CHAPTER XXXVI
TOLD ON THE TRAIL
It was a merry party that clambered into the big tote-wagon in the little town of Creighton one morning in early November. Upon request of Appleton and Sheridan, two of the road's heaviest lumber shippers, a private car had been coupled to the rear of the Imperial Limited at Winnipeg.
Later the big train hesitated at Hilarity long enough to permit a half-breed guide in full hunting regalia to step proudly aboard, to the envy of the dead little town's assembled inhabitants. And later still the Limited stopped at Creighton and shunted the private car onto a spur.
Appleton promptly impressed one of his own tote-wagons which had been sent to town for supplies; and before noon the four-horse team was swung into the tote-road carrying the hunting party into the woods.
Tents, blankets, and robes had been ranged into more or less comfortable seats for the accommodation of the party, while young Charlie Manton insisted upon climbing onto the high driver's seat, where he wedged himself uncomfortably between the teamster and Blood River Jack, the guide.
From the time the latter had joined the party at Hilarity the boy had stuck close to his side, asking innumerable questions and listening with bated breath to the half-breed's highly colored narratives in which wolves, bears, and Indians played the important parts.
In the evening, when they camped beside the tote-road, and he was permitted to help with the tents and the fire-wood, the youngster fairly bristled with importance, and after supper when the whole party drew about the great camp-fire the boy seated himself close by the side of the guide.
"You never told me your name," he ventured.
"Blood River Jack," the man replied.
"That's a funny kind of a name," puzzled the boy. "Why did they name you that?"
"Jacques—that is my name. Blood River—that is where I live. It is that my lodge is near the bank of the river and in the Blood River country I hunt and lay my trap lines, and in the waters of the river I fish. What is your name?"
"New York Charlie," unhesitatingly replied the boy and flushed deeply at the roar of laughter with which the others of the party greeted his answer. But the long-haired, dark-skinned guide, noting the angry flash of the wide, blue eyes, refrained from laughter.
"That is a good name," he said gravely. "In the land of the white man men are called by the name of their fathers. In the woods it is not often so, except when it be written upon papers. The best man in the North is one of whom men know only his first name. He is M's'u' Bill—The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."
"Why can't he die?" asked the youngster eagerly.
Jacques shook his head.
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta says 'all men die,'" he replied; "but—did not thechechakocome into the North in the time of a great snow, and without rackets mush forty miles in two days? Did he not kill with a knife Diablesse, the werwolf, whom all men feared, and with an axe chop in pieces the wolves of her pack?
"Did he not strike fear to the heart of the great Moncrossen with a look of his eye? And, with three blows of his fist, lay the mighty Stromberg upon the floor like a wet rag? Did he not come without hurt through the fire when Creed locked him in the burning shack? And did he not go down through the terrible Blood River rapids, riding upon a log, and live, when Moncrossen ordered the breaking out of the jam that he might be killed among the pounding logs? These are the things that kill men—yet thechechakolives."
"Gee, Eth, think of that!" exclaimed the boy, turning toward his sister, who from her place by the side of her Aunt Margaret had been an interested listener. "He must besome man! Where does he live? Will we see him?"
Before the half-breed could reply Appleton broke in.
"He sure issome man!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "And you will see him about day after to-morrow night, if we have good luck. I don't know about all the adventures Blood River Jack mentioned, but I have heard of some of them, and I can add the story of the outwitting of a couple of card-sharps and a fight in the dark, in the cramped quarters of an overturned railway coach, in which he all but choked the life out of a human fiend who was robbing the dead and injured.
"And I might tell of another fight—the gamest fight of all—but, wait till you know him. He is foreman of the camp which will be our headquarters for the next two or three weeks."
"To hear them talk," said Mrs. Appleton to her niece, "one would imagine this man a huge, bloodthirsty ruffian; but he isn't. Hubert says that he is in every respect a gentleman."
"Yes," agreed her husband, "but one who is not afraid to get out and work with his two hands—and work hard—and who has never learned the meaning of fear. I took a chance on him, and he has made good."
The phrase fell upon the ears of the girl with a shock. They were the wordshehad used, she remembered. Washemaking good—somewhere? She felt her heart go out with a rush to this big man she had never seen, and she found herself eagerly looking forward to their meeting.
