When the Chinook wind, moving northwest at a faster pace than the waterfowl move south, struck the home cabin, Virginia's first thought was for Bill. She heard it come, faint at first, then blustering, just as Bill had heard it; she saw it rock down a few dead trees, and she listened to its raging complaints at the window.
"I'll show you my might," it seemed to say. "You have dared my silent places, come into my fastness, but now I will have revenge. I'll pay you—in secret ways that you don't know."
It so happened that Harold's first thought was also of Bill. It was a curious fact that his heart seemed to leap as if the wind had smitten it. He knew what the Chinook could do to a snow crust. He estimated that Bill was about halfway between the two cabins, and he didn't know about the little, deserted cabin where Bill could find refuge during the night. His eyes gleamed with high anticipations.
Harold's thought was curiously intertwined with the remembrance of the dark cavern he had entered yesterday, the gravel laden with gold. If indeed all things went as it seemed likely that they would go, Bill would never carry the word of his find down to the recorder's office. It was something to think of, something to dream about. Yellow gold,—and no further trouble in seeking it. Such a development would also save the labor of further planning. It was a friend of his, this wind at the window.
"Won't this Chinook melt the snow crust?" Virginia asked him.
He started. He hadn't realized that this newfound sweetheart of his knew the ways of Chinook winds and snow crusts. "Oh, no," he responded. "Why should it? Wind makes crusts, not softens them."
Virginia was satisfied for the moment. Then her mind went back to certain things Bill had told her on one of their little expeditions. Strangely, she took Bill's word rather than Harold's.
"But this is a warm wind, Harold," she objected. "If the crust is melted Bill can't possibly get through to his Twenty-three Mile cabin to-night. What will he do?"
"He'll make it through. The crust won't melt that fast, if it melts at all. He may have a long, hard tramp, though. Don't worry, Virginia, he'll be coming in to-morrow night—with his back loaded with food."
"I only wish I hadn't let him go." The girl's tone was heavy and dull.
"But we have to have supplies——"
"We could have gone out on that grizzly meat. It was so foolish to risk his life, and I had a presentiment too."
He was glad that she had had a presentiment. It tended to verify his fondest dreams. But he laughed at her, and falling into one of his most brilliant moods, tried to entertain her. Her interest was hard to hold to-day. Her mind kept dwelling on Bill, mushing on through the softening snow, and her eyes kept seeking the window.
She cooked lunch and burned every dish. Then, no longer able to deny her own fears, she ventured out in the snow to test its crust. She put on her snowshoes, starting a little way down Bill's trail. She was white-faced and sick of heart when she returned.
"Harold, I'm worried," she cried. "I tried to walk in this snow—and you can talk about Bill making it through all you want, but I won't believe you. A hundred steps has tired me out."
He was beginning to be a little angry with her fears. And he made the mistake of answering rather impatiently.
"Well, what can you do about it? he's gone, hasn't he, and we can't call him back."
"I suppose not. But if I—we—were out there in that soft snow, and he was here, he'd find something to do about it! He'd come racing out there to us—bringing food an blankets——"
"Oh, he'd be a hero!" Harold scorned. "Listen, Virginia—there's nothing in the world to fear. The Chinook sprang up at nine——"
"Oh, it was much later than that."
"I looked at my watch," the man lied. "He was only well started then; he's woodsman enough to turn around and come back if there's danger. You may see him before dark."
"I pray that I will! And if—if—anything has happened to him——"
All at once the tears leaped to her eyes. She couldn't restrain them any more than the earth can constrain the rain. She turned into her own curtained-off portion of the cabin so that Harold could not see.
The afternoon that followed was endlessly long, and lonely. Her heart sank at the every complaint of the wind, and she dreaded the fall of the shadows. Three times she thrilled with inexpressible joy at a sound on the threshold, but always it was just the wind, mocking her distress.
She saw the sinister, northern night growing between the spruce trees, and she dreaded it as never before. She cooked a meager supper—the supplies were almost gone—but she had no heart to sit up and talk with Harold. At last she went behind her curtain, hoping to forget her fears in sleep.
