There was in Donald, as in all who battle with the monstrous moods of nature, a certain calm fatalism, or acceptance of the inevitable. When he had recovered his self-possession and the full use of his faculties, he got to his feet again, and made a second inspection of the camp. As he had noted at first, the place was stripped clean. An old bit of moose-gut, which had evidently been taken from a worn snowshoe, was the only thing to be found in the shanty. The string was some six feet long, and McTavish, with the trapper's instinct of hoarding every possible item, rolled it up and put it in his pocket. Of food there was none; Maria had done her best to put him beyond the need of sustenance, but, now that he was himself once more, the yearning to eat seized his vitals, and he knew he must make all haste to satisfy it. When he was struck, his snowshoes had been on his feet, and the Indians in their haste, or because of the darkness, had not removed them, so he had this slight help in the problems he faced. Suddenly, something caught McTavish's ear as he stood listening, a sort of rushing, roaring sound like waters, yet muffled as though coming from a cañon. Having no pocket compass, he had to find directions by the moss at the foot of a tree. As he dug with a snowshoe, the end of the racket struck something hard. With an effort, he rolled this up to view, and found it to be the shoulder-blade of a bear, smooth and white, when cleaned of the snow and leaves that clung to it.
An idea now took possession of him, and, when he had got his bearings, he listened again for the sound of muffled waters, then followed whither his ears led him. Now and then, the bulk of a rock or a bend of the stream itself would deceive him, and it was nearly a half-hour before he came to the slightly raised banks of a little river, perhaps a hundred feet in width. Here, the noise of waters was very loud, and he realized what it was.
While most streams turn gradually into solid blocks of ice, miles long, there are some whose extremely swift current and turbulent rapids prevent anything but a thin coat forming across from shore to shore. Beneath this green shell, the water roars and tumbles all winter, except perhaps in the most terrible weather. Such was the stream upon which Donald had come. He felt that luck was with him, and the idea that had taken possession of him back in the woods returned. From his left pocket, he drew forth the shoulder-blade of the bear, and unlimbered his knife from beneath his shirt. Fortunately, this had been a small bear, and the work before him did not represent more than an hour's time. Meanwhile, his stomach clamored for food, and he set his jaws resolutely. In the forest it is truer than elsewhere that haste makes waste, and, as materials are rare and valuable, patience is the trapper's stock in trade.
McTavish sat down on the bank, and carved busily until the bone between his hands took the appearance of a fish-hook, barb and all. Then he unlaced his moccasins, and tied the strings together, adding to this line the moose-gut he had found in the shanty. A flat stone with a small hole in it rewarded fifteen minutes' prowling along the banks, and this he used as a sinker, tying a knot beneath the hole. A rod was easily procured, and for bait he took a piece of the red flannel that lined his leggings.
Next, he built a fire on top of the bank, and lastly chopped through three inches of ice, a quarter of the way across the stream, where he dropped his line. He did not have to wait long. Fish, like everything else in the northern winter, find food-stuffs rare and costly, and scarcely ten minutes had passed before a three-pound trout lay flopping on the ice beside him.
Considerately waiting until it was dead, the Hudson Bay man cleaned it, and thrust it on forked sticks to cook over the fire while he went on fishing.
Before the first savory whiffs reached him four more trout had eagerly taken the bait. Presently, he left work at the hole, and returned to the fire, where he enjoyed the most life-giving meal he had ever eaten, excepting the first after Peter Rainy's rescue of him. The thought projected Rainy into his mind, and for the hundredth time he asked himself what had become of the old Indian.
The only possible explanation to offer itself was that Maria and Tom had first disposed of their sleeping warder, and had then crawled up on Rainy, who was sleeping like a log, bound him, and taken him away on the sledge, leaving McTavish either to die as he lay, or within a few days after awakening.
Well, Donald admitted, the chances were against him, and the outlook was indeed dark. But, even in these desperate straits, there was a buoyancy in his spirits that he had seldom enjoyed. Life seemed good while he was yet alive to fight for it; he had youth, strength, hope, and the spur of deeds to be done, all of which roweled his faith whenever it faltered. Even this morning, he felt unaccountably like flinging his arms into the air, and shouting to the desolation:
“Come on, old wilderness, we'll fight it out, and, by heaven, I'll break you, too!” ... What was it, this buoyancy of soul? Did it portend anything?
Hark! What was that? Through the clear, thin air came the sound of silvery bells,clink, clink, a-tinkle-inkle, clink-a-tinkle, clink, clink, as the dogs trotted on some distant trail. Were they approaching? Five minutes later, Donald was sure they were, and with a few swift kicks scattered his fire. Then, he ran down to the water's edge, and removed his fish and home-made line, finally retreating up the bank to a vantage-point behind a bushy tree. Too many persons were anxious to lay hands on him for him to greet the unknownvoyagerwith open arms.
The banks of the stream in front of him were perhaps fen feet high and sloped sharply to the water's edge, fairly free from tangle. Presently, McTavish localized the sound of bells as coming from the opposite bank, and expected to watch the equipage, preceded or accompanied by trapper or hunter, speed past, following the direction of the stream. What was his surprise, therefore, suddenly to see a huge, fine-looking dog top the opposite shore and start down the incline to the ice, followed in turn by three others. Then came the sledge, and on it the driver of the train.
