CHAPTER XXIIIDown from the summits of the Moquitch had swept "Winter-man" with legions upon legions of white cavalry and overrun the land. Trails, roads, trees, rocks, landmarks, fences, rivers, disappeared. Cabins and stables had to be unsnowed. Man's boasted dominion reached from the cabin to the stable and back again. The throbbing, suffering earth had gone to sleep, to dream under a white silence.John McCloud was dying and God had said to the world, "Peace! Be still!" In the crowded haunts of men brooding sorrow does not sit down by the fireside, and stay. Even sorrow is hustled and bustled about. The butcher and baker are at the kitchen door. The telephone-bell rings. The postman brings the claims of church, hospital, school, town, county, or State. Friends put books, pictures in our hands, close the shutters, take us away, lead us where music soothes, or into strange lands, or into the playhouse where the tragedy of imaginary sins and sufferings forces us for the blessed moment to forget our own. Life, multitudinous life, goes on and sweeps us with it. In the desert sorrow sits by the fire, comes to the table, lies down beside one in the terrible night. There is no other voice except the voice of God. Wah-na-gi and John McCloud had each a noble gift for loving, a gift that had been narrowed down almost to the other. Silence, solitude, and suffering had put the eternal sign and seal upon their love. Out of the wreck of their lives this seemed to be all. It made them very tender, very thoughtful, very considerate of each other. She took elaborate pains that he should not see her anxiety, her terror, her fierce protest against the cruelty of it. She tried very hard to surround the invalid with an atmosphere of comfort, hope, and courage. At times the pretence wore a very thin disguise, and he tried so hard not to let her see him suffer, not to tax her strength, not to shadow her young life with incurable sorrow. Each made a brave show of a cheerfulness neither felt. Each was very sensitive of the smallest change in the simple elements that made up their lives. Each seized upon the smallest sign of encouragement to hand to the other, and each turned away from the grim truth. The tide ebbed and flowed, but on the morning and evening of each day both could take the measure of his drift out to the eternal sea, the measure of their parting.All that care, ever watchful; all that prayer, silent and spoken; all that love could do to hold him back had been done, and the tide kept on its inevitable way.As the certain separation came closer and closer each clung to the other with desperate tenderness.Oh, if the cruel snows would go, and the warm sun would come, and the flowers, and the gentle spring, and give this brave, battling soul a chance! Finally she sent word to McShay to come. She felt that she must have help, help to face this, to do what was to be done, to meet what was to come, if nothing could be done. She cried out for help, and McShay was a strong man, the strongest man she knew, and he loved John McCloud too. He would come. Mike came, came knowing he could do nothing, but glad to come; glad to bring his silent offering. He came when he could, and with him came a storm that raged with unabated fury and made his return impossible; a storm that cut them off completely from the world, that blotted out the sky, that swept the great white plains, caught up the snow in angry swirls, throwing it into vast drifts, tearing it up again and tossing it back against the falling heavens, the turbulent air filled with blinding, stinging, suffocating flakes, while through it all the wind moaned and shrieked and called for victims."Beats all," said McShay. "Never will let up, I reckon. Ain't seen a storm like this since I kin remember."He was sitting on a three-legged stool by the chimney in the living-room of the cabin of the Red Butte Ranch, smoking his pipe. The remark was addressed more to himself than to Wah-na-gi, who sat beside a couch covered with skins and Navajo blankets, which had been drawn down into the glow of the roaring fire. The light from a bracket oil lamp swung from the ceiling fell over her and the pale face resting against the black bear skin, and showed her holding the ghostly hand of all that was left of John McCloud. He was sleeping fitfully, painfully. The windows on each side of the storm-door in the back were shivering in their sockets. The cabin nestled close to the ground or the wild wind would have torn it loose. As it was, it trembled as the wind caught it in its teeth, shook it fiercely, and dropped it howling with impotent fury. As the storm-door opened vagrant hurrying flakes danced into the room and died an instant death in the glow of the great fire. With them Big Bill entered and shook the snow from his cap and clothes, and beat his big hands to get the blood flowing in them."Well, Bill, any news?" asked McShay quietly."Yes, Rough-house Joe's got in, but he's in awful bad shape, frost-bitten, starving; never will git over it, I guess.""And the supplies? What about the supplies?""Lost!""Lost?" and Mike indulged in a low, long whistle."Snowslide comin' through Dead Man's Canyon. As far as he knows, Joe's the only one of the party left.""Gee, that's tough, ain't it?" said McShay quietly."The stuff you brought in, Mike, is gone, and we're up against it." Bill referred to the former visit of McShay's in which he had brought a wagon-load of supplies."We got to git in touch with somewhere or starve."Both men realized that help from without was unlikely as no one would know of their necessities. It would be natural to suppose that the supplies lost in Dead Man's Canyon had reached their destination. The situation was serious.Bill got a stool and came down and sat on the other side of the fireplace and they smoked in silence for some time. Finally Mike said:"No one will try to break through to us.""Some of us got to git through to them," said Bill. "That's about the size of it.""I've only been waitin' for the storm to let up a bit," said the Irishman."Gosh, it may keep this up for a month of Sundays. No use waitin' any longer. I think it's a dyin' down some. I'm fer a try at it.""You?" said Mike with incredulity. "Git out. That's my job. You with your rheumatiz? You ain't any longer young, Bill. Better leave it to me."Both Bill and McShay had reached the age when it is impossible to take advice. Each went about his preparations while the argument continued."You can go if you like," Bill suggested; "but I'm agoin'.""Ain't you old fellers vain?" protested Mike. "You'll only be a nuisance to me. Better stay.""Old fellers, eh? Say, you needn't be afraid. If I can't pull you through I won't run away from you. I'll bring you back.""What is it, Bill?" asked Wah-na-gi, looking up and seeing their elaborate preparations."Well, we're clean out o' grub, Wah-na-gi, and some one's got to git through to Calamity or the fort or the Agency.""Oh, Bill," she said; "couldn't you bring back a doctor for him?"Bill and McShay exchanged looks and the latter bent over the clergyman and listened to his breathing for a second, and then he said very gently to her:"It wouldn't be no use, Wah-na-gi. He's pretty nearly over the Divide, I guess. You won't be afraid to be left here alone, will you?""Oh, no," she answered simply.Afraid of what? There was nothing to be afraid of, except this grim spectre which sat on the other side of the couch and held the other hand of her foster-father."He may pass out to-night," said McShay, following her gaze."Don't see how he can play the game much longer. Gee, he's made a game fight! He was just lent to us, I guess, just to show us what a real man was like; a man who was on the level and wasn't lookin' for the best of it. In my experience I've seen men handled; I've handled 'em myself, and you can appeal to every feller's fear or his lust or his cupidity, and that about lets 'em out. I've always thought this 'love-one-another' thing, this 'turn-the-other-cheek' game, this 'bear-ye-one-another's-burden' racket was a beautiful fairy tale, a good thing for little boys and old women, but say, he makes it good. John, here, makes you believe in it. A life like his puts it up to you, the Christ story, and says: 'Say, what about it?'" Wah-na-gi was weeping. The preacher was asleep, so she could have the relief of tears."Don't you cry, little woman," said Mike, trying to console her. "He's had a tough job here. It can't be as hard for him farther on. Would you want to keep him here knowin' what he suffers?"Ah, that's a hard question to ask. It's only answered by another, and not answered then."Don't your arm git tired holdin' it that-a'-way hour after hour?" said the Irishman, trying to divert her."He sleeps better that way," was all she said."Beats all," said Mike with undisguised admiration. "He clings to the Almighty with one hand, and a little Injin woman with the other. Suppose there's Injin angels, Bill?""Looks that-a'-way, don't it?" replied the foreman. "It's a sure thing there'sone."Bill had always kept a small supply of liquor on the ranch, hidden away with supreme cunning. Where or what his private cellar was no one ever knew, but on state occasions and in emergency Bill could be depended on to produce. The law of supply having been completely suspended, the private cellar had been reduced to a bottle containing perhaps one and a half drinks of whiskey and another containing perhaps a third of a bottle of brandy. The brandy he now divided carefully into three parts. One flask he handed to McShay, the other he put in the inside of his own storm-coat, and the rest he poured into a cup which he held out to Wah-na-gi."What is it, Bill?" she asked."It's fer him," he said, nodding toward the invalid. Wah-na-gi had to move to take the cup and, though she disengaged her hand ever so gently, the drifting man felt the anchor drag, and he woke with a little start."Well, boys," he said with a faint smile, seeing the two men over him; "what is it?""Just tellin' Wah-na-gi to make you take a little of this if you should feel faint in the night," said Bill."I've reformed, Bill. I'm not drinking now," said the sick man with a quizzical look playing about his eyes, tenuous and vapory. "I won't need it. Thank you just the same."The noble voice was gone, the voice he had played upon with all the skill of a great musician, the voice that had swayed multitudes. He spoke with effort in a husky whisper."Bill and I are going to try to git through to Calamity or the fort, Parson," said McShay."In this storm?" asked the sick man."Oh, Bill and I don't mind a little thing like a storm.""And the wind has died down a whole lot," added Bill cheerfully."May God go with you," said the clergyman, raising himself upon the couch. "I'll say good-by to you before you go.""Oh, shucks," laughed Mike uneasily. "'Tain't good-by, Parson. We're a-comin' back.""But I won't be here, Mike."Each one knew what McCloud meant, and each one tried to look as if he didn't. Wah-na-gi, seeing that he wanted to sit up, had put a pillow under his shoulders, and now he stretched out an emaciated hand, to the two big brawny men, and his eyes looked from one to the other with admiration."You are two fine, brave, splendid men. I'm proud to have known you, to have called you my friends."The lines about Bill's mouth twitched and all he could say was, "Same here, Parson," and he walked away to the fire.Wah-na-gi had gone to the window, as if to look out at the storm, but really to hide her tears. McShay glanced at her and Bill furtively, then he sat down on the stool, and bent down over the sick man and spoke for his ear alone: "And say, Parson, just before comin' over this time, I—I—sold out my liquor business. Thought maybe it would please you, and somehow couldn't think of anything else that would."A smile spread over the wan face."Oh, thank you, Mike. Thank you. Perhaps I haven't lived in vain.""Anything we kin do fer you while we're gone?" asked Bill, not turning, but gazing deep into the fire. "Any letters, or telegrams, or messages you want to trust us with?""No, Bill, thank you. There is just one thing troubles me, and only one—this dear child." He nodded his head in the direction of the window where she was standing weeping. "She's made such a noble fight, against such frightful odds, she mustn't go back; she mustn't be allowed to give up or be forced into the old environment. She must be saved.""Say, Parson, rest your mind easy about that," said Mike earnestly. "She ain't agoin' to want a friend while Bill or me lives. Ain't that right, Bill?""It sure is, Mike.""That's all," said the sick man with a sigh of relief. "And now I'm ready to go." He meant for the long, long journey.Bill and Mike were ready too. The wind had died down to a cruel whine and their project waited."Well, so long, Parson," said Bill with a pretty decent show of cheer in his voice. "If we can't git through we'll have to come back. That's all.""Now no gittin' low spirited while we're gone," called out McShay as he went to the door. "Now mind! No gittin' discouraged; no givin' up; no white-flag business! Don't you let him weaken, Wah-na-gi.""No, no," she answered back through her tears, trying hard to catch the uplift of the big cowman."God sure hates a quitter, Parson; ain't that right?""That's right," whispered back McCloud, meeting the demand for a rally and a charge. "That's right. Mike. No one shall say I was a quitter. I'm going out with the honors of war, the flag flying and the band playing.""Good," shouted back the Irishman from the storm-door, and they were gone.After the paroxysm that followed their departure had passed, the sick man sank back upon the couch exhausted, and closed his eyes to rest. It had been a great strain, but somehow he felt more at peace than he had done for a long time, and he drifted into a great calm.To Wah-na-gi, who had to watch the struggle, and whose great pity and love demanded something to do, her conscious helplessness was an ordeal. Finally she could restrain herself no longer and she cried out in the agony of her soul: "Oh, my father, why is it? Why is it? If there is a God, why does he let you suffer?""Every heart has faced that mystery, dear child," he said gently. "Even the Saviour had a moment when he felt forsaken. I thought once I was to do big things for humanity and God, but who knows what is great or what is little? Some careless word I may have spoken and forgotten may be blessed, or my obedience, my patience, may have touched some heart here, yours or another's, who will redeem the waste places and make the wilderness to blossom as the rose."His spirit was unquenchable, his fervor undying. His enthusiasm rose superior to the claims of physical dissolution. She didn't try any longer to force him to husband his strength. She knew he wanted to go down with colors flying, militant. She knelt by his bed and bowed her head, so as to lose no word of those precious words which were to be his last."I think the great Teacher is educating us out of the physical. He puts two objects in our hands, then He shows us that if you take one object from two objects it leaves one object, and we are altogether concerned with the objects, stones, or sticks, or flowers that fade, and by and by He takes away the objects because we no longer need them. We have grasped the truth, the fixed, unalterable truth, that one from two leaves one. I saw two little street urchins once standing outside a great shop window filled with things they desired—playthings. One said 'I choosethat.' And the other said 'I choosethat.' Finally they chose the same object, and there was a battle, a fierce, cruel fight, for what neither of them had or could have. We are like that. And so God, little by little, takes away from us houses and lands and bodies, playthings, that we may know the truths of spirit."Wah-na-gi raised her bowed head to look at him."Your face shines with a strange light," she said with an awed whisper."I am very close to the Hereafter, Wah-na-gi.""I shall be very lonely when you are gone.""Ah, my child, you are lonely now, grieving for him, for