Some weeks had passed since Ingleby took over Tomlinson's claim, when one lowering evening Grace Coulthurst pulled up her cayuse pony in the depths of the Green River valley. Leaden cloud had veiled the peaks since early morning, and now the pines were wailing dolefully beneath a bitter breeze. A little dust of snow, fine and dry as flour, whirled about her, and the trail was hard as adamant beneath her pony's feet. The beast pricked its ears and stamped impatiently, for it had been bred in the wilderness and knew what was coming.
Grace, whose fingers were growing stiff, relaxed her grasp on the bridle, and looked about her observantly, but without uneasiness. She was some distance from home, and daylight was dying out unusually early, while few horses unaccustomed to the mountains could have scrambled over either of the trails. There were two of them, foot-wide tracks which climbed up and down steep hollows and twisted round great fallen trees, and she had stopped at the forking, though there was, she knew, very little to choose between them.
The bush was a little thinner just there, but she could see nothing beyond dim colonnades of towering trunks that were rapidly fading into the gloom. The cold was nipping, and she shivered when the breeze dropped a moment. The silence was startling, and she felt it almost a relief when a low crescendo murmur like the sound of distant surf rosefrom the pines as the wind awoke again. Then a puff of powdery snow stung her tingling cheeks, and she shook the bridle and turned the cayuse into the lower trail.
She had ridden to the mines at the head of the valley early in the afternoon, while her father walked by her stirrup, which, considering the nature of the trail, he had no difficulty in doing. Indeed, he had led, and now and then dragged, the horse up parts of it. There had, as not infrequently happened, been a dispute concerning the boundaries of a placer claim, and the commissioner had gone over to adjudicate. He was not a brilliant man, but he showed no one favour, and the whimsically expressed decisions which he apparently blundered upon gave general satisfaction and are still remembered in the Green River valley. It was also characteristic of him that he had saved more than one difficult situation, in which a logical exposition of the mining laws would probably have been unavailing, by a little free badinage.
In the meanwhile his daughter, whom he had bidden ride home, realized without any undue anxiety that it might be advisable to reach there as soon as she could. She was at home in the saddle, and rightly thought herself secure from any difficulty that might not be occasioned by the weather. The free miner is a somewhat chivalrous person, which is going far enough by way of appreciation, since the epithet which might suggest itself to those acquainted with his characteristics has little meaning in the land to which he belongs, where men have outgrown the need of meretricious titles. Still, when a thin white haze blotted out the dim colonnades and obscured the firs beside the trail she strove to quicken the cayuse's pace a trifle. The beast was apparently already doing what it could, clambering up slopes of gravel, sliding down them amidst a great clatter of stones, and turning and twisting amidst tangled undergrowth.
Now and then a drooping branch whipped the girl as shewent by or shook the snow that was gathering on it into her face, and the withered fern smote smears of white powder across her skirt. Winter was closing in earlier than any one had expected, and that night an Arctic cold descended suddenly upon the lonely valley. Her hands grew numb on the bridle, all sense of feeling seemed to go out of the foot in the stirrup, and at last it was with difficulty she pulled up the cayuse, which appeared as anxious to get home as she was. They had floundered round the spreading branches of a great fallen tree, and now there no longer appeared to be a trail beneath them.
Grace shivered all through as she looked about her. The pines were roaring in the sliding haze; the air was thick with dust, not flakes, of snow. Here and there she could dimly see a tree, but the white powder obscured her sight and stung her face when she lifted it. She could not remember having passed that fallen tree when riding out, nor could she recall how long it was since she had seen the narrow trail in front of her. Where it was now she did not know, but there was, at least, the sound of the river on one side of her, when she could hear it across the moaning of the trees. In heading for it she would probably strike the trail again, and once more she spoke to the cayuse and shook the bridle. She was becoming distinctly anxious now.
Then a hazy object appeared suddenly a few yards in front of her, and stopped at her cry, while in another moment Ingleby was standing by her stirrup, and her apprehensions melted away. It was significant that she was by no means astonished. She felt that it was only fitting that when she wanted him he should be there. The mere sight of his face, of which she caught a faint glimpse, was reassuring.
"Do you know that I am very glad I met you? Where is the trail?" she said.
Ingleby did not protest that it afforded him an equalgratification, and if he had done so it would probably not have pleased her. Grace was critical, and rather liked the reticence which was, it seemed, in harmony with his character—that is, since he had, fortunately, grown out of the evil habit of discussing social economics.
"I don't think it can be far away. In fact, I was Just trying to cut off a bend of it," he said, with a little laugh.
"It isn't exactly a pleasant night for a stroll through the bush," said Grace suggestively.
"No," replied Ingleby, who fell into the snare. "Still, you see, they were expecting me at the bakery."
Grace was by no means pleased at this. Certain observations Esmond had once let fall with a purpose had not been without their effect on her, and she remembered that the girl at the bakery was, it had to be admitted, pretty. It also appeared likely that she was what is now and then termed forward. Grace's displeasure, which she did not, of course, express, might, however, have been greater had there been any delay in the man's answer.
"Then if you will show me the trail I will not keep you. I am getting cold," she said.
Ingleby took the bridle, and he and the cayuse floundered through what appeared to be a horrible maze of fallen branches and tangled undergrowth. In fact, Grace fancied she heard her skirt rip as they struggled in it. Then the bush became a little clearer, and they went on more briskly, up and down steep slopes and past dim blurs of trees, while soil and gravel alike rang beneath the cayuse's feet. How long this continued Grace did not exactly know, nor had she any notion as to where they were. The only reassuring thing was the glimpse she had of Ingleby plodding on beside her horse's head, which was, however, quite sufficient. Still, civility demanded something, and at last she bade him stop.
"I'm afraid I must be taking you away from the bakery," she said.
Ingleby laughed. "I am, of course, not going there now."
That should have been sufficient, but Grace was not quite contented. Compliments on her beauty seldom pleased her, but she liked to feel the hold she had upon those she attracted, and was not averse to having it explained to her.
"No?" she said. "Then where are you going?"
Ingleby appeared a trifle astonished, as though he considered the question quite unnecessary, which was naturally gratifying.
"To the Gold Commissioner's residence," he said.
"With my permission?" and Grace laughed.
Ingleby did not look at her. He was apparently staring at the forest, which loomed through the whirling haze a faint blur of vanishing trees, and he flung the answer over his shoulder.
"I think I would venture to go without it to-night," he said.
