CHAPTER XXI
CHIGMOK'S STORY
When Stane set his face to the storm he knew there was a difficult task before him, and he found it even more difficult than he had anticipated. The wind, bitingly cold, drove the snow before it in an almost solid wall. The wood sheltered him somewhat; but fearful of losing himself, and so missing what he was seeking, he dared not turn far into it, and was forced to follow the edge of it, that he might not wander from the lake. Time after time he was compelled to halt in the lee of the deadfalls, or shelter behind a tree with his back to the storm, whilst he recovered breath. He could see scarcely a yard before him, and more than once he was driven to deviate from the straight course, and leave the trees in order to assure himself that he had not wandered from the lake side.
The bitter cold numbed his brain; the driving snow was utterly confusing, and before he reached his objective he had only one thing clear in his mind. Blistering though it was, he must keep his face to the wind, then he could not go wrong, for the storm, sweeping down the lake, came in a direct line from the bluff in the shadow of which the tragedy which he had witnessed, had happened. As he progressed, slowly, utter exhaustion seemed to overtake him. Bending his head to the blast he swayed like a drunken man. More than once as he stumbled over fallen trees the impulse to sit and rest almost overcame him; but knowing the danger of such a course he forced himself to refrain. Once as he halted in the shelter of a giant fir, his back resting against the trunk, he was conscious of a deadly, delicious languor creeping through his frame, and knowing it for the beginning of the dreaded snow-sleep which overtakes men in such circumstances, he lurched forward again, though he had not recovered breath.
He came to a sudden descent in the trail that he was following. It was made by a small stream that in spring flooded down to the lake but which now was frozen solid. In the blinding snow-wrack he never even saw it, and stepping on air, he hurtled down the bank, and rolled in a confused heap in the deep snow at the bottom. For a full minute he lay there, out of the wind and biting snow-hail, feeling like a man who has stumbled out of bitter cold to a soft couch in a warm room. A sense of utter contentment stole upon him. For some moments he lost all his grip on realities; time and circumstances and the object of his quest were forgotten. Visions, momentary but very vivid, crowded upon him, and among them, one of a girl whom he had kissed in the face of death. That girl—Yes, there was something. His mind asserted itself again, his purpose dominated his wavering faculties, and he staggered to his feet.
"Helen!" he muttered. "Helen!"
He faced the bank of the stream on the other side from that which had caused his downfall. Then he paused. There was something—twenty seconds passed before he remembered. His rifle! It was somewhere in the snow, he must find it, for he might yet have need of it. He groped about, and presently recovered it; then after considering for a moment, instead of ascending to the level, he began to walk downstream, sheltered by the high banks. It was not so cold in the hollow, and though a smother of sand-like particles of snow blew at the level of his head, by stooping he was able to escape the worst of it. His numbed faculties began to assert themselves again. The struggle through the deep soft snow, out of reach of the wind's bitter breath, sent a glow through him. His brain began to work steadily. He could not be far from the bluff now, and the stream would lead him to the lake. How much time he had lost he did not know, and he was in a sweat of fear lest he should be too late after all. As he struggled on, he did not even wonder what was the meaning of the attack that he had witnessed; one thing only was before his eyes, the vision of the girl he loved helpless in the face of unknown dangers.
The banks of the stream lowered and opened suddenly. The withering force of the blast struck him, the snow buffeted him, and for a moment he stood held in his tracks, then the wind momentarily slackened, and dimly through the driving snow he caught sight of something that loomed shadowlike before him. It was the bluff that he was seeking, and as he moved towards it, the wind broken, grew less boisterous, though a steady stream of fine hard snow swept down upon him from its height. The snow blanketed everything, and he could see nothing; then he heard a dog yelp and stumbled forward in the direction of the sound. A minute later, in the shelter of some high rocks, he saw a camp-fire, beside which a team of dogs in harness huddled in the snow, anchored there by the sled turned on its side, and by the fire a man crouched and stared into the snow-wrack. As he visioned them, Stane slipped the rifle from the hollow of his arm, and staggered forward like a drunken man.
The man by the fire becoming aware of him leaped suddenly to his feet. In a twinkling his rifle was at his shoulder, and through the wild canorous note of the wind, Stane caught his hail. "Hands up! You murderer!"
Something in the voice struck reminiscently on his ears, and this, as he recognized instantly, was not the hail of a man who had just committed a terrible crime. He dropped his rifle and put up his hands. The man changed his rifle swiftly for a pistol, and began to advance. Two yards away he stopped.
"Stane! by—!"
Then Stane recognized him. It was Dandy Anderton, the mounted policeman, and in the relief of the moment he laughed suddenly.
"You, Dandy?"
"Yes! What in heaven's name is the meaning of it all? Did you see anything? Hear the firing? There are two dead men out there in the snow." He jerked his head towards the lake. "And there was a dog-team, but I lost it in the storm. Do you know anything about it, Stane? I hope that you had no hand in this killing?"
The questions came tumbling over each other all in one breath, and as they finished, Stane, still a little breathless, replied:
"No, I had no hand in that killing. I don't understand it at all, but that sledge, we must find it, for to the best of my belief, Miss Yardely is on it."
"Miss Yardely! What on earth——"
"It is a long story. I haven't time to explain. We were attacked and she was carried off. Come along, Dandy, and help me to find her."
The policeman shook his head and pointed to the whirling snow. "No use, old man, we couldn't find a mountain in that stuff, and we should be mad to try. We don't know which way to look for her, and we should only lose ourselves and die in the cold."
"But, man, I tell you that Helen——"
"Helen is in the hands of the good God for the present, my friend. I did not know she was with that sledge, and though I had only a glimpse of it, I will swear that the sledge was empty."
