CHAPTER VII
STRANDED
It was high noon when Hubert Stane directed the nose of the canoe towards a landing-place in the lee of a sand-bar, on the upperside of which was a pile of dry driftwood suitable for firing.
"We will take an hour's rest, Miss Yardely; and possibly whilst we are waiting your friends may show up."
He lit a fire, prepared a wilderness meal of bacon and beans (the latter already half-cooked) and biscuit and coffee, and as they consumed it, he watched the river, a long stretch of which was visible.
"I thought we should have encountered your friends before now, Miss Yardely," he remarked thoughtfully.
The girl smiled. "Are you anxious to get rid of me?" she asked. "Believe me, I am enjoying myself amazingly, and if it were not for the anxiety my uncle and the others will be feeling, I should not trouble at all. This——" she waved a hand towards the canoe and the river—"is so different from my uncle's specially conducted tour."
"Oh, I am not at all anxious to be rid of you," laughed Stane, "but I cannot help wondering whether we have not taken the wrong turn. You see, if we have, every yard takes us further from your uncle's camp."
"But this is the way to Fort Winagog?" asked the girl.
"It is the only way I know."
"Then we must be going right, for I distinctly heard my uncle say we were within a day's journey of the place."
"The thing that worries me is that we have met no one looking for you."
"No doubt they will thoroughly search the neighbourhood of the camp and the beaver-dam before going further afield. Also, you must remember that it might be dinner-time last night before I was missed."
"Yes," he agreed, "that is very likely. On which bank of the river was the camp?"
"This bank—the left coming down."
"Then we will hug the shore this afternoon, and no doubt we shall find it before supper-time."
But in that anticipation he was mistaken. The long day drew to its close and the camp they sought had not appeared; nor had any search-party materialized. As they pitched camp for the night, the doubt which all day had been in Stane's mind became a certainty.
"I am afraid we have made a mistake, Miss Yardely. You must have come down the other river. It is impossible that we can have missed the camp; and we must have seen any boat coming down this empty water."
"But we are going towards Fort Winagog?"
"Yes. On the other hand you must remember that a paddle-driven canoe travels much faster than a merely drifting one; and that we ourselves, assuming that we are on the right way, all day have been shortening the distance that a search-party would have to travel. We ought to have met some time ago. I think we shall have to turn back in the morning."
"Must we?" asked the girl. "Can't we go on to Fort Winagog? I can wait there till my uncle appears, and I shall not be taking you further out of your way. I am afraid I am putting you to a good deal of trouble, and wasting your time."
"Time is not of much account to me," laughed Stane shortly. "And what you suggest is impossible."
"Why?" demanded Helen.
"Because old Fort Winagog is a fort no longer. It is a mere ruin like old Fort Selkirk. There may be an Indian or two in the neighbourhood. There is certainly no one else."
"Then we shall have to go back?" said the girl.
"It seems to be the only way," was the reply. "If we are wrong, as I am convinced we are, every yard we go takes us further from your people."
"I am sorry to give you all this trouble," said the girl contritely.
"Please—please!" he answered in quick protest. "Believe me it is a pleasure to serve you, and with me a few days do not matter. I shall have enough of my own company before long."
"You live alone?" asked Helen.
"I have an old Indian for companion."
"And what do you do, if you will permit me to be so curious?"
"Oh," he laughed. "I hunt, I pursue the elusive nugget, and I experiment with vegetables. And this winter I am going to start a trapping line."
"But you are rich!" she cried. "You have no need to live in exile."
"Yes," he answered with sudden bitterness. "I am rich. I suppose Ainley told you that. But exile is the only thing for me. You see a sojourn in Dartmoor spoils one for county society."
"Oh," she cried protestingly, "I cannot believe that you—that you——"
"Thank you," he said as the girl broke off in confusion. "I cannot believe it myself. But twelve good men and true believed it; an expert in handwriting was most convincing, and if you had heard the judge——"
"But you did not do it, Mr. Stane, I am sure of that."
"No," he answered, "I did not do the thing for which I suffered. But to prove my innocence is another matter."
"You have not given up the endeavour, I hope."
"No! I have a man at work in England, and I myself make small endeavours. Only the other day I thought that I——" Apparently he remembered something, for he broke off sharply. "But why discuss the affair? It is only one of the world's small injustices which shows that the law, usually right, may go wrong occasionally."
But Helen Yardely was not so easily to be turned aside. Whilst he had been speaking a thought had occurred to her, and now took the form of a question.