Hal, grieving, grieving.""Yes, so it will be always."He knew that each day as the sun crept up over the Moquitch she stood on the rock and scanned the horizon, and gazed long across the trail where he had disappeared and whence he would return,if he returned."I came between you and the man you loved," he said, putting his hand gently on her glossy hair. "Don't hold it up against me. I thought I was doing right. I loved you both. Nothing would have made me happier than to see you one. I have prayed that I might be spared to put your hand in his, to say the words that would make you man and wife, to see you happy, but happiness mustn't be stolen. It must be earned. And so I drove him away, drove him back to duty, because I loved him. When I'm gone, send him word and ask him not to hold it up against me, and God will surely bless this sacrifice. Oh, yes, God will surely bless you."A cruel fit of coughing racked the poor remnants of a body, and she held her breath till it was over, and she could lay him back upon the soft couch."Talking has tired you. Sleep and rest," she said, and he fell away into the sleep of exhaustion.Those were the last words she would hear him say, the last words he spoke—"God will surely bless you." Often and often thereafter in her life she remembered those words, his last—"God will surely bless you."She smoothed his pillow, pulled the blankets up over his wasted form, stirred the logs into a fierce blaze. Then she went to the chest of drawers under the window to the left of the storm-door and took from it a letter and the little moccasins, and brought them down to the fire. She was still a child and needed symbols. These were the words he had written with his own hand, cruel words, that shut out the light and put a blight upon her life, but still they were his words. She had a savage instinct to thrust them into the blaze, with the crude half-formed notion that to destroy them would be to destroy the conditions which they expressed. But this was only momentary. The tokens of their love had been so few, she clung to every scrap and shred of them. It never occurred to her that Hal had trifled with her, had forgotten or deserted her. It wouldn't have mattered if he had. She accepted their fate but without regret or bitterness, and her heart eternally asked the question, full of hope, full of fear, that she had asked John McCloud the day he went away: "Will he come back?" And now that John McCloud was going away, she felt the need of Hal anew. The mystery of death was sitting in the room with her. It was hard to sit there in the silent place, to face that cruel shadow which tugged and nagged at the poor tired body, and worried it like a famished dog, and count the ticking of the clock, the strong, steady ticks, like blows, and know that it was counting out the feeble beats of the noble heart which would soon be still, forever still. It was hard to be alone in such an hour. If Hal had been with her! Mike had asked her if she would be afraid, and she was so absorbed in the human drama as to wonder why, but now, now that all was over except the flutter of the black wing of the grim enemy, she felt a cold chill at her heart. She clutched the tiny moccasins and crouched in numb terror before the nameless, the unknown. The breathing of the invalid, the sonorous clock, the explosions of the burning logs assumed unnatural proportions. The wind had died down again to a plaintive lament, a dolorous sob, and then it rose to the fretful cry of a sick child.She sat gazing into the fire under a premonitory spell. Unknown to her the storm-door had opened, and through the inner door glided the tall sinewy figure of Appah, silent and sinister. He swayed as he entered and the chest of drawers up under the window kept him from falling. It also retained a small bag of flour and a shoulder of venison which slipped from his grasp. He held himself up like a tired wrestler until the warmth of the room relaxed his stiffened limbs and his eyes had grown accustomed to the light.When he felt that he could stand and walk, he glided noiselessly down to where she was crouching and called her name softly. Her heart gave a great leap and she started to rise, but he put his hand on her head and held her."No scared," he said as gently as he knew how. "Heap wayno me! Meat, flour catch 'em! maybeso you hungry. Bring 'em. Pah-sid-u-way?"He went up and brought down the bag of flour and the venison and threw them down before her. Then he sank down on the stool by her. He was very tired."Thank you," she said coldly. "That's very kind of you."Then he waited that she might have time to think it over, to understand what it was he had done and what it meant. When others were caring for themselves, their own comfort and safety, he had thought of her; there had been suffering in the lonely ranches cut off from the rest of the world; perhaps it was so with her, and he had brought all a man could carry, and had fought his way to her through the storm. It was something a woman might be glad of, proud of. Only a strong man, a big chief with a big heart, could have done it. Surely it was an achievement. Surely she would know. He must first win her admiration, the rest would follow. He had not given up his suit, but he had waited for his chance. He had held aloof. He must not appear too eager. He had not come to the ranch, but he was familiar with the known facts and had drawn his own conclusions. His gods, his medicine had freed him from the presence of his rivals. The chief of police had gone away by the fire-wagons, by the fire-boat, many sleeps. It was many moons now, and no one ever talked of when he would be back; in fact, no one talked of him any more. He had gone back to his own people, where there were many women to be loved and married. He would not come back. He had already forgotten the Indian woman and soon she would forget him. It was only natural. For a time, too, he had been freed from the rivalry of the agent, but Ladd had returned, was again in power. It was time to act.He had had a big talk with Cadger too. The trader was a cunning old fox, who could put his nose up in the air and tell what was afoot. Cadger had told him that maybeso there were big treaties (papers, contracts), writings, at the ranch, had advised him to go over and see Wah-na-gi, that if she would come away with him, they were to bring all the big treaties (papers) to him, Cadger, and exchange them for heap ponies, plenty cattle, and the trader kept his bargains. He wasn't like Ladd, a man of two minds. Cadger, too, had made him understand that by bringing away the papers he would do a great injury to the ex-chief of police, and Appah had not forgotten what he owed Hal, and his heart burned hot within him at the prospect of getting revenge for the slights, insults, and wrongs he felt that he had suffered at the hands of the insolent young man. Perhaps it would be safe and practical before returning to the Agency to burn the barns and the cabin. It all depended on Wah-na-gi. Cadger had warned him to be sure of her before speaking of the papers. With her as an ally all would be well. If not—His mind refused to consider such an eventuality. She had cared for Calthorpe. Calthorpe was gone. Nothing stood between them now, but if there should arise— At the suggestion, murder entered his heart. She had laughed at him, ridiculed him, flouted him, scorned him. That would never be again. He could not permit that to be. She must realize that. It was a fateful night and here he was waiting."Touge frejo!" he said after a long pause in which each thought very fast but in which neither spoke. "Touge frejo!" (Plenty cold.)"Yes," she said, "it's a cold night.""Maybeso you talk Injin talk now, eh?""No, never again. Never again so long as I live."That was not promising. Again there was a long pause. What was it she had left unsaid? That she would only speak the white chief's talk, the talk of the man she loved? Then she still loved him? That was the test—her willingness to speak the tongue of her people, to be like them. He tried hard to be patient with her. Perhaps she found it hard now. She had lived among the whites and perhaps had forgotten much of her own tongue.He would go slowly, be very sure, before proceeding to extremes. He made her a long speech in their vernacular. He saw that she had not forgotten the speech of her people, that she followed him perfectly, and he felt that he was eloquent and convincing. He was considered a great orator by his tribe. His talk recited in detail that the white chief had gone on a long trail back to his people, that he would never come again. He watched her face and saw that she had no reason to expect his return. Perhaps she was hungry? Did the white man care? No, he had forgotten. Appah hadn't forgotten. Winter-man had come. Cold-maker had come. White man was scared. Injin was scared. Appah wasn't scared. Cold! Touge frejo! Heap cold. Snow, heap snow, plenty snow, snow all time! The snow came like white wolves. They howled and showed their teeth. White foam flew from their lips. They leaped up and tried to bite, to tear at one's heart, but Appah wasn't frightened. He had big medicine. Pretty soon the snow wolves saw he was too strong for them. The wind told them. The wind told them to pikeway, to get out, here was a big chief, a big medicine man who was not afraid of them, who had a big heart and who was bringing food, gifts, to his woman, his squaw."You must not say that," she said promptly. "The food is good. I thank you for that; but you must not call me your squaw. I am not your squaw. I never will be."He forgot the instructions of Cadger, forgot the papers altogether. He saw only the woman, the woman he wanted, all the more because she was unattainable. He could have had any other woman in the tribe for the asking, but nothing seemed worth while but that which was out of reach. She had flouted him again. It was hard to believe. Again there was a long pause, in which the fires of desire leaped up and threatened to consume him. Cadger had supplied him with a small flask of whiskey before he left the Agency. The fire was racing in his blood, prompting him to nameless things. He sat and smouldered. Passion and hate struggled for control. He stood up.He told her she was a fool to wait and weep for a man who only laughed at her, who would never come back. Why had he gone away? Because he did not dare to take the woman Appah wanted. He knew Appah would kill him and so he had run away. He was afraid!She leaped to her feet."He never was afraid, least of all of you. You are lying. You cannot say this to me. Take your food and go. I would not eat it. Go." She was very fine with her eyes blazing.Go? On such a night? The snow wolves were mad, dancing a war-dance, thirsting for blood. The fire-spirits were good. He had brought her food, and she thrust him out into the wild night. He looked her over and laughed evilly. The big chief is patient; he knows how to wait. Then one day he gets crazy, mad, and then he reaches out and takes what he wants. He tried to put his hand on her. Quickly she eluded him and put the couch of the sick man between them. Yes, she could avoid, resist, but she could not escape.She had laughed at him, scorned him again and again. Now he would possess her, break her, bend her to his will or kill her."Hush," she said, pointing to the sick man; "don't wake him."Appah moved close to the couch and looked at McCloud. He had been sick a long time. There was nothing to be feared from him. Still he looked again. If there had been the slightest chance that McCloud could have interfered with his purposes he would have killed him there where he lay."No scared sick man," he muttered contemptuously.She had directed his attention to McCloud for a purpose. In the short interval Appah had given to the dying man, she had backed swiftly against the chest of drawers, beneath the left-hand window. A short time before she had taken the letter and the little moccasins from this drawer, and had left it open. Now, keeping her eye on Appah, she had put her hand behind her and rummaged in the drawer until her hand felt the little automatic gun that Hal had given her. Appah glanced up and divined her purpose. Quick as a panther he leaped over the unconscious clergyman and threw himself upon the girl as she tried to bring the gun in play. Her scream awoke the dying man, and he raised himself on his elbow, though it was a perceptible interval before his mind grasped the reality of what was happening. There was a struggle which brought Appah and the girl down in front of the fire. It was a short struggle. Her frenzied strength was as nothing in his grasp. He gave her arm a twist and the gun fell from her hand. Then he stopped her breath until she was helpless, when he picked her up in his arms and bore her through the door leading to the kitchen.McCloud tried to get up. He did in fact get to a sitting position on the low couch; then he realized for a terrible moment his helplessness. On the small stool beside him rested the cup containing brandy left there by Big Bill. He drank it quickly, drank it all. It gave him a fictitious strength, a momentary capacity. While the struggle was going on in the next room, he crawled to the spot where the little gun had fallen, picked it up, and by slow and painful stages dragged himself across the room to the open kitchen door. He could go no further. He sank down. He could not hold the little weapon without trembling. He rested his elbows on the floor, grasped it with both hands, steadied it long enough to fire. Then he collapsed and lay very still upon his face.There was a sudden quiet in the next room, then the sound of a body falling heavily. After a few moments Wah-na-gi appeared in the kitchen door, wild-eyed, haggard. She leaned wearily against the jamb until her mind and some of her strength came back, then she saw the body of McCloud. With a cry she ran to him, turned him over, and looked into the beloved face.Not in the way he thought, but as he wished, John McCloud had gone out—militant.CHAPTER XXIVHal had plenty of evidence that Ladd had robbed the Indians, that he was the representative of the Asphalt Trust, and had tried to bribe him with its valuable securities. He still had Ladd's receipt for the fifteen thousand dollars he didn't pay for them. As Doctor McCloud had said, he had offered to return the securities to the company, an offer which had been ignored. While he was chief of police at the Agency, and while he was secretly camping on the agent's trail, letters and copies of letters belonging to Ladd's correspondence had come into Hal's possession through a disgruntled clerk who had earned the enmity of the agent and been discharged. It was manifest that the interests behind Mr. Ladd were very anxious to secure or destroy these letters. They would have cheerfully sacrificed the agent, but they were forced to protect him for their own sakes. The fight therefore centred about David Ladd. The interests had won the first skirmish with a shout and a hurrah. It was made to appear that Secretary Walker had given credence to absurd accusations involving honorable business men high in the financial world, accusations which could not be substantiated; had removed a valued public servant without cause, under charges involving not only his position but his honor, etc., etc. The victory of the interests was announced with bellringing and bonfires.The arrival of Hal in Washington was therefore an enormous relief to those who by reason of their efforts for the general welfare were now forced to fight for self-preservation and vindication. Hal's dismay on learning that Secretary Walker had not received any package or communication from Red Butte Ranch was disheartening. He had written to John McCloud to forward his papers to the care of Secretary Walker. They had not come. No word had come. No one in Washington could give him any comfort. Gifford had informed him that the winter in the Moquitch country had been the severest in the memory of living man. That was all any one knew. This would explain some of the delay, not all of