth of what your lips had betrayed, though you tried tokeep it to yourself. Even more, m'sieu—she felt the touch of yourlips on her hair that day. She understands. She has told me everything,openly, innocently—yet her heart thrills with that sympathy of awoman who knows she is loved. M'sieu, if you could have seen the light inher eyes and the glow in her cheeks as she told me these secrets. But Iam not jealous! Non! It is only because you are a brave man, and one ofhonor, that I tell you all this. She would die of shame did she know Ihad betrayed her confidence. Yet it is necessary that I tell you, becauseif we make the big wager we must drop my Jeanne from the gamble. Do youcomprehend me, m'sieu?
"We are two men, strong men, fighting men. I—PierreBoulain—can not feel the shame of jealousy where a woman's heart ispure and sweet, and where a man has fought against love with honor as youhave fought. And you, m'sieu—David Carrigan, of thePolice—can not strike with your hard man's hand that tender heart,that is like a flower, and which this moment is beating faster than itshould with the fear that some harm is going to befall you. Is it not so,m'sieu? We will make the wager, yes. But if you whip Bateese—andyou can not do that in a hundred years of fighting—I will not tellyou why my Jeanne shot at you behind the rock. Non, never! Yet I swear Iwill tell you the other. If you win, I will tell you all I know aboutRoger Audemard, and that is considerable, m'sieu. Do you agree?"
Slowly David held out a hand. St. Pierre's gripped it. The fingers ofthe two men met like bands of steel.
"Tomorrow you will fight," said St. Pierre. "You will fight and bebeaten so terribly that you may always show the marks of it. I am sorry.Such a man as you I would rather have as a brother than an enemy. And shewill never forgive me. She will always remember it. The thought willnever die out of her heart that I was a beast to let you fight Bateese.But it is best for all. And my men? Ah! Diable, but it will be greatsport for them, m'sieu!"
His hand unclasped. He turned to the door. A moment later it closedbehind him, and David was alone. He had not spoken. He had not replied tothe engulfing truths that had fallen quietly and without a betrayal ofpassion from St. Pierre's lips. Inwardly he was crushed. Yet his face waslike stone, hiding his shame. And then, suddenly, there came a sound fromoutside that sent the blood through his cold veins again. It waslaughter, the great, booming laughter of St. Pierre! It was not themerriment of a man whose heart was bleeding, or into whose life had comean unexpected pain or grief. It was wild and free, and filled with thejoy of the sun-filled day.
And David, listening to it, felt something that was more thanadmiration for this man growing within him. And unconsciously his lipsrepeated St. Pierre's words.
"Tomorrow—you will fight."
For many minutes David stood at the bateau window and watched thecanoe that carried St. Pierre Boulain and the Broken Man back to theraft. It moved slowly, as if St. Pierre was loitering with a purpose andwas thinking deeply of what had passed. Carrigan's fingers tightened, andhis face grew tense, as he gazed out into the glow of the western sun.Now that the stress of nerve-breaking moments in the cabin was over, heno longer made an effort to preserve the veneer of coolness and decisionwith which he had encountered the chief of the Boulains. Deep in his soulhe was crushed and humiliated. Every nerve in his body was bleeding.
He had heard St. Pierre's big laugh a moment before, but it must havebeen the laugh of a man who was stabbed to the heart. And he was goingback to Marie-Anne like that—drifting scarcely faster than thecurrent that he might steal time to strengthen himself before he lookedinto her eyes again. David could see him, motionless, his giant shouldershunched forward a little, his head bowed, and in the stern the Broken Manpaddled listlessly, his eyes on the face of his master. Without voiceDavid cursed himself. In his egoism he had told himself that he had madea splendid fight in resisting the temptation of a great love for the wifeof St. Pierre. But what was his own struggle compared with this tragedywhich St. Pierre was now facing?
He turned from the window and looked about the cabin room again—the woman's room and St. Pierre's—and his face burned in its silentaccusation. Like a living thing it painted another picture for him. For aspace he lost his own identity. He saw himself in the place of St.Pierre. He was the husband of Marie-Anne, worshipping her even as St.Pierre must worship her, and he came, as St. Pierre had come, to find astranger in his home, a stranger who had lain in his bed, a stranger whomhis wife had nursed back to life, a stranger who had fallen in love withhis most inviolable possession, who had told her of his love, who hadkissed her, who had held her close, in his arms, whose presence hadbrought a warmer flush and a brighter glow into eyes and cheeks thatuntil this stranger's coming had belonged only to him. And he heard her,as St. Pierre had heard her, pleading with him to keep this man fromharm; he heard her soft voice, telling of the things that had passedbetween them, and he saw in her eyes—
With almost a cry he swept the thought and the picture from him. Itwas an atrocious thing to conceive, impossible of reality. And yet thetruth would not go. What would he have done in St. Pierre's place?
He went to the window again. Yes, St. Pierre was a bigger man than he.For St. Pierre had come quietly and calmly, offering a hand offriendship, generous, smiling, keeping his hurt to himself, while he,Dave Carrigan, would have come with the murder of man in his heart.
His eyes passed from the canoe to the raft, and from the big raft tothe hazy billows of green and golden forest that melted off intointerminable miles of distance beyond the river. He knew that on theother side of him lay that same distance, north, east, south, and west,vast spaces in an unpeopled world, the same green and golden forests, tenthousand plains and rivers and lakes, a million hiding-places whereromance and tragedy might remain forever undisturbed. The thought came tohim that it would not be difficult to slip out into that world anddisappear. He almost owed it to St. Pierre. It was the voice of Bateesein a snatch of wild and discordant song that brought him back into grimreality. There was, after all, that embarrassing matter ofjustice—and the accursed Law!
After a little he observed that the canoe was moving faster, and thatAndre's paddle was working steadily and with force. St. Pierre no longersat hunched in the bow. His head was erect, and he was waving a hand inthe direction of the raft. A figure had come from the cabin on the hugemass of floating timber. David caught the shimmer of a woman's dress,something white fluttering over her head, waving back at St. Pierre. Itwas Marie-Anne, and he moved away from the window.
He wondered what was passing between St. Pierre and his wife in thehour that followed. The bateau kept abreast of the raft, moving neitherfaster nor slower than it did, and twice he surrendered to the desire toscan the deck of the floating timbers through his binoculars. But thecabin held St. Pierre and Marie- Anne, and he saw neither of them againuntil the sun was setting. Then St. Pierre came out—alone.
Even at that distance over the broad river he heard the booming voiceof the chief of the Boulains. Life sprang up where there had been thedrowse of inactivity aboard the raft. A dozen more of the great sweepswere swiftly manned by men who appeared suddenly from the shaded placesof canvas shelters and striped tents. A murmur of voices rose over thewater, and then the murmur was broken by howls and shouts as the rivermenran to their places at the command of St. Pierre's voice, and as thesweeps began to flash in the setting sun, it gave way entirely to theevening chant of the Paddling Song.
David gripped himself as he listened and watched the slowly driftingglory of the world that came down to the shores of the river. He couldsee St. Pierre clearly, for the bateau had worked its way nearer. Hecould see the bare heads and naked arms of the rivermen at the sweeps.The sweet breath of the forests filled his lungs, as that picture laybefore him, and there came into his soul a covetousness and a yearningwhere before there had been humiliation and the grim urge of duty. Hecould breathe the air of that world, he could look at its beauty, hecould worship it—and yet he knew that he was not a part of it asthose others were a part of it. He envied the men at the sweeps; he felthis heart swelling at the exultation and joy in their song. They weregoing home—home down the big rivers, home to the heart of God'sCountry, where wives and sweethearts and happiness were waiting for them,and their visions were his visions as he stared wide- eyed and motionlessover the river. And yet he was irrevocably an alien. He was more thanthat—an enemy, a man-hound sent out on a trail to destroy, an agentof a powerful and merciless force that carried with it punishment anddeath.
The crew of the bateau had joined in the evening song of the rivermenon the raft, and over the ridges and hollows of the forest tops, red andgreen and gold in the last warm glory of the sun, echoed that chantingvoice of men. David understood now what St. Pierre's command had been.The huge raft with its tented city of life was preparing to tie up forthe night. A quarter of a mile ahead the river widened, so that on thefar side was a low, clean shore toward which the efforts of the men atthe sweeps were slowly edging the raft. York boats shot out on the shoreside and dropped anchors that helped drag the big craft in. Two otherstugged at tow-lines fastened to the shoreside bow, and within twentyminutes the first men were plunging up out of the water on the whitestrip of beach and were whipping the tie-lines about the nearest trees.David unconsciously was smiling in the thrill and triumph of these lastmoments, and not until they were over did he sense the fact that Bateeseand his crew were bringing the bateau in to the opposite shore. Beforethe sun was quite down, both raft and house-boat were anchored for thenight.
As the shadows of the distant forests deepened, Carrigan feltimpending about him an oppression of emptiness and loneliness which hehad not experienced before. He was disappointed that the bateau had nottied up with the raft. Already he could see men building fires. Spiralsof smoke began to rise from the shore, and he knew that the riverman'shappiest of all hours, supper time, was close at hand. He looked at hiswatch. It was after seven o'clock. Then he watched the fading away of thesun until only the red glow of it remained in the west, and against thestill thicker shadows the fires of the rivermen threw up yellow flames.On his own side, Bateese and the bateau crew were preparing their meal.It was eight o'clock when a man he had not seen before brought in hissupper. He ate, scarcely sensing the taste of his food, and half an hourlater the man reappeared for the dishes.
It was not quite dark when he returned to his window, but the farshore was only an indistinct blur of gloom. The fires were brighter. Oneof them, built solely because of the rivermen's inherent love of lightand cheer, threw the blaze of its flaming logs twenty feet into theair.
He wondered what Marie-Anne was doing in this hour. Last night theyhad been together. He had marveled at the witchery of the moonlight inher hair and eyes, he had told her of the beauty of it, she had smiled,she had laughed softly with him—for hours they had sat in the spellof the golden night and the glory of the river. Andtonight—now—was she with St. Pierre, waiting as they hadwaited last night for the rising of the moon? Had she forgotten? COULDshe forget? Or was she, as he thought St. Pierre had painfully tried tomake him believe, innocent of all the thoughts and desires that had cometo him, as he sat worshipping her in their stolen hours? He could thinkof them only as stolen, for he did not believe Marie-Anne had revealed toher husband all she might have told him.
He was sure he would never see her again as he had seen her then, andsomething of bitterness rose in him as he thought of that. St. Pierre,could he have seen her face and eyes when he told her that her hair inthe moonlight was lovelier than anything he had ever seen, would havethrottled him with his naked hands in that meeting in the cabin. For St.Pierre's code would not have had her eyes droop under their long lashesor her cheeks flush so warmly at the words of another man—and hecould not take vengeance on the woman herself. No, she had not told St.Pierre all she might have told! There were things which she must havekept to herself, which she dared not reveal even to this great-heartedman who was her husband. Shame, if nothing more, had kept her silent.
Did she feel that shame as he was feeling it? It was inconceivable tothink otherwise. And for that reason, more than all others, he knew thatshe would not meet him face to face again—unless he forced thatmeeting. And there was little chance of that, for his pledge with St.Pierre had eliminated her from the aftermath of tomorrow's drama, hisfight with Bateese. Only when St. Pierre might stand in a court of lawwould there be a possibility of her eyes meeting his own again, and thenthey would flame with the hatred that at another time had been in theeyes of Carmin Fanchet.
With the dull stab of a thing that of late had been growing insidehim, he wondered what had happened to Carmin Fanchet in the years thathad gone since he had brought about the hanging of her brother. Lastnight and the night before, strange dreams of her had come to him inrestless slumber. It was disturbing to him that he should wake up in themiddle of the night dreaming of her, when he had gone to his bed with amind filled to overflowing with the sweet presence of Marie-Anne Boulain.And now his mind reached out poignantly into mysterious darkness anddoubt, even as the darkness of night spread itself in a thickening canopyover the river.
Gray clouds had followed the sun of a faultless day, and the starswere veiled overhead. When David turned from the window, it was so darkin the cabin that he could not see. He did not light the lamps, but madehis way to St. Pierre's couch and sat down in the silence and gloom.
Through the open windows came to him the cadence of the river and theforests. There was silence of human voice ashore, but under him he heardthe lapping murmur of water as it rustled under the stern and side of thebateau, and from the deep timber came the never-ceasing whisper of thespruce and cedar tops, and the subdued voice of creatures whose hours ofactivity had come with the dying out of the sun.
For a long time he sat in this darkness. And then there came to him asound that was different than the other sounds—a low monotone ofvoices, the dipping of a paddle—and a canoe passed close under hiswindows and up the shore. He paid small attention to it until, a littlelater, the canoe returned, and its occupants boarded the bateau. It wouldhave roused little interest in him then had he not heard a voice that wasthrillingly like the voice of a woman.
He drew his hunched shoulders erect and stared through the darknesstoward the door. A moment more and there was no doubt. It was almostshock that sent the blood leaping suddenly through his veins. Theinconceivable had happened. It was Marie-Anne out there, talking in a lowvoice to Bateese!
Then there came a heavy knock at his door, and he heard the door open.Through it he saw the grayer gloom of the outside night partly shut out aheavy shadow.
"M'sieu!" called the voice of Bateese.
"I am here," said David.
"You have not gone to bed, m'sieu?"
"No."
The heavy shadow seemed to fade away, and yet there still remained ashadow there. David's heart thumped as he noted the slenderness of it.For a space there was silence. And then,
"Will you light the lamps, M'sieu David?" a soft voice came to him. "Iwant to come in, and I am afraid of this terrible darkness!"
He rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket for matches.
He did not turn toward Marie-Anne when he had lighted the first of thegreat brass lamps hanging at the side of the bateau. He went to thesecond, and struck another match, and flooded the cabin with light.
She still stood silhouetted against the darkness beyond the cabin doorwhen he faced her. She was watching him, her eyes intent, her face alittle pale, he thought. Then he smiled and nodded. He could not see agreat change in her since this afternoon, except that there seemed to bea little more fire in the glow of her eyes. They were looking at himsteadily as she smiled and nodded, wide, beautiful eyes in which therewas surely no revelation of shame or regret, and no very clear evidenceof unhappiness. David stared, and his tongue clove to the roof of hismouth.
"Why is it that you sit in darkness?" she asked, stepping within andclosing the door. "Did you not expect me to return and apologize forleaving you so suddenly this afternoon? It was impolite. Afterward I wasashamed. But I was excited, M'sieu David. I—"
"Of course," he hurried to interrupt her. "I understand. St. Pierre isa lucky man. I congratulate you—as well as him. He is splendid, aman in whom you can place great faith and confidence."
"He scolded me for running away from you as I did, M'sieu David. Hesaid I should have shown better courtesy than to leave like that one whowas a guest in our—home. So I have returned, like a good child, tomake amends."
"It was not necessary."
"But you were lonesome and in darkness!"
He nodded. "Yes."
"And besides," she added, so quietly and calmly that he was amazed,"you know my sleeping apartment is also on the bateau. And St. Pierremade me promise to say good night to you."
"It is an imposition," cried David, the blood rushing to his face."You have given up all this to me! Why not let me go into that littleroom forward, or sleep on the raft and you and St. Pierre— "
"St. Pierre would not leave the raft," replied Marie-Anne, turningfrom him toward the table on which were the books and magazines and herwork-basket. "And I like my little room forward."
"St. Pierre—"
He stopped himself. He could see a sudden color deepening in the cheekof St. Pierre's wife as she made pretense of looking for something in herbasket. He felt that if he went on he would blunder, if he had notalready blundered. He was uncomfortable, for he believed he had guessedthe truth. It was not quite reasonable to expect that Marie-Anne wouldcome to him like this on the first night of St. Pierre's homecoming.Something had happened over in the little cabin on the raft, he toldhimself. Perhaps there had been a quarrel—at least ironicalimplications on St. Pierre's part. And his sympathy was with St.Pierre.
He caught suddenly a little tremble at the corner of Marie-Anne'smouth as her face was turned partly from him, and he stepped to theopposite side of the table so he could look at her fairly. If there hadbeen unpleasantness in the cabin on the raft, St. Pierre's wife in no waygave evidence of it. The color had deepened to almost a blush in hercheeks, but it was not on account of embarrassment, for one who isembarrassed is not usually amused, and as she looked up at him her eyeswere filled with the flash of laughter which he had caught her lipsstruggling to restrain. Then, finding a bit of lace work with the needlesmeshed in it, she seated herself, and again he was looking down on thedroop of her long lashes and the seductive glow of her lustrous hair.Yesterday, in a moment of irresistible impulse, he had told her howlovely it was as she had dressed it, a bewitching crown of interwovencoils, not drawn tightly, but crumpled and soft, as if the mass oftresses were openly rebelling at closer confinement. She had told him theeffect was entirely accidental, largely due to carelessness and haste indressing it. Accidental or otherwise, it was the same tonight, and in theheart of it were the drooping red petals of a flower she had gatheredwith him early that afternoon.