"I suppose that the other night when you were waiting for Mr. Ainley, it was on this particular matter that you wished to see him?"
"What makes you think that?" Stane asked quickly.
Helen Yardely smiled. "It is not difficult to guess. You told me last night that you wished to question him on a matter that was important to you. And this matter—Well! it needs no argument."
"It might be something else, Miss Yardely," was the evasive reply.
"Yes, it might be," answered the girl, "but I do not think it is."
Stane made no reply, but sat looking in the fire, and the girl watching him, drew her own conclusion from his silence, a conclusion that was far from favourable to Gerald Ainley. She wondered what were the questions Stane had wished to ask her uncle's secretary; and which, as she was convinced, he had been at such pains to avoid. Was it possible that her rescuer believed that his one-time friend had it in his power to prove his innocence of the crime for which he had suffered? All the indications seemed to point that way; and as she looked at the grave, thoughtful face, and the greying hair of the man who had saved her from death, she resolved that on the morrow, when she reached her uncle's camp, she would herself question Gerald Ainley upon the matter.
But, as events befell, the opportunity that the morrow was to bring was not given. For that night, whilst she slept in the little tent, and Stane, wrapped in a blanket, slumbered on a bed of spruce-boughs, perhaps half-a-dozen yards away, a man crept cautiously between the trees in the rear of the encampment, and stood looking at it with covetous eyes. He was a half-breed of evil countenance, and he carried an old trade gun, which he held ready for action whilst he surveyed the silent camp. His dark eyes fell on Stane sleeping in the open, and then looked towards the tent with a question in them. Evidently he was wondering how many travellers there were; and found the thought a deterrent one; for though once he lifted his gun and pointed it to the sleeping man, he lowered it again, his eyes turning to the tent anew.
After a period of indecision, the intruder left the shadow of the trees, and crept quietly down to the camp, his gun still at the ready, and with his eyes fixed on the unconscious Stane. Moving very cautiously he reached the place where the canoe was beached, and looked down into it. A gleam of satisfaction came into his dark eyes as he saw a small sack of beans reposing in the stern, then again a covetous look came into them as their gaze shifted to the stores about the camp. But these were very near the sleeping man, and as the latter stirred in his sleep, the half-breed relinquished any thought of acquiring them. Stealthily he conveyed the canoe down to the water's edge, launched it, and then with a grin on his evil face as he gave a last look at the man in the blanket, he paddled away.
A full three-quarters of an hour later Stane awoke, and kicking aside the blankets, replenished the fire, and then went a little way upstream to bathe. At the end of half an hour he returned. His first glance was towards the tent, the fly of which was still closed, then he looked round the camp and a puzzled look came on his face. There was something a little unfamiliar, something not present which——
"Great Scott! The canoe!"
As the words shot from him he hurried forward. Quite distinctly he remembered carrying it up the bank the night before, and now——. Inside half a minute he found himself looking at the place where it had lain. The impression of it was quite clear on the dewy grass, and there were other impressions also—impressions of moccasined-feet going down to the edge of the water. For a moment he stared unbelievingly; then as a thought occurred to him he glanced at the tent again. Had the girl in his absence taken the canoe and——
The thought died as soon as it was born, and he began to follow the tracks on the damp grass, backward. They skirted the camp in a small semi-circle, and led to the forest behind, where on the dry pine needles they were not quite so easy to follow. But follow them he did, and in a couple of minutes reached a place where it was evident some one had stood for a considerable time. This spot was in the shadow of a great spruce, and standing behind the trunk he looked towards the camp. The fire and the white tent were plain to be seen. Then he understood what had happened. Some one had seen the encampment and had waited in the place where he now stood, probably to reconnoitre, and then had made off with the canoe. A thought leaped into his mind at that moment, and brought with it a surge of fear.
"The stores. If——"
At a run he covered the space between him and the camp, and as he looked round and saw that most of the stores reposed where he had placed them the previous night, relief surged in his heart.
"Thank heaven!"
"Mr. Stane, what is the matter? You look as if something had startled you."
He swung round instantly. Helen Yardely was standing at the tent door with a smile on her face.
"The matter is serious enough," he explained quickly. "Some one has stolen the canoe in the night."
"Stolen the canoe!" echoed the girl.
"Yes! You can see his tracks in the grass, going up to the place where he stood and watched us. He must have come down whilst we slept."
"But who can have done such a thing?"
Stane shook his head. "I cannot think. A wandering Indian most likely.... Hard put to it, I expect. He has taken a sack of beans with him."
"Then we are stranded?" asked the girl quickly.