McTavish's attention was now suddenly riveted to the first dog. There was a perfectly white arrow-head marked in the dark-brown hair above his eyes, and all four feet were white. Aside from this there was a certain dignity in the animal's carriage that marked him at once. McTavish almost leaped from his cover.
It was Mistisi, the leader of his own train. Yes! and those others were his, Chibe and Keoha and Commish. Who, then, was the person in the sleigh? With startled eyes, he tried to discover the face and figure huddled under the mass of robes, but could not.
There was only one person it might be, only one person who could possibly be using his dogs after the adventure at Sturgeon Lake—Charley Seguis. But what was he doing here? Where were his comrades? Where was Jean?
Breathlessly, for he felt his peril to be very great, Donald watched the magnificent team and sledge plunge down the bank to the river. He only prayed that the rider might not see the hole he had cut in the ice.
With a creak and lurch, the sleigh left the grade, and took the white snow edging the shoal water that led out to the deep green of the middle ice. The watcher drew a sharp breath.
“Great heavens! Doesn't the fool know that's thin ice?” he muttered, excitedly. “Does he want to drown?”
It all happened in a moment. There was a crunch, a cracking, a sound of plunging, and the dogs went into the biting water. Another second, and the sledge careened and settled among the jagged pieces of ice that surrounded it on all sides. The figure rolled off with a cry.
What should he do? Here was the opportunity to let nature end the feud between Seguis and himself. The man's bitter punishment was overtaking him alone amid the grim watchers of the wild. Why not let the tragedy go on to its inevitable close? All this in an instant. Then, the law of humanity laid hold on Donald; the command of the wilderness that drives men through unheard-of perils to another's help.
With a shout, he leaped from his cover, sped down the bank, and out upon the frozen river. The dogs, tangled in their harness, were fighting their own last battle, while drifting down-stream, struggling against the deadly haul of the sledge that dragged them under. The fur-wrapped figure showed now and then, rolling amid the jagged ice.
A hundred feet away, a point ran out into the water. The fighting dogs would be there in a moment, for Mistisi, in his desperate attempts to climb upon the frail support, broke the ice in front of him with his powerful forepaws. Donald ran with all his strength, and reached the point just as Mistisi came abreast. Because farthest from the sledge, the great animal was still alive, but the others had either disappeared, or were lying on their sides, dead. Seizing the harness, Donald lifted the dog, and with two swift slashes cut the traces. Then, with a mighty effort, he heaved Mistisi out of the water beside him on the point.
Presently, the human form, struggling no longer, floated down, and the man seized it. A moment more, and it, too, lay beside the exhausted dog on the bank. A quick glance assured him that he could do nothing for the other animals, and he turned his attention to the inert, unconscious body. He folded back thecapote, and uttered a great cry of joy and fear... For he looked into the face of Jean Fitzpatrick!
Now he worked like a madman, for, even if she had escaped drowning, she might freeze to death where she lay. Stripping off his gloves, he thrust the fingers of his right hand into her mouth, and seized her tongue. This he pulled forward, so as to leave the air passage free. Then, roughly, he rolled her over on her face and, holding her by the belt, lifted her so that the water ran out of her lungs.
Laying her on her back again, he started artificial respiration. At the first convulsive gasp and shudder, he left her and frantically gathered wood for a fire. This time, it was no trapper's flame of chips he wanted, but a roaring blaze, which would melt the sheath of ice that had already formed on Jean's clothes, and dry them thoroughly. The whining of Mistisi told him that the dog, too, was clad in the like chill armor.
Every other minute, Donald returned, and again worked over Jean, so that, when the fire had begun to crackle and give out heat, he saw the upturned eyes swim down, and the blessed look of consciousness take the place of terrible blankness. Then, with a sob of joy, he gathered her in his arms, and laid her down in the zone of life-giving heat. Forthwith, he hurried back to his hiding-place for one of the fish.
A sound of choked weeping drew Donald again to the girl, and he saw that she recognized him now. He lifted her head tenderly, comforting her as he would a child, and presently felt her arms go round him in a desperate embrace of fear and thankfulness. After a long while of silence, he spoke.
“Jean.” he said, “do you know who this is?
“Yes,” she replied simply, and he thrilled at the sound of the voice he loved. “Thank God, I am with you, at last,” she added.
And the man felt that this one minute and her few words more than repaid all the suffering and injustice he had undergone in the weeks past. From the leaden sky, a beauty seemed to have dropped that glorified the accursed earth, the rock-like trees and the bitter, iron cold. In the springtime of his heart, he seemed to smell the fragrance of flowers, hear the music of rippling waters, and feel the caress of gentle airs.
When she was herself again, Donald cooked the fish. At this time, too, he celebrated his reunion with Mistisi who, being almost pure St. Bernard, recognized his master with such manifestations of extreme joy that, for a time, there was ground for fear as to the animal's sanity. But the dog had brains enough not to wander outside the fire-zone in his dripping condition, and stood steaming joyfully and contentedly beside Jean, his face a mask of idiotic happiness.
