For many minutes Philip did not move, or look from the bit of damp fabric which he held between his fingers. His heart was chilled. He felt sick. Each moment added to the emotion which was growing in him, an emotion which was a composite of disgust and of anguish. Jeanne—Thorpe! An eternity of difference seemed to lie between those two—Jeanne, with her tender beauty, her sweet life, her idyllic dreams, and Thorpe, the gang-driver! In his own soul he had made a shrine for Jeanne, and from his knees he had looked up at her, filled with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. He had worshiped her, as Dante might have worshiped Beatrice. To him she was the culmination of all that was sweet and lovable in woman, transcendently above him. And from this love, this worship of his, she had gone that very night to Thorpe, the gang-man. He shivered. Going to the stove he thrust in a handful of paper, dropped the handkerchief in with it, and set the whole on fire.
A few moments later the door opened and MacDougall came in. He was followed by the two swarthy-faced St. Pierres, the camp huntsmen. Philip shook hands with them, and they passed after the engineer through a narrow door leading into a room which was known as the camp office, Cassidy, Henshaw, and the others followed within the next ten minutes. There was not a man among them whose eyes faltered when Philip put up his proposition to them. As briefly as possible he told them a part of what he had previously revealed to MacDougall, and frankly conceded that the preservation of property and life in the camp depended almost entirely upon them.
"You're not the sort of men to demand pay in a pinch like this," he finished, "and that's just the reason I've confidence enough in you to ask for your support. There are fifty men in camp whom we could hire to fight, but I don't want hired fighters. I don't want men who will run at the crack of a few rifles, but men who are willing to die with their boots on. I won't offer you money for this, because I know you too well. But from this hour on you're going to be a part of the Great Northern Fish and Development Company, and as soon as the certificates can be signed I'm going to turn over a hundred shares of stock to each of you. Remember that this isn't pay. It's simply a selfish scheme of mine to make you a part of the company. There are eight of us. Give us each an automatic and I'll wager that there isn't a combination in this neck of the woods strong enough to do us up."
In the pale light of the two oil-lamps the men's faces glowed with enthusiasm. Cassidy was the first to grip Philip's hand in a pledge of fealty.
"When hell freezes over, we're licked," he said. "Where's me automatic?"
MacDougall brought in the guns and ammunition.
"In the morning we will begin the erection of a new building close to this one," said Philip. "There is no reason for the building, but that will give me an excuse for keeping you men together on one job, within fifty feet of your guns, which we can keep in this room. Only four men need work at a shift, and I'll put Cassidy in charge of the operations, if that is satisfactory to the others. We'll have a couple of new bunks put in here so that four men can stay with MacDougall and me every night. The other four, who are not on the working shift, can hunt not far from the camp, and keep their eyes peeled. Does that look good?"
"Can't be beat," said Henshaw, throwing open the breech of his gun. "Shall we load?"
"Yes."
The room became ominous with the metallic click of loaded cartridge clips and the hard snap of released chambers.
Five minutes later Philip stood alone with MacDougall. The loaded rifles, each with a filled cartridge belt hanging over the muzzle, were arranged in a row along one of the walls.
"I'll stake everything I've got on those men," he exclaimed. "Mac, did it ever strike you that when you want REAL men you ought to come north for them? Every one of those fellows is a northerner, except Cassidy, and he's a fighter by birth. They'll die before they go back on their word."
MacDougall rubbed his hands and laughed softly.
"What next, Phil?"
"We must send the swiftest man you've got in camp after Billinger, and get word to the other parties you sent out as quickly as we can. They'll probably get in too late. Billinger may arrive in time."
"He's been gone a week. It's doubtful if we can get him back within three," said MacDougall. "I'll send St. Pierre's cousin, that young Crow Feather, after him as soon as he can get a pack ready. You'd better go to bed, Phil. You look like a dead man."
Philip was not sure that he could sleep, notwithstanding the physical strain he had been under during the past twenty-four hours. He was filled with a nervous desire for continued action. Only action kept him from thinking of Jeanne and Thorpe. After MacDougall had gone to stir up young Crow Feather he undressed and stretched out in his bunk, hoping that the Scotchman would soon return. Not until he closed his eyes did he realize how tired he was. MacDougall came in an hour later, and Philip was asleep. It was nine o'clock when he awoke. He went to the cook's shanty, ate a hot breakfast of griddle-cakes and bacon, drank a pint of strong coffee, and hunted up MacDougall. Sandy was just coming from Thorpe's house.
"He's a queer guinea, that Thorpe," said the engineer, after their first greeting. "He doesn't pretend to do a pound's work. Notice his hands when you see him again, Phil. They look as though he had been drumming a piano all his life. But love o' mighty, how he does make the OTHERS work. You want to go over and see his gang throw dirt."