"In a way—yes," he agreed. "But we are not in a desperate case. We have food, I have my rifle, and it will be possible to make a raft and float down the river until we meet your uncle's people."
The girl looked at the river doubtfully. "What sort of control shall we have over a raft?"
"Well," he said, "I should make a steering oar."
"And if the current took control, Mr. Stane? Please believe me when I say I am not afraid—but I cannot help thinking of those falls you mentioned."
Stane looked thoughtful. For the moment he had forgotten the falls, and as he remembered the quickening of the current at the meeting of the rivers he recognized there was reason in the girl's question.
"There are risks, of course," he said. "The alternative to the river is to tramp through the wood."
"Then I vote for the alternative," replied Helen with a little laugh. "I've had my full of drifting like a fly caught in an eddy."
Stane looked down the river and from the river to the woods which lined its banks.
"It will be difficult," he said. "This is virgin forest."
"Pooh," retorted the girl lightly. "You can't make me afraid, Mr. Stane. Ever since I left Edmonton with my uncle's party I've wanted to rough it—to know what the wilderness really is. Now's my chance—if you don't deprive me of it."
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Stane laughed.
"Oh, I won't deprive you of it, Miss Yardely. We'll start after breakfast; but I warn you, you don't know what you are in for."
"Job's comforter!" she mocked him laughingly. "I'm going to fill the kettle. A cup of tea will cheer you up and make you take a rosier view of things."
She said no more, but taking the kettle, walked down to the river, humming to herself a gay little chanson.
"Qui va là! There's someone in the orchard,There's a robber in the apple-trees,Qui va là! He is creeping through the doorway.Ah, allez-vous-en! va-t'-en!"
"Qui va là! There's someone in the orchard,There's a robber in the apple-trees,Qui va là! He is creeping through the doorway.Ah, allez-vous-en! va-t'-en!"
"Qui va là! There's someone in the orchard,
There's a robber in the apple-trees,
Qui va là! He is creeping through the doorway.
Ah, allez-vous-en! va-t'-en!"
He watched her go, with a soft light gleaming in his hard blue eyes, then he turned and began to busy himself with preparations for breakfast. When the meal was finished, he went through the stores and his personal possessions.
"We can't take them all," he explained. "I know my limit, and sixty pounds is as much as I can carry along if I am to travel steadily, without too many rests. We shall have to cache a goodish bit."
"You are forgetting me, aren't you?" asked the girl, quietly. "I'm fairly strong, you know."
"But——"
"I think I must insist," she interrupted with a smile. "You are doing all this for me; and quite apart from that, I shall be glad to know what the trail is like under real conditions."
Stane argued further, but in vain, and in the end the girl had her way, and took the trail with a pack of perhaps five and twenty pounds, partly made up of the clothes she had changed into after her rescue. Stane knew the woods; he guessed what havoc the trail would make of skirts and for that reason he included the clothing in her pack, foreseeing that there would be further need of them.
As they started the girl began to hum:
"Some talk of AlexanderAnd some of Hercules."
"Some talk of AlexanderAnd some of Hercules."
"Some talk of Alexander
And some of Hercules."
Stane laughed over his shoulder.
"I'm afraid a quick step will be out of keeping soon, Miss Yardely."
"Why?" she asked interrupting her song.
"Well—packing on trail is necessarily a slow business; and there's rough country between these two rivers."
"You are trying to scare me because I'm a tenderfoot," she retorted with a laugh that was like music in Stane's ears; "but I won't be scared."
She resumed her song with a gay air of bravado; passing from one chanty to another in a voice fluty as a blackbird. Stane smiled to himself. He liked her spirit, and he knew that that would carry her through the difficulties that lay before them, even when the flesh was inclined to failure. But presently the springs of song dried up, and when the silence had lasted a little time he looked round. The girl's face was flushed, and the sweat was dropping in her eyes.
"Nothing the matter, I hope, Miss Yardely?"
"No, thank you," she answered with a little attempt to laugh; "but one can't sing, you know, with mosquitoes and other winged beasts popping into one's mouth."
"They are rather a nuisance," he agreed and plodded on.