This was significant, but although the snow was certainly getting thicker and the cold struck through her like an icy knife, Grace no longer felt any apprehension. She was not unaccustomed to physical discomfort and peril, and there could be, she felt, no doubt of her reaching home safely while Ingleby plodded at the horse's head. He was young, and by no means assertive, but there were men in the Green River valley who shared her confidence in him. Still, the rough flounder through the brushwood was becoming irksome, and where the trees were smaller she could not avoid all the drooping branches by swaying in the saddle, and at last she bade him pull up again.
"We are a long while striking the trail," she said.
"Yes," said Ingleby, without turning towards her.
Grace leaned down and touched him. "Why haven't we found it? I mean you to tell me."
The man made a little gesture, for he recognized that tone.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We have struck it, and didn't recognize it. In fact, we must have gone straight across and left it behind us."
Grace sat still and looked at him. She could not see his face; he was no more than a blurred shadowy shape in the haze of sliding snow. Still, she could make out that he was standing very straight with slightly tilted head, and she knew the intentness of gaze and look of tenacity in the hidden face which usually accompanied that attitude. His answer also pleased her. There was no attempt at concealing unpleasant probabilities, for the man spoke frankly as to one whom he regarded as his equal in courage and everything except, perhaps, bodily strength. In the meanwhile, however, they were alone in the wilderness, cut off from all hope of succour by anything but their own resources in a haze of snow, with their limbs slowly stiffening under the Arctic cold.
"Then what are we to do?" she asked.
"Push on," said Ingleby. "The river must be close at hand to the right of us. That is why I'm keeping to the higher ground. I don't want to strike until we have passed Alison's Sault."
He wrenched at the bridle; but Grace had faint misgivings as they floundered on again. Sault in that country implies a fall or rapid, and the one in question was called after a prospector who had drowned himself and a comrade there. It swept down to the mouth of the cañon in a wild white rush, studded with great boulders that bruised and scarred the pines the flood hurled down on them; and what made it more perilous in the dark was the fact that the trail dipped to the brink of the smaller rapids at the tail of it. Indeed, it was often necessary to splash knee-deep through the slack of them along the shore; and Alison had come by his death through mistaking the big sault for oneof the smaller ones on a black night. The man who fished him out of an eddy a week later said that Alison looked very much as though he had been put through a threshing mill.
It was, Grace fancied, half an hour later when they floundered down a declivity, with the roar of the river growing louder in their ears. It was with difficulty she kept in the saddle, and she was vaguely conscious that her skirt was rent to tatters, though she was too stiff and cold to trouble about that now. Even in the thicker timber the snow was almost bewildering, and it was only now and then she could see Ingleby scrambling and floundering in front of her. He was evidently making his course by sound, for there was nothing that she could discern to guide him.
Then somehow they slid down a bank, and there was a splash that told her the cayuse was in the water. Ingleby seemed to be struggling with the beast, but she could not make out why he did so. Nor did it seem of any moment. She was dazed and bewildered and intolerably cold. There was a further splashing, a plunge, and a flounder; the water rose to her stirrup, and for a few horrible moments she felt that the beast was going downstream with her. It was evident by the depth that they were in the Sault. She fancied she cried out in her terror and that Ingleby shouted in answer, but the roar of the river drowned the sound. In another few seconds, however, the horse apparently struck rock with its hoofs again; then the water that had lapped about her skirt seemed to fall away, and in a frantic scrambling Ingleby dragged the pony up the bank. The cayuse stood still, trembling, at the top of it, and Ingleby was apparently quivering, too, for his voice shook a little as he answered her half-coherent questions.
"Alison's Sault!" he said hoarsely. "It should have been behind us. I never recognized it until the river swept my feet from under me. I suppose I was dazed by the snow."
Grace sat silent a moment. She knew that they had looked death in the face, for nothing made of flesh and blood could carry the life in it through the mad turmoil of rock and flood in Alison's Sault. The roar of the river was very impressive now, and the man's voice had shown that he was shaken by some strong emotion which was not personal fear. Then, as the crash of a great pine against a stream-swept stone rang through the deep reverberations, she bent down and touched his shoulder. The contact was momentary, but she felt a little quiver run through him.
"Nobody could have recognized it on such a night. It was not your fault," she said.
"I can't forgive myself. The cayuse got out of hand—I couldn't hold him. He was heading out into the stream. If that ledge hadn't been there——"
He stopped with a gasp, and Grace was glad to recognize that of the two she was the one who showed less concern. She guessed what he was feeling, but could not restrain the desire to make certain.
"Well," she said. "If the shelf of rock had not been there?"
Ingleby turned and seemed to be listening to the river. Perhaps he did it unconsciously, but the hoarse roar of the flood among the boulders was sufficient answer.
"You were not cumbered with a horse that had lost its head. There is a little slack close to the bank," she said.
The man turned and seemed by his attitude to be gazing at her in astonishment.
"You can't suppose I should have scrambled out alone?" he said.
There was a suggestion of anger in his voice which Grace recognized as wholly genuine. She had met and formed her own opinion of the protestations of not a few young men in her time, and it was evident to her that, while Ingleby's attitude became him, he did not recognize the fact.
"You felt yourself responsible then?" she suggested.
"No," said the man slowly. "I certainly didn't; though it's clear that I was. I don't think I felt anything except that—you—were in the rapid."
This was also evidently perfectly sincere, but he seemed to pull himself up abruptly, and laughed in a fashion that suggested embarrassment.
"You will not remember that little speech. It's not the kind of thing one is pleased with afterwards; but, in the circumstances, it was, perhaps, excusable," he said.
He gave her no opportunity for answering, but struck the cayuse, and they went on again. Still, Grace had noticed the tremor in his voice, and knew that he had meant exactly what he said. Nor was she displeased at it.
Then the thoughts and fancies which the moment of peril had galvanized into activity grew blurred again, and she was only sensible of the physical pain and weariness and an intolerable cold, as the man and beast stumbled on. Twice again they dipped to the river, which, however, scarcely rose to his knee, and after that there was only a sliding past of snow-dimmed trees, while by a grim effort she kept herself in the saddle. Then at last a light blinked in front of her through the filmy haze, the cayuse stopped, and Ingleby, it seemed, lifted her down. At least, she felt his arm about her, and then found herself standing beside him before the commissioner's dwelling without any very clear notion of how she came there. It was only afterwards she remembered, with tingling cheeks, how she had seen a miner walk away with a one-hundred-and-forty-pound bag of flour. Then they went into a lighted room together, and stood still, gasping, a moment, with a distressful dizziness creeping over both of them. Ingleby apparently roused himself with an effort, and threw the door open.
"Keep away from the stove," he said, a trifle faintly. "There's a chair yonder."
He stood in the entrance, white with snow, looking ather. The blood was in her head now, and a most unpleasant tingling ran through her half-frozen limbs, but Ingleby was a trifle grey in face.