"That's where I'm going," said Philip. "Is Thorpe at home?"
"Just leaving. There he is now!"
At MacDougall's whistle Thorpe turned and waited for Philip.
"Goin' over?" he asked, pleasantly, when Philip came up.
"Yes. I want to see how your men work without a leader," replied Philip. He paused for a moment to light his pipe, and pointed to a group of men down on the lake shore. "See that gang?" he asked. "They're building a scow. Take away their foreman and they wouldn't be worth their grub. They're men we brought up from Winnipeg."
Thorpe was rolling a cigarette. Under his arm he held a pair of light gloves.
"Mine are different," he laughed, quietly.
"I know that," rejoined Philip, watching the skill of his long white fingers. "That's why I want to see them in action, when you're away."
"My policy is to know to a cubic foot what a certain number of men are capable of doing in a certain time," explained Thorpe, as they walked toward the plain. "My next move is to secure the men who will achieve the result, whether I am present or not. That done, my work is done. Simple, isn't it?"
There was something likable about Thorpe. Even in his present mood Philip could not but concede that. He was surprised in Thorpe, in more ways than one. His voice was low, and filled with a certain companionable quality that gave one confidence in him immediately. He was apparently a man of education and of some little culture, in spite of his vocation, which usually possesses a vocabulary of its own as hard as rock. But Philip's greatest surprise came when he regarded Thorpe's personal appearance. He judged that he was past forty, perhaps forty-five, and the thought made him shudder inwardly. He was twice—almost three times—as old as Jeanne. And yet there was about him something irresistibly attractive, a fascination which had its influence upon Philip himself. His nails dug into tie flesh of his hands when he thought of this man—and Jeanne.
Thorpe's gang was hard at work when they came to the end of the rock-bed. Scarcely a man seemed to take notice when he appeared. There was one exception, a wiry, red-faced little man who raised a hand to his cap when he saw the foreman.
"That's the sub-foreman," explained Thorpe. "He answers to me." The little man had given a signal, and Thorpe added, "Excuse me for a moment. He's got something on his mind."
He drew a few steps aside, and Philip walked along the line of laboring-men. He grinned and nodded to them, one after another. MacDougall was right. They were the toughest lot of men he had ever seen in one gang.
Loud voices turned him about, and he saw that Thorpe and the sub-foreman had approached a huge, heavy-shouldered man, with whom they seemed to be in serious altercation. Two or three of the workmen had drawn near, and Thorpe's voice rang out clear and vibrant.
"You'll do that, Blake, or you'll shoulder your kit back home. And what goes with you goes with your clique. I know your kind, and you can't worry me. Take that pick and dig—or hike. There's no two ways about it."
Philip could not hear what the big man said, but suddenly Thorpe's fist shot out and struck him fairly on the jaw. In another instant Thorpe had jumped back, and was facing half a dozen angry, threatening men. He had drawn a revolver, and his white teeth gleamed in a cool and menacing smile.
"Think it over, boys," he said, quietly. "And if you're not satisfied come in and draw your pay this noon. We'll furnish you with outfits and plenty of grub if you don't like the work up here. I don't care to hold men like you to your contracts."
He came to meet Philip, as though nothing unusual had happened.
"That will delay the completion of our work for a week at least," he said, as he thrust his revolver into a holster hidden under his coat. "I've been expecting trouble with Blake and four or five of his pals for some time. I'm glad it's over. Blake threatens a strike unless I give him a sub-foremanship and increase the men's wages from six to ten dollars a day. Think of it. A strike—up here! It would be the beginning of history, wouldn't it?"
He laughed softly, and Philip laughed from sheer admiration of the man's courage.
"You think they'll go?" he asked, anxiously.
"I'm sure of it," replied Thorpe. "It's the best thing that can happen."
An hour later Philip was back in camp. He did not see Thorpe again until after dinner, and then the gang-foreman hunted him up. His face wore a worried look.
"It's a little worse than I expected," he said. "Blake and eight others came in for their pay and outfits this noon. I didn't think that more than three or four would have the nerve to quit."
"I'll furnish you with men to take their places," said Philip.
"There's the hitch," replied Thorpe, rolling a cigarette. "I want my men to work by themselves. Put half a dozen of your amateur road-men among them and it will mean twenty per cent. less work done, and perhaps trouble. They're a tough lot. I concede that. I've thought of a way to offset the loss of Blake and the others. We can set a gang of your men at work over at Gray Beaver Lake, and they can build up to meet us."
Philip saw MacDougall soon after his short talk with Thorpe. The engineer did not disguise his pleasure at the turn which affairs had taken.
"I'm glad they're going," he declared. "If there's to be trouble I'll feel easier with that bunch out of camp. I'd give my next month's salary if Thorpe would take his whole outfit back where they came from. They're doing business with the road-bed all right, but I don't like the idea of having 'em around when there are throats to be cut, one side or t'other."