Packing one's worldly possessions through the pathless wilderness is a slow, grinding misery. The lightest pack soon becomes a burden. At the beginning of a march it may seem a mere nothing, in an hour it is an oppression; in three a millstone is a feather compared with it; and before night the inexperienced packer feels that, like Atlas, he bears the world upon his shoulders. It was therefore little wonder that Helen Yardely ceased to sing after they had marched but a very little way; and indeed the trail, apart from the apparently growing weight of the pack, was not favourable to song. There was no sort of path whatever after they had left the river bank; nothing but the primeval forest, with an undergrowth that was so dense that the branches of one bush were often interwoven with its neighbours. Through this they had to force their way, head down, hands and clothes suffering badly in the process. Then would come a patch of Jack-pine, where trees seven to ten feet high grew in such profusion that it was well-nigh impossible to find a passage between them; and on the heels of this would follow a stretch of muskeg, quaking underfoot, and full of boggy traps for the unwary. In the larger timber also, the deadfalls presented an immense difficulty. Trees, with their span of life exhausted, year after year, had dropped where they stood, and dragging others down in their fall, cumbered the ground in all directions, sometimes presenting tangled barriers which it was necessary to climb over, a method not unaccompanied by danger, since in the criss-cross of the branches and trunks a fall would almost inevitably have meant a broken limb.
The ground they travelled over was uneven, intersected here and there by gullies, which were only to be skirted by great expense of time and energy, and the crossing of which was sometimes dangerous, but had perforce to be accomplished, and by noon, when they reached the bank of a small stream, the girl was exhausted and her face wore a strained look. Stane saw it, and halting, took off his pack.
"Time for grub," he said.
Then unstrapping his pack he stretched a blanket on the sloping ground. The girl watched him with interest.
"Why——" she began, only to be promptly interrupted.
"For you," he explained briefly. "Lie down and relax your limbs. Pull this other blanket over you, then you won't chill."
"But I want to help," she protested. "I don't like to feel that you are working and I——"
"You will help best by obeying orders," he said smilingly. "We shall have to push on after an hour, and if you don't rest you will be too done up to keep the trail till evening."
"Then I must obey," she said.
He turned to look for wood with which to make a fire, and when he returned she was lying on the blanket with another drawn over her, and her eyes smiled at him as he appeared. The next minute they were closed, and two minutes later she was fast asleep. Stane, as he realized the fact, smiled a little to himself.
"Of spirit compact," he murmured to himself, and went forward with preparations for a meal.
It was two hours later when the girl awoke, and the meal was ready—a quite substantial one.
"Have I slept long?" inquired Helen, moving towards the fire.
"Two hours. But don't worry about that. We have lost no time really, for I have done a little exploring. There's a stretch of high ground in front of us, a kind of height of land between the river we have left and the one we are making for. Once we are well across that we shall find the going easier. We'll tackle it this afternoon. I've found something, like a path, an old trapping-line I should think by the way the trees have been blazed."
When the meal was finished they put out the fire and started anew, and, by evening, had passed the crest of the high land between the rivers, and were moving down the wooded slopes on the further side looking for a camping place. The timber thickened, and they suddenly encountered a tremendous barrier of deadfall ten or eleven feet high, with the fallen trunks criss-crossing in all directions. From the further side of it came the ripple of running water proclaiming a stream and the water they were seeking.
"It is exasperating," said Stane, with a little laugh. "But we must climb the beastly thing. If we try to go round it, we shall probably only encounter others. I'll go first and have a look at the other side."
He began to climb the obstruction and when he reached the top looked down at the tangle of trunks below.
"It's pretty bad," he shouted to the watching girl. "You had better wait until I find a way down."
He began to crawl gingerly along the monarch tree at the crown of the pile. Its branches were twisted in all directions and dangerous snags were frequent. Suddenly his foot slipped. He made a wild attempt to regain his balance but the heavy pack prevented him, and a second later with a shout he plunged into the tangled pile below, vanishing from the girl's sight on the further side. With a swift cry of alarm, Helen, who had been seated on a fallen trunk, leaped to her feet. She called out to him, her voice shaking with fear:
"Mr. Stane! Mr. Stane!"
There came no answering hail from the other side of the deadfall, and with dismay manifesting itself in her beautiful face, the girl faced the barrier and began to climb with reckless, desperate haste.
CHAPTER VIII
A MEETING IN THE FOREST
Gerald Ainley's canoe had almost reached the junction of the rivers, on the return journey, and he and his companion were battling hard against the acceleration of the current, when the Indian gave a grunt and looked round.
"What is it, Joe?" asked Ainley quickly.
"Man with canoe," answered the Indian laconically. "He make a portage."
"Where?"
"Up river," replied the Indian with a jerk of his head. Ainley craned his neck a little and, as he did so, just caught sight of a man moving across an open place between the trees a quarter of a mile away, the canoe over his head and shoulder like a huge cowl.