"You can shut the door in another minute or two. I may come back to-morrow to make sure you are none the worse?" he asked.
Grace looked at him with a smile. "You can't go away now."
Ingleby turned and glanced at the whirling haze that swept athwart the light in the veranda.
"I'm afraid I must," he said. "It would be difficult to get off the trail as far as the bakery, and there is apparently nothing I can do for you here. Somebody lighted the fire?"
"One of the police troopers," said Grace. "That doesn't matter. It is snowing harder than ever. You can't go away."
She had brushed aside the dictates of conventionality, and the blood was in her face and a curious sparkle in her eyes. They had been close to death together a little while ago, and it was a long way to the bakery. Still, it was not this fact alone that impelled her to bid him stay.
"I'm afraid I must," he said slowly, as with an effort. "You see, there is something I have to talk over with Leger. He expects me. Besides, it would be advisable to send back any of the boys who may be there to see what has become of the major."
Then he turned abruptly, and Grace, who had scarcely remembered the major, laughed curiously when he went out of the door. She knew now, at least, exactly what she felt for Ingleby, and had he stayed and declared boldly what his wishes were, it is probable that Coulthurst would have been astonished when he came home. Ingleby, however, had gone away, and the girl was left standing, flushed in face, with the melting snow dripping from her,beside the stove, which she remembered with some little satisfaction was precisely what he had told her not to do. Then with a little disdainful gesture she swept into the adjoining room.
A keen frost had followed the snow, but there was warmth and a brightness in the little inner room of the Gold Commissioner's house. Its log walls and double casements kept out the stinging cold, the stove snapped and crackled, and a big lamp diffused a cheerful light. Ingleby, who had just come in, sat with his back to the logs, with Coulthurst and Grace opposite him. Grace was in the shadow, but the light shone full upon the major's weather-darkened face.
"Grace," he said, "is, as you can see, none the worse, but it was a fortunate thing you turned up when you did. Very much obliged to you for taking such good care of her."
It was evident to Ingleby that Coulthurst did not know what had nearly happened at Alison's Sault. He had, in fact, already had reasons for surmising that Miss Coulthurst did not think it advisable to tell her father everything.
"I'm not sure it wouldn't have been better if I had not met Miss Coulthurst, sir," he said. "In that case she would probably have gone back, and waited with you until daylight, which would have saved you both a good deal of anxiety. Of course, when we made up our minds to push on, I had no idea the snow would be so bad."
"It's questionable whether she could have found the way. I could see nothing whatever, and scarcely fancyI would have got here if two of the older prospectors hadn't come with me. In fact, I scarcely remember a worse night anywhere, and one result of it is an unpleasant twinge in the shoulder. I never used to get anything of that kind. I suppose I'm getting old."
It occurred to Ingleby that Coulthurst was certainly looking older than he had done in England. There was a good deal of grey in his hair, his cheeks were hollower, and there were deepening lines about his eyes. Ingleby felt sorry for the man, who had served his nation for so small a reward, that after a life of hardship he must bear the burden still, and yet the fact was in one respect encouraging. Since Coulthurst's means were scanty, there was less probability of his objecting too strenuously to the successful miner who aspired to his daughter's hand; and, though not so rich as the one Ingleby had thrown away, Tomlinson's claim was yielding well. He, however, said nothing, and Coulthurst went on again.
"A devil of a night! It would be hard on any one in the ranges. I wonder where Tomlinson could have gone?"
"One would naturally expect him to head for the settlements," said Ingleby indifferently.
"He left no trail behind him if he did. At least, Esmond's troopers couldn't find any. There was, however, a good deal it is difficult to understand about the affair. One point that would strike anybody is how Tomlinson got away from here without being seen by Esmond, who turned up almost as he must have gone off the veranda."
"It really is a trifle hard to understand, sir."
They looked at each other steadily for a moment or two, and then Ingleby could have fancied that there was a twinkle in Coulthurst's eyes.
"Perhaps it was as well he got away after all," he said. "Appearances were against him, and it might have gone hard with him; but I can't quite bring myself to believe that Tomlinson did the thing."
Then Grace, who laughed softly, broke in. "Of course," she said, "you tried very hard."
A moment later there was a tramp of feet outside, and the major, who passed into the outer room, came back in a minute or two. He smiled at Ingleby somewhat drily.
"It isn't news of Tomlinson," he said. "Noel has brought the Frenchman over. They've been burrowing into each other's claims, and if I can't straighten the thing out they'll probably settle their differences in their own way with the shovel. I shall probably be half an hour over it, but don't go."
He went out, and left Ingleby with Grace. She looked none the worse for the journey she had made the previous night, and was dressed with unusual simplicity. Ingleby did not know what the fabric was, or whether the colour was blue or grey, nor did it occur to him that its severe simplicity was the result of skill; but he noticed that it enhanced the girl's beauty and added a suggestion of stateliness to her figure, of which Miss Coulthurst was probably quite aware. She looked up at him with a little smile when a murmur of excited voices rose from the adjoining room.
"They will, of course, both be disgusted with his decision, whatever it is," she said. "A Gold Commissioner has really a good deal to put up with."
"Major Coulthurst's position is naturally a responsible one," said Ingleby.
Grace laughed. "With a very disproportionate emolument—which is a point one has to consider after all. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been better if he had been a prospector."
Ingleby's pulse throbbed a trifle faster. He had no great knowledge of the gentler sex; but he was not a fool, and it seemed to him that the girl had not spoken altogether without a purpose.
"I don't think you really believe that," he said.
"Perhaps I don't," and Grace appeared to reflect. "At least, I suppose I shouldn't have done so once, but, of course, a prospector who has done sufficiently well for himself can take any place that pleases him in Canada."
"Still, you don't think that right."
"It would naturally depend a good deal upon the prospector."
Ingleby sat still, almost too still, in fact, for a moment or two; but he could not hide the little gleam in his eyes. He had, it is true, democratic views, that is, so far as everybody but Grace Coulthurst was concerned; but he was quite willing to admit that she was a being of a very different and much higher order than his own. That added to the attraction she had for him; and now she had suggested that they were, after all, more or less on the same level. It was almost disconcerting. He did not know what to make of it; but while he pondered over it she flashed a quick glance at him.
"I wonder if you know how Tomlinson got away?" she asked.
It was apparently an astonishingly abrupt change of subject, but when Ingleby, who had grown wiser in the meanwhile, afterwards recalled that night, he was less sure that it might not have been, after all, part of an instinctive continuity of policy. He had discovered by then that even very charming and ingenuous women not infrequently have a policy.
"I don't mind admitting that I do—to you," he said.