Philip did not see Thorpe again that day. He selected his men for the Gray Beaver work, and in the afternoon despatched a messenger over the Fort Churchill route to meet Brokaw. He was confident that Brokaw and his daughter would show up during the next few days, but at the same time he instructed the messenger to go to Churchill if he should not meet them on the way. Other men he sent to recall the prospecting parties outfitted by MacDougall. Early in the evening the St. Pierres, Lecault, and Henshaw joined him for a few minutes in the office. During the day the four had done scout work five miles on all sides of the camp. Lecault had shot a moose three miles to the south, and had hung up the meat. One of the St. Pierres saw Blake and his gang on the way to the Churchill. Beyond these two incidents they brought in no news. A little later MacDougall brought in two other men whom he could trust, and armed them with muzzle-loaders. They were the two last guns in the camp.
With ten men constantly prepared for attack, Philip began to feel that he had the situation well in hand. It would be practically impossible for his enemies to surprise the camp, and after their first day's scout duty the men on the trail would always be within sound of rifle-shots, even if they did not discover the advance of an attacking force in time to beat them to camp. In the event of one making such a discovery he was to signal the others by a series of shots, such as one might fire at a running moose.
Philip found it almost impossible to fight back his thoughts of Jeanne. During the two or three days that followed the departure of Blake he did not allow himself an hour's rest from early dawn until late at night. Each night he went to bed exhausted, with the hope that sleep would bury his grief. The struggle wore upon him, and the faithful MacDougall began to note the change in his comrade's face. The fourth day Thorpe disappeared and did not show up again until the following morning. Every hour of his absence was like the stab of a knife in Philip's heart, for he knew that the gang-foreman had gone to see Jeanne. Three days later the visit was repeated, and that night MacDougall found Philip in a fever.
"You're overdoing," he told him. "You're not in bed five hours out of the twenty-four. Cut it out, or you'll be in the hospital instead of in the fighting line when the big show comes to town."
Days of mental agony and of physical pain followed. Neither Philip nor MacDougall could understand the mysterious lack of developments. They had expected attack before this, and yet ceaseless scout work brought in no evidence of an approaching crisis. Neither could they understand the growing disaffection among Thorpe's men. The numerical strength of the gang dwindled from nineteen down to fifteen, from fifteen to twelve. At last Thorpe voluntarily asked Philip to cut his salary in two, because he could not hold his men. On that same day the little sub-foreman and two others left him, leaving only nine men at work. The delay in Brokaw's arrival was another puzzle to Philip. Two weeks passed, and in that time Thorpe left camp three times. On the fifteenth day the Fort Churchill messenger returned. He was astounded when he found that Brokaw was not in camp, and brought amazing news. Brokaw and his daughter had departed from Fort Churchill two days after Pierre had followed Jeanne and Philip. They had gone in two canoes, up the Churchill. He had seen no signs of them anywhere along the route.
No sooner had he received the news than Philip sent the messenger after MacDougall. The Scotchman's red face stared at him blankly when he told him what had happened.
"That's their first move in the real fight," said Philip, with a hard ring in his voice. "They've got Brokaw. Keep your men close from this hour on, Sandy. Hereafter let five of them sleep in our bunks during the day, and keep them awake during the night."
Five days passed without a sign of an enemy.
About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into the office, where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually florid face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the back of a chair with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that Philip had heard MacDougall swear.
"Damn that Thorpe!" he cried, in a low voice.
"What's up?" asked Philip, his muscles tightening.
MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe.
"I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about some things," he growled. "Thorpe brought up a load of whisky with him. I knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp, but I figured you were having trouble enough without getting you into a mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other—is damnable! Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's there again to-night!"
A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall was not looking, and did not see the convulsive twitching of the other's face, or the terrible light that shot for an instant into his eyes.
"A woman—Mac—"
"A YOUNG woman," said MacDougall, with emphasis. "I don't know who she is, but I do know that she hasn't a right there or she wouldn't sneak in like a thief. I'm going to be blunt—damned blunt. I think she's one of the other men's wives. There are half a dozen in camp."
"Haven't you ever looked—to see if you could recognize her?"
"Haven't had the chance," said MacDougall. "She's been wrapped up both times, and as it was none of my business I didn't lay in wait. But now—it's up to you!"
Philip rose slowly. He felt cold. He put on his coat and cap, and buckled on his revolver. His face was deadly white when he turned to MacDougall.
"She is over there to-night?"
"Sneaked in not half an hour ago, I saw her come out of the edge of the spruce."
"From the trail that leads out over the plain?"
"Yes."
Philip walked to the door.
"I'm going over to call on Thorpe," he said, quietly. "I may not be back for some time, Sandy."