All through the hours of early night she slept only at intervals: dozing, coming to herself in starts and jerks, and dreaming miserably. The hours passed, and still Bill did not return.
Her imagination was only too vivid. In her thoughts she could see this stalwart woodsman of hers camping somewhere in the snowdrifts, blanketless, staying awake through the bitter night to mend the fire, and perhaps in trouble. She knew something of the northern cold that was assailing him, hovering, waiting for the single instant when his fire should go down or when he should drop off to sleep. Oh, it was patient, remorseless. He was likely hungry, too, and despairing.
She wakened before dawn; and the icy, winter stars were peering through the cabin window. Surely Bill had returned by now: yet it would hardly be like him to come in and not let her know of his safe return. He had always seemed so well to understand her fears, he was always so thoughtful. There was no use trying to go back to sleep until she knew for certain. She slipped from her bed onto the floor of the icy cabin.
She missed the cozy warmth of the fire; but, shivering, she slipped quickly into her clothes. Then she lighted a candle and put on her snowshoes. She mushed across the little space of snow to the men's cabin.
The east was just beginning to pale: the stars seemed lucid as ever in the sky. There was a labyrinth of them, uncounted millions that gleamed and twinkled in every little rift between the spruce trees. Even the stars of lesser magnitude that through the smoke of her native city had never revealed themselves were out in full array to-night. And the icy air stabbed like knives the instant she left the cabin door. It was the coldest hour she had ever known.
She knocked on Harold's door, then waited for a reply. But the cabin was ominously silent. Her fears increased: she knew that if Bill were present he would have wakened at her slightest sound. He would have seemed to know instinctively that she was there. She knocked again, louder.
"Who's there?" a sleepy voice answered. Virginia felt a world of impatience at the dull, drowsy tones. Harold had been able to sleep! He wasn't worrying over Bill's safety.
"It's I—Virginia. I'm up and dressed. Did Bill come back?"
"Bill? No—and what in God's earth are you up this early for? Forget about Bill and go back to bed."
"Listen, Harold," she pleaded. "Don't tell me to go back to bed. I feel—I know something's happened to him. He couldn't have gone on clear to the cabin in that awful snow; he either started back or camped. In either case, he's in trouble—freezing or exhausted. And—and—I want you to go out and look for him."
Harold was fully awake now, and he had some difficulty in controlling his voice. In the first place he had no desire to rescue Bill. In the second, he was angry and bitterly jealous at her concern for him. "You do, eh—you'd like to send me out on a bitter night like this on a fool's errand such as that. Where is there a cabin along the way—you'd only kill me without helping him."
"Nonsense, Harold. You could take that big caribou robe and some food, and if you had to camp out it wouldn't kill you. Please get up and go, Harold." Her tone now was one of pleading. "Oh, I want you to——"
"Go back to bed!" But Harold remembered, soon, that he wasn't talking to his squaw, and his voice lost its impatient note. "Don't worry about Bill any more. He'll come in all right. I'm not going out on any wild-goose chase like that—on a day such as to-day will be. You'll see I'm right when you think about it."
"Think!" she replied in scorn. "If it were Bill he wouldn't stop to think. He'd just act. You won't go, then?"
"Don't be foolish, Virginia."
Angry words rose in her throat, but she suppressed them. A daring idea had suddenly filled her with wonder. It came full-grown: that she herself should start forth into the snow deserts to find Bill herself.
Virginia had not been trained to self-reliance. Except for her northern adventure, she had never been obliged to face difficulties, to care for and protect herself, to work with her hands and do everyday tasks. To build a fire, to repair a leaking tap, to take responsibility for anything above such schoolday projects as amateur plays an social gatherings would have seemed tasks impossible of achievement. At first it had never occurred to her that she might herself be of aid to Bill. The old processes of her mind still ran true to form; she had gone to ask a man to carry out her wish. At first she had felt wholly helpless at his refusal. But why should she not go herself?