"St. Pierre brought me over," she said in a calmly matter-of-factvoice, as though she had expected David to know that from the beginning."He is ashore talking over important matters with Bateese. I am sure hewill drop in and say good night before he returns to the raft. He askedme to wait for him—here." She raised her eyes, so clear anduntroubled, so quietly unembarrassed under his gaze, that he would havestaked his life she had no suspicion of the confessions which St. Pierrehad revealed to him.
"Do you care? Would you rather put out the lights and go to bed?"
He shook his head. "No. I am glad. I was beastly lonesome. I had anidea—"
He was on the point of blundering again when he caught himself. Theeffect of her so near him was more than ever disturbing, in spite of St.Pierre. Her eyes, clear and steady, yet soft as velvet when they lookedat him, made his tongue and his thoughts dangerously uncertain.
"You had an idea, M'sieu David?"
"That you would have no desire to see me again after my talk with St.Pierre," he said. "Did he tell you about it?"
"He said you were very fine, M'sieu David—and that he likedyou."
"And he told you it is determined that I shall fight Bateese in themorning?"
"Yes."
The one word was spoken with a quiet lack of excitement, even ofinterest—it seemed to belie some of the things St. Pierre had toldhim, and he could scarcely believe, looking at her now, that she hadentreated her husband to prevent the encounter, or that she had betrayedany unusual emotion in the matter at all.
"I was afraid you would object," he could not keep from saying. "Itdoes not seem nice to pull off such a thing as that, when there is a ladyabout—"
"Or LADIES." She caught him up quickly, and he saw a sudden littletightening of her pretty mouth as she turned her eyes to the bit of lacework again. "But I do not object, because what St. Pierre says isright—must be right."
And the softness, he thought, went altogether out of the curve of herlips for an instant. In a flash their momentary betrayal of vexation wasgone, and St. Pierre's wife had replaced the work- basket on the tableand was on her feet, smiling at him. There was something of wild daringin her eyes, something that made him think of the glory of adventure hehad seen flaming in her face the night they had run the rapids of theHoly Ghost.
"Tomorrow will be very unpleasant, M'sieu David," she cried softly."Bateese will beat you—terribly. Tonight we must think of thingsmore agreeable."
He had never seen her more radiant than when she turned toward thepiano. What the deuce did it mean? Had St. Pierre been making a fool ofhim? She actually appeared unable to restrain her elation at the thoughtthat Bateese would surely beat him up! He stood without moving and madeno effort to answer her. Just before they had started on that thrillingadventure into the forest, which had ended with his carrying her in hisarms, she had gone to the piano and had played for him. Now her fingerstouched softly the same notes. A little humming trill came in her throat,and it seemed to David that she was deliberately recalling his thoughtsto the things that had happened before the coming of St. Pierre. He hadnot lighted the lamp over the piano, and for a flash her dark eyes smiledat him out of the half shadow. After a moment she began to sing.
Her voice was low and without effort, untrained, and subdued as ifconscious and afraid of its limitations, yet so exquisitely sweet that toDavid it was a new and still more wonderful revelation of St. Pierre'swife. He drew nearer, until he stood close at her side, the dark lusterof her hair almost touching his arm, her partly upturned face abewitching profile in the shadows.
Her voice grew lower, almost a whisper in its melody, as if meant forhim alone. Many times he had heard the Canadian Boat Song, but never asits words came now from the lips of Marie-Anne Boulain.
"Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn;
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past."
She paused. And David, staring down at her shining head, did notspeak. Her fingers trembled over the keys, he could see dimly the shadowof her long lashes, and the spirit-like scent of crushed violets rose tohim from the soft lace about her throat and her hair.
"It is your music," he whispered. "I have never heard the Boat Songlike that!"
He tried to drag his eyes from her face and hair, sensing that he wasa near-criminal, fighting a mighty impulse. The notes under her fingerschanged, and again—by chance or design—she was stabbing athim; bringing him face to face with the weakness of his flesh, theiniquity of his desire to reach out his arms and crumple her in them. Yetshe did not look up, she did not see him, as she began to sing "AveMaria."
"Ave, Maria, hear my cry!
O, guide my path where no harm, no harm is nigh—"
As she went on, he knew she had forgotten to think of him. With thereverence of a prayer the holy words came from her lips, slowly, softly,trembling with a pathos and sweetness that told David they came not alonefrom the lips, but from the very soul of St, Pierre's wife. Andthen—
"Oh, Mother, hear me where thou art,
And guard and guide my aching heart, my aching heart!"
The last words drifted away into a whisper, and David was glad that hewas not looking into the face of St. Pierre's wife, for there must havebeen something there now which it would have been sacrilege for him tostare at, as he was staring at her hair.
No sound of opening door had come from behind them. Yet St. Pierre hadopened it and stood there, watching them with a curious humor in eyesthat seemed still to hold a glitter of the fire that had leaped from thehalf-breed's flaming birch logs. His voice was a shock to Carrigan.
"PESTE, but you are a gloomy pair!" he boomed. "Why no light overthere in the corner, and why sing that death-song to chase away the devilwhen there is no devil near?"
Guilt was in David's heart, but there was no sting of venom in St.Pierre's words, and he was laughing at them now, as though what he sawwere a pretty joke and amused him.
"Late hours and shady bowers! I say it should be a love song orsomething livelier," he cried, closing the door behind him and comingtoward them. "Why not En Roulant ma Boule, my sweet Jeanne? You know thatis my favorite."
He suddenly interrupted himself, and his voice rolled out in a wildchant that rocked the cabin.
"The wind is fresh, the wind is free,
En roulant ma boule!
The wind is fresh—my love waits me,
Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant!
Behind our house a spring you see,
In it three ducks swim merrily,
And hunting, the Prince's son went he,
With a silver gun right fair to see—"
David was conscious that St. Pierre's wife had risen to her feet, andnow she came out of shadow into light, and he was amazed to see that shewas laughing back at St. Pierre, and that her two fore-fingers werethrust in her ears to keep out the bellow of her husband's voice. She wasnot at all discomfited by his unexpected appearance, but rather seemed tojoin in the humor of the thing with St. Pierre, though he fancied hecould see something in her face that was forced and uneasy. He believedthat under the surface of her composure she was suffering a distresswhich she did not reveal.
St. Pierre advanced and carelessly patted her shoulder with one of hisbig hands, while he spoke to David.
"Has she not the sweetest voice in the world, m'sieu? Did you everhear a sweeter or as sweet? I say it is enough to get down into the soulof a man, unless he is already half dead! That voice—"
He caught Marie-Anne's eyes. Her cheeks were flaming. Her look, for aninstant, flashed lightning as she halted him.
"Ma foi, I speak it from the heart," he persisted, with a shrug of hisshoulders. "Am I not right, M'sieu Carrigan? Did you ever hear a sweetervoice?"
"It is wonderful," agreed David, wondering if he was hazarding toomuch.
"Good! It fills me with happiness to know I am right. And now, cherie,good-night! I must return to the raft."
A shadow of vexation crossed Marie-Anne's face. "You seem in greathaste."
"Plagues and pests! You are right, Pretty Voice! I am most anxious toget back to my troubles there, and you—"
"Will also bid M'sieu Carrigan good-night," she quickly interruptedhim. "You will at least see me to my room, St. Pierre, and safely putaway for the night."
She held out her hand to David. There was not a tremor in it as it layfor an instant soft and warm in his own. She made no effort to withdrawit quickly, nor did her eyes hide their softness as they looked into hisown.
Mutely David stood as they went out. He heard St. Pierre's loud voicerumbling about the darkness of the night. He heard them pass along theside of the bateau forward, and half a minute later he knew that St.Pierre was getting into his canoe. The dip of a paddle came to him.
For a space there was silence, and then, from far out in the blackshadow of the river, rolled back the great voice of St. Pierre Boulainsinging the wild river chant, "En Roulant ma Boule."
At the open window he listened. It seemed to him that from far overthe river, where the giant raft lay, there came a faint answer to thewords of the song,
With the slow approach of the storm which was advancing over thewilderness, Carrigan felt more poignantly the growing unrest that was inhim. He heard the last of St. Pierre's voice, and after that the fires onthe distant shore died out slowly, giving way to utter blackness. Faintlythere came to him the far-away rumbling of thunder. The air grew heavyand thick, and there was no sound of night-bird over the breast of theriver, and out of the thick cedar and spruce and balsam there came no cryor whisper of the nocturnal life waiting in silence for the storm tobreak. In that stillness David put out the lights in the cabin and satclose to the window in darkness.
He was more than sleepless. Every nerve in his body demanded action,and his brain was fired by strange thoughts until their vividness seemedto bring him face to face with a reality that set his blood stirring withan irresistible thrill. He believed he had made a discovery, that St.Pierre had betrayed himself. What he had visioned, the conclusion he hadarrived at, seemed inconceivable, yet what his own eyes had seen and hisears had heard pointed to the truth of it all. The least he could say wasthat St. Pierre's love for Marie-Anne Boulain was a strange sort of love.His attitude toward her seemed more like that of a man in the presence ofa child of whom he was fond in a fatherly sort of way. His affection, ashe had expressed it, was parental and careless. Not for an instant hadthere been in it a betrayal of the lover, no suggestion of the husbandwho cared deeply or who might be made jealous by another man.
Sitting in darkness thickening with the nearer approach of storm,David recalled the stab of pain mingled with humiliation that had comeinto the eyes of St. Pierre's wife when she had stood facing her husband.He heard again, with a new understanding, the low note of pathos in hervoice as in song she had called upon the Mother of Christ to hearher—and help her. He had not guessed at the tragedy of it then. Nowhe knew, and he thought of her lying awake in the gloom beyond thebulkhead, her eyes were with tears. And St. Pierre had gone back to hisraft, singing in the night! Where before there had been sympathy for him,there rose a sincere revulsion. There had been a reason for St. Pierre'smasterly possession of himself, and it had not been, as he had thought,because of his bigness of soul. It was because he had not cared. He was asplendid hypocrite, playing his game well at the beginning, but betrayingthe lie at the end. He did not love Marie-Anne as he, Dave Carrigan,loved her. He had spoken of her as a child, and he had treated her as achild, and was serenely dispassionate in the face of a situation whichwould have roused the spirit in most men. And suddenly, recalling thatthrilling hour in the white strip of sand and all that had happenedsince, it flashed upon David that St. Pierre was using his wife as thevital moving force in a game of his own—that under the masqueradeof his apparent faith and bigness of character he was sacrificing her toachieve a certain mysterious something it the scheme of his ownaffairs.
Yet he could not forget the infinite faith Marie-Anne Boulain hadexpressed in her husband. There had been no hypocrisy in her waiting andher watching for him, or in her belief that he would straighten out thetangles of the dilemma in which she had become involved. Nor had therebeen make-believe in the manner she had left him that day in hereagerness to go to St. Pierre. Adding these facts as he had added theothers, he fancied he saw the truth staring at him out of the darkness ofhis cabin room. Marie- Anne loved her husband. And St. Pierre was merelythe possessor, careless and indifferent, almost brutally dispassionate inhis consideration of her.
A heavy crash of thunder brought Carrigan back to a realization of theimpending storm. He rose to his feet in the chaotic gloom, facing thebulkhead beyond which he was certain St. Pierre's wife lay wide awake. Hetried to laugh. It was inexcusable, he told himself, to let his thoughtsbecome involved in the family affairs of St. Pierre and Marie-Anne. Thatwas not his business. Marie- Anne, in the final analysis, did not appearto be especially abused, and her mind was not a child's mind. Probablyshe would not thank him for his interest in the matter. She would tellhim, like any other woman with pride, that it was none of his businessand that he was presuming upon forbidden ground.
He went to the window. There was scarcely a breath of air, andunfastening the screen, he thrust out his head and shoulders into thenight. It was so black that he could not see the shadow of the wateralmost within reach of his hands, but through the chaos of gloom that laybetween him and the opposite shore he made out a single point of yellowlight. He was positive the light was in the cabin on the raft. And St.Pierre was probably in that cabin.
A huge drop of rain splashed on his hand, and behind him he heardsweeping over the forest tops the quickening march of the deluge. Therewas no crash of thunder or flash of lightning when it broke. Straightdown, in an inundation, it came out of a sky thick enough to slit with aknife. Carrigan drew in his head and shoulders and sniffed the sweetfreshness of it. He tried again to make out the light on the raft, but itwas obliterated.
Mechanically he began taking off his clothes, and in a few moments hestood again at the window, naked. Thunder and lightning had caught upwith the rain, and in the flashes of fire Carrigan's ghost-white facestared in the direction of the raft. In his veins was at work aninsistent and impelling desire. Over there was St. Pierre, he wasundoubtedly in the cabin, and something might happen if he, DaveCarrigan, took advantage of storm and gloom to go to the raft.
It was almost a presentiment that drew his bare head and shoulders outthrough the window, and every hunting instinct in him urged him to theadventure. The stygian darkness was torn again by a flash of fire. In ithe saw the river and the vivid silhouette of the distant shore. It wouldnot be a difficult swim, and it would be good training for tomorrow.
Like a badger worming his way out of a hole a bit too small for him,Carrigan drew himself through the window. A lightning flash caught him atthe edge of the bateau, and he slunk back quickly against the cabin, withthe thought that other eyes might be staring out into that same darkness.In the pitch gloom that followed he lowered himself quietly into theriver, thrust himself under water, and struck out for the oppositeshore.
When he came to the surface again it was in the glare of anotherlightning flash. He flung the water from his face, chose a point severalhundred yards above the raft, and with quick, powerful strokes set out inits direction. For ten minutes he quartered the current without raisinghis head. Then he paused, floating unresistingly with the slow sweep ofthe river, and waited for another illumination. When it came, he made outthe tented raft scarcely a hundred yards away and a little below him. Inthe next darkness he found the edge of it and dragged himself up on themass of timbers.
The thunder had been rolling steadily westward, and David crouchedlow, hoping for one more flash to illumine the raft. It came at last froma mass of inky cloud far to the west, so indistinct that it made only dimshadows out of the tents and shelters, but it was sufficient to give himdirection. Before its faint glare died out, he saw the deeper shadow ofthe cabin forward.
For many minutes he lay where he had dragged himself, without making amovement in its direction. Nowhere about him could he see a sign oflight, nor could he hear any sound of life. St. Pierre's people wereevidently deep in slumber.
Carrigan had no very definite idea of the next step in his adventure.He had swum from the bateau largely under impulse, with no preconceivedscheme of action, urged chiefly by the hope that he would find St. Pierrein the cabin and that something might come of it. As for knocking at thedoor and rousing the chief of the Boulains from sleep—he had at thepresent moment no very good excuse for that. No sooner had the thoughtand its objection come to him than a broad shaft of light shot withstartling suddenness athwart the blackness of the raft, darkened inanother instant by an obscuring shadow. Swift as the light itself David'seyes turned to the source of the unexpected illumination. The door of St.Pierre's cabin was wide open. The interior was flooded with lampglow, andin the doorway stood St. Pierre himself.
The chief of the Boulains seemed to be measuring the weatherpossibilities of the night. His subdued voice reached David, chucklingwith satisfaction, as he spoke to some one who was behind him in thecabin.
"Pitch and brimstone, but it's black!" he cried. "You could carve itwith a knife, and stand it on end, AMANTE. But it's going west. In a fewhours the stars will be out."
He drew back into the cabin, and the door closed. David held hisbreath in amazement, staring at the blackness where a moment before thelight had been. Who was it St. Pierre had called sweetheart? AMANTE! Hecould not have been mistaken. The word had come to him clearly, and therewas but one guess to make. Marie- Anne was not on the bateau. She hadplayed him for a fool, had completely hoodwinked him in her plot with St.Pierre. They were cleverer than he had supposed, and in darkness she hadrejoined her husband on the raft! But why that senseless play offalsehood? What could be their object in wanting him to believe she wasstill aboard the bateau?