"We must speak to him, Joe! Perhaps he has news," said Ainley quickly, and a second later shouted at the top of his voice. "Hal—lo—o—o!"
That the man heard the hail was sure for both of them saw him halt and turn to look downstream, but the next moment he turned, and, continuing his journey, was instantly lost in the thick of the trees.
"That was queer," said Ainley. "He heard me, but whoever he is he doesn't want to speak to us."
"We catch him," replied the Indian. "Make land below the meeting of the waters, and portage through woods to other river. Meet him there."
As he spoke the native began to make a course across the river, and Ainley asked for information.
"I don't understand, Joe. If we land below the junction how can we meet a man who lands above?"
"Both go the same way," grunted the Indian. "Walk to meet the man. We make short portage, and wait for him across the water. He come and we meet him."
Ainley still was in a fog, but when they had landed and had started to follow a well-defined path through the forest, he understood. The direction they were following would bring them to the bank of the tributary river, perhaps a mile and a half from the meeting of the waters; and the path which the stranger was following would bring him out on the opposite side of the river. If Joe were right the lower portage was the shorter, and, notwithstanding that the other man had the start, they could reach the river first and would be able to force a meeting on him however much he wished to avoid them.
After half an hour's steady trudging through the woods, they came in sight of the water once more, and set their burdens down behind a screen of bushes.
"We first," said the Indian after a cautious survey of the empty river. "Wait! He come."
Seated behind the screening bushes they waited, watching the other side of the river. Half an hour passed and the man for whom they watched did not appear. Then the Indian spoke.
"The man know," he said. "He wait till we go."
"But why should he be afraid?" asked Ainley sharply.
"I not know! But he wait."
"Then if the mountain won't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain."
"What that?" asked the Indian.
"We will cross the river," said Ainley. "We will go look for him."
"Good!" said the Indian.
Five minutes later they were afloat once more, and in a few minutes had landed on the further side.
"You stop here with the canoe, Joe," said Ainley picking up his rifle. "I'll go and hunt up the fellow. If you hear me call, come along at once."
The Indian nodded and proceeded to fill a pipe, whilst the white man, following the track made by many feet portaging from one river to the other, moved into the woods. He made no attempt at concealment, nor did he move with caution, for he was assured that in the dense wood a man burdened with a canoe could not turn aside from the path without disaster overtaking him. If he kept straight on he was bound to meet the man whom he sought.
That conviction proved to be well-grounded. He had been walking less than ten minutes when he caught sight of the canoe lying directly in his way, with the man who had been carrying it, seated on the ground with his back against a tree, smoking. As the man caught sight of him he started to his feet and stretched his hand towards a gun reposing against a trunk. Holding his own rifle ready for action, Ainley shouted reassuring words to the man, and then moved quickly forward. The man, a half-breed, the same man who had stolen Stane's canoe, gave one keen glance at him and then dropping his hand from the gun, awaited his coming.
"Why did you run away when I shouted a while back?" asked Ainley sharply.
"I not run," answered the half-breed, insolently. "I carry the canoe, an' I tink I not wait. Dat is all."
Ainley looked at the man thoughtfully. There was something furtive about the fellow, and he was sure that the reason given was not the real one.
"Then why are you waiting here?" he asked with a directness that in no way nonplussed the other.
"I take what you call a breather," answered the man stolidly. "What matter to you?"
Ainley looked at him. He was sure the man was lying, but it was no affair of his, and after a moment he turned to his main purpose.
"I wanted to ask you something," he said. "A white girl has been lost on the river—she is a niece of a great man in the Company, and I am looking for her. Have you seen her?"
"What she like?" asked the half-breed with a sudden quickening of interest.
Ainley described Helen Yardely to the best of his ability, watching the other's evil face whilst he did so, and before he had ended guessed that the man knew something of the girl he was seeking.
"You have seen her?" he cried abruptly.
"Oui!" replied the half-breed. "I haf seen her, one, two, tree days ago. She is in canoe on zee river," he pointed towards the water as he spoke, and waved his hand towards the south. "She is ver' beautiful; an' I watch her for zee pleasure, vous comprenez? And anoder man he watched also. I see him, an' I see him shoot with zee gun—once, twice he shoot."
"You saw him shoot?" Ainley's face had gone suddenly white, and there was a tremor in his voice as he asked his questions. "Do you mean he shot the girl?"
"No! No! Not zee girl. He very bad shot if he try. Non! It was zee paddle he try for, an' he get it zee second shot. I in the woods this side zee river an' I see him, as he stand behind a tree to watch what zee girl she will do."
