CHAPTER XV
A FACE AT THE TENT-DOOR
"Look," cried Helen. "Look!"
They had almost reached the cabin on the return journey and were full in view of the lake. As she cried the words she pointed over its snow-laden surface, and Stane, looking in the direction indicated, saw that which made his heart leap. A dog-team was coming up the lake, with a man on snow-shoes packing the trail in front.
"Who can it be?" asked the girl in some excitement.
"The owner of the cabin—for a certainty!" answered Stane, conscious of a sudden relief from the anxiety which the morning had brought.
"Then," answered the girl quietly, "you wait to welcome him, whilst I go and prepare a meal."
She passed into the cabin, whilst Stane walked down to the shore of the lake. The traveller whoever he was, was making directly for the cabin, and watching, Stane saw that he walked wearily as if he had come far, or was suffering from some weakness. It was quite an appreciable time before he saw Stane standing to welcome him, and when he did so, he gave a joyous shout. Stane answered the hail, and a few minutes later when the man halted his dogs he saw that he was mistaken in concluding the new-comer was the owner of the cabin, for he was garbed in the winter dress of the Nor-west Mounted Police.
"Cheero," said the policeman in greeting. "Where's Jean Bènard?"
Stane shook his head. "Don't know. Is Jean Bènard the owner of the cabin?"
At this question the policeman glanced at him sharply.
"Don't you know that? Who in thunder—Stane! By Christopher!" As he made the recognition the new-comer held out his mittened hand. "Well this is a pleasure. Don't you know me, old man?"
Stane looked at him as he shook his hand. "I think I do," he said. "Your Dandy Anderton, aren't you?"
"Used to be," laughed the other. "Now I'm Trooper Richard Alland Anderton of the R.N.W.M.P., and no more a dandy. But I'm mortal glad to see you, Stane, particularly as I'm a little knocked. I hurt my shoulder this morning, as——" He broke off suddenly as the sound of movement came from the cabin, and asked quickly. "You've got a mate?"
"Yes," answered Stane, with a short laugh, "as good a mate as a man could have, a mate that happens to be a lady!"
"A lady!" Anderton whistled. "Up here! By Jove! you've both got pluck."
"Well, you see, Anderton, it's not exactly a matter of choice. We were stranded together, and this cabin happened to offer itself. But loose your dogs, and come and be introduced!"
"Right-o!" replied the policeman. "I'll be with you in two jiffs."
Stane entered the cabin to prepare Helen. As he did so the girl looked up from the stove. "Is he the owner of our palace?"
"No; he is an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, who is now in the Mounted Police."
"Then we shall not suffer eviction?" she laughed, and to Stane it seemed there was an odd note of relief in her voice.
"No; but he spells deliverance. You see if he can't do anything for us himself he can carry the news of our whereabouts to Fort Malsun, and——"
At that moment a whip-stock hammered at the cabin-door, and a second later Trooper Anderton entered. For a moment he was a little taken aback by the girl's appearance, then Stane made the introduction.
"Miss Yardely; Mr. Anderton!"
"Miss Yardely!" the policeman cried. "Are you Sir James Yardely's niece, who was lost a few months ago?"
"The very same," answered Helen smilingly.
"There's a reward out for your discovery—five thousand dollars, no less."
"I didn't know I was worth so much," laughed the girl.
"Your uncle makes it; and half the trappers in the north are keeping a look-out for you; for it is known that you were found by some one——"
"There is my saviour," interrupted Helen, nodding towards Stane.
"Lucky fellow," laughed the policeman. "How did it happen?"
"Perhaps Mr. Stane will tell you later," answered the girl, "and if he doesn't, I will. But I don't want this moose steak to spoil. I take a pride in my cookery."
She laughed and turned again to the stove. Both the men watched her admiringly for a moment, and then Anderton asked: "Been up here long, Stane?"
Stane gave him an approximate date, and explained the situation by recounting his accident. The other nodded sympathetically. "You were lucky to have Miss Yardely with you. I had a narrow shave myself this morning. Just as I was starting from my last camp, a tree that two minutes before looked as stable as a pyramid, collapsed. It caught me on the shoulder and knocked me flying. Lucky thing I fell clear; but it gave me a nasty jar, and my left arm is a little out of action, with the soreness. I oughtn't to have taken the trail this morning, and wouldn't, only I'm in a tremendous hurry—a running quarry you know."
"Who is it?" asked Stane.
"A breed, wanted for murder. He's been running for months, making this way and there's an idea that he's sought sanctuary with his mother's tribe at the top end of this lake."
"Ah, then there is an encampment up here?"
"Yes. Didn't you know?"
Stane gave an account of the mysterious visit of the previous night and of the stranger they had seen in the wood that morning and the policeman listened carefully.
"The girl's a puzzler," he said, "but the stranger may be my man. He knows his life is forfeit, and he's ripe for any sort of crime. I guess I'll move on after him when I've had a rest."
"We'll go with you," answered Stane thoughtfully, "we may be able to get dogs from the camp."
"It's just possible," agreed Anderton, "if the Indians will sell. If not, then I'll carry the news of you back to Fort Malsun, and the factor there will send for you like a shot." He was silent for a moment, watching Helen as she laid the table; then he said hesitatingly. "By the by, Stane, did you ever get to the bottom of that unfortunate affair of yours in England?"
"No," was the reply, given with some bitterness, "but the jury did."
"Oh rot!" exclaimed the other. "Nobody who knew you really believes that."
"I have met one man up here who apparently does!"
"Who is that?"