Grace was pleased and showed it. It is gratifying to feel that anybody has complete confidence in one, and the possession of a common secret of some importance is not infrequently a bond between the two who share it. Ingleby realized this and felt with a curious gratification that the girl recognized it as clearly as he did. Still, she had said nothing that could lead him to believe so.
"Then you no doubt know where he went?" she asked.
"I naturally know that, too."
Grace smiled. "That means you helped him to get away. Are you wise in admitting that you were an accessory? Captain Esmond is a friend of ours."
Ingleby made her a little whimsical inclination, though there was a look in his eyes which was not quite in keeping with it.
"I am," he said, "quite safe in your hands."
It was a fortunate answer, and worth the more because he was not usually a very tactful person, as the girl was aware. She was afflicted by a craving for influence, and it was not the adulation of men she wanted, but an insight into their thoughts and purposes, and the privilege of controlling them. Thus Ingleby, who did not know it, could not have done more wisely than he did in admitting that he had an unquestioning confidence in her. He was, as she had discovered some time ago, in spite of his simplicity, a man capable of bold conceptions and resolute execution, the type of man, in fact, that usually came to the front in Western Canada. She had the intelligence to realize and weigh all this, and yet there was a strain of passion in her which he had awakened.
"I almost think you are," she said. "How is the new claim progressing?"
"Reasonably well. In fact, although Sewell is apparently getting rich on the one I threw away, I can't complain. What he makes will, at least, be spent on what he thinks is doing good, while I want mine for my own selfish purposes."
"They are necessarily selfish?"
Ingleby laughed, though the little glow crept into his eyes again. "Well," he said, "I suppose so. You see, a third-share in Tomlinson's claim is not of itself of much value to me. It only provides the money to make a start with."
Grace nodded comprehendingly. He was crude in his mode of expression, but she understood him.
"That implies a going on?" she asked.
"It does," and Ingleby laughed. "There is room, I think, in this Province for men who will take big risks, and boldly stake what they have on the advancement of its prosperity. I'm not sure there is any reason I shouldn't be one of them."
"And gather in the money? More than you are entitled to? Haven't you been changing your opinions?"
Ingleby made a little whimsical gesture, which alone sufficed to show that he had, as the girl expressed it to herself, expanded.
"I suppose I have—that is, I have modified them. One has to now and then," he said. "Still, you see, the men I mean don't grind money out of others. They create it. They take hold of the wilderness, bridge the rivers, drive the roads through it, and the ranches and the orchards follow. Every man who makes a new home in the waste owes a little to them."
"Still, all that is not done easily. One must have the faith—and, as you suggest, the money with which to make the start. Even then the ladder is hard to climb."
Ingleby involuntarily glanced down at his hands, and the girl noticed the scars on them, which, however, did not repel her. She also noticed the spareness of his frame, the curious transparency of his darkened skin, and the brightness of his eyes, all significant of an intensity of bodily effort. The man had been purged of grossness, moral and physical, by toil in icy water and scorching sun, and the light that shone out through his eyes was the brighter for the hardships he had undergone. He had gained more than vigour while he swung the shovel and gripped the drill with hands that bled from the blundering hammer stroke, after other men's work was done. It is possible that he had also gained more than tenacity of will.
"Still," he said slowly, "I think I shall manage it."
Grace felt that this was likely. She realized the purpose which animated him, and there suddenly came upon her a desire that he should tell it to her. She knew that he would do so when he felt the time was ripe; but she wished to hear it now, or, at least, to see how far his reticence would carry him. She leaned forward a little and looked him steadily in the eyes.
"It will be a struggle," she said. "Is it worth while?"
Ingleby stirred uneasily beneath her gaze, for it seemed to him that she had brushed aside every distinction there might be between them. He did not know how she had conveyed this impression, but he felt it. She was also very close to him. As she moved, the hem of her skirt had touched him, and he felt the blood tingle in his veins.
"It would be worth dying for," he said.
Grace laughed in a curious fashion. "The money, and the envy of less fortunate men?"
Ingleby stood up suddenly, though he scarcely knew why he did so, or how it came about that he yielded with scarcely a struggle now to the impulse that swept him away. It is, however, possible that Grace Coulthurst, who had only looked at him, understood the reason.
"Success would be worth nothing without another thing," he said. "Like what I have already, the money wouldn't be mine, you see. I am not poor now—but I should never have held on here by any strength of purpose that was in me alone. I borrowed it from another person."
He stopped abruptly, half-afraid, wondering what had happened to him that the truth should be wrung from him in this fashion. Then he saw the clear rose colour creep into the girl's cheeks and the sudden softening of her eyes, and his courage came back to him. He had ventured too far to be silent now.
"Yes," he said, "there is somebody I owe everything to—and it's you."
Grace do longer looked at him, but sat still now with hands clasped on her knees, and Ingleby felt the silence becoming intolerable. There was still a murmur of voices in the adjoining room, and he could hear the wind outside moaning among the pines.
"I suppose I have offended past forgiveness. I did not mean to tell you this to-night," he said.
Grace looked up for a moment. "Oh," she said softly, "I think I knew—and you see I am not blaming you."
Ingleby quivered visibly, and his face grew hot; but while the desire to kneel beside her and seize the clasped hands was almost irresistible, he stood still, looking gravely down upon her, which was, perhaps, not wise of him.
"You knew?" he said.
"Is that so difficult to understand, after what happened at Alison's Sault?"
Ingleby bent down and took one of her hands, but he did it very gently, though the signs of the fierce restraint he laid upon himself were in his face.
"I should never have told you, Grace—I lost my head," he said. "Still, the one hope that has led me so far, and will, I think, lead me farther, has been that I might—one day when the time was ripe—induce you to listen, and not send me away. Now it must be sufficient that you are not angry. I can take no promise from you."
"Is it worth so little?" Grace said softly.
Ingleby's grasp tightened on her hand until it grew almost painful. "It would," he said, "be worth everything to me, but I dare not take it now. What I am, you know—but the claim is yielding well—and I only want a little time. Until I can ask Major Coulthurst for you boldly you must be free."
Grace looked up at him. "And you?"
"I," said Ingleby with a little grave smile, "was your very willing bondsman ever so long ago."
The hot flush had faded from his face, and the girlswept her skirt aside, and made room for him beside her. There was, she knew, no fear of his again breaking through the restraint he had laid upon himself. She was, however, not altogether pleased at this, for while it was evident that his attitude was warranted, the self-command which now characterized it was not quite what she had expected. It scarcely appeared natural under the circumstances.
"Well," she said, "we will let it be so, and I have something to tell you. I am going to Vancouver for the winter. In fact, I should have left already but for the snow."
Ingleby started visibly. "You are going away?"
