By daylight next morning every man and most of the women among the new arrivals had disappeared into the hills—the women in spite of the by-laws of Lee's Creek, which discriminated against their sex. When a stampede starts it does not end with the location of one stream-bed, nor of two; every foot of valley ground for miles on every hand is pre-empted, in the hope that more gold will be found; each creek forms a new district, and its discoverers adopt laws to suit their whims. The women, therefore, hastened to participate in the discovery of new territory and in the shaping of its government, leaving but few of either sex to guard the tents and piles of provisions standing by the river-bank. In two days they began to return, and straggled in at intervals for a week thereafter, for many had gone far.
And now began a new era for Flambeau—an era of industry such as the frontier town had never known. The woods behind rang with the resounding discords of axes and saws and crashing timber, and new cabins appeared on every hand, rising in a day. The sluggish air was noisy with voices, and the edge of the forest receded gradually before the busy pioneers, replacing the tall timbers with little, high-banked homes of spruce and white-papered birch. From dawn till dark arose the rhythmic rasp of men whip-sawing floor lumber to the tune of two hundred dollars per thousand; and with the second steamer came a little steam sawmill, which raised its shrill complaint within a week, punctuating the busy day with its piping whistle.
The trail along the Flambeau, was dotted continuously with toiling human beasts of burden, that floundered laboriously beneath great packs of provisions and tools and other baggage, winding like an endless stream of ants through the hills to "No Creek" Lee Creek, where they re-enacted the scenes that were occurring in the town. Tents and cabins were scattered throughout the length of the valley, lumber was sawed for sluice-boxes, and the virginal breezes that had sucked through this seam in the mountains since days primeval came to smell of spruce fires and echo with the sounds of life.
A dozen tents were pitched on Lee's discovery claim, for the owner had been besieged by men who clamored to lease a part of his ground, and, yielding finally, he had allotted to each of them a hundred feet. Forth-with they set about opening their portions, for the ground was shallow, and the gold so near the surface that winter would interfere with its extraction; wherefore, they made haste. The owner oversaw them all, complacent in the certainty of a steady royalty accruing from the working of his allotments.
Every day there came into Flambeau exaggerated reports of new strikes in other spots, of strong indications and of rich prospects elsewhere. Stories grew out of nothing, until the camp took an hysterical pleasure in exciting itself and deceiving every stranger who came from north or south, for the wine of discovery was in them all, and it pleased them to distort and enlarge upon every rumor that came their way, such being the temper of new gold-fields. They knew they were lying, and that all other men were lying also, and yet they hearkened to each tale and almost deceived themselves.
Burrell sought Necia at an early day and, in presence of her father, told her that he had been approached by men who wished to lease the claims he held for her. It would prove an inexpensive way to develop her holdings, he said, and she would run no risk; moreover, it would be rapid, and insure a quick return, for a lease so near to proven territory was in great demand. After some discussion this was arranged, and Meade, as trustee, allotted her ground in tracts, as Lee had done. Poleon followed suit; but the trader chose to prospect his own claims, and to that end called in a train of stiff-backed Indian packers, moved a substantial outfit to the creek, and thereafter spent much of his time in the hills, leaving the store to Doret. He seemed anxious to get away from the camp and hide himself in the woods. Stark was almost constantly occupied at his saloon, for it was a mint, and ran day and night. Runnion was busy with the erection of a substantial structure of squared logs, larger than the trading-post, destined as a dance-hall, theatre, and gambling-house. Flambeau, the slumbrous, had indeed aroused itself, stretched its limbs, and sprung into vigorous, virile, feverish being, and the wise prophets were predicting another Dawson for it, notwithstanding that many blank spots had been found as the creek of Lee's finding bared its bedrock to the miners. These but enhanced the value of the rich finds, however, for a single stroke of good-fortune will more than offset a dozen disappointments. The truth is, the stream was very spotted, and Leo had by chance hit upon one of the bars where the metal had lodged, while others above and below uncovered a bed-rock as barren as a clean-swept floor. In places they cross-cut from rim to rim, drove tunnels and drains and drifts, sunk shafts and opened trenches without finding a color that would ring when dropped in the pan; but that was an old, old story, and they were used to it.
During these stirring weeks of unsleeping activity Burrell saw little of Necia, for he had many things to occupy him, and she was detained much in the store, now that her father was away. When they met for a moment they were sure to be interrupted, while in and around the house Alluna seemed to be always near her. Even so, she was very happy; for she was sustained by the constant hectic excitement that was in the air and by her brief moments with Meade, which served to gladden her and make of the days one long, delicious, hopeful procession of undisturbed dreams and fancies. He was the same fond lover as on that adventurous journey up Black Bear Creek, and wooed her with a reckless fire that set her aglow. And so she hummed and laughed and dreamed the days away, her happiness matching the peace and gladness of the season.
With Burrell, on the contrary, it was a season of penance and flagellations of spirit, lightened only by the moments when he was with her, and when she made him forget all else. This damnable indecision goaded him to self-contempt; he despised himself for his weakness; his social instincts and training, his sense of duty, and the amenities of life that proud men hold dear tugged steadily, untiringly at his reason, while the little imp of impulse sat grinning wickedly, ready to pop out and upset all his high resolutions. It raised such a tumult in his ears that he could not hear the other voices; it stirred his blood till it leaped and pounded, and then ran off with him to find this tiny brown and beaming witch who was at the bottom of it all.