"Ainley! You remember——"
"Ainley! Why, man, he——" He broke off suddenly, with a look at the girl.
"Yes?" said Stane, "you need not mind Miss Yardely. She knows I have been in prison."
"Yes!" answered Helen quickly, "and I am very sure he ought not to have been."
"It was a damnable shame!" broke out the policeman. "But the facts were against you at the time, Stane. The hand-writing experts——"
"Oh the likenesses were there, right enough," interrupted Stane, "and I certainly had been in Harcroft's rooms, alone, and I suppose in company with his cheque book. Also I had lost rather a pot of money on the boat-race, and I am bound to admit all the other incriminating circumstances."
"Yes, but you don't know everything. Long after you—er—went down, Jarlock, who was in our set, told me something about Ainley."
"What was that?" asked Stane quickly.
"Well, it was that just at that time, Ainley was broke and borrowing money right and left, and that he had forged Jarlock's name to a bill. Jarlock became aware of the fact through the bill being presented to him for payment, and he tackled Ainley about the business. Ainley owned up, and Jarlock let the thing go, for old acquaintance' sake. But just about the time of your trouble he left the 'Varsity and went on a trip to the Cape, and it was a full year after before he even heard what had befallen you. It made him think of his own affair with Ainley, and when he met me months afterwards he took me into his confidence. We talked the matter over carefully, and knowing you as we both did, we reached the conclusion that you were innocent and that Ainley was the guilty man."
"Any evidence?"
"No, nothing beyond that matter of the bill. We judged by general principles. Ainley always was something of a rotter, you know."
Stane laughed a trifle bitterly. "He's by way of becoming a personage of importance today. But I think you're right, the more so since I encountered him up here."
He gave a brief account of his meeting with Ainley, told how he had waited for him on two successive nights, and how on the second night he had been kidnapped without any apparent reason. The policeman listened carefully and at the end nodded his head.
"Looks fishy!" he commented. "The fellow was afraid of you." Then after a moment he asked, "Your question? The question you wanted to ask Ainley, I mean. What was it?"
"It was about a sheet of paper with some writing on it. You shall see it."
He felt in his hip-pocket, and producing a small letter-case, took out a thin packet wrapped in oiled silk. Opening it, he unfolded a sheet of foolscap and handed it to the other.
It was covered with writing, and as Anderton looked at it, he saw that the writing was made up of two names, written over and over again, the names being those of Hubert Stane and Eric Harcroft. At first the character of the handwriting of the two names was widely different, but presently the separate characteristics were blended with a distinct leaning towards those of Harcroft, though some of the characteristics of the earlier writing of Stane's name still survived, though at the bottom of the sheet only Harcroft's name was written, and that a dozen times. The policeman whistled as he studied it.
"Where did you get this, Stane?"
"I found it in a copy of Plato which Ainley had borrowed from me. It was returned before the forgery turned up, and that paper slipped out when I was going through my possessions after my release from Dartmoor. What do you make of it?"
"It is perfectly plain what the meaning of it is," answered Anderton with conviction. "Whoever did this was blending two handwritings for some purpose or other, and the purpose is not difficult to guess."
"That is what I felt when I saw it, and when the significance of it dawned on me, I set out to find Ainley that I might ask him the meaning of it. He had left England, and no one whom I could ask knew his whereabouts. Things were very difficult for me at home and so I came out here, stumbled on Ainley—and you know the rest."
Helen Yardely had listened to the talk of the two men without speaking, but now she broke in. "I do not wonder Gerald Ainley did not keep his promise to see you at Fort Malsun. I only wonder that when he arranged for your deportation, as he surely did, he did not arrange for your death."
"He does not know I have this paper," answered Stane with a grateful look towards her. "But when I do meet him——"
He did not finish the sentence, and after a moment the girl announced that the meal was ready. As they ate, Anderton glanced from time to time at the man whom he had known as a careless youth at Oxford. He noted the hardness of the eyes, the greying hair, the deep lines of the face, and was moved to a sudden burst of indignation.
"Confound the man, Stane! If I were in your place I should be tempted to shoot him! But that's too good for him."
"I will do that which will be worse for him," answered Stane quietly, "I will make him own up."
The two who heard him, looking at his resolute face, had no doubt that he would keep his word, and as each reflected what he must have been through, neither was sorry for Gerald Ainley or had any compunction at the thought of what might happen to him.
The meal was finished without any further reference to the past, and after a smoke, Anderton threw on his furs and went outside. Presently he returned and announced his intention of going up the lake to the Indian encampment.
"The weather is going to hold, and it really is of the utmost importance for me to find out whether my man is here or not. I'm not in the best form after my accident this morning, but there's nothing else for it, and if the fellow has left, I shall have to follow at his heels, and wear him down. It is the only way. Duty is duty in my force, I can assure you."
Stane looked at Helen, then he said: "We will accompany you, Anderton. You represent the law, and in your company we are much more likely to receive attention and get what we want than if we go alone, whilst further, if the mysterious visits we have had were hostile in intention, the fact that we are known to you will tend to check them."
"Something in that!" agreed the policeman.
When Anderton had harnessed his dogs they started off, making directly up the lake, and within two hours sighted about half a score of winter tepees pitched near the store, and with sheltering woods on three sides of them. As they came into view, with the smoke of the fires curling upward in the still air, the policeman nodded.
"The end of a journey of two hundred miles; or the beginning of one that may take me into the Barrens, and up to the Arctic. Lord, what a life this is!"