"Oh, he must be splendid!" she exclaimed impulsively, and her face glowed in the play of the firelight—a glow that faded almost to pallor at the words of the half-breed.
"He has come again into the woods?" he asked quickly. "It is well. For now Jeanne need have no fear. He promised her that he would return again into the North—and to her."
"What?" cried Appleton in surprise. "Who is this Jeanne? And why should he return to her?"
"She is my sister," Jacques replied simply. "Her skin is white like the skin of my father. She is beautiful, and she loves him. She helped Wa-ha-ta-na-ta to draw him from the river, and through all the long days and nights of his sickness she took care of him. When he went out of the woods she accompanied him for three days and three nights upon the trail to the land of the white man, and he promised her that he would come again into the woods and protect her from harm."
At a hurried glance from his wife Appleton changed the subject abruptly. "I wish to thunder it would snow!" he exclaimed. "Hunting deer without snow is like fishing without bait. You might accidentally hook one, but it's a long chance."
Blood River Jack sniffed the air and shrugged, glancing upward.
"Plenty of snow in a few days," he said. "Maybe too much."
CHAPTER XXXVII
IN THE OFFICE
The setting sun shone weak and coppery above the pines as the big four-horse tote-team dashed with a flourish into the wide clearing of the new camp on upper Blood River. The men had not yet "knocked off," and from the impenetrable depths of the forest came the ring of axes and the roar of crashing trees.
In the little blacksmith-shop a grimy-faced, leather-aproned man bent over a piece of glowing iron which he held in long tongs, and the red sparks radiated in showers as the hammer thumped dully on the soft metal—thumps sharply punctuated by the clean ring of steel as the polished face of the tool bounced merrily upon the chilled surface of the anvil.
The feel of snow was in the air and over by the cook-shack men were hauling fire-wood on a pole-drag. The team brought up sharply before the door of the office which was located at one end of a long, low building of logs, the two other rooms of which contained stoves, chairs, and a few rough deal-tables.
Appleton leaped from the wagon and swung the ladies lightly to the ground, while the teamster and Blood River Jack, assisted by Charlie, proceeded to unload the outfit. The lumberman pushed open the door of the office and glanced within. It was empty. He called one of the men from the cook-shack and bade him build a fire in the little air-tight.
"Well, H. D., your man ain't an office foreman, anyhow," grinned Sheridan, with a nod of approval toward the cold stove.
Sheridan was a bluff man with a bristling red mustache—the kind that invariably chew upon their cigars as they talk.
Appleton turned to the ladies.
"Make yourselves at home," he said as the fire roared up the stove-pipe. "Ross and I will look over the works a bit. Where is the boss?" he asked of the man who was returning to the wood-pile.
"Out in the cuttin' somewheres; er me'be over to the rollways," replied the man, laughing. "Big Bill he's out among 'emallthe time."
"By Glory! H. D., we've all got to hand it to you when it comes to picking out men. I'd like to catch one ofmyforemen out on the works some time—I wouldn't know whether to fire him or double his wages!"
Sheridan mouthed his cigar, and the two turned into a skidway.
Appleton smiled. He raised a finger and touched his eyelid.
"It's the eye," he said. "Look in a man's eye, Ross. I don't give a damn what a man's record is—what he's done or what he hasn't done. Let me get a good look into his eye when he talks and in half a minute I'll know whether to hire him or pass him on to you fellows. Here he comes now."
Bill took keen delight in showing the two lumbermen about the camp.
"What's the idea of the ell on the bunk-house?" asked Appleton.
"Teamster's bunk-house," replied the foreman. "You see, I know how it feels to be waked up at four in the morning by the teamsters piling out of their bunks; so I built a separate bunk-house for them. The men work too hard to have their sleep broken into that way. And another thing—I built a couple of big rooms onto the office where the men can play cards and smoke in the evening. I ordered a phonograph, too. I expect it in on the tote-wagon."
Sheridan grinned skeptically and spat out part of his cigar. Appleton made no comment.
"Come over to the office, Bill," he said. "I want you to meet the ladies—my wife and niece and Mrs. Sheridan."
"I am afraid I am not very presentable," replied Bill dubiously as they crossed the clearing in the lengthening shadows; but he went with them without hesitation.
They were met at the door by a plump-faced lady of ample proportions who was evidently fighting a losing battle with a tendency towardembonpoint; and a slight, gray-haired one who stood poised upon the split puncheon that served as a door-step.