During the meal, Donald drew the girl's story from her.
It seemed that, after Charley Seguis had made the junction with Maria and Tom at the cabin, he had treated her with courtesy, but, firmly declined to let her go, saying that she was a most necessary person to his camp, since his fight was with her father. The following day, the party of four, herself, Seguis, and the French and Indian trappers, had started back to Sturgeon Lake. She received every attention and kindness from all of them. In fact, it was this that precipitated the trouble, for the Frenchman and the Indian sought her favor continually, and became insanely jealous of each other, although she treated both with coldest courtesy.
One night, when they stopped to make camp, matters came to a head. The sledge had not yet been unloaded, when the trappers got into a violent argument, and, without warning, drew their knives and went at each other. Jean screamed, and Charley Seguis leaped in to prevent bloodshed... Then, the girl saw her opportunity, and seized it. She was still sitting on the sledge. With a shrill cry and a crack of the whip that lay under her hand, she started the dogs off on a gallop. Instantly, all personalities were forgotten and the three men gave hot chase. But, coming to a river-bed, the girl soon lost her pursuers in the distance, and, after traveling all night, struck across country in the general direction of Fort Severn. What had become of the three men without supplies, she did not know, but she supposed they had returned to Sturgeon Lake, as they could have done easily.
Then, Donald told his story briefly, and, when he had finished, they looked mournfully at each other.
“Dearest,” said the captain boldly, “here's the situation: The supplies are in the river. Maybe, we can rescue some of the cooking utensils; but I doubt it. There's a cabin a mile from here that we can live in for the present. There's no food but fish, for we haven't any gun or ammunition, unless—”
“No!” She shook her head. “They took the guns off the sledge before I ran away with it.”
“We haven't anything to start on, dearest”—Donald grinned amiably—“except our knowledge and our nerve. We have got to carve existence out of this.” He included the surrounding desolation with a sweep of his arm. “If this were only a desert island now, how easy everything would be!”
“You've forgotten one thing we have,” remarked Jean with twinkling eyes.
“What's that?
“Each other, stupid!” ... But ere long she regretted the words.
Arrived back at the little shanty, they set about their housekeeping at once. The situation might have been delicate in other periods and climes, but here no false sentimentality clouded the grisly facts. Face to face with them stood hunger and cold, two relentless enemies. Hunger, in a land where the temperature burns up the tissues as a freight-engine on a grade eats coal, makes no truces; it sets its fangs when October comes, and tries its malignant best to keep them set until May or June.
Cold is something that persons of a temperate clime never experience. When the temperature reaches ten below zero the papers are full of it, and there is general consternation. But, here, in latitude fifty-four north, the mercury goes down to fifty or sixty below, and life becomes something that is at best only mere existence, and at worst, annihilation.
And these were the two foes that a hardy man and a delicately natured woman set themselves to defeat.
“I—I can't very well sleep outside the shanty,” said Donald as indifferently as possible. “I have no tent or sleeping-bag. I should freeze to death.”
The girl colored slightly, and asked:
“Is there no way to make a partition?” The man pondered a minute, and then shook his head.
“Of course,” he explained, “a wood partition is out of the question, because any real tree would break ax steel into brittle bits. However, there are the robes and blankets you traveled in. If we find we can spare one of those, we'll fix a partition—otherwise not. We can't risk freezing our faces or our bodies at night.”
He spoke with a tone of genial friendliness, but there was a note of undisputable authority in his voice that silenced whatever objection the girl might have offered. Already, she began to feel that this man knew. He would cherish her to his last breath, but what he said she must obey, both for his sake and her own. There was no equivocation possible; he had taken command; he would give orders, which he expected her to obey promptly; he would do everything for the best. Heknew, and she did not. Therefore, she would trust herself to him. So, she surrendered her will to his, and felt little thrills of admiration as he walked about deep in thought, planning their temporary life in this wretched hovel, which, somehow, had stolen a little of the sunshine from the snow, and become a dear and sacred dwelling-place.
Leaving her to set the place in order as much as possible, Donald returned to the river and the upturned sledge. The latter, grounding in a shallow, had stopped the down-stream drift and now, with its dead dogs, was freezing solid in the ice. With his knife, he chopped away around the edges, and found the pack thongs still around the sledge. Hazardous poking with a hooked branch brought the pack to light from beneath the sleigh, but it was a flat and sickly reminder of what it had once been. The flour was gone, but the tea, which had been in a canister, was unspoiled. A chunk of fat meat might prove of some value after treatment. A few battered tin dishes and utensils Donald greeted as priceless finds, and a rusted woodsman's ax sent him into a war-dance of joy. Last of all, a single steel trap came to light. He examined it closely, and discovered why it had been taken on the trip by Charley Seguis and his companions. It was broken, and no doubt one of the trappers had expected to mend it some night by the camp-fire. Just now, Donald could not tell whether it was beyond his skill or not.