"There were two men ran out after the firing," cried Stane. "I saw them just before the snow came. They were making for the sledge. Perhaps they took Helen——"
"Sit down, Stane, and give me the facts. It's no good thinking of going out in that smother. A man might as well stand on Mount Robson and jump for the moon! Sit down and make me wise on the business, then if the storm slackens we can get busy."
Stane looked into the smother in front, and reason asserted itself. It was quite true what Anderton said. Nothing whatever could be done for the present; the storm effectually prevented action. To venture from the shelter of the bluff on to the open width of the lake was to be lost, and to be lost in such circumstances meant death from cold. Fiercely as burned the desire to be doing on behalf of his beloved, he was forced to recognize the utter folly of attempting anything for the moment. With a gesture of despair, he swept the snow from a convenient log, and seated himself heavily upon it.
The policeman stretched a hand towards a heap of smouldering ashes, where reposed a pan, and pouring some boiling coffee into a tin cup, handed it to Stane.
"Drink that, Hubert, old man, it'll buck you up. Then you can give me the pegs of this business."
Stane began to sip the coffee, and between the heat of the fire and that of the coffee, his blood began to course more freely. All the numbness passed from his brain and with it passed the sense of despair that had been expressed in his gesture, and a sudden hope came to him.
"One thing," he broke out, "if we can't travel, neither can anybody else."
"Not far—at any rate," agreed Anderton. "A man might put his back to the storm, but he would soon be jiggered; or he might take to the deep woods; but with a dog-team he wouldn't go far or fast, unless there was a proper trail."
"That's where they'll make for, as like as not," said Stane with another stab of despair.
"They—who? Tell me, man, and never bother about the woods. There's a good two hundred miles of them hereabouts and till we can begin to look for the trail it is no good worrying. Who are these men——"
"I can't say," answered Stane, "but I'll tell you what I know."
Vividly and succinctly he narrated the events that had befallen since the policeman's departure from Chief George's camp on the trail of Chigmok. Anderton listened carefully. Twice he interrupted. The first time was when he heard how the man whom he sought had been at Chief George's camp after all.
"I guessed that," he commented, "after I started on the trail to the Barrens, particularly when I found no signs of any camping place on what is the natural road for any one making that way. I swung back yesterday meaning to surprise Chief George, and rake through his tepees."
The second time was when he heard of the white man who had offered the bribe of the guns and blankets for the attack on the cabin, and the kidnapping of the girl.
"Who in thunder can have done that?" he asked.
"I don't know," answered Stane, and explained the idea that had occurred to him that it was some one desiring to claim the reward offered by Sir James.
"But why should you be killed?"
"Ask the man who ordered it," answered Stane with a grim laugh.
"I will when I come up with him. But tell me the rest, old man."
Stane continued his narrative, and when he had finished, Anderton spoke again. "That solitary man with the team whom you saw coming down the lake, must have been me. I turned into the wood a mile or two on the other side of this bluff to camp out of the snow which I saw was coming. Then it struck me that I should do better on this side, and I worked towards it. I was just on the other side when the shooting began, and I hurried forward, but the snow came and wiped out everything, though I had an impression of a second dog-team waiting by the shore as I came round. When I looked for it I couldn't find it; and then I tumbled on this camp, and as there was nothing else to be done until the snow slackened I unharnessed."
Stane looked round. "This would be the place where the man, who was to have paid the kidnappers their price, waited for them."
"And paid them in lead, no doubt with the idea of covering his own tracks completely."
"That seems likely," agreed Stane.
"But who——" Anderton broke off suddenly and leaped to his feet. "Great Christopher! Look there!" Stane looked swiftly in the direction indicated, and as the veil of snow broke for a moment, caught sight of a huddled form crawling in the snow.
"What——" he began.
"It's a man. I saw him distinctly," interrupted the policeman, and then as the snow swept down again he ran from the shelter of the camp.
A minute and a half later he staggered back, dragging a man with him. He dropped the man by the fire, poured some coffee into a pannikin, and as the new-comer, with a groan, half-raised himself to look round, he held the coffee towards him.
"Here, drink this, it'll do you——" he interrupted himself sharply, then in a tone of exultation he cried: "Chigmok!"
"Oui!" answered the man. "I am Chigmok! And thou?"
"I am the man of the Law," answered Anderton, "who has been at your heels for weeks."
"So!" answered the half-breed in native speech, with a hopeless gesture, "It had been better to have died the snow-death, but I shall die before they hang me, for I am hurt."
He glanced down at his shoulder as he spoke, and looking closely the two white men saw that the frozen snow on his furs was stained.
"Ah!" said the policeman, "I hadn't noticed that, but we'll have a look at it." He looked at Stane, who was eyeing the half-breed with a savage stare, then he said sharply: "Give me a hand, Stane. We can't let the beggar die unhelped, however he may deserve it. He's a godsend anyway, for he can explain your mystery. Besides it's my duty to get him back to the Post, and they wouldn't welcome him dead. Might think I'd plugged him, you know."
Together they lifted the man nearer the fire, and examined the injured shoulder. It had been drilled clean through by a bullet. Anderton nodded with satisfaction. "Nothing there to kill you, Chigmok. We'll bandage you up, and save you for the Law yet?"
They washed and dressed the wound, made the half-breed as comfortable as they could; then as he reposed by the fire, Anderton found the man's pipe, filled it, held a burning stick whilst he lit it, and when it was drawing nicely, spoke:
"Now, Chigmok, you owe me something for all this, you know. Just tell us the meaning of the game you were playing. It can't hurt you to make a clean breast of it; because that other affair that you know of is ample for the needs of the Law."