"Ladies, this is Bill, the foreman of this camp. Mrs. Sheridan, Bill, and my wife."
The ladies bowed formally, and secretly approved of the grace with which the foreman removed his cap and returned their salute. Nevertheless, there was an icy note in Mrs. Appleton's voice as she said:
"My niece begs to be excused. She is very tired after her rather hard trip." If Bill noticed the frigidity in the tone he gave no sign.
"I imagine it has been a very trying trip for you all. However, I will offer you the best accommodations the camp affords. If you will kindly choose which of those two rooms you prefer I will have your belongings moved in at once."
"I suppose you brought cots," he added, turning to Appleton.
"Yes, everything necessary for a tenderfoot outfit."
"When the ladies have selected their room I will have your gear moved into the other," said Bill; and, with a bow to the ladies, moved off in the direction of the cook-shack.
Alone in the office, Ethel Manton gazed about upon the meager furnishings; a desk, the little air-tight stove with its huge wood-box; three wooden chairs, a trunk secured by a padlock, and a bunk neatly laid with heavy blankets.
Several pairs of boots, moccasins, and heavy mittens were ranged along the floor next to the wall, while from pegs above them hung a faded mackinaw, a slicker, and several pairs of corduroy trousers.
Tacked to the wall above the desk was a large, highly colored calendar, while upon the opposite wall hung a rifle and a belt of yellow cartridges. Her woman's eye took in the scrupulous neatness of the room and the orderly disposition of the various articles.
For the first time in her life she was in a man's room, and she felt a keen thrill of interest in her surroundings. Upon the top of the desk beside the little bracket-lamp was a short row of books.
"It is too bad," she muttered, "that he couldn't have beennice. How I would have enjoyed talking with him and telling him how splendid it is that he ismaking good!
"Maybe somewhere a girl is wondering where he is—and waiting day after day for word from him—and worrying her very heart out. Oh, I hope she will never know about this Jeanne—ugh! An Indian—and Uncle Appleton said he is agentleman!"
She paused before the desk and idly read the titles of the books; there were a logger's manual, a few text-books on surveying and timber estimating, several of the latest novels, apparently unread and a well-thumbed copy of Browning.
"Browning! Of all things—in a log camp! Now I know there is a girl—poor thing!" Open, face downward upon the surface of the desk where it had been pushed aside to make room for a rough sketch of the camp with its outreaching skidways and cross-hauls, lay a small volume.
"And Southey!" she exclaimed under her breath, and picked up the book. It was "Madoc," and three lines, heavily underscored, stood boldly out upon the page:
"Three things a wise man will not trust,The wind, the sunshine of an April day,And woman's plighted faith."
"Three things a wise man will not trust,The wind, the sunshine of an April day,And woman's plighted faith."
"Three things a wise man will not trust,
The wind, the sunshine of an April day,
And woman's plighted faith."
Over and over she read the lines, and, returning the book to its place, pondered, as she allowed her glance to rove again over the little room whose every detail bespoke intense masculinity.
"I might at least be nice to him," she murmured. "Maybe the girlwashorrid. And he is 'way up here, trying to forget!" Unconsciously she repeated the words of her Uncle Appleton: "Hehasmade good."
And then there flashed through her mind the words of the guide: "She is beautiful, and she loves him. She accompanied him for three days and three nights on the trail to the land of the white man, and he promised that he would come again into the woods and protect her from harm."
"This Indian girl," she whispered—"she loves him, and he persuaded her to accompany him, and when they drew near to civilization he sent her back—with a promise!"
Her lips thinned and the hot blood mounted to her cheeks. No matter what conditions sent this man into the woods, there could be no justification forthat. She shuddered as she drew her skirts away where they brushed lightly against the blankets of his bunk, and turned toward the door.
And just at that moment the door opened, and in the gathering darkness a man stood framed in the doorway. She drew back, startled, and with the swiftness of light her glance swept him from the top of his cap to the soles of his heavy boots.
He was a large man whose features were concealed by a thick beard. His fringed and beautifully embroidered shirt of buckskin was open at the throat, as if to allow free play to the mighty muscles of his well-formed neck.
Only a few seconds he stood thus, and with a swift movement removed the cap from his head.
"You will pardon me," he said, and his eyes sought hers; "I did not know any one was here."