No months in any clime can compare with an Arctic summer when Nature is kind, for she crowds into this short epoch all the warmth and brightness and splendor that is spread over longer periods in other lands, and every growing thing rejoices riotously in scent and color and profusion. It was on one of these heavenly days, spiced with the faintest hint of autumn, that Necia received the news of her good-fortune. One of her leasers came into the post to show her and Poleon a bag of dust. He and his partner had found the pay-streak finally, and he had come to notify her that it gave promise of being very rich, and now that its location was demonstrated, no doubt the other "laymen" would have it within a fortnight. As all of them were ready to begin sluicing as soon as the ground could be stripped, undoubtedly they would be able to take out a substantial stake before winter settled and the first frost closed them down.
She took the news quietly but with shining eyes, though her pleasure was no greater or more genuine than Poleon's, who grasped both her hands in his and shouted, gleefully:
"Bien! I'm glad! You'll be riche gal for sure now, an' wear plaintee fine dress lak' I fetch you. Jus' t'ink, you fin' gol' on your place more queecker dan your fader, an' he's good miner, too. Ha! Dat's bully!"
"Oh, Poleon! I'll be a fine lady, after all," she cried—"just as I've dreamed about! Wasn't it beautiful, that pile of yellow grains and nuggets? Dear, dear! And part of it is mine! You know I've never had money. I wonder what it is like to be rich!"
"How I'm goin' tell you dat?"
"Oh, well, they will find it on your claims very soon."
He shook his head. "You better knock wood w'en you say dat. Mebbe I draw de blank again; nobody can't tell. I've do de sam' t'ing before, an' dose men w'at been workin' my groun' dey're gettin' purty blue."
"It's impossible. You're sure to strike it, or if you don't, you can have half of what I make—I'll be too wealthy, anyhow, so you might as well."
He laughed again, at which she suddenly remembered that he had not laughed very much of late, or else she had been too deeply absorbed in her own happiness to mark the lack of his songs and merriment.
"When you do become a Flambeau king," she continued, "what will you do with yourself? Surely you won't continue that search for your far country. It could never be so beautiful as this." She pointed to the river that never changed, and yet was never the same, and to the forests, slightly tinged with the signs of the coming season. "Just look at the mountains," she mused, in a hushed voice; "see the haze that hangs over them—the veil that God uses to cover up his treasures." She drew a deep breath. "The breeze fairly tastes with clean things, doesn't it? Do you know, I've often wanted to be an animal, to have my senses sharpened—one of those wild things with a funny, sharp, cold nose. I'd like to live in the trees and run along the branches like a squirrel, and drink in the perfume that comes on the wind, and eat the tender, growing things. The sun is bright enough and the world is good enough, but I can't feel enough. I'm incomplete."
"It's very fine," agreed the Canadian. "I don' see w'y anybody would care for livin' on dem cities w'en dere's so much nice place outside."
"Oh, but the cities must be fine also," said she, "though, of course, they can't be as lovely as this. Won't I be glad to see them!"
"Are you goin' away?" he inquired, quickly.
"Of course." Then glimpsing his downcast face, she hastened to add, "That is, when my claims turn out rich enough to afford it."
"Oh," he said, with relief. "Dat's different. I s'pose it mus' be purty dull on dem beeg town; now'ere to go, not'in' to see 'cept lot of houses."
"Yes," said Necia, "I've no doubt one would get tired of it soon, and long for something to do and something really worth while, but I should like to try it once, and I shall as soon as I'm rich enough. Won't you come along?"
"I don' know," he said, thoughtfully; "mebbe so I stay here, mebbe so I tak' my canoe an' go away. For long tam' I t'ink dis Flambeau she's de promis' lan' I hear callin' to me, but I don' know yet for w'ile."
"What kind of place is that land of yours, Poleon?"
"Ha! I never see 'im, but she's been cryin' to me ever since I'm little boy. It's a place w'ere I don' get too hot on de summer an' too col' on de winter; it's place w'ere birds sing an' flowers blossom an' de sun shine, an' w'ere I can sleep widout dreamin' 'bout it all de tam'."
"Why, it's the land of content—you'll never discover it by travel. I'll tell you a secret, Poleon. I've found it—yes, I have. It lies here." She laid her hand on her breast. "Father Barnum told me the story of your people, and how it lives in your blood—that hunger to find the far places; it's what drove the voyageurs and coureur du bois from Quebec to Vancouver, and from the Mississippi to Hudson's Bay. The wanderlust was their heritage, and they pushed on and on without rest, like the salmon in the spring, but they were different in this: that they never came back to die."
"Dat's me! I never see no place yet w'at I care for die on, an' I never see no place yet w'at I care for see again 'cept dis Flambeau. I lak' it, dis one, purty good so far, but I ain' know w'en I'm goin' get tire'. Dat depen's." There was a look of great tenderness in his eyes as he bent towards her and searched her face, but she was not thinking of him, and at length he continued:
"Fader Barnum, he's goin' be here nex' Sonday for cheer up dem Injun. Constantine she's got de letter."
"Why, that's the day after to-morrow!" cried Necia. "Oh, won't I be glad to see him!"
"You don' get dem kin' of mans on de beeg cities," said Poleon. "I ain' never care for preachin' much, an' dese feller w'at all de tam' pray an' sing t'rough de nose, dey mak' me seeck. But Fader Barnum—Ba Gar! She's the swell man."
"Do you know," said Necia, wistfully, "I've always wanted him to marry me."