He stood up on his feet and mopped the warm rain from his face, whilethe gloom hid the grim smile that came slowly to his lips. Close upon thethrill of his astonishment he felt a new stir in his blood which addedimpetus to his determination and his action. He was not disgusted withhimself, nor was he embittered by what he had thought of a moment ago asthe lying hypocrisy of his captors. To be beaten in his game ofman-hunting was sometimes to be expected, and Carrigan always gave propercredit to the winners. It was also "good medicine" to know thatMarie-Anne, instead of being an unhappy and neglected wife, had blindedhim with an exquisitely clever simulation. Just why she had done it, andwhy St. Pierre had played his masquerade, it was his duty now to findout.
An hour ago he would have cut off a hand before spying upon St.Pierre's wife or eavesdropping under her window. Now he felt nouneasiness of conscience as he approached the cabin, for Marie- Anneherself had destroyed all reason for any delicate discrimination on hispart.
The rain had almost stopped, and in one of the near tents he heard asleepy voice. But he had no fear of chance discovery. The night wouldremain dark for a long time, and in his bare feet he made no sound thesharpest ears of a dog ten feet away might have heard. Close to the cabindoor, yet in such a way that the sudden opening of it would not revealhim, he paused and listened.
Distinctly he heard St. Pierre's voice, but not the words. A momentlater came the soft, joyous laughter of a woman, and for an instant ahand seemed to grip David's heart, filling it with pain. There was nounhappiness in that laughter. It seemed, instead, to tremble in anexultation of gladness.
Suddenly St. Pierre came nearer the door, and his voice was moredistinct. "Chere-coeur, I tell you it is the greatest joke of my life,"he heard him say. "We are safe. If it should come to the worst, we cansettle the matter in another way. I can not but sing and laugh, even inthe face of it all. And she, in that very innocence which amuses me so,has no suspicion—"
He turned, and vainly David keyed his ears to catch the final words.The voices in the cabin grew lower. Twice he heard the soft laughter ofthe woman. St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke, was unintelligible.
The thought that his random adventure was bringing him to an importantdiscovery possessed Carrigan. St. Pierre, he believed, had been on thevery edge of disclosing something which he would have given a great dealto know. Surely in this cabin there must be a window, and the windowwould be open—
Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of thecabin. A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his judgment.There was a window. But it was almost entirely curtained, and it wasclosed. Had the curtain been drawn two inches lower, the thin stream oflight would have been shut entirely out from the night.
Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that inthe calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened. The voiceswere still more indistinct inside. He scarcely heard St. Pierre, buttwice again he heard the low and musical laughter of the woman. She hadlaughed differently with HIM—and the grim smile settled on his lipsas he looked up at the narrow slit of light over his head. He had anoverwhelming desire to look in. After all, it was a matter ofprofessional business—and his duty.
He was glad the curtain was drawn so low. From experiments of his ownhe knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him through thetwo-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his eyes were on alevel with the aperture.
Directly in the line of his vision was St. Pierre's wife. She wasseated, and her back was toward him, so he could not see her face. Shewas partly disrobed, and her hair was streaming loose about her. Once, heremembered, she had spoken of fiery lights that came into her hair undercertain illumination. He had seen them in the sun, but never as theyrevealed themselves now in that cabin lamp glow. He scarcely looked atSt. Pierre, who was on his feet, looking down upon her—not untilSt. Pierre reached out and crumpled the smothering mass of glowingtresses in his big hands, and laughed. It was a laugh filled with theunutterable joy of possession. The woman rose to her feet. Up through herhair went her two white, bare arms, encircling St. Pierre's neck. Thegiant drew her close. Her slim form seemed to melt in his, and their lipsmet.
And then the woman threw back her head, laughing, so that her glory ofhair fell straight down, and she was out of reach of St. Pierre's lips.They turned. Her face fronted the window, and out in the night Carriganstifled a cry that almost broke from his lips. For a flash he was lookingstraight into her eyes. Her parted lips seemed smiling at him; her whitethroat and bosom were bared to him. He dropped down, his heart chokinghim as he stumbled through the darkness to the edge of the raft. There,with the lap of the water at his feet, he paused. It was hard for him toget Breath. He stared through the gloom in the direction of the bateau.Marie-Anne Boulain, the woman he loved, was there! In her little cabin,alone, on the bateau, was St. Pierre's wife, her heart crushed.
And in this cabin on the raft, forgetful of her degradation and hergrief, was the vilest wretch he had ever known—St. Pierre Boulain.And with him, giving herself into his arms, caressing him with her lipsand hair, was the sister of the man he had helped to hang—CARMINFANCHET!
The shock of the amazing discovery which Carrigan had made was ascomplete as it was unexpected. His eyes had looked upon the last thing inthe world he might have guessed at or anticipated when they beheldthrough the window of St. Pierre's cabin the beautiful face and partlydisrobed figure of Carmin Fanchet. The first effect of that shock hadbeen to drive him away. His action had been involuntary, almost withoutthe benefit of reason, as if Carmin had been Marie-Anne herself receivingthe caresses which were rightfully hers, and upon which it was bothinsult and dishonor for him to spy. He realized now that he had made amistake in leaving the window too quickly.
But he did not move back through the gloom, for there was somethingtoo revolting in what he had seen, and with the revulsion of it a swiftunderstanding of the truth which made his hands clench as he sat down onthe edge of the raft with his feet and legs submerged in the slow-movingcurrent of the river. The thing was not uncommon. It was the samemonstrous story, as old as the river itself, but in this instance itfilled him with a sickening sort of horror which gripped him at firsteven more than the strangeness of the fact that Carmin Fanchet was theother woman. His vision and his soul were reaching out to the bateaulying in darkness on the far side of the river, where St. Pierre's wifewas alone in her unhappiness. His first impulse was to fling himself inthe river and race to her—his second, to go back to St. Pierre,even in his nakedness, and call him forth to a reckoning. In hisprofession of man-hunting he had never had the misfortune to kill, but hecould kill St. Pierre—now. His fingers dug into the slippery woodof the log under him, his blood ran hot, and in his eyes blazed the furyof an animal as he stared into the wall of gloom between him andMarie-Anne Boulain.
How much did she know? That was the first question which pounded inhis brain. He suddenly recalled his reference to the fight, his apologyto Marie-Anne that it should happen so near to her presence, and he sawagain the queer little twist of her mouth as she let slip the hint thatshe was not the only one of her sex who would know of tomorrow's fight.He had not noticed the significance of it then. But now it struck home.Marie-Anne was surely aware of Carmin Fanchet's presence on the raft.
But did she know more than that? Did she know the truth, or was herheart filled only with suspicion and fear, aggravated by St. Pierre'sneglect and his too-apparent haste to return to the raft that night?Again David's mind flashed back, recalling her defense of Carmin Fanchetwhen he had first told her his story of the woman whose brother he hadbrought to the hangman's justice. There could be but one conclusion.Marie-Anne knew Carmin Fanchet, and she also knew she was on the raftwith St. Pierre.
As cooler judgment returned to him, Carrigan refused to concede morethan that. For any one of a dozen reasons Carmin Fanchet might be on theraft going down the river, and it was also quite within reason thatMarie-Anne might have some apprehension of a woman as beautiful asCarmin, and possibly intuition had begun to impinge upon her a disturbingfear of a something that might happen. But until tonight he was confidentshe had fought against this suspicion, and had overridden it, even thoughshe knew a woman more beautiful than herself was slowly drifting down thestream with her husband. She had betrayed no anxiety to him in the daysthat had passed; she had waited eagerly for St. Pierre; like a bird shehad gone to him when at last he came, and he had seen her crushed closein St. Pierre's arms in their meeting. It was this night, with its gloomand its storm, that had made the shadowings of her unrest a torturingreality. For St. Pierre had brought her back to the bateau and had playeda pitiably weak part in concealing his desire to return to the raft.
So he told himself Marie-Anne did not know the truth, not as he hadseen it through the window of St. Pierre's cabin. She had been hurt, forhe had seen the sting of it, and in that same instant he had seen hersoul rise up and triumph. He saw again the sudden fire that came into hereyes when St. Pierre urged the necessity of his haste, he saw her slimbody grow tense, her red lips curve in a flash of pride and disdain. Andas Carrigan thought of her in that way his muscles grew tighter, and hecursed St. Pierre. Marie-Anne might be hurt, she might guess that herhusband's eyes and thoughts were too frequently upon another'sface—but in the glory of her womanhood it was impossible for her toconceive of a crime such as he had witnessed through the cabin window. Ofthat he was sure.
And then, suddenly, like a blinding sheet of lightning out of a darksky, came back to him all that St. Pierre had said about Marie-Anne. Hehad pitied St. Pierre then; he had pitied this great cool-eyed giant of aman who was fighting gloriously, he had thought, in the face of asituation that would have excited most men. Frankly St. Pierre had toldhim Marie-Anne cared more for him than she should. With equal franknesshe had revealed his wife's confessions to him, that she knew of his lovefor her, of his kiss upon her hair.
In the blackness Carrigan's face burned hot. If he had in him thedesire to kill St. Pierre now, might not St. Pierre have had an equallyjust desire to kill him? For he had known, even as he kissed her hair,and as his arms held her close to his breast in crossing the creek, thatshe was the wife of St. Pierre. And Marie-Anne—
His muscles relaxed. Slowly he lowered himself into the cool wash ofthe river, and struck out toward the bateau. He did not breast thecurrent with the same fierce determination with which he had crossedthrough the storm to the raft, but drifted with it and reached theopposite shore a quarter of a mile below the bateau. Here he waited for atime, while the thickness of the clouds broke, and a gray light camethrough them, revealing dimly the narrow path of pebbly wash along theshore. Silently, a stark naked shadow in the night, he came back to thebateau and crawled through his window.
He lighted a lamp, and turned it very low, and in the dim glow of itrubbed his muscles until they burned. He was fit for tomorrow, and theknowledge of that fitness filled him with a savage elation. Agood-humored love of sport had induced him to fling his firsthalf-bantering challenge into the face of Concombre Bateese, but thatsentiment was gone. The approaching fight was no longer an incident, afoolish error into which he had unwittingly plunged himself. In this hourit was the biggest physical thing that had ever loomed up in his life,and he yearned for the dawn with the eagerness of a beast that waits forthe kill which comes with the break of day. But it was not thehalf-breed's face he saw under the hammering of his blows. He could nothate the half-breed. He could not even dislike him now. He forced himselfto bed, and later he slept. In the dream that came to him it was notBateese who faced him in battle, but St. Pierre Boulain.
He awoke with that dream a thing of fire in his brain. The sun was notyet up, but the flush of it was painting the east, and he dressed quietlyand carefully, listening for some sound of awakening beyond the bulkhead.If Marie-Anne was awake, she was very still. There was noise ashore.Across the river he could hear the singing of men, and through his windowsaw the white smoke of early fires rising above the tree-tops. It was theIndian who unlocked the door and brought in his breakfast, and it was theIndian who returned for the dishes half an hour later.
After that Carrigan waited, tense with the desire for action to begin.He sensed no premonition of evil about to befall him. Every nerve andsinew in his body was alive for the combat. He thrilled with anoverwhelming confidence, a conviction of his ability to win, an almostdangerous, self-conviction of approaching triumph in spite of the odds inweight and brute strength which were pitted against him. A dozen times helistened at the bulkhead between him and Marie-Anne, and still he heardno movement on the other side.
It was eight o'clock when one of the bateau men appeared at the doorand asked if he was ready. Quickly David joined him. He forgot his tauntsto Concombre Bateese, forgot the softly padded gloves in his pack withwhich he had promised to pommel the half- breed into oblivion. He wasthinking only of naked fists.
Into a canoe he followed the bateau man, who turned his craft swiftlyin the direction of the opposite shore. And as they went, David was surehe caught the slight movement of a curtain at the little window ofMarie-Anne's forward cabin. He smiled back and raised his hand, and atthat the curtain was drawn back entirely, and he knew that St. Pierre'swife was watching him as he went to the fight.
The raft was deserted, but a little below it, on a wide strip of beachmade hard and smooth by flood water, had gathered a crowd of men. Itseemed odd to David they should remain so quiet, when he knew the naturalinstinct of the riverman was to voice his emotion at the top of hislungs. He spoke of this to the bateau man, who shrugged his shoulders andgrinned.
"Eet ees ze command of St. Pierre," he explained. "St. Pierre say noman make beeg noise at—what you call heem—funeral? An' theesegoin' to be wan gran' fun-e-RAL, m'sieu!"
"I see," David nodded. He did not grin back at the other's humor.
He was looking at the crowd. A giant figure had appeared out of thecenter of it and was coming slowly down to the river. It was St. Pierre.Scarcely had the prow of the canoe touched shore when David leaped outand hurried to meet him. Behind St. Pierre came Bateese, the half-breed.He was stripped to the waist and naked from the knees down. Hisgorilla-like arms hung huge and loose at his sides, and the muscles ofhis hulking body stood out like carven mahogany in the glisten of themorning sun. He was like a grizzly, a human beast of monstrous power,something to look at, to back away from, to fear.
Yet, David scarcely noticed him. He met St. Pierre, faced him, andstopped—and he had gone swiftly to this meeting, so that the chiefof the Boulains was within earshot of all his men.
St. Pierre was smiling. He held out his hand as he had held it outonce before in the bateau cabin, and his big voice boomed out agreeting.
Carrigan did not answer, nor did he look at the extended hand. For aninstant the eyes of the two men met, and then, swift as lightning,Carrigan's arm shot out, and with the flat of his hand he struck St.Pierre a terrific blow squarely on the cheek. The sound of the blow waslike the smash of a paddle on smooth water. Not a riverman but heard it,and as St. Pierre staggered back, flung almost from his feet by itsforce, a subdued cry of amazement broke from the waiting men. ConcombreBateese stood like one stupefied. And then, in another flash, St. Pierrehad caught himself and whirled like a wild beast. Every muscle in hisbody was drawn for a gigantic, overwhelming leap; his eyes blazed; thefury of a beast was in his face. Before all his people he had sufferedthe deadliest insult that could be offered a man of the Three RiverCountry—a blow struck with the flat of another's hand. Anythingelse one might forgive, but not that. Such a blow, if not avenged, was abrand that passed down into the second and third generations, and evenchildren would call out "Yellow-Back— Yellow-Back," to the one whowas coward enough to receive it without resentment. A rumbling growl rosein the throat of Concombre Bateese in that moment when it seemed asthough St. Pierre Boulain was about to kill the man who had struck him.He saw the promise of his own fight gone in a flash. For no man in allthe northland could now fight David Carrigan ahead of St. Pierre.
David waited, prepared to meet the rush of a madman. And then, for asecond time, he saw a mighty struggle in the soul of St. Pierre. Thegiant held himself back. The fury died out of his face, but his greathands remained clenched as he said, for David alone,
"That was a playful blow, m'sieu? It was—a joke?"
"It was for you, St. Pierre," replied Carrigan, "You are a coward—and a skunk. I swam to the raft last night, looked through yourwindow, and saw what happened there. You are not fit for a decent man tofight, yet I will fight you, if you are not too great a coward—anddare to let our wagers stand as they were made."
St. Pierre's eyes widened, and for a breath or two he stared atCarrigan, as if looking into him and not at him. His big hands relaxed,and slowly the panther-like readiness went out of his body. Those wholooked beheld the transformation in amazement, for of all who waited onlySt. Pierre and the half-breed had heard Carrigan's words, though they hadseen and heard the blow of insult.
"You swam to the raft," repeated St. Pierre in a low voice, as ifdoubting what he had heard. "You looked through the window—andsaw—"
David nodded. He could not cover the sneering poison in his voice, hiscontempt for the man who stood before him.
"Yes, I looked through the window. And I saw you, and the lowest womanon the Three Rivers—the sister of a man I helped to hang,I—"
"STOP!"
St. Pierre's voice broke out of him like the sudden crash of thunder.He came a step nearer, his face livid, his eyes shooting flame. With amighty effort he controlled himself again. And then, as if he sawsomething which David could not see, he tried to smile, and in that sameinstant David caught a grin cutting a great slash across the face ofConcombre Bateese. The change that came over St. Pierre now was swift assunlight coming out from shadowing cloud. A rumble grew in his greatchest. It broke in a low note of laughter from his lips, and he faced thebateau across the river.
"M'sieu, you are sorry for HER. Is that it? You wouldfight—"
"For the cleanest, finest little girl who ever lived—yourwife!"