If indeed Bill had reached the Twenty-three Mile cabin, he would be mushing home by now; she would meet him somewhere on his snowshoe trail. No harm would be done. It might even be a pleasant adventure to mush with him in the snow. The snow itself was perfect for travel; and she had learned that her strong young body was capable of long distances in a day. And if he were in trouble she could help him.
It might mean building a fire in the snow and possibly camping out through the day and night to come. It would be a dreadful and dangerous experience, yet she saw no reason why she couldn't endure it. Bill had showed her how to make the best of such a bad situation as this. He had taught her how to build a fire in the snow; her round, slender arms—made muscular in her weeks in the North—could cut fuel to keep it burning. Besides, she would carry the caribou robe—one of the cot coverings that Bill had stored in his cabin and which, though light as down, was practically impervious to cold. Besides, there was no one else to go.
She went swiftly to her cabin, put on her warmest clothing, and, as Bill had showed her, rolled a compact pack for her back. She took a little package of food—nourishing chocolate and dried meat—the whisky flask that had been her salvation the night of the river experience, and a stub of candle for fire-building, tying them firmly in the caribou robe. The entire package weight only about ten pounds. She fastened it on her shoulders, hung a camp ax at her belt; and as she waited for the dawn, ate a hearty but cold breakfast. Then, with never a backward look, she started away, down the dim, wind-blown, snowshoe trail.
Now that the fight was done, Bill lay quite calm and peaceful in the drifts. The pain of the cold and the wrack of exhausted muscles were quite gone.
He was face to face with the flaming truth, and he knew his fate. The North, defied so long, had conquered him a last. It had been waiting for him, lurking, watching its chance; and with its cruel agents, the bitter cold and the unending snow, it had crushed and beaten him down. He felt no resentment. He was glad that the trial was over. He knew a deep, infinite peace.
Sleep was encroaching upon him now. He felt himself drifting, and the tide would never bring him back. He stirred a little, putting his hands in his armpits, his face resting on his elbow. The wind swept by, sobbing: there in the shadow of death he caught its tones and its messages as never before. He was being swept into space. ...
On the trail that he had made on the out-journey, and which he had tried to vainly to follow back, Virginia came mushing toward him. Never before had her muscles responded so obediently to her will; she sped at a pace that she had never traveled before. It was as if some power above herself was bearing her along, swiftly, easily, with never a wasted motion. She tilted the nose of her snowshoes just the right angle, no more or less, and all her muscles seemed to work in perfect unison.
The bitter cold of the early morning hours only made her blood flow faster and gave her added energy. She scarcely felt the pack on her back. The snowshoe trail, however, was so faint as to be almost invisible.
Because the snow had been firm in this part of Bill's journey, his track was not so deep and the drifting snow had almost completely filled it. In a few places the track was entirely obscured; always there were merely dim indentations. If she had started an hour later she could not have followed the trail at all. For all the day was clear, the wind still whirled flurries of dry snow across her path.
But she didn't permit herself to despair. If need be, she told herself, she would follow him clear to the Twenty-three Mile cabin. The tracks were ever more dim, but surely they would be deeper again where Bill had encountered the soft snow.
It became increasingly probable, however, that the tracks would completely fade away before that time. Soon the difficulty of finding the imprints in the snow began to slacken her gait. To lose them completely meant failure: she could not find her way in these snowy stretches unguided. As morning reached its full, the white wastes seemed to stretch unbroken.
Was the wind-blown snow going to defeat her purpose, after all? A great weight of fear and disappointment began to assail her. The truth of the matter was she had come to an exposed slope, and the trail had faded out under the snow dust.
At first there seemed nothing to do but turn back. It might be possible, however, to cross the ridge in front: the valley beyond was more sheltered by the wind and she might pick up the trail again. At least she could follow her own tracks back, if she failed. She sped swiftly on.
She had guessed right. Standing on the ridge top she could see, far off through one of the treeless glades that are found so often in the spruce forest, the long path of a snowshoe trail. Instinctively she followed it with her eyes.