"Yes," said Grace, with a trace of dryness in her smile; "is that very dreadful? You will go away in due time, too. While you struggle for what you think will buy my favour,Imust wait patiently."
"I suppose I have deserved it," and Ingleby winced. "Still, it will be horribly hard to let you go. It is a good deal to know that you are here even when I may not see you."
Grace smiled. "Well," she said, "if that would afford you any great satisfaction, is there any reason why you should not go to Vancouver too? Most of the placer miners do."
Ingleby's glance at her suggested that the notion had not occurred to him. Regular work at the mine would be out of the question until the spring came round again, and already several of the men were talking of leaving the valley. He could also readily afford to spend a few months in Vancouver now. Still, there was one insuperable obstacle.
"If I had only kept my claim!" he said. "It is horribly unfortunate I let it go."
"How does that affect the question?"
"I made a compact with Tomlinson to hold his claim for him."
Once more the colour crept into Grace's face. "You donot mean to let that stop you when there are men you could hire to do what the law requires?"
"You don't seem to understand," and there was a trace of astonishment in Ingleby's eyes. "One could not depend absolutely upon them, and I made a bargain with Tomlinson. That claim is worth everything to him and his mother—I think it is—back in Oregon."
The flush grew plainer in Grace's cheek. She was a trifle imperious, and now her will had clashed with one that was as resolute as it. She was, however, sensible that she had blundered.
"Those men could do almost as much as you could, which would, after all, be very little just now," she said. "I never meant that you should risk the claim falling in."
"They might fall sick, or get hurt."
"And that might happen to you."
"I should, at least, have kept my word to Tomlinson," said Ingleby gravely.
Grace was too proud to persist. He was right, of course, but the fact that he would sooner part from her than incur the slightest risk of breaking faith with Tomlinson had nevertheless its sting. That, however, she would not show.
"Then I suppose I must not complain," she said. "You evidently have no intention of doing so."
Ingleby made a little gesture. "It will be hard—but it can't be helped," he replied. "As you said, I must go away too one day. Still, I think that I, at least, will feel by and by that it was all worth while."
Then there was a tramp of feet in the adjoining room, and he raised the hand he held and just touched it with his lips. It was not what Grace would have expected from him, but she noticed that he did not do it awkwardly.
"That is all I ask until I have won my spurs," he said. "Just now I am only the squire of low degree."
Grace said nothing, for the door opened and the major came in.
It was a bitterly cold night, and Hetty Leger sat close to the fire which crackled on the big hearth in the bakery shanty. It flung an uncertain radiance and pungent aromatic odours about the little room, but there was no other light. Kerosene is unpleasantly apt to impart its characteristic flavour to provisions when jolted for leagues in company with them on the same pack-saddle, and the bringing of stores of any kind into the Green River country was then a serious undertaking. Tom Leger sat by the little table, and Sewell lay upon a kind of ottoman ingeniously extemporized out of spruce-twigs and provision bags.
It was significant that they were assembled in what had been Hetty's private apartment, for the bakery had grown, and there were two other rooms attached to it now. Leger had also struck gold a little while ago, and there was no longer any necessity for Hetty to continue baking, though she did so. She said she had grown used to it, and would sooner have something to do; but it had seemed to Leger that while everything was done with her customary neatness and system there was a change in her, and he fancied she did her work more to keep herself occupied than because she took pleasure in it. It had not been so once. In fact, the change had only become perceptible after Ingleby left the bakery; but Leger was wise in some respects and made no sign that he noticed this.
On that particular evening Hetty had not displayed her usual tranquillity of temper, and she turned to her brother with a little shiver.
"Can't you put on some more wood? It's disgustingly cold," she said. "If I'd known they had weather like this here I'd have stayed in Vancouver."
Leger remembered that she had once professed herself perfectly contented with the Green River country, but he did not think it advisable to mention the fact. He rose and flung an armful of wood upon the fire, and then stood still smiling.
"You know you can go back there and stay through the winter, if you would like to," he said.
"That's nonsense," said Hetty. "How could I go myself? You and your friends haven't made everybody nice to everybody yet. I'm not going, anyway, and if you worry me I'll be cross."
She looked up sharply and saw that Sewell's face was unnaturally grave.
"Of course," she said, "you were grinning at Tom a moment ago. Still, I can't help it if I am a very little cross just now. It's the cold—and Tom spoiled the last batch of bread. It is cold, isn't it? If it hadn't been, we shouldn't have seen you."
"I don't know why you should seem so sure of that," said Sewell.
Hetty looked at him sharply. "Well," she said, "I am. You would have gone on to the major's. You know you would. What do you go there so often for?"
Sewell had occasionally found Hetty's questions disconcerting, but he saw that she expected an answer.
"I am rather fond of chess," he said.
Hetty smiled incredulously. "That's rubbish!"
"The major, at least, likes a game, and after pulling him back into this wicked world from the edge of a gully one naturally feel that he owes him a little."
"You didn't pull him. It was Walter. Hadn't you better try again?"
Sewell appeared a trifle embarrassed, for he saw that Leger was becoming interested.
"It is, to some extent, my business to understand the habits of the ruling classes," he said reflectively. "You see, it's almost necessary. Unless I know a little about them, how can I persuade anybody how far they are beneath us, as I'm expected to do?"
Hetty laughed. "Well," she said, "you haven't tried to do anything of that kind for a long while now. Anyway, it seems to me that you knew a good deal about them before you ever saw Major Coulthurst. Of course, it's not my business, but if I were the major I'd make you tell me exactly what you were going there for."
Sewell apparently did not relish this, though he laughed. It happens occasionally that those most concerned in what is going on are the last to notice it, and it had not occurred to Coulthurst or Ingleby that Sewell spent his evenings at the Gold Commissioner's dwelling frequently. He had, however, not often met Ingleby there, and it was significant that neither of them ever mentioned Grace Coulthurst to the other. In any case, Sewell did not answer, and while they sat silent there was a tramp of feet outside and the corporal came in. He was a taciturn and somewhat unsociable man, but he smiled as he looked at Hetty and sat down where the rude chimney Tomlinson had built was between him and the one small window.
"It's a bitter night, and there's 'most four foot of snow on the range. I figured I'd look in to tell you it will be two or three days yet before you get the flour the folks at the settlements are sending up," he said. "A trooper has just come in with the mail, and he left the freighter and his beasts held up by the snow."
He stopped a moment, and looked at Leger somewhat curiously. "Somebody has just gone away?"
"No," said Leger. "We have had nobody here. We are expecting Ingleby, but he hasn't turned up yet."
"Quite sure he's not outside there?"