"You t'inkin' 'bout marry on some feller, eh?" said the other, with an odd grin. "Wal! w'y not? He'll be here all day an' night. S'pose you do it. Mos' anybody w'at ain' got some wife already will be glad for marry on you—an' mebbe some feller w'at has got wife, too! If you don' lak' dem, an' if you're goin' marry on SOMEBODY, you can be wife to me."
Necia laughed lightly. "I believe you WOULD marry me if I wanted you to; you've done everything else I've ever asked. But you needn't be afraid; I won't take you up." In all her life this man had never spoken of love to her, and she had no hint of the dream he cherished. He had sung his songs to her and told her stories till his frank and boyish mind was like an open page to her; she knew the romance that was the very fibre of him, and loved his exaggerated chivalry, for it minded her of old tales she had read; but that he could care for her save as a friend, as a brother—such a thought had never dawned upon her.
While they were talking a boat had drawn inshore and made fast to the bank in front of them. An Indian landed and, approaching, entered into talk with the Frenchman.
By-and-by Poleon turned to the girl, and said:
"Dere's'hondred marten-skin come in; you min' de store w'ile I mak' trade wit' dis man."
Together the two went down to the boat, leaving Necia behind, and not long after Runnion sauntered up to the store and addressed her familiarly.
"Hello, Necia! I just heard about the strike on your claim. That's fine and dandy."
She acknowledged his congratulations curtly, for although it was customary for most of the old-timers to call her by her Christian name, she resented it from this man. She chose to let it pass, however.
"I had some good news last night myself," he continued. "One of my men has hit some good dirt, and we'll know what it means in a day or so. I'll gamble we're into the money big, though, for I always was a lucky cuss. Say, where's your father?"
"He's out at the mine."
"We've used up all of our bar sugar at the saloon, and I want to buy what you've got."
"Very well, I'll get it for you."
He followed her inside, watching her graceful movements, and attempting, with his free-and-easy insolence, to make friendly advances, but, seeing that she refused to notice him, he became piqued, and grew bolder.
"Look here, Necia, you're a mighty pretty girl. I've had my eye on you ever since I landed, and the more I see of you the better I like you."
"It isn't necessary to tell me that," she replied. "The price of the sugar will be just the same."
"Yes, and you're bright, too," he declared. "That's what I like in a woman—good looks and brains. I believe in strong methods and straight talk, too; none of this serenading and moonlight mush for me. When I see a girl I like, I go and get her. That's me. I make love like a man ought to—"
"Are you making love to me?" she inquired, curiously.
"It's a little bit sudden, I know, but a man has to begin some time. I think you'd just about suit me. We'll both have money before long, and I'll be good to you."
The girl laughed derisively in his face.
"Now don't get sore. I mean business. I don't wear a blue coat and use a lot of fancy words, and then throw you down when I've had my fun, and I don't hang around and spoil your chances with other men either."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm no soft-talking Southerner with gold buttons and highfalutin' ways. I don't care if you are a squaw, I'll take you—"
"Don't talk to me!" she cried, in disgust, her voice hot with anger and resentment.
But he continued, unheeding: "Now, cut out these airs and get down to cases. I mean what I say. I know you've been casting sheep's eyes at Burrell, but, Lord! he wouldn't have you, no matter how rich you get. Of course, you acted careless in going off alone with him, but I don't mind what they're saying around camp, for I've made little slips like that myself, and we'd get along—"
"I'll have you killed!" she hissed, through her clinched teeth, while her whole body vibrated with passion. "I'll call Poleon and have him shoot you!" She pointed to the river-bank a hundred yards away, where the Canadian was busy assorting skins.
But he only laughed at her show of temper, and shrugged his shoulders as he answered her, roughly:
"Understand me, I'm on the square. So think it over, and don't go up in the air like a sky-rocket."
She cried out at him to "Go—go—go!" and finally he took up his bundle, saying, as he stepped out slowly:
"All right! But I'm coming back, and you'll have to listen to me. I don't mind being called a squaw-man. You're pretty near white, and you're good enough for me. I'll treat you right—why, I'll even marry you if you're dead set on it. Sure!"
She could scarcely breathe, but checked her first inclination to call Poleon, knowing that it needed only a word from her to set that nut-brown savage at Runnion's throat. Other thoughts began to crowd her brain and to stifle her. The fellow's words had stabbed her consciousness, and done something for her that gentler means would not have accomplished; they had opened her eyes to a thing that she had forgotten—a hideous thing that had reared its fangs once before to strike, but which her dreams of happiness had driven out of her Eden. All at once she saw the wrong that had been done her, and realized from this brute's insult that those early fears had been well grounded. It suddenly occurred to her that in all the hours she had spent with her lover, in all those unspeakably sweet and intimate hours, there had never been one word of marriage. He had looked into her eyes and vowed he could not live without her, and yet he had never said the words he should have said, the words that would bind her to him. His arms and his lips had comforted her and stilled her fears, but after all he had merely made love. A cold fear crept over the girl. She recalled the old Corporal's words of a few weeks ago, and her conversation with Stark came back to her. What if it were true—that which Runnion implied? What if he did not intend to ask her, after all? What if he had only been amusing himself? She cried out sharply at this, and when Doret staggered in beneath a great load of skins he found her in a strange excitement. When he had finished his accounting with the Indian and dismissed him, she turned an agitated face to the Frenchman.
"Poleon," she said, "I'm in trouble. Oh, I'm in such awful trouble!"