Clear where the trail entered the spruce thicket, her keen eyes made out a curious, black shadow against the snow. For a single second she eyed it calmly, wondering what manner of wild creature it might be. Its outline grew more distinct under her intense gaze, and she cried out. It was only a little sound, half a gasp and half a sob, but it expressed the depths of terror and distress never known to her before.
It seemed to her that she could not move at first. She could only stand and gaze. The heart in her breast turned to ice, her blood seemed to go still in her veins. She recognized this figure now. It was Bill, lying still in the frozen drifts.
For endless hours, it seemed to her, she stood impotent with horror. In reality, the time was not an appreciable fraction of a breath. Then, sobbing, she mushed frantically down toward him. She fairly raced,—with never a misstep. For all the ghastly sickness that swept over her, she held her body in perfect discipline. She had no doubt but that this man was dead. Likely he had lain there for hours, and really only a very short time of such cold as this was needed to take life. Already, she thought, the life had gone from his dark, gentle eyes; the brave heart was still; the brave heart was still; the mighty muscles lifeless clay.
No moment of her life had ever been fraught with such overwhelming bitterness as this. She had never known such fear, even in the grip of the wild waters or during the grizzly's charge. This was something that went deeper than mere life: it touched realms of her spirit undreamed of, and the blow seemed more cruel and more dreadful than any that the world could deal direct to her. If she had paused for one second of self-analysis, heaven knows what light might have burst upon her spirit—what deep and wondrous realizations of her attitude toward Bill might have come to her; but she did not pause. She only knew that she must reach his side. Her only thought was that Bill was dead, gone from her life as a flame goes from an extinguished candle.
She knelt beside him, and with no knowledge of effort turned him over and lifted his head and shoulders into her arms. His eyes were closed, his face expressionless, his arms dropped limply to his side. At first she dared not dream but that the cold had already taken away his life. The dread Spirit of the North had lain in ambush for him a long time, but it had conquered him at last.
They made an unearthly picture,—these two so silent in the drifts. Endless about them lay the snow; the winter forest was deep in its eternal silence, the little spruce trees stood patient and inert and queer, under their heavy loads of snow. Never a voice in all the wastes, never a tear of pity or a stretching hand of mercy,—only the cold, only the silence, only the dread solitude of a land untamed,—the unconquerable wild. Yet her sorrow, her ineffable despair left no room for resentment against this dreadful land. It was only a lost fight in an eternal war; only a little incident in the vast and inscrutable schemes of a remorseless Nature.
She knew life now, this girl of cities. She knew that in her past life she had never really lived: she had only moved in a gentle dream that an artificial civilization had made possible. The gayeties, the culture, the luxuries and the fashions that had seemed so real and so essential before were revealed in their true light, only as dreams that would pass: deep in them she had never heard the crash of armor in the battlefields without her bower. But she knew now. She saw life as it was, stark and cruel, remorseless, pitiless to the weak, treacherous to the strong, ever waging war against all creatures that dwelt upon the earth.
Yet so easily could it have been redeemed! If this man were standing strong beside her, life would be nothing to fear, nothing to appall her spirit. All the ancient persecutions of the elements, all the pitfalls of life and the exigencies of fortune could never bow their heads. Instead they would know high adventure and the exhilaration of battle; even if at the day's end they should go down into death, it would be with unbroken spirits and brave hearts.
But she couldn't stand alone! She needed the touch of his hand, his shoulder against hers, the communion of his spirit and his strength. Life was an appalling thing to face alone! There was no joy now in the punishing cold and the wastes of forest; only sadness and fear and despair. Sitting in the snow, his head and shoulders in her arms, she knew a fear and a loneliness undreamed of before, a loss that could never be atoned for or redeemed.
She too knew the lesson that Bill had learned in his hour of bitterness,—that one moment of heaven may atone for a whole life of struggle and sorrow. One clasp of arms, one whispered message, one mighty impulse of the soul in which eternity is seized and the stars are gathered might glorify the whole bitter struggle of existence. One little kiss might pay for it all. Yet for all that Harold still lived and waited for her in the cabin, she felt that this one little instant of resurrection was irrevocably lost.
