CHAPTER XXXI
THE ROBE OF DIABLESSE
It required three days of hard labor to remove the fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs to a position of safety. Jacques made a trip to the log camp, returning with a stout rope and an armload of baling wire which he collected from the vicinity of the stables.
The fact that bird's-eye maple logs, when green, will sink in water, rendered necessary the use of two large pine logs as floats. These were connected at the ends and in the middle with rope sufficiently long to permit four of the heavier logs to rest upon the ropes between the floats.
The raft thus formed was laboriously towed up-stream to the eddy where the bird's-eye logs were wired together, weighted with stones, and allowed to sink.
During the whole time Jeanne worked tirelessly by the side of the men, and when the last log rested safely upon the bottom of the river, and the scars were carefully removed from the bank, Bill surveyed the result with satisfaction.
"I think that will keep Moncrossen guessing," he laughed. "He won't know whether Creed ate the logs or an air-ship made away with them."
"But, he will know they aresomewhere," said Jeanne gravely, "and he will search for them far and wide."
"He will not find them," Jacques interrupted. "No man would search up-stream for logs, even though he believed them to be upon the bottom of the river."
"But, in the searching, he may come upon the lodge, and in his rage, who can tell what he would do?" Bill's eyes narrowed, and he answered the girl with a smile.
"I will remain, and if Moncrossen comes——"
The girl laid a small hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes.
"I am but a girl and know nothing of logs, but, is it not better that he return down the river without searching?"
Carmody smiled into the serious dark eyes. "Go on, Jeanne," he said, "tell us what you would do."
"It is simple—only to build a big fire upon the spot where the logs were piled, and when Moncrossen finds the ashes he will seek no farther for his logs."
"Great!" cried Bill, in undisguised admiration and, with the help of the others, proceeded to carry the plan into effect. All night they piled fuel upon the fire, and in the morning their efforts were rewarded by a pile of ashes that would easily be mistaken for the ruins of the bird's-eye rollway.
With the passing of the long, hot days of summer, Bill Carmody regained his strength, and yet he lingered in the camp of the Lacombies.
Creed was seen no more upon Blood River, and Bill assumed the responsibility of guarding the log camp, making for the purpose almost daily excursions with Jeanne or Jacques.
August mellowed into smoky September—September gave place to the red and gold of October, and the blood of the forest folk quickened to the tang of the North.
At the conclusion of one of these tours of inspection, Bill came suddenly upon the girl standing in awe before the skin of Diablesse, which remained where he and Fallon had nailed it on the wall of the bunk-house. Bill carefully removed the nails and laid the dry pelt at the feet of the girl.
"See," he said, "the skin of the werwolf—it is yours."
"Mine!" she cried, with shining eyes. "You would give methis!"
Bill smiled. "Yes, that is all I have, here in the woods. But when I return I will bring you many things from the land of the white men."
"The robe of Diablesse!" she breathed softly, as she gazed down upon the peculiar silvery sheen of the great white wolfskin. "I had rather you gave me this than anything else in the world."
She stopped in sudden confusion.
"And why?" questioned Bill, pleased at her evident delight.
"It is," she hesitated, and a slender hand clutched at her breast. "It is as you spoke of the hunting shirt—that you would always keep it because it is the work of my hands. Only the robe means much more, for, among men but one man could have slain theloup-garou, and in all the North there is none like it—the robe of Diablesse! and it shall bring us luck—and—and happiness?" she added, the rich voice melting to softness.
At the words the man glanced quickly into the face of the girl and encountered the shy, questioning gaze of the mysterious dark eyes. The gaze did not falter, and the deep, lustrous eyes held the man enthralled in their liquid depths. She advanced a step, and stood her lithe young body almost touching his own, holding him fascinated in the compelling gaze of the limpid eyes.
"And happiness?" The words were a whispered breath; the bronzed face of the man paled and, with an effort, he turned swiftly away.
"Luck! Happiness!" he repeated dully, with bowed head. "For me there can be no happiness."
With a low cry the girl was at his side and two tiny, white-brown hands clutched at the fringed arm of his buckskin shirt. The beautiful face was flushed, the bosom heaved, and from between the red lips poured a torrent of words:
"Youshallfind happiness! You, who are great and strong and brave above all men! You, who are good, and whom the Great Spirit sent to me from the waters of the river!
"You, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die, shall turn from your own kind, and shall find your happiness beside the rivers, and in the forests of my people! Together we will journey to some far place, and in our lodge will dwell love and great happiness.
"And you shall become a mighty hunter, and in all the North you shall be feared and loved."
The girl paused and gazed wildly into the eyes of the man. His face was drawn and pale, and in his eyes she read deep pain. Gently his hand closed over the slender fingers that gripped his sleeve, and at the touch the girl trembled and leaned closer, until her warm body rested lightly against his arm. Bill's lips moved and the words of his toneless voice fell upon her ears like the dry rustle of dead husks.