In the deep shadows outside he stood gazing at the light in Thorpe's cabin. Then he walked slowly toward the spruce. He did not go to the door, but leaned with his back against the building, near one of the windows. The first shuddering sickness had gone from him. His temples throbbed. At the sound of a voice inside which was Thorpe's the chill in his blood turned to fire. The terrible fear that had fallen upon him at MacDougall's words held him motionless, and his brain worked upon but one idea—one determination. If it was Jeanne who came in this way, he would kill Thorpe. If it was another woman, he would give Thorpe that night to get out of the country. He waited. He heard the gang-man's voice frequently, once in a loud, half-mocking laugh. Twice he heard a lower voice—a woman's. For an hour he watched. He walked back and forth in the gloom of the spruce, and waited another hour. Then the light went out, and he slipped back to the corner of the cabin.
After a moment the door opened, and a hooded figure came out, and walked rapidly toward the trail that buried itself amid the spruce. Philip ran around the cabin and followed. There was a little open beyond the first fringe of spruce, and in this he ran up silently from behind and overtook the one he was pursuing. As his hand fell upon her arm the woman turned upon him with a frightened cry. Philip's hand dropped. He took a step back.
"My God! Jeanne—it is you!"
His voice was husky, like a choking man's. For an instant Jeanne's white, terrified face met his own. And then, without a word to him, she fled swiftly down the trail.
Philip made no effort to follow. For two or three minutes he stood like a man turned suddenly into hewn rock, staring with unseeing eyes into the gloom where Jeanne had disappeared. Then he walked back to the edge of the spruce. There he drew his revolver, and cocked it. The starlight revealed a madness in his face as he approached Thorpe's cabin. He was smiling, but it was such a smile as presages death; a smile as implacable as fate itself.
As Philip approached the cabin he saw a figure stealing away through the gloom. His first thought was that he had returned a minute too late to wreak his vengeance upon the gang-foreman in his own home, and he quickened his steps in pursuit. The man ahead of him was cutting direct for the camp supply-house, which was the nightly rendezvous of those who wished to play cards or exchange camp gossip. The supply-house, aglow with light, was not more than two hundred yards from Thorpe's, and Philip saw that if he dealt out the justice he contemplated he had not a moment to lose. He began to run, so quickly that he approached within a dozen paces of the man he was pursuing without being heard. It was not until then that he made a discovery which stopped him. The man ahead was not Thorpe. Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house. Even at that distance he recognized the gang-foreman. He thrust his revolver under his coat and fell a little farther behind the man he had mistaken for Thorpe so that when the latter passed within the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away. Something in the other's manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body, drew a sharp breath from Philip. He was on the point of calling a name, but it died on his lips. A moment more and the man passed through the door. Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchee who had followed Thorpe.
He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store. He had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him. He saw that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect. Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened. Thorpe's hand went to his belt, Pierre's sent a lightning gleam of steel back over his shoulder. The terrible drive of the knife and the explosion of Thorpe's revolver came in the same instant. Thorpe crumpled back over the counter, clutching at his breast. Pierre turned about, staggering, and saw Philip. His eyes lighted up, and with a moaning cry he stretched out his arms as Philip sprang to him. Above the sudden tumult of men's feet and excited voices he gasped out Jeanne's name. Half a dozen men had crowded about them. Through the ring burst MacDougall, a revolver in his hand. Pierce had become a dead weight in Philip's arms.
"Help me over to the cabin with him, Mac," he said. He looked around among the men. It struck him as curious, even then, that he saw none of Thorpe's gang. "Is Thorpe done for?" he asked.
"He's dead," replied some one.
With an effort Pierre opened his eyes.
"Dead!" he breathed, and in that one word there was a tremble of joy and triumph.
"Take Thorpe over to his cabin," commanded Philip, as he and MacDougall lifted Pierre between them. "I will answer for this man."
They could hear Pierre's sobbing breath as they hurried across the open. They laid him on Philip's bunk and Pierre opened his eyes again. He looked at Philip.
"M'sieur," he whispered, "tell me—quick—if I must die!"
MacDougall had studied medicine and surgery before engineering, and took the place of camp physician. Philip drew back while he ripped open the half-breed's garments and bared his breast. Then he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went. Philip bent over Pierre. Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man's right breast. Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained locket, fastened by a babiche string about his neck.
Pierre's hands groped eagerly for Philip's.
"M'sieur—you will tell me—if I must die?" he pleaded. "There are things you must know—about Jeanne—if I go. It will not hurt. I am not afraid. You will tell me—"
"Yes," said Philip.
He could scarcely speak, and while MacDougall was at work stood so that Pierre could not see his face. There was a sobbing note in Pierre's breath, and he knew what it meant. He had heard that same sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through the lungs. Five minutes later MacDougall straightened himself. He had done all that he could. Philip followed him to the back part of the room. Almost without sound his lips framed the words, "Will he die?"