It seemed so strange to her that he should be lying here, impotent in her arms. Always he had been so strong, he had stood so straight,—always coming to her aid in a second of need, always strengthening her with his smile and his eyes. She could hardly believe that this was he,—never to cheer her again in their hard tramps, to lend her his mighty strength in a moment of crisis, to laugh with her at some little tragedy. She sobbed softly, and her tears lay on his face. "Bill, oh, Bill, won't you wake up and speak to me?" she cried. She pleaded softly, but he didn't seem to hear.
"Come back to me, Bill—I need you," she told him. He had always been so quick to come when she needed him before now. "Are youdead?— Oh, you couldn't bedead!It's so cold—and I'm afraid. Oh, please open your eyes——"
She kissed him over and over—on the lips, on his closed eyes. She pressed his head against her soft breast, as if her fluttering heart would give some of its life to him.
Dead?Was that it? All at once she set to work to win back her self-control. It might not yet be too late to help. She gripped herself, dispelling at once all hysteria, all her vagrant thoughts. He would have been hard at work long since. His face was still warm—perhaps life had not yet passed.
She put her head to his breast. His heart was beating—slowly, but steadily and strong.
Bill had not been lying long inert in the snow. Otherwise Virginia would not have heard his heart thumping so steadily in his breast. In fact, she was almost on the top of the ridge when he had given up. He had just drifted off to sleep when she reached his side.
And now he thought he was in the midst of some wonderful, glorious dream. Death was being merciful, after all: in the moment of its descent it was giving him the image of his fondest dream. It seemed to him that soft, warm arms were about him, that his head was pillowed against a tenderness, a holiness passing understanding. He didn't want the dream to end. It would in a moment, the darkness would drop over him; but even for the breath that it endured it almost atoned for the full travail of his life.
There were kisses, too. They came so softly, so warm, just as he had dreamed. "Virginia," he whispered. "Is it you, Virginia—come to me——?"
Then, so clearly that he could no longer retain the delusion of dream, he heard his answer. "Yes—and I've come to save you."
It was true. Her arms were about him; he was nestled against her breast. Yet the kisses must have been only a dream that was worth death to gain. She was at work on him now. He felt her swift motions; now she was putting a flask to his lips. A burning liquid poured into his throat.
There ensued a moment of indescribable peace, and then the flask was put to his lips again. The inner forces of his body, fighting still for his life even after he had given up, seized quickly upon the warming liquor, forced it into his blood, and drove away the frost that was beginning to congeal his life fluids. Already he felt a new stir in his veins. He struggled to speak.
"No yet," the girl whispered. "Don't make any effort yet."
She gave him more of the liquor. He felt strength returning to his muscles. He tried to open his eyes. The sharp pain was a swift reminder of his blindness. "I'm blind——" he told her.
"No matter, I'll save you." Even his blindness would not put a barrier between them. One glance at the inflamed lids, however, told her that in all probability it was just a temporary blindness from some great irritation, soon to be dispelled. "Can you eat?" she asked.
The man nodded.
"It's better to, if you can. The whisky is only a stimulant, and it won't keep you alive." She thrust a fragment of sweet chocolate into his mouth, permitting it to melt. "You'd better get to your feet as soon as you can—and try to get the flood flowing right again. We're only a few miles from the cabin—if you'll just fight we can make it in."
He shook his head. "I can't—I can't go any farther. I can't see the way."
"But I'll lead you." By her intuition she guessed his despair; and she comforted him, his head against her breast. "Don't you know I'll lead you?" she cried, a world of pleading in her tone. "Oh, Bill—you can't give up. You must try. If you die, I'll die too—here beside you. Oh, Bill—don't you know I need you?"
The words stirred and wakened him more than all her first aid. She needed him; she was pleading to him to get up and go on. Could he refuse that appeal? Could any wish of hers, as long as he lived and was able to strive for her, go ungranted? The blood mounted through his veins, awakened. A mysterious strength flowed back into his thews.