"Jeanne—little girl—you do not understand. These things cannot be. Only unhappiness would come to us. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you.
"To you I owe my life—to you and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. But, love cannot be ordered. It is written—and, far away, in the great city of the white men, is a girl—a woman of my own people——"
The girl sprang from his side and faced him with blazing eyes.
"A woman of your people!" she almost hissed. "In your sleep you talked of her, while the fever-spirit was upon you. Ihateher—this Ethel! She does not love you, for she will marry another! Ah, in the darkness I have listened, and listening, have learned tohate! She sent you away from her—for, in your eyes she could not read the goodness of your heart!"
Bill raised his hand.
"You do not understand," he repeated, patiently. "I was not good—I was a bad man!"
"Who, then, among white men is good? The men of the logs, who drink whisky, and fight among themselves, and kill one another? Is it these men that are good in the sight of your woman? And are you, who scorn these things—are you bad?"
"I, too, drank whisky—and for that reason she sent me away."
"But, you cannot return to her! She is the wife of another! Over and over again you said it, in the voice of the fever-spirit."
"No," replied the man softly. "To her I cannot return. But, listen; I start to-morrow for the white man's country. To find the man for whom I work, and tell him of the bird's-eye.
"Soon I shall come again into the woods. I cannot marry you, for only evil would come of it. I will bring you many presents, and always we shall be friends—and more than friends, for you shall be to me a sister and I shall be your brother, and shall keep you from harm.
"To-morrow I go, and you shall promise me that whenever you are in trouble of whatsoever kind you will send for me—and I shall come to you—be it far or near, in the night-time or in the daytime, I will come—Jeanne, look into my eyes—will you promise?"
The girl looked up, and a ray of hope lightened the pain in her eyes.
"You will surely return into the North?"
"I will surely return."
"I will promise," she whispered, and, side by side, in the silence of the twilight, they left the clearing.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE ONE GOOD WHITE MAN
The following morning Bill parted from his friends. As he was about to step into the canoe Jeanne appeared at the water's edge bearing the mackinaw which he had worn when they drew him from the river.
Without meeting his glance she extended it toward him, speaking in a low, tense voice.
"In the lining I have sewed them—the papers that fell dripping from your pocket—and the picture. Many times I have looked upon the face of this woman, who has caused you pain. And I have hated! Oh, how I have hated! So that I could have torn her in pieces.
"And many times I would have burned them, that you might forget. But, instead, I sewed them from sight in the lining of the coat—and here is the coat."
Bill tossed the mackinaw into the bottom of the canoe.
"Thank you, Jeanne," he said. "And until we meet again, good-by!"
With a push of the paddle he shot the light canoe far out into the current of the stream.
Bill paddled leisurely, camping early and sitting late over his camp-fire smoking many pipefuls of tobacco. And, as he smoked, his thoughts drifted over the events of the past year, and the people who comprised his little world.
Appleton, who had offered him the chance to make good; whole-hearted Fallon; devoted old Daddy Dunnigan; Stromberg, in whom was much to admire; Creed, the craven tool of Moncrossen; the boss himself, crooked, brutal, vicious; Blood River Jack, his friend; Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the sinister old squaw, who believed all white men to be bad; and Jeanne, the beautiful, half-wild girl, within whose breast a great soul fluttered against the restraint of her environment.
To this girl he owed his life, and he had repaid the debt by trampling roughshod upon her heart. Bitterly he reproached himself for not seeing how things were going. For not until the day she told him in the clearing had he guessed that she loved him.
And yet now as he looked backward he could remember a hundred little things that ought to have warned him—a word here, a look, a touch of the hand—little things, insignificant in themselves, but in the light of his present understanding, looming large as the danger signals of a well-ordered block system—signals he had blindly disregarded, to the wrecking of a heart. Well, he would make all amends in his power; would look after her as best he could, and in time she would forget.
"Theyallforget," he muttered aloud with a short, bitter laugh, as the memory of certain staring head-lines flashed through his brain. "I wish to God I could forget—her!"
But the old wound would not heal, and far into the night he sat staring into the fire.
"It's a man's game," he murmured as he spread his blankets, "and I will win out; but why?"
Beyond the fire came the sound of a snapping twig. The man started, staring into the gloom, when suddenly into the soft light of the dying embers stepped Jeanne Lacombie. He stared at her speechless.
There, in the uncertain glow, she stood, a Diana of flesh and blood, whose open hunting-shirt fell away from her rounded throat in soft, fringed folds. Her short skirt of heavy drilling came only to her knees; she wore no stockings, and her tiny feet were incased in heavily beaded moccasins.
And so she stood there in the midnight, smiling down upon the man who gazed speechless from his blanket upon the opposite side of the dying fire; and then she spoke:
"I have come," she said simply.
"Jeanne!" cried the man, "why have you done this thing?"
"I love you, and I will go with you."