it, as Hal felt. A council of war was held. It was unanimously agreed that Hal must go in person for the papers. He hesitated. No one knew why he hesitated. Did he dare go? Could he trust himself? At times his sacrifice had seemed so futile. At times it must be confessed he bitterly regretted it. He felt incapable of further immolation. Life had lost its zest, its interest. Could he see her, take her hand, look into her eyes once more, come to life again, vivid life, and then turn away and walk deliberately back into the grave? No, it wasn't possible. It wasn't fair to ask it. Strange chap, this half-breed boy, was the feeling of the serious men who watched him, who saw his hesitation. What was the matter with him now? Unstable in all their ways, these mixed breeds! Not to be depended on!Gifford watched him narrowly. He knew more than the rest. He remarked casually that much of the country was cut off from communication and it was feared that there was great suffering at the lonely ranches—starvation perhaps.Starvation? Had they tried to get into touch with the ranch? Yes, but without success. They had telegraphed McShay to go to their relief, but had heard nothing from him. McShay was not at Calamity. Starvation? He would go. When was the next and the fastest train? He would go by way of Fort Serene. They promised that he would be furnished with supplies at the post.And so it came to pass that he turned his face once more to the West, and every step of the way his heart lifted, the light came back into his eye, the ring came back into his voice, the spring to his step. In spite of his anxiety for their safety, in spite of a painful knowledge of the difficulties in the way, the possibility that he might be too late, his soul sang for joy. He was going back to his own, his country, his people, the land of his desire—going back not of his own volition but in answer to the call, the silent call which could not be denied.It seems that the examination of Hal's papers in the London house had been thorough, but with small results. It was correctly surmised that the papers of importance were at the ranch. Hal's departure from Washington was promptly telegraphed to the Standing Bear Agency and the race was on.The nearest post-office to the ranch, as I have intimated, was the Agency, but Hal had directed his letter to McCloud to the post, as being safer and farther removed from hostile influences. He had also written a short note to Captain Baker, asking him to warn the official in charge not to deliver any mail except to some one connected with the ranch, and properly accredited. When he arrived at the Fort Hal discovered that Baker was no longer stationed at Serene. His action with regard to Ladd and Wah-na-gi had been adversely criticised, and though he was not called before a court of inquiry, he was sufficiently punished by being exiled to the Philippines. Hal's letter to him found him eventually long after the incidents of this story were ancient history. The new commandant was a stranger who knew nothing of the undercurrent of affairs in his domain, and who could be depended on to stick to routine and, if necessary, look the other way. Hal learned that Agent Ladd had been to the fort, had informed the commandant that he was about to send an Indian runner over to the Red Butte Ranch to see if they were in need, and offered to send any mail there was for the ranch people. This seemed quite all right to the soldier, both thoughtful and friendly, and he interposed no objection. It developed that considerable mail had collected for the Red Butte people and it was naturally handed over to the agent. Hal very properly drew the conclusion that Ladd now knew his papers were at the ranch and in the keeping of McCloud. He was also confident that the agent would leave no stone unturned in order to obtain them. As a matter of fact, Cadger had opened the letter to McCloud, sealed it up again, and then given it to Appah with instructions to lose it on the way over. He was for the sake of appearances to lose the entire mail. This was not hard to do. When Appah did not reappear promptly there was anxiety at the Agency. When due allowance had been made for all supposable emergencies, and still he did not return, the best runners in the tribe were sent out to learn the truth. An extraordinary story came back. It alleged that the priest of the white man and the priest of the Indian had passed into the Great Beyond together, that Appah had lost his life at the hands of John McCloud, the man of peace. That the dying clergyman had killed the powerful medicine-man seemed unbelievable. Still, it simplified matters. Ladd telegraphed the news to his friends at Washington and wired them to get for him instructions from McCloud's sister to take charge of his effects. As soon as this authorization arrived, Ladd and Cadger started for the ranch.The death of John McCloud had plunged the ranch into gloom. It had been a hard, dreary, sullen winter, even before want and hunger came to dwell with them. Cattle were dying, stock suffering everywhere. McShay and Bill did not get through to the settlements. As Mike had anticipated, Bill had been an encumbrance to him. The stubborn old fellow had measured his strength by his courage, and they were no longer equal. McShay had to return to bring Bill in. After a wild night in which both came near losing their lives, they succeeded in regaining the shelter of Hal's cabin. They found the fire dead in its ashes and Wah-na-gi crouching by the side of the dead man where he had fallen, holding his hand, as she had done so many hours in his life, in a dumb vacant instinct of habit, to give him comfort in the long sleep which would know no waking.Death obliterates animosities, so they laid the body of Appah decently in the stable, to await his relatives and friends who would take it on a sled or a travois to the Agency and weep and wail over it, and extol his virtues, just as we do with our dead.To those who live apart from the forms and ceremonies of life they assume an unusual and unnatural importance. It was a real grief to these rough men who had grown to love John McCloud that they could do so little to testify to their sense of his worth. Undemonstrative in life, they would have liked to have made it up in the paraphernalia of grief in the hour of death. It didn't occur to them that the dead man had been very simple, very unostentatious in his life. They did not want to intrude the subject upon Wah-na-gi, so they gathered to discuss it in Big Bill's quarters. Orson, Silent, Joe, Curley, Bill, and the others. Mike, as usual, was the spokesman."Boys," he said, after quite a pause, his eyes unduly moist and struggling to keep from showing emotion; "boys, we're up against it. We can't do it right, no way you fix it. John McCloud was a big man; an important man. In any right-minded kummunity, he'd be buried from the cathedral, with a funeral oration which would try to tell but couldn't what sort of a man he was, and the mayor and town officials and the civic organizations would have followed his hearse to the cemetery, and have covered his grave with wreaths and flowers, and everything would have been high-toned and impressive, and all that is good. It's good for the risin' generation. It shows the kids that's inclined to be wild that they got to live decent if they want a big funeral.""John didn't care much fer fixin's, Mike," said Bill. "He was awful simple.""Sure he was—never asked fer nothin'. All the more reason we should give it to him; all the more reason we should show the world what we think of him; but we can't do it, boys. We can't even give him a casket. A rough board box is the best we kin do, and we'll have to bury him in the snow until the spring comes. Then we'll do the thing right. We kin git the band over from the fort. We'll declare a half-week's holiday in Calamity, and everybody as is anybody in these here regions will come over here and pay their last respects to John McCloud."And so it was decided. If John McCloud knew about it he must have been pleased with his funeral. The rough men gathered around his remains in the living-room, Wah-na-gi repeated the Lord's Prayer; she led and they joined in singing "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and they laid him to rest under the soft beautiful snow. When they came back and the others had gone to their quarters, Mike said to her:"Wah-na-gi, there's one thing I'm awful sorry fer—the kid wasn't here." And he gave way completely and cried like a child. It was the first time he had mentioned Hal for a long, long time, and he had been thinking of the affection that had always existed between the preacher and the boy, and it was the little Indian woman who had to put aside her own grief to comfort the big cowman. Artfully she told of the dramatic happenings of that night, the night he and Bill went out into the storm. She told him what McCloud had said of his notion of God's purposes and they talked of the man and his character and his words, and recalled many things that would give them good and gracious memories while life should last, and Mike said to her with some misgivings and a good deal of embarrassment:"Wah-na-gi, I can't take his place. I wouldn't try, but—rely on me. Savey?"And so routine once more resumed its quiet sway. The food Appah had brought didn't amount to much, but it came at the right time and saved serious complications. Ladd had sent them word by an Indian runner that he would be over in person to see as to their necessities and that food would follow him. Those at the ranch had been physically depleted, so that Mike made no further effort under the circumstances to get through himself or send any one else. They were marking time; but the situation was distinctly not cheerful.Wah-na-gi in particular did not rally. Instead of recovering from the parson's death and the shock of that night when she had faced its horrors alone, she seemed to grow more and more depressed. It worried the boys a whole lot. One night Mike called them all together at Bill's and they took council-one with another. They discussed the situation from various stand-points. It was pointed out that Wah-na-gi was a child. She was young and, bein' young, needed playthings. It was only natural she should want amusement, relaxation, change. It was awful dull fer a young girl on a ranch. Injins needed fun and frolic, too, like anybody else. She needed companionship of her own sex. In the spring they could git some woman over from somewhere who would be company fer her. In the spring they promised to see to it that she went to the dances that might be goin' on in the settlements, and perhaps go in to Salt Lake fer the Fourth of July Celebration. Some one pointed out that next spring and summer would doubtless take care of themselves. It was the present that had to be looked after. If she went on grievin' and mopin' like she was doin' she wouldn't git to the spring. Finally, when everybody had had their say and no one had really said anything, Silent cleared his throat by a great effort and said gravely:"Say, fellers, to-morrer'll be Christmas."Silent had a memory that was unusually retentive as to figures. His statement created a sensation but was, of course, universally challenged. The days had come and gone, one just like the other, and how was any one to know that Christmas was upon them? Reference to calendars and elaborate computations finally showed that Silent had made a serious discovery."Boys," said Mike; "I got it. We'll have a Christmas-tree fer Wah-na-gi! What do you say? We'll make it as funny as we kin. Gee, if we sit down here and try to outsigh each other we'll all git bug-house."The cowboy dearly loves a practical joke and goes to elaborate pains in its accomplishment. Suddenly the ranch became busy, very busy, and there were winks and nudges, and an air of mystery. Wah-na-gi was preoccupied or she would have noticed that there was something unusual afoot, that every one was engaged, alert, and secretive.The idea broadened as it went along and little plots were hatched against each other. In the bustle and activity the men regained their normal elasticity.Supper that night was a hurried and a constrained meal with an undercurrent of excitement. When it had been rushed through all the men made a hasty exit, leaving Wah-na-gi alone. When the table had been cleared, and the room tidied, she sat down as usual by the big fire. It was the hour when the absence of John McCloud and Hal was very poignant. The care of the sick man had been onerous, but it had been a joy to know that she could do for him, anticipate his wishes, minister to his comfort. Now there was a great, blank, empty void. Mike stole into the room with a bundle under his arm. This he put on the chest of drawers, then he came down and found her weeping."Wah-na-gi," he said to her with suppressed excitement, "sure you mustn't let the boys see you cryin'. It ain't good for none of us to sit down here and calculate to a fraction just how miserable we are. Am I right? Sure I am. John McCloud himself wouldn't like it. He'd want us to lift our head and face the music, wouldn't he? Sure he would. He didn't have strength enough left to die, but he went out like a fightin' man. Sure if I hadn't 'a' loved him before I'd 'a' loved him for that. Now go to your room, wash the tears from your black eyes, put on your nicest dress and your prettiest bow, and stay there until you're sent for.""Stay there?" said Wah-na-gi with dismay."Well, dearly beloved, it's to be a surprise party, and if you stay here divil a surprise will it be. So scoot, vamoose, git out. And you must give me your solemn oath not to peek, or listen, or come in until you're called. Hold up your two hands and make the oath double."It was impossible to resist the buoyant spirits of the Irishman.Wah-na-gi laughed in spite of herself as he bustled and herded her out of the room, she having agreed to the conditions imposed. When he had the room to himself, Mike went up to the bundle he had left on the table. These placards, rudely lettered, he began to tack up about the room. They ran along somewhat after this fashion:"Merri (ha, ha!) Crismas."Like some eminent literary artists, Mike was long on words and short on spelling."Resterant And Food-factery."Food being mostly absent from its accustomed place, was naturally very much in the minds of the humorists, whose efforts at gayety made up in breadth what they lacked in subtlety.Another sign announced: "Blew monge—Has Just Blew In!" Another: "Egg-nog, without the egg or the Nog." "Plum (?) Pudin' (?)