Laden with his finds, he returned to the shanty, where Jean had succeeded in coaxing a fire to burn in the old stone chimney at one end. Near by lay the remainder of the fish he had caught in the morning.
“Those will do for to-night,” he said, “but, after supper, I must catch some more, and look about the banks of that little river. I thought I noticed several things there this morning.”
“Oh, don't go away and leave me alone,” pleaded the girl, forgetting that for two nights and days she had braved the wilderness single-handed.
“We'll go together then, princess,” he replied, smiling. It was now late in the afternoon, and almost dark, so they set about dinner, which consisted of fish and tea. During the meal, Donald regarded Jean for a little in quizzical silence.
“I'm glad Mr. Gates, the missionary, is with your father,” he said, at last.
“I'm not, particularly; he's only in the way, and wants to preach all the time, when there's fighting to be done. Why are you glad?”
“Just for the convenience of the thing, that's all. When we join the men from Fort Severn, he can marry us at once.”
“Well, well, young man!” replied the girl, severely. “I can't say that we have to rush into matrimony the moment we perceive a cassock. Personally, next June at the fort, when thebrigadeshave come down, and there are flowers, and so forth, I shall be more ready to talk the matter over with you.” She looked at him with eyebrows lifted in mock condescension while she stirred the fish with a tin spoon.
Donald, in the first bliss of happiness realized, leaned over to kiss her, but this time the eyes that met his were serious. He took the upraised hand in his banteringly, but listened to what she said, nevertheless.
“Donald, of course we have to be a little foolish sometimes, but I must ask you to agree with me that we only be good friends after—oh, say three o'clock in the afternoon. From then on, no foolishness, it will spare us a lot.”
Donald looked at the girl, keenly surprised. The same thought had been in his mind, but he had not dared express it for fear of having to entangle himself in impossible explanations. But, now, her woman's intuition felt the thing he knew, that love, fierce, burning, desirous, comes in the northland as well as in the tropics. With a few words, they made their rule and he dropped her hand.
“But, to return to the preacher,” he resumed presently, as they had more fish, “I think it will be better for all hands, if we marry at once. This little honeyless honeymoon won't stand the strain of months, dearest, for in that time it will have been discussed from Labrador to the Columbia, and from the Coppermine to Lake Superior, and I don't want you on the tongues of men at all. I am glad you love me, for now our marriage has to be.”
“But, Donald, think of father! This is the last thing in the world he will allow,” Jean protested. “Why, if he thought I had such a step in mind he'd have apoplexy, I'm sure. Really, you don't know how strongly he feels about it, and about you.”
“In reference to this Charley Seguis, whom I failed to bring in?”
“No, it isn't that. He disposed of that by putting you in the guard-house.”
“It can't be my escape then, for he hasn't heard of that.”
“No,” said the girl, sitting back, her eyes troubled; “it isn't any of these things, but something else more dreadful or hurtful to you. I have tried so hard to learn what it is, but he won't tell me! Old Maria knows, and hinted at it—”
“Old Maria!” cried Donald, in disgust. “What can that old hag know about me? Little girl, my life has been clean, and yet these accursed rumors fly around me like a flock of hawks over a grouse-nest. Even your father, a just man in his way, will not give me a chance to prove or disprove. In heaven's name, Jean, if you know anything more tell me, and I'll run the thing to earth, if it takes all my life.”
The girl lifted her calm eyes to his troubled ones, and he knew that he would hear the frank truth.
“Poor boy!” she said. “I don't know anything definite. Old Maria hinted at a stain on your life, and father, when I demanded the facts from him, said that he wouldn't tell me if he could, for it wasn't proper for me to hear them. That's all I know. But, Donald, never for a moment have I doubted you, or lost faith that you could upset this whole tissue of rumor as soon as you laid hold of it.”
“Good little princess!” he said gratefully, and pressed her hand for a moment. “My conscience is clear, and, if I have your faith and love, I can fight anything. God help these breeders of slander, if I get hold of them, that's all,” he added, grimly.
A little while later, armed with ax and knife, and accompanied by Jean, who carried the home-made fish-line, Donald led the way through the woods to the river that had brought him such precious freight on the tide of tragedy. That morning while angling, his eyes had seen many things. Fifty feet from where he sat, he had observed an iced pool in which a back-set from the swift stream probably moved sluggishly. He had noticed little tracks of five-toed, webbed feet on the thin drift of powdery snow that led to the bank above this pool. Last of all, he had seen a smooth incline worn by these webbed feet down to the brink of the pool.
“Otter!” he had said to himself; and he had resolved to come back later.
Now, with crisp instructions as to silence, he advanced noiselessly, trying every bit of crust before he set his weight upon it, avoiding tufts of underbrush, and repressing his breathing. Jean, a true daughter of the North, sensed these precautions almost by instinct, and followed his example. He did not seek the fishing-hole of the morning, but rather a clump of trees on the bank back of the incline, thanking fortune that the light wind was in his face, so that the man-smell could not be carried down to the pool. With infinite care, the two approached the shelter of the trees, and, presently, when the wind rustled among the boughs, parted them and looked through.