"But, girl, don't you realize what it means? This is the third night since I left the camp of Jacques——" The girl interrupted him with a laugh:
"And I, too, have been gone three nights; have struck straight through the forest, and because the river makes a great bend of many miles I came to this place before you, and have waited for you here a night and a day.
"And now I'm hungry. I will eat first, and then we will sleep, and to-morrow we will start together for the land of the white men."
The man's mind worked rapidly as he watched in silence while the girl removed some bacon and bannock from his pack-sack and set the coffee-pot upon the coals. When she had finished her meal he spoke, slowly but firmly.
"Jeanne, you have waited here a night and a day; you are rested, you have eaten. I will now make up the pack, and we will take the trail."
"To-night?"
"Yes, to-night—now. The back trail for the lodge of Jacques." The girl regarded him in amazement, and then smiled sadly, as a mother smiles on an erring child.
"We cannot return," she said, speaking softly. "Wa-ha-ta-na-ta would kill me. She thinks we came away together. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was married; we are not married; we cannot go back." The man rolled the blankets and buckled the straps of his pack-sack. He was about to swing it to his shoulders when the girl grasped his arm.
"I love you," she repeated, "and I will go with you."
"But, Jeanne," the man cried, "this cannot be. I cannot marry you. In my life I have loved but one woman——"
"And she is the wife of another!" cried the girl.
Bill winced as from a blow, and she continued, speaking rapidly:
"I do not ask that you marry me—not even that you love me. It is enough that I am at your side. You will treat me kindly, for you are good. Marriage is nothing—empty words—if the heart loves; nothing else matters, and some day you will love me."
The man slowly shook his head:
"No, Jeanne, it is impossible. Come, we will return to the lodge of Jacques. I myself will tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta that no harm has befallen you, and——"
"Do you think she will believeyou? Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, who hates all white men and, next to Moncrossen, you most of all, for she has seen that I love you. We have been gone three nights. She will not believe you. If you will not take me I will go alone to the land of the white men; I have no place else to go."
The man's jaw squared, his eyes narrowed, and the low, level tones of his voice cut upon the silence in words of cold authority:
"We are going back to-night. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will believe me. She is very old and very wise; and she will know that I speak the truth."
The words ceased abruptly, and the two drew closer together, their eyes fixed upon the blanketed form which, silent as a shadow, glided from the bushes and stood motionless before them.
Within an arm's reach, in the dull, red glow, the somber figure stood contemplating the pair through beady, black eyes, that glowed ominously in the half-light.
Slowly, deliberately, a clawlike hand was withdrawn from a fold of the blanket, and the feeble rays of the fire glinted weakly upon the cold, gray steel of a polished blade.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE PROMISE
The silent, shadowy figure swayed toward Bill Carmody, who met the stabbing glare of the black eyes with the steady gaze of his gray ones. For long, tense moments their eyes held, while the girl watched breathlessly.
Raising the blade high above her head, the old squaw brought it crashing upon a rock at Carmody's feet. There was the sharp ring of tempered steel, and upon the pine-needles lay the broken blade, and beyond the rock the hilt, with a scant inch of blade protruding at the guard.
Stooping, the old woman picked up the two pieces of the broken sheath-knife, and, handing the hilt gravely to the astonished man carefully returned the blade to her blanket. She pointed a long, skinny finger at Bill, and the withered lips moved.
"You are the one good white man," she said. "I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, have spoken. I—who, since the death of Lacombie, have said 'there is no good white man'—was wrong, and the words were a lie in my mouth. In your eyes I have read it. You have the good eye—the eye of Lacombie, who is dead.
"I have followed upon the trail of my daughter, thinking it was in your heart to meet her here and carry her to her ruin in the land of the white man. With this blade I would have killed you—for all men die—would have followed and killed you in the land of your people. But now I know that your heart is good. I have broken the knife.
"You will keep the hilt, and when you are in trouble, in need, in want of a friend, you will send me this hilt, and I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, will come to you."