"You want me to tell?" asked the half-breed in English.
"Yes, we're very curious. My friend here is very anxious to know why he was attacked, and why he was to die whilst the girl who was with him was carried off."
"You not know?" asked the half-breed.
"Well, we haven't quite got the rights of it," was the policeman's guarded answer.
"Then I tell you." His dark eyes turned to Stane. "You not know me?"
"No," answered Stane. "I never saw you in my life before."
"But I haf seen you. Oui! I steal your canoe when you sleep!"
"Great Scott!" cried Stane. "You——"
"I run from zee poleece, an' I haf nodings but a gun. When I watch you sleep, I tink once I shoot you; but I not know who ees in zee leetle tent, an' I tink maybe dey catch me, but I know now eet vas not so."
"You know who was in the tent?" asked Stane sharply.
"I fin' dat out zee ver' next morning, when I meet a man who ask for zee white girl. Ah I haf seen dat man b'fore. I see heem shoot zee paddle from zee girl's hand—."
Startled, Stane cried out. "You saw him shoot——"
"Oui! I not know why he do eet. But I tink he want zee girl to lose herself dat he may find her. Dat I tink, but I not tell heem dat. Non! Yet I tell heem what I see, an' he ees afraid, an' say he tell zee mounters he haf seen me, eef I say he ees dat man. So I not say eet, but all zee time he ees zee man. Den he pay me to take a writing to zee camp of zee great man of zee Company, but I not take eet becos I am afraid."
"Who was this man?" asked Stane grimly, as the half-breed paused.
"I not know; but he is zee ver' same man dat was to haf paid zee price of guns an' blankets for zee girl dat vos in zee cabin."
"And who said I was to die?"
"Oui! He order dat! An' I tink eet ees done, an' I not care, for already I am to zee death condemned, an' it ees but once dat I can die. Also I tink when zee price ees paid, I veel go North to zee Frozen Sea where zee mounters come not. But dat man he ees one devil. He fix for me bring zee girl here, where zee price veel be paid; den when I come he begin to shoot, becos he veel not zee price pay. He keel Canif and Ligan, and he would me haf keeled to save zee guns and blankets and zee tea and tabac, dog dat he ees!"
"Perhaps it was not the price he was saving," said Anderton. "Perhaps he was afraid that the story would be told and that the mounters would seek out his trail, Chigmok?"
"By gar! Yees, I never tink of dat," cried the half-breed as if a light had broken on him suddenly. "I tink onlee of zee price dat hee save."
"What sort of a man was he? What did he look like, Chigmok?"
"He dark an' vhat you call han'some. He haf sometimes one glass to hees eye, an——"
"Ainley, by Heaven!" cried Stane in extreme amazement.
"I not know hees name," answered the half-breed, "but I tink he ees of zee Company."
Anderton looked doubtfully at Stane who suffered no doubt at all. "It is Ainley, unquestionably," said Stane, answering the question in his eyes. "The description is his, though it is a trifle vague and the monocle——"
"He affects a monocle still then?"
"I have seen it, and it is so. He sported it down at Fort Malsun."
Anderton nodded, and for a moment looked into the fire, whistling thoughtfully to himself. Then he looked up. "One thing, Stane, we need not worry over now, and that is Miss Yardely's welfare. Assuming that Ainley has taken possession of her, no harm is likely to come to her at his hands. Whatever may be behind his pretty scheme, it will not involve bodily harm to her. We have that assurance in the position he occupies and the plan he made for her to be brought here alive. No doubt he will be posing as the girl's deliverer. He doesn't know that Chigmok has survived. He doesn't know that I am here to get Chigmok's story; and whilst he can hardly have been unaware of your sledge following the trail of Chigmok, it is not the least likely that he associates it with you. Probably he is under the idea that it formed part of Chigmok's outfit. No doubt a little way down the lake he will camp till the storm is over, then make a bee line for Fort Malsun—we'll get him as easy as eating toast."
"And when we've got him?"
"Duty's duty!" answered Anderton with a shrug. "I can't enumerate all the charges offhand; but there's enough to kill Mr. Ainley's goose twice over. Lor', what a whirligig life is. I never thought—Hallo! Who's this? Jean Bènard, or I'm a sinner!"
Jean Bènard it was, and his face lighted with pleasure as he staggered into the camp.
"I fear for you, m'sieu," he said to Stane in simple explanation, "therefore I come. Bo'jour, M'sieu Anderton, dis ees a good meeting on zee bad day! But dat—surely dat ees Chigmok? An' zee mees where ees she?"
Stane waved a hand towards the lake. "Somewhere out there, Jean, and still to find."
"But we fin' her, m'sieu. Haf no fear but dat we weel her find, when zee snow it stop!"
And the ringing confidence in his tone brought new heart to Stane, still beset with fears for Helen.
CHAPTER XXII
AINLEY'S STORY
As Helen Yardely caught sight of Ainley's face, for a moment she was dumb with amazement, then she cried: "You? You?"
"Yes," he answered quickly, "I have been seeking you for weeks, and I find you in the nick of time. But there is no time to explain now. There were others with your captors; I saw the sledge following behind. We must get away at once."
As he spoke he cut the thongs which bound her to the sledge and helped her to rise. Then he spoke again urgently. "Quick!" he said. "There is danger. This way—I have a team waiting for you. We must take to the woods."
He took her arm, and began to hurry through the blinding snow. Helen, bewildered by the swift turn of events, did not resist, but moved forward with him, and in a couple of minutes found herself standing by a sled-team guarded by a couple of Indians.
"Get on the sledge, Helen," said Ainley, brusquely. "There is no time to waste. We must hurry."