." "Mince Pi Like Step-Father uster Make." Under the caption "Our Motter" appeared this effort at scripture: "O Lord, Open Thou Our Lips And Our Mouths Shal Sho Fourth Thi Prais a Whole Lot if We Git the Chanct."The materials or the humor seemed to give out at this juncture.Mike was in the act of tacking up the last extravagant effort to the shelf over the fireplace when a voice behind said softly: "Gee, it's good to be home."The hammer and the placard both dropped out of the Irishman's hand."Ghosts, is it?" he whispered, fixed, with his eyes wide open; "or the banshee?""Don't breathe a word," said the voice."Breathe a word? Sure I ain't breathin' at all."Then the startled Mike turned slowly and saw Hal who had watched him for some time in silence."Why, Hal, my son; why God bless you," said the astonished cowman as he caught the boy's strong hand in his huge paw, and the men looked in each other's eyes with the silent affection that men feel but cannot express."It's good to feel the grip of your hand once more, Mike," said the boy. "How is Wah-na-gi?""Wah-na-gi is it?" The secret of Hal's wife had been confined to McCloud and Wah-na-gi. Mike was in ignorance of all complications in Hal's domestic affairs."Wah-na-gi? Sure you stayed away long enough for a dozen fellers to have run off with her, and small blame to her, you scamp. It's awful good you've got to be to me, boy. I ain't sure as I'll let you have her.""You?" said the boy, smiling."You got to show me, son, for I'm her——"He stopped suddenly confronted with the realization that Hal did not, could not know."Sure, the good man's gone, Hal.""Dead?" whispered the boy. "John McCloud?"He went to the stool by the fire and sat down for a moment, and Mike followed him and put his hand on his shoulder. He knew as well as any one the relations of the two men and understood them. It was a great blow to Hal. He ought reasonably to have anticipated such an event, but his thought had been busy with his own affairs and John McCloud as he was related to them. He had thought that he would have to meet the preacher and face his inquisition, and it had been some consolation to him that he could do so. He could tell the truth and it would be something to have earned the other's "Well done, my son; well done." Briefly and gently Mike told the boy what there was to tell, and how Wah-na-gi had never quite recovered from the shock of that awful night with its double horror."Sure, you're a God-send to us," he added. "My, my, my, won't their eyes pop out at the sight of you? You're pretty well liked around here, son, and say, you're just in time. The boys are goin' to have a Christmas-tree fer Wah-na-gi.""A Christmas-tree, eh?" and the reaction came. The warmth of the room, the cheer of the blaze, the relaxation following on the physical strain, upon the cold and privation, the familiar objects about him with their associations, the sudden sense of a great loss, and the eternal mystery of death, the sound of a kindly voice, the homely joys conjured up by the words "Christmas-tree," all coming together overpowered him, and he bowed his head and turned away, speechless, and Mike looked away too, that he might not see the other's tears. It was the first emotion Hal had allowed himself to feel for a long time. He had bathed his soul in a hardening solution of indifference; otherwise existence would have been unendurable. Now when the assumption fell away, he felt uncommonly weak. After a moment's struggle the boy cleared his throat and said:"Mike, I'm pretty glad to get back. I didn't know it would hit me so hard. I don't want to get foolish and play the baby. I'll tell you what," and his eyes began to shine and the old smile to come back to his face; "hide me some place, get 'em all together, then make a joke of it, then bring me out, and there you are, eh?"Mike chuckled in anticipation of the surprise and joy of Wah-na-gi and the boys."Great!" hesaid. "I'll put you in this closet here; then I'll lead up to it with a few simple words; then I'll bring you out, and take you off the tree as a Christmas present for Wah-na-gi.""No; don't do that, Mike. You don't understand. Don't single Wah-na-gi out—just let it all come naturally, you know——""Say, young feller; who's doin'this? I ain't ever been accused of lettin' anybody else write my speeches fer me."Both men were fairly aquiver with the excitement of anticipation. Hal had risen, and had removed his belt and gun, thrown off his storm-coat, and stood now in his flannel shirt, hunting boots, and woolen trousers, a trim, vital figure of a man, his eyes dancing, his face aglow."Say, that'll be fine," he said. "I can see the whole show from there, can see all their faces.""Sure; you can seeherface, if you try hard," said the irrepressible Mike. Hal had tossed his things on the couch in the upper left-hand corner and drawn a bear robe over them, so that his presence might not be prematurely disclosed. Then he entered the rough pine clothes closet on the opposite side of the room."Say, it's goin' to be a bit close in here." Then he turned and shook the big cowman joyously. "Work it up, Mike. Work it up.""You leave it to me, son. If I can't git eloquent to-night, I ain't got no divine fire."And he pushed the door of the clothes-press to, turned to see that the room was in readiness, and had put on his own cap when Big Bill entered with a suspicious bulge to a portion of his great-coat."Bill," said Mike with a nervous tremor in his voice and taking the foreman by the shoulder, "whatever you do, don't go near that closet, and don't let any one else go near it. There's a Christmas present in there fer Wah-na-gi, and it's a horrible, awful secret.""Gee, you don't say!" said Bill, laughing but mystified."Are the boys all ready?" inquired Mike, going to the door."Say, Mike," said Bill. "It's all right. It'll make a cat laf. It's the bummest thing in Christmas-trees you ever see. You better look it over and memorize your impromptu speech."And Mike went out bubbling over, saying to himself with a chuckle: "My, my, my, won't this be a night!"When he was gone Bill dug out of his inner recesses a bottle and he held it up to the light and rolled it, examining it critically."There's all the liquor there is on the place," he said mournfully. "It wouldn't be Christmas to the boys without a drop of something." Then he scratched his head as if trying to think of some way to make it more. "They can at least smell of it and look at the label." And Bill put it on a small table near the closet.As he turned away two men pushed open the door and entered quietly. They stood for a second to get over the glare and then one said quietly:"Hello, Bill."Bill turned."Why, hello, Mr. Agent. Hello, Cadger."The two men shook the snow from their clothes and came down to the fire."Heard you people were hard up for grub. Came over to see what we could do for you," said the agent genially."Well, say, that's kind," said the simple-minded Bill. "We need it all right.""Didn't Calthorpe bring any supplies with him?" asked Cadger, and he and Ladd watched Bill's face narrowly."The boss? Hal? Say, what are you a-talkin' about?" said Bill with a glimmer of suspicion."We heard he was back or on his way back," suggested Ladd."Back your grandmother!" said Bill contemptuously. "The boss's in Europe. Ain't ever comin' back here I reckon; but what's that to you? Are you still lookin' fer trouble? 'Cause if you are, you kin git it.""Not me," laughed Ladd good-humoredly. "I'm for letting by-gones be by-gones. If he isn't here, you'll do just as well, Bill. It's a small matter. Doctor McCloud's sister has telegraphed me to take charge of his effects.""Oh," said Bill, puzzled. "Is that so? 'Tain't much," he added. "He carried his valuables with him I reckon."Ladd showed the foreman the telegram."Oh, that'll be all right, I guess," said Bill with reference to Ladd's implied request. "Wah-na-gi's put everything he left in his valise—he never had a trunk—and she says his instructions was to have his things sent to his sister in Washington. There it stands under the table, there, ready to go by express soon as ever kummunications are established once more. You don't want to take it with you this kind o' weather, do you?""I don't know," said Ladd, taking the bag from under the table below the window on the right-hand side of the entrance. "Is it heavy?" and he lifted it. "We got a pack mule through with us, but no, I don't think we care to take it this time. When we come again will do. There's no hurry that I can see," and he put the bag back where he got it."Well," said Bill, recollecting the impending festivities, "you'll have to excuse me. I've got to help with the fixin's and come in with the peeracle. Say, you're just in time fer the doin's. We're goin' to have a Christmas celebration fer Wah-na-gi and the boys.""Go right along. Don't mind us.""Well, make yourselves comfortable," said Bill and went out into the night. As soon as Bill was out of the room Ladd turned with a look of triumph to the trader."Did you watch Bill's face? He ain't seen him, and if Bill hasn't seen him, he isn't here. We've beat him to it. Why, it's a cinch."Ladd examined his weapons carefully, then put a chair carelessly against the door leading to the kitchen, so that any one entering there would be stopped for a perceptible moment. Cadger stood just within the storm-door as a sentinel, to warn him of any one approaching from without. Then Ladd opened the valise which was unlocked. John McCloud had never been afraid of any one robbing him of his unpretentious belongings and the key had been lost early in the bag's history. With his face directly to the closet and his back to the fire, Ladd quickly examined the contents and had no difficulty in immediately locating the papers, which he slipped into the inside pocket of his short storm-coat. He rearranged the contents of the bag as nearly as possible as they had been, closed it, and put it back under the table. All was well. It couldn't be better. He called in Cadger."It's all right, Cadger; I've got 'em. Now you go to the stable ostensibly to look after the mule, but never take your eyes off that entrance door. Anybody that enters gets the light of this room. If he comes while we're here, well, we'll have to take care of ourselves, that's all. From the stable opposite it's a certainty."We'll get away just as soon as we can without arousing suspicion. So far it couldn't be better."Cadger pulled his cap down over his eyes and slouched out into the night. Ladd looked carefully about, removed the chair to its former position, then walked over to the fireplace, and stretched out his hands to its genial glow. Hal had been an interested listener and observer. In the strain of it he was wet with perspiration. His weapons were with his coat on the couch, in the farthest corner of the room. Ladd was armed to the teeth. To wait until the room was full of people would complicate matters; some one might get hurt! She might get hurt. He pushed the door of the closet open just enough for him to slide out. He dropped to the position of a runner on the starting line, on his toes, the tips of his fingers to the floor. He looked altogether Indian as he crept stealthily across. Just as he was in the act of springing upon Ladd's back, the latter looked up into the mirror over the fireplace and saw him. Quick as a snake Ladd drew his knife, turned, and struck. Hal caught his descending arm on the slant and with the force of the blow Hal's hand slid to the other's wrist, where it clung. They clinched immediately. The agent was a powerful man, quite as muscular, perhaps a shade more so, than the boy. Hal therefore exerted only so much strength as was absolutely necessary to keep the quivering knife from his body. He had forced it well down on the clinch and held it down. The agent, having tried in vain to get it up, strained every nerve and muscle to put it in the artery of his antagonist's leg—a favorite blow with Chinese assassins. Hal managed to stop it always just short of penetration. In the struggle they had worked over to the centre of the room and up against the stout wooden table. Over-balanced with the impact, they fell over it and the knife, descending, stuck quivering in the top, where Hal held it, the other trying to wrench it and himself free. The room was silent as the grave except for the ticking of the clock and the breathing of the two men. The agent was putting forth every pound of energy of which he was capable. Hal was trying to save a little out. He knew that if he could wind the agent he had him beaten. Suddenly Ladd got a purchase against the table and lifted himself and the other clear of it. It was a stupendous effort, but it was his best. He began to tire. The younger man kept him going, let him struggle, just held his own until once more they came close to the table from above, when he caught Ladd over his hip and lifted him clean off the floor, throwing him heavily on his back on the top of the table. It was the boy's best and all he could do for the time being. The agent squirmed and fought and struggled like a madman, but the other held, held and held, with the older man tiring all the time. Soon the youngster got his second wind, when he edged and worked his body over the prostrate man, pulled the other's left arm across his throat, brought his own arm with it, and threw his weight on the two. They rested across Ladd's windpipe and shut off his air, the position meanwhile resting the other. Ladd saw he was beaten unless he could throw off his antagonist, and he put forth a mighty effort. He lifted the boy with all his weight and all but slipped from under, but Hal held him for the crucial second and he dropped back—beaten. Hal now disengaged his left hand, holding the other with his arm across the throat, and with both hands pulled the agent's knife hand up and over his exposed neck. Then he pressed down and threw his weight upon the knife. Quivering, quivering, slowly it descended until its point rested on the flesh of the prostrate man."Surrender," Hal gasped; "or I'll give you your own knife.""I surrender," gurgled the agent with what breath was left in him."Let go the knife," said Hal when he could speak. The other did so. When Ladd had released his hold on the weapon, Hal transferred its handle to his right hand and with the left took the agent's gun from its holster, then he passed the gun before Ladd's eyes to let him know that he was disarmed. Keeping his enemy's revolver in one hand, he transferred the knife to his teeth. Only then did he stand up and away from the other as he lay."Wait a minute," he warned through his set teeth as Ladd made as if to rise. Coming back to him, he removed from the agent's inside pocket the papers he had taken from Doctor McCloud's bag. These papers Hal transferred to the back pocket of his trousers. Then he took the knife from his teeth and, covering Ladd with his own revolver, said:"Now, get up, if you can."The beaten man was game. He half got up, rolled from the table, staggered to his feet, and fell against the clothes-press, breathing hard. Hal could stand and control his weapons but he wasn't much better for the moment, though his strength was returning fast. Just then a long peculiar whistle was heard outside."What was that?" demanded Calthorpe. "Cadger's signal?""Yes.""What's it mean?""That everything's all right.""I don't trust you. I'll see for myself. Get into that closet. I damn near suffocated in there and I hope you will."Ladd backed into the closet under the muzzle of Hal's weapon. The latter turned the key on the imprisoned agent. Then the boy took a long deep breath, put on his storm-coat and hat, and, coming to the clothes-press, said:"I'd advise you to be quiet in there, for if my boys find out what you've been up to, they'll come pretty near lynching you. And now I'm going out to get your pal, your hired assassin, and then I'll present the pair of you to the Government as a Christmas present."Hal started out of the door, then recollected what he had heard, glanced back at the fire and the swinging lamp, closed the door, pulled back the table from under the window, to the right of the storm-door, threw up the sash, and, lifting himself through, closed the window from without and disappeared.Wah-na-gi had responded gamely to Mike's call. She had understood from her new foster-father's anxiety that the boys were worried about her, that she must have been so abstracted and depressed as to give them concern, that this tomfoolery, whatever it was, was intended to divert her, give her pleasure or, at least, make her think of other things beside her loss. Determined to make amends, she had gone to her room, put on her best dress, tied a bright ribbon in her hair, all the while infected with a growing curiosity. Having finished her simple toilet, and not having been summoned, she sat down and tried to wait. She found this rather difficult. The air was electrical. She found she was under the influence of intense excitement, conflicting emotions. Finally she could bear it no longer and she went to the door of the living-room and knocked on it impatiently. Mike had just entered by the outer door and thrown down his cap.
CHAPTER XXIII
Down from the summits of the Moquitch had swept "Winter-man" with legions upon legions of white cavalry and overrun the land. Trails, roads, trees, rocks, landmarks, fences, rivers, disappeared. Cabins and stables had to be unsnowed. Man's boasted dominion reached from the cabin to the stable and back again. The throbbing, suffering earth had gone to sleep, to dream under a white silence.