Her eyes rolled upward as though seeking among the tiny, far-winking stars the words of some half-forgotten ritual, and her voice rose in a weird, hesitating chant:
"Through the snows of Winter,Through the heat of Summer,Across high Mountains,Over broad Waters,Braving lean Want,Scorning fat Plenty,Nor turning asideFrom the fang of Wolf,From the forked arrows of Lightning,From the mighty voice of Thunder,From the hot breath of Fire,From the rush of Waters,From the sting of Frost.Nor lingering to the call of Love,Nor heeding the words of Hate.In the face of Sickness,In defiance of DeathWill I comeThat you may know I am your Friend.Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World,And sit upon the High Places of the Great World,This is my Vow!Should my feet lag upon the Trail,Should my heart turn to Water,Should I forget—So that in the time of my friend's needI answer not his call;Then, upon my head—upon the heads of my children—and their childrenShall descend the Curse—the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah!The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"
"Through the snows of Winter,Through the heat of Summer,Across high Mountains,Over broad Waters,Braving lean Want,Scorning fat Plenty,Nor turning asideFrom the fang of Wolf,From the forked arrows of Lightning,From the mighty voice of Thunder,From the hot breath of Fire,From the rush of Waters,From the sting of Frost.Nor lingering to the call of Love,Nor heeding the words of Hate.In the face of Sickness,In defiance of DeathWill I comeThat you may know I am your Friend.Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World,And sit upon the High Places of the Great World,This is my Vow!Should my feet lag upon the Trail,Should my heart turn to Water,Should I forget—So that in the time of my friend's needI answer not his call;Then, upon my head—upon the heads of my children—and their childrenShall descend the Curse—the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah!The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"
"Through the snows of Winter,
Through the heat of Summer,
Across high Mountains,
Over broad Waters,
Braving lean Want,
Scorning fat Plenty,
Nor turning aside
From the fang of Wolf,
From the forked arrows of Lightning,
From the mighty voice of Thunder,
From the hot breath of Fire,
From the rush of Waters,
From the sting of Frost.
Nor lingering to the call of Love,
Nor heeding the words of Hate.
In the face of Sickness,
In defiance of Death
Will I come
That you may know I am your Friend.
Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World,
And sit upon the High Places of the Great World,
This is my Vow!
Should my feet lag upon the Trail,
Should my heart turn to Water,
Should I forget—
So that in the time of my friend's need
I answer not his call;
Then, upon my head—upon the heads of my children—and their children
Shall descend the Curse—the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah!
The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"
The quavering chant ceased, and the undimmed old eyes looked again into the face of the man.
"And because you are good," she went on, "and because you have heard the vow, when this broken blade comes to your hand you will know that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, in the last extremity of her need, is calling you.
"And because you are strong and brave and have the good eye—you will come. And no people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent you. I have spoken."
Bill Carmody listened in awed silence until the old woman finished.
"I, whom you choose to regard as the one good white man," he replied with a dignity matching her own, "will one day prove my friendship. Upon sight of the fragment of blade I will come.
"No people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent me—and one day you will know that my words are true."
He raised his hand and, gazing upward, repeated the words of the strange chant. At their conclusion he gazed steadily into the face of the old squaw.
"This isthe promise," he said gravely. "I have spoken."
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE NEW BOSS
The twilight of late autumn darkened the landscape as Bill Carmody found himself once again at the edge of the tiny clearing surrounding the cabin of Daddy Dunnigan.
Through the window, in the yellow lamplight of the interior, he could see the form of the old man as he hobbled back and forth between the stove and the table.
Remembering Creed, Bill feared the effect upon the old man should he present himself suddenly at the door. Advancing into the clearing, he whistled. Daddy Dunnigan paused, frying-pan in hand, and peered futilely out of the window. Again Bill whistled and watched as the other returned the pan to the stove and opened the door.
"Come on in out av that, ye shpalpeen!" called Dunnigan. "Ut's toime ye be comin' back to let th' owld man know how ye're farin'!"
Bill grasped the extended hand and peered into the twinkling eyes of the old Irishman.
"Well, Daddy, you don't seem much surprised."
"Oi know'd ye'd be along wan av these days, but ye tuk yer own toime about ut."
"How did you know I wasn't drowned in the river?"
"Sur-re, Oi know'd yewuz—didn't Oi see ye go undher th' logs wid me own eyes? An' didn't th' jam go rippin' an' tearin' into th' rapids? An' c'd on-ny man live t'rough th' loike av that? Oiknow'dye wuz dead—till Oi seed Creed. Thin Oi know'd ye wuzn't. But Moncrossen don't know ut—nor on-ny wan ilse, ondly me. Oi'd 'a' gone to hunt ye, ondly Oi know'd phwin th' toime suited ye ye'd come here; so Oi waited.
"Set by now er th' grub'll be cowld. They'll be toime fer palaverin' afther."
When the dishes had been washed and returned to their shelves the two seated themselves and lighted their pipes.
"You say Creed returned to Hilarity and told of having seen me?" asked Bill.
"Well, he did—an' he didn't," replied the old man slowly. "Ut's loike this: Along in July, ut wuz, Moncrossen an' his gang av bur-rd's-eye pirates come roarin' out av th' woods huntin' fer Creed. They'd wint in be th' river, but come out be th' tote-road, an' mad clean t'rough to th' gizzard. No wan hadn't seed um, an' they clum aboord th' thrain, cursin' an' swearin' vingince on Creed phwin they caught um.
"Thin, maybe it's two wakes afther, we wuz settin' in Burrage's phwin th' dure bust open, an' in come Rad Cranston loike th' divil wuz afther um.
"'They's a woild man,' he yells, 'come out av th' woods, an' he's tearin' things up in Creed's cabin!'
