When Stonor reined up alongside the little stream not a soul was stirring outside the tepees. He had at least succeeded in taking them by surprise. The first man who stuck his head out, aroused by the dogs, was, to his astonishment, white. But when Stonor got a good look at him he could scarcely credit his eyes. It was none other than Hooliam, the handsome young blackguard he had deported from Carcajou Point two months before. Seeing the policeman, Hooliam hastily made to withdraw his head, but Stonor ordered him out in no uncertain terms. He obeyed with his inimitable insolent grin.
Stonor dismounted, letting his reins hang. The well-trained horse stood where he left him. “What are you doing here?” the policeman demanded.
“Just travelling,” drawled Hooliam. “Any objection?”
“I’ll take up your case later. First I want the white man Ernest Imbrie. Which tepee is he in?”
Hooliam stared, and a peculiar grin wreathed itself around his lips. “I’ve seen no white man here,” he said. “Except myself. They call me a white man.” He spoke English without a trace of the red man’s clipped idiom.
Stonor’s glance of scorn was significant. It meant: “What are you doing in the tepees, then?”
But the other was quite unabashed. “I’ll get Myengeen for you,” he said, turning to go.
He seemed a bit too eager. Stonor laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You stay where you are.”
Meanwhile the little Kakisas had begun to appear from the tepees, the men hanging back bashfully, thewomen and children peering from under flaps and under the edges of the tepees, with scared eyes.
“I want Myengeen,” said Stonor to the nearest man.
All heads turned to a figure crossing the stream. Stonor waited for him, keeping an eye on Hooliam meanwhile. The individual who approached was a little larger than the average of the Kakisas; well-favoured, and with a great shock of blue-black hair hanging to his neck. He was quite sprucely dressed in store clothes. His close-set eyes and extremely short upper lip gave him a perpetual sneer. He had the walled look of a bold child caught in mischief. He came up to Stonor and offered his hand with a defiant air, saying: “How!”
Stonor shook hands with him, affecting not to notice the signs of truculence. The other Indians, encouraged by the presence of their head man, drew closer.
“I want Ernest Imbrie,” Stonor said sternly. “Where is he?”
Myengeen could speak no English, but the spoken name and the tone were significant enough. He fell back a step, and scowled at Stonor as if he suspected him of a desire to make fun of him. Then his eyes went involuntarily to Hooliam. Stonor, following his glance, was struck by the odd, self-conscious leer on Hooliam’s comely face. Suddenly it flashed on him that this was his man. His face went blank with astonishment. The supposed Hooliam laughed outright.
“IsthisImbrie??” cried Stonor.
Myengeen nodded sullenly.
Hooliam said something in Kakisa that caused the surrounding Indians to grin covertly.
And in truth there was a comic aspect to Stonor’s dismay. His brain was whirling. This hardy young villain married to the exquisite Clare! This the saviour of the Indians! This the high-minded gentleman whose diary Clare had read to him! It was inexplicable. Yet Stonor suddenly remembered Hooliam’s curiosity concerning the reports that were in circulation about the White Medicine Man; this was understandable now. But how could Clare have so stooped——? Well, it must be left to time to unravel.
He pulled himself together. “So you’re Imbrie,” he said grimly.
“That was my dad’s name,” was the impudent reply.
“I’ll have to trouble you to take a journey with me.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Oh, we merely want to look into your doings up here.”
“You have no right to arrest me without some evidence of wrong-doing.”
“Well, I’m going to arrest you anyhow, and take my chances of proving something on you.”
Hooliam scowled and pulled at his lip.
Stonor thought: “You’d give a lot to know how much I know, my man!”
Myengeen addressed Imbrie. Stonor watched him narrowly. He could only understand one word, the man’s name, “Eembrie,” but Myengeen’s whole attitude to the other was significant. There was respect in it; admiration, not unmixed with awe. Stonor wondered afresh. Clearly there could be no doubt this was their White Medicine Man.