There could be no further question of giving up. He struggled with himself, and his voice was almost his own when he spoke. "Give me more food—and more whisky," he commanded. "Take some yourself too—you'll have to help me a lot going home. And give me your hands."
He struggled to his feet. He reeled, nearly fell; but her arms held him up. She gave him more chocolate and a swallow of the burning liquid.
"It's a race against time," she told him. "If I can get you into the cabin before the reaction comes, I can save you. Try with every muscle you've got, Bill—for me!"
She need make no other appeal. She took his hand, and they started mushing over the drifts.
The moose that stands at bay against the wolf pack, the ferocious little ermine in the grasp of the climbing marten never made a harder, more valiant fight than these two waged on the way to the cabin. There was no mercy for them in the biting cold. Bill was frightfully worn and spent from his experience of the day and the previous night, and Virginia had lent her own young strength to him. Often he reeled and faltered, and at such times her arm in his kept him up. The miles seemed innumerable and long.
A might that has its seat higher and beyond the mere energy-giving chemistry of their bodies came to their aid. Virginia had never dreamed that she possessed such power of endurance and unfaltering muscles: a spirit born of an unconquerable will rose within her and bore her on. She was aware of no physical pain; the magnificent exertion of her muscles was almost unconscious. Just as women fight for the lives of their babes she fought for him, as if it were the deepest instinct of her being. The thought of giving up was intolerable, and such spirit is the soul of victory!
They won at last. Without the stimulant and the nutritious food defeat would have been certain. But all these factors would have been unavailing except for the fighting spirit that her appeal to him had awakened and which she had found, full-grown, in her own soul.
They mused up to the cabin, and Harold stared at them like a lifeless thing as Bill reeled through the doorway. Virginia led him to her own cot, then drew the blankets over him. And she was not so exhausted but that she could continue the fight for his recovery.
"Build up the fire, and do it quickly," she ordered Harold. Her tone was terse, commanding, and curiously he leaped to obey her. She removed Bill's snow-covered garments, and as Harold went out to procure more fuel she put water on the stove to heat. Then, procuring snow, she began to rub Bill's right hand, the hand that had been frozen in his effort to grope for the trail. Quick and hard work was needed to save it.
Harold came to her aid, but she put him to other work. She wanted to do this task herself. Then she aroused the woodsman from his half-sleep to give him coffee, cup after cup of it that used up the last of their meager supply.
It is one of the peculiar faculties of the human body to recover quickly from the effects of severe cold. Even coupled with exhaustion his hardships had wrought no lasting organic injury, and the magnificent recuperative powers of Bill's tough body came quickly to his aid. About midnight he wakened from a long sleep, wholly clear-headed and free from pain. Wet bandages were over his eyes.
He groped and in a moment found Virginia's hands. But an instant he held them only; it was enough to know that she was near. He realized that he was out of danger now: such tenderness as she had given him must be forgotten. She was still sitting beside his bed, wrapped in a blanket.
He started to get up so that she could have her own cot; but she wakened at his motions. Gently she pushed him down.
"But I'm all right now," he told her. "I'm sleepy—and sore—but I'm strong as ever. Let me go to my bed, and get some sleep."
"No. I'm not sleepy yet."
But the dull tones of her voice—even thought Bill could not see the white fatigue in her face—belied her words. Bill laughed, the same gay laugh that had cheered her so many times, and swung his feet to the floor. "It's my turn to be nurse—now," he told her. "Get in quick."
"But I've had Harold bring some blankets here and spread them on the floor," she objected. "I can go to sleep there, when—I'm—tired."
"And I can go to sleep there right now."
With his strong arms he half-lifted her and laid her in his warm place. She yielded to his strength, sleepily and gratefully, and he drew the blankets about her shoulders. The touch of his hand was in some way wonderful,—so strong, so comforting. Then, reeling only a little, he groped his way to the bed she had made upon the floor.