There, on the bank, was the whole colony of otters, engaged in an exhilarating pastime. Head-first, tail-first, sidewise, singly and in groups, the little animals were coasting down the toboggan-like path they had worn from the top of the bank to the water's edge. No sooner did they roll to the bottom than they raced to the top and started all over again, slithering, careening, tumbling. To the girl, it was a strangely ludicrous sight, but to Donald it was familiar enough. The otters were indulging in the favorite amusement of their kind—sliding down a snow-bank.
The two observers turned away soon, and, with exaggerated care, made their way back to the little shanty, where Donald at once set about mending the broken trap. In two hours' time, he had succeeded in fixing it temporarily. Then, after wrapping Jean in her blankets and furs on the spruce-coveted bunk, he rolled up in his own coverings before the fire for the night.
The next morning, Donald caught a fish for breakfast, and then returned to the otter-slide with his trap and the piece of meat he had rescued from the pack. Baiting the trap with part of a fish, he buried it in the snow at a point where the otter must come down the slide to the pool. Then, he rubbed the meat in the tracks where he had stepped, and brushed snow across them, obliterating every trace of his presence. After that, he returned to the shanty, for there was still much to be done.
On his way to the fish pool that morning, he had seen a number of sharply impressed, three-toed clusters of footprints, and recognized the tracks of the hare. Now, he searched the by-ways of the low ground in the vicinity, and finally discovered a line of undergrowth like a hedge, through which a passage had been forced. The hard-packed runway told him that here the long-ears passed through on their foraging expeditions. He cut a number of small sticks and planted them across this opening, leaving barely enough room for a small animal to pass. Then, he took from his pocket the string of moose-gut that had made part of the fish-line, and fashioned it into a running noose. This he hung across the opening, and tied the other end to a bent twig, which would spring up immediately a pull dislodged it from its caught position. Here, too, he carefully effaced any man-trace, and afterward went on to the second hedge, where he set a snare made of his moccasin strings. At noon, he returned to his snares, and found two strangled rabbits hanging in mid air, frozen to the consistency of granite. Releasing them, he reset the snares, and returned jubilantly to the cabin with his catch. . . . And they had rabbit stew that day.
This was only the beginning. It was food, and no more. As the days passed, Donald spent many hours in the forest, chopping saplings and underbrush for the fire, going farther and farther from the cabin in his search for the proper materials. Long since, he had chopped the broken and battered sledge out of the ice, and hauled it home. But it was damaged beyond repair, the smooth boards that made its riding surface having been broken and splintered hopelessly. But there was still use for it. With remarkable ingenuity, he fashioned a small sleigh, some four or five feet long. Then, from the harness of the dead dogs, he made trappings for Mistisi, who, apparently anxious to help in all he saw going on around him, took to them kindly. After this, it was easy work to gather wood, however far distant. The dog made regular round trips from the cabin to the spot where the man was at work, and shortly a great pile of wood formed a wind-break for the shanty.
Jean Fitzpatrick now attended to the fishing alone, and what they did not use for food was packed away out of Mistisi's eager reach in the preserving cold. The rabbit-snares with two settings yielded three or four of the animals every day, and these, skinned and cleaned, added to the store of reserve food.
The otter-trap worked successfully, but required repairing after each catch, so that it was scarcely worth the trouble of setting, since rabbits and fish continued plentiful. One night, however, after a series of sharp sniffs at the door while the rabbit was broiling, and the discovery of padded prints in the snow next day, Donald worked more carefully over the contrivance, and set it to catch larger game—for bob-cats were about.
The evenings, too, were busy, for the rabbit skins must be cured. Donald hewed out a wedge-shaped slab of cedar. This he spliced. Then into a pelt, with the fur side turned in, he shoved this slab, forcing into the splicing a smaller wedge of wood. Hammering this, the larger block widened, and thus stretched the skin. When the proper tautness was obtained, he fixed the pelt to another board with pegs of wood, and hung it to dry.
Now, there were a number of these skins, and Jean wished to satisfy her longing for privacy. A tiny rabbit-bone, whittled to a point, and rabbit sinews, white and tough and secured with great difficulty, supplied the means. So, for several days, she sewed the skins together, and at last hung before her bed of boughs a heavy curtain.
Two weeks passed, and the man and girl had successfully set the vicious world at naught. Their supplies were piling up fast, and they bade fair to be comfortable all winter.
Before the fire one night, when there was no work to do, Donald pulled comfortably at his pipe, and observed the girl on the opposite side of the rude fireplace, busy with her rabbit-bone needle. Where she had seemed sweet, gracious, and gentle before, now, after their enforced intimate comradeship, his love for her was something the wonder of which he had never dreamed possible. If only a priest might come by on some evangelizing journey to the Eskimo! He would marry her then and there, and live thus until spring, or her father, came. Since their perfect relationship it seemed utterly impossible for him to exist without her.
Suddenly, with a shake, Donald jerked himself back from these dreams, and looked at her again, very sadly. The announcement he was about to make appeared all the harder.
“Jean,” he said at last, “in about two days, we start back for Fort Severn.”