"It is funny," said St. Pierre, as if speaking to himself, and stilllooking at the bateau. "Yes, it is very funny, ma belle Marie-Anne! Hehas told you he loves you, and he has kissed your hair and held you inhis arms—yet he wants to fight me because he thinks I am steeped insin, and to make me fight in place of Bateese he has called my Carmin alow woman! So what else can I do? I must fight. I must whip him until hecan not walk. And then I will send him back for you to nurse, cherie, andfor that blessing I think he will willingly take my punishment! Is it notso, m'sieu?"
He was smiling and no longer excited when he turned to David.
"M'sieu, I will fight you. And the wagers shall stand. And in thishour let us be honest, like men, and make confession. You love ma belleJeanne—Marie-Anne? Is it not so? And I—I love my Carmin,whose brother you hanged, as I love no other woman in the world. Now, ifyou will have it so, let us fight!"
He began stripping off his shirt, and with a bellow in his throatConcombre Bateese slouched away like a beaten gorilla to explain to St.Pierre's people the change in the plan of battle. And as that news spreadlike fire in the fir-tops, there came but a single cry inresponse—shrill and terrible—and that was from the throat ofAndre, the Broken Man.
As Carrigan stripped off his shirt, he knew that at least in one wayhe had met more than his match in St. Pierre Boulain. In the splendidservice of which he was a part he had known many men of iron and steel,men whose nerve and coolness not even death could very greatly disturb.Yet St. Pierre, he conceded, was their master—and his own. For aflash he had transformed the chief of the Boulains into a volcano whichhad threatened to break in savage fury, yet neither the crash nordestruction had come. And now St. Pierre was smiling again, as Carriganfaced him, stripped to the waist. He betrayed no sign of the tempest ofpassion that had swept him a few minutes before. His cool, steely eyeshad in them a look that was positively friendly, as Concombre Bateesemarked in the hard sand the line of the circle within which no man mightcome. And as he did this and St. Pierre's people crowded close about it,St. Pierre himself spoke in a low voice to David.
"M'sieu, it seems a shame that we should fight. I like you. I havealways loved a man who would fight to protect a woman, and I shall becareful not to hurt you more than is necessary to make you seereason—and to win the wagers. So you need not be afraid of mykilling you, as Bateese might have done. And I promise not to destroyyour beauty, for the sake of—the lady in the bateau. My Carmin, ifshe knew you spied through her window last night, would say kill you withas little loss of time as possible, for as regards you her sweetdisposition was spoiled when you hung her brother, m'sieu. Yet to me sheis an angel!"
Contempt for the man who spoke of his wife and the infamous CarminFanchet in the same breath drew a sneer to Carrigan's lips. He noddedtoward the waiting circle of men.
"They are ready for the show, St. Pierre. You talk big. Now let us seeif you can fight."
For another moment St. Pierre hesitated. "I am so sorry,m'sieu—
"Are you ready, St. Pierre?"
"It is not fair, and she will never forgive me. You are no match forme. I am half again as heavy."
"And as big a coward as you are a scoundrel, St. Pierre."
"It is like a man fighting a boy."
"Yet it is less dishonorable than betraying the woman who is your wifefor another who should have been hanged along with her brother, St.Pierre."
Boulain's face darkened. He drew back half a dozen steps and cried outa word to Bateese. Instantly the circle of waiting men grew tense as thehalf-breed jerked the big handkerchief from his head and held it out atarm's length. Yet, with that eagerness for the fight there was somethingelse which Carrigan was swift to sense. The attitude of the watchers wasnot one of uncertainty or of very great expectation, in spite of thestaring faces and the muscular tightening of the line. He knew what waspassing in their minds and in the low whispers from lip to lip. They werepitying him. Now that he stood stripped, with only a few paces betweenhim and the giant figure of St. Pierre, the unfairness of the fightstruck home even to Concombre Bateese. Only Carrigan himself knew howlike tempered steel the sinews of his body were built. But to the eye, insize alone, he stood like a boy before St. Pierre. And St. Pierre'speople, their voices stilled by the deadly inequality of it, were waitingfor a slaughter and not a fight.
A smile came to Carrigan's lips as he saw Bateese hesitating to dropthe handkerchief, and with the swiftness of the trained fighter he madehis first plan for the battle before the cloth fell from the half-breed'sfingers, As the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, he faced St.Pierre, the smile gone.
"Never smile when you fight," the greatest of all masters of the ringhad told him. "Never show anger, Don't betray any emotion at all if youcan help it."
Carrigan wondered what the old ring-master would say could he see himnow, backing away slowly from St. Pierre as the giant advanced upon him,for he knew his face was betraying to St. Pierre and his people thedeadliest of all sins—anxiety and indecision. Very closely, yetwith eyes that seemed to shift uneasily, he watched the effect of histrick on Boulain. Twice the huge riverman followed him about the ring ofsand, and the steely glitter in his eyes changed to laughter, and thetense faces of the men about them relaxed. A subdued ripple of merrimentrose where there had been silence. A third time David maneuvered hisretreat, and his eyes shot furtively to Concombre Bateese and the men athis back. They were grinning. The half-breed's mouth was wide open, andhis grotesque body hung limp and astonished. This was not a fight! It wasa comedy—like a rooster following a sparrow around a barnyard! Andthen a still funnier thing happened, for David began to trot in a circlearound St. Pierre, dodging and feinting, and keeping always at a safedistance. A howl of laughter came from Bateese and broke in a roar fromthe men. St. Pierre stopped in his tracks, a grin on his face, his bigarms and shoulders limp and unprepared as Carrigan dodged in close andout again. And then—
A howl broke in the middle of the half-breed's throat. Where there hadbeen laughter, there came a sudden shutting off of sound, a great gasp,as if made by choking men. Swifter than anything they had ever seen inhuman action Carrigan had leaped in. They saw him strike. They heard theblow. They saw St. Pierre's great head rock back, as if struck from hisshoulders by a club, and they saw and heard another blow, and athird—like so many flashes of lightning—and St. Pierre wentdown as if shot. The man they had laughed at was no longer like a hoppingsparrow. He was waiting, bent a little forward, every muscle in his bodyready for action. They watched for him to leap upon his fallen enemy,kicking and gouging and choking in the riverman way. But David waited,and St. Pierre staggered to his feet. His mouth was bleeding and chokedwith sand, and a great lump was beginning to swell over his eye. A deadlyfire blazed in his face, as he rushed like a mad bull at theinsignificant opponent who had tricked and humiliated him. This timeCarrigan did not retreat, but held his ground, and a yell of joy went upfrom Bateese as the mighty bulk of the giant descended upon his victim.It was an avalanche of brute-force, crushing in its destructiveness, andCarrigan seemed to reach for it as it came upon him. Then his head wentdown, swifter than a diving grebe, and as St. Pierre's arm swung like anoaken beam over his shoulder, his own shot in straight for the pit of theother's stomach. It was a bull's-eye blow with the force of a pile-driverbehind it, and the groan that forced its way out of St. Pierre's vitalswas heard by every ear in the cordon of watchers. His weight stopped, hisarms opened, and through that opening Carrigan's fist went a second timeto the other's jaw, and a second time the great St. Pierre Boulainsprawled out upon the sand. And there he lay, and made no effort torise.
Concombre Bateese, with his great mouth agape, stood for an instant asif the blow had stunned him in place of his master. Then, suddenly hecame to life, and leaped to David's side.
"Diable! Tonnerre! You have not fight Concombre Bateese yet!" hehowled. "Non, you have cheat me, you have lie, you have run lak cat fromConcombre Bateese, ze stronges' man on all T'ree River! You are wan'gran' coward, wan poltroon, an' you 'fraid to fight ME, who ees greates'fightin' man in all dees countree! Sapristi! Why you no hit ConcombreBateese, m'sieu? Why you no hit ze greates' fightin' man w'atees—"
David did not hear the rest. The opportunity was too tempting. Heswung, and with a huge grunt the gorilla-like body of Concombre Bateeserolled over that of the chief of the Boulains. This time Carrigan did notwait, but followed up so closely that the half- breed had scarcelygathered the crook out of his knees when another blow on the jaw sent himinto the sand again. Three times he tried the experiment of regaining hisfeet, and three times he was knocked down. After the last blow he raisedhimself groggily to a sitting posture, and there he remained, blinkinglike a stunned pig, with his big hands clutching in the sand. He staredup unseeingly at Carrigan, who waited over him, and then stupidly at thetransfixed cordon of men, whose eyes were bulging and who were holdingtheir breath in the astonishment of this miracle which had descended uponthem. They heard Bateese muttering something incoherent as his headwobbled, and St. Pierre himself seemed to hear it, for he stirred andraised himself slowly, until he also was sitting in the sand, staring atBateese.
Carrigan picked up his shirt, and the riverman who had brought himfrom the bateau returned with him to the canoe. There was nodemonstration behind them. To David himself the whole thing had been anamazing surprise, and he was not at all reluctant to leave as quickly ashis dignity would permit, before some other of St. Pierre's peopleoffered to put a further test upon his prowess. He wanted to laugh. Hewanted to thank God at the top of his voice for the absurd run of luckthat had made his triumph not only easy but utterly complete. He hadexpected to win, but he had also expected a terrific fight before thelast blow was struck. And there had been no fight! He was returning tothe bateau without a scratch, his hair scarcely ruffled, and he haddefeated not only St, Pierre, but the giant half-breed as well! It wasinconceivable—and yet it had happened; a veritable burlesque, anopera-bouffe affair that might turn quickly into a tragedy if either St.Pierre or Concombre Bateese guessed the truth of it. For in that event hemight have to face them again, with the god of luck playing fairly, andhe was honest enough with himself to confess that the idea no longer heldeither thrill or desire for him. Now that he had seen both St. Pierre andBateese stripped for battle, he had no further appetite for fisticdiscussion with them. After all, there was a merit in caution, and he hadseveral lucky stars to bless just at the present moment!
Inwardly he was a bit suspicious of the ultimate ending of the affair.St. Pierre had almost no cause for complaint, for it was his owncarelessness, coupled with his opponent's luck, that had been hisundoing—and luck and carelessness are legitimate factors of everyfight, Carrigan told himself. But with Bateese it was different. He hadheld up his big jaw, uncovered and tempting, entreating some one to hithim, and Carrigan had yielded to that temptation. The blow would havestunned an ox. Three others like it had left the huge half-breed sittingweak-mindedly in the sand, and no one of those three blows were exactlyaccording to the rules of the game. They had been mightily efficacious,but the half-breed might demand a rehearing when he came fully into hissenses.
Not until they were half-way to the bateau did Carrigan dare to glanceback over his shoulder at the man who was paddling, to see what effectthe fistic travesty had left on him. He was a big- mouthed, clear-eyed,powerfully-muscled fellow, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
"Well, what did you think of it, comrade?"
The other gave his shoulders a joyous shrug.
"Mon Dieu! Have you heard of wan garcon named Joe Clamart, m'sieu?Non? Well, I am Joe Clamart what was once great fightin' man. Bateesehav' whip' me five times, m'sieu—so I say it was wan gr- r-r-a-n'fight! Many years ago I have seen ze same t'ing in Montreal—zeboxeur de profession. Oui, an' Rene Babin pays me fifteen prime martinagainst which I put up three scrubby red fox that you would win. Theywere bad, or I would not have gambled, m'sieu. It ees fonny!"
"Yes, it is funny," agreed David. "I think it is a bit too funny. Itis a pity they did not stand up on their legs a little longer!" Suddenlyan inspiration hit him. "Joe, what do you say—shall you and Ireturn and put up a REAL fight for them?"
Like a sprung trap Joe Clamart's grinning mouth dosed. "Non, non,non," he grunted. "Dere has been plenty fight, an' Joe Clamart mus' savehees face tor Antoinette Roland, who hate ze sign of fight lak she hateze devil, m'sieu! Non, non!"
His paddle dug deeper into the water, and David's heart felt lighter.If Joe was an average barometer, and he was a husky and fearless-lookingchap, it was probable that neither St. Pierre nor Bateese would demandanother chance at him, and St. Pierre would pay his wager.
He could see no one aboard the bateau when he climbed from the canoe.Looking back, he saw that two other canoes had started from the oppositeshore. Then he went to his cabin door, opened it, and entered, Scarcelyhad the door closed behind him when he stopped, staring toward the windowthat opened on the river.
Standing full in the morning glow of it was Marie-Anne Boulain. Shewas facing him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her red lips were parted. Hereyes were aglow with a fire which she made no effort to hide from him. Inher hand she still held the binoculars he had left on the cabin table. Heguessed the truth. Through the glasses she had watched the wholemiserable fiasco.
He felt creeping over him a sickening shame, and his eyes fell slowlyfrom her to the table. What he saw there caught his breath in the middle.It was the entire surgical outfit of Nepapinas, the old Indian doctor.And there were basins of water, and white strips of linen ready for use,and a pile of medicated cotton, and all sorts of odds and ends that onemight apply to ease the agonies of a dying man, And beyond the table,huddled in so small a heap that he was almost hidden by it, was Nepapinashimself, disappointment writ in his mummy-like face as his beady eyesrested on David.
The evidence could not be mistaken. They had expected him to come backmore nearly dead than alive, and St. Pierre's wife had prepared for thething she had thought inevitable. Even his bed was nicely turned down,its fresh white sheets inviting an occupant!
And David, looking at St. Pierre's wife again, felt his heart beatinghard in his breast at the look which was in her eyes. It was not thescintillation of laughter, and the flame in her cheeks was notembarrassment. She was not amused. The ludicrousness of her mislaid planshad not struck her as they had struck him. She had placed the binocularson the table, and slowly she came to him. Her hands reached out, and herfingers rested like the touch of velvet on his arms.
"It was splendid!" she said softly, "It was splendid!"
She was very near, her breast almost touching him, her hands creepingup until the tips of her fingers rested on his shoulders, her scarletmouth so close he could feel the soft breath of it in his face.
"It was splendid!" she whispered again.
And then, suddenly, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Soswiftly was it done that she was gone before he sensed that wild touch ofher lips against his own. Like a swallow she was at the door, and thedoor opened and closed behind her, and for a moment he heard the quickrunning of her feet. Then he looked at the old Indian, and the Indian,too, was staring at the door through which St. Pierre's wife hadflown.
For many seconds that seemed like minutes David stood where she hadleft him, while Nepapinas rose gruntingly to his feet, and gathered uphis belongings, and hobbled sullenly to the bateau door and out. He wasscarcely conscious of the Indian's movement, for his soul was aflame witha red-hot fire. Deliberately—with that ravishing glory of somethingin her eyes—St. Pierre's wife had kissed him! On her tiptoes, hercheeks like crimson flowers, she had given her still redder lips to him!And his own lips burned, and his heart pounded hard, and he stared for atime like one struck dumb at the spot where she had stood by the window.Then suddenly, he turned to the door and flung it wide open, and on hislips was the reckless cry of Marie-Anne's name. But St. Pierre's wife wasgone, and Nepapinas was gone, and at the tail of the big sweep sat onlyJoe Clamart, guarding watchfully.
The two canoes were drawing near, and in one of them were two men, andin the other three, and David knew that—like Joe Clamart—they were watchers set over him by St. Pierre. Then a fourth canoe leftthe far shore, and when it had reached mid-stream, he recognized thefigure in the stern as that of Andre, the Broken Man. The other, hethought, must be St. Pierre.
He went back into the cabin and stood where Marie-Anne hadstood— at the window. Nepapinas had not taken away the basins ofwater, and the bandages were still there, and the pile of medicatedcotton, and the suspiciously made-up bed. After all, he was losingsomething by not occupying the bed—and yet if St. Pierre or Bateesehad messed him up badly, and a couple of fellows had lugged him inbetween them, it was probable that Marie-Anne would not have kissed him.And that kiss of St. Pierre's wife would remain with him until the day hedied!
He was thinking of it, the swift, warm thrill of her velvety lips, redas strawberries and twice as sweet, when the door opened and St. Pierrecame in. The sight of him, in this richest moment of his life, gave Davidno sense of humiliation or shame. Between him and St. Pierre rose swiftlywhat he had seen last night—Carmin Fanchet in all the lure of herdisheveled beauty, crushed close in the arms of the man whose wife only amoment before had pressed her lips close to his; and as the eyes of thetwo met, there came over him a desire to tell the other what hadhappened, that he might see him writhe with the sting of the two-edgedthing with which he was playing. Then he saw that even that would nothurt St. Pierre, for the chief of the Boulains, standing there with thebig lump over his eye, had caught sight of the things on the table andthe nicely turned down bed, and his one good eye lit up with suddenlaughter, and his white teeth flashed in an understanding smile.
"TONNERRE, I said she would nurse you with gentle hands," he rumbled."See what you have missed, M'sieu Carrigan!"