Still in a whirl of conflicting thoughts, the girl seated herself on the sledge, Ainley swiftly did what he could for her comfort, and a moment later the dogs received their command.
"Moosh! Moosh!"
They turned from the storm-ridden lake to the shelter of the great woods. The trail was not a good one; but the snow among the trees was far from being the hindrance it was in the open; and though their progress was slow, on the whole it was steady. Except for forced halts to unravel the harness when it caught in the bushes, they did not stop for two hours, but pressed on until they reached an open space in the woods, which they crossed in a smother of blinding snow. On the other side of this break they came to a fresh spur of forest, and when they had penetrated to the shelter of the trees once more, the first voluntary halt was made. Then for the first time since the march had begun, Ainley spoke to the girl.
"Comfortable, Helen?" he asked.
"As comfortable as possible under the circumstances," was the reply.
"I am sorry I can do no better," replied Ainley. "But we are in danger still, and a little hardship is better than the grave risk of life."
"Oh!" answered Helen. "I do not mind the hardship."
"That is what I should expect of you," answered Ainley quickly, "but it is not for long that I ask it of you. In another hour or so, we shall be safe, I hope, then we will camp until the storm is over."
"Of whom are you afraid?" asked Helen.
"Indians! We were forced to shoot three of your captors; and those of their friends who were following on behind may feel impelled to try and avenge their deaths."
"Oh!" said the girl; a note of such evident disappointment in her tone, that Ainley looked at her quickly.
"Why do you speak like that, Helen? One would think that you were almost sorry that I had delivered you from the fate awaiting you."
"Oh, it is not that!" replied Helen quickly. "Though of course I do not know what the fate was. Do you?"
"I have an idea," he said, "and I will explain when we camp. Just now I must have a word with my men. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes; and there will be bacon and biscuit, which if not exactly appetising will be sustaining."
"I shall not mind bacon and biscuit," answered Helen, and as Ainley walked away a look of deep thought came on the girl's face.
Was it true, she asked herself, that he was afraid of the pursuit of revengeful Indians? She remembered the sledge which she had seen following behind, a sledge accompanied by only two men, and the evident anxiety it had occasioned her chief captor, and one thing fixed itself in her mind with all the force of a conviction, namely that whatever Gerald Ainley thought about these men behind, her captors knew nothing whatever about them; then she remembered the revelations made by the half-breed. He had owned that he had attacked the cabin and captured her for a price, a great price paid by a man who loved her. Was that man Gerald Ainley? It was an odd coincidence that he should have been waiting just where he was, which was quite evidently the place where the half-breed had been making for. His words of greeting made it clear that he had been expecting to meet her, but in that case how did it come about that he knew she was in the neighbourhood? Was he indeed the man to whom the half-breed was looking for the price? If so, why had he so ruthlessly shot down the men who were his confederates?
Instantly an explanation that fitted the facts occurred to her. He had shot down her captors in order to conceal his connection with them and with the attack upon the cabin. She remembered the man whom she had seen, and her odd fancy that he was a white man, and recalled her lover's conviction that no bodily harm was meant to her, though the same was not true of himself, and a very deep distrust of Gerald Ainley surged in her heart; a distrust that was deepened by her recollection of the policeman's story of the forged bill, and the sheet of foolscap which had been in her lover's possession.
But of this distrust she gave no sign when Ainley approached her, bearing food and coffee. She accepted the situation as if it were the most everyday one in the world; and she listened to the few words that he had to say, with real interest.
"We shall resume our march in twenty minutes or so, Helen, but as I said, in an hour or so, we shall be beyond pursuit. Then, when we have camped, you shall tell me the story of your adventures."
"Yes," she answered quietly, "and you shall tell me exactly how you came to find me."
"That is a long story," he answered with a slight frown, "but you shall hear it all in good time. It has taken me months to find you, and I had almost begun to despair, when a fortunate chance gave me the clue to your whereabouts."
"What chance was it?" asked Helen quickly.
"To answer that," he answered deliberately, "is to forestall my story." Then he smiled, "You must be patient a little while longer, as I am, and when you have heard it, I hope you will not deny me my reward?"
"Oh," she said with a little touch of scorn creeping into her tones. "You have been working for a reward?"
"No," he replied sharply. "My toil has been a labour of love. You must know that, Helen! Though it is quite true that Sir James——"
He broke off, and as he showed no signs of continuing Helen forced him to do so. "You were saying something about my uncle? Did he send you after me?"
"He made me head of the search-party, because he knew I loved you, and he hinted that when I had found you I might go to him. You understand, Helen?"
"Yes," answered the girl enigmatically. "I think I do."
Looking at her, Ainley saw that there was nothing to be gained by pressing the matter further at that moment; and excusing himself he went to give orders to his Indians. A short time later they resumed their journey, and travelled steadily for something more than an hour; then almost in the dark they pitched camp for the night. A substantial meal was prepared of which Helen partook in the shelter of a little tent which had been erected; then when she had finished the meal, she seated herself by the big fire which had been built.
Ainley also seated himself less than a yard from her; and without giving him a chance of asking for her story, she instantly demanded his.
"Now," she said, as lightly as she could, "you shall tell me everything. How you searched for me, how you got on my trail at last, and the fate from which you saved me this morning."
Ainley would have preferred to hear her story first; but he did not demur to her suggestion, and with a little deprecatory laugh he began. "It is not very easy to talk of one's own doings, but I will do my best to avoid boastfulness."