He laughed as he spoke, and both those who heard him, knew that he found the life a good one, and was without regret for the choice he had made.
As they drew nearer the camp, two or three men, and perhaps a dozen women, with twice that number of children came from the tepees to look at them, and when the dogs came to a halt, one of the men stepped forward. He was an old man, and withered-looking, but with a light of cunning in his bleared eyes.
"What want," he asked. "Me, Chief George."
The policeman looked at the bent figure clothed in mangy-looking furs, with a dirty capote over all, and then gave a swift glance at his companions, the eyelid nearest to them fluttering down in a slow wink. A second later he was addressing the chief in his own tongue.
"I come," he said, "from the Great White Chief, to take away one who is a slayer of women. It is said that he has refuge in thy lodges."
The Indian's dirty face gave no sign of any resentment. "There is no such man in my lodges."
"But I have heard there is, a man who is the son of thy sister, with a white father."
The old Indian looked as if considering the matter for a moment, then he said slowly. "My sister's son was here, but he departed four days ago."
"Whither went he?"
The Indian waved his hand northward. "Towards the Great Barrens. He took with him all our dogs."
"Done!" said the policeman with a quick glance at Stane. "It is certain there are no dogs here, or we should have heard or seen them."
He turned to the Indian again, whilst Stane looked at Helen. "You heard that, Miss Yardely? Our exile is not yet over."
"Apparently not," agreed Helen smilingly.
Stane again gave his attention to the conversation between his friend and the Indian, but half a minute later, happening to glance at the girl, he surprised a look of intense interest on her face. She was looking towards a tepee that stood a little apart from the rest, and wondering what it was that interested her, Stane asked, "What is it, Miss Yardely? You seem to have found something very interesting."
Helen laughed a little confusedly. "It was only a girl's face at a tent-door. I was wondering whether the curiosity of my sex would bring her into the open or not."
Stane himself glanced at the tepee in question, the moose-hide flap of which was down. Apparently the girl inside had overcome her curiosity, and preferred the warmth of the tepee to the external cold. He grew absorbed in the conversation again, but Helen still watched the tepee; for the face she had seen was that of Miskodeed, and she knew that the thought she had entertained as to the identity of the woman of mystery, who had fled from the neighbourhood of the cabin, was the right one. Presently a mittened hand drew aside the tent-flap ever so small a way; and Helen smiled to herself.
Though she could see nothing through the tiny aperture so made, she knew, as certainly as if she herself had been standing in the tepee, that Miskodeed was watching them with interested eyes. Unconsciously she drew herself upright, and flashed a challenging glance towards the invisible spectator, visioning the Indian girl's wild beauty and matching it, as a jealous woman will, against her own. Not till Stane addressed her did she take her eyes from the tepee.
"Anderton's through," he said. "His man has gone northward; and as you heard there are no dogs here. We shall have to go back to the cabin. Anderton tried to persuade the chief to send a couple of his young men with a message down to Fort Malsun, but the fellow says it is impossible in this weather to make the journey without dogs, which I dare say is true enough."
"Then," said the girl with a gay laugh, "we have a further respite."
"Respite?" he said wonderingly.
"Yes—from civilization. I am not absolutely yearning for it yet."
She laughed again as she spoke, and Stane laughed with her, though he did not notice the glance she flashed at the closed tepee. Then Anderton turned abruptly from Chief George.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I have done what I could for you two, but this noble red man either won't or can't help you. I shall have to push on, but the first chance I get I'll send word on to Factor Rodwell. If only I could turn back——"
"Please don't worry about us, Mr. Anderton," interrupted Helen cheerfully. "We shall be all right."
"'Pon my word, I believe you will, Miss Yardely," answered the policeman in admiration. He looked down the lake, and then added: "No use my going back. It will only be time wasted. I will say good-bye here. Keep cheerful, old man," he said to Stane. "You'll work clear of that rotten business at Oxford yet. I feel it in my bones."
Helen moved a little away, and the policeman lowered his voice, "Lucky beggar! You'll ask me to be best man, won't you?"
"Best man!"
"Pooh, man! I've got eyes in my head, haven't I?" Without giving Stane a chance to reply, he walked towards Helen.
"Keep cheerful, Miss Yardely, and don't let Stane get dumpy about the past."
"I think you have effectually saved him from that," she answered quietly.
"Jolly glad if I have! He's a good fellow, is Hubert. Till our next meeting! Au revoir, Miss Yardely! So long, Stane!" The next moment he turned to his dogs. "Moosh! Moosh—Michele!"
The leading dog gave a little yelp. The harness tightened, and the sled began to move. Ten seconds later the man who carried the law through the frozen North was ahead of his sled, breaking the trail, and Stane and Helen had turned in the direction of their cabin, the girl with one last glance over her shoulder at the tepee, at the opening of which Miskodeed's beautiful face had now revealed itself, her eyes following the man whom once she had done her best to help.
CHAPTER XVI
AN ARROW OUT OF THE NIGHT
The short Northland day was drawing to a close, when Stane and Helen came in sight of the cabin again. For the first time since he had known it, the man felt that the place had a desolate look; and the feeling was accentuated by the sombre woods that formed the background of the cabin. Whilst yet a hundred yards from it he gave expression to his feeling.
"The cabin has a most forlorn look," he said, half-pausing to view it.
Helen, who was very tired, replied, "It certainly looks cheerless in the darkness, but that is because there is no light. A few sticks in the stove and the glare of the fire shining through the parchment window would make it seem cheerful and homey enough."
"But——" he broke off suddenly. "Hark. What was that?"