"Yes," said MacDougall. "There is no hope. He may last until morning."
Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre. There was no fear in the wounded man's face. His eyes were clear. His voice was a little stronger.
"I will die, M'sieur," he said, calmly.
"I am afraid so, Pierre."
Pierre's damp fingers closed about his own. His eyes shone softly, and he smiled.
"It is best," he said, "and I am glad. I feel quite well. I will live for some time?"
"Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre."
"God is good to me," breathed Pierre, devoutly. "I thank Him. Are we alone?"
"Do you wish to be alone?"
"Yes."
Philip motioned to MacDougall, who went into the little office room.
"I will die," whispered Pierre, softly, as though he were achieving a triumph. "And everything would die with me, M'sieur, if I did not know that you love Jeanne, and that you will care for her when I am gone. M'sieur, I have told you that I love her. I have worshiped her, next to my God. I die happy, knowing that I am dying for her. If I had lived I would have suffered, for I love alone. She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for I have never told her. It would have given her pain. And you will never let her know. As Our Dear Lady is my witness, M'sieur, she has loved but one man, and that man is you."
Pierre gave a great breath. A warm flood seemed suddenly to engulf Philip. Did he hear right? Could he believe? He fell upon his knees beside Pierre and brushed his dark hair back from his face.
"Yes, I love her," he said, softly. "But I did not know that she loved me."
"It is not strange," said Pierre, looking straight into his eyes. "But you will understand—now—M'sieur. I seem to have strength, and I will tell you all—from the beginning. Perhaps I have done wrong. You will know—soon. You remember Jeanne told you the story of the baby—of the woman frozen in the snow. That was the beginning of the long fight—for me. This—what I am about to tell you—will be sacred to you, M'sieur?"
"As my life," said Philip.
Pierre was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, so that he could tell in few words the tragedy of years. Two brilliant spots burned in his cheeks, and the hand which Philip held was hot.
"Years ago—twenty, almost—there came a man to Fort o' God," he began. "He was very young, and from the south. D'Arcambal was then middle-aged, but his wife was young and beautiful. Jeanne says that you saw her picture—against the wall. D'Arcambal worshiped her. She was his life. You understand what happened. The man from the south—the young wife—they went away together."
Pierre coughed. A bit of blood reddened his lips. Philip wiped it away gently with his handkerchief, hiding the stain from Pierre's eyes.
"Yes," he said, "I understand."
"It broke D'Arcambal's heart," resumed Pierre. "He destroyed everything that had belonged to the woman. He turned her picture to the wall. His love turned slowly to hate. It was two years later that I came over the barrens one night and found Jeanne and her dead mother. The woman, M'sieur—Jeanne's mother—was D'Arcambal's wife. She was returning to Fort o' God, and God's justice overtook her almost at its doors. I carried little Jeanne to my Indian mother, and then made ready to carry the woman to her husband. It was then that a terrible thought came to me. Jeanne was not D'Arcambal's daughter. She was a part of the man who had stolen his wife. I worshiped the little Jeanne even then, and for her sake my mother and I swore secrecy, and buried the woman. Then we took the babe to Fort o' God as a stranger. We saved her. We saved D'Arcambal. No one ever knew."
Pierre stopped for breath.
"Was it best?"
"It was glorious," said Philip, trembling.
"It would have come out right—in the end—if the father had not returned," said Pierre. "I must hurry, M'sieur, for it hurts me now to talk. He came first a year ago, and revealed himself to Jeanne. He told her everything. D'Arcambal was rich; Jeanne and I both had money. He threatened—we bought him off. We fought to keep the terrible thing from D'Arcambal. Our money sent him away for a time. Then he returned. It was news of him I brought up the river to Jeanne—from Churchill. I offered to kill him—but Jeanne would not listen to that. But the Great God willed that I should. I killed him to-night—over there!"
A great joy surged above the grief in Philip's heart. He could not speak, but pressed Pierre's hand harder, and looked into his glistening eyes.
Pierre's next words broke his silence, and wrung a low cry from his lips.
"M'sieur, this man Thorpe—Jeanne's father—is the man whom you know as Lord Fitzhugh Lee."
He coughed violently, and with sudden fear Philip lifted his head so that it rested against his shoulder. After a moment he lowered it again. His face was as white as Pierre's after that sudden fit of coughing.