"Good night," he called, when he had pulled his blankets up. Guided by a hope that flooded his heart with tremulous anticipations, he held out his hand in the darkness toward her.
As if by a miracle, her own hand came stealing into his. No man could tell by what unity of longing they had acted: but neither seemed surprised to find the other's, waiting in the darkness. It was simply the Mystery that all men see and no man understands.
He held the little hand in his for just a breath, as a man might hold a holy thing that a prophet had blessed. Then he let it go.
"Good night, Bill," she told him sleepily.
In the hours of refreshing slumber that lasted full into the next morning there was but one curious circumstance. In the full light of morning it seemed to him that he heard the faint prick of a rifle, far away. The truth was that for all his heavy sleep, some of his guardian senses were awake to receive impressions, and the sound was a reality. It was curiously woven into the fabric of his dreams.
There were four shots, one swiftly upon another. Four,—and the figure four had a puzzling, yet sinister significance to his mind. He didn't know what it was: he had a confused sense of some sort of an inner warning, an impression of impending danger and treachery. Who was it that had held up four fingers somewhere in his experience, and what manner of signal had it been? But Bill didn't fully waken. His dreams ran on, confused and troubled.
The same rifle shots that brought bad dreams to Bill had a much more lucid meaning for Joe Robinson and Pete the Breed, the two Indians that were occupying Harold's cabin. The wind bore toward them from Harold's new abode, the rifle was of heavy caliber, and the sound came clear and unmistakable through the stillness. They looked from one to the other.
"Four shots," Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal."
Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick," he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga—after supplies."
"Yes—but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfish character of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. There was a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face.
"That means—big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go."
Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Some of these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmen of the region,—for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of their weapons. The red race—at least such representatives of it as lived in Clearwater—was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. It was noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, and Pete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt. Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.
There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place,—a spring a half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. The look on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would, it seemed, be big doings, and very soon.
A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk. Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his features were drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands, however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette.
For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessons Harold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear too eager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference, gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold was seared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black and bitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a long time in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame.
There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatred was an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Bill from the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stood for—so opposite to Harold in everything—but also for that first mortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him for rescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, and Bill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factor in his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further cause for hatred, till now it stung and burned him like strong drink, like live hot steam in his brain. In his inner soul he knew that Bill had endured tests in which he had failed, and he hated him the worse for it. He had sensed Bill's contempt for him, and the absolute fairness with which the woodsman had always treated him brought no remorse. Bill had found the mine for which he sought, to which, by the degenerate code by which he lived, he felt he had an ancestral right.
Ever since he had gone down into that darkened treasure house he had known in his own soul, late or soon, his future course. The gold alone was worth the crime he planned. And as a crowning touch came the events of the day and night just passed.
He had had no desire for Bill to return to the cabin alive. It would have been a simple way out of his difficulties for the woodsman to fall and die in the snow wastes of Clearwater. For him to lie so still and impotent in the drifts would compensate for many things, and in such a case he would never have opportunity to record the finding of his mine. The only imperfection, in this event, was that it deprived Harold of his personal vengeance, and magnanimously he was willing to forgo that. It wouldn't be his pleasure to see the final agony, the last shudder of the frame,—but yet at least he might see much remnants as would be left when the snow had melted in spring.
Every event of the day had pointed to a successful trip, from Harold's point of view. He had known that Bill couldn't make it through to his Twenty-three Mile cabin after the Chinook wind had softened the snow. The bitter night that followed would have likely claimed quickly any one that tried to sleep, without blankets, unsheltered in the snow fields. And when Virginia had gone out to save him and had brought back the blind and reeling man, his first impulse had been to leap upon him, in his helplessness, and drive his hunting knife through his heart!
It wouldn't, however, had been a wise course to pursue. He didn't want to lose Virginia. He flattered himself that he had been cunning and self-mastered. He had watched Virginia's tender services to the woodsman, and once he had seen a luster in her eyes that had seemed to shatter his reason. And he knew that the time had come to strike.
He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks with which civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father's son.