"You saw him?" asked Ainley, in a faltering voice. "Who was he?"
"I not know," answered the half-breed quickly, "but I tink I see heem again since."
"You think——"
"Oui! I tink I talk with heem, now."
There was a look of malicious triumph on the half-breed's face, and an alert look in his furtive eyes as he made the accusation. For a moment stark fear looked out of Ainley's eyes and he visibly flinched, then he recovered himself and broke into harsh laughter.
"You think? Then you think wrong, and I wouldn't say that again if I were you. It might lead to sudden trouble. If I were the man who fired those shots why should I be spending my time looking for her as I am?"
"I not know," said the half-breed sullenly.
"No, I should think not; so you had better put that nonsense out of your head, now, once for all; for if you go about telling that mad tale you'll surely be taken for a madman and the mounted police——" He broke off as a flash of fear manifested itself in the half-breed's face, then he smiled maliciously. "I see you do not like the police, though I daresay they would like to meet you, hey?"
The man stood before him dumb, and Ainley, convinced that he had stumbled on the truth, laughed harshly. "Stoney Mountain Penitentiary is not a nice place. The silent places of the North are better; but if I hear of you breathing a word of that rot you were talking just now, I will send word to the nearest police-post of your whereabouts, and once the mounters start after a man, as I daresay you know, they follow the trail to a finish."
"Oui, I know," assented the man quickly.
"Then unless you want to land in their hands in double quick time you'll tell no one of the silly mistake you made just now, or—well you understand."
The half-breed nodded, and thinking that he had gone far enough, Ainley changed the subject.
"And now tell me, have you seen that girl I asked you about since you saw her three days back?"
A thoughtful look came in the half-breed's face, and his unsteady eyes sought the canoe lying at his feet. He thought of the white tent on the river bank and of the man sleeping outside of it, and instantly guessed who had occupied the tent.
"Oui!" he replied laconically.
"You have?" Sudden excitement blazed in Ainley's face as he asked the question. "When? Where?"
The half-breed visioned the sleeping camp once more, and with another glance at the stolen canoe, gave a calculated answer. "Yesterday. She go up zee oder river in a canoe with a white man."
"Up the other river?"
"Oui! I pass her and heem, both paddling. It seems likely dat dey go to Fort Winagog. Dey paddle quick."
"Fort Winagog!" As he echoed the words, a look of thought came into Ainley's eyes. Helen would have heard that name as the next destination of the party, and if the man who had saved her from the river was in a hurry and travelling that way it was just possible that she had decided to accompany him there. He nodded his head at the thought, and then a new question shot into his mind, a question to which he gave utterance.
"Who was the man—I mean the man who was with the girl in the canoe?"
"I not know," answered the half-breed, trying to recall the features of the sleeping man whose canoe he had stolen. "Heem tall man, with hair that curl like shavings."
"Tell me more," demanded Ainley sharply, as an unpleasant suspicion shot into his mind.
"I not know more," protested the half-breed. "I see heem not ver' close; an' I travel fast. I give heem an' girl one look, cry bonjour! an' then he is past. Vous comprenez?"
"Yes," replied the white man standing there with a look of abstraction on his face. For a full two minutes he did not speak again, but stood as if resolving some plan in his mind, then he looked at the half-breed again.
"You are going up the river?" he asked.
"Oui!"
"Then I want you to do something for me. A day's journey or so further on you will find a camp, it is the camp of a great man of the Company——"
"I know it," interrupted the half-breed, "I haf seen it."
"Of course, I had forgotten you had been in the neighbourhood of it! Well, I want you to go there as fast as you can and to take a note for me. There will be a reward."
"I will take zee note."
"Then you must wait whilst I write it."
Seating himself upon a fallen tree he scribbled a hasty note to Sir James Yardely, telling him that he had news of Helen and that he hoped very shortly to return to camp with her, and having addressed it gave it to the half-breed.
"There is need for haste," he said. "I will reward you now, and the great man whose niece the girl is, will reward you further when you take the news of her that is in the letter. But you will remember not to talk. I should say nothing about what you saw up the river a few days back. Sir James is a suspicious man and he might think that you fired those shots yourself—in which case——" He shrugged his shoulders, then taking out a ten-dollar note, handed it to the half-breed, whose eyes gleamed as he took it. "Now," he continued, "shoulder your canoe, and come along to the river. I should like to see you start. I'll carry your gun, and that sack of yours."