"I heard nothing," answered Helen.
"Listen," he said.
For perhaps twenty seconds they stood perfectly still, then somewhere in the wood some unseen creature barked. Stane laughed at himself.
"A fox! I believe I am getting nervous," he said, beginning to move forward. Helen moved with him, and they entered the cabin together. Striking a match and lighting a slush lamp which he had devised, Stane looked round. Things were just as they had left them on their departure, and he drew a little breath of relief. Why he should do so he could not have explained, any more than he could have explained the feeling of apprehension which had overtaken him. A few minutes passed, and soon the stove was roaring, filling the cabin with a cheerful glow. Then whilst the girl busied herself with preparations for supper, he went outside to bring in more wood. On the return journey, as he kicked open the cabin-door, for a second his slightly stooping form was outlined against the light and in that second he caught sounds which caused him to drop the logs and to jump forward, suddenly. He threw the door to hurriedly and as hurriedly dropped the bar in place. Helen looked round in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"There is some one about," he answered. "I heard the twang of a bowstring and the swish of an arrow over my head. Some one aimed—Ah, there it is!"
He pointed to the wall of the cabin, where an arrow had struck, and still quivered. Going to the wall he dragged it out, and looked at it. It was ivory tipped, and must have been sent with great force. The girl looked at it with eyes that betrayed no alarm, though her face had grown pale.
"An Indian!" she said.
"Yes," he answered. "And more than one I should fancy. That fox-bark was a signal. No doubt it gave notice of our return."
"What shall we do?" asked Helen quietly.
"Do!" he answered with a short laugh. "We will have our supper and wait developments. We can do nothing else. We shall have to wait until daylight—then we may learn something."
Helen nodded. "Yes, I suppose there is nothing else to do; and a hostile force outside is no reason why we should die of hunger within."
Calmly, as if hostile Indians were part of the daily program, she continued the preparations for supper, whilst Stane fixed a blanket over the parchment window, which was the one vulnerable point in the cabin. This he wedged with the top of a packing case, which the owner of the cabin had improvised for a shelf, and by the time he had finished, supper was almost ready. As they seated themselves at the table, the girl laughed suddenly.
"I suppose we are in a state of siege?"
"I don't know, but I should not be surprised. It is very likely."
"I feel quite excited," she said. "Do you think we shall have to fight?"
"It depends what the intentions of our friends outside may be. We shall certainly have to be on the alert."
"You mean we shall have to keep watch."
"That I think will be necessary. They might try to rush the cabin, though I do not think they will. It is pretty solidly built."
"Why should Indians attack us?"
"I do not know. They may think that we are interfering with their hunting-rights."
"Perhaps this hostility explains why the owner of the cabin has not returned."
"That is possible. This is a good fur country; but he may have felt that the furs were not worth the risk."
"Yes!" answered Helen, and after a moment's silence asked: "Do you think those Indians up the lake have anything to do with it?"
"That is more than possible, indeed, it is very likely. I did not like that old chief. There was a very cunning look in his eyes and it is very possible that he designs to get rid of both us and Anderton. The mysterious visitants we have had, and the man in the wood this morning have a rather ominous look."
"But we shall fight them?"
"Of course! If they are going to fight, we shall fight; though for your sake I hope that won't be necessary."
"Oh, you must not mind me," was the reply, given with a little laugh. "The truth is that I think I should rather enjoy a fight."
Stane gave her a quick look of admiration. "I know you will not be afraid," he said, "and if Anderton gets through it may not be long before help arrives. Also it must be remembered that we may be disturbing ourselves unnecessarily. That," he nodded towards the arrow—"may be no more than the malicious freak of some hunter returning home, and meant to scare us."
"But you do not think so?" asked Helen, looking at his grave face.
"Well——" he began, but the girl interrupted him.
"You don't," she cried. "I know you don't. You have already admitted that you think the matter is serious, as I do myself, though I don't pretend to know anything about Indians. In a situation of this sort the truth is the best, and I know, we both know, that there is some occasion for concern. Is not that so?"
"Well," he agreed, "we can't be too careful."
"Then tell me what we must do," she said a little reproachfully, "and don't make me feel that I am a child."
He considered a moment, then he replied: "We must keep watch and watch through the night. Not that I think there will be any attack. These Northern Indians are wonderfully patient. They will play a waiting game, and in the end make a surprise attack. They will know that now we are on the alert, and I should not be surprised if for the present they have withdrawn altogether."
"You really believe that?"
"Honestly and truly!"
"Then for the moment we are safe."
"Yes! I think so; and you can go to rest with a quiet mind."
"Rest!" laughed the girl. "Do you think I can rest with my heart jumping with excitement? I shall keep the first watch, perhaps after that I shall be sufficiently tired—and bored—to go to sleep."
Stane smiled at her words, and admiration of her courage glowed in his eyes, but what she suggested fitted in well enough with his own desires, and he let her have her way, and himself lay down on his couch of spruce-boughs, and after a little time pretended to sleep. But in reality sleep was far from his eyes. From where he lay, he could see the girl's face, as she sat in the glowing light of the stove. There was a thoughtful, musing look upon it, but no sign of fear whatever, and he knew that her courageous demeanour was not an assumed one, but was the true index of the gay courage of her heart.