"I talked with him—alone—on the afternoon of the fight on the rock," continued Pierre, huskily. "He was hiding in the woods near Churchill, and left for Fort o' God on that same day. I did not tell Jeanne—until after what happened, and I came up with you on the river. Thorpe was waiting for us at Fort o' God. It was he whom Jeanne saw that night beside the rock, but I could not tell you the truth—then. He came often after that—two, three times a week. He tortured Jeanne. My God! he taunted her, M'sieur, and made her let him kiss her, because he was her father. We gave him money—all that we could get; we promised him more, if he would leave—five thousand dollars—in three years. He agreed to go—after he had finished his work here. And that work—M'sieur—was to destroy you. He told Jeanne, because it made her fear him more. He compelled her to come to his cabin. He thought she was his slave, that she would do anything to be free of him. He told her of his plot—how he had fooled you in the sham fight with one of his men—how those men were going to attack you a little later, and how he had intercepted your letter from Churchill and sent in its place the other letter which made your camp defenseless. He was not afraid of her. She was in his power, and he laughed at her horror, and tortured her as a cat will a bird. But Jeanne—"
A spasm of pain shot over Pierre's face. Fresh blood dyed his lips, and a shiver ran through his body.
"My God!—water—something—M'sieur," he gasped. "I must go on!"
Philip raised him again in his arms. He saw MacDougall's head appear through the door.
"You will rest easier this way, Pierre," he said.
After a few moments Pierre spoke in a gasping whisper.
"You must understand. I must be quick," he said. "We could not warn you of what Jeanne had discovered. That would have revealed her father. D'Arcambal would have known—every one. Thorpe plans to dress his men—like Indians. They are to attack your camp to-morrow night. Ten days ago we went to the camp of old Sachigo, the Cree, who loves Jeanne as his own daughter. It was Jeanne's idea—to save you. Jeanne told him of Thorpe's plot to destroy you, and to lay the blame on Sachigo's people. Sachigo is out there—in the mountains—hiding with thirty of his tribe. Two days ago Jeanne learned where her father's men were hiding. We had planned everything. To-morrow night—when they move to attack—we were to start a signal-fire on the big rock mountain at the end of the lake. Sachigo starts at the signal, and lays in ambush for the others in the ravine between the two mountains. None of Thorpe's men will come out alive. Sachigo and his people will destroy them, and none will ever know how it happened, for the Crees keep their secrets. But now—it is too late—for me. When it happens—I will be gone. The signal-pile is built—birch-bark—at the very top of the rock. Jeanne will wait for me out on the plain—and I will not come. You must fire the signal, M'sieur—as soon as it is dark. None will ever know. Jeanne's father is dead. You will keep the secret—of her mother—always—"
"Forever," said Philip.
MacDougall came into the room, He brought a glass, partly filled with a colored liquid, and placed it to Pierre's lips. Pierre swallowed with an effort, and with a significant hunch of his shoulders for Philip's eyes alone the engineer returned to the little room.
"Mon Dieu, how it burns!" said Pierre, as if to himself. "May I lie down again, M'sieur?"
Philip lowered him gently. He made no effort to speak in these moments. Pierre's eyes were dark and luminous as they sought his own. The draught he had taken gave him a passing strength.
"I saw Thorpe again this afternoon," he said, more calmly. "D'Arcambal thought I had taken Jeanne to visit a trapper's wife down the Churchill. I saw Thorpe—alone. He had been drinking. He laughed at me, and said that Jeanne and I were fools—that he would not leave as he had said he would—but that he would remain—always. I told Jeanne, and asked her again to let me kill him. But she said no—and I had taken my oath to her. Jeanne saw him again to-night. I was near the cabin, and saw you. I told him I would kill him if he did not go. He laughed again, and struck me. When I came to my feet he was half across the open; I followed. I forgot my oath. Rage filled my heart. You know what happened. You will tell Jeanne—so that she will understand—"
"Can we not send for her?" asked Philip. "She must be near."
"No, M'sieur," he replied, softly. "It would only give her great pain to see me—like this. She was to meet me to-night—at twelve o'clock—on the trail where the road-bed crosses. You will meet her in my place. When she understands all that has happened you may bring her here, if she wishes to come. Then—to-morrow night—you will go together to fire the signal."
"But Thorpe is dead," said Philip. "Will they attack without him?"
"There is another, besides him," said Pierre. "That is one secret which Thorpe has kept from Jeanne—who the other is—the one who is paying to have you destroyed. Yes—they will attack."
Philip bent low over Pierre.
"I have known of this plot for a long time, Pierre," he said, tensely. "I know that this Thorpe, who for some reason has passed as Lord Fitzhugh Lee, is but the agent of a more powerful force behind him. Have you told me all, Pierre? Do you know nothing more?"
"Nothing, M'sieur."
"Was it Thorpe who attacked you on the cliff at Churchill?"
"No, I am sure that it was not he. If the attack had not failed—it would have meant loss—for him. I have laid it to the ruffians who wanted to kill me—and secure Jeanne. You understand—"
"Yes, but I do not believe that was the motive for the attack, Pierre," said Philip. "Did Thorpe go to see any one in Churchill?"