Then, carefully picking his words, he described the anxiety her non-return to her uncle's camp had given rise to; and the preliminary search made by himself and the Indian Joe. As he described his own feelings of despair at the finding of the portion of her canoe in the drift-pile beyond the falls, his voice shook with quite genuine emotion, and Helen moved so as to bring her face a little in shadow whilst she watched him. In that moment she momentarily forgot the distrust which her own questioning had awakened in her, and listened absorbed whilst he narrated the discovery of the brooch, and the new hope it occasioned, since it afforded evidence that she was in all probability still alive. Then he broke off sharply. "You were saved from the river, somehow, by that fellow Stane, who was up at Fort Malsun, were you not?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"I got his description from a half-breed who had met and hailed you going up the river in a canoe towards Old Fort Winagog."
"But we met no half-breed," said Helen quickly, her distrust awakening in full force.
"You met no half-breed?" The surprise in Ainley's face was quite genuine, as Helen saw, and she realized that whatever was to come, this part of the man's story was quite true.
"No, we met no one, and we never reached Fort Winagog, because our canoe was stolen whilst we slept."
"Is that so?" Ainley's face grew dark as he asked the question; then a troubled look came upon it. "The man must have lied to me," he said, "or have told me only half the truth, but he must have seen you, or how did he know that the man who was with you was Stane?"
"Perhaps he was the man who stole our canoe," said Helen.
"Yes," answered Ainley, "that will be it. But——" he broke off without finishing. "Anyway," he continued after a moment, "following his statement, I went up to Old Fort Winagog, but found no sign of you, then back by another and a quicker route that I might tell your uncle of the lack of news, and organize a regular search. After that, I started to beat the country round about steadily. Rodwell sent news of you to all the Indians and trappers in the country, whilst your uncle promised a reward. For weeks I searched, and all in vain, then one day an Indian girl came with a story of a white man and woman living in a cabin on a lake, and though she did not know their names she was able to tell me that this man and woman were Stane and you."
"Who was the girl?" asked Helen quickly.
"It was that Indian girl who was up at Fort Malsun!"
"Miskodeed!" cried Helen.
"That I believe was her name. She looked on Stane as her lover, and she did you the honour of being jealous of you!" Ainley laughed as he spoke. "Absurd, of course—But what will you? The primitive, untutored heart is very simple in its emotions and the man was her paramour!"
"It is a lie!" cried Helen hotly. "He had spoken to her only twice in his life."
"He was scarcely likely to own to anything more, to you," answered Ainley, "and in any case I am giving you the Indian girl's version; that it accords with my own belief is of little moment. What I do know is that she cared nothing about the reward your uncle offered, and that her sole purpose seemed to be to remove you from Stane's company."
"And when you heard?" asked Helen prompting him as he fell silent.
"When I heard, I did not waste time. I made a bee-line for the cabin on the lake, taking the girl with me. I arrived there last night——"
"How long were you on the way?" interrupted Helen suddenly.
"Four days."
"And Miskodeed was with you all the time?"
"Of course!" answered Ainley a trifle uneasily. "She was our guide."
"I see," answered Helen quietly. She made no further comment on the Indian girl, but she knew now that Ainley had departed from whatever truth there was in his narrative, for Miskodeed, on the sure evidence of her own eyes had been at the Indian encampment when he claimed she had been with him. She listened quietly whilst Ainley continued:
"As I was saying, I arrived in the neighbourhood of the cabin last night, to find you gone——"
"And Mr. Stane?" she asked almost breathlessly. "Did you find him? Did you see him?"
Ainley shook his head. "No, I did not see him myself, but one of my men turned a body over that was lying in the snow. It was that of a white man, who could be no other than Stane!"
Helen flinched at the answer which confirmed what the half-breed had said to her about Stane being dead. She looked away, not wishing Ainley to see her face at that moment, whilst the hot tears welled in her eyes, and the man, choosing to disregard her manifest sorrow, continued his story. "We found an Indian in the snow, who had been wounded in the fight, as he told us, and on pressure he gave me the information that you had been carried away by a half-breed of the name of Chigmok, who, as the Indian averred, was making for the lake of the Little Moose, that is the lake where we rescued you. This wounded man also informed us that Chigmok had a camp on the lake, gave us instructions how to find it; and volunteered the further information that Chigmok was taking the longest route to the lake, since that was the easier way for a heavily-loaded sledge. There was a shorter way, as he informed us, a way which if we travelled hard, would bring us to the lake before Chigmok himself; and after considering the matter carefully I decided to take the shorter route, and to await your captor at his own camp, since, as he had no reason for anticipating pursuit, the surprise would be all the more complete. We arrived there in good time, and—well, you know the rest, Helen."
"Not quite," answered the girl in a listless, toneless voice. "You have not yet told me what this man Chigmok proposed to do with me."
"Well, the wounded Indian told us that he had fallen violently in love with you, and that he proposed to make you his squaw."
"Ah!"
Ainley interpreted the exclamation in his own way, but looking at the girl was surprised by a look which had come into her face. Her listlessness had fallen from her. There was a look of absorption about her which puzzled him, and he wondered what she was thinking of. He did not know what her captor had revealed to her, and so never dreamed the truth, which was that Helen was thinking that for the second time he had fallen from the truth in his narrative. But again she gave no further sign. For a little time she sat there grasping at the hope, the very little hope it gave her. He had lied twice, she was sure. What reason was there for supposing that the other parts of his narrative were true? He had owned that he had not seen Hubert Stane's body, and that he had taken the Indian's word. But what if that were a lie, what if after all there had been no body, what if that, like the other things, was a fabrication? It was true that the half-breed had said Stane was dead, but that might be a mistake. A faint hope stirred in her heart, and she determined to question Ainley's two Indians as soon as the opportunity arose. Then a new thought came to her, and she turned quickly to Ainley.
"Tell me one thing," she said, "when you arrived at the cabin the attack was quite over?"
"Quite," he answered.