At the first sound of his voice the girl started. One quick step, and she stood before him, staring into his eyes. She felt her flesh grow cold, and her heart seemed gripped between the jaws of a mighty vise.
"You!" she gasped, and swayed unsteadily as her hand sought her throat. Her voice came dry and hard and choking as she repeated the word: "You!" And in that moment the man saw her face in the deepening gloom of the room.
"Ethel!" he cried, springing toward her with outstretched arms. Then, when she was almost within their grasp, the arms dropped, for the girl shrank from his touch and her eyes blazed.
Thus for a moment they stood facing each other, the girl—white, tense—with blazing eyes, and the big man, who fought for control of himself. Finally he spoke, and his voice was steady and very low.
"Forgive me, Ethel," he said. "For the moment I forgot that I have not the right—that there is another——"
With a low, moaning cry the girl covered her face with her hands. Even since she faced him there the thought had flashed through her brain that there might be some mistake—that the man might even yet be as he appeared to be—big and brave andclean.
But now—from his own lips she had heard it—"there is another"—and that other—anIndian!
A convulsive shudder shook her whole body, the room seemed to reel; she pressed her hands more tightly to her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of him, and the next instant all was dark, and she pitched heavily forward into the arms of the man.
For one brief moment he held her, straining her limp body to his. The hands relaxed and fell away from her pallid face, and the bearded lips bent close above the soft lips of the unconscious girl—butonlyfor a moment.
Without touching the lips, the man straightened up and, crossing to the bunk, laid the still form upon the blankets. With never a backward glance, he passed out through the door.
It was dark in the clearing, and a couple of steps brought him face to face with Appleton, who was coming to tell his niece that the ladies' quarters were ready.
The foreman paused and looked squarely into the face of his employer. He slowly raised an arm and pointed to the open door of the office.
"Miss Manton," he said, "has fainted." And without waiting for a reply, passed on into the night.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHARLIE FINDS A FRIEND
The following morning the camp looked out upon a white world. The threatened snow which began during the night was still falling, and from the windows the dark walls of the clearing could be seen but dimly through the riot of dancing flakes.
It was a constrained and rather glum party that sat down to breakfast shortly after daylight in the room adjoining the office, where two deal tables had been drawn together and spread with a new, white oilcloth.
Ethel Manton had entirely recovered from her syncope of the previous evening, and had offered no elucidation other than that of fatigue. Nevertheless, not a person in the room but felt that there had been another and more immediate cause for the girl's collapse.
Charlie had begged to be allowed to "eat with the men," and the foreman had courteously declined Appleton's invitation to join the party during their stay in camp.
The dismal and sporadic attempts at conversation had slumped into an awkward silence, in the midst of which the door burst open and young Charlie catapulted into the room.
"Oh, Eth! Guess who he is!" he cried. "Guess who's the boss—the man the Indians call The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die'! It'sBill Carmody! And I knew him the minute I saw him, if hehasgot whiskers all over his face and a buckskin shirt.
"And he knewme! And he shook hands with me right before all the men—and you ought to seen 'em look! And he's going to teach me how to walk on snowshoes! Oh, ain't youglad! 'Cause now you and Bill can——"
"Charlie!" The girl's face flamed, and the word seemed wrung from her very heart. The boy paused for a moment in the midst of his breathless harangue and eyed his sister with disgust.
"You know youdolove him," he continued, his eyes flashing defiantly, "even if you did have a scrap—and he loves you, too! And that dang St. Ledger's just nothing but a—a—asquirt—that's what he is—and if I was Bill Carmody I'd punch his head for him if he evenspoketo you again—if you wasmygirl!
"And I'm going to tell him weknowhe never swiped those bonds, and you stuck up for him when old man Carmody told you he did."
The last words of the boy's remarks were addressed to an empty chair, for the girl, white and trembling, had fled into the other room and banged the door after her.
Mrs. Appleton, with an unintelligibly muttered excuse, hurriedly followed, leaving her husband gazing from her retreating back to the excited face of the youngster, and muttering: "Bless my soul! Bless my soul!" between the gulps of his coffee, which for once in his life he swallowed with never a growl at the canned milk. A moment later he abruptly left the table and, motioning the boy to follow, led the way to the office.