"It's scarcely likely. It's a little too cold for anybody to stay outside when he needn't. Ingleby would certainly come in."
"Well," said the corporal, "I guess I didn't see anybody, after all. It was quite dark, anyway, in among the trees. Winter's shutting down on us 'most a month before it should have done. It's kind of fortunate we sent the horses out when we did. I don't know what they wanted to bring them for. Nobody has any use for horses in this country."
It was evident that the worthy corporal was bent on getting away from what he felt to be an awkward topic, and Hetty laughed outright at his quite unnecessary delicacy.
"No," she said, "you know you saw somebody, and fancied it was one of the boys waiting to see me."
The corporal appeared embarrassed, but was wise enough not to involve himself further. "Well," he said, "when I was coming along the trail I saw a man slip in behind a cedar. That kind of struck me as not the usual thing, and I went round the other way to meet him. It was quite a big tree, and when I got around he wasn't there. You keep the dust you get for the bread in the shanty, Leger?"
"Yes," said Leger. "Most of the boys who come here know where it is. I really don't think there is any reason why they shouldn't, either."
"No," said the corporal reflectively, "I guess there isn't. I'll say that for them. Still, I did see somebody."
He contrived to glance round at the faces of the rest, unnoticed by any of them except Hetty, and was satisfied that they knew no more than he did. The corporal had been a long while a policeman, and had quick perceptions. He decided to look into the matter later.
"Well," he said, "I guess it's not worth worrying over."
He drew a little closer to the fire, and nobody said anything for a minute or two, though Hetty glanced towards the little window. The room was dim except when a blaze sprang up, and turning suddenly she stirred the fire, and then, for no very apparent reason, set herself to listen. The bush outside was very still, and she could hear the frost-dried snow fall softly from a branch. Then there was a sharp snapping of resinous wood in the fire, and it was not until that died away she heard a sound again. It was very faint, and suggested a soft crunching down of powdery snow. Nobody else seemed to hear it, not even the corporal, who was apparently examining a rent in his tunic just then, and she had almost persuaded herself that she had fancied it when she glanced towards the window again. A flickering blaze was roaring up the chimney now.
Then a little shiver ran through her, and closing her hands tight she stared at the glass in horror. A face was pressed against it, a drawn, grey face that seemed awry with pain. There was, however, something that reminded her of somebody in it, and she was about to cry out when she felt a hand laid restrainingly on her arm. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that her brother was also gazing at the window, and then she knew suddenly to whom the face belonged. It had gone when she looked round again, and it was evident that neither Sewell nor the corporal had seen it. Unfortunately, it appeared very unlikely that the man outside could have seen the latter, and she knew that something must be done, or in another moment or two Prospector Tomlinson would walk into the arms of the policeman. Leger appeared incapable of suggesting anything and was gazing at her with apprehension in his eyes.
It was a singularly unpleasant moment. Hetty was aware that she and her brother owed Tomlinson a good deal, and, in any case, it would be particularly distasteful to see him arrested. She was also by no means certain that her brother and Sewell would permit it, and the corporalwas a heavily-built man. It very seldom happens that a Northwest policeman lets a prisoner go; and Hetty was quite aware that the result of a struggle might be disastrous to everybody. She realized this in a flash, and then there was a sound of shuffling feet outside in the snow. They were approaching the doorway, and she knew it would be flung open in another moment or two. Then the inspiration came suddenly.
"There's somebody outside," she said, and laughed as she noticed the bewildered consternation in her brother's eyes. "If it's Ingleby I don't think I'll let him in."
Her voice was almost as steady as usual, and apparently Leger alone noticed the suggestion of strain in it, while next moment she crossed the room and threw the door open. It was narrow, however, and she stood carefully in the middle of it.
"You're not coming in, Walter, until you cut some wood," she said. "You never touched the axe the last time you came."
Hetty's nerve almost failed her during the next few moments, and she felt the throbbing of her heart while the man the others could not see blinked at her stupidly. She dare venture no plainer warning, and he was apparently dazed with cold and weariness.
"I'm not going to stand here. It's too cold," she said. "If you're too lazy to do what I tell you, I'll ask the corporal."
Then she banged the door to, and went back to her seat with a little laugh that sounded slightly hollow to her brother, at least.
"If there's one thing Walter doesn't like it's chopping wood—and that's why I wouldn't let him off," she said. "He hasn't troubled to come round and see me for a week. I'm vexed with him."
Now, the corporal was, of course, aware that throughout most of Western Canada visitors to a homestead not infrequently lighten their hostess's labour by washing the dishes or carrying wood. In the case of the miners, who were pleased to spend an hour at the bakery, chopping wood for the oven was the most obvious thing, though those specially favoured were now and then permitted to weigh out flour or knead the bread. There was thus nothing astonishing in what Hetty had apparently said to Ingleby, nor did Sewell, who provoked the corporal into an attempt to prove that the troopers' carbine was a more efficient weapon than the miners' Marlin rifle, appear to notice anything unusual, and only Leger saw that Hetty's colour was fainter than it had been and that she was quivering a little.
In the meanwhile there was a tramp of feet outside, which grew less distinct, until the ringing chunk of the axe replaced it, and Leger wondered how he could make Sewell understand that it was desirable to cut the discussion short. He could think of no means of doing it and glanced at Hetty anxiously, for how long the corporal meant to stay was becoming a somewhat momentous question. A man accustomed to the axe can split a good deal of wood in ten minutes, even when he works by moonlight; and it was evident that the one outside could not continue his chopping indefinitely without the corporal's wondering what was keeping him.
Ten minutes passed, and the regular thud of the axe rang through the forest outside, while the corporal, who was a persistent man, still discussed extractors and magazine springs. Leger felt the tension becoming intolerable. Then Hetty contrived to catch Sewell's attention, and, looking at him steadily, set her lips tight. The corporal had, as it happened, turned from the girl; but she saw a gleam of comprehension in Sewell's eyes.
"Well," he said reflectively, "I suppose you are right. I like the easier pull-off of the American rifles. One is less apt to shake the sights off the mark, but no doubt withmen accustomed to the handling of rifled weapons, as the police troopers are, the little extra pull required is no great matter."
The corporal was evidently gratified. "I've shown quite a few men they were wrong on that point, and now I guess I must be getting on. You'll excuse me, Miss Leger?"
He put on his fur-coat and opened the door, but Hetty's heart throbbed again when he stopped a moment. As it happened, the fire was flashing brilliantly, and the corporal appeared to be looking down at the footprints by the threshold.
"I've seen Ingleby twice since the snow came, and he was wearing gum-boots," he said. "The man who was outside here had played-out leather ones on."