John McCloud was dying and God had said to the world, "Peace! Be still!" In the crowded haunts of men brooding sorrow does not sit down by the fireside, and stay. Even sorrow is hustled and bustled about. The butcher and baker are at the kitchen door. The telephone-bell rings. The postman brings the claims of church, hospital, school, town, county, or State. Friends put books, pictures in our hands, close the shutters, take us away, lead us where music soothes, or into strange lands, or into the playhouse where the tragedy of imaginary sins and sufferings forces us for the blessed moment to forget our own. Life, multitudinous life, goes on and sweeps us with it. In the desert sorrow sits by the fire, comes to the table, lies down beside one in the terrible night. There is no other voice except the voice of God. Wah-na-gi and John McCloud had each a noble gift for loving, a gift that had been narrowed down almost to the other. Silence, solitude, and suffering had put the eternal sign and seal upon their love. Out of the wreck of their lives this seemed to be all. It made them very tender, very thoughtful, very considerate of each other. She took elaborate pains that he should not see her anxiety, her terror, her fierce protest against the cruelty of it. She tried very hard to surround the invalid with an atmosphere of comfort, hope, and courage. At times the pretence wore a very thin disguise, and he tried so hard not to let her see him suffer, not to tax her strength, not to shadow her young life with incurable sorrow. Each made a brave show of a cheerfulness neither felt. Each was very sensitive of the smallest change in the simple elements that made up their lives. Each seized upon the smallest sign of encouragement to hand to the other, and each turned away from the grim truth. The tide ebbed and flowed, but on the morning and evening of each day both could take the measure of his drift out to the eternal sea, the measure of their parting.
All that care, ever watchful; all that prayer, silent and spoken; all that love could do to hold him back had been done, and the tide kept on its inevitable way.
As the certain separation came closer and closer each clung to the other with desperate tenderness.
Oh, if the cruel snows would go, and the warm sun would come, and the flowers, and the gentle spring, and give this brave, battling soul a chance! Finally she sent word to McShay to come. She felt that she must have help, help to face this, to do what was to be done, to meet what was to come, if nothing could be done. She cried out for help, and McShay was a strong man, the strongest man she knew, and he loved John McCloud too. He would come. Mike came, came knowing he could do nothing, but glad to come; glad to bring his silent offering. He came when he could, and with him came a storm that raged with unabated fury and made his return impossible; a storm that cut them off completely from the world, that blotted out the sky, that swept the great white plains, caught up the snow in angry swirls, throwing it into vast drifts, tearing it up again and tossing it back against the falling heavens, the turbulent air filled with blinding, stinging, suffocating flakes, while through it all the wind moaned and shrieked and called for victims.
"Beats all," said McShay. "Never will let up, I reckon. Ain't seen a storm like this since I kin remember."
He was sitting on a three-legged stool by the chimney in the living-room of the cabin of the Red Butte Ranch, smoking his pipe. The remark was addressed more to himself than to Wah-na-gi, who sat beside a couch covered with skins and Navajo blankets, which had been drawn down into the glow of the roaring fire. The light from a bracket oil lamp swung from the ceiling fell over her and the pale face resting against the black bear skin, and showed her holding the ghostly hand of all that was left of John McCloud. He was sleeping fitfully, painfully. The windows on each side of the storm-door in the back were shivering in their sockets. The cabin nestled close to the ground or the wild wind would have torn it loose. As it was, it trembled as the wind caught it in its teeth, shook it fiercely, and dropped it howling with impotent fury. As the storm-door opened vagrant hurrying flakes danced into the room and died an instant death in the glow of the great fire. With them Big Bill entered and shook the snow from his cap and clothes, and beat his big hands to get the blood flowing in them.
"Well, Bill, any news?" asked McShay quietly.
"Yes, Rough-house Joe's got in, but he's in awful bad shape, frost-bitten, starving; never will git over it, I guess."
"And the supplies? What about the supplies?"
"Lost!"
"Lost?" and Mike indulged in a low, long whistle.
"Snowslide comin' through Dead Man's Canyon. As far as he knows, Joe's the only one of the party left."
"Gee, that's tough, ain't it?" said McShay quietly.
"The stuff you brought in, Mike, is gone, and we're up against it." Bill referred to the former visit of McShay's in which he had brought a wagon-load of supplies.
"We got to git in touch with somewhere or starve."
Both men realized that help from without was unlikely as no one would know of their necessities. It would be natural to suppose that the supplies lost in Dead Man's Canyon had reached their destination. The situation was serious.
Bill got a stool and came down and sat on the other side of the fireplace and they smoked in silence for some time. Finally Mike said:
"No one will try to break through to us."
"Some of us got to git through to them," said Bill. "That's about the size of it."
"I've only been waitin' for the storm to let up a bit," said the Irishman.
"Gosh, it may keep this up for a month of Sundays. No use waitin' any longer. I think it's a dyin' down some. I'm fer a try at it."
"You?" said Mike with incredulity. "Git out. That's my job. You with your rheumatiz? You ain't any longer young, Bill. Better leave it to me."
Both Bill and McShay had reached the age when it is impossible to take advice. Each went about his preparations while the argument continued.
"You can go if you like," Bill suggested; "but I'm agoin'."
"Ain't you old fellers vain?" protested Mike. "You'll only be a nuisance to me. Better stay."
"Old fellers, eh? Say, you needn't be afraid. If I can't pull you through I won't run away from you. I'll bring you back."
"What is it, Bill?" asked Wah-na-gi, looking up and seeing their elaborate preparations.
"Well, we're clean out o' grub, Wah-na-gi, and some one's got to git through to Calamity or the fort or the Agency."
"Oh, Bill," she said; "couldn't you bring back a doctor for him?"
Bill and McShay exchanged looks and the latter bent over the clergyman and listened to his breathing for a second, and then he said very gently to her:
"It wouldn't be no use, Wah-na-gi. He's pretty nearly over the Divide, I guess. You won't be afraid to be left here alone, will you?"
"Oh, no," she answered simply.
Afraid of what? There was nothing to be afraid of, except this grim spectre which sat on the other side of the couch and held the other hand of her foster-father.
"He may pass out to-night," said McShay, following her gaze.
"Don't see how he can play the game much longer. Gee, he's made a game fight! He was just lent to us, I guess, just to show us what a real man was like; a man who was on the level and wasn't lookin' for the best of it. In my experience I've seen men handled; I've handled 'em myself, and you can appeal to every feller's fear or his lust or his cupidity, and that about lets 'em out. I've always thought this 'love-one-another' thing, this 'turn-the-other-cheek' game, this 'bear-ye-one-another's-burden' racket was a beautiful fairy tale, a good thing for little boys and old women, but say, he makes it good. John, here, makes you believe in it. A life like his puts it up to you, the Christ story, and says: 'Say, what about it?'" Wah-na-gi was weeping. The preacher was asleep, so she could have the relief of tears.
"Don't you cry, little woman," said Mike, trying to console her. "He's had a tough job here. It can't be as hard for him farther on. Would you want to keep him here knowin' what he suffers?"
Ah, that's a hard question to ask. It's only answered by another, and not answered then.
"Don't your arm git tired holdin' it that-a'-way hour after hour?" said the Irishman, trying to divert her.
"He sleeps better that way," was all she said.
"Beats all," said Mike with undisguised admiration. "He clings to the Almighty with one hand, and a little Injin woman with the other. Suppose there's Injin angels, Bill?"
"Looks that-a'-way, don't it?" replied the foreman. "It's a sure thing there'sone."
Bill had always kept a small supply of liquor on the ranch, hidden away with supreme cunning. Where or what his private cellar was no one ever knew, but on state occasions and in emergency Bill could be depended on to produce. The law of supply having been completely suspended, the private cellar had been reduced to a bottle containing perhaps one and a half drinks of whiskey and another containing perhaps a third of a bottle of brandy. The brandy he now divided carefully into three parts. One flask he handed to McShay, the other he put in the inside of his own storm-coat, and the rest he poured into a cup which he held out to Wah-na-gi.
"What is it, Bill?" she asked.
"It's fer him," he said, nodding toward the invalid. Wah-na-gi had to move to take the cup and, though she disengaged her hand ever so gently, the drifting man felt the anchor drag, and he woke with a little start.
"Well, boys," he said with a faint smile, seeing the two men over him; "what is it?"
"Just tellin' Wah-na-gi to make you take a little of this if you should feel faint in the night," said Bill.
"I've reformed, Bill. I'm not drinking now," said the sick man with a quizzical look playing about his eyes, tenuous and vapory. "I won't need it. Thank you just the same."
The noble voice was gone, the voice he had played upon with all the skill of a great musician, the voice that had swayed multitudes. He spoke with effort in a husky whisper.
"Bill and I are going to try to git through to Calamity or the fort, Parson," said McShay.
"In this storm?" asked the sick man.
"Oh, Bill and I don't mind a little thing like a storm."
"And the wind has died down a whole lot," added Bill cheerfully.
"May God go with you," said the clergyman, raising himself upon the couch. "I'll say good-by to you before you go."
"Oh, shucks," laughed Mike uneasily. "'Tain't good-by, Parson. We're a-comin' back."
"But I won't be here, Mike."
Each one knew what McCloud meant, and each one tried to look as if he didn't. Wah-na-gi, seeing that he wanted to sit up, had put a pillow under his shoulders, and now he stretched out an emaciated hand, to the two big brawny men, and his eyes looked from one to the other with admiration.
"You are two fine, brave, splendid men. I'm proud to have known you, to have called you my friends."
The lines about Bill's mouth twitched and all he could say was, "Same here, Parson," and he walked away to the fire.
Wah-na-gi had gone to the window, as if to look out at the storm, but really to hide her tears. McShay glanced at her and Bill furtively, then he sat down on the stool, and bent down over the sick man and spoke for his ear alone: "And say, Parson, just before comin' over this time, I—I—sold out my liquor business. Thought maybe it would please you, and somehow couldn't think of anything else that would."
A smile spread over the wan face.
"Oh, thank you, Mike. Thank you. Perhaps I haven't lived in vain."
"Anything we kin do fer you while we're gone?" asked Bill, not turning, but gazing deep into the fire. "Any letters, or telegrams, or messages you want to trust us with?"
"No, Bill, thank you. There is just one thing troubles me, and only one—this dear child." He nodded his head in the direction of the window where she was standing weeping. "She's made such a noble fight, against such frightful odds, she mustn't go back; she mustn't be allowed to give up or be forced into the old environment. She must be saved."
"Say, Parson, rest your mind easy about that," said Mike earnestly. "She ain't agoin' to want a friend while Bill or me lives. Ain't that right, Bill?"
"It sure is, Mike."
"That's all," said the sick man with a sigh of relief. "And now I'm ready to go." He meant for the long, long journey.
Bill and Mike were ready too. The wind had died down to a cruel whine and their project waited.
"Well, so long, Parson," said Bill with a pretty decent show of cheer in his voice. "If we can't git through we'll have to come back. That's all."
"Now no gittin' low spirited while we're gone," called out McShay as he went to the door. "Now mind! No gittin' discouraged; no givin' up; no white-flag business! Don't you let him weaken, Wah-na-gi."
"No, no," she answered back through her tears, trying hard to catch the uplift of the big cowman.
"God sure hates a quitter, Parson; ain't that right?"
"That's right," whispered back McCloud, meeting the demand for a rally and a charge. "That's right. Mike. No one shall say I was a quitter. I'm going out with the honors of war, the flag flying and the band playing."
"Good," shouted back the Irishman from the storm-door, and they were gone.
After the paroxysm that followed their departure had passed, the sick man sank back upon the couch exhausted, and closed his eyes to rest. It had been a great strain, but somehow he felt more at peace than he had done for a long time, and he drifted into a great calm.
To Wah-na-gi, who had to watch the struggle, and whose great pity and love demanded something to do, her conscious helplessness was an ordeal. Finally she could restrain herself no longer and she cried out in the agony of her soul: "Oh, my father, why is it? Why is it? If there is a God, why does he let you suffer?"
"Every heart has faced that mystery, dear child," he said gently. "Even the Saviour had a moment when he felt forsaken. I thought once I was to do big things for humanity and God, but who knows what is great or what is little? Some careless word I may have spoken and forgotten may be blessed, or my obedience, my patience, may have touched some heart here, yours or another's, who will redeem the waste places and make the wilderness to blossom as the rose."
His spirit was unquenchable, his fervor undying. His enthusiasm rose superior to the claims of physical dissolution. She didn't try any longer to force him to husband his strength. She knew he wanted to go down with colors flying, militant. She knelt by his bed and bowed her head, so as to lose no word of those precious words which were to be his last.
"I think the great Teacher is educating us out of the physical. He puts two objects in our hands, then He shows us that if you take one object from two objects it leaves one object, and we are altogether concerned with the objects, stones, or sticks, or flowers that fade, and by and by He takes away the objects because we no longer need them. We have grasped the truth, the fixed, unalterable truth, that one from two leaves one. I saw two little street urchins once standing outside a great shop window filled with things they desired—playthings. One said 'I choosethat.' And the other said 'I choosethat.' Finally they chose the same object, and there was a battle, a fierce, cruel fight, for what neither of them had or could have. We are like that. And so God, little by little, takes away from us houses and lands and bodies, playthings, that we may know the truths of spirit."