"I received something which I shall remember longer than a finenursing," retorted David. "And yet right now I have a greater interest inknowing what you think of the fight, St. Pierre—and if you havecome to pay your wager."
St. Pierre was chuckling mysteriously in his throat. "It wassplendid—splendid," he said, repeating Marie-Anne's words. "And JoeClamart says she ran out, blushing like a red rose in August, and thatshe said no word, but flew like a bird into the white- birch ashore!"
"She was dismayed because I beat you, St. Pierre."
"Non, non—she was like a lark filled with joy."
Suddenly his eyes rested on the binoculars.
David nodded. "Yes, she saw it all through the glasses."
St. Pierre seated himself at the table and heaved out a groan as hetook one of the bandage strips between his fingers. "She saw my disgrace.And she didn't wait to bandage ME up, did she?"
"Perhaps she thought Carmin Fanchet would do that, St. Pierre."
"And I am ashamed to go to Carmin—with this great lump over myeye, m'sieu. And on top of that disgrace—you insist that I pay thewager?"
"I do."
St. Pierre's face hardened.
"OUI, I am to pay. I am to tell you all I know about that BETENOIR—Black Roger Audemard. Is it not so?"
"That is the wager."
"But after I have told you—what then? Do you recall that I gaveyou any other guarantee, M'sieu Carrigan? Did I say I would let you go?Did I promise I would not kill you and sink your body to the bottom ofthe river? If I did, I can not remember."
"Are you a beast, St. Pierre—a murderer as well as—"
"Stop! Do not tell me again what you saw through the window, for ithas nothing to do with this. I am not a beast, but a man. Had I been abeast, I should have killed you the first day I saw you in this cabin. Iam not threatening to kill you, and yet it may be necessary if you insistthat I pay the wager. You understand, m'sieu. To refuse to pay a wager isa greater crime among my people than the killing of a man, if there is agood reason for the killing. I am helpless. I must pay, if you insist.Before I pay it is fair that I give you warning."
"You mean?"
"I mean nothing, as yet. I can not say what it will be necessary forme to do, after you have heard what I know about Roger Audemard. I amquite settled on a plan just now, m'sieu, but the plan might change atany moment. I am only warning you that it is a great hazard, and that youare playing with a fire of which you know nothing, because it has notburned you yet."
Carrigan seated himself slowly in a chair opposite St. Pierre, withthe table between them.
"You are wasting time in attempting to frighten me," he said. "I shallinsist on the payment of the wager, St Pierre."
For a moment St. Pierre was clearly troubled. Then his lips tightened,and he smiled grimly over the table at David.
"I am sorry, M'sieu David. I like you. You are a fighting man and nocoward, and I should like to travel shoulder to shoulder with you in manythings. And such a thing might be, for you do not understand. I tell youit would have been many times better for you had I whipped you out there,and it had been you—and not me— to pay the wager!"
"It is Roger Audemard I am interested in, St. Pierre. Why do youhesitate?"
"I? Hesitate? I am not hesitating, m'sieu. I am giving you a chance."He leaned forward, his great arms bent on the table. "And you insist,M'sieu David?"
"Yes, I insist."
Slowly the fingers of St. Pierre's hands closed into knotted fists,and he said in a low voice, "Then I will pay, m'sieu.I AM ROGERAUDEMARD!"
The astounding statement of the man who sat opposite him held Davidspeechless. He had guessed at some mysterious relationship between St.Pierre and the criminal he was after, but not this, and Roger Audemard,with his hands unclenching and a slow humor beginning to play about hismouth, waited coolly for him to recover from his amazement. In thosemoments, when his heart seemed to have stopped beating, Carrigan wasstaring at the other, but his mind had shot beyond him—to the womanwho was his wife. Marie-Anne AUDEMARD—the wife of Black Roger! Hewanted to cry out against the possibility of such a fact, yet he sat likeone struck dumb, as the monstrous truth took possession of his brain anda whirlwind of understanding swept upon him. He was thinking quickly, andwith a terrific lack of sentiment now. Opposite him sat Black Roger, thewholesale murderer. Marie-Anne was his wife. Carmin Fanchet, sister of amurderer, was simply one of his kind. And Bateese, the man-gorilla, andthe Broken Man, and all the dark-skinned pack about them were of BlackRoger's breed and kind. Love for a woman had blinded him to the factswhich crowded upon him now. Like a lamb he had fallen among wolves, andhe had tried to believe in them. No wonder Bateese and the man he hadknown as St. Pierre had betrayed such merriment at times!
A fighting coolness possessed him as he spoke to Black Roger.
"I will admit this is a surprise. And yet you have cleared up a numberof things very quickly. It proves to me again that comedy is not very farremoved from tragedy at times."
"I am glad you see the humor of it, M'sieu David." Black Roger wassmiling as pleasantly as his swollen eye would permit. "We must not betoo serious when we die. If I were to die a-hanging, I would sing as therope choked me, just to show the world one need not be unhappy becausehis life is coming to an end."
"I suppose you understand that ultimately I am going to give you thatopportunity," said David.
Almost eagerly Black Roger leaned toward him over the table. "Youbelieve you are going to hang me?"
"I am sure of it."
"And you are willing to wager the point, M'sieu David?"
"It is impossible to gamble with a condemned man."
Black Roger chuckled, rubbing his big hands together until they made arasping sound, and his one good eye glowed at Carrigan.
"Then I will make a wager with myself, M'sieu David. MA FOI, I swearthat before the leaves fall from the trees, you will be pleading for thefriendship of Black Roger Audemard, and you will be as much in love withCarmin Fanchet as I am! And as for Marie- Anne—"
He thrust back his chair and rose to his feet, the old note of subduedlaughter rumbling in his chest. "And because I make this wager withmyself, I cannot kill you, M'sieu David—though that might be thebest thing to do. I am going to take you to the Chateau Boulain, which isin the forests of the Yellowknife, beyond the Great Slave. Nothing willhappen to you if you make no effort to escape. If you do that, you willsurely die. And that would hurt me, M'sieu David, because I love you likea brother, and in the end I know you are going to grip the hand of BlackRoger Audemard, and get down on your knees to Carmin Fanchet. And as forMarie-Anne—" Again he interrupted himself, and went out of thecabin, laughing. And there was no mistake in the metallic click of thelock outside the door.
For a time David did not move from his seat near the table. He had notlet Roger Audemard see how completely the confession had upset his innerbalance, but he made no pretense of concealing the thing from himselfnow. He was in the power of a cut-throat, who in turn had an army ofcut-throats at his back, and both Marie-Anne and Carmin Fanchet were apart of this ring. And he was not only a prisoner. It was probable, underthe circumstances, that Black Roger would make an end of him when aconvenient moment came. It was even more than a probability. It was agrim necessity. To let him live and escape would be fatal to BlackRoger.
From back of these convictions, riding over them as if to demoralizeany coherence and logic that might go with the evidence he was buildingup, came question after question, pounding at him one after the other,until his mind became more than ever a whirling chaos of uncertainty. IfSt. Pierre was Black Roger, why would he confess to that fact simply topay a wager? What reason could he have for letting him live at all? Whyhad not Bateese killed him? Why had Marie-Anne nursed him back to life?His mind shot to the white strip of sand in which he had nearly died.That, at least, was convincing. Learning in some way that he was afterBlack Roger, they had attempted to do away with him there. But if thatwere so, why was it Bateese and Black Roger's wife and the IndianNepapinas had risked so much to make him live, when if they had left himwhere he had fallen he would have died and caused them no trouble?
There was something exasperatingly uncertain and illogical about itall. Was it possible that St. Pierre Boulain was playing a huge joke onhim? Even that was inconceivable. For there was Carmin Fanchet, a fittingcompanion for a man like Black Roger, and there was Marie-Anne, who, ifit had been a joke, would not have played her part so well.
Suddenly his mind was filled only with her. Had she been his friend,using all her influence to protect him, because her heart was sick of theenvironment of which she was a part? His own heart jumped at the thought.It was easy to believe. In Marie-Anne he had faith, and that faithrefused to be destroyed, but persisted— even clearer and strongeras he thought again of Carmin Fanchet and Black Roger. In his heart grewthe conviction it was sacrilege to believe the kiss she had given himthat morning was a lie. It was something else—a spontaneousgladness, a joyous exultation that he had returned unharmed, a thingunplanned in the soul of the woman, leaping from her before she couldstop it. Then had come shame, and she had run away from him so swiftly hehad not seen her face again after the touch of her lips. If it had been asubterfuge, a lie, she would not have done that.
He rose to his feet and paced restlessly back and forth as he tried tobring together a few tangled bits of the puzzle. He heard voices outside,and very soon felt the movement of the bateau under his feet, and throughone of the shoreward windows he saw trees and sandy beach slowly driftingaway. On that shore, as far as his eyes could travel up and down, he sawno sign of Marie- Anne, but there remained a canoe, and near the canoestood Black Roger Audemard, and beyond him, huddled like a charred stumpin the sand, was Andre, the Broken Man. On the opposite shore the raftwas getting under way.
During the next half-hour several things happened which told him therewas no longer a sugar-coating to his imprisonment. On each side of thebateau two men worked at his windows, and when they had finished, no oneof them could be opened more than a few inches. Then came the rattle ofthe lock at the door, the grating of a key, and somewhat to Carrigan'ssurprise it was Bateese who came in. The half-reed bore no facialevidence of the paralyzing blows which had knocked him out a short timebefore. His jaw, on which they had landed, was as aggressive as ever, yetin his face and his attitude, as he stared curiously at Carrigan, therewas no sign of resentment or unfriendliness. Nor did he seem to beashamed. He merely stared, with the curious and rather puzzled eyes of asmall boy gazing at an inexplicable oddity. Carrigan, standing beforehim, knew what was passing in the other's mind, and the humor of itbrought a smile to his lips.
Instantly Concombre's face split into a wide grin. "MON DIEU, w'at ifyou was on'y brother to Concombre Bateese, m'sieu. T'ink ofzat—you—me—FRERE D'ARMES! VENTRE SAINT GRIS, but wemak' all fightin' men in nort' countree run lak rabbits ahead of ze fox!OUI, we mak' gr-r-r-eat pair, m'sieu—you, w'at knock downBateese—an' Bateese, w'at keel polar bear wit hees naked hands,w'at pull down trees, w'at chew flint w'en hees tobacco gone."
His voice had risen, and suddenly there came a laugh from outside thedoor, and Concombre cut himself short and his mouth closed with a snap.It was Joe Clamart who had laughed.
"I w'ip heem five time, an' now I w'ip heem seex!" hissed Bateese inan undertone. "Two time each year I w'ip zat gargon Joe Clamart so heunderstan' w'at good fightin' man ees. An' you will w'ip heem, eh,m'sieu? Oui? An' I will breeng odder good fightin' mans for you tow'ip—all w'at Concombre Bateese has w'ipped—ten, dozen,forty—an' you w'ip se gran' bunch, m'sieu. Eh, shall we mak' zebargain?"
"You are planning a pleasant time for me, Bateese," said Carrigan,"but I am afraid it will be impossible. You see, this captain of yours,Black Roger Audemard—"
"W'at!" Bateese jumped as if stung. "W'at you say, m'sieu?"
"I said that Roger Audemard, Black Roger, the man I thought was St.Pierre Boulain—"
Carrigan said no more. What he had started to say was unimportantcompared with the effect of Roger Audernard's name on Concombre Bateese.A deadly light glittered in the half-breed's eyes, and for the first timeDavid realized that in the grotesque head of the riverman was a brainquick to grip at the significance of things. The fact was evident thatBlack Roger had not confided in Bateese as to the price of the wager andthe confession of his identity, and for a moment after the repetition ofAudemard's name came from David's lips the half-breed stood as ifsomething had stunned him. Then slowly, as if forcing the words in theface of a terrific desire that had transformed his body into a hulk ofquivering steel, he said:
"M'sieu—I come with message—from St. Pierre. You seewindows— closed. Outside door—she locked. On bot' sides debateau, all de time, we watch. You try get away, an' we keel you. Zat eesall. We shoot. We five mans on ze bateau, all ze day, TOUTE LA NUIT. Youunnerstan'?"
He turned sullenly, waiting for no reply, and the door opened andclosed after him—and again came the snap of the lock outside.
Steadily the bateau swept down the big river that day. There was nolet-up in the steady creaking of the long sweep. Even in the swiftercurrents David could hear the working of it, and he knew he had seen thelast of the more slowly moving raft. Near one of the partly open windowshe heard two men talking just before the bateau shot into the Brule Pointrapids. They were strange voices. He learned that Audemard's huge raftwas made up of thirty-five cribs, seven abreast, and that nine timesbetween the Point Brule and the Yellowknife the raft would be split up,so that each crib could be run through dangerous rapids by itself.
That would be a big job, David assured himself. It would be slow workas well as hazardous, and as his own life was in no immediate jeopardy,he would have ample time in which to formulate some plan of action forhimself. At the present moment, it seemed, the one thing for him to dowas to wait—and behave himself, according to the half-breed'sinstructions. There was, when he came to think about it, a saving elementof humor about it all. He had always wanted to make a trip down the ThreeRivers in a bateau. And now— he was making it!
At noon a guard brought in his dinner. He could not recall that he hadever seen this man before, a tall, lithe fellow built to run like ahound, and who wore a murderous-looking knife at his belt. As the dooropened, David caught a glimpse of two others. They were business-likelooking individuals, with muscles built for work or fight; one sittingcross-legged on the bateau deck with a rifle over his knees, and theother standing with a rifle in his hand. The man who brought his dinnerwasted no time or words. He merely nodded, murmured a curt bonjour, andwent out. And Carrigan, as he began to eat, did not have to tell himselftwice that Audemard had been particular in his selection of the bateau'screw, and that the eyes of the men he had seen could be as keen as ahawk's when leveled over the tip of a rifle barrel. They meant business,and he felt no desire to smile in the face of them, as he had smiled atConcombre Bateese.
It was another man, and a stranger, who brought in his supper. And fortwo hours after that, until the sun went down and gloom began to fall,the bateau sped down the river. It had made forty miles that day, hefigured.
It was still light when the bateau was run ashore and tied up, buttonight there were no singing voices or wild laughter of men whose hoursof play-time and rest had come. To Carrigan, looking through his window,there was an oppressive menace about it all. The shadowy figures ashorewere more like a death-watch than a guard, and to dispel the gloom of ithe lighted two of the lamps in the cabin, whistled, drummed a simplechord he knew on the piano, and finally settled down to smoking his pipe.He would have welcomed the company of Bateese, or Joe Clamart, or one ofthe guards, and as his loneliness grew upon him there was something ofcompanionship even in the subdued voices he heard occasionally outside.He tried to read, but the printed words jumbled themselves and meantnothing.
It was ten o'clock, and clouds had darkened the night, when throughhis open windows he heard a shout coming from the river. Twice it camebefore it was answered from the bateau, and the second time Carriganrecognized it as the voice of Roger Audemard. A brief interval passedbetween that and the scraping of a canoe alongside, and then there was alow conversation in which even Audemard's great voice was subdued, andafter that the grating of a key in the lock, and the opening of the door,and Black Roger came in, bearing an Indian reed basket under his arm.Carrigan did not rise to meet him. It was not like the coming of the oldSt. Pierre, and on Black Roger's lips there was no twist of a smile, norin his eyes the flash of good-natured greeting. His face was darklystern, as if he had traveled far and hard on an unpleasant mission, butin it there was no shadow of menace, as there had been in that ofConcombre Bateese. It was rather the face of a tired man, and yet Davidknew what he saw was not physical exhaustion. Black Roger guessedsomething of his thought, and his mouth for an instant repressed asmile.
"Yes, I have been having a rough time," he nodded, "This is foryou!"
He placed the basket on the table. It held half a bushel, and wasfilled to the curve of the handle. What lay in it was hidden under acloth securely tied about it.
"And you are responsible," he added, stretching himself in a chairwith a gesture of weariness. "I should kill you, Carrigan. And instead ofthat I bring you good things to eat! Half the day she has been fussingwith the things in the basket, and then insisted that I bring them toyou. And I have brought them simply to tell you another thing. I am sorryfor her. I think, M'sieu Carrigan, you will find as many tears in thebasket as anything else, for her heart is crushed and sick because of thehumiliation she brought upon herself this morning."
He was twisting his big, rough hands, and David's own heart went sickas he saw the furrowed lines that had deepened in the other's face. BlackRoger did not look at him as he went on.