"It's dat Runnion! I seen 'im pass on de store w'ile I'm down below." His brows knit in a black scowl, and his voice slid off a pitch in tone. "Wat he say, eh?"
"No, no, it's not that. He paid me a great compliment." She laughed harshly. "Why, he asked me to marry him." The man beside her cursed at this, but she continued: "Don't blame him for liking me—I'm the only woman for five hundred miles around—or I was until this crowd came—so how could he help himself? No, he merely showed me what a fool I've been."
"I guess you better tell me all 'bout dis t'ing," said Poleon, gravely. "You know I'm all tam' ready for help you, Necia. Wen you was little feller an' got bust your finger you run to me queeck, an' I feex it."
"Yes, I know, dear Poleon," she assented, gratefully. "You've been a brother to me, and I need you now more than I ever needed you before. I can't go to father; he wouldn't understand, or else he would understand too much, and spoil it all, his temper is so quick."
"I'm not w'at you call easy-goin' mese'f," the Canadian said, darkly, and it was plain that he was deeply agitated, which added to the girl's distress; but she began to speak rapidly, incoherently, her impulsiveness giving significance to her words, so that the man had no difficulty in following her drift. With quick insight he caught her meaning, and punctuated her broken sentences with a series of grave nods, assuring her that he knew and understood. He had always known, he had always understood, it seemed.
"Don't think I'm unwomanly, Poleon, for I'm not. I may be foolish and faithful and too trusting, but I'm not—unmaidenly. You see, I've never been like other girls—and he was so fine, so different, he made me love him—it's part of a soldier's training, I suppose. It was so sweet to be near him, and to hear him tell of himself and all the world he knows—I just let myself drift. I'm afraid—I'm afraid I listened too well, and my ears heard more than he said—my head is so full of books, you know."
"He should have know' dat, too," said Poleon.
"Yes," she flared up. "He knew I was only an Indian girl."
The only color in Doret's face lay now in his cheeks, where the sun had put it; but he smiled at her—his warm, engaging smile—and laid his great brown hand upon her shoulder softly.
"I've look' in hees eye an' I'm always t'ink he's good man. I don' never t'ink he'll mak' fun of poor little gal."
"But he has, Poleon; that's just what he has done." She came near to breaking down, and finished, pathetically, "They're telling the story on the street, so Runnion says."
"Dat's easy t'ing for feex," he said. "Runnion, she don' spread no more story lak' dat."
"I don't care what they say. I want the truth. I want to know what he means, what his intentions are. He swears he loves me, and yet he has never asked me to marry him. He has gone too far; he has made a fool of me to amuse himself, and—and I couldn't see it until to-day. He's laughing at me, Poleon, he's laughing at me now! Oh, I can't bear it!"
The Frenchman took up his wide hat from the counter and placed it carefully upon his head, but she stopped him as he moved towards the door, for she read the meaning of the glare in his eyes.
"Wait till you understand—wait, I say! He hasn't done anything yet."
"Dat's de trouble. I'm goin' mak' 'im do somet'ing."
"No, no! It isn't that; it's these doubts that are killing me—I'm not sure—"
"I hear plaintee," he said. "Dere's no tam' for monkey roun'."
"I tell you he may be honest," she declared. "He may mean to marry me, but I've got to know. That's why I came to you; that's what you must find out for me."
"I'm good trader, Necia," said the Canadian, after a moment. "I'll mak' bargain wit' you now. If he say yes, he'll marry you, I don' ask no more; but if he say no, you geeve 'im to me. Is it go?"
She hesitated, while he continued, musingly, "I don' see how no man on all dis worl' could lef' you go." Then to her, "Wal, is it bargain?"
"Yes," she said, the Indian blood speaking now; "but you must learn the truth, there must be no mistake—that would be terrible."
"Dere ain' goin' be no mistak'."
"If he should refuse, I—I'll marry SOME one, quick. I won't be laughed at by this camp; I won't be a joke. Oh, Poleon! I've given myself to him just as truly as if—well, he—he has taken my first kiss."
Doret smote his hands together at this and began to roll his head backward from side to side, as if in some great pain, but his lips were dry and silent. After a moment the spell left him, the fire died down, leaving only a dumb agony in its place. She came closer and continued:
"I'll never let them point at me and say, 'There goes the squaw that—he threw away.'"
"You mak' dis very hard t'ing for me," he said, wearily.
"Listen," she went on, lashing herself with pity and scorn. "You say Father Barnum will be here on Sunday. Well—I'll marry some one, I don't care who!" Then, with a sudden inspiration, she cried, "I'll marry you—you said I could be a wife to you."
He uttered a sharp cry. "You mean dat, Necia?"
"Yes," she declared. "Why not? You'll do it for my sake, won't you?"
"Would you stan' up wit' me 'longside of de pries', lovin' dat oder feller all de tam'?" he asked, queerly.
"Yes, YES! I'd rather it was you than anybody, but married I'll be on Sunday. I'll never let them laugh at me."
Doret held his silence for a moment, then he looked up and said, in level tones:
"It's easy t'ing for go an' ask 'im, but you mus' hear hees answer wit' your own ears—den you can't t'ink I'm lyin'. I'll fetch 'im 'ere on dis place if you feex it for hide you'se'f behin' dose post." He indicated a bundle of furs that were suspended against a pillar, and which offered ample room for concealment. "Dere's goin' be no lies to-day."