"Walter has an old pair he wore until lately," said Leger. "There's a good deal of sharp grit in the Tomlinson mine, and he'd probably come along in the boots he went down in."
This appeared reasonable, and the corporal made a little gesture as though to show that he concurred in it, and then, stepping forward, disappeared into the night. Sewell rose and shut the door, and then glanced at Hetty, who stood quivering a little in the middle of the room.
"I fancy one of you has something to tell me," he said.
Hetty gasped. "Oh," she said, "I thought he meant to stay until morning! It was getting awful, Tom."
Then she looked at Sewell. "Don't you know?" she said. "It's Tomlinson."
"Now," said Sewell, whose astonishment was evident, "I think I understand. There can scarcely be many girls capable of doing what you have done."
Hetty made a little sign of impatience. "Yes, there are—lots of them. Of course, you think all women are silly—you're only a man. Besides, Tom pinched me. But why are you stopping here and talking? Go and bring him."
Both Leger and Sewell went, and Tomlinson came backwith them. He was haggard and ragged, and his thin jean garments were hard with the frozen snow-dust. He dropped into the nearest chair and blinked at them.
"Yes," he said, "I'm here and 'most starving. Get me something to eat, and I'll try to tell you."
They gave him what they had, and he ate ravenously, while Hetty's eyes softened as she watched him.
"You have had a hard time?" she said.
"Yes," answered the man slowly, "I guess I had. I got stuck up in the range. Couldn't make anything of the gorge in the loose snow. Tried to crawl up over the ice track and dropped through. Burst the pack-straps getting out, and don't know where most of the grub and one blanket went to. It was the bigger packet. That was why I had to come back. I don't quite know how I made the valley."
"When did you lose the grub?" asked Sewell.
Tomlinson shook his head. "I don't quite know," he said. "I guess it must have been 'most three weeks ago."
Leger looked at Sewell, for that was quite sufficient to give point to the bald narrative.
"What was in the smaller package would scarcely keep a man in health a week," he said. "I'm not going to keep you talking, Tomlinson, but—although it's fortunate you did so—why did you stop outside instead of coming in?"
"I saw a man," said Tomlinson. "I figured it wouldn't be wise to show myself until I was sure of him. Then when I crawled up to the shanty I didn't seem to remember anything. I only wanted to get in."
He stopped, and looked at Leger. "I can't push on to-night—I'm 'most used-up, but I'm not going to stay here and make trouble for you. I'll light out again to-morrow."
"You are going to lie down and sleep now," said Hetty severely. "We'll decide what is the wisest thing to do to-morrow, but you shan't leave the shanty for a day ortwo, anyway. No, I'm not going to listen to anything. He's to sleep in the store, Tom."
Tomlinson appeared desirous of protesting, but Leger laid a hand on his shoulder and led him into an outbuilt room.
The early Canadian supper had been cleared away, and Sewell was sitting with Grace Coulthurst opposite him by the little stove in the inner room of the Gold Commissioner's dwelling, as he had done somewhat frequently of late. The major was apparently occupied with his business in the adjoining room, for they could hear a rustle of papers, and now and then the shutting of a book, through the door, which stood partly open. He closed one a trifle noisily, and the next moment his voice reached them.
"This thing has kept me longer than I expected, but I must get it finished before I stop. Esmond's sending a trooper off first thing to-morrow," he said. "Still, I shall not be much longer, and then we'll get out the chess."
Coulthurst had spoken loudly, and as Sewell and Grace did not raise their voices it appeared probable that he could not hear what they were saying. Sewell smiled as he glanced at the girl.
"I am not particularly impatient, or sorry for Major Coulthurst, though one could fancy that his dislike of official correspondence is quite as strong as his fondness for chess. He knows exactly what he has to do, and does it without having to trouble about the results, which in his case concern the Crown. That naturally simplifies one's outlook."
"The major," said Grace reflectively, "has arrived atan age when one does not expect too much, and is content with the obvious, which is certainly an advantage."
"And we, being younger, are different in that respect?"
Grace was a trifle disconcerted, which occasionally happened when Sewell talked to her, though she looked at him with a little smile in her eyes. It was, at least, not very clear to her why she found it pleasant to discuss such questions with him in a confidential voice when she had, to all intents and purposes, plighted herself to Ingleby. Sewell was always deferential, but there was something in his attitude which suggested personal admiration for her, though she was not quite sure that the vague word "liking" was not a little nearer the mark. How far that liking went she did not know, but while she had no intention of allowing it in any way to prejudice her regard for Ingleby, Sewell was, she knew, of subtler and more complex nature, and the craving for influence was strong in her. She knew what, under any given circumstances, Ingleby would probably do, and though this was satisfactory in one respect it had its disadvantages. She had long been troubled with a fondness for probing into masculine thoughts and emotions, and it pleased her to find an opportunity for directing them, which was not often afforded her in Ingleby's case. His programme was usually cut and dried, and it was, as a rule, an almost exasperatingly simple one.
"I suppose we are," she said. "When I know what is expected of me, I usually want to do something else."
Now Sewell was not aware how matters stood between her and his comrade, but he might have guessed what she was thinking, for his next remark was curiously apposite.
"I'm not sure that the obvious people are not the most fortunate," he said, with a little laugh. "They know exactly what they want, which not infrequently means that what they have to do to get it is equally plain. It must necessarily save them a good many perplexities.Now take the case of my very obvious comrade, Ingleby."
"Well?"
"Ingleby wants to make a fortune placer mining."
"Which is, from your point of view, a most reprehensible thing!"
Sewell laughed. "That is not quite the point. Perhaps he means to do good with it, and it ought to be quite plain that Ingleby has no real sympathy with Communist notions. In any case, he sets about it in the simplest fashion by working most of every day and often half the night as well. The result is that he has acquired what is apparently a competence and is more or less contented with everything. Any one can see it in the way he looks at you lately."
Grace smiled, for it was evident that there were directions in which Sewell's penetration was defective.
"The fortune will probably come later," she said. "And then—"
"Yes," said Sewell, with a little gesture of comprehension. "Since he has made his mind up, he will, I fancy, manage that, too. Ingleby is that kind of person. Then, if he does not do so sooner, he will naturally marry Hetty Leger."
Grace turned to him sharply and then directed his attention to the fact that the door at the bottom of the stove admitted rather too much draught. He was a moment or two adjusting it, and when he looked up again she was smiling indifferently.
"You are sure of that?" she said.
"I think so. Ingleby invariably does the obvious thing, and she is eminently suited to him. I'm not sure he recognizes it yet; but it will certainly become evident, and then he will save himself and everybody trouble by marrying her off-hand."