A half-hour passed, and Charlie left the building under the strictest kind of orders not to mention to Bill Carmody either Ethel or the bonds.
Puzzling his small head over the inexplicable doings of grown-up people, he wandered toward the cook-shack to hunt up Daddy Dunnigan, with whom he had already struck up a great friendship.
"She loves him and he loves her," he muttered to himself as he scuffed his brand-new moccasins through the soft snow, "and each one tries to let on they don't. And Uncle Appleton won't let me tell Billshedoes so he'd go and tell herhedoes; and then old man Carmody and his bonds could go to thedevil!
"You bet, I hope I never get in love and act like a couple of fools. Now, I bet she'll marry thatsniffit, and he'll marry Blood River Jack's sister." The boy paused and glanced speculatively at the falling snow. "I wonder if he wants to? Anyhow, I can ask him that much."
Later, in the office, Mrs. Appleton broke in upon her husband's third black cigar. There was no doorway connecting the office with the other two rooms, and the lumberman watched the snowflakes melt on his wife's hair as she seated herself directly in front of him.
"Well, Hubert Appleton, this is a nice mess you have got us into, I must say!"
"Me!" grinned the man. "Why, little girl, this is your party."
"I wish you would tell me who it was that suggested leaving out young Mr. Holbrooke, and coming here so that Ethel could meet thisman?"
"She—er—met him—didn't she?"
"You needn't try to be facetious! What are you going to do about it?"
"Who—me? Oh, just stick around and watch the fun."
"Fun! Fun! Hubert Appleton, aren't youashamedof yourself? And that poor girl in there crying her eyes out! Fun, indeed—it'stragedy!"
"There, there, little woman; don't let's get excited. It's up to us to kind of figure things out a bit; but the young folks themselves will be the real actors.
"Now, just how much—or, how little did she tell you?"
"She told meeverything. Poor dear, it did her good. She has had nobody to tell—nobody to cry with her and sympathize with her."
When his wife concluded, H. D. Appleton had received a very accurate chronicle of the doings of Bill Carmody from the time of his boyhood until chance threw them together in the smoking-compartment of the west-bound sleeper.
The lumberman listened attentively, without interrupting, until his wife finished.
"Does she think Bill took those bonds?" he asked.
"No. She does not. Even with everything else against him, she cannot bring herself to believe that he is a thief."
"Doyouthink he took them?"
"Why—I—I don't know," she hesitated.
"Do youthinkhe took them?"
The little woman looked into her husband's eyes as she purposely delayed her reply.
"No," she said at length. "I do not. But his own father accused him."
Appleton leaned forward in his chair and brought his fist down upon the desk-top.
"I don't give a damnwhoaccused him!" he cried. "That boy never stole a bond, or any other thing, and I'll stake my last cent on it!"
"Oh, it isn't the bonds. Ethel does not believe he stole them. But—the other—you heard what the guide said—and Ethel heard it. She nevercanget overthat! He may be honest—but he is a perfectvillain!"
"Hold on, now. Let's go easy. Maybe it isn't so bad as it sounds."
"Not so bad! Hubert Appleton, do you mean to tell me that you would, for a minute, think of allowing your niece tomarrysuch a man?"
Appleton smiled into the outraged eyes of his wife.
"Yup. I think I would," he replied, and then hastened to add:
"Wait here and I will fetch Blood River Jack. He may have told more than he knows, or he may not have told all he knows. When you come to think of it, from what hedidtell, we only jumped at conclusions."
He hurried from the office, returning a few minutes later with the half-breed, who seated himself and lighted the proffered cigar with evident enjoyment.
"Now, Jack," Appleton began, speaking with his accustomed brevity, "tell us about Monsieur Bill and this sister of yours. Did you say he was going to marry her?"
The guide looked from one to the other as if silently taking their measure. Finally he seemed satisfied.
"No," he said gravely, "he will not marry Jeanne."
The lumberman cleared his throat and waited while the man looked out upon the whirling snow, for well he knew that the half-breed must be allowed to take his own time—he could not be "pumped." And Mrs. Appleton, taking her cue from her husband, curbed her impatience, and waited with apparent unconcern.
"It is," the guide began, as if carefully weighing his words, "that you are the good friends of M's'u' Bill. Also I have seen that you know the men of the logs.