He pulled himself together and went out, with the tired gait of an old man, his great shock head bowed low. A few moments later he returned.
"I've sent li'l' Jean for 'im. You get in dere out of sight—an' wait."
When Burrell entered he wasted no time in greetings.
"I know why you sent for me, Poleon. I've heard the news, and I would have been up anyhow to congratulate her very soon. I call it pretty fine."
"Yes, dere's been beeg strike all right, an' Necia is goin' be riche gal."
"I'm as pleased as if the claim were mine, and you feel the same way, of course."
The Frenchman nodded. "I love Necia very much, lak'—well, lak' I'm broder to her." The knowledge that she was listening made him very uncomfortable—in fact, this whole affair savored more of double-dealing and treachery than anything he had ever attempted, and it went sorely against his grain, but it had presented itself as the only way to help her, and he proceeded, groping haltingly for fit expression, "Dere's t'ing I want for talk 'bout wit' you, but I'm scare' you'll t'ink I'm butt in."
"Nonsense," said Burrell. "I know you too well for that."
"You know me for good man, eh? An' you know I ain' try for bre'k up oder fellers' biznesse, never! Wal, I'm come to you now lak' wan good man to 'noder biccause I'm got bad trouble on de min', an' you mus'n't get sore."
"There's no danger, Poleon. Let's have it. If there is anything I can do, you may count on me."
"Wal," he began, nervously, clearing his throat, "it's lak' dis. Dere's feller been talk some 'bout Necia, an' it ain' nice talk neider."
"Who is he?" exclaimed the soldier, in a tone that made the girl's heart leap.
"Wait! Lemme tol' you w'at he say, den we'll talk 'bout feex 'im plaintee. He say dere's joke down on Stark's saloon dat Necia Gale is mak' fool of herse'f on you, an' dat you ain' care for marry her."
"Runnion!" cried Burrell, and started for the door. "I'll settle with him now for fair!" But Poleon blocked his way, and, observing him gravely, continued, in a tone that the other could not disregard nor mistake:
"No, M'sieu', before you pass on dat place you'll tol' me if it's true."
"True!" the Lieutenant retorted, angrily. "What business is it of yours? This concerns me."
"An' me, too! I'm w'at you call gardeen for Necia till John Gale come back, an' I'm broder of her, too. You promis' jus' now you don' get mad, an' I don' say she's Runnion neider w'at spik dose t'ing; dere's more dan 'im been talkin'. Is it true?"
His sternness offended Burrell, for the soldier was not the kind to discuss his affairs in this way, therefore he drew back scowling.
"Poleon Doret," he said, "it's not one's enemies who do him injury, it's his damned fool friends. I have learned to regard you highly because you are a brave man and an honest one, but it seems that you are a sentimental idiot."
"Dem is tough word," Doret replied. "But dere's reason w'y I can't tak' on no madnesse. You say I'm hones'. Wal, I'm hones' now, an' I come to you wit' fair words an' I show my han' to you—I don' hoi' out no cards, M'sieu'—but I don' t'ink it is you who have play square, altogeder. I'm Necia's frien', an' I'll fight for her jus' so queecker lak' you, but I mus' know dis t'ing for sure, so if you have de good heart an' de courage of good man you'll tell me de truth. Do you have the feelin' for marry on her?"
The pause that followed was awkward for both of them, while the girl, who stood concealed near by, held her breath and buried her nails in her palms. Why did he hesitate? Would he never speak? It seemed not, for he swung between diverse emotions—anger that this outsider should question him on so intimate a matter, chagrin at the knowledge of having injured Necia, and rage, blind rage, at the thought of its becoming a bar-room topic. Gradually the conviction grew that it was not a question of idle curiosity with Doret, and the man's history recurred to him. No wonder he was interested in the girl, no wonder he wished to guard her; he had been a brother indeed, even as he said, and he could have no motive save an honorable one. It never occurred to the soldier that this Frenchman could harbor feelings akin to his own. The man was rough and foreign; his thoughts had been couched in harsher language, perhaps, than he intended; moreover, the fellow's high sense of honor was a byword—and of a sudden the desire to set himself right in this man's eyes dictated his answer.
"I am amazed at myself for listening to you," he said, at last, "and quite shocked, in fact, at my answering your questions, but perhaps I'd better, after all. First, however, let me say that the little girl is just as pure now as she was before she knew me—"
Poleon threw up his hand. "M'sieu', dat's more closer to de insult dan w'at you call me jus' now. You don' need for spoke it."
"You're right! There's no need to tell you that. As for showing her certain attentions—well, I admit that I have, as you know, but, thank God, I can say I've been a gentleman and addressed her as I would the fairest lady I've known."
"An' you mean for marry, eh?" probed the other.
Now, no man could have answered such a direct question easily, and in this case it was especially hard for the Kentuckian, who was torn between his ungovernable desire and that decision which cold reason had thrust upon him. He wanted to say, "Yes, I'll marry her to-morrow," but something bade him pause before he sacrificed upon this altar of a youthful love his life, his hopes, his ambitions. Had he not wrestled with himself for months in thinking it all out, until his mind was weary and listless with the effort? For the great test that tries a man's soul and compels him to know himself had not yet come to Meade Burrell; wherefore, he hesitated long.