Helen was thinking of the face of Miskodeed as she had seen it over her shoulder, when they were departing from the encampment up the lake. She had read there a love for the man who was her own companion, and in the dark, wildly beautiful eyes she had seen the jealousy of an undisciplined nature. And as she sat in the glowing light of the stove, she was conscious of a feeling of antagonism to this rare daughter of the wilds who dared to love the man whom she herself loved. She understood, from the feelings she herself was conscious of, what must be the Indian girl's attitude towards herself, and was inclined to trace the hostility which had suddenly manifested itself to that source. The girl had been in the neighbourhood of the cabin once, she was sure of that, and might have come again, probably by some short path through the woods, her hand, possibly, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow which had awakened their apprehensions. But in that case, she asked herself, why had the arrow been directed against her companion rather than herself?
That she could not understand, and after a time her thoughts passed to the story which Stane had related to the policeman, and the account of the forged bill that the latter had given. The two together seemed absolutely conclusive. What a man had done once on the way of crime, he could do again, and as her conviction of Gerald Ainley's guilt grew, she was quite sure that somehow he was the moving spirit in her companion's deportation from Fort Malsun. He had not expected to see Hubert Stane, and when the latter had demanded an interview he had been afraid, and in his fear had taken steps for his removal. Ainley loved her; but now, if he were the last man left in the world, she would never——
A sound of movement interrupted her reverie, and she half-turned as Stane rose from his spruce-couch.
"You have heard nothing?" he asked.
"Nothing!" she replied.
"I will take the watch now, Miss Yardely, and do you lie down and rest."
"I will lie down," she said with a little laugh, "but I am afraid sleep will be another matter. My mind is in a ferment."
"You can try at any rate," he said. "I will call you if any untoward thing occurs."
"You promise?" she asked. "I wouldn't miss one bit of anything that is happening—not for worlds."
"I promise," he answered with a smile.
"Though I devoutly hope there will be no need for me to keep the promise."
"I'm not at all sure I do," laughed Helen, and obediently retired to her screened bunk.
Stane lit his pipe, and seated himself near the stove. He had, as he had previously told the girl, little fear of any attack developing that night, and this anticipation proved to be the correct one. The still, dead hours passed in quietness, and when the grey day broke, he cautiously opened the cabin-door and looked out. Nothing stirred anywhere, either in the forest or lakewards. He turned and looked at his companion who had just emerged from her sleeping place.
"I think we have our little world to ourselves again."
"Whoever made the attack may be lurking in the woods!" said Helen.
"That of course is more than possible, but I do not think it is likely. It is extremely cold and a night in the open would be anything but desirable. The attacker or attackers, if from the Indian encampment, probably returned there. They must know that we can't leave here, and they will probably try to lull us into a feeling of security, and then attempt a surprise. Anyway after breakfast we'll beat the neighbouring coverts, I don't fancy being kept indoors by an enemy who may prove to be very contemptible."
When breakfast was finished and the necessary morning tasks finished, Stane, who had been in and out of the hut frequently and had kept a careful watch on the wood and lake, looked at Helen.
"Do you feel equal to facing the possible danger, Miss Yardely?"
"I am not afraid," answered Helen quickly, "and if I were I wouldn't own it—or show it, I hope."
"I don't believe you would," replied Stane with a smile. "We will go out, first on the lake where we can survey the shore; and then along the path in the woods where we saw that man yesterday."
"About that man," said Helen slowly. "There was something that I meant to tell you yesterday, but I forgot it again in the excitement of Mr. Anderton's arrival."
"What was that?" asked Stane pausing in the act of slipping on his fur parka.
"Well, I had an odd fancy that he was not an Indian."
"You thought he was a white man?"
"Yes," answered Helen, "that idea occurred to me when you spoke of Indians. The man may have been a native, but in the fleeting glimpse I had of him he did not give me that impression. Of course I may be utterly mistaken."
"But what white man would run away from us?" asked Stane, thoughtfully. "What could possibly be his reason for avoiding us?"
"I don't know," answered Helen, with a quick laugh. "And as it may be no more than my fancy, the question of the man's racial identity is not worth worrying over. I merely thought I would tell you what my impression was."
Stane nodded. "Anyway, white or red he is not going to keep us from our walk. Are you ready?"
"Quite," she answered, and going outside they slipped on their snow-shoes, and then made a bee-line out on the lake.
They walked forward for perhaps half-a-mile and halted at a point whence they got a wide view of the shore. Stane looked up and down the lake. Its smooth white surface was absolutely without life but for his companion and himself. Then he scrutinized the shore, point by point, creek by creek, and Helen also looked carefully.
"No sign of any one," he commented at last. "No camp or fire, we might be alone in the world. If there is any one he is hidden in the deep woods, and for the present invisible. I think instead of going back to the cabin we will make a detour to the point where we surprised the stranger yesterday."
Stane leading, to break the track in the untrodden snow, they made their way shorewards and struck it well to the north of the cabin, then began to work through the woods, keeping a sharp look out as they went. They saw nothing, however, and when they reached the bushes behind which the stranger had slipped the previous day, there were no fresh tracks to awaken alarm. They stood there looking down between the serried lines of trees. Nothing save the trees was visible, and there was no sound of movement anywhere. The silence was the silence of primeval places, and somehow, possibly because of the tenseness of nerve induced by the circumstances of the walk, the girl was more conscious of it than ever she had been before.
"There is something inimical in the silence up here," she said in a whisper, as she gave a little shudder. "One has a feeling as if all the world of nature were lying in wait to ambush one."
"Nature red in tooth and claw," Stane quoted lightly, "only up here her teeth are white, and her claws also. And when she bares them a man has little chance. But I understand your feeling, one has the sense of a besetting menace. I felt it often last winter when I was new to the country, and it is a very nasty feeling—as if malign gods were at work to destroy one, or as if fate were about to snip with her scissors."