Wah-na-gi raised her bowed head to look at him.
"Your face shines with a strange light," she said with an awed whisper.
"I am very close to the Hereafter, Wah-na-gi."
"I shall be very lonely when you are gone."
"Ah, my child, you are lonely now, grieving for him, for Hal, grieving, grieving."
"Yes, so it will be always."
He knew that each day as the sun crept up over the Moquitch she stood on the rock and scanned the horizon, and gazed long across the trail where he had disappeared and whence he would return,if he returned.
"I came between you and the man you loved," he said, putting his hand gently on her glossy hair. "Don't hold it up against me. I thought I was doing right. I loved you both. Nothing would have made me happier than to see you one. I have prayed that I might be spared to put your hand in his, to say the words that would make you man and wife, to see you happy, but happiness mustn't be stolen. It must be earned. And so I drove him away, drove him back to duty, because I loved him. When I'm gone, send him word and ask him not to hold it up against me, and God will surely bless this sacrifice. Oh, yes, God will surely bless you."
A cruel fit of coughing racked the poor remnants of a body, and she held her breath till it was over, and she could lay him back upon the soft couch.
"Talking has tired you. Sleep and rest," she said, and he fell away into the sleep of exhaustion.
Those were the last words she would hear him say, the last words he spoke—"God will surely bless you." Often and often thereafter in her life she remembered those words, his last—"God will surely bless you."
She smoothed his pillow, pulled the blankets up over his wasted form, stirred the logs into a fierce blaze. Then she went to the chest of drawers under the window to the left of the storm-door and took from it a letter and the little moccasins, and brought them down to the fire. She was still a child and needed symbols. These were the words he had written with his own hand, cruel words, that shut out the light and put a blight upon her life, but still they were his words. She had a savage instinct to thrust them into the blaze, with the crude half-formed notion that to destroy them would be to destroy the conditions which they expressed. But this was only momentary. The tokens of their love had been so few, she clung to every scrap and shred of them. It never occurred to her that Hal had trifled with her, had forgotten or deserted her. It wouldn't have mattered if he had. She accepted their fate but without regret or bitterness, and her heart eternally asked the question, full of hope, full of fear, that she had asked John McCloud the day he went away: "Will he come back?" And now that John McCloud was going away, she felt the need of Hal anew. The mystery of death was sitting in the room with her. It was hard to sit there in the silent place, to face that cruel shadow which tugged and nagged at the poor tired body, and worried it like a famished dog, and count the ticking of the clock, the strong, steady ticks, like blows, and know that it was counting out the feeble beats of the noble heart which would soon be still, forever still. It was hard to be alone in such an hour. If Hal had been with her! Mike had asked her if she would be afraid, and she was so absorbed in the human drama as to wonder why, but now, now that all was over except the flutter of the black wing of the grim enemy, she felt a cold chill at her heart. She clutched the tiny moccasins and crouched in numb terror before the nameless, the unknown. The breathing of the invalid, the sonorous clock, the explosions of the burning logs assumed unnatural proportions. The wind had died down again to a plaintive lament, a dolorous sob, and then it rose to the fretful cry of a sick child.
She sat gazing into the fire under a premonitory spell. Unknown to her the storm-door had opened, and through the inner door glided the tall sinewy figure of Appah, silent and sinister. He swayed as he entered and the chest of drawers up under the window kept him from falling. It also retained a small bag of flour and a shoulder of venison which slipped from his grasp. He held himself up like a tired wrestler until the warmth of the room relaxed his stiffened limbs and his eyes had grown accustomed to the light.
When he felt that he could stand and walk, he glided noiselessly down to where she was crouching and called her name softly. Her heart gave a great leap and she started to rise, but he put his hand on her head and held her.
"No scared," he said as gently as he knew how. "Heap wayno me! Meat, flour catch 'em! maybeso you hungry. Bring 'em. Pah-sid-u-way?"
He went up and brought down the bag of flour and the venison and threw them down before her. Then he sank down on the stool by her. He was very tired.
"Thank you," she said coldly. "That's very kind of you."
Then he waited that she might have time to think it over, to understand what it was he had done and what it meant. When others were caring for themselves, their own comfort and safety, he had thought of her; there had been suffering in the lonely ranches cut off from the rest of the world; perhaps it was so with her, and he had brought all a man could carry, and had fought his way to her through the storm. It was something a woman might be glad of, proud of. Only a strong man, a big chief with a big heart, could have done it. Surely it was an achievement. Surely she would know. He must first win her admiration, the rest would follow. He had not given up his suit, but he had waited for his chance. He had held aloof. He must not appear too eager. He had not come to the ranch, but he was familiar with the known facts and had drawn his own conclusions. His gods, his medicine had freed him from the presence of his rivals. The chief of police had gone away by the fire-wagons, by the fire-boat, many sleeps. It was many moons now, and no one ever talked of when he would be back; in fact, no one talked of him any more. He had gone back to his own people, where there were many women to be loved and married. He would not come back. He had already forgotten the Indian woman and soon she would forget him. It was only natural. For a time, too, he had been freed from the rivalry of the agent, but Ladd had returned, was again in power. It was time to act.
He had had a big talk with Cadger too. The trader was a cunning old fox, who could put his nose up in the air and tell what was afoot. Cadger had told him that maybeso there were big treaties (papers, contracts), writings, at the ranch, had advised him to go over and see Wah-na-gi, that if she would come away with him, they were to bring all the big treaties (papers) to him, Cadger, and exchange them for heap ponies, plenty cattle, and the trader kept his bargains. He wasn't like Ladd, a man of two minds. Cadger, too, had made him understand that by bringing away the papers he would do a great injury to the ex-chief of police, and Appah had not forgotten what he owed Hal, and his heart burned hot within him at the prospect of getting revenge for the slights, insults, and wrongs he felt that he had suffered at the hands of the insolent young man. Perhaps it would be safe and practical before returning to the Agency to burn the barns and the cabin. It all depended on Wah-na-gi. Cadger had warned him to be sure of her before speaking of the papers. With her as an ally all would be well. If not—His mind refused to consider such an eventuality. She had cared for Calthorpe. Calthorpe was gone. Nothing stood between them now, but if there should arise— At the suggestion, murder entered his heart. She had laughed at him, ridiculed him, flouted him, scorned him. That would never be again. He could not permit that to be. She must realize that. It was a fateful night and here he was waiting.
"Touge frejo!" he said after a long pause in which each thought very fast but in which neither spoke. "Touge frejo!" (Plenty cold.)
"Yes," she said, "it's a cold night."
"Maybeso you talk Injin talk now, eh?"
"No, never again. Never again so long as I live."
That was not promising. Again there was a long pause. What was it she had left unsaid? That she would only speak the white chief's talk, the talk of the man she loved? Then she still loved him? That was the test—her willingness to speak the tongue of her people, to be like them. He tried hard to be patient with her. Perhaps she found it hard now. She had lived among the whites and perhaps had forgotten much of her own tongue.
He would go slowly, be very sure, before proceeding to extremes. He made her a long speech in their vernacular. He saw that she had not forgotten the speech of her people, that she followed him perfectly, and he felt that he was eloquent and convincing. He was considered a great orator by his tribe. His talk recited in detail that the white chief had gone on a long trail back to his people, that he would never come again. He watched her face and saw that she had no reason to expect his return. Perhaps she was hungry? Did the white man care? No, he had forgotten. Appah hadn't forgotten. Winter-man had come. Cold-maker had come. White man was scared. Injin was scared. Appah wasn't scared. Cold! Touge frejo! Heap cold. Snow, heap snow, plenty snow, snow all time! The snow came like white wolves. They howled and showed their teeth. White foam flew from their lips. They leaped up and tried to bite, to tear at one's heart, but Appah wasn't frightened. He had big medicine. Pretty soon the snow wolves saw he was too strong for them. The wind told them. The wind told them to pikeway, to get out, here was a big chief, a big medicine man who was not afraid of them, who had a big heart and who was bringing food, gifts, to his woman, his squaw.
"You must not say that," she said promptly. "The food is good. I thank you for that; but you must not call me your squaw. I am not your squaw. I never will be."
He forgot the instructions of Cadger, forgot the papers altogether. He saw only the woman, the woman he wanted, all the more because she was unattainable. He could have had any other woman in the tribe for the asking, but nothing seemed worth while but that which was out of reach. She had flouted him again. It was hard to believe. Again there was a long pause, in which the fires of desire leaped up and threatened to consume him. Cadger had supplied him with a small flask of whiskey before he left the Agency. The fire was racing in his blood, prompting him to nameless things. He sat and smouldered. Passion and hate struggled for control. He stood up.
He told her she was a fool to wait and weep for a man who only laughed at her, who would never come back. Why had he gone away? Because he did not dare to take the woman Appah wanted. He knew Appah would kill him and so he had run away. He was afraid!
She leaped to her feet.
"He never was afraid, least of all of you. You are lying. You cannot say this to me. Take your food and go. I would not eat it. Go." She was very fine with her eyes blazing.
Go? On such a night? The snow wolves were mad, dancing a war-dance, thirsting for blood. The fire-spirits were good. He had brought her food, and she thrust him out into the wild night. He looked her over and laughed evilly. The big chief is patient; he knows how to wait. Then one day he gets crazy, mad, and then he reaches out and takes what he wants. He tried to put his hand on her. Quickly she eluded him and put the couch of the sick man between them. Yes, she could avoid, resist, but she could not escape.
She had laughed at him, scorned him again and again. Now he would possess her, break her, bend her to his will or kill her.
"Hush," she said, pointing to the sick man; "don't wake him."
Appah moved close to the couch and looked at McCloud. He had been sick a long time. There was nothing to be feared from him. Still he looked again. If there had been the slightest chance that McCloud could have interfered with his purposes he would have killed him there where he lay.
"No scared sick man," he muttered contemptuously.
She had directed his attention to McCloud for a purpose. In the short interval Appah had given to the dying man, she had backed swiftly against the chest of drawers, beneath the left-hand window. A short time before she had taken the letter and the little moccasins from this drawer, and had left it open. Now, keeping her eye on Appah, she had put her hand behind her and rummaged in the drawer until her hand felt the little automatic gun that Hal had given her. Appah glanced up and divined her purpose. Quick as a panther he leaped over the unconscious clergyman and threw himself upon the girl as she tried to bring the gun in play. Her scream awoke the dying man, and he raised himself on his elbow, though it was a perceptible interval before his mind grasped the reality of what was happening. There was a struggle which brought Appah and the girl down in front of the fire. It was a short struggle. Her frenzied strength was as nothing in his grasp. He gave her arm a twist and the gun fell from her hand. Then he stopped her breath until she was helpless, when he picked her up in his arms and bore her through the door leading to the kitchen.
McCloud tried to get up. He did in fact get to a sitting position on the low couch; then he realized for a terrible moment his helplessness. On the small stool beside him rested the cup containing brandy left there by Big Bill. He drank it quickly, drank it all. It gave him a fictitious strength, a momentary capacity. While the struggle was going on in the next room, he crawled to the spot where the little gun had fallen, picked it up, and by slow and painful stages dragged himself across the room to the open kitchen door. He could go no further. He sank down. He could not hold the little weapon without trembling. He rested his elbows on the floor, grasped it with both hands, steadied it long enough to fire. Then he collapsed and lay very still upon his face.
There was a sudden quiet in the next room, then the sound of a body falling heavily. After a few moments Wah-na-gi appeared in the kitchen door, wild-eyed, haggard. She leaned wearily against the jamb until her mind and some of her strength came back, then she saw the body of McCloud. With a cry she ran to him, turned him over, and looked into the beloved face.
Not in the way he thought, but as he wished, John McCloud had gone out—militant.
CHAPTER XXIV
Hal had plenty of evidence that Ladd had robbed the Indians, that he was the representative of the Asphalt Trust, and had tried to bribe him with its valuable securities. He still had Ladd's receipt for the fifteen thousand dollars he didn't pay for them. As Doctor McCloud had said, he had offered to return the securities to the company, an offer which had been ignored. While he was chief of police at the Agency, and while he was secretly camping on the agent's trail, letters and copies of letters belonging to Ladd's correspondence had come into Hal's possession through a disgruntled clerk who had earned the enmity of the agent and been discharged. It was manifest that the interests behind Mr. Ladd were very anxious to secure or destroy these letters. They would have cheerfully sacrificed the agent, but they were forced to protect him for their own sakes. The fight therefore centred about David Ladd. The interests had won the first skirmish with a shout and a hurrah. It was made to appear that Secretary Walker had given credence to absurd accusations involving honorable business men high in the financial world, accusations which could not be substantiated; had removed a valued public servant without cause, under charges involving not only his position but his honor, etc., etc. The victory of the interests was announced with bellringing and bonfires.