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, my mother, who is old and very wise, knows the men of the logs, and, knowing them, hated M's'u' Bill, and would have returned him to the river, but Jeanne prevented. For Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, knowing of the fatherless breeds of the rivers, hated all white men, and a great fear was in her heart for the girl, who is her daughter, and the daughter of Lacombie whom, she says, was the one good white man; but Lacombie is dead.
"So always in the days of the summer, when these two would leave the lodge to visit the deserted camp of Moncrossen, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta followed them. Stealthily and unknown she crept upon their trail, and always her sharp eyes were upon them, and in the fold of her blanket was concealed a long, keen blade, and behind the unfailing gaze of the black eyes was the mind to kill.
"Thus passed the days of the summer, and the hand of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was stayed, but her vigilance remained unrelenting. For deep in her heart is seared the memory of two winters ago, when Moncrossen gazed upon the beauty of Jeanne, and came to the tepee in the night, knowing I was away, and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fought him in the darkness until he fled, cursing and swearing vengeance.
"Never since that night has the girl been safe, for Moncrossen, with the cunning of the wolf, is waiting his time—and some day he will strike!
"But I shared not the fear of my mother that harm would come to Jeanne at the hand of the greatchechako, for I have looked into his eyes, and I know that his heart is good.
"Upon the day before his departure for the land of the white man he gave to the girl the skin of Diablesse, and then she told him she loved him, and begged him to remain with her in the country of the Indians.
"But he would not, for he does not love Jeanne, but another—a woman of his own people, who lives in the great city of the white man. And even though this woman sent him from her, he loves her, and will marry no other.
"Listening, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta heard him tell this to Jeanne; but of this woman the girl knew, for he talked incessantly of her, and cried out that she would marry another—in the voice of the fever-spirit, in the time of his great sickness.
"The following day he departed in a canoe, and as he pushed from the shore, Jeanne handed him his mackinaw, and words passed between them that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta could not hear from her position behind a log.
"But, as the canoe passed from sight around a bend in the river, the girl plunged into the woods, and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta returned to the tepee and made up a light pack and slipped silently upon her trail. The girl cut through the forest and came again to the river, and for a night and a day awaited the coming of the canoe.
"The third evening it came and the man camped, and Jeanne crept close and watched him across the blaze of his little fire as he smoked and stared into the embers. While Wa-ha-ta-na-ta also crept stealthily to the fire, making no sound, and she came to within an arm's reach of the man's back, and in her hand was clutched tightly the sheath-knife with its long, keen blade.
"At the midnight the man unrolled his blankets and laid down to sleep, and then it was that Jeanne stepped into the firelight. And in the deep shadow, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta gripped more tightly the knife and made ready to strike."
The half-breed paused while the others waited breathlessly for him to resume.
"Think not that Jeanne is bad. She is good, and her heart is the pure heart of a maiden. But, such is the love of woman—to face gladly the sneers of the world, and the wrath of her people—for she did not ask him to marry her—only to take her.
"But the man would not, and commanded her to return to the lodge. She told him that she could not return—that three days and three nights had passed since they had departed together, and that, if he would not take her, she would go alone to the land of the white man.
"Then M's'u' Bill arose and folded his blankets and made up his pack, and when he spoke to her again it was in the voice of the terrible softness—the softness that causes men first to wonder, and then to obey, though they know not why. He said that he himself would take her back, and that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, who is old and very wise, would know that his words were true.
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, lurking there in the deep shadow, in that moment knew that the man's heart was good. And she stepped into the firelight, and looked long into his eyes—and she broke the knife—and between them there passed thepromise."
Jacques puffed slowly upon his cigar, arose to his feet, and stood looking down upon the two who had listened to his words.
"It is well," he said, and his dark eyes flashed, "for the heart of Moncrossen is bad, and the beauty of Jeanne has inflamed the evil passions of him, and he will stop at nothing in the fulfillment of his desire.
"But, into the North has come a greater than Moncrossen. And terrible will be the vengeance of this man if harm falls upon Jeanne. For he is her friend, his word has passed, his heart is strong and good, and he knows not fear.
"Upon Moncrossen will fall the day of the Great Reckoning. And, in that day, justice will be done, for he will stand face to face with M's'u' Bill—The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die—the man whom Wa-ha-ta-na-ta has named 'The One Good White Man'!"