He took the half-breed's gun, picked up the beans, and in single file they marched through the wood back to where the Indian sat patiently waiting. On their appearance he looked round, and as his eyes fell on the half-breed's face a momentary flash came into them, and then as it passed he continued to look at the new-comer curiously.
Ainley rapidly explained the situation and the Indian listened without comment. He waited until the half-breed was actually afloat and out of earshot, and then he spoke.
"Bad man!" he said. "No good. Heem liar. I have seen heem b'fore."
"Maybe," answered Ainley lightly. "So much the better—for one thing! But there's no reason why he should lie about this matter, and I think he was telling the truth about that meeting up the other river. We'll follow the trail anyway; and we will start at once. Will the portage or the river be the better way?"
"Portage," said the Indian, following the half-breed with his eyes.
"Then we had better get going. We've no time to lose, and you needn't worry yourself about that fellow. He'll do what I've asked him, for the sake of himself. He can have no reason for doing otherwise."
But in that, as in his statement that the half-breed could have no reason for lying, Ainley was mistaken. The stolen canoe was a very ample reason, and so little inclined was the thief to seek the presence of Sir James Yardely, that when he reached a creek three miles or so up the river, he deliberately turned aside, and at his first camp he used Ainley's note to light his pipe, tossing what was left of it into the fire without the least compunction. Then, as he smoked, a look of malice came on his face.
"No, I not meestake. Dat man fire zee shots. I sure of dat; an' by Gar! I get heem one of dese days, an' I make heem pay for it, good an' plenty. Mais—I wonder—why he shoot? I wonder eef zee white mees, she knew?"
And whilst he sat wondering, Gerald Ainley and his Indian companion, travelling late, toiled on, following the river trail to Fort Winagog on a vain quest.
CHAPTER IX
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
Slowly, and with the pungent taste of raw brandy in his mouth, Hubert Stane came to himself. The first thing he saw was Helen Yardely's white face bending over him, and the first sound he heard was a cry of sobbing gladness.
"Thank God! Thank God!"
He did not understand, and at her cry made an attempt to move. As he did so, sharp pains assailed him, and forced a groan from his lips.
"Oh!" cried the girl. "You must lie still, Mr. Stane. I am afraid you are rather badly hurt, indeed I thought you were killed. I am going to do what I can for you, now that I know that you are not. Your leg is broken, I think, and you have other injuries, but that is most serious, and I must manage to set it, somehow."
"To set it——" he began, and broke off.
"Yes! I am afraid I shall not prove a very efficient surgeon; but I will do my best. I hold the St. John's Ambulance medal, so you might be worse off," she said, with a wan smile.
"Much," he agreed.
"Now that you are conscious I am going to leave you for a few minutes. I must find something that will serve for splints."
Without more ado she departed, taking with her an ax, and presently through the stillness of the forest there reached him the sound of chopping. In spite of his pain he smiled to himself, then after listening for awhile, he began to try and ascertain the extent of his injuries for himself. There was a warm trickle on his face and he guessed that there was a gash somewhere; his body seemed to be one great sore, from which he deducted that he was badly bruised; whilst his leg pained him intolerably. Lying as he was on the flat of his back, he couldn't see the leg, and desiring to do so he made a great effort and sat up. As he did so, he groaned heavily, and incontinently fainted.
He was still unconscious when the girl returned, and after one quick look of alarm she nodded to herself. "A faint," she whispered. "Perhaps it is just as well."
With a knife she ripped the breeches leg right up the seam, then with the aid of moss and a blanket, together with the rough splints she had cut, she made a shift to set the broken leg. Twice during the operation Stane opened his eyes, groaned heavily, and passed into unconsciousness again.
Helen did not allow these manifestations of suffering to deflect her from her task. She knew that her unskilled surgery was bound to pain him severely, and she welcomed the lapses into unconsciousness, since they made her task easier. At last she gave a sob of relief and stood up to survey her handiwork. The splicing and the binding looked terribly rough, but she was confident that the fractured ends of bone were in position, and in any case she had done her best.
After that she busied herself with building a fire, and after heating water, washed the wound on Stane's forehead, and carefully examined him for other injuries. There were bruises in plenty, but so far as she could discover no broken bones, and when she had satisfied herself on that point, she turned to other tasks.
Cutting a quantity of young spruce-boughs she fashioned them into a bed close beside where he lay, and filled all the interstices with springy moss, laying over all a blanket. That done, she turned once more to Stane, to find him with eyes wide open, watching her.
"I have set your leg," she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I've done the best I could, though I am afraid it is rather a rough piece of work."