"And you did not take part in the fighting? You fired no shots at the attackers?"
"No," he answered. "They had gone when we arrived, all except the wounded Indian who gave me the information."
"Then who was it?" she cried.
"Who was it? I do not understand what you mean, Helen."
"Some one fired on the Indians from the wood, and he kept on firing as the Indians bound me to the sledge, and even after we had begun to flee."
Ainley rose abruptly to his feet. It was very clear to the girl that the information she had given him had astonished him. His manner betrayed perturbation as he replied in short, jerky sentences: "You amaze me! What you say is—most astonishing. Are you sure? You have not dreamed this by any chance?"
"If I have," answered Helen, "another shared my dream. For when I heard the shots I thought that Mr. Stane had fired them; it was the half-breed who told me that I was mistaken, and that the shots had been fired by some one in the forest."
Ainley's perturbation did not subside at this further information. There was in his face a look of agitation that amounted almost to apprehension. "I do not understand it at all," he said, more to himself than to Helen. "It is beyond me. Good Heavens! Is it possible that Stane escaped after all? He——"
"I thought one of your men saw his body?" interrupted Helen, quickly.
"He certainly saw the body of a white man, or so he avers, and I had no reason to suppose that it could be any one else!"
"Then," said the girl, "you are not sure?"
"No, not in the sense you mean; but I am morally certain that—but why worry about Stane? Dead or alive he can be nothing to you."
The girl turned to him sharply, and there was a flash in her eyes and a look on her face that startled him.
"Dead or alive," she said quickly, "he is more to me than you ever can be!"
"Helen!" there was a note of angry protest in Ainley's voice. "You cannot think what you are saying. You must have forgotten how I love you."
"No," answered the girl deliberately. "I have not forgotten."
"Then you are forgetting what I have endured for you—all the toil and travail of these weeks of search—the risks I have taken to find you, the risks I took this morning. Stane may have done something heroic in saving you from the river, I don't know, but I do know that, as you told me months ago, you were a hero-worshipper, and I beg of you not to be misled by a mere romantic emotion. I have risked my life a score of times to serve you. This morning I saved you from something worse than death, and surely I deserve a little consideration at your hands. Will you not think again? Since heroism is your fetish, can you find nothing heroic in my labours, in my service?"
The man was in deadly earnest, pleading for something on which his heart was set, and whatever dissimulation there had been in his narrative, there was none whatever in his pleadings. But Helen remembered how her lover had gone to prison for this man's deed, and her heart was like a flint, her tone as cold as ice as she answered him.
"You do not understand," she said, "you have not yet heard my story. When you have, whatever I may owe you, you will not press me again."
"Tell me the story then," cried Ainley in a voice hoarse with passion. "And for God's sake, be quick about it!"
CHAPTER XXIII
A SURPRISE FOR AINLEY
"I will," answered Helen coldly, and without further preamble began the narrative of all that had befallen her from the time she had left her uncle's camp to inspect the beaver colony. Ainley listened for a long time without interruption. Much of the story he already knew, though the girl was unaware of the fact; much more he had guessed, but some things were unknown to him, and when she gave the account of Stane's accident at the deadfall and of the camp she had made there, he broke out in chagrin: "That explains how it was we never found you. We must have passed within a very few miles of you."
"You were once within a quarter of a mile of me."
"How do you know that?" he cried.
"Because I saw you and the Indian Joe pitch your camp on the shore of the lake."
"You saw——" he began, and then stopped staring at her with incredulous eyes.
"Yes! I watched you make your fire, and then I went back to camp, and put out my own fire."
"Why?" he demanded harshly, though he had already guessed.
"Because I was afraid you would discover me," answered the girl calmly. "And I, with a joyful heart, watched you departing in the morning."
Ainley rose suddenly to his feet. "Helen," he cried hoarsely, "do you know what you are saying? You are telling me that you were glad to be left alone in this god-forsaken wilderness with a man who was a discharged convict? I wonder what our world would think of that confession?"
"I do not care what our world, as you call it, would think about my action. These few months in the wilderness have made me think little of those conventions which have such rigid observance in the letter but are outraged in the spirit every day."
"Our acquaintances would say——" he began, with a note of bitter malice in his voice, but Helen interrupted him.
"I wonder what our acquaintances would say if they knew everything about the crime for which Hubert Stane became a convict?"
As she dealt this blow the girl looked at him with ruthless eyes. Now she was defending, not herself alone, but the memory of the man she loved, and who out of consideration for herself had only declared his love when he was going out to meet his death. That thought made her merciless, and as she saw him waver under the weight of the blow and his face grow white as the snow about them, she continued unflinchingly.
"If they knew what I know they might say that I had made a wise choice in remaining with a convict who had suffered for something of which he was innocent, instead of going with the man who sent another man to——"
"Helen! You are mad! mad!" cried Ainley in a voice so wild that one of the Indians, dozing at the other side of the fire, started suddenly to his feet, and looked around him as if for enemies. Ainley saw him and checked the other wild words which sprang to his lips, and after a moment the Indian sank down on his haunches and dropped his chin on his breast again.
"No," answered Helen calmly. "I am not mad, I am telling the truth, as you gave me evidence just now. You did not let me finish my sentence. You knew what I was going to say. How did you know it? You could not have guessed it if the facts had not been within your knowledge." She broke off and was silent for a moment whilst Ainley stared at her with wild eyes. "I may be in your debt for what happened this morning. I do not know, for I do not, cannot trust you; but I will never forgive you for what the man I loved suffered. Never!"
"You believe some lying tale of Stane's?" said Ainley, in a sneering attempt to cover up his own discomfiture.