CHAPTER XXXIX
BILL'S WAY
"And, to think," whispered Mrs. Appleton as she wiped a tear from her eye, after the half-breed's departure, "that in New York this same man had earned the name of 'Broadway Bill, the sport'!"
"Yes," answered her husband; "but Broadway Bill has passed, and in his place, out here in the big country, is Broadgauge Bill, theman! I knew I was right, Margaret, by gad, I knew it! Look in his eye!"
Followed, then, in the little office, an hour of intimate conversation, at the conclusion of which the two arose.
"Not a word to Ethel, remember," admonished the woman, and laughed knowingly as her husband stooped and kissed her.
During the days that followed, Appleton and Sheridan, accompanied by Blood River Jack, hunted from early morning until late evening, when they would return, trail-weary and happy, to spend hours over the cleaning and oiling of guns and the overhauling of gear.
Young Charlie was allowed to go on some of the shorter expeditions, but for the most part he was to be found dogging the heels of Bill Carmody; or perched upon a flour-barrel in the cook-shack, listening to the tales of Daddy Dunnigan.
The ladies busied themselves with the care of the two rooms, with useless needlework, and with dummy auction, varying the monotony with daily excursions into the near-by forest in quest of spruce-gum and pine-cones.
Since the morning Charlie had broken in so incontinently upon their breakfast no reference had been made to Bill Carmody by any member of the party; while the foreman pursued the even tenor of his way, apparently as unconcerned by their existence as they were by his.
One afternoon as the ladies were starting upon one of their tramps they came face to face with the foreman, who tipped his cap, bowed coldly, and passed into the office, closing the door behind him.
Mrs. Appleton halted suddenly, glanced toward the building, and retraced her steps. It was but a short distance, and Ethel walked back, waiting at the door while her aunt entered their own apartment.
The girl watched abstractedly, thinking the older woman had returned for something she had forgotten.
Suddenly she became all attention, and a hot flush of anger mounted to her face as she saw her aunt walk to the table, pick up her purse and several rings which she had left, and with a glance at the thick, log wall which separated the room from the office, deliberately walk to her trunk and place the articles under lock and key.
Apparently Mrs. Appleton had not noticed the girl's presence, but more than once during the afternoon the corners of her mouth twitched when, in response to some question or remark of hers, the shortness of the girl's replies bordered upon absolute rudeness.
And late that night she smiled broadly in the darkness when the low sound of stifled sobs came from the direction of the girl's cot.
Immediately after breakfast the following morning, Ethel put on her wraps and started out alone. Arriving, after a long, aimless ramble, at the outermost end of a skidway, she sat upon a log to rest and watch a huge swamper who, unaware of her presence, was engaged in slashing the underbrush from in front of a group of large logs.
Finally, tiring of the sight, she arose and started for the clearing, and then suddenly drew back and stepped behind the bole of a great pine, for, striding rapidly toward her on the skidway was Bill Carmody, and she pressed still closer to the tree-trunk that he might pass without observing her.
He was very close now, and the girl noticed the peculiar expression of his face—an expression she had seen there once before—his lips were smiling, and his gray eyes were narrowed almost to slits.
The man halted scarcely fifty feet from her, at the place where the swamper, with wide blows of his axe, was laying the small saplings and brushwood low. She started at the cold softness of the tones of his voice.
"Leduc," he said, "just a minute—it will hardly take longer."
The man turned quickly at the sound of the voice at his side, and for the space of seconds the two big men faced each other on the packed snow of the skidway.
Then, with a motion of incredible swiftness, and without apparent effort, the foreman's right arm shot out and his fist landed squarely upon the nose of the huge swamper.
The girl heard the wicked spat, and the peculiar, frightened grunt as the man reeled backward, and saw the quick gush of red blood that splashed down his front and squirted out over the snow.
Before the man had time to recover, the foreman advanced a step and struck again. This time it was his left hand that clove the air in a long, clean swing, and the man went down into the snow without a sound as the fist thudded against his neck just below the ear.
Without so much as a glance at the man in the snow, Bill Carmody turned on his heel and started back down the skidway.
Few seconds had elapsed, and a strange, barbaric thrill ran through the girl's body as she looked out upon the scene, quickly followed by a wave of sickening pity for the poor wretch who lay sprawled in the snow.
And, then, a great anger surged into her heart against the man who had felled him. She dashed from her hiding-place, and in a moment stood facing him, her blue eyes flashing.