"Of course, she told me. She tells me everything. And if she knew Iwas telling you this, I think she would kill herself. But I want you tounderstand. She is not what you might think she is. That kiss came fromthe lips of the best woman God ever made, M'sieu Carrigan!"
David, with the blood in him running like fire, heard himselfanswering, "I know it. She was excited, glad you had not stained yourhands with my life—"
This time Audemard smiled, but it was the smile of a man ten yearsolder than he had appeared yesterday. "Don't try to answer, m'sieu. Ionly want you to know she is as pure as the stars. It was unfortunate,but to follow the impulse of one's heart can not be a sin. Everything hasbeen unfortunate since you came. But I blame no one, except—"
"Carmin Fanchet?"
Audemard nodded. "Yes. I have sent her away. Marie-Anne is in thecabin on the raft now. But even Carmin I can not blame very greatly,m'sieu, for it is impossible to hold anything against one you love. Tellme if I am right? You must know. You love my Marie- Anne. Do you holdanything against her?"
"It is unfair," protested David. "She is your wife, Audemard, is itpossible you don't love her?"
"Yes, I love her."
"And Carmin Fanchet?"
"I love her, too. They are so different. Yet I love them both. Is itnot possible for a big heart like mine to do that, m'sieu?"
With almost a snort David rose to his feet and stared through one ofthe windows into the darkness of the river. "Black Roger," he saidwithout turning his head, "the evidence at Headquarters condemns you asone of the blackest-hearted murderers that ever lived. But that crime, tome, is less atrocious than the one you are committing against your ownwife. I am not ashamed to confess I love her, because to deny it would bea lie. I love her so much that I would sacrifice myself—soul andbody—if that sacrifice could give you back to her, clean andundefiled and with your hand unstained by the crime for which you musthang!"
He did not hear Roger Audemard as he rose from his chair. For a momentthe riverman stared at the back of David's head, and in that moment hewas fighting to keep back what wanted to come from his lips in words. Heturned before David faced him again, and did not pause until he stood atthe cabin door with his hand at the latch. There he was partly inshadow.
"I shall not see you again until you reach the Yellowknife," he said."Not until then will you know—or will I know—what is going tohappen. I think you will understand strange things then, but that is forthe hour to tell. Bateese has explained to you that you must not make aneffort to escape. You would regret it, and so would I. If you have redblood in you, m'sieu—if you would understand all that you cannotunderstand now—wait as patiently as you can. Bonne nuit, M'sieuCarrigan!"
"Good night!" nodded David.
In the pale shadows he thought a mysterious light of gladnessillumined Black Roger's face before the door opened and closed, leavinghim alone again.
With the going of Black Roger also went the oppressive lonelinesswhich had gripped Carrigan, and as he stood listening to the low voicesoutside, the undeniable truth came to him that he did not hate this manas he wanted to hate him. He was a murderer, and a scoundrel in anotherway, but he felt irresistibly the impulse to like him and to feel sorryfor him. He made an effort to shake off the feeling, but a small voicewhich he could not quiet persisted in telling him that more than one goodman had committed what the law called murder, and that perhaps he didn'tfully understand what he had seen through the cabin window on the raft.And yet, when unstirred by this impulse, he knew the evidence wasdamning.
But his loneliness was gone. With Audemard's visit had come anunexpected thrill, the revival of an almost feverish anticipation, thepromise of impending things that stirred his blood as he thought of them."You will understand strange things then," Roger Audemard had said, andsomething in his voice had been like a key unlocking mysterious doors forthe first time. And then, "Wait, as patiently as you can!" Out of thebasket on the table seemed to come to him a whispering echo of that sameword—wait! He laid his hands upon it, and a pulse of life came withthe imagined whispering. It was from Marie-Anne. It seemed as though thewarmth of her hands were still there, and as he removed the cloth thesweet breath of her came to him. And then, in the next instant, he wastrying to laugh at himself and trying equally hard to call himself afool, for it was the breath of newly-baked things which her fingers hadmade.
Yet never had he felt the warmth of her presence more strangely in hisheart. He did not try to explain to himself why Roger Audemard's visithad broken down things which had seemed insurmountable an hour ago.Analysis was impossible, because he knew the transformation withinhimself was without a shred of reason. But it had come, and with it hisimprisonment took on another form. Where before there had been thought ofescape and a scheming to jail Black Roger, there filled him now anintense desire to reach the Yellowknife and the Chateau Boulain.
It was after midnight when he went to bed, and he was up with theearly dawn. With the first break of day the bateau men were preparingtheir breakfast. David was glad. He was eager for the day's work tobegin, and in that eagerness he pounded on the door and called out to JoeClamart that he was ready for his breakfast with the rest of them, butthat he wanted only hot coffee to go with what Black Roger had brought tohim in the basket.
That afternoon the bateau passed Fort McMurray, and before the sun waswell down in the west Carrigan saw the green slopes of Thickwood Hillsand the rising peaks of Birch Mountains. He laughed outright as hethought of Corporal Anderson and Constable Frazer at Fort McMurray, whosechief duty was to watch the big waterway. How their eyes would pop ifthey could see through the padlocked door of his prison! But he had noinclination to be discovered now. He wanted to go on, and with a growingexultation he saw there was no intention on the part of the bateau's crewto loiter on the way. There was no stop at noon, and the tie-up did notcome until the last glow of day was darkening into the gloom of night inthe sky. For sixteen hours the bateau had traveled steadily, and it couldnot have made less than sixty miles as the river ran. The raft, Davidfigured, had not traveled a third of the distance.
The fact that the bateau's progress would bring him to Chateau Boulainmany days, and perhaps weeks, before Black Roger and Marie-Anne couldarrive on the raft did not check his enthusiasm. It was this intervalbetween their arrivals which held a great speculative promise for him. Inthat time, if his efficiency had not entirely deserted him, he wouldsurely make discoveries of importance.
Day after day the journey continued without rest. On the fourth dayafter leaving Fort McMurray it was Joe Clamart who brought in David'ssupper, and he grunted a protest at his long hours of muscle-breakinglabor at the sweeps. When David questioned him he shrugged his shoulders,and his mouth closed tight as a clam. On the fifth, the bateau crossedthe narrow western neck of Lake Athabasca, slipping past Chipewyan in thenight, and on the sixth it entered the Slave River. It was the fourteenthday when the bateau entered Great Slave Lake, and the second night afterthat, as dusk gathered thickly between the forest walls of theYellowknife, David knew that at last they had reached the mouth of thedark and mysterious stream which led to the still more mysterious domainof Black Roger Audemard.
That night the rejoicing of the bateau men ashore was that of men whohad come out from under a strain and were throwing off its tension forthe first time in many days. A great fire was built, and the men sang andlaughed and shouted as they piled wood upon it. In the flare of this firea smaller one was built, and kettles and pans were soon bubbling andsizzling over it, and a great coffee pot that held two gallons sent outits steam laden with an aroma that mingled joyously with the balsam andcedar smells in the air. David could see the whole thing from his window,and when Joe Clamart came in with supper, he found the meat they werecooking over the fire was fresh moose steak. As there had been no tradingor firing of guns coming down, he was puzzled and when he asked where themeat had come from Joe Clamart only shrugged his shoulders and winked aneye, and went out singing about the allouette bird that had everythingplucked from it, one by one. But David noticed there were never more thanfour men ashore at the same time. At least one was always aboard thebateau, watching his door and windows.
And he, too, felt the thrill of an excitement working subtly withinhim, and this thrill pounded in swifter running blood when he saw the menabout the fire jump to their feet suddenly and go to meet new and shadowyfigures that came up indistinctly just in the edge of the forest gloom.There they mingled and were lost in. identity for a long time, and Davidwondered if the newcomers were of the people of Chateau Boulain. Afterthat, Bateese and Joe Clamart and two others stamped out the fires andcame over the plank to the bateau to sleep. David followed their exampleand went to bed.
The cook fires were burning again before the gray dawn was broken by atint of the sun, and when the voices of many men roused David, he went tohis window and saw a dozen figures where last night there had been onlyfour. When it grew lighter he recognized none of them. All werestrangers. Then he realized the significance of their presence. Thebateau had been traveling north, but downstream. Now it would stilltravel north, but the water of the Yellow-knife flowed south into GreatSlave Lake, and the bateau must be towed. He caught a glimpse of the twobig York boats a little later, and six rowers to a boat, and after thatthe bateau set out slowly but steadily upstream.
For hours David was at one window or the other, with something of aweworking inside him as he saw what they were passing through— andbetween. He fancied the water trail was like an entrance into a forbiddenland, a region of vast and unbroken mystery, a country of enchantment,possibly of death, shut out from the world he had known. For the streamnarrowed, and the forest along the shores was so dense he could not seeinto it. The tree-tops hung in a tangled canopy overhead, and a gloom oftwilight filled the channel below, so that where the sun shot through, itwas like filtered moonlight shining on black oil. There was no soundexcept the dull, steady beat of the rowers' oars, and the ripple of wateralong the sides of the bateau. The men did not sing or laugh, and if theytalked it must have been in whispers. There was no cry of birds fromashore. And once David saw Joe Clamart's face as he passed the window,and it was set and hard and filled with the superstition of a man who waspassing through a devil-country.
And then suddenly the end of it came. A flood of sunlight burst in atthe windows, and all at once voices came from ahead, a laugh, a shout,and a yell of rejoicing from the bateau, and Joe Clamart started againthe everlasting song of the allouette bird that was plucked of everythingit had. Carrigan found himself grinning. They were a queer people, thesebred-in-the-blood northerners— still moved by the superstitions ofchildren. Yet he conceded that the awesome deadness of the forest passagehad put strange thoughts into his own heart.
Before nightfall Bateese and Joe Clamart came in and tied his armsbehind him, and he was taken ashore with the rumble of a waterfall in hisears. For two hours he watched the labors of the men as they beached thebateau on long rollers of smooth birch and rolled it foot by foot over acleared trail until it was launched again above the waterfall. Then hewas led back into the cabin and his arms freed. That night he went tosleep with the music of the waterfall in his ears.
The second day the Yellowknife seemed to be no longer a river, but anarrow lake, and the third day the rowers came into the Nine Lake countryat noon, and until another dusk the bateau threaded its way throughtwisting channels and impenetrable forests, and beached at last at theedge of a great open where the timber had been cut. There was moreexcitement here, but it was too dark for David to understand the meaningof it. There were many voices; dogs barked. Then voices were at his door,a key rattled in the lock, and it opened. David saw Bateese and JoeClamart first. And then, to his amazement, Black Roger Audemard stoodthere, smiling at him and nodding good-evening.
It was impossible for David to repress his astonishment.
"Welcome to Chateau Boulain," greeted Black Roger. "You are surprised?Well, I beat you out by half a dozen hours—in a canoe, m'sieu. Itis only courtesy that I should be here to give you welcome!"
Behind him Bateese and Joe Clamart were grinning widely, and then bothcame in, and Joe Clamart picked up his dunnage-sack and threw it over hisshoulder.
"If you will come with us, m'sieu—"
David followed, and when he stepped ashore there were Bateese, and JoeClamart and one other behind him, and three or four shadowy figuresahead, with Black Roger walking at his side. There were no more voices,and the dog had ceased barking. Ahead was a wall of darkness, which wasthe deep black forest beyond the clearing, and into it led a trail whichthey followed. It was a path worn smooth by the travel of many feet, andfor a mile not a star broke through the tree-tops overhead, nor did aflash of light break the utter chaos of the way but once, when JoeClamart lighted his pipe. No one spoke. Even Black Roger was silent, andDavid found no word to say.
At the end of the mile the trees began to open above their heads, andthey soon came to the edge of the timber. In the darkness David caughthis breath. Dead ahead, not a rifle shot away, was the Chateau Boulain.He knew it before Black Roger had said a word. He guessed it by thelighted windows, full a score of them, without a curtain drawn to shutout their illumination from the night. He could see nothing but theselights, yet they measured off a mighty place to be built of logs in theheart of a wilderness, and at his side he heard Black Roger chuckling inlow exultation.
"Our home, m'sieu," he said. "Tomorrow, when you see it in the lightof day, you will say it is the finest chateau in the north— allbuilt of sweet cedar where birch is not used, so that even in the deepsnows it gives us the perfume of springtime and flowers."
David did not answer, and in a moment Audemard said:
"Only on Christmas and New Year and at birthdays and wedding feasts isit lighted up like that. Tonight it is in your honor, M'sieu David."Again he laughed softly, and under his breath he added, "And there issome one waiting for you there whom you will be surprised to see!"
David's heart gave a jump. There was meaning in Black Roger's wordsand no double twist to what he meant. Marie-Anne had come ahead with herhusband!
Now, as they passed on to the brilliantly lighted chateau, David madeout the indistinct outlines of other buildings almost hidden in theout-creeping shadows of the forest-edges, with now and then a ray oflight to show people were in them. But there was a brooding silence overit all which made him wonder, for there was no voice, no bark of dog, noteven the opening or closing of a door. As they drew nearer, he saw agreat veranda reaching the length of the chateau, with screening to keepout the summer pests of mosquitoes and flies and the night prowlinginsects attracted by light. Into this they went, up wide birch steps, andahead of them was a door so heavy it looked like the postern gate of acastle. Black Roger opened it, and in a moment David stood beside him ina dimly lighted hall where the mounted heads of wild beasts looked downlike startled things from the gloom of the walls. And then David heardthe low, sweet notes of a piano coming to them very faintly.
He looked at Black Roger. A smile was on the lips of the chateaumaster; his head was up, and his eyes glowed with pride and joy as themusic came to him. He spoke no word, but laid a hand on David's arm andled him toward it, while Bateese and Joe Clamart remained standing at theentrance to the hall. David's feet trod in thick rugs of fur; he saw thedim luster of polished birch and cedar in the walls, and over his headthe ceiling was rich and matched, as in the bateau cabin. They drewnearer to the music and came to a closed door. This Black Roger openedvery quietly, as if anxious not to disturb the one who was playing.
They entered, and David held his breath. It was a great room he stoodin, thirty feet or more from end to end, and scarcely less inwidth—a room brilliant with light, sumptuous in its comfort, sweetwith the perfume of wild-flowers, and with a great black fireplace at theend of it, from over which there stared at him the glass eyes of amonster moose. Then he saw the figure at the piano, and something rose upquickly and choked him when his eyes told him it was not Marie-Anne. Itwas a slim, beautiful figure in a soft and shimmering white gown, and itshead was glowing gold in the lamplight.
Roger Audemard spoke, "Carmin!"
The woman at the piano turned about, a little startled at theunexpectedness of the voice, and then rose quickly to her feet— andDavid Carrigan found himself looking into the eyes of Carmin Fanchet!
Never had he seen her more beautiful than in this moment, like anangel in her shimmering dress of white, her hair a radiant glory, hereyes wide and glowing—and, as she looked at him, a smile coming toher red lips. Yes, SHE WAS SMILING AT HIM—this woman whose brotherhe had brought to the hangman, this woman who had stolen Black Roger fromanother! She knew him—he was sure of that; she knew him as the manwho had believed her a criminal along with her brother, and who hadfought to the last against her freedom. Yet from her lips and her eyesand her face the old hatred was gone. She was coming toward him slowly;she was reaching out her hand, and half blindly his own went out, and hefelt the warmth of her fingers for a moment, and he heard her voicesaying softly,
"Welcome to Chateau Boulain, M'sieu Carrigan."
He bowed and mumbled something, and Black Roger gently pressed hisarm, drawing him back to the door. As he went he saw again that CarminFanchet was very beautiful as she stood there, and that her lips werevery red—but her face was white, whiter than he had ever seen theface of a woman before.
As they went up a winding stair to the second floor, Roger Audemardsaid, "I am proud of my Carmin, M'sieu David. Would any other woman inthe world have given her hand like that to the man who had helped to killher brother?"
They stopped at another door. Black Roger opened it. There were lightswithin, and David knew it was to be his room. Audemard did not follow himinside, but there was a flashing humor in his eyes.
"I say, is there another woman like her in the world, m'sieu?"
"What have you done to Marie-Anne—your wife?" asked David.
It was hard for him to get the words out. A terrible thing wasgripping at his throat, and the clutch of it grew tighter as he saw thewild light in Black Roger's eyes.
"Tomorrow you will know, m'sieu. But not to-night. You must wait untiltomorrow,"
He nodded and stepped back, and the door closed—and in the sameinstant came the harsh grating of a key in the lock.