"I did not say so," he declared, at last. "It's a thing I can't well discuss, because I doubt if you could understand what I would say. This life of yours is different from mine, and it would be useless for me to explain the reason why I cannot marry her. Leaving out all question of my sentiment, there are insurmountable obstacles to such a union; but as to this talk, I think that can be stopped without annoyance to her, and as for the rest, we must trust to time to bring about a proper adjustment—"
A low, discordant sound of laughter arrested his words, and, turning, he beheld Necia standing revealed in the dimness.
"What an amusing person you are!" she said. "I've had hard work holding in all this time while you were torturing your mind and twisting the honest English language out of shape and meaning. I knew I should have to laugh sooner or later."
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Is it a joke?"
"Indeed it is," she declared, laughing afresh, "and the best I've ever enjoyed. Wasn't it funny, Poleon"—she turned gayly to the Frenchman, but he stood like one petrified—"to see him debating coolly whether he cared for me enough to face the world with me, and trying to explain to you that he was too good to marry a squaw? Oh, you were very gentlemanly about it, sir, and you wouldn't have hurt my feelings for the world!"
"Necia!"
"That's your Dixie chivalry, I suppose. Well, I've played with you long enough, Lieutenant Burrell, I'm tired of the game, and you interest me no longer."
"You—you—say you've been playing with me!" stammered the man. The bottom of things seemed suddenly to slide from under him; he was like one sinking in some hideous quagmire. He felt as if he were choking.
"Why, of course," she cried, scornfully, "just as you took me up for amusement. You were such a fine, well-dressed, immaculate mound of conceit that I couldn't resist the temptation, and you hid your condescension so poorly that I thought you ought to be taken down a peg. I knew I was a squaw, but I wanted to see if I were not like other women, after all, and if you were not like other men." She was talking rapidly now, almost shrilly, for she had never attempted to act before, while he stood dazed and speechless, fumbling at his throat while she railed at him. "You needn't waste time debating whether I'm good enough for you, because I'm not—decidedly, I'm not your kind, and you are a joke to me."
He uttered an inarticulate cry, but she ran on unheeding, her eyes wide and glowing like coals, her lips chalk-white. "You see, it's time I stopped such foolishness, anyhow, for I'm to be married on Sunday."
"You are going to be married?" he muttered, laboriously.
"Yes, to Poleon. Why, that's been understood for years."
He whirled upon the Canadian in a fury, and his words came hot and tumbling.
"So you're in this, Doret. You're a part of this little farce. You trapped me here to make a fool of me, did you? Well, I can settle with you—"
"D-don't blame him!" cried the girl, hysterically. "It is all my doing. He had no part in it."
Burrell wheeled back to the Frenchman again. "Is this true?"
"Yes," said Doret, in a restrained voice. "Dis ain' no work of mine."
"You're a liar!" breathed the Kentuckian, now fairly wild with anger; but the other looked him squarely between the eyes and made no move.
"M'sieu'," he cried, "I'm livin' t'orty year, an' never took no nam' lak' dat before, but dere's reason here w'y I can't mak' no answer." He inclined his head towards the girl, and before Burrell could break out again he checked him.
"It's no good mak' fight wit' lesser dan two people. You've tol' me dat you are gentleman. Wal, I ain' nobody but trapper an' trader, but I don' spoil de name of no good girl, an' I don' quarrel in presence of lady, so mebbe, affer all, dere's mistak' somew'ere, an' I'm gentleman mese'f 'stead of you."
"Why, you aren't really angry, Lieutenant?" mocked Necia. "It's only the joke of an ignorant half-breed girl whose sense of humor is all out of gear. You mustn't quarrel over a SQUAW!"
She taunted him like a baited badger, for this thing was getting beyond her control and the savage instincts of the wilderness were uppermost.
"You are quite right," he replied. "I am very foolish, and the laugh is with you." His lips tried to frame a smile, but failed, and he added: "Your wit is not my kind, that is all. I beg you both to accept my congratulations on your nuptials. Undoubtedly, you will be happy together; two people with such similar ideas of humor must have much to enjoy in common." He bowed low and, turning, walked out.
The moment he was gone she cried, breathlessly:
"You must marry me, Poleon. You've got to do it now."
"Do you mean dat for sure?" he said.
"Can't you see there's nothing else for it, after this? I'll show him that he can't make me a toy to suit his convenience. I've told him I would marry you on Sunday, and I'll do it or die. Of course you don't love me, for you don't know what love is, I suppose; how—could you?" She broke down and began to catch her breath amid coughing sobs that shook her slender body, though they left her eyes dry and feverish.
"I—I'm very unhappy, b-but I'll be a good—wife to you. Oh, Poleon, if you only knew—"
He drew a long breath. When he spoke his voice had the timbre of some softly played instrument, and a tremor ran through his words.
"No! I don' know w'at kin' of love is dis, for sure. De kin' of love I know is de kin' I sing 'bout in my songs; I s'pose it's different breed to yours, an' I'm begin to see it don' live nowhere but on dem songs of mine. Dere's long tarn' I waste here now—five year—but to-morrow I go again lookin' for my own countree."
"Poleon!" she cried, looking up with startled eyes. "Not to-morrow, but Sunday—we will go together."
He shook his head. "To-morrow, Necia! An' I go alone."
"Then you won't—marry me?" she asked, in a hushed and frightened voice.