"Yes," answered the girl, still whisperingly, then she smiled. "I have never felt quite like this before. I suppose it rises out of the real menace that may be hidden in the woods, the menace of some one watching and waiting to strike."
"Very possible," answered Stane, flashing a quick look at her. He was looking for the sign of fear, but found none, and a second later he said abruptly: "Miss Yardely, I think you are very brave."
"Oh," laughed the girl in some confusion, "I don't know that, but I hope I am not below the general average of my sex."
"You are above it," he said with emphasis. "And I know that this, even for the bravest of women, must be rather a nerve-breaking walk."
"I won't deny that I find it so," was the reply. "But I am sustained by an ideal."
"Indeed?" he asked inquiringly.
"Yes! Years ago I read about some English women in India who were at a military station when the Mutiny broke out. The regiments in the neighbourhood were suspected of disloyalty and any sign of fear or panic would have precipitated a catastrophe. If the women had left, the Sepoys would have known that they were suspected, so they remained where they were, attending to their households, paying their ordinary calls, riding about the district as if the volcano were not bubbling under their feet, and they even got up a ball in defiance of the danger. Some people would call the latter mere bravado, but I am sure it was just a picturesque kind of courage, and in any case it impressed the Sepoys. Those particular regiments remained loyal—and it was the behaviour of the white women which saved the situation. And their courage is my ideal. I have always felt that if I were placed in a similar situation I would at least try to live up to it."
"You are doing so," answered Stane with conviction. "This situation is not quite the same, but——" He broke off and looked round the silent woods, which might well be the hiding-place of implacable enemies, then added: "Well, it is a test of character and courage!"
"Oh," laughed the girl a little nervously, "you do not know how I am quaking inwardly."
"I am not to blame for that," he answered laughingly, "you conceal the fact so well."
In due time they reached the cabin without mishap. They had found no sign of the enemy of the previous night. If he still lurked in the wood he kept himself hidden and Stane hoped that he had withdrawn for good. But he determined to take no chances, and busied himself in the next few hours with cutting a good store of wood which he stacked in the cabin. He also chopped a considerable amount of ice which he stored as far away from the stove as possible. Some cached moose-meat, which was frozen solid as a board, he hung on the rafters of the cabin, which themselves were white with frost.
The short day had almost ended when he had completed these tasks, and he was about to enter the cabin, when through the dusk he caught sight of a figure, standing among the trees openly watching him. The garb proclaimed the figure to be that of a woman, and for a moment he was utterly startled. Then, acting on impulse, he started to walk towards the watcher, his unmittened hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip.
CHAPTER XVII
THE ATTACK
The watching woman made no attempt to escape, but somewhat to Stane's surprise, awaited his coming. As he drew nearer he was again startled to find that it was the girl whom he had talked with at Fort Malsun.
"Miskodeed," he cried in surprise. "You! What are you doing here?"
"I come to warn thee," said the girl in her own dialect. "Once before I did that, and I was too late. But now I am in time."
"To warn me?" he echoed, still too surprised to say more.
"Yes," answered Miskodeed. "There are those who will seek to kill thee tonight."
"Tonight! But why?"
"I do not know, fully. The thing is hidden from me, but there is some one who means to slay."
"Who is it?" asked Stane in sudden curiosity.
"It is the son of Chief George's sister—the man for whom the officer came to the encampment yesterday."
"Then he is at the camp, after all?"
"He was there when the officer came. The story which Chief George told about his departure to the Great Barrens was a lie."
"But why should he seek to kill me?"
"Have I not said I do not know fully? But he promises big things if thou are slain: rifles and the water that burns and makes men sing, and tea and molasses, and blankets for the women."
"But," protested Stane, "I have but one rifle and little spirit and tea. I am not worth plundering, and Chief George must know that the law will take account of his doings, and that the grip of the law reaches right up to the Frozen Sea."
"He knows," answered the girl quietly, "but Chigmok—that is his sister's son—has filled him with a lying tale that the law will take no account of thee, and he believes, as Chigmok himself believes."
"But——" began Stane, and broke off as the girl lifted her hand.
"Chief George has seen the rifles, and the burning water, the box of tea and the bale of blankets, and his soul is hungry for them. He would kill more than thee to win them."
"And the—the man who is with me?"
A little flash came in the girl's dark eyes. "That man——" she said in a voice that had an edge like a knife, "tell me, is she thy squaw?"
"Then you know, Miskodeed?" he said, with a quick feeling of shame.
"I know that man is the bright-faced woman who came to Fort Malsun. Tell me, is she thy squaw?"
"No?" he answered sharply. "No!"
"Then what does she in thy lodge?"
"That is due to an accident. She drifted down to the great river, and I saved her from the water, and started to take her back to Fort Malsun. Our canoe was stolen in the night, and when we took the land-trail my leg was broken and we were delayed, and by the time I was fit for travel, winter was upon us, so we sought the cabin to wait for help. That is the explanation, and now tell me, Miskodeed, is the woman to die?"
"The bright-faced one is to be saved alive."
"Ah! That is an order?"
"It is necessary for the winning of the rifles, and the tea and the blankets."
Stane pursed his lips to whistle at the news. There was more behind it than appeared; and he knew that Chigmok the murderous half-breed was not the framer of the plot, however, he might be the instrument for its execution. He looked at the girl thoughtfully for a moment, and as he did so a soft look came in the wild, dark eyes that were regarding him intently.