"I don't know. He was concealing himself in the forest."
A convulsive shudder ran through Pierre's body. He gave a low cry of pain, and his hand clutched at the babiche cord which held the locket about his neck.
"M'sieur," he whispered, quickly, "this locket—was on the little Jeanne—when I found her in the snow. I kept it because it bears the woman's initials. I am foolish, M'sieur. I am weak. But I would like to have it buried with me—under the old tree—where Jeanne's mother lies. And if you could, M'sieur—if you only could—place something of Jeanne's in my hand—I would rest easier."
Philip bowed his head in silence, while his eyes grew blinding hot. Pierre pressed his hand.
"She loves you—as I love her," he whispered, so low that Philip could scarcely hear. "You will love her—always. If you do not—the Great God will let the curse of Pierre Couchee fall upon you!"
Choking back the great sobs that rose in his breast, Philip sank upon his knees beside Pierre, and buried his face in his arms like a heartbroken boy. For several moments there was a silence, punctuated by the rasping breath of the wounded man. Suddenly this sound ceased, and Philip felt a cold fear leap through him. He listened, neither breathing nor lifting his head. In that interval of pulseless quiet a terrible cry came from Pierre's lips, and when Philip looked up the dying half-breed had struggled to a sitting posture, blood staining his lips again, his eyes blazing, his white face damp with the clammy touch of death, and was staring through the cabin window. It was the window that looked out over the lake, toward the rock mountain half a mile away. Philip turned, horrified and wondering. Through the window he saw a glow in the sky—the glow of a fire, leaping up in a crimson flood from the top of the mountain!
Again that terrible, moaning cry fell from Pierre's lips, and he reached out his arms toward the signal that was blazing forth its warning in the night.
"Jeanne—Jeanne—" he sobbed. "My Jeanne—"
He swayed, and fell back. His words came in choking gasps.
"The signal!" he struggled, fighting to make Philip understand him. "Jeanne—saw—Thorpe—to-night. He—must—changed—plans. Attack—to-night. Jeanne—Jeanne—my Jeanne—has lighted—the signal—fire!"
A tremor ran through his body, and he lay still. MacDougall ran across from the half-open door, and put his head to Pierre's breast.
"Is he dead?" asked Philip.
"Not yet."
"Will he become conscious again?"
"Possibly."
Philip gripped MacDougall by the arm.
"The attack is to be made to-night, Mac," he exclaimed. "Warn the men. Have them ready. But you—YOU, MacDougall, attend to this man, AND KEEP HIM ALIVE!"
Without another word he ran to the door and out into the night. The signal-fire was leaping to the sky. It lighted up the black cap of the mountain, and sent a thousand aurora fires flashing across the lake. And Philip, as he ran swiftly through the camp toward the narrow trail that led to that mountain-top, repeated over and over again the dying words of Pierre—
"Jeanne—my Jeanne—my Jeanne—"
News of the double tragedy had swept through the camp, and there was a crowd in front of the supply-house. Philip passed close to Thorpe's house to avoid discovery, ran a hundred yards up the trail over which Jeanne had fled a short time before, and then cut straight across through the thin timber for the head of the lake. He felt no effort in his running. Low bush whipped him in the face and left no sting. He was not conscious that he was panting for breath when he came out in the black shadow of the mountain. This night in itself had been a creation for him, for out of grief and pain it had lifted him into a new life, and into a happiness that seemed to fill him with the strength and the endurance of five men. Jeanne loved him! The wonderful truth cried itself out in his soul at every step he took, and he murmured it aloud to himself, over and over again, as he ran.
The glow of the signal-fire lighted up the sky above him, and he climbed up, higher and higher, scrambling swiftly from rock to rock, until he saw the tips of the flames licking up into the sky. He had come up the steepest and shortest side of the ridge, and when he reached the top he lay upon his face for a moment, his breath almost gone.
The fire was built against a huge dead pine, and the pine was blazing a hundred feet in the air. He could feel its heat. The monster torch illumined the barren cap of the rock from edge to edge, and he looked about him for Jeanne. For a moment he did not see her, and her name rose to his lips, to be stilled in the same breath by what he saw beyond the burning pine. Through the blaze of the heat and fire fie beheld Jeanne, standing close to the edge of the mountain, gazing into the south and west. He called her name. Jeanne turned toward him with a startled cry, and Philip was at her side. The girl's face was white and strained. Her lips were twisted in pain at sight of him. She spoke no word, but a strange sound rose in her throat, a welling-up of the sudden despair which the fire-light revealed in her eyes. For one moment they stood apart, and Philip tried to speak. And then, suddenly, he reached out and drew her quickly into his arms—so quickly that there was no time for her to escape, so closely that her sweet face lay imprisoned upon his breast, as he had held it once before, under the picture at Fort o' God. He felt her straining to free herself; he saw the fear in her eyes, and he tried to speak calmly, while his heart throbbed with the passion of love which he wished to pour into her ears.