"No! Dere's wan t'ing I can't do even for you, Necia, dere's wan t'ing I can't geeve, dat's all—jus' wan on all de worl'. I can't kill de li'l' god wit' de bow an' arrer. He's all dat mak' de sun shine, de birds sing, an' de leaves w'isper to me; he's de wan li'l' feller w'at mak' my life wort' livin' an' keep music in my soul. If I keel 'im dere ain' no more lef lak' it, an' I'm never goin' fin' my lan' of content, nor sing nor laugh no more. I'm t'inkin' I would rader sing songs to 'im all alone onderneat' de stars beside my campfire, an' talk wit' 'im in my bark canoe, dan go livin' wit' you in fine house an' let 'im get col' an' die."
"But I told him I'd marry you—that I had always intended to. He'll believe I was lying," she moaned, in distress.
"Dat's too bad—but dis t'ing ain' no doin's wit' me. Dere's wan t'ing in dis worl' mus' live forever, an' dat's love—if we kill 'im den it's purty poor place for stoppin' in. I'm cut off my han' for help you, Necia, but I can't be husban' to no woman in fun."
"Your foolish head is full of romance," she burst out. "You think you're doing me a favor, but you're not. Why, there's Runnion—he wants me so much that he'd 'even marry me'!" Her wild laughter stabbed the man. "Was ever a girl in such a fix! I've been made love to ever since I was half a woman, but at thought of a priest men seem to turn pale and run like whipped dogs. I'm only good enough for a bad man and a gambler, I suppose." She sank to a seat, flung out her arms hopelessly, and, bowing her head, began to weep uncontrollably. "If—if—I only had a woman to talk to—but they are all men—all men."
Poleon waited patiently until her paroxysm of sobbing had passed, then gently raised her and led her out through the back door into the summer day, which an hour ago had been so bright and promising and was now so gray and dismal. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared inside the log-house.
"An' dat's de end of it all," he mused. "Five year I've wait—an' jus' for dis."
Meade Burrell never knew how he gained his quarters, but when he had done so he locked his door behind him, then loosed his hold on things material. He raged about the room like a wild animal, and vented his spite on every inanimate thing that lay within reach. His voice was strange in his own ears, as was the destructive frenzy that possessed him. In time he grew quieter, as the physical energy of this brutal impulse spent itself; but there came no surcease of his mental disquiet. As yet his mind grasped but dully the fact that she was to marry another, but gradually this thought in turn took possession of him. She would be a wife in two days. That great, roistering, brown man would fold her to himself—she would yield to him every inch of her palpitant, passionate body. The thought drove the lover frantic, and he felt that madness lay that way if he dwelt on such fancies for long. Of a sudden he realized all that she meant to him, and cursed himself anew. While he had the power to possess her he had dallied and hesitated, but now that he had no voice in it, now that she was irretrievably beyond his reach, he vowed to snatch her and hold her against the world.
As he grew calmer his reason began to dissect the scene that had taken place in the store, and he wondered whether she had been lying to him, after all. No doubt she had been engaged to the Frenchman, and had always planned to wed Poleon, for that was not out of reason; she might even have set out mischievously to amuse herself with him, but at the recollection of those rapturous hours they had spent together, he declared aloud that she had loved him, and him only. Every instinct in him shouted that she loved him, in spite of her cruel protestations.
All that afternoon he stayed locked in his room, and during those solitary hours he came to know his own soul. He saw what life meant: what part love plays in it, how dwarfed and withered all things are when pitted against it.
A man came with his supper, but he called to him to be gone. The night settled slowly, and with the darkness came such a feeling of despair and lonesomeness that Burrell lighted every lamp and candle in the place to dispel, in some measure, the gloom that had fallen upon him. There are those who believe that in passing from daylight to darkness a subtle transition occurs akin to the change from positive to negative in an electrical current, and that this intangible, untraceable atmospheric influence exerts a definite, psychical effect upon men and their modes of thought. Be this as it may, it is certain that as the night grew darker the Lieutenant's mood changed. He lost his fierce anger at the girl, and reasoned that he owed it to her to set himself right in her eyes; that in all justice to her he ought to prove his own sincerity, and assure her that whatever her own state of mind had been, she wronged him when she said he had made sport of her for his own pleasure. She might then dismiss him and proceed with her marriage, but first she must know this much of the truth at least. So he argued, insensible to the sophistry of his reasoning, which was in reality impelled by the hunger to see her and hear her voice again. He snatched his hat and bolted out, almost running in his eagerness.
An up-river steamboat was just landing as he neared the trading-post—a freighter, as he noted by her lights. In the glare at the river-bank he saw Poleon and the trader, who had evidently returned from Lee's Creek, and without accosting them he hurried on to the store. Peering in from the darkness, he saw Alluna; no doubt Necia was alone in the house behind. So he stumbled around to the back to find the window of her room aglow behind its curtain, and, receiving no answer to his knock, he entered, for it was customary at Gale's to waive ceremony. Inside the big room he paused, then stepped swiftly across and rapped at her door, falling back a pace as she came out.
Instead of speaking at once, as he had planned, to prevent her escaping, he was struck speechless, for the vision that met his eyes was that which he had seen one blithe spring morning three months before; but to-night there was no shawl to conceal her sweetly rounded neck and shoulders, whose whiteness was startling against the black of the ball-room gown. The slim gold chain hung around her neck and her hair was piled high, as before. He noted every smallest detail as she stood there waiting for him to speak, forgetful of everything else.
She had put on the gown again to see if, perchance, there might be some mark of her blood or breed that had escaped her previous scrutiny, and, as there was no one to observe her, she had attired herself slowly, absorbed in her whimsy. Her wistful beauty dazed the young man and robbed him of the words he had rehearsed; but as she made to flee from him, with a pitiful gesture, towards her room, the fear of losing her aroused him and spurred his wit.