"I believe what he told me; I would have believed it on his word alone, but fortunately the matter does not depend on that word only. There is evidence, and I know where that evidence is, and I will tell you what I am going to do. When we get to Fort Malsun, I shall get Mr. Rodwell to equip an expedition, and I shall recover that evidence and publish it to the world, in order to clear the memory of the man whom you have so deeply wronged."
"There will be no need for that, fortunately, Miss Yardely!" said a voice behind her.
The girl jumped to her feet in surprise. And Ainley took a quick step forward as a man emerged from the shadow of the trees into the circle of the firelight. It was the mounted policeman, Dandy Anderton, and behind him came another man at whom Helen stared for a moment incredulously, then with a great cry of joy ran to meet him.
"Hubert! Hubert!"
"Yes!" he answered, slipping an arm about her.
"But I thought—I thought——"
"I was afraid you might think so," he replied in answer to her unspoken thought. "But that could not be helped. I followed after you as fast as I could, and I was at your heels when your captors were shot down on the lake and the snow came on."
"Oh, how glad I am that you are alive! That you have found me."
She rested against him well-content, and Stane's arm about her tightened its grip; then they came back to the little world about them, at the sound of the policeman's voice.
"Didn't know me, Ainley? I dare say not. I'm not quite the tailor's mannikin that I was in the old days at the 'Varsity. Got a man's job now, you see. And that reminds me, I'm here on duty. I happened to be up the Little Moose when that shooting took place this morning. There's a couple of dead Indians up there, and as I guess you had something to do with their sudden deaths I shall have to call on you for an explanation you know."
Ainley looked at the policeman without fear, and then for a moment his eyes turned and rested on Helen and Stane standing together in the shadow of a great fir-tree. It must have been a moment of exceeding bitterness to him, but beyond a short, abrupt laugh he gave no sign of his feelings. He turned again to the policeman. Apparently he was perfectly cool and self-possessed. He waved a hand towards the fire.
"May as well make ourselves comfortable. It's rather a long story I have to tell. Where are your dogs?"
"Back in the wood—anchored. I'll slip back and fetch them."
"No," said Stane, "I will go back for them."
He turned, and Helen turned with him.
"You don't mind," she whispered.
"Mind!"
She walked by his side, a hand on his arm. Once when they were well in the shadows of the wood they stopped, and with his arm about her he kissed her.
"My dear!" he whispered, "my dear."
Helen said nothing immediately, but gave a little sobbing laugh of gladness. Then after a moment she asked, "How did you escape? How did you find me?"
"It is too long a story to tell you the whole of it just now. But right in the nick of time, when I was expecting to die, the owner of our cabin, Jean Bènard came back. He saved my life; but as he knew nothing about you, the attackers got away with you, but as soon as he heard my story he got ready to pursue, and having found out that your kidnappers were making for the Little Moose we took a short cut and waited for you. We were at your heels when the rifles fired from the shore——"
"Then youwerewith that second sledge?"
"Yes, I and Jean Bènard!"
"I saw you and I wondered," cried Helen. "But the half-breed had told me you were dead."
"We lost you in the snow," said Stane, continuing his explanation, "but found Anderton, and though the snow was as bad as ever, after a time we started to search for your trail. Jean Bènard found it deep in the wood where we were searching, knowing the lake was impossible for any one to travel in the storm, and after he had made the discovery, Anderton and I started to track you."
"And where is Jean Bènard?" asked Helen quickly. "I want to thank him for saving you, for bringing joy back to me when I thought that it was dead for ever."
"He is following us, he will be here, presently."
"Then I shall see him?"
"I hope so. But we must hurry on, dear. The dogs——"
"Bother the dogs—."
"But I want to hear Gerald Ainley's explanation. It is important that I should."
"I have already heard it," said Helen quickly. "It is full of lies."
"You think so?"
"I know it."
"All the more reason that I should hear it with Anderton. There is much more behind all this than you know, Helen."
"Perhaps I guess something of what lies behind."
"I do not think you can. It is an extraordinary story, and there will be adénouementpresently that will surprise Ainley. Come!"
They moved forward together, found the dogs, and having righted the sledge by which they had been anchored, they returned to the camp. Ainley, pipe in hand, apparently quite cool, was talking. He gave one glance at the couple as they re-entered the circle of light, watched Stane for a moment as he stooped to unharness the dogs, and then continued the story he had been telling glibly and evenly.
"Having got the news, I made straight for the cabin, and had the ill-luck to arrive there half an hour too late. One of the men found a dead man, who, from the description, I mistook for Stane there, and we also found a wounded Indian, who, with a little persuasion, told us what he knew, which was that a half-breed, of the name of Chigmok, inflamed with love for Miss Yardely, had carried her off, designing to make her his squaw. I understand this Chigmok is what the Indians call a bad man—but perhaps you know him?"
He broke off and looked directly at Anderton as he spoke, and waited for a reply. The mounted policeman nodded, and as casually as he could replied: "Yes, I have met him. He is—no good."
As the policeman replied, Helen, who was watching Ainley's face, saw a subtle change come over it. For one moment it lost its assurance and a flicker of doubt came in the eyes. The girl divined that he had suddenly grown uncertain of his ground, and to her it was noticeable that after Anderton's reply Ainley's glibness left him, and that he spoke hesitatingly, haltingly, with frequent pauses, like a man uncertain of his words.
"Then, by all accounts, you have met a regular rogue, Anderton! But to resume, the Indian told us that Chigmok had carried off Miss Yardely. Under pressure he told also the place for which the half-breed was making, a desolate district, little travelled—the Lake of the Little Moose. Know it?"
"Yes, I was there this morning; Stane and I have just come from there."