The girl raised her head, and showed a face of pouting disappointment.
“Why?” she queried. “Here, we are comfortable and safe; we are in bad shape to travel without a sledge, and the dangers are many, especially since you have no gun. Let's stay here until somebody finds us. It's been a wonderfully happy time for me. You're the dearest, bravest, most chivalrous man alive, Donald.”
The lover flushed with pleasure, but his brows drew down nevertheless, and his jaw set, for the temptation was strong upon him.
“I've been very happy, too, princess,” he rejoined; “but we mustn't stay any longer. Before the world, neither of us would have a valid excuse. We have provisions enough now for a week in the woods, and public opinion would demand the reason for our delay. It's hard, but we've got to go.”
And, with a little sigh, the girl meekly accepted the ultimatum.
All the next day, the two prepared for their departure. Donald strengthened the little sledge, and made their goods into a solid pack, convenient for him to carry when Jean should become tired and need to ride. She dismantled the shack of the pathetic little gew-gaws that had been a part of her happy housekeeping, and kissed them all before she gave them into his hands for packing.
Neither was insensible of the fact that this departure meant more than the mere ending of their frigid idyl. Both realized that McTavish was deliberately going back to imprisonment and disgrace, although no mention was made of the subject. Jean had some vague notion that, ten miles from the fort, he might leave her, and retire into the woods without having been seen. The idea had also occurred to Donald, but he had put it aside unhesitatingly as the act of a coward. It little mattered to him what was his fate, as long as he knew that Jean was safe, and was near him.
That evening, the one before their departure, they held mournful obsequies over the happy two weeks that could never be repeated in their lives. They had just sat down to a dinner of rabbit (of which they were getting heartily tired by this time), when the sound of bells came to them, and they rushed to the door. With shout and crack of whip, a dog-train roared up from the south, and came to a steaming halt in the glow of their hearth.
After the first excitement Jean, suddenly realizing her position, had shrunk back into the farthest corner of the cabin, her face scarlet and her heart beating. Donald, to spare her as much as possible, met the man outside, and immediately there were glad cries of recognition.
“Well, McTavish, how the deuce do I see you here? You ought to be up at the fort. But, say, old man, I'm glad you broke out. That thirty-day term smelled to heaven when the old man gave it. Good for you!”
“And you, Braithwaite?” cried Donald, delightedly; for the man was an old friend—a store-keeper at the fort. “What are you doing up this way, and who are the boys with you?”
Donald was greatly surprised that the two men on the sledges did not rise.
“We've been having trouble at Sturgeon Lake—pretty rough stuff, too,” was the explanation; “and these boys got shot up a little. Probably, you know 'em—Planchette and Napoleon Sky, the Indian.”
“Yes, yes! You don't say! So, the Sturgeon Lake trouble has come to that point, has it? I was afraid of it. I knew those fellows were desperate. They gave me a taste to show they meant business.”
“They sure did, Mac. But, say, that isn't the worst. The Old Nick himself is shot up, and hitting the high spots with fever. We're afraid to move him, and—”
“Wh—what's that?” asked a trembling feminine voice from the doorway. “Who did you say had fever?”
During an instant of pregnant silence, the universe stood still for all those there present. The crisis was come more quickly than Donald had expected.
“Well, by heavens, Mac,” blurted out Braithwaite, “I didn't know you did this sort of—er, were away on a vaca—”
“Answer her question,” commanded Donald, bluntly; “and then I'll explain.”
“Oh, yes, who's got the fever? It's the governor, the boss, the factor—er—Mr. Fitzpatrick. It's not what you call dangerous yet, but the chances are good, ma'am. Yes,” he added, with evident relish, “the chances are good.”
The cry that broke from the girl's lips halted any further essays at humor of this sort.
“Shut up, can't you, Braithwaite?” snarled Donald. “Can't you see it's Miss Fitzpatrick, and that she wants to know about her father?
“Not the lost one, Mac?”
“Yes, the lost one; I found her, or, rather, we met here quite by accident, with nothing on earth but the clothes we stood in, and a knife and an ax. We've been kicking along the best we could ever since in this cabin. That's all there is to it. Now what about the factor?
“Well, it was this way, Mac. There was a lively little argument goin' on out front, where some of our boys were tryin' to capture some of their'n. You see, the factor thought, if we captured those fellers, and brought 'em back to the fort prisoners, it would end the free tradin'. As I say, there had been quite a little argument out front, and the factor, he didn't like the way things were goin'—got a little r'iled, as he sometimes does, you remember. We-ell, darned if he didn't start out to tell 'em how to do it, when somebody plugs him with a rifle bullet in the collar-bone, and that's the end of his fightin' for a while. Of course, he's big and heavy and gettin' old, so the fever that set in came to be the most important part of the wound, but they think he'll pull through.”
“Of course, Dr. Craven from the fort is there?” queried Jean, from the door.
“Yes, ma'am, he went along with the expedition, and it's good he did.”
“How is the situation down there now?” Donald questioned.
“Well, for our side, it ain't no more'n so-so,” was the somber admission; “an' mebbe that's stretchin' it.”