"Listen, Jeanne," he said. "Pierre has sent me to you. He has told me everything—everything, my sweetheart. There is nothing to keep from me now. I know. I understand. And I love you—love you—love you—my own sweet Jeanne!"
She trembled at his words. He felt her shuddering in his arms, and her eyes gazed at him wonderingly, filled with a strange and incredulous look, while her lips quivered and remained speechless. He drew her nearer, until his face was against her own, and the warmth of her lips, her eyes, and her hair entered into him, and near stifled his heart with joy.
"He has told me everything, my little Jeanne," he said again, in a whisper that rose just above the crackling of the pine. "Everything. He told me because he knew that I loved you, and because—"
The words choked in his throat. At this hesitation Jeanne drew her head back, and, with her hands pressing against his breast, looked into his face. There were in her eyes the same struggling emotions, but with them now there came also a sweet faltering, a piteous appeal to him, a faith that rose above her terrors, and the tremble of her lips was like that of a crying child. He drew her face back, and kissed the quivering lips, and suddenly he felt the strain against him give way, and Jeanne's head sobbed upon his breast. In that moment, looking where the roaring pine sent its pinnacles of flame leaping up into the night, a word of thanks, of prayer, rose mutely to his lips, and he held Jeanne more closely, and whispered over and over again in his happiness, "Jeanne—Jeanne—my sweetheart Jeanne."
Jeanne's sobs grew less and less, and Philip strengthened himself to tell her the terrible news of Pierre. He knew that in the selfishness of his own joy he had already wasted precious minutes, and very gently he took Jeanne's wet face between his two hands and turned it a little toward his own.
"Pierre has told me everything, Jeanne," he repeated. "Everything—from the day he found you many years ago to the day your father returned to torture you." He spoke calmly, even as he felt her shiver in pain against him. "To-night there was a little trouble down in the camp, dear. Pierre is wounded, and wants you to come to him. Thorpe—is—dead."
For an instant Philip was frightened at what happened. Jeanne's breath ceased. There seemed to be not a quiver of life in her body, and she lay in his arms as if dead. And then, suddenly, there came from her a terrible cry, and she wrenched herself free, and stood a step from him, her face as white as death.
"He—is—dead—"
"Yes, he is dead."
"And Pierre—Pierre killed him?"
Philip held out his arms, but Jeanne did not seem to see them. She saw the answer in his face.
"And—Pierre—is—hurt—" she went on, never taking her wide, luminous eyes from his face.
Before he answered Philip took her trembling hands in his own, as though he would lighten the blow by the warmth and touch of his great love.
"Yes, he is hurt, Jeanne," he said. "We must hurry, for I am afraid there is no time to lose."
"He is—dying?"
"I fear so, Jeanne."
He turned before the look that came into her face, and led her about the circle of fire to the side of the mountain that sloped down into the plain. Suddenly Jeanne stopped for an instant. Her fingers tightened about his. Her face was turned back into the endless desolation of night and forest that lay to the south and west. Far out—a mile—two miles—an answering fire was breaking the black curtain that hid all things beyond them. Jeanne lifted her face to him. Grief and love, pain and joy, shone in her eyes.
"They are there!" she said, chokingly. "It is Sachigo, and they are coming—coming—coming—"
Once again before they began the descent of the mountain Philip drew her close in his arms, and kissed her. And this time there was the sweet surrender to him of all things in the tenderness of Jeanne's lips. Silent in their grief, and yet communing in sympathy and love in the firm clasp of their hands, they came down the mountain, through the thin spruce forest, and to the lighted cabin where Pierre lay dying. MacDougall was in the room when they entered, and rose softly, tiptoeing into the little office. Philip led Jeanne to Pierre's side, and as he bent over him, and spoke softly, the half-breed opened his eyes. He saw Jeanne. Into his fading eyes there came a wonderful light. His lips moved, and his hands strove to lift themselves above the crumpled blanket. Jeanne dropped upon her knees beside him, and as she clasped his chilled hands to her breast a glorious understanding lighted up her face; and then she took Pierre's face between her hands, and bowed her own close down to it, so that the two were hidden under the beauteous halo of her hair. Philip gripped at his throat to hold back a sob. A terrible stillness came into the room, and he dared not move. It seemed a long time before Jeanne lifted her head, slowly, tenderly, as if fearing to awaken a sleeping child. She turned to him, and he read the truth in her face before she had spoken. Her voice was low and calm, filled with the sweetness and tenderness and strength that come only to a woman in the final moment of a great sorrow.
"Leave us, Philip," she said. "Pierre is dead."