"Hod picks up a cleaver an' makes fer th' dure, wid us follyin' um, afther providin' oursilves wid what utinsils wuz layin' handy—a scythe here an' an axe there, an' some wan ilse wid a pitchfork. Rad brung up lasht wid a sixteen-pound posht-maul, bein' in no hurry at all fer another luk.
"Trut' is, none av us wuz in no great hurry—Creed's woman havin' cashed his pay-check an' skipped out—but at lasht we come to phwere we c'd see th' place, an' sure enough th' dure shtood open an' insoide come a racket av shmashin' furniture an' yellin' 'tw'd done proud to camp-meetin' salvation.
"Thin come a foine loud rattle av glass, an' out t'rough a windie come th' half av a chair, follyed be a len'th av shtovepoipe an' a grane glass wather-pitcher.
"Fer me own part, Oi'd seed such loike brick-a-brack befoor, an' besides Oi remimbered a dhrink Oi hadn't tuk earlier in th' evenin', so Oi shtarted workin' me way to th' back av th' crowd, th' bether some wan ilse c'd see.
"Oi'd no more thin tur-rned around phwin wid a whoop, 'tw'd wake th' dead, out t'rough th' windie come th' domnedest-lukin' cryther this side av Borneo, a wavin' over his head wan av th' owld lady Creed's rid cotton table-cloths—an' niver another stitch to his name but a leather belt wid about six inches av pants a hangin' onto ut, an' a pair av corked boots.
"Phwin Oi shtar-rted from Burrage's Oi laid holt av a man's-size crowbar, but at that minit th' thing Oi helt in me hand luked about th' heft av a tinpinny nail. Be that toime all th' others wuz av loike moind to me. They wuz considerable crowdin', an', bein' crippled, Oi dhropped me crowbar an' laid a good holt on th' tail av Hod's coat.
"Th' shtore wuz clost by, an' we had a good shtart; but th' thing that wuz afther us wuz thravelin' loight an' in foorty-fut leps.
"'Twuz a good race, an' wan Oi wanted to win; but, owin' to th' unyversal willin'ness av th' crowd to get into th' shtore, we plugged up th' dureway, an' befoor we c'd get unstuck th' thing wuz onto us, gibberin' an' jabberin' an' screamin' an' laughin' all to wunst.
"Ut tuk eight av us to howld um whilst Burrage toied um hand an' fut, an' phwin we'd dhrug um into th' shtore we seed 'twuz Creed hissilf. Twuz two days befoor th' sheriff come fer um, an' in th' mane toime he'd gabble an' yell about th' greener comin' afther um, an' how he come out av th' wather, an' so on.
"Th' rist think ut's th' shtayin' alone made um loony, but Oi put two an' two togither—here's Moncrossen losht his bur-rd's-eye an' Creed scairt witless be th' soight av th' greener—phwat's th' answer?
"Phy, th' b'y ain't dead at all. Some ways he got out av th' river, scairt th' dayloights out av Creed, an' made off wid th' bur-rd's-eye. Am Oi roight?"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Bill.
"Oi know'd ut! Ye've th' luck av Captain Fronte's own silf! That come out av ivery shcrape wid his loife, save th' lasht wan, an' he w'd thin av a domned nayger shell hadn't bust ag'in' his ribs—but that's toimes gone."
"I wonder where Moncrossen is now?"
"Right here in Hilarity; him an' his crew unloaded yisterday fer to shtar-rt fer th' camp in th' marnin'."
"I think I'll just let the boss believe I'm still in the river until after I have had a talk with Appleton. By the way, Daddy, how are you fixed for money?"
"Sure, Oi got more money thin a man ought to have—money in th' bank an' money in me pocket—take ut an' welcome"—he tossed a thick wallet onto the table—"ondly ye won't have to go to Minneapolis.
"Owld man Appleton's over to Creighton, eighty moiles wesht av here, sooperintindin' a new camp on Blood River, wan hundred an' tin moiles above Moncrossen's. Fallon's wid um, an' Shtromberg, an' a lot more av th' good min that's toired av worrkin' undher Moncrossen."
"He is not bossing the camp himself!" exclaimed Bill.
"No, but he's got to kape an eye on't. Fallon'll be a kind av shtraw boss an' luk afther th' wor-rk, but th' owld man'll have to figger th' toime an' th' scale—Fallon ain't got no aggicatin'.
"'Tis roight glad Oi'm thinkin' th' owld man'll be to lay eyes on ye. They say he wuz all bruk up phwin he heerd ye wuz dhr-rounded."
Bill's visit to Hilarity was known to no one except Daddy Dunnigan, and the following evening after Moncrossen's departure for the woods, the two proceeded to the railway by a circuitous route.
Unobserved, he swung aboard the caboose of the local freight-train which stood at the tiny platform, discharging goods.
"He'll be afther makin' ye boss av th' new camp," opined the old man from his position beside a pile of ties. "An' av ye nade a cook just dhrop me a loine an' Oi'll come."