Carrigan turned slowly and looked about his room. There was no otherdoor except one opening into a closet, and but two windows. Curtains weredrawn at these windows, and he raised them. A grim smile came to his lipswhen he saw the white bars of tough birch nailed across each of them,outside the glass. He could see the birch had been freshly stripped ofbark and had probably been nailed there that day. Carmin Fanchet andBlack Roger had welcomed him to Chateau Boulain, but they were evidentlytaking no chances with their prisoner. And where was Marie-Anne?
The question was insistent, and with it remained that cold grip ofsomething in his heart that had come with the sight of Carmin Fanchetbelow. Was it possible that Carmin's hatred still lived, deadlier thanever, and that with Black Roger she had plotted to bring him here so thather vengeance might be more complete—and a greater torture to him?Were they smiling and offering him their hands, even as they knew he wasabout to die? And if that was conceivable, what had they done withMarie-Anne?
He looked about the room. It was singularly bare, in an unusual sortof way, he thought. There were rich rugs on the floor—threemagnificent black bearskins, and two wolf. The heads of two bucks and asplendid caribou hung against the walls. He could see, from marks on thefloor, where a bed had stood, but this bed was now replaced by a couchmade up comfortably for one inclined to sleep. The significance of thething was clear—nowhere in the room could he lay his hand upon anobject that might be used as a weapon!
His eyes again sought the white-birch bars of his prison, and heraised the two windows so that the cool, sweet breath of the forestsreached in to him. It was then that he noticed the mosquito-proofscreening nailed outside the bars. It was rather odd, this thinking ofhis comfort even as they planned to kill him!
If there was truth to this new suspicion that Black Roger and hismistress were plotting both vengeance and murder, their plans must alsoinvolve Marie-Anne. Suddenly his mind shot back to the raft. Had BlackRoger turned a clever coup by leaving his wife there, while he came onahead of the bateau with Carmin Fanchet? It would be several weeks beforethe raft reached the Yellowknife, and in that time many things mighthappen. The thought worried him. He was not afraid for himself. Danger,the combating of physical forces, was his business. His fear was forMarie-Anne. He had seen enough to know that Black Roger was hopelesslyinfatuated with Carmin Fanchet. And several things might happen aboardthe raft, planned by agents as black-souled as himself. If they killedMarie-Anne—
His hand gripped the knob of the door, and for a moment he was filledwith the impulse to shout for Black Roger and face him with what was inhis mind. And as he stood there, every muscle in his body ready to fight,there came to him faintly the sound of music. He heard the piano first,and then a woman's voice singing. Soon a man's voice joined the woman's,and he knew it was Black Roger, singing with Carmin Fanchet.
Suddenly the mad impulse in his heart went out, and he leaned his headnearer to the crack of the door, and strained his ears to hear. He couldmake out no word of the song, yet the singing came to him with a thrillthat set his lips apart and brought a staring wonder into his eyes. Inthe room below him, fifteen hundred miles from civilization, Black Rogerand Carmin Fanchet were singing "Home, Sweet Home!"
An hour later David looked through one of the barred windows upon aworld lighted by a splendid moon. He could see the dark edge of thedistant forest that rimmed in the chateau, and about him seemed to be alevel meadow, with here and there the shadow of a building in which thelights were out. Stars were thick in the sky, and a strange quietnesshovered over the world he looked upon. From below him floated up now andthen a perfume of tobacco smoke. The guard under his window was awake,but he made no sound.
A little later he undressed, put out the two lights in his room, andstretched himself between the cool, white sheets on the couch. After atime he slept, but it was a restless slumber filled with troubled dreams.Twice he was half awake, and the second time it seemed to him hisnostrils sensed a sharper tang of smoke than that of burning tobacco, yethe did not fully rouse himself, and the hours passed, and new sounds andsmells that rose in the night impinged themselves upon him only as a partof the troublous fabric of his dreams. But at last there came a shock,something which beat over these things which chained him, and seized uponhis consciousness, demanding that he rouse himself, open his eyes, andget up.
He obeyed the command, and before he was fully awake, found himself onhis feet. It was still dark, but he heard voices, voices no longersubdued, but filled with a wild note of excitement and command. And whathe smelled was not the smell of tobacco smoke! It was heavy in his room.It filled his lungs. His eyes were smarting with the sting of it.
Then came vision, and with a startled cry he leaped to a window. Tothe north and east he looked out upon a flaming world!
With his fist he rubbed his smarting eyes. The moon was gone. The grayhe saw outside must be the coming of dawn, ghostly with that mist ofsmoke that had come into his room. He could see shadowy figures of menrunning swiftly in and out and disappearing, and he could hear the voicesof women and children, and from beyond the edge of the forest to the westcame the howling of many dogs. One voice rose above the others. It wasBlack Roger's, and at its commands little groups of figures shot out intothe gray smoke- gloom and did not appear again.
North and east the sky was flaming sullen red, and a breath of airblowing gently in David's face told him the direction of the wind. Thechateau lay almost in the center of the growing line ofconflagration.
He dressed himself and went again to the window. Quite distinctly now,he could make out Joe Clamart under his window, running toward the edgeof the forest at the head of half a dozen men and boys who carried axesand cross-cut saws over their shoulders. It was the last of Black Roger'speople that he saw for some time in the open meadow, but from the frontof the chateau he could hear many voices, chiefly of women and children,and guessed it was from there that the final operations against the firewere being directed. The wind was blowing stronger in his face. With itcame a sharper tang of smoke, and the widening light of day was fightingto hold its own against the deepening pall of flame-lit gloom advancingwith the wind.
There seemed to come a low and distant sound with that wind, soindistinct that to David's ears it was like a murmur a thousand milesaway. He strained his ears to hear, and as he listened, there cameanother sound—a moaning, sobbing voice below his window! It wasgrief he heard now, something that went to his heart and held him coldand still. The voice was sobbing like that of a child, yet he knew it wasnot a child's. Nor was it a woman's. A figure came out slowly in hisview, humped over, twisted in its shape, and he recognized Andre, theBroken Man. David could see that he was crying like a child, and he wasfacing the flaming forests, with his arms reaching out to them in hismoaning. Then, of a sudden, he gave a strange cry, as if defiance hadtaken the place of grief, and he hurried across the meadow anddisappeared into the timber where a great lightning-riven spruce gleameddully white through the settling veil of smoke-mist.
For a space David looked after him, a strange beating in his heart. Itwas as if he had seen a little child going into the face of a deadlyperil, and at last he shouted out for some one to bring back the BrokenMan. But there was no answer from under his window. The guard was gone.Nothing lay between him and escape—if he could force the whitebirch bars from the window.
He thrust himself against them, using his shoulder as a battering-ram. Not the thousandth part of an inch could he feel them give, yet heworked until his shoulder was sore. Then he paused and studied the barsmore carefully. Only one thing would avail him, and that was some objectwhich he might use as a lever.
He looked about him, and not a thing was there in the room to answerthe purpose. Then his eyes fell on the splendid horns of the caribouhead. Black Roger's discretion had failed him there, and eagerly Davidpulled the head down from the wall. He knew the woodsman's trick ofbreaking off a horn from the skull, yet in this room, without log or rootto help him, the task was difficult, and it was a quarter of an hourafter he had last seen the Broken Man before he stood again at the windowwith the caribou horn in his hands. He no longer had to hold his breathto hear the low moaning in the wind, and where there had been smoke-gloom before there were now black clouds rolling and twisting up over thetops of the north and eastern forests, as if mighty breaths were playingwith them from behind.
David thrust the big end of the caribou horn between two of thewhite-birch bars, but before he had put his weight to the lever he hearda great voice coming round the end of the chateau, and it was calling forAndre, the Broken Man. In a moment it was followed by Black RogerAudemard, who ran under the window and faced the lightning-struck spruceas he shouted Andre's name again.
Suddenly David called down to him, and Black Roger turned and lookedup through the smoke-gloom, his head bare, his arms naked, and his eyesgleaming wildly as he listened.
"He went that way twenty minutes ago," David shouted. "He disappearedinto the forest where you see the dead spruce yonder. And he was crying,Black Roger—he was crying like a child."
If there had been other words to finish, Black Roger would not haveheard them. He was running toward the old spruce, and David saw himdisappear where the Broken Man had gone. Then he put his weight on thehorn, and one of the tough birch bars gave way slowly, and after that asecond was wrenched loose, and a third, until the lower half of thewindow was free of them entirely. He thrust out his head and found no onewithin the range of his vision. Then he worked his way through thewindow, feet first, and hanging the length of arms and body from thelower sill, dropped to the ground.
Instantly he faced the direction taken by Roger Audemard, it was HISturn now, and he felt a savage thrill in his blood. For an instant hehesitated, held by the impulse to rush to Carmin Fanchet and with hisfingers at her throat, demand what she and her paramour had done withMarie-Anne. But the mighty determination to settle it all with BlackRoger himself overwhelmed that impulse like an inundation. Black Rogerhad gone into the forest. He was separated from his people, and theopportunity was at hand.
Positive that Marie-Anne had been left with the raft, the thought thatthe Chateau Boulain might be devoured by the onrushing conflagration didnot appal David. The chateau held little interest for him now. It wasBlack Roger he wanted. As he ran toward the old spruce, he picked up aclub that lay in the path.
This path was a faintly-worn trail where it entered the forest beyondthe spruce, very narrow, and with brush hanging close to the sides of it,so that David knew it was not in general use and that but few feet hadever used it. He followed swiftly, and in five minutes came suddenly outinto a great open thick with smoke, and here he saw why Chateau Boulainwould not burn. The break in the forest was a clearing a rifle-shot inwidth, free of brush and grass, and partly tilled; and it ran in asemi-circle as far as he could see through the smoke in both directions.Thus had Black Roger safeguarded his wilderness castle, while providingtillable fields for his people; and as David followed the faintly beatenpath, he saw green stuffs growing on both sides of him, and through thecenter of the clearing a long strip of wheat, green and very thick. Upand down through the fog of smoke he could hear voices, and he knew itwas this great, circular fire-clearing the people of Chateau Boulain werewatching and guarding.
But he saw no one as he trailed across the open. In soft patches ofthe earth he found footprints deeply made and wide apart, the footprintsof hurrying men, telling him Black Roger and the Broken Man were bothahead of him, and that Black Roger was running when he crossed theclearing.
The footprints led him to a still more indistinct trail in the fartherforest, a trail which went straight into the face of the fire ahead. Hefollowed it. The distant murmur had grown into a low moaning over thetree-tops, and with it the wind was coming stronger, and the smokethicker. For a mile he continued along the path, and then he stopped,knowing he had come to the dead-line. Over him was a swirling chaos. Thefire-wind had grown into a roar before which the tree-tops bent as ifstruck by a gale, and in the air he breathed he could feel a swiftlygrowing heat. For a space he stood there, breathing quickly in the faceof a mighty peril. Where had Black Roger and the Broken Man gone? Whatmad impulse could it be that dragged them still farther into the path ofdeath? Or had they struck aside from the trail? Was he alone indanger?
As if in answer to the questions there came from far ahead of him aloud cry. It was Black Roger's voice, and as he listened, it called overand over again the Broken Man's name,
"Andre—Andre—Andre—"
Something in the cry held Carrigan. There was a note of terror in it,a wild entreaty that was almost drowned in the trembling wind and themoaning that was in the air. David was ready to turn back. He had alreadyapproached too near to the red line of death, yet that cry of Black Rogerurged him on like the lash of a whip. He plunged ahead into the chaos ofsmoke, no longer able to distinguish a trail under his feet. Twice againin as many minutes he heard Black Roger's voice, and ran straight towardit. The blood of the hunter rushed over all other things in his veins.The man he wanted was ahead of him and the moment had passed when dangeror fear of death could drive him back. Where Black Roger lived, he couldlive, and he gripped his club and ran through the low brush that whippedin stinging lashes against his face and hands.
He came to the foot of a ridge, and from the top of this he knew BlackRoger had called. It was a huge hog's-back, rising a hundred feet up outof the forest, and when he reached the top of it, he was panting forbreath. It was as if he had come suddenly within the blast of a hotfurnace. North and east the forest lay under him, and only the smokeobstructed his vision. But through this smoke he could make out a thingthat made him rub his eyes in a fierce desire to see more clearly. A mileaway, perhaps two, the conflagration seemed to be splitting itselfagainst the tip of a mighty wedge. He could hear the roar of it to theright of him and to the left, but dead ahead there was only a moaningwhirlpool of fire-heated wind and smoke. And out of this, as he looked,came again the cry,
"Andre—Andre—Andre!"
Again he stared north and south through the smoke-gloom. Mountains ofresinous clouds, black as ink, were swirling skyward along the two sidesof the giant wedge. Under that death-pall the flames were sweepingthrough the spruce and cedar tops like race-horses, hidden from his eyes.If they closed in there could be no escape; in fifteen minutes they wouldinundate him, and it would take him half an hour to reach the safety ofthe clearing.
His heart thumped against his ribs as he hurried down the ridge in thedirection of Black Roger's voice. The giant wedge of the forest was notburning—yet, and Audemard was hurrying like mad toward the tip ofthat wedge, crying out now and then the name of the Broken Man. Andalways he kept ahead, until at last—a mile from theridge—David came to the edge of a wide stream and saw what it wasthat made the wedge of forest. For under his eyes the stream split, andtwo arms of it widened out, and along each shore of the two streams was awide fire-clearing made by the axes of Black Roger's people, who hadforeseen this day when fire might sweep their world.
Carrigan dashed water into his eyes, and it was warm. Then he lookedacross. The fire had passed, the pall of smoke was clearing away, andwhat he saw was the black corpse of a world that had been green. It wassmoldering; the deep mold was afire. Little tongues of flame still lickedat ten thousand stubs charred by the fire-death—and there was nowind here, and only the whisper of a distant moaning sweeping farther andfarther away.
And then, out of that waste across the river, David heard a terriblecry. It was Black Roger, still calling—even in that place ofhopeless death—for Andre, the Broken Man!
Into the stream Carrigan plunged and found it only waist-deep incrossing. He saw where Black Roger had come out of the water and wherehis feet had plowed deep in the ash and char and smoldering debris ahead.This trail he followed. The air he breathed was hot and filled withstifling clouds of ash and char-dust and smoke. His feet struck red-hotembers under the ash, and he smelled burning leather. A forest of spruceand cedar skeletons still crackled and snapped and burst out into suddentongues of flame about him, and the air he breathed grew hotter, and hisface burned, and into his eyes came a smarting pain—when ahead ofhim he saw Black Roger. He was no longer calling out the Broken Man'sname, but was crashing through the smoking chaos like a great beast thathad gone both blind and mad. Twice David turned aside where Black Rogerhad rushed through burning debris, and a third time, following whereAudemard had gone, his feet felt the sudden stab of living coals. Inanother moment he would have shouted Black Roger's name, but even as thewords were on his lips, mingled with a gasp of pain, the giant river-manstopped where the forest seemed suddenly to end in a ghostly,smoke-filled space, and when David came up behind him, he was standing atthe black edge of a cliff which leaped off into a smoldering valleybelow.
Out of this narrow valley between two ridges, an hour ago choked withliving spruce and cedar, rose up a swirling, terrifying heat. Down intothis pit of death Black Roger stood looking, and David heard a strangemoaning coming in his breath. His great, bare arms were black and scarredwith heat; his hair was burned; his shirt was torn from his shoulders.When David spoke—and Black Roger turned at the sound—his eyesglared wildly out of a face that was like a black mask. And when he sawit was David who had spoken, his great body seemed to sag, and with anunintelligible cry he pointed down.
David, staring, saw nothing with his half-blind eyes, but under hisfeet he felt a sudden giving way, and the fire-eaten tangle of earth androots broke off like a rotten ledge, and with it both he and Black Rogerwent crashing into the depths below, smothered in an avalanche of ash andsizzling earth. At the bottom David lay for a moment, partly stunned.Then his fingers clutched a bit of living fire, and with a savage cry hestaggered to his feet and looked to see Black Roger. For a space his eyeswere blinded, and when at last he could see, he made out Black Roger,fifty feet away, dragging himself on his hands and knees through theblistering muck of the fire. And then, as he stared, the stricken giantcame to the charred remnant of a stump and crumpled over it with a greatcry, moaning again that name—
"Andre—Andre—"
David hurried to him, and as he put his hands under Black Roger's armsto help him to his feet, he saw that the charred stump was not a stump,but the fire-shriveled corpse of Andre, the Broken Man!
Horror choked back speech on his own lips. Black Roger looked up athim, and a great breath came in a sob out of his body. Then, suddenly, heseemed to get grip of himself, and his burned and bleeding fingers closedabout David's hand at his shoulder.