The arrival of Hal in Washington was therefore an enormous relief to those who by reason of their efforts for the general welfare were now forced to fight for self-preservation and vindication. Hal's dismay on learning that Secretary Walker had not received any package or communication from Red Butte Ranch was disheartening. He had written to John McCloud to forward his papers to the care of Secretary Walker. They had not come. No word had come. No one in Washington could give him any comfort. Gifford had informed him that the winter in the Moquitch country had been the severest in the memory of living man. That was all any one knew. This would explain some of the delay, not all of it, as Hal felt. A council of war was held. It was unanimously agreed that Hal must go in person for the papers. He hesitated. No one knew why he hesitated. Did he dare go? Could he trust himself? At times his sacrifice had seemed so futile. At times it must be confessed he bitterly regretted it. He felt incapable of further immolation. Life had lost its zest, its interest. Could he see her, take her hand, look into her eyes once more, come to life again, vivid life, and then turn away and walk deliberately back into the grave? No, it wasn't possible. It wasn't fair to ask it. Strange chap, this half-breed boy, was the feeling of the serious men who watched him, who saw his hesitation. What was the matter with him now? Unstable in all their ways, these mixed breeds! Not to be depended on!
Gifford watched him narrowly. He knew more than the rest. He remarked casually that much of the country was cut off from communication and it was feared that there was great suffering at the lonely ranches—starvation perhaps.
Starvation? Had they tried to get into touch with the ranch? Yes, but without success. They had telegraphed McShay to go to their relief, but had heard nothing from him. McShay was not at Calamity. Starvation? He would go. When was the next and the fastest train? He would go by way of Fort Serene. They promised that he would be furnished with supplies at the post.
And so it came to pass that he turned his face once more to the West, and every step of the way his heart lifted, the light came back into his eye, the ring came back into his voice, the spring to his step. In spite of his anxiety for their safety, in spite of a painful knowledge of the difficulties in the way, the possibility that he might be too late, his soul sang for joy. He was going back to his own, his country, his people, the land of his desire—going back not of his own volition but in answer to the call, the silent call which could not be denied.
It seems that the examination of Hal's papers in the London house had been thorough, but with small results. It was correctly surmised that the papers of importance were at the ranch. Hal's departure from Washington was promptly telegraphed to the Standing Bear Agency and the race was on.
The nearest post-office to the ranch, as I have intimated, was the Agency, but Hal had directed his letter to McCloud to the post, as being safer and farther removed from hostile influences. He had also written a short note to Captain Baker, asking him to warn the official in charge not to deliver any mail except to some one connected with the ranch, and properly accredited. When he arrived at the Fort Hal discovered that Baker was no longer stationed at Serene. His action with regard to Ladd and Wah-na-gi had been adversely criticised, and though he was not called before a court of inquiry, he was sufficiently punished by being exiled to the Philippines. Hal's letter to him found him eventually long after the incidents of this story were ancient history. The new commandant was a stranger who knew nothing of the undercurrent of affairs in his domain, and who could be depended on to stick to routine and, if necessary, look the other way. Hal learned that Agent Ladd had been to the fort, had informed the commandant that he was about to send an Indian runner over to the Red Butte Ranch to see if they were in need, and offered to send any mail there was for the ranch people. This seemed quite all right to the soldier, both thoughtful and friendly, and he interposed no objection. It developed that considerable mail had collected for the Red Butte people and it was naturally handed over to the agent. Hal very properly drew the conclusion that Ladd now knew his papers were at the ranch and in the keeping of McCloud. He was also confident that the agent would leave no stone unturned in order to obtain them. As a matter of fact, Cadger had opened the letter to McCloud, sealed it up again, and then given it to Appah with instructions to lose it on the way over. He was for the sake of appearances to lose the entire mail. This was not hard to do. When Appah did not reappear promptly there was anxiety at the Agency. When due allowance had been made for all supposable emergencies, and still he did not return, the best runners in the tribe were sent out to learn the truth. An extraordinary story came back. It alleged that the priest of the white man and the priest of the Indian had passed into the Great Beyond together, that Appah had lost his life at the hands of John McCloud, the man of peace. That the dying clergyman had killed the powerful medicine-man seemed unbelievable. Still, it simplified matters. Ladd telegraphed the news to his friends at Washington and wired them to get for him instructions from McCloud's sister to take charge of his effects. As soon as this authorization arrived, Ladd and Cadger started for the ranch.
The death of John McCloud had plunged the ranch into gloom. It had been a hard, dreary, sullen winter, even before want and hunger came to dwell with them. Cattle were dying, stock suffering everywhere. McShay and Bill did not get through to the settlements. As Mike had anticipated, Bill had been an encumbrance to him. The stubborn old fellow had measured his strength by his courage, and they were no longer equal. McShay had to return to bring Bill in. After a wild night in which both came near losing their lives, they succeeded in regaining the shelter of Hal's cabin. They found the fire dead in its ashes and Wah-na-gi crouching by the side of the dead man where he had fallen, holding his hand, as she had done so many hours in his life, in a dumb vacant instinct of habit, to give him comfort in the long sleep which would know no waking.
Death obliterates animosities, so they laid the body of Appah decently in the stable, to await his relatives and friends who would take it on a sled or a travois to the Agency and weep and wail over it, and extol his virtues, just as we do with our dead.
To those who live apart from the forms and ceremonies of life they assume an unusual and unnatural importance. It was a real grief to these rough men who had grown to love John McCloud that they could do so little to testify to their sense of his worth. Undemonstrative in life, they would have liked to have made it up in the paraphernalia of grief in the hour of death. It didn't occur to them that the dead man had been very simple, very unostentatious in his life. They did not want to intrude the subject upon Wah-na-gi, so they gathered to discuss it in Big Bill's quarters. Orson, Silent, Joe, Curley, Bill, and the others. Mike, as usual, was the spokesman.
"Boys," he said, after quite a pause, his eyes unduly moist and struggling to keep from showing emotion; "boys, we're up against it. We can't do it right, no way you fix it. John McCloud was a big man; an important man. In any right-minded kummunity, he'd be buried from the cathedral, with a funeral oration which would try to tell but couldn't what sort of a man he was, and the mayor and town officials and the civic organizations would have followed his hearse to the cemetery, and have covered his grave with wreaths and flowers, and everything would have been high-toned and impressive, and all that is good. It's good for the risin' generation. It shows the kids that's inclined to be wild that they got to live decent if they want a big funeral."
"John didn't care much fer fixin's, Mike," said Bill. "He was awful simple."
"Sure he was—never asked fer nothin'. All the more reason we should give it to him; all the more reason we should show the world what we think of him; but we can't do it, boys. We can't even give him a casket. A rough board box is the best we kin do, and we'll have to bury him in the snow until the spring comes. Then we'll do the thing right. We kin git the band over from the fort. We'll declare a half-week's holiday in Calamity, and everybody as is anybody in these here regions will come over here and pay their last respects to John McCloud."
And so it was decided. If John McCloud knew about it he must have been pleased with his funeral. The rough men gathered around his remains in the living-room, Wah-na-gi repeated the Lord's Prayer; she led and they joined in singing "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and they laid him to rest under the soft beautiful snow. When they came back and the others had gone to their quarters, Mike said to her:
"Wah-na-gi, there's one thing I'm awful sorry fer—the kid wasn't here." And he gave way completely and cried like a child. It was the first time he had mentioned Hal for a long, long time, and he had been thinking of the affection that had always existed between the preacher and the boy, and it was the little Indian woman who had to put aside her own grief to comfort the big cowman. Artfully she told of the dramatic happenings of that night, the night he and Bill went out into the storm. She told him what McCloud had said of his notion of God's purposes and they talked of the man and his character and his words, and recalled many things that would give them good and gracious memories while life should last, and Mike said to her with some misgivings and a good deal of embarrassment:
"Wah-na-gi, I can't take his place. I wouldn't try, but—rely on me. Savey?"
And so routine once more resumed its quiet sway. The food Appah had brought didn't amount to much, but it came at the right time and saved serious complications. Ladd had sent them word by an Indian runner that he would be over in person to see as to their necessities and that food would follow him. Those at the ranch had been physically depleted, so that Mike made no further effort under the circumstances to get through himself or send any one else. They were marking time; but the situation was distinctly not cheerful.
Wah-na-gi in particular did not rally. Instead of recovering from the parson's death and the shock of that night when she had faced its horrors alone, she seemed to grow more and more depressed. It worried the boys a whole lot. One night Mike called them all together at Bill's and they took council-one with another. They discussed the situation from various stand-points. It was pointed out that Wah-na-gi was a child. She was young and, bein' young, needed playthings. It was only natural she should want amusement, relaxation, change. It was awful dull fer a young girl on a ranch. Injins needed fun and frolic, too, like anybody else. She needed companionship of her own sex. In the spring they could git some woman over from somewhere who would be company fer her. In the spring they promised to see to it that she went to the dances that might be goin' on in the settlements, and perhaps go in to Salt Lake fer the Fourth of July Celebration. Some one pointed out that next spring and summer would doubtless take care of themselves. It was the present that had to be looked after. If she went on grievin' and mopin' like she was doin' she wouldn't git to the spring. Finally, when everybody had had their say and no one had really said anything, Silent cleared his throat by a great effort and said gravely:
"Say, fellers, to-morrer'll be Christmas."
Silent had a memory that was unusually retentive as to figures. His statement created a sensation but was, of course, universally challenged. The days had come and gone, one just like the other, and how was any one to know that Christmas was upon them? Reference to calendars and elaborate computations finally showed that Silent had made a serious discovery.
"Boys," said Mike; "I got it. We'll have a Christmas-tree fer Wah-na-gi! What do you say? We'll make it as funny as we kin. Gee, if we sit down here and try to outsigh each other we'll all git bug-house."
The cowboy dearly loves a practical joke and goes to elaborate pains in its accomplishment. Suddenly the ranch became busy, very busy, and there were winks and nudges, and an air of mystery. Wah-na-gi was preoccupied or she would have noticed that there was something unusual afoot, that every one was engaged, alert, and secretive.
The idea broadened as it went along and little plots were hatched against each other. In the bustle and activity the men regained their normal elasticity.
Supper that night was a hurried and a constrained meal with an undercurrent of excitement. When it had been rushed through all the men made a hasty exit, leaving Wah-na-gi alone. When the table had been cleared, and the room tidied, she sat down as usual by the big fire. It was the hour when the absence of John McCloud and Hal was very poignant. The care of the sick man had been onerous, but it had been a joy to know that she could do for him, anticipate his wishes, minister to his comfort. Now there was a great, blank, empty void. Mike stole into the room with a bundle under his arm. This he put on the chest of drawers, then he came down and found her weeping.
"Wah-na-gi," he said to her with suppressed excitement, "sure you mustn't let the boys see you cryin'. It ain't good for none of us to sit down here and calculate to a fraction just how miserable we are. Am I right? Sure I am. John McCloud himself wouldn't like it. He'd want us to lift our head and face the music, wouldn't he? Sure he would. He didn't have strength enough left to die, but he went out like a fightin' man. Sure if I hadn't 'a' loved him before I'd 'a' loved him for that. Now go to your room, wash the tears from your black eyes, put on your nicest dress and your prettiest bow, and stay there until you're sent for."
"Stay there?" said Wah-na-gi with dismay.
"Well, dearly beloved, it's to be a surprise party, and if you stay here divil a surprise will it be. So scoot, vamoose, git out. And you must give me your solemn oath not to peek, or listen, or come in until you're called. Hold up your two hands and make the oath double."
It was impossible to resist the buoyant spirits of the Irishman.
Wah-na-gi laughed in spite of herself as he bustled and herded her out of the room, she having agreed to the conditions imposed. When he had the room to himself, Mike went up to the bundle he had left on the table. These placards, rudely lettered, he began to tack up about the room. They ran along somewhat after this fashion:
"Merri (ha, ha!) Crismas."
Like some eminent literary artists, Mike was long on words and short on spelling.
"Resterant And Food-factery."
Food being mostly absent from its accustomed place, was naturally very much in the minds of the humorists, whose efforts at gayety made up in breadth what they lacked in subtlety.
Another sign announced: "Blew monge—Has Just Blew In!" Another: "Egg-nog, without the egg or the Nog." "Plum (?) Pudin' (?)." "Mince Pi Like Step-Father uster Make." Under the caption "Our Motter" appeared this effort at scripture: "O Lord, Open Thou Our Lips And Our Mouths Shal Sho Fourth Thi Prais a Whole Lot if We Git the Chanct."
The materials or the humor seemed to give out at this juncture.
Mike was in the act of tacking up the last extravagant effort to the shelf over the fireplace when a voice behind said softly: "Gee, it's good to be home."
The hammer and the placard both dropped out of the Irishman's hand.
"Ghosts, is it?" he whispered, fixed, with his eyes wide open; "or the banshee?"
"Don't breathe a word," said the voice.
"Breathe a word? Sure I ain't breathin' at all."
Then the startled Mike turned slowly and saw Hal who had watched him for some time in silence.
"Why, Hal, my son; why God bless you," said the astonished cowman as he caught the boy's strong hand in his huge paw, and the men looked in each other's eyes with the silent affection that men feel but cannot express.
"It's good to feel the grip of your hand once more, Mike," said the boy. "How is Wah-na-gi?"
"Wah-na-gi is it?" The secret of Hal's wife had been confined to McCloud and Wah-na-gi. Mike was in ignorance of all complications in Hal's domestic affairs.
"Wah-na-gi? Sure you stayed away long enough for a dozen fellers to have run off with her, and small blame to her, you scamp. It's awful good you've got to be to me, boy. I ain't sure as I'll let you have her."
"You?" said the boy, smiling.