Again the flicker of doubt came in Ainley's eyes, and in the glow of the firelight, Helen saw a look of apprehension come on his face. It was there for but a moment, then it was gone, but in that moment the girl had seen deeply into Ainley's heart, and knew that fear was rapidly mounting there.
"Ah! you also followed Chigmok's trail, I suppose. But I was there first. I followed a shorter route and I was at his camp waiting for him when he showed up. I saw Miss Yardely on the sledge, and as for the moment we were three against three, I felt that it was not an occasion when chances should be taken, so we fired from the bushes on the three kidnappers and shot them down. Then as there was another sledge coming on behind, I removed Miss Yardely to my own sledge, and to escape further trouble we pushed the dogs hard till we got here.... And that's about all, I think."
He fell silent for a moment, and sat there watching the two white men and the white girl who had heard the conclusion of his narrative. They remained quite still, and not one of the three spoke. Ainley evidently found the silence too much for his nerves, for after a little time had passed in profound silence, he flashed out irritably:
"Well, what do you think of my story?"
"It is a very interesting story," said Anderton at last.
A quick look of relief came into Ainley's face. "You think I was justified in shooting down those three kidnappers then?"
"On the face of things—yes! If your story is the correct one there is not the slightest doubt that you followed the right course."
"You don't doubt its correctness?" flashed Ainley.
"I have not said so," answered the policeman gravely, "but so far, as you will see, I have only your word for it."
"The two men who are with me can corroborate," replied Ainley.
"That will be helpful, of course," said Anderton. "But I am not trying the case, Ainley, I am only making the necessary inquiries that I may make my report at the Post. And I had better warn you that you may have a little trouble about this matter. Things in the North here are not like they were a few years back, when any wandering white man felt himself justified in potting any Indian whose presence he considered inimical. The administration of the Territories is very tender towards the natives under its charge, and watchful of their interests. It is bound to be. Since it expects the red man to accept its laws, it can do no less than compel whites to honour them."
"Oh I know all that," said Ainley, a trifle contemptuously. "But you won't claim that the circumstances of this affair are anything but extraordinary."
"No," agreed the policeman, "I think they are very extraordinary."
Something significant in his tones caused Ainley to look at him questioningly. The policeman, whose face was like a mask, was staring into the fire, and did not catch the look. Ainley made as if to speak, then changed his mind and remained silent. After a little time Anderton spoke again.
"Seems a long time since we three men foregathered at Oxford."
"Yes," agreed Ainley, apparently relieved at the change of subject. "A good bit of water has gone down the Isis since then."
"And all the circumstances considered it is rather a coincidence that we three should meet like this in the wilderness."
"It certainly is dramatic," admitted Ainley. "Quite a Drury Lane drama."
"More so than you know, Ainley," answered Anderton quickly. "Stane, let Ainley have a look at that piece of paper you carry about with you."
A moment later Stane had opened the oilskin packet, and was unfolding the sheet of note-paper. Ainley watched him in amazement, and then as Stane held the paper towards him, and he bent over it, a look of consternation came on his face, and a quick oath broke from his lips. "God in heaven!"
"You had better put that paper in safety, again, Stane," said the policeman quickly. "Ainley recognized it first glance."
"It's a lie," cried Ainley. "I've never seen the thing in my life before!"
"Your tongue lies better than your face, Ainley. Just now your face told the truth. You have seen that paper before. You saw it at Oxford when you prepared yourself for the forgery that sent Stane to prison. You——"
"I'll not stand it!" cried Ainley jumping to his feet. "You are charging me with a crime of which a judge and jury found Stane guilty. It is insufferable. You can't expect any man to sit still."
"Where did you find that paper, Stane?" interrupted the policeman brusquely.
"In a copy of Jowett's Plato which Ainley had borrowed from me, and which he returned to my scout after I was arrested."
"It's a barefaced lie! A plot!" cried Ainley. "I'm surprised at you, Anderton—a representative of the law too—lending yourself to such an absurd charge. You ought to know better."
"I know more than you think, Ainley. You remember Jarlock who was in our set—?"
"Jarlock!" The name broke from Ainley in a tone of consternation.
"Yes, Jarlock! A good fellow, Jarlock. A friend who could forgive a friend his faults, who indeed could on occasion overlook a crime when he thought it was the crime of a hard-pressed man."
"What in thunder are you gassing about?" cried Ainley blusteringly.
"About Jarlock and a certain promissory note which he paid, a note which bore your name and his. Your signature was quite genuine. Jarlock's—well, Jarlock denied it, and you owned that you——"
"He told?" said Ainley. "The cur told?"
"Yes, he told me in confidence, after he had heard of Stane's denial of the charge for which he was imprisoned. You see he believed in Stane, as I did myself——"
"And you would make me the scapegoat for Stane's crime." Ainley laughed harshly. "I will see you hung first," he cried. "I——"
He broke off abruptly as a sound of yelping dogs sounded from the wood, and stared into the darkness. Anderton rose from his seat.
"I expect that will be Jean Bènard," he said quietly.
"Jean Bènard? Who is Jean Bènard?" cried Ainley.
"He is the man who Stane and I left to bring Chigmok along."
"Chigmok!"
"Yes, you see, Ainley, Chigmok was not dead as you meant him to be. He was only winged, and he was able to tell his story which was a much more interesting story than yours, and as I beg leave to think, a much more truthful one."
Ainley did not reply. He stood staring into the darkness with wild eyes. The glow of the fire revealed a terrible look on his face—the look of a man who in a single moment has seen his life go suddenly to pieces. He stood there dumb, his face working painfully, and then, as the dog-team broke into the circle of the firelight, he fell back into his seat by the fire in utter collapse, his face hidden in his hands.