"I haven't got the job yet," laughed Bill.
"But ye will. Owld Appleton'll be glad enough not havin' to come thrapsin' into th' woods ivery month or so durin' th' winther." The old man leaned forward upon his crutch, and with pathetic eagerness scanned the face of the younger man.
"Me b'y," he said, "av yer plans is changed—wor-rd from th' gir-rl, or what not, that'll be takin' ye back to Noo Yor-rk—ye'll take me wid ye?
"Oi may be a bit owld, but Oi'm as good as iver Oi wuz. Oi c'd lear-rn to run yer otymobile er take care av th' harses, er moind th' babies, ut makes no difference; for whilst a McKim lives owld Dunnigan belongs to luk afther um."
"Never fear, Daddy!" cried Bill, as the train jerked into motion. "Now that we've found each other, we'll stick together until the end." And he stood silent upon the steps of the caboose until the figure of the old Irishman blended into the background.
In the front room of the one-story building with its undeceptive two-story front, where Appleton had established his headquarters in the little town of Creighton, the lumber magnate sat talking with Irish Fallon.
The tote-road leading to the new camp had been pushed to completion, and Appleton was giving Fallon some final instructions.
"I must leave for Minneapolis in the morning," he said. "Do the best you can, and I will run up as often as possible."
"Oi'll do ut, sorr," replied Irish. "Oi c'n lay down th' logs all roight; th' throuble'll be wid th' figgers. If ondly me frind, Bill, wuz here—sure, there wuz th' foine lad!"
Appleton pulled at his gray mustache and regarded the other thoughtfully.
"You knew him well—this Bill?" he asked.
"Oi wuz th' fur-rst whoite man he seen in th' woods th' day he stud knee-dape in th' shnow av th' tote-road, lukin' down at th' carcass av D'ablish. An' from that toime on till he wint down undher th' logs we wuz loike two brothers—ondly more so."
"Pretty good man, was he?"
"A-a-h, there wuz a man!" Fallon's big fist banged noisily upon the table, and his blue eyes lighted as he faced his employer. "Misther Appleton, ye losht amanphwin th' greener wint undher. Fearin' nayther God, man, nor th' divil, he come into th' woods, an' in wan sayson lear-rnt more about logs thin th' most av us'll iver know."
"Moncrossen liked him—spoke very highly of him, and that is unusual with Moncrossen." Fallon's breath whistled through his teeth at the words.
"Loiked um, did he? Sure he loiked um—loike a rabbit loikes a wolf!"
He leaned forward in his chair, punctuating his remarks with stabs of a huge forefinger upon the other's knee.
"Misther Appleton, Moncrossenhated um! An' ivery man along th' river that day knows that av ut wuzn't fer Moncrossen, th' greener'd be livin' this minit—ondly we can't pr-roove ut. Th' boss hated um because he wuz a bether man—because he know'd he wuz a clane man, wid a foightin' hear-rt an' two fists an' th' guts to carry um t'rough. He chilled th' har-rt av th' boss th' fur-rst noight he seen um, an' from thin on th' fear wuz upon um fer th' bird's-eye."
"The bird's-eye?" inquired Appleton. "What do you mean?"
Fallon hesitated; his enthusiasm had carried him further than he had intended. He gazed out of the window, wondering how to proceed, when his eyes fastened upon a large, heavily bearded man who approached rapidly down the wooden sidewalk, a folded mackinaw swung carelessly across the fringed arm of his buckskin shirt.
The iron latch rattled; the man entered, closed the door behind him, and, turning, faced the two with a smile. For a long moment the men gazed at the newcomer in silence; then Fallon's chair crashed backward upon the floor as the Irishman leaped to his feet.
"Thimeyes!" he cried, throwing a huge arm across the man's shoulders and shaking him violently in his excitement. "Bill! Bill! Fer th' love av God, tell me 'tis yersilf! Ye damn' shcoundril, ain't ye dhrounded at all, at all? An' phwere ye ben kapin' yersilf?"
Bill laughed aloud and wrung Appleton's hand.
The lumberman had risen to his feet, staring incredulously into the other's face while he repeated over and over again: "My boy! My boy!"
Fallon danced about, waving his arms and shouting: "Th' new camp'll go t'rough hell a whoopin'! Bill'll be boss, an' th' min'll tear out th' bone to bate Moncrossen!"
Order was finally restored, and the three seated themselves while Bill recounted his adventures. Appleton's brow clouded as he learned the details of the bird's-eye plot.
"So that's the way he worked it?" he exclaimed. "I knew that there was some bird's-eye in the timber, and that I was not getting it. But I laid it to outside thieves—never supposed one of my own foremen was double-crossing me.
"That is Moncrossen's finish!" he added grimly. "I need him this winter. Too many contracts to afford to do without him. In the spring, though, there will be an accounting; and mark my words, he will get what is coming to him!"