"Canst thou not leave the bright-faced woman, and I will show thee a way through the woods. We will go together——"
"It is impossible! Quite impossible, Miskodeed," cried Stane almost violently.
He did not know that other ears than those to which they were addressed caught those words of repudiation. Helen Yardely, missing his presence about the cabin, had stepped out to look for him, and catching a murmur of voices in the still air, had stood listening. The words, coupled with the girl's name, reached her quite clearly, and struck her like a blow. She did not wait to hear more, but retreated to the cabin, her cheeks burning with shame, her grey eyes bright with fierce scorn. She did not know to what the words referred, but, in her haste and jealousy she utterly misinterpreted the situation, and her scorn was as much for herself as for Stane as she thought how she had grown to love a man who——
The thought was an intolerable one. She could not endure it, and she began fiercely to do a totally unnecessary task in the hope of driving it from her. That was impossible, and after a minute or two she seated herself in front of the stove and stared into its glow with eyes that flashed with mingled anger and pain, the while she awaited Stane's return.
Meanwhile, the interview which had kindled such fires within her had already come to an abrupt conclusion. For as Stane declined her suggestion Miskodeed lifted a warning finger.
"Hark!" she whispered.
Stane listened, as did the girl. Whatever sound had made her speak the word was hushed, and after a few seconds she spoke again. "Then thou wilt die for this bright-faced woman?"
"A thousand times!" he answered with quiet vehemence. "Understand, Miskodeed——"
He got no further. In the recesses of the wood a fox barked sharply, and a second later the sound was repeated in two different directions.
"Ah," cried the Indian girl, "They come. Thou art too late. Thou wilt die for thy bright-faced woman now—once."
A second later she turned away, and began to walk rapidly between the trees. Stane did not stand to watch her go. Without an instant's delay he made for the cabin at a run, and as he entered it, breathing rather heavily, he flung to the door and dropped the wooden bar in place. Then without a word he walked to the window and barricaded it as he had done on the previous night. Helen still seated by the stove looked at him in some wonder, and he offered what to him appeared a sufficient explanation.
"Last night when we returned a fox barked in the wood, and a little after some one shot an arrow to kill me. Just now three foxes barked in quick succession in different directions, and as I have not seen a fox since we came here, I think it is as well to take precautions."
To his surprise Helen offered no comment, but sat there as if waiting for further explanations. He offered none. Being unaware of his companion's knowledge of his interview with Miskodeed he had decided to keep the incident to himself, and not to alarm her more than was necessary. Seating himself, he lit a pipe, and as his companion showed no inclination to talk, fell into thought. There was a rather strained, perplexed look on his face, and as the girl glanced at him once she wondered resentfully what thoughts accounted for it. His silence about the Indian girl told against him in her mind. If there had been nothing to be ashamed of in his relations with Miskodeed why had he not spoken openly of the incident in the wood? Jealousy, it was recorded of old, is as cruel as the grave, and as the hot flame of it grew in her heart, she almost hated the girl who was the occasion of it.
As a matter of sober fact, Stane was thinking little of Miskodeed herself, but much of the information she had brought. Whilst he kept his ears open for any unusual sounds outside the cabin, his mind was trying to probe the mystery behind the attack that, as he was sure, was preparing. Who was the inspirer of it, and why should his death be designed, whilst his companion must be spared? Miskodeed had spoken of the price that was to be paid for the attack—rifles and spirit, tea, molasses and blankets. The nature of the bribe was such as would tempt any tribe in the North and was also such as implied a white man in the background. But who was the white man who so chose his instruments for a deed from which apparently he himself shrank? The question perplexed him, and a deep furrow manifested itself between his eyes as he strove to answer it. Ainley? He dallied with the thought for a little time, and then dismissed it. Ainley was afraid of him and shrank from meeting him, but he would hardly go to such lengths as Miskodeed's statement implied; nor would he involve Helen Yardely's life in the extreme risk incidental to an attack in force on the cabin. It was unthinkable!
His mind sought other explanations. Was there some other man, some white man who had seen Helen and by this means hoped to secure her for himself? The thought was preposterous. Then a new thought leaped up. The reward Sir James was offering for his niece's recovery! Had some man his eye on that—some unscrupulous adventurer, who fearing possibly that he himself might claim a share in it, proposed to get rid of him that there might be no division of the spoil? That seemed barely feasible, and——
His thought suffered a sudden interruption. From outside came the crunch of moccasined feet on the frozen snow. He started to his feet, and took up his rifle, glancing quickly at the girl as he did so. There was a flush of excitement in her face, but the eyes that met his chilled him with their unresponsiveness. He held out his machine pistol.
"You had better have this, for the present, Miss Yardely, for I believe the attack is coming. But don't use it unless I tell you."
She took the pistol without a word, and the austerity of her manner as she did so, even in that moment, set him wondering what was the cause of it. But he had little time to dwell upon the matter for more footsteps were audible, and a voice grunted words that he did not catch. He picked up an ax, put it ready to his hand close to the door and then extinguished the slush-lamp.
The cabin was now full of shadows, though he could still see the girl's face in the glare of the stove, and marked with satisfaction that it bore no sign of fear. The position where she stood, however, was not a safe one, and he was constrained to bid her change it.
"You had better come into the corner here, Miss Yardely. It is out of range of any chance arrow through the window. That barricade of mine cannot last long, and they are sure to try the window."
The girl did not answer, but she changed her position, moving to the corner he had indicated, and just as she did so, two or three blows of an ax (as he guessed) knocked out the parchment of the window, but the barricade stood firm. The attack however, continued, and as the improvised shutter began to yield, Stane raised his rifle.