"Youbrute!" she cried, "what right had you? Why did you strike him?" The man regarded her gravely, lifting his cap politely as if answering a most commonplace question.
"Because," he replied, "I wanted to," and, with a curt bow, stepped into the timber and disappeared, leaving her alone in the skidway with the bloody, unconscious form in the snow.
Never in her life had Ethel Manton been so furiously angry—not because a man had been felled by a blow—she had forgotten that—but because, in demanding an explanation, in attempting to call Bill Carmody to account, she had laid herself open to his stinging rebuff.
Without pretense of defense or justification, the man had quietly told her that he knocked the swamper down "because he wanted to"; and without waiting for comment—as if the fact that "he wanted to" was sufficient in itself—had gone about his business without giving the matter a second thought.
The flash of anger, which in the first place had prompted her to speak to the man, was but an impulsive protest against what she considered an act of brutality; but that quickly passed.
The anger that surged through her heart as she gazed, white-faced, at the spot where the big man disappeared, was the bitter anger of outraged dignity and injured pride.
He had not taken the trouble to find out what she thought, for the very obvious reason that he had not cared what she thought—and so he left her. And when he had gone the girl plodded wrathfully back to camp and spoke to no one of what she had seen. But, deep down in her heart, she knew there had been a reason for Bill's act—and she knew that the reason was good.
That same evening Appleton pushed his chair back from the table and glanced toward Ethel, who had got out a bit of crochet-work. Then, with a sidewise glance at his wife, he remarked thoughtfully:
"I'm afraid I'll have to get rid of Bill. A Canuck swamper named Leduc complained to me that the boss slipped up on him and knocked him insensible with a club. I can't stand for that—not even from Bill."
At the mention of the foreman's name the girl looked up quickly.
"Hedidn'thit him with a club! He hit him with his fist! And therewasa reason——" The girl stopped abruptly, and a wave of crimson suffused her face. She could have bitten her tongue off for speaking—for defending this man.
"How doyouknow?" asked her uncle in surprise.
"I saw him do it," she replied; realizing that, having gone so far, she must answer.
"Why did he strike him?" persisted Appleton.
"You might askhimthat," she said and, with a defiant toss of her head, quitted the room and closed the door behind her.
The Sheridans had been taken into confidence, and when the four found themselves alone they smiled knowingly.
As the days slipped into the second week of their stay, the carcasses of many deer hung from poles in the clearing, and the outside walls of the log building were adorned with the skins of numerous wolves and bobcats.
Hardly a day passed but some one, by word or look, or covert sneer, expressed disapproval of the boss; and Ethel, entirely ignorant of the fact that these expressions of disapproval were made only in her presence, and for her special benefit, was conscious of a feeling of great pity for the lonely man.
The indescribable restlessness of a great longing took possession of her; she found herself, time and again, watching from the window, and from places of concealment behind the trunks of trees, while the big foreman went stolidly about his work.
The fact that she should hate Bill Carmody was logical and proper; but she bitterly resented the distrust and criticism of the others. She wished now with all her heart that she had not confided in her aunt, and a dozen times she caught herself on the point of rushing to his defense.
Not since that morning on the skidway had the two met. Bill deviated not one whit from the regular routine of his duties, and the girl purposely avoided him.
She hated him. Over and over again she told herself that she hated and despised him, and yet, on two or three occasions when she knew he had gone to the farthest reaches of the cutting, she had slipped unobserved into the office and read from his books—not the uncut novels—but the well-thumbed copies of Browning and Southey; and as she read she pondered.
She came upon many marked passages; and in her heart the unrest continued, and she allowed her hands to stray over the coarse cloth of his mackinaw, and once she threw herself upon his bunk and buried her face in his blankets, and sobbed the dry, racking sobs of her deep soul-hurt.
Then she had leaped to her feet and smoothed out the wrinkles in the blankets, and stooped and straightened the row of boots and moccasins along the base-log—and quickly disarranged them again for fear he might remember how he left them—and rushed from the office.
Of these secret visits the members of the party knew nothing, but Daddy Dunnigan, from the window of the cook-shack, took note of the girl's comings and goings, and nodded sagely and chuckled to himself. For Daddy Dunnigan, wise in the ways of women, had gathered much from the talk of the impetuous youngster.