"What next—for me?" asked Bill.
Appleton smiled.
"I think Fallon has disposed of your case," he replied. "My boy, I want you to take this new camp andget out logs. I won't set any specific amount, I will tell you this: Imusthave twenty-five million feet out of the Blood River country this winter. You are the first inexperienced man I have ever placed in charge of a camp. I don't know what you can do. I'll take the chance. It's up to you.
"My camps are run without interference from the office. Results count with me—not methods. Feed your crew all they can eat—of the best you can get. Knock a man down first and argue with him afterward. Let them know who is boss, and you will have no trouble. Don't be afraid to spend money, butget out the logs!"
The following morning the new foreman stood upon the platform of the station as the heavy, vestibuled Imperial Limited ground to a stop, under special orders to take on the great lumberman.
"So-long, Bill!" Appleton called. "See you next month. Bringing a party into the woods for a deer-hunt. May put up at your camp for a couple of weeks."
The train pulled out for the East, leaving Bill Carmody gazing, just a shade wistfully, perhaps, at the contented-looking men and women who flashed past upon the rich plush cushions.
But as the last coach passed he squared his shoulders with a jerk and turned quickly away.
CHAPTER XXXV
A HUNTING PARTY
H. D. Appleton, millionaire lumberman, sighed contentedly as he added cream to his after-dinner coffee. He glanced toward his wife, who was smiling at him across the table.
"Oh, you can drink yours black if you want to, little girl," he grinned; "but, remember 'way back when we were first married and I was bossing camps for old Jimmie Ferguson, and we lived in log shacks 'way up in the big woods, I used to say if we ever got where we could have cream for our coffee, I'd have nothing else to ask for?
"Well, to this day, drinking cream in my coffee is my idea of the height of luxury. This is all right, and I enjoy it, too, I suppose." He indicated with a wave of his black cigar the rich furnishings, the heavy plate and cut-glass that adorned the dining-room. "But, somehow, nothing makes me feelsuccessfullike pouring real cream into my coffee."
The gray-haired "little girl" laughed happily.
"You never have quite grown up, Hubert," she replied. "Did you have a hard trip, dear? The three weeks you have been away have seemed like three months to me."
"No, no! I had a good trip. It looked rather hopeless at first, trying to establish a new camp, with no one really capable of running it; but just at the last minute—You remember the man I told you about last fall—the young fellow who throttled that scoundrel after the wreck in the Chicago railroad yards, and who refused to tell me his name until after he had made good?"
"Yes—he was drowned last spring, wasn't he? Poor boy, I have often wondered who he was—a gentleman, you said?"
"By gad, he's more than a gentlemen—he's aman! And he wasn't drowned at all. Got rescued somehow by an old squaw and her daughter. His leg was broken, and when he got well he stayed in the woods and looked after the camp all summer; and not only that, he recovered fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs that had been stolen by some of my own men.
"He found me in Creighton, and I made him boss of the new camp. He's a winner, and the men will work for him till they drop."
"Oh, by the way, Hubert," said Mrs. Appleton. "Mr. Sheridan called up a day or two ago and wanted to know when you would return. He said you and he had planned a deer-hunt this fall."
"Yes; we'll go about the first of the month. It's been a good while since Ross Sheridan and I have had a hunt together; not since the old days on the Crow Wing. Remember the time Ross and I got lost, and nearly scared you womenfolks to death?"
"Indeed I do. I never will forget that blizzard, and those three awful days—we had been married only six months, and Mary Sheridan and I were the only women in the camp.
"I remember how good all the men were to us—telling us you were in no danger, and not to worry—and all during the storm they were searching the woods in squads. Oh, it was awful! And yet——" Her voice trailed into silence, and she stared a long time into the open fire that blazed in the huge fireplace.
"And yet, what, little girl," asked Appleton, smiling fondly upon her—"what are you thinking about? Come, tell me."
She turned her eyes toward him, and the man detected a wistful look in them.
"I was thinking, dear, of how happy we were those three years we spent 'way up in the timber while you were getting your start. Not that we haven't always been happy," she hastened to add, "because we have. We couldn't have been happier unless—unless—some children had come. But, dear, those days when we were so poor and had to work so hard, and every dollar counted—and we had to do without things we both wanted, and sometimes things we really needed.
"And, oh, Hubert dear, do you remember the organ? And how long it took us to save up the sixty dollars? And how I cried half the night for pure joy when you brought it home on the ox-sled? And how I used to play in the evenings, and the Sheridans were there, and the men would come and listen, and their big voices would join in the singing, and how sometimes a man would draw a rough sleeve across his eyes when he thought no one was looking—do you remember?"
"Yes, yes, yes—of course I remember!" The lumberman's voice was suspiciously gruff. "Seems almost like another world." His wife suddenly stretched her arms towards the open fire:
"Oh, Hubert, I want to go back!"
"What?"