"Don't go away! I have something I must tell you. I've thought it over, and you've got to listen, Necia."
"I am listening," she answered, very quietly.
"Understand me, I'm not whining, and I'm willing to take my medicine. I couldn't talk or think very straight this afternoon, but you were wrong."
"Yes, I know now, I was wrong. It was most unlady-like, wasn't it? But you see, I am only a little savage."
"I don't mean that; I mean you were wrong when you said I had played with you. In the sight of God, I swear you were mistaken. You have made me love you, Necia. Can't you see?"
She made no sign.
"If you can't, I owe it to you and to myself to set you right. I am not ashamed to acknowledge my love, and even when you are married to Poleon I want you to know that I shall love you always."
Even yet she made no sign. Was he not merely repeating the same empty words with which he had so often beguiled her? There was no word of marriage: he still considered her unworthy, beneath him. The pain of it caused the girl to wince suddenly, and her sensitive face flinched, seeing which he broke out:
"You do love me, Necia—you do; I see it in your eyes!" And he started towards her with open arms, but she shrank away from him.
"No, no! Don't touch me!" she almost screamed.
"My dear one," he breathed, "you must listen to me. You have nothing to fear, for I love you—love you—love you! You were made for me! You'll be my wife. Yes; you'll be married on Sunday, but to me, not to Poleon or any other man!"
Did she hear aright? Was he, her soldier lover, asking her, the Indian girl—?
"You do love me, don't you?" he pleaded. But still she could not speak, and he tried to read the answer in her swimming eyes.
"You mean—you want to—marry me?" she murmured, at last, hesitating shyly at the word that had come to play so momentous a part in her little world.
"Indeed I do!" he declared, with emphasis. "In spite of everything, anything. Nothing else matters."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing! I'll quit the army. I'll give up the Service, and my people, too. I'll put everything back of me, and we'll start out anew—just you and I."
"Wait a moment," she said, retreating a little from his eager, out-stretched arms. "Why do you need to do all that?"
"Never mind why; it's as good as done. You wouldn't understand—"
"But I think I do understand now. Do I really mean all that to you?"
"Yes, and more!"
"Listen to me," said the girl, quietly. "I want you to talk slowly so I may not misunderstand. If you—marry me, must you forego all those great things you speak of—your profession, your family, your future?"
"Don't let's talk about it, Necia; I've got you, and—"
"Please answer me," she urged. "I thought I understood, but I'm afraid I don't. I thought it was my being a breed that stood in the way—"
"There's nothing in the way—"
"—that I wasn't good enough. I knew I could overcome that; I knew I could make myself grow to your level, but I didn't think my blood would fetter you and make this difference. I suppose I am putting it awkwardly, because I'm not sure that I quite understand it myself yet. Things seem different now, somehow, than they did before."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the soldier. "If they don't bother me, Necia, why should you worry?"
"Would you really have to give up your family—your sister? Would those people you are so proud of and who are so proud of you—would they cut you off?"
"There is no question of cutting off. I have no inheritance coming; I don't want any. I don't want anything except you, dear."
"Won't you tell me?" she persisted. "You see, I am dull at these things."
"Well, what if they do?" he conceded. "You more than make it up to me—you outweigh a thousand families."
"And would your marriage to a—a—to me destroy your army career?"
"Well, it will really be much easier for both of us if I resign from the Service," he finally admitted. "In fact, I've decided to do so at once."
"No, no! You mustn't do that. To-night you think I am worth the price, but a day will come—"
He leaned forward and caught her hands in his.
"—Meade, I can't let you do it."
"I'd like to see you help yourself," he said, banteringly.
"I can and I will. You must not marry me, Meade—it's not right—it can't be." She suddenly realized what this renunciation would mean, and began to shiver. To think of losing him now, after he had come to her freely—it would be very hard! But to her, too, there had come the revelation that love means sacrifice, and she knew now that she loved her soldier too well to let her shadow darken his bright future, too well to ruin him.
"It will be over before you know it," she heard him saying, in a lame attempt at levity. "Father Barnum is an expert, and the operation won't occupy him ten minutes."
"Meade, you must listen to me now," she said, so earnestly that it sobered him. "Do you think a girl could be happy if she knew a good man had spoiled his life for her? I would rather die now than let you do such a thing. I couldn't bear to see myself a drag on you. Oh, I know it would be wonderful, this happiness of ours, for a time, and then—" She was finding it more and more difficult to continue. "A prisoner grows to hate the chains that bind him; when that day came for you, I should hate myself. No, no! Believe me, it can't be. You're not of my people, and I'm not of yours."
At that moment they heard the voices of the trader and his squaw outside, approaching the house. The girl's breath caught in her throat, she flung herself recklessly upon her lover's breast and threw her arms around his neck in an agony of farewell.
"Meade! Meade! my soldier!" she sobbed, "kiss me good-bye for the last time!"
"No," he said roughly.
But she dragged his face down to her burning lips.
"Now you must go," she said, tearing herself away, "and, for my sake, don't see me again."
"I will! I will! I'll ask your father for you to-night."
"No, no! Don't; please don't! Wait till—till to-morrow—till I say the word! Promise me! On your love, promise!"
Her eyes held such a painful entreaty that he nodded acquiescence as the door opened and her father and Alluna entered.