After a little more general conversation, Braithwaite, with his sick, made camp a short distance from the cabin, stoutly refusing Jean's proffered hospitality, and the two castaways once more returned inside, and took their places by the fire.
“Well, princess, that changes matters doesn't it?
“Yes, Donald. At least it changes directions.”
“What do you mean?
“That I must go to Sturgeon Lake and father, to-morrow. Of course, you have already decided to head that way.”
“Yes, but I feel that you ought to go on to the fort with Braithwaite's party, and not down into the danger zone, where anything may happen to you.”
“I know it, dear boy,” Jean answered, firmly. “But I can't leave father as sick as that to the tender care of a lot of fighting trappers. Can't you see my position? He's all alone there, and I'd like to know what kind of a daughter I'd be to turn my back and travel the other way!”
Donald ceased to resist, for he realized she was taking the only course open to a girl of courage and spirit.
“So, we travel southwest instead of northwest to-morrow,” she mused, after a while.
“Right into the deuce's own kettle of trouble,” prophesied Donald. “But now, princess, we had better turn in, for the going will be hard.”
Two hours before dawn, both camps were astir. Braithwaite and Donald, both in need of something, met by the former's camp-fire, and bargained. Because of fast traveling, the sick-train had no fresh meat; McTavish had no firearms. In ten minutes, a goodly supply of frozen rabbits had been packed on the north-bound train, and Donald once more caressed the butt of a revolver with one hand and the stock of a rifle with the other. He had promised to return them as soon as possible, along with the pocket compass that one man had yielded up.
The queer little sled that Mistisi hauled became the object of much wit, but it held the pack well, and, shortly before sunrise, the parties waved each other farewell, as they drew farther and farther apart. Just previous to starting the trains, McTavish had drawn Braithwaite aside, and requested silence for himself and men in regard to the secret he had discovered, out of regard to Jean.
“Everything will be all right in a few days, and when we reach Fort Severn again you can talk all you wish, for then we'll have been married,” Donald said. Braithwaite agreed without hesitation. He was a middle-aged man who, despite his roughness, had a great fondness for Jean; for a daughter of his, had she lived, would now have been the same age.
Mistisi, with a hoarse bark of joy, leaped into the traces so vigorously that Jean and Donald on their snowshoes had great ado to keep up with him. The wind had not yet melted the crust, and for three hours they made very fast time.
The distance to Sturgeon Lake Braithwaite had verified as being fifty miles. He had also given McTavish explicit directions where to find the camp of the men from Fort Severn, outlining the positions of the enemy, and describing the main features of the situation. Donald thought that, with good luck and good surfaces, they ought to make the lake that night. If not, he was prepared to camp in the woods... In later years, he was sometimes asked why he waited two weeks in the cabin if the lake was only a day's journey away, and to this he replied that he was not sure of his bearings or distances, and had no firearms wherewith to protect himself from wild beasts, which at this season of the year were hungriest and boldest. That he had at last decided to go at all was only for the sake of Jean: he preferred to expose her to the teeth of animals rather than to the tongues of men.
Although he tempered the speed to Jean's abilities, by noontime Donald found the girl exhausted, and biting her lips in the effort to keep up. He at once ordered a halt, and, as quickly as possible, made a fire and tea, adding to this slendermenuboiled fish. Not until he saw the warm color glow once more in her cheeks did he cease to ply her with food and drink.
Then, he took the light pack from the little sledge, fastened the forehead straps around it, and tucked Jean in its place. The crust had begun to melt shortly before noon, and Mistisi had broken through. Now, the pathetic animal lay down on his back and held his feet in the air, “wooffing” gently to attract attention. His master examined him, and found that his foot-cushions were worn thin, and that the membrane between the toes had broken and bled, leaving a trail behind.
Here was an opportunity to use some of Jean's primitive needle work. McTavish took from his pocket four little rabbit-skin dog-shoes, and tied them on Mistisi's feet with soft thongs of the same material. The animal, with a bark of pleasure, leaped to his feet, and was off on the trail before the man could swing his pack into place.
Then began the final stage. Donald figured that they had done more than half the distance in the morning, but the breaking crust made harder going now, and their progress was much slower. Not until the sun wheeled under the horizon would things solidify again. In the middle of the morning, they had crossed the main north branch of the Sachigo River. The middle of the afternoon should bring them to the westerly tributary that fed this branch. That passed, only small occasional streams would interrupt their progress to Sturgeon Lake.
True to reckoning, they found the west tributary, and set out for the last reach of their journey. Donald consulted the landmarks he knew, and laid their course toward the eastern shore, midway the length of the lake, the spot Braithwaite had mentioned as the camp. They still had twelve miles or so before them, and a preliminary chill gave warning of sunset. An hour before, Jean had insisted on running again, and the pack was once more on the sledge.
Although he said nothing about it, Donald was worried. That little trail of blood which Mistisi had left behind furnished food for serious anxiety. Had not Jean's exhaustion given him concern at noon, he would have noticed it long before. He centered his attention upon the nervous ears of Mistisi—ears that would have the forest sounds long before his own. Unobtrusively, he used every means of increasing speed and shortening distance... For an hour, they crunched over the hardening crust. The shadows that had kept pace with them commenced to grow dim. Only five miles more!