He raised his head slightly, and glanced down at the bandaged limb, then he smiled a trifle wanly.
"It has a most workmanlike look," he said in a faint voice.
"Now I want to get you on this bed. I ought to have done so before I set your leg. I had forgotten that there was no one to help me lift you on to it. But perhaps we shall be able to manage, though I am afraid it will be a very painful ordeal for you. Still it must be done—we can't have you lie upon the ground."
The ordeal was certainly a painful one, but by no means so difficult as the girl had anticipated. Making a sling out of the pack ropes, Helen held the injured leg clear of the ground, whilst Stane, using his arms and his other leg, managed to lift himself backward on to his improvised couch.
The strain of the effort tried him severely, and he lay for a long time in an exhausted condition, with his eyes closed. This was no more than Helen had expected, and she did not let the fact trouble her unduly. Working methodically she erected the little tent in such a position that it covered the injured man's bed; and then prepared a meal of such things as their resources afforded, lacing the coffee she had made with a little brandy.
Stane was too done up to eat much, but he swallowed a fair quantity of coffee, whilst the girl forced herself to eat, having already realized that the welfare of both of them for the time being depended upon her and upon her strength. When the meal was ended, she found his pipe, charged it for him, and procured him a light, and with a murmur of thanks, Stane began to smoke.
From where he lay, through the open tent-fly, he could see a portion of the windfall barrier which had been the cause of the disaster.
"I thought I was done for," he said as he looked towards the tangled trunks. "I slipped and plunged right into a sort of crevasse, didn't I?"
"Yes," answered Helen quietly. "It was a little time before I could find you. There was a kind of den made by crossed trunks, and you had slipped between them into it."
"How did you manage to get me out?" he asked, his eyes on the amazing jumble of trunks and branches.
"Well," was the reply, given with a little laugh, "as I told you this morning I am fairly strong. But it was a hard task for all that. I had to cut away quite a number of interlacing branches, and hoist you out of the crevasse with the pack ropes, then slide you down the deadfall as best I could. It took me a full hour to get you clear of the trees and safely to the ground, and all the time I was oppressed with the thought that you were dead, or would die before I could do anything to recover you. When I got you to the ground, I went through your pack and found the brandy which I saw you place there this morning. The rest you know."
Stane looked at her with eyes that glowed with admiration. "You make it a little thing," he said gratefully, "but I know what it means. You have saved my life, Miss Yardely."
The girl flushed crimson, and then laughed a little to hide her embarrassment. "Oh, as to that—we are quits, Mr. Stane."
"Not quite," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Well," he answered, speaking slowly and considering every word, "I am tied here for some time—for weeks certainly. I can't move and I can't be moved. You——"
"I!" she interrupted sharply. "I shall remain here. I shall nurse you. There is nothing else to be done. I could not go forward a mile in this wilderness of trees without being lost; and I certainly couldn't find my way back to the river—even if I wanted to."
"But your uncle and friends. They will be looking for you, they will think you are lost."
"There's no help for that," she answered resolutely. "You will be able to do nothing for yourself. As you said just now you are tied here for weeks; and I am tied with you. There is simply nothing else for it. You were at my service when I needed you, and I am at your service now that you need me. I think that is all that need be said."
"Perhaps some wandering Indian may show up," he said meditatively. "Then——"
"I shall refuse to leave you before you are well," replied Helen with a little laugh. "You are my patient, Mr. Stane—the very first that I have had the chance of practising on; and you don't suppose I am going to surrender the privilege that fate has given me? No! If my uncle himself showed up at this moment, I should refuse to leave you until I saw how my amateur bone-setting turned out. So there! That is my ultimatum, sir."
There was an almost merry note in her voice, but there was a note of resolve also; and Stane's gratitude and admiration increased. He looked at her with grateful eyes. Her face was rosy, her eyes were bright with laughter, though they turned away in some confusion as they met his.
"You are a very noble——"
"Oh," she interrupted quickly, her face taking a deeper hue. "You do not know me yet. You haven't seen me at my worst. You don't know how catty I can feel sometimes. Wait until you do, and then you can deliver judgment."
She ended with laughter, and rose from her seat as if to leave the tent; seeing which Stane spoke quickly.
"Whatever the worst or best of you may be, I am happy to be in your hands!"
"Just wait until I have shown my claws," she said over her shoulder, as she passed outside.
Stane lay quite still with a very thoughtful look in his eyes. Outside he could hear her moving about, singing softly to herself. He caught a line or two, and his memory instantly supplied the rest.