"There is nothing else for it," he whispered.
The next moment the rifle cracked and the sound was followed by a cry of pain.
"First blood!" he said, a little grimly.
There was a short lull, then something heavy smashed against the shutter and it collapsed in the room. As it did so a gun barrel was thrust in the opening, and a shot was fired apparently at random. The bullet struck the cabin wall a full two yards from where Helen was standing. Stane turned to her quickly.
"As close in the corner as you can get, Miss Yardely; then there will be no danger except from a ricochet."
Helen obeyed him. The excitement of the moment banished her resentment, and as she watched him standing there, cool and imperturbable as he waited events, a frank admiration stirred within her. Whatever his sins, he was a man!
Then came a new form of attack. Arrows fired from different angles began to fly through the open space, making a vicious sound as they struck various parts of the cabin. Stane calculated the possible angles of their flight and gave a short laugh. "They're wasting labour now. That dodge won't work."
The flight of arrows, however, continued for a little time, then followed that which Stane had begun to fear. The space of the window suddenly grew plainer, outlined by a glow outside, and the next moment three blazing armfuls of combustible material were heaved in at the window. Stane fired twice during the operation, but whether he hit or not he did not know. One of the burning bundles fell in the bunk, which was soon ablaze, and the cabin began to fill with smoke. At the same time the besieged became aware of a fierce crackling outside, and the outlook in the snow-covered lake was illumined by a growing glow. Stane understood the meaning of the phenomenon at once, and looked at the girl.
"They are trying to burn down the cabin," he said. "I am afraid it is a choice of evils, Miss Yardely. We must either stay here, and die of suffocation or fire, or face the music outside."
"Then let us go outside," answered the girl resolutely.
"I do not believe they will injure you. I believe that they have orders to the contrary, but——"
"Did Miskodeed tell you so?"
For the moment he was utterly staggered by the question, then perceiving that she knew of his recent interview with the Indian girl, he answered frankly:
"Yes! You are to be taken alive, but I am to die, according to the program as arranged!"
"Oh, no! no!" she cried in sudden anguish. "You must not die. You must fight! You must live! live! I do not want you to die!"
In the growing light in the burning cabin he could see her face quite plainly, and the anguished concern in her eyes shook him as the dangers around him never could have done. Moved for a moment beyond himself, he stretched a hand towards her.
"My dear!" he stammered. "My dear——"
"Oh then you know that I am that?" she cried.
"I have known it for months!"
She made a little movement that brought her closer to him, and yielding to the surging impulse in his heart, he threw an arm round her.
"If you die——" she began, and broke off as a gust of smoke rolled over them.
"I think it is very likely," he answered. "But I am glad to have had this moment."
He stooped and kissed her, and a sob came from her.
"I shall die too!" she said. "We will die together—but it would have been splendid to live."
"But you will live," he said. "You must live. There is no need that you should die."
"But what shall I live for?" she cried. "And why am I to be spared? Have you thought of that?"
"Yes," he answered quickly, and gave her a hurried account of his own thought upon the matter. "If I am right no harm will befall you. And we must go. It is time. Look!"
A little tongue of flame was creeping through the joining of the logs at one end of the cabin, and the logs where the bunk had been were beginning to crackle and hiss ominously. The smoke had grown thicker, and the atmosphere was pungent and choking in its quality. He left her side for a moment, and returned with her furs.
"You must put them on," he said, "or you will freeze outside."
He himself had slipped on his own furs, and when he had helped her into hers, he took his rifle and nodded towards the pistol which she still held.
"You need not use it—outside," he said. "Keep it for—for eventualities. You understand?"
"I understand," she answered calmly, knowing that in the last resource she was to do what many women of her race had done before her.
"I will go first," he said. "And you must wait a full minute before emerging. I shall try and make for the woods at the back, and if I get clear you shall follow me—you understand?"
"Oh my man! my man!" she cried in a shaking voice, knowing that though he spoke lightly, he had little hope of escape.
Not knowing what to say, or how to comfort her, Stane took her in his arms again, and kissed her, then for a moment he stood listening. Outside all was still or whatever sounds there were were drowned by the increasing roar and crackle of the fire.
"Now!" he said. "Now!"
He slipped down the bar, threw the door open suddenly and plunged outside. A yell greeted his emergence and he was aware of a small group of men standing a little way from the cabin. As he ran he fired at them from the hip; and turned sharply to the left. The two men appeared suddenly from behind the trees to bar his way, so quickly that he had not time to fire the rifle before one of them grappled with him. The rifle fell from his hand, and for a moment they struggled, then whilst the second man was still running, a shadowy figure slipped from behind a broad trunk close to where the two men were locked together, and Stane caught the sudden gleam of a knife as the light from the fire glinted upon it. He was unable to help himself, and, held in his antagonist's arms, he waited for the impending stroke. Twice the knife descended, and his opponent's grip suddenly slackened and the man slid slowly to the ground. The running man had now reached the scene of the struggle. He carried a hatchet in his hand, and he struck first at the unknown one who had killed his companion, and the unknown one went down like a log. Before Stane had recovered from his surprise the ax was raised again. He leaped at the man just as the ax descended. An intervening bough turned the stroke, twisting the ax so that it caught the side of his head, knocking him senseless. As he fell to the ground, the Indian raised the ax once more. Before the blow could fall, a rifle cracked in the wood behind him, and the attacker leaped in the air, and pitched forward upon his face.