"I knew he was coming here," he said, the words forcing themselveswith an effort through his swollen lips. "He came home—to die."
"Home—?"
"Yes. His mother and father were buried here nearly thirty years ago,and he worshiped them. Look at him, Carrigan. Look at him closely. For heis the man you have wanted all these years, the finest man God ever made,Roger Audemard! When he saw the fire, he came to shield their graves fromthe flames. And now he is dead!"
A moan came to his lips, and the weight of his body grew so heavy thatDavid had to exert his strength to keep him from falling.
"And YOU?" he cried. "For God's sake, Audemard—tellme—"
"I, m'sieu? Why, I am only St. Pierre Audemard, his brother."
And with that his head dropped heavily, and he was like a dead man inDavid's arms.
How at last David came to the edge of the stream again, with theweight of St. Pierre Audemard on his shoulders, was a torturing nightmarewhich would never be quite clear in his brain. The details wereobliterated in the vast agony of the thing. He knew that he fought as hehad never fought before; that he stumbled again and again in thefire-muck; that he was burned, and blinded, and his brain was sick. Buthe held to St. Pierre, with his twisted, broken leg, knowing that hewould die if he dropped him into the flesh-devouring heat of thesmoldering debris under his feet. Toward the end he was conscious of St.Pierre's moaning, and then of his voice speaking to him. After that hecame to the water and fell down in the edge of it with St. Pierre, andinside his head everything went as black as the world over which the firehad swept.
He did not know how terribly he was hurt. He did not feel pain afterthe darkness came. Yet he sensed certain things. He knew that over himSt. Pierre was shouting. For days, it seemed, he could hear nothing butthat great voice bellowing away in the interminable distance. And thencame other voices, now near and now far, and after that he seemed to riseup and float among the clouds, and for a long time he heard no othersound and felt no movement, but was like one dead.
Something soft and gentle and comforting roused him out of darkness.He did not move, he did not open his eyes for a time, while reason cameto him. He heard a voice, and it was a woman's voice, speaking softly,and another voice replied to it. Then he heard gentle movement, and someone went away from him, and he heard the almost noiseless opening andclosing of a door. A very little he began to see. He was in a room, witha patch of sunlight on the wall. Also, he was in a bed. And that gentle,comforting hand was still stroking his forehead and hair, light asthistledown. He opened his eyes wider and looked up. His heart gave agreat throb. Over him was a glorious, tender face smiling like an angelinto his widening eyes. And it was the face of Carmin Fanchet!
He made an effort, as if to speak.
"Hush," she whispered, and he saw something shining in her eyes, andsomething wet fell upon his face. "She is returning—and I will go.For three days and nights she has not slept, and she must be the first tosee you open your eyes."
She bent over him. Her soft lips touched his forehead, and he heardher sobbing breath.
"God bless you, David Carrigan!"
Then she was going to the door, and his eyes dropped shut again. Hebegan to experience pain now, a hot, consuming pain all over him, and heremembered the fight through the path of the fire. Then the door openedvery softly once more, and some one came in, and knelt down at his side,and was so quiet that she scarcely seemed to breathe. He wanted to openhis eyes, to cry out a name, but he waited, and lips soft as velvettouched his own. They lay there for a moment, then moved to his closedeyes, his forehead, his hair—and after that something rested gentlyagainst him.
His eyes shot open. It was Marie-Anne, with her head nestled in thecrook of his arm as she knelt there beside him on the floor. He could seeonly a bit of her face, but her hair was very near, crumpled gloriouslyon his breast, and he could see the tips of her long lashes as sheremained very still, seeming not to breathe. She did not know he hadroused from his sleep—the first sleep of those three days oftorture which he could not remember now; and he, looking at her, made nomovement to tell her he was awake. One of his hands lay over the edge ofthe bed, and so lightly he could scarce feel the weight of her fingersshe laid one of her own upon it, and a little at a time drew it to her,until the bandaged thing was against her lips. It was strange she did nothear his heart, which seemed all at once to beat like a drum insidehim!
Suddenly he sensed the fact that his other hand was not bandaged. Hewas lying on his side, with his right arm partly under him, and againstthat hand he felt the softness of Marie-Anne's cheek, the velvety crushof her hair!
And then he whispered, "Marie-Anne—"
She still lay, for a moment, utterly motionless. Then, slowly, as ifbelieving he had spoken her name in his sleep, she raised her head andlooked into his wide-open eyes. There was no word between them in thatbreath or two. His bandaged hand and his well hand went to her face andhair, and then a sobbing cry came from Marie- Anne, and swiftly shecrushed her face down to his, holding him close with both her arms for amoment. And after that, as on that other day when she kissed him afterthe fight, she was up and gone so quickly that her name had scarcely lefthis lips when the door closed behind her, and he heard her running downthe hall.
He called after her, "Marie-Anne! Marie-Anne!"
He heard another door, and voices, and quick footsteps again, cominghis way, and he was waiting eagerly, half on his elbow, when into hisroom came Nepapinas and Carmin Fanchet. And again he saw the glory ofsomething in the woman's face.
His eyes must have burned strangely as he stared at her, but it didnot change that light in her own, and her hands were wonderfully gentleas she helped Nepapinas raise him so that he was sitting up straight,with pillows at his back.
"It doesn't hurt so much now, does it?" she asked, her voice low witha mothering tenderness.
He shook his head. "No. What is the matter?"
"You were burned—terribly. For two days and nights you were ingreat pain, but for many hours you have been sleeping, and Nepapinas saysthe burns will not hurt any more. If it had not been for you—"
She bent over him. Her hand touched his face, and now he began tounderstand the meaning of that glory shining in her eyes.
"If it hadn't been for you—he would have died!"
She drew back, turning to the door. "He is coming to see you—alone," she said, a little broken note in her throat. "And I pray God youwill see with clear understanding, David Carrigan—and forgiveme—as I have forgiven you—for a thing that happened longago."
He waited. His head was in a jumble, and his thoughts were tumblingover one another in an effort to evolve some sort of coherence out ofthings amazing and unexpected. One thing was impressed upon him—hehad saved St. Pierre's life, and because he had done this Carmin Fanchetwas very tender to him. She had kissed him, and Marie-Anne had kissedhim, and—
A strange dawning was coming to him, thrilling him to his finger-tips. He listened. A new sound was approaching from the hall. His doorwas opened, and a wheel-chair was rolled in by old Nepapinas. In thechair was St. Pierre Audemard. Feet and hands and arms were wrapped inbandages, but his face was uncovered and wreathed in smiling happinesswhen he saw David propped up against his pillows. Nepapinas rolled himclose to the bed and then shuffled out, and as he closed the door, Davidwas sure he heard the subdued whispering of feminine voices down thehall.
"How are you, David?" asked St. Pierre.
"Fine," nodded Carrigan. "And you?"
"A bit scorched, and a broken leg." He held up his padded hands."Would be dead if you hadn't carried me to the river. Carmin says sheowes you her life for having saved mine."
"And Marie-Anne?"
"That's what I've come to tell you about," said St. Pierre. "Theinstant they knew you were able to listen, both Carmin and Marie- Anneinsisted that I come and tell you things. But if you don't feel wellenough to hear me now—"
"Go on!" almost threatened David.
The look of cheer which had illumined St. Pierre's face faded away,and David saw in its place the lines of sorrow which had settled there.He turned his gaze toward a window through which the afternoon sun wascoming, and nodded slowly.
"You saw—out there. He's dead. They buried him in a casket madeof sweet cedar. He loved the smell of that. He was like a little child.And once—a long time ago—he was a splendid man, a greater andbetter man than St. Pierre, his brother, will ever be. What he did wasright and just, M'sieu David. He was the oldest—sixteen— whenthe thing happened. I was only nine, and didn't fully understand. But hesaw it all—the death of our father because a powerful factor wantedmy mother. And after that he knew how and why our mother died, but not aword of it did he tell us until years later—after the day ofvengeance was past.
"You understand, David? He didn't want me in that. He did it alone,with good friends from the upper north. He killed the murderers of ourmother and father, and then he buried himself deeper into the forestswith us, and we took our mother's family names which was Boulain, andsettled here on the Yellowknife. Roger—Black Roger, as you knowhim—brought the bones of our father and mother and buried them overin the edge of that plain where he died and where our first cabin stood.Five years ago a falling tree crushed him out of shape, and his mind wentat the same time, so that he has been like a little child, and was alwaysseeking for Roger Audemard—the man he once was. That was the manyour law wanted. Roger Audemard. Our brother,"
"OUR brother," cried David. "Who is the other?"
"My sister."
"Yes?"
"Marie-Anne."
"Good God!" choked David. "St. Pierre, do you lie? Is this another bitof trickery?"
"It is the truth," said St. Pierre. "Marie-Anne is my sister, andCarmin—whom you saw in my arms through the cabin window—"
He paused, smiling into David's staring eyes, taking full measure ofrecompense in the other's heart-breaking attitude as he waited."—Is my wife, M'sieu David."
A great gasp of breath came out of Carrigan.
"Yes, my wife, and the greatest-hearted woman that ever lived, withoutone exception in all the world!" cried St. Pierre, a fierce pride in hisvoice. "It was she, and not Marie-Anne, who shot you on that strip ofsand, David Carrigan! Mon Dieu, I tell you not one woman in a millionwould have done what she did—let you live! Why? Listen, m'sieu, andyou will understand at last. She had a brother, years younger than she,and to that brother she was mother, sister, everything, because they hadno parents almost from babyhood. She worshiped him. And he was bad. Yetthe worse he became, the more she loved him and prayed for him. Years agoshe became my wife, and I fought with her to save the brother. But hebelonged to the devil hand and foot, and at last he left us and wentsouth, and became what he was when you were sent out to get him, SergeantCarrigan. It was then that my wife went down to make a last fight to savehim, to bring him back, and you know how she made that fight,m'sieu—until the day you hanged him!"
St. Pierre was leaning from his chair, his face ablaze. "Tell me, didshe not fight?" he cried. "And YOU, until the last—did you notfight to have her put behind prison bars with her brother?"
"Yes, it is so," murmured Carrigan.
"She hated you," went on St. Pierre. "You hanged her brother, who wasalmost a part of her flesh and body. He was bad, but he had been hersfrom babyhood, and a mother will love her son if he is a devil. Andthen—I won't take long to tell the rest of it! Through friends shelearned that you, who had hanged her brother, were on your way to rundown Roger Audemard. And Roger Audemard, mind you, was the same asmyself, for I had sworn to take my brother's place if it becamenecessary. She was on the bateau with Marie-Anne when the messenger came.She had but one desire—to save me—to kill you. If it had beensome other man, but it was you, who had hanged her brother! Shedisappeared from the bateau that day with a rifle. You know, M'sieuDavid, what happened. Marie-Anne heard the shooting andcame—alone—just as you rolled out in the sand as if dead. Itwas she who ran out to you first, while my Carmin crouched there with herrifle, ready to send another bullet into you if you moved. It wasMarie-Anne you saw standing over you, it was she who knelt down at yourside, and then—"
St. Pierre paused, and he smiled, and then grimaced as he tried to rubhis two bandaged hands together. "David, fate mixes things up in a funnyway. My Carmin came out and stood over you, hating you; and Marie-Anneknelt down there at your side, loving you. Yes, it is true. And over youthey fought for life or death, and love won, because it is alwaysstronger than hate. Besides, as you lay there bleeding and helpless, youlooked different to my Carmin than as you did when you hanged herbrother. So they dragged you up under a tree, and after that they plottedtogether and planned, while I was away up the river on the raft. Thefeminine mind works strangely, M'sieu David, and perhaps it was thatthing we call intuition which made them do what they did. Marie-Anne knewit would never do for you to see and recognize my Carmin, so in theirscheming of things she insisted on passing herself off as my wife, whilemy Carmin came back in a canoe to meet me. They were frightened, and whenI came, the whole thing had gone too far for me to mend, and I knew thefalse game must be played out to the end. When I saw what washappening—that you loved Marie-Anne so well that you were willingto fight for her honor even when you thought she was my wife—I wassure it would all end well. But I could take no chances until I knew. Andso there were bars at your windows, and—"
St. Pierre shrugged his shoulders, and the lines of grief came intohis face again, and in his voice was a little break as he continued: "IfRoger had not gone out there to fight back the flames from the graves ofhis dead, I had planned to tell you as much as I dared, M'sieu David, andI had faith that your love for our sister would win. I did not tell youon the river because I wanted you to see with your own eyes our paradiseup here, and I knew you would not destroy it once you were a part of it.And so I could not tell you Carmin was my wife, for that would havebetrayed us—and—besides—that fight of yours against alove which you thought was dishonest interested me very much, for I sawin it a wonderful test of the man who might become my brother if he chosewisely between love and what he thought was duty. I loved you for it,even when you sat me there on the sand like a silly loon. And now, evenmy Carmin loves you for bringing me out of the fire—But you are notlistening!"
David was looking past him toward the door, and St. Pierre smiled whenhe saw the look that was in his face.
"Nepapinas!" he called loudly. "Nepapinas!"
In a moment there was shuffling of feet outside, and Nepapinas camein. St. Pierre held out his two great, bandaged hands, and David met themwith his own, one bandaged and one free. Not a word was spoken betweenthem, but their eyes were the eyes of men between whom had suddenly comethe faith and understanding of a brotherhood as strong as lifeitself.
Then Nepapinas wheeled St. Pierre from the room and David straightenedhimself against his pillows, and waited, and listened, until it seemedtwo hearts were thumping inside him in the place of one.
It was an interminable time, he thought, before Marie-Anne stood inthe doorway. For a breath she paused there, looking at him as hestretched out his bandaged arm to her, moved by every yearning impulse inher soul to come in, yet ready as a bird to fly away. And then, as hecalled her name, she ran to him and dropped upon her knees at his side,and his arms went about her, insensible to their hurt—and her hotface was against his neck, and his lips crushed in the smotheringsweetness of her hair. He made no effort to speak, beyond that firstcalling of her name. He could feel her heart throbbing against him, andher hands tightened at his shoulders, and at last she raised her gloriousface so near that the breath of it was on his lips. Then, seeing what wasin his eyes, her soft mouth quivered in a little smile, and with a brokenthrob in her throat she whispered,
"Has it all ended—right—David?"
He drew the red mouth to his own, and with a glad cry which was noword in itself he buried his face in the lustrous tresses he loved.Afterward he could not remember all it was that he said, but at the endMarie-Anne had drawn a little away so that she was looking at him, hereyes shining gloriously and her cheeks beautiful as the petals of a wildrose. And he could see the throbbing in her white throat, like thebeating of a tiny heart.
"And you'll take me with you?" she whispered joyously.
"Yes; and when I show you to the old man—Superintendent Me Vane,you know—and tell him you're my wife, he can't go back on hispromise. He said if I settled this Roger Audemard affair, I could haveanything I might ask for. And I'll ask for my discharge, I ought to haveit in September, and that will give us time to return before the snowflies. You see—"
He held out his arms again. "You see," he cried, his face smothered inher hair again, "I've found the place of my dreams up here, and I want tostay—always. Are you a little glad, Marie- Anne?"
In a great room at the end of the hall, with windows opening in threedirections upon the wilderness, St. Pierre waited in his wheel-chair,grunting uneasily now and then at the long time it was taking Carmin todiscover certain things out in the hall. Finally he heard her coming,tiptoeing very quietly from the direction of David Carrigan's door, andSt. Pierre chuckled and tried to rub his bandaged hands when she came in,her face pink and her eyes shining with the greatest thrill that can stira feminine heart.
"If we'd only known," he tried to whisper, "I would have had thekeyhole made larger, Cherie! He deserves it for having spied on us at thecabin window. But—tell me!—Could you see? Did you hear?What—"
Carmin's soft hand went over his mouth. "In another moment you'll beshouting," she warned. "Maybe I didn't see, and maybe I didn't hear, BigBear—but I know there are four very happy people in ChateauBoulain. And now, if you want to guess who is the happiest—"
"I am, chere-coeur."
"No."
"Well, then, if you insist—YOU are."
"Yes. And the next?"
St. Pierre chuckled. "David Carrigan," he said.
"No, no, no! If you mean that—"
"I mean—always—that I am second, unless you will ever letme be first," corrected St. Pierre, kissing the hand that was gentlystroking his cheek.
And then he leaned his great head back against her where she stoodbehind him, and Carmin's fingers ran where his hair was crisp with thesinge of fire, and for a long time they said no other word, but let theireyes rest upon the dim length of the hall at the far end of which wasDavid Carrigan's room.
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