"Yes, dear, just once more." Appleton saw the tears in her eyes. "I want to smell the fragrance of the pine woods—and sit on the thick pine-needles—and cook over an open fire! Bacon and trout and coffee—yes, and noreal cream, either!" She smiled at him through her tears. "Canned milk, and maybe some venison steaks.
"I want to borrow your pocket-knife and dig out spruce gum and chew it, with the little bits of bark in it," she went on, "and I won't promise not to 'pry,' with it, either. I hope I do break the blade! Do you remember that day, and how mad you were?
"I want to see the men crowd into the grub-shack, and hear the sound of the axes and saws and the rattle of chains and the crashing of big trees. I want to see the logs on the rollways; and, Hubert, you won't think I'm awful, will you, dear, but I want to—just once more in my life—I want to hear a big manswear!"
H. D. Appleton stared at his wife in blank amazement, and then, throwing back his head, roared with laughter.
"Well, you sure will, little girl, if you try to slip any canned milk intomycoffee!"
His wife regarded him gravely.
"I am not joking, Hubert. Oh, can't you see? Just once more Imusthave a taste of the old, hard, happy days—can't I?"
"Why, Margaret, you don't really mean that you want to go into the woods—seriously?"
"Yes, I do mean just exactly that—seriously!"
Appleton tugged at his mustache and puckered his forehead.
"We might make up a party," he mused. "I'll speak to Ross in the morning."
The little gray-haired woman stepped lightly around the table, and, seating herself on his lap, captured his big fingers in her own.
"How many times must I tell you not to pull your mustache, dear? Now, listen; I have a plan. There will be Mary Sheridan and Ross and Ethel Manton—you know she promised us a visit this fall, and I expect her any day now. A trip into the woods will do her a world of good, poor girl. She has had lots of responsibility thrust upon her since brother Fred died, with young Charlie to look out for, and the care of that big house.
"Mrs. Potter, you know she lives next door to Ethel, writes me that she does not believe the girl is happy—that this St. Ledger, or whatever his name is, that she is reported engaged to, is not the kind of a man for Ethel at all—and, that she hasn't seemed herself for a year—some unhappy love affair—the man was a scamp, or something—so this trip will be just what she needs. Charlie will be with her, of course, and we can invite that young Mr. Holbrooke; you have met him, that nice young man—the VanNesses' nephew.
"We will go away up into the big woods where you men can hunt to your heart's delight; and we women will stay around the camp and do the cooking and smell the woods and chew spruce gum. Oh, Hubert, won't it be justgrand?"
Appleton caught something of his wife's enthusiasm.
"It sure will, little girl! But what'shefor?"
"What is who for?"
"This Holbrooke person. Where does he come in on this?"
"Why, for Ethel, of course! Goose! Don't you see that if Ethel is not happy—if she is not really in love with this St. Ledger—and she spends two or three weeks in the same camp with a nice young man like Mr. Holbrooke—well, there's no place like the woods for romance, dear; you see, I know. And he has money, too," she added.
Appleton suddenly lifted his wife to her feet and began pacing up and down the room.
"Money!" he exclaimed. "He never earned a cent in his life."
"But he is the VanNess heir!"
"Old VanNess made his money selling corsets and ribbons."
"Why, dear, what difference does that make? I am sure the VanNesses are among——"
"I don't care who they're among, or what they're among!" interrupted her husband. "We don't want any niece of ours marrying ribbons. Hold on a minute, let me think. By gad, I've got a scheme!"
He continued to pace up and down the length of the room, puffing shortly upon his cigar and emitting emphatic grunts of satisfaction.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "If you're bound to marry Ethel off we will give her the chance to marry aman. Go ahead and make up the party, but leave ribbons out of it. We will let Ethel rest up for a few days and then we will start—straight for the new camp. There is amanthere."
"But," objected his wife, "you know nothing about him. You don't know even his name."
"What difference does that make? I know a good man when I see one. I know enough about him to know that he is good enough for Ethel or any other woman. And, if he hasn't got a name now, by gad, he is making one—up there in the big country!"
"But he has no money."
"No money! How much did we have when we were married? Why, little girl, you just got through saying that the happiest days we ever spent were up there in the woods when money was so scarce that we knew the date on every dollar we owned—and every scratch and nick on them—and the dimes and pennies too."
The little woman smiled. "That is true, Hubert, but somehow——"
"Somehow nothing! If we did it, these two can do it. They've got a better chance than we had. I'm not going to live forever. I need a partner. I'm getting old enough to begin to take things easier—to step aside and let a younger man shoulder the burden."
He threw his arm lovingly about his wife's shoulders, and drew her close. "We never had a son, sweetheart," he said gravely, "but if we had I'd want him to be just like that boy. He is making good."
Margaret Appleton looked up into her husband's eyes.
"You haven't made many mistakes, dear," she whispered. "I hope he will make good—for your sake and—maybe for Ethel's."