"You got to show me, son, for I'm her——"
He stopped suddenly confronted with the realization that Hal did not, could not know.
"Sure, the good man's gone, Hal."
"Dead?" whispered the boy. "John McCloud?"
He went to the stool by the fire and sat down for a moment, and Mike followed him and put his hand on his shoulder. He knew as well as any one the relations of the two men and understood them. It was a great blow to Hal. He ought reasonably to have anticipated such an event, but his thought had been busy with his own affairs and John McCloud as he was related to them. He had thought that he would have to meet the preacher and face his inquisition, and it had been some consolation to him that he could do so. He could tell the truth and it would be something to have earned the other's "Well done, my son; well done." Briefly and gently Mike told the boy what there was to tell, and how Wah-na-gi had never quite recovered from the shock of that awful night with its double horror.
"Sure, you're a God-send to us," he added. "My, my, my, won't their eyes pop out at the sight of you? You're pretty well liked around here, son, and say, you're just in time. The boys are goin' to have a Christmas-tree fer Wah-na-gi."
"A Christmas-tree, eh?" and the reaction came. The warmth of the room, the cheer of the blaze, the relaxation following on the physical strain, upon the cold and privation, the familiar objects about him with their associations, the sudden sense of a great loss, and the eternal mystery of death, the sound of a kindly voice, the homely joys conjured up by the words "Christmas-tree," all coming together overpowered him, and he bowed his head and turned away, speechless, and Mike looked away too, that he might not see the other's tears. It was the first emotion Hal had allowed himself to feel for a long time. He had bathed his soul in a hardening solution of indifference; otherwise existence would have been unendurable. Now when the assumption fell away, he felt uncommonly weak. After a moment's struggle the boy cleared his throat and said:
"Mike, I'm pretty glad to get back. I didn't know it would hit me so hard. I don't want to get foolish and play the baby. I'll tell you what," and his eyes began to shine and the old smile to come back to his face; "hide me some place, get 'em all together, then make a joke of it, then bring me out, and there you are, eh?"
Mike chuckled in anticipation of the surprise and joy of Wah-na-gi and the boys.
"Great!" hesaid. "I'll put you in this closet here; then I'll lead up to it with a few simple words; then I'll bring you out, and take you off the tree as a Christmas present for Wah-na-gi."
"No; don't do that, Mike. You don't understand. Don't single Wah-na-gi out—just let it all come naturally, you know——"
"Say, young feller; who's doin'this? I ain't ever been accused of lettin' anybody else write my speeches fer me."
Both men were fairly aquiver with the excitement of anticipation. Hal had risen, and had removed his belt and gun, thrown off his storm-coat, and stood now in his flannel shirt, hunting boots, and woolen trousers, a trim, vital figure of a man, his eyes dancing, his face aglow.
"Say, that'll be fine," he said. "I can see the whole show from there, can see all their faces."
"Sure; you can seeherface, if you try hard," said the irrepressible Mike. Hal had tossed his things on the couch in the upper left-hand corner and drawn a bear robe over them, so that his presence might not be prematurely disclosed. Then he entered the rough pine clothes closet on the opposite side of the room.
"Say, it's goin' to be a bit close in here." Then he turned and shook the big cowman joyously. "Work it up, Mike. Work it up."
"You leave it to me, son. If I can't git eloquent to-night, I ain't got no divine fire."
And he pushed the door of the clothes-press to, turned to see that the room was in readiness, and had put on his own cap when Big Bill entered with a suspicious bulge to a portion of his great-coat.
"Bill," said Mike with a nervous tremor in his voice and taking the foreman by the shoulder, "whatever you do, don't go near that closet, and don't let any one else go near it. There's a Christmas present in there fer Wah-na-gi, and it's a horrible, awful secret."
"Gee, you don't say!" said Bill, laughing but mystified.
"Are the boys all ready?" inquired Mike, going to the door.
"Say, Mike," said Bill. "It's all right. It'll make a cat laf. It's the bummest thing in Christmas-trees you ever see. You better look it over and memorize your impromptu speech."
And Mike went out bubbling over, saying to himself with a chuckle: "My, my, my, won't this be a night!"
When he was gone Bill dug out of his inner recesses a bottle and he held it up to the light and rolled it, examining it critically.
"There's all the liquor there is on the place," he said mournfully. "It wouldn't be Christmas to the boys without a drop of something." Then he scratched his head as if trying to think of some way to make it more. "They can at least smell of it and look at the label." And Bill put it on a small table near the closet.
As he turned away two men pushed open the door and entered quietly. They stood for a second to get over the glare and then one said quietly:
"Hello, Bill."
Bill turned.
"Why, hello, Mr. Agent. Hello, Cadger."
The two men shook the snow from their clothes and came down to the fire.
"Heard you people were hard up for grub. Came over to see what we could do for you," said the agent genially.
"Well, say, that's kind," said the simple-minded Bill. "We need it all right."
"Didn't Calthorpe bring any supplies with him?" asked Cadger, and he and Ladd watched Bill's face narrowly.
"The boss? Hal? Say, what are you a-talkin' about?" said Bill with a glimmer of suspicion.
"We heard he was back or on his way back," suggested Ladd.
"Back your grandmother!" said Bill contemptuously. "The boss's in Europe. Ain't ever comin' back here I reckon; but what's that to you? Are you still lookin' fer trouble? 'Cause if you are, you kin git it."
"Not me," laughed Ladd good-humoredly. "I'm for letting by-gones be by-gones. If he isn't here, you'll do just as well, Bill. It's a small matter. Doctor McCloud's sister has telegraphed me to take charge of his effects."
"Oh," said Bill, puzzled. "Is that so? 'Tain't much," he added. "He carried his valuables with him I reckon."
Ladd showed the foreman the telegram.
"Oh, that'll be all right, I guess," said Bill with reference to Ladd's implied request. "Wah-na-gi's put everything he left in his valise—he never had a trunk—and she says his instructions was to have his things sent to his sister in Washington. There it stands under the table, there, ready to go by express soon as ever kummunications are established once more. You don't want to take it with you this kind o' weather, do you?"
"I don't know," said Ladd, taking the bag from under the table below the window on the right-hand side of the entrance. "Is it heavy?" and he lifted it. "We got a pack mule through with us, but no, I don't think we care to take it this time. When we come again will do. There's no hurry that I can see," and he put the bag back where he got it.
"Well," said Bill, recollecting the impending festivities, "you'll have to excuse me. I've got to help with the fixin's and come in with the peeracle. Say, you're just in time fer the doin's. We're goin' to have a Christmas celebration fer Wah-na-gi and the boys."
"Go right along. Don't mind us."
"Well, make yourselves comfortable," said Bill and went out into the night. As soon as Bill was out of the room Ladd turned with a look of triumph to the trader.
"Did you watch Bill's face? He ain't seen him, and if Bill hasn't seen him, he isn't here. We've beat him to it. Why, it's a cinch."
Ladd examined his weapons carefully, then put a chair carelessly against the door leading to the kitchen, so that any one entering there would be stopped for a perceptible moment. Cadger stood just within the storm-door as a sentinel, to warn him of any one approaching from without. Then Ladd opened the valise which was unlocked. John McCloud had never been afraid of any one robbing him of his unpretentious belongings and the key had been lost early in the bag's history. With his face directly to the closet and his back to the fire, Ladd quickly examined the contents and had no difficulty in immediately locating the papers, which he slipped into the inside pocket of his short storm-coat. He rearranged the contents of the bag as nearly as possible as they had been, closed it, and put it back under the table. All was well. It couldn't be better. He called in Cadger.
"It's all right, Cadger; I've got 'em. Now you go to the stable ostensibly to look after the mule, but never take your eyes off that entrance door. Anybody that enters gets the light of this room. If he comes while we're here, well, we'll have to take care of ourselves, that's all. From the stable opposite it's a certainty."
We'll get away just as soon as we can without arousing suspicion. So far it couldn't be better."
Cadger pulled his cap down over his eyes and slouched out into the night. Ladd looked carefully about, removed the chair to its former position, then walked over to the fireplace, and stretched out his hands to its genial glow. Hal had been an interested listener and observer. In the strain of it he was wet with perspiration. His weapons were with his coat on the couch, in the farthest corner of the room. Ladd was armed to the teeth. To wait until the room was full of people would complicate matters; some one might get hurt! She might get hurt. He pushed the door of the closet open just enough for him to slide out. He dropped to the position of a runner on the starting line, on his toes, the tips of his fingers to the floor. He looked altogether Indian as he crept stealthily across. Just as he was in the act of springing upon Ladd's back, the latter looked up into the mirror over the fireplace and saw him. Quick as a snake Ladd drew his knife, turned, and struck. Hal caught his descending arm on the slant and with the force of the blow Hal's hand slid to the other's wrist, where it clung. They clinched immediately. The agent was a powerful man, quite as muscular, perhaps a shade more so, than the boy. Hal therefore exerted only so much strength as was absolutely necessary to keep the quivering knife from his body. He had forced it well down on the clinch and held it down. The agent, having tried in vain to get it up, strained every nerve and muscle to put it in the artery of his antagonist's leg—a favorite blow with Chinese assassins. Hal managed to stop it always just short of penetration. In the struggle they had worked over to the centre of the room and up against the stout wooden table. Over-balanced with the impact, they fell over it and the knife, descending, stuck quivering in the top, where Hal held it, the other trying to wrench it and himself free. The room was silent as the grave except for the ticking of the clock and the breathing of the two men. The agent was putting forth every pound of energy of which he was capable. Hal was trying to save a little out. He knew that if he could wind the agent he had him beaten. Suddenly Ladd got a purchase against the table and lifted himself and the other clear of it. It was a stupendous effort, but it was his best. He began to tire. The younger man kept him going, let him struggle, just held his own until once more they came close to the table from above, when he caught Ladd over his hip and lifted him clean off the floor, throwing him heavily on his back on the top of the table. It was the boy's best and all he could do for the time being. The agent squirmed and fought and struggled like a madman, but the other held, held and held, with the older man tiring all the time. Soon the youngster got his second wind, when he edged and worked his body over the prostrate man, pulled the other's left arm across his throat, brought his own arm with it, and threw his weight on the two. They rested across Ladd's windpipe and shut off his air, the position meanwhile resting the other. Ladd saw he was beaten unless he could throw off his antagonist, and he put forth a mighty effort. He lifted the boy with all his weight and all but slipped from under, but Hal held him for the crucial second and he dropped back—beaten. Hal now disengaged his left hand, holding the other with his arm across the throat, and with both hands pulled the agent's knife hand up and over his exposed neck. Then he pressed down and threw his weight upon the knife. Quivering, quivering, slowly it descended until its point rested on the flesh of the prostrate man.
"Surrender," Hal gasped; "or I'll give you your own knife."
"I surrender," gurgled the agent with what breath was left in him.
"Let go the knife," said Hal when he could speak. The other did so. When Ladd had released his hold on the weapon, Hal transferred its handle to his right hand and with the left took the agent's gun from its holster, then he passed the gun before Ladd's eyes to let him know that he was disarmed. Keeping his enemy's revolver in one hand, he transferred the knife to his teeth. Only then did he stand up and away from the other as he lay.
"Wait a minute," he warned through his set teeth as Ladd made as if to rise. Coming back to him, he removed from the agent's inside pocket the papers he had taken from Doctor McCloud's bag. These papers Hal transferred to the back pocket of his trousers. Then he took the knife from his teeth and, covering Ladd with his own revolver, said:
"Now, get up, if you can."
The beaten man was game. He half got up, rolled from the table, staggered to his feet, and fell against the clothes-press, breathing hard. Hal could stand and control his weapons but he wasn't much better for the moment, though his strength was returning fast. Just then a long peculiar whistle was heard outside.
"What was that?" demanded Calthorpe. "Cadger's signal?"
"Yes."
"What's it mean?"
"That everything's all right."
"I don't trust you. I'll see for myself. Get into that closet. I damn near suffocated in there and I hope you will."
Ladd backed into the closet under the muzzle of Hal's weapon. The latter turned the key on the imprisoned agent. Then the boy took a long deep breath, put on his storm-coat and hat, and, coming to the clothes-press, said:
"I'd advise you to be quiet in there, for if my boys find out what you've been up to, they'll come pretty near lynching you. And now I'm going out to get your pal, your hired assassin, and then I'll present the pair of you to the Government as a Christmas present."
Hal started out of the door, then recollected what he had heard, glanced back at the fire and the swinging lamp, closed the door, pulled back the table from under the window, to the right of the storm-door, threw up the sash, and, lifting himself through, closed the window from without and disappeared.
Wah-na-gi had responded gamely to Mike's call. She had understood from her new foster-father's anxiety that the boys were worried about her, that she must have been so abstracted and depressed as to give them concern, that this tomfoolery, whatever it was, was intended to divert her, give her pleasure or, at least, make her think of other things beside her loss. Determined to make amends, she had gone to her room, put on her best dress, tied a bright ribbon in her hair, all the while infected with a growing curiosity. Having finished her simple toilet, and not having been summoned, she sat down and tried to wait. She found this rather difficult. The air was electrical. She found she was under the influence of intense excitement, conflicting emotions. Finally she could bear it no longer and she went to the door of the living-room and knocked on it impatiently. Mike had just entered by the outer door and thrown down his cap.