Grace sat silent for almost a minute. It was perfectlyclear that Sewell did not know what his comrade's aspirations were, even as Ingleby did not know how far her acquaintance with Sewell went. She was not altogether displeased that it should be so, though she felt that it would, after all, make no great change in their relations to each other had they been aware. She did not desire Sewell as a lover, though it was pleasant to feel that he valued her approbation and that she had his confidence.
"There are, of course, advantages in doing the obvious thing," she said, with a little laugh. "I suppose we are really different from Ingleby in that respect?"
Sewell looked at her reflectively. "I think you are. One could almost fancy you wanted so many things that you couldn't quite decide which was the most important and give up the rest. The difficulty is that we can't very often have them all, you see."
It seemed to Grace that there was some truth in this. "You," she said, "speak feelingly—as though it were from sympathy."
"Well," said Sewell, with a curious little smile, "perhaps I do. In fact, I'm not sure I'm not diagnosing my own case. A little while ago I had a purpose and believed in it, though the belief naturally cost me a good deal."
"The creation of a new Utopia out of the wreck of the present social fabric?" asked Grace, a trifle maliciously.
"Something of the kind, though I did not expect to do it all myself. While I was sure the thing was feasible, the fact that I was, or so I felt, taking a little share in bringing it about was sufficient for me. Now, however, I am not quite so sure on any point as I used to be, which is why I often envy Ingleby."
Grace felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He had, of course, spoken vaguely; but she wondered how far she was responsible for the change in the opinions which he had held until a little while ago. She knew that he had borne a good deal because of them, for Ingleby had told her so.
"Then there may be a little good in a few of our institutions as they stand?" she said.
"Of course!" answered Sewell, who smiled again. "Most of them are, however, capable of improvement. I am quite as sure of that as ever. The question is, whether anybody would gain much if it were effected too rudely."
Grace was not greatly interested in the point. She preferred a more personal topic, but she saw an opportunity for trying how far her influence went. It had been a trifle painful to find that Ingleby had not yielded to it when she had desired him to spend the winter in Vancouver and leave somebody else to hold Tomlinson's claim. Sewell was, she recognized, a cleverer man than he, and it would be consoling if he showed himself more amenable.
"I think not—at least, so far as anybody in the Green River country is concerned," she said. "It seems to me that its tranquillity depends a good deal on you."
"On me?"
Grace smiled. "Of course! You know it as well as I do. Wouldn't it be better for your friends to put up with a few little grievances rather than run the risk of bringing a worse thing upon themselves?"
"Would we do that?"
"I think so. The major is a lenient commissioner; and the law would be too strong for you."
Sewell laughed. "That," he said, "would have to be proved, and I am not sure it is a good reason you are offering me."
Grace nodded. "No," she said, "perhaps it isn't. You rather like opposition, don't you? Still, I think one could leave it to your good sense, while I would especially like to see all quiet this winter in the Green River valley. That, however, could, of course, scarcely be thought a reason at all."
Sewell made no disclaimer, but he looked at her with a curious intensity.
"Events," he said slowly, "may be too strong for me, and when I am sure they are right, I cannot go counter to my opinions."
"Of course!" and the girl leaned forward a little nearer him, resting one hand on the arm of her chair. "That is more than I would ever ask of you. Still, perhaps you could——"
Sewell looked at her gravely, and laid his hand upon the one that rested on the chair.
"I will," he said quietly, "with that one reservation, do whatever appears most likely to preserve tranquillity."
Grace did not shake his grasp off, as she should have done. Indeed, a little thrill of triumph ran through her as she realized the significance of what had happened. The man who held her hand fast had borne imprisonment for his beliefs, and had also braved hostile mobs, hired bravos, and detachments of U.S. cavalry, and now she had made him captive with a smile. It was, from one point of view, a notable achievement, and it did not dawn on her that if regarded from another point what she had done might wear a different aspect. Just then a book in the other room was closed with a bang, and Grace drew her hand away as Coulthurst came in.
"Sorry to leave you alone so long, but we can get the chessmen out at last," he said.
Sewell set out the pieces, and Grace, who flashed a little smile at him, which implied that there was now a confidence between them, took up a book. As it happened, neither of them knew that Prospector Tomlinson was plodding down the trail that led south through leagues of forest and snow-blocked defiles towards the settlements just then, though the fact had its results for both of them.
A half-moon hung low above the white shoulder of a hill, and here and there a shaft of silvery light shone down upon the snowy trail which wound in and out through the gloom of the firs. Tomlinson was one of the simple-minded persons who content themselves with doing the obvious thing, and, as it was quite plain to him that he could not stay at the bakery without probability of being discovered and getting his hosts into trouble, he had, in spite of Hetty's protests, persisted in setting out for the settlements, though he was still scarcely capable of the journey and it had been pointed out that there was a likelihood of his falling in with the police troopers. The latter fact did not, however, so far as Tomlinson could see, affect the question. The one thing that was clear to him was that he could not permit Hetty and Tom Leger to involve themselves in difficulties.
He carried two rolled-up blankets and a good many pounds of provisions, as well as a Marlin rifle, for it was a very long way to the settlements, and the snow was deep in the passes. He also walked slowly and with an effort, for the strength he had exhausted had scarcely come back to him yet, while the dusty snow balled beneath his worn-out boots.
The bush was very still, for only a low murmur came up across the pines from the rapids, which were free of ice. The trees rose above him, solid spires of blackness cut sharp against the white hillside beyond them, and Tomlinson was glad of their shadow, because the corporal and one of the troopers had gone down the trail that afternoon, and, uncertain whether they had come back, he had no wish to meet them. It is scarcely likely that he would have done so, for he had an excellent sense of hearing and was making very little noise, had not a trooper stopped to do something to his newly-issued winter coat, which did not fit him comfortably. He spent some little time over it, as it was necessary to take his big mittens off, and the corporal improved the occasion by sitting down on a fallen tree to light his pipe. They were both a little outside the trail and in black shadow.
Tomlinson, in the meanwhile, came to an open space some two or three score yards across. There were blackfirs all about it, but the snow among them seemed deeper, and, as he could hear nothing but the murmur of the river, he made haste to cross it. It appeared advisable that nobody should see him. He had almost reached the gloom of the firs again when he heard a little, scraping sound not unlike that the rubbing of a sulphur match would make, and he stood still listening until a faint blue radiance appeared amidst the trees, and then he moved towards the nearest undergrowth with long and almost noiseless strides. In another moment he stopped abruptly, and a man in uniform, who came out from the dark gap of the trail, also stopped and appeared to gaze at him. He carried a carbine. The men were close together, and the moon, which had just cleared the dark fir-tops, shone down on both of them. The miner's face, as the policeman saw, was drawn and grim.