This was a land of savage and primitive passions, and he felt no self-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhuman crime. He had learned certain lessons of cruelty from the wilderness; the savage breeds with whom he had mingled had had their influence too. Bill, born and living in a land of beasts, had kept the glory of manhood; Harold, coming from a land of men, had fallen to the beasts' own level. And even the savage wolf does not slay the pack-brother that frees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was prompting his every step.
He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of his two confederates. The breeds waited patiently for him to speak. "Where's Sindy?" he asked at last.
They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lines on their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's—just where you said," Joe replied.
"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'm going to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now—and soon I'm going out with her—to the Outside. But there's things to do first. Bill has found the mine."
The others nodded gravely. They expected some such development.
"And Bill is as blind as a mole—got caught in a cabin full of green-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So I sent for you right away."
The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete's eyes had begun to gleam,—such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in the eyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow.
"The mine's worth millions—more money than you can dream of. Each of you get a sixth—one third divided between you. You'll never get more money for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live a hundred winters. But you agree first to these terms—or you won't know where the mine is."
"Me—I want a fourth," Joe answered sullenly.
"All right. Turn around and go home. I don't want you."
It was a bluff, but it worked. Joe came to terms at once. Treacherous himself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn't divulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work was done.
"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claim notices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record the claim," Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. No one'll make any trouble."
Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a very pertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"
Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his own woman. "Didn't you hear me say she wasmysquaw? I'll tend to her. Besides—the way I've got it planned, she won't know—at least she won't understand. Now listen, you two, and don't make any mistake. I've got to go back to the cabin now—try to be there before they wake up. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday—and, as I told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher.
"Both of you are to come to the cabin, just about dark. You'll tell me you have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yuga village. Bring along a quart of booze—firewater—and maybe two quarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring along something in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in a better mood. And now—you see what you've got to do?"
Neither of them answered. They could guess—but they didn't conceive of the real brilliancy of the plan.
"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"—and Harold's face drew into an unlovely snarl—"sometime in the early evening give Bill what's coming to him."
"Do him off——?" Joe asked stolidly.
"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breeds leaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmatic now. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savage faces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even as his; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.
"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him—better still, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him before he knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go back to my cabin and hide out."
"No food in cabin," Joe objected. "Get some from you?"
For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunate circumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up the supplies, eh? Got any booze——?"
"Still two bottles firewater——"
"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either—not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supper to-night, or as much of it as you need—and after you're through with Bill go back to your cabin and get what you have left——"
"There won't be none left——"
"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill's Twenty-three Mile cabin is?"
Pete nodded. Joe made no response.
"Then you can find it, Pete. I haven't any idea where it is myself. It's only a day's march, and he's got it packed with grub. You hide out there, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough to take us down there too—the woman and I—we'll follow your snowshoes tracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if we have to, we can go over to a grizzly carcass I know of and cut off a few pounds of meat—but we won't have to. We'll join you at the Twenty-three Mile cabin to-morrow night."
Pete the breed looked doubtful. "Bear over—east?" he asked.
"Somewhere over there," Harold replied.
"Don't guess any bear meat left. Heard coyotes—hundred of 'em—over east. Pack of wolves came through too—sang song over there."
Harold could agree with him. If indeed the wolves and the coyotes had gathered—starving gray skulkers of the forest—the great skeleton would have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicate his own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin with the morsel of food they had left—he and Virginia could follow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill's cabin.
"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out," Harold went on. "I'll go down to the recorder's office with the woman. Don't worry about her, I'll tell 'em that you were two Indians from the East Selkirks, give 'em a couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple as day and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through your heads, I'm going back to the cabin."
They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, was exceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete had one more question—one that was wholly characteristic of his weasel soul.
"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thin blade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"
Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a lust, a desire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark and evil ways. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't much matter——" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguely exciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to stand listening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if he were scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from the past was speaking through his lips. The words came with no conscious effort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester in his soul. His father's blood was in the full ascendancy at last.
"There's an old pick on the table—Bill had it prospecting." he said.