Suddenly, the ears of Mistisi twitched nervously, and from the hollow of his great chest came a gruff, questioning rumble. What was it he had heard? The mighty muscles rippled and ran under his skin as he strained at the traces, but there was no looking back.
Fifteen minutes later brought them to a broad expanse of clear snow. Three miles beyond, the forest that edged Sturgeon Lake loomed dimly. If they could but reach that shelter, the race would be safely over. Twice, Mistisi rumbled hoarsely to himself, and then growled savagely, his hackles beginning to stiffen.
“What is the matter with him?” asked Jean.
“Listen!” Disengaging their ears from the noise of travel, they suddenly heard a sound behind them, deep and faint as from a hunting dog in distant cover. McTavish paused a moment to look behind, and on the snow where it touched the forest they had left, descried a dark, moving mass, with dark specks flanking it to either side. Again, to them came the faint sound, an echo thrown from the resonant face of the woods.
“Wolves!” cried Donald, sharply. “And on our trail! Run, Jean, as you have never run before. If we can make cover, we're safe... Mistisi, mush on, you fiend, or I'll break your back!”
But the dog needed no bidding—he had sensed the danger long since. His swift trot broke into a lumbering lope.
The man swiftly took in the situation. They were in the middle of the snow-plain. There is but one defense against wolves—fire, and here there was no wood of any sort. Only one course was open to them, to go on. Their breath steamed back into their faces in clouds; the slide and crunch of snow-shoes, and the creaking of the sledge sounded under foot. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the early darkness had come swiftly marching down from the north, bringing in its train the fickle, inconstant beauty of the aurora. Great streamers of color shot silently from horizon to zenith, and flickered with eerie dimness across the white gleam of the snow.
But Donald did not see these things. In his ears was but one sound, the baying of the wolf-pack on the hunt. He could almost see them come, red tongues slavering between white fangs, gray shoulders rising and falling in uneven rhythm, great, gray brushes flowing straight out behind... He looked back. They had gained; they traveled almost two feet to his one. Yet, if there were no accident it was possible he could reach the forest.
“Damnation!”
Crying to Jean to go on, he halted and stooped over his snowshoes, the slip-strings of which had loosened. In a minute, he was up again and off, sliding, leaping from hummock to hummock, glissading down the little inclines, speeding like a winged Mercury of the North. How he could run, if alone! In five minutes, he caught the dog and Jean, and accommodated his pace to theirs.
Now, the forest was a bare half-mile ahead, the pack but a half-mile behind. The baying was near now, loud, exultant, terrifying. Perhaps, the huge leader had sighted the swiftly flying figures on the snow.
“Donald! I can't go a step farther. Go on, and leave me!”
Suffocated with her own breathing, each foot seemingly lead, each muscle and tendon a hot wire, Jean stumbled feebly where she ran. Donald caught her, and halted the dog, that shook with his panting like an engine after a long run. Two seconds, and the pack was cut loose, and lay upon the snow. Two more, and Jean was on the sledge. Another, and they were away again, with the forest in plain sight now.
Fighting the hardest battle of all was Mistisi. Every steam-soaked hair along his great back was erect; every other breath was a snarl; every instinct in his fearless nature called for the struggle of fangs against fangs for the protection of his master—the master that had once saved his life. Big as any wolf, he was the match of any, and his nature did not take into account the odds against him.
But his master had said to mush on, in words of great emphasis; so he crushed back all the battle-fury in his pounding heart, and mushed as he had never mushed before.
There was a pause, as the wolves stopped, and rifled the sledge-pack —a brief pause filled with horrid snarls and yelps. Then, the steady, resonant baying again, louder and more triumphant, seemingly at the very heels of the fugitives. A hundred yards away the woods stood, impersonal witnesses of the struggle; three hundred yards behind, the leader of the pack fixed his gleaming green eye upon the quarry, and let out the last link in his tireless muscles.
Donald realized now what he had feared for the last half-mile—that, even were the woods reached safely, to build a fire would be out of the question. It must be a fight to the death, and he could foresee but one result. For himself, he did not mind. He had brushed with death too many times to fear its coming. But Jean! What terror must be hers, to whom the bitter truths of the forest trails were new! He only hoped she did not remember that wolves tear before they kill.
Drawing his revolver, he handed it to her, and she, without a second's wait, turned round, and fired into the thick pack. She was a good shot, and every bullet told. At the same time, Donald lifted his rifle, and pumped five smoking shells while he ran, pulling the trigger as fast as he could, and firing into the air, since he dared not turn.
Now, they had gained the forest, and Mistisi, responding to the cry of “chaw,” swerved to the right into the shelter of a breastwork of underbrush. In a few seconds, with the brush behind them, and the upturned sledge before, they awaited the attack.
Round the point of the cover rushed the leaders, and two fell snarling beneath the mass of those that followed. In the struggle over the bodies, others fell, but the main pack swerved wide, and commenced their circling attack.