Imbrie said to Stonor, with his cynical laugh: “I suppose you want to know what he’s saying. I don’t understand it all. I’m just learning their lingo. But he’s offering me the homage of the tribe or something like that.”
“It’s more than you deserve,” thought Stonor. Aloud he said: “Imbrie, if you do what I tell you you can ride as you are. But if you want to make trouble I’ll have to tie you up. So take your choice.”
“Oh, I don’t hanker after any hempen bracelets,” said Imbrie. “What do you want of me?”
“First of all order somebody to bring out all your gear and spread it on the ground.”
“That’s not much,” said Imbrie. By word and by sign he communicated the order to one of the Kakisas. It seemed to Stonor that something was reserved.
The Indian disappeared in the tepee and presently returned with Imbrie’s “bed,” that is to say, a pair of heavy blankets and a small, grimy pillow, and Imbrie’s hatchet.
“That’s all I brought,” said Imbrie, “except a little dried moose-meat, and that’s eaten up.”
“I want your gun,” said Stonor.
“Didn’t bring any.”
“Then what are you wearing a cartridge-belt for?” Imbrie shrugged airily.
“Produce your gun, or I’ll tie you up, and search for it myself.”
Imbrie spoke, and the Kakisa disappeared again, returning with a revolver, which he handed to Stonor. Stonor was careful not to betray the grim satisfaction he experienced at the sight of it. It was of thirty-eight calibre, the same as the bullet that reposed in his pocket. While not conclusive, perhaps, this was strong evidence. Since he had seen this man he had lost his dread of bringing the crime home to him. He wished to convict him now. He dropped the revolver in his side pocket, and held out his hand for the ammunition-belt, which was handed over.
“Now get a horse,” he said.
Myengeen objected with violent shakes of the head.
“He says he’s got no horses to hand over,” said Imbrie, grinning.
“Make him understand that I will give a receipt for the horse. If it is not returned the company will pay in trade.”
“No spare horses,” he says.
“Let him give you the horse you came on.”
“I walked.”
Stonor did not believe this for a moment. “Very well then, you can walk back,” he said coolly.
Imbrie thought better of this. He entered into a colloquy with Myengeen which eventually resulted in a horse being caught and led up and saddled. Stonor gave a receipt for it as promised. Myengeen handled the bit of paper fearfully.
“Now mount!” said Stonor.
“Aren’t you going to let me have my breakfast?”
“We’ll spell beside the trail.”
Myengeen became visibly excited and began to harangue Imbrie in a fiery style, with sidelong looks at the policeman. Stonor out of the tail of his eye saw answering scowls gather on the faces of the other Indians as they listened. Myengeen’s gestures were significant; with a sweep of his arm he called attention to the number of his followers, and then pointed to Stonor, who was but one.
Imbrie said with a sneering laugh: “He’s telling me that I have only to say the word, and you’ll never take me.”
“Rubbish!” said Stonor coolly. “Men do not oppose the police.”
They could not understand the words, but the tone intimidated them. Their eyes bolted as he looked sternly from man to man. He saw that look of angry pain come into their eyes that he knew in their race. It was not that they did not wish to defy him, but they dared not, and they knew they dared not.
“Oh, I’m helping you out, old man,” said Imbrie, with airy impudence. “I’m telling them I don’t mind going with you, because you’ve got nothing in the world against me. I’m going to give them some good advice now. Listen.”
He did indeed address Myengeen earnestly at some length. Stonor could not guess what he was saying,for he used no gestures. He saw that it was true Imbrie was unpractised in their tongue, for he spoke with difficulty, hesitating for words, and they had to pay close attention to get his meaning. Myengeen listened with a face as inscrutable as Imbrie’s own. At the end he nodded with an expression of approval, and bent a queer look on Stonor that the trooper was unable to fathom.
Imbrie then tied his bed behind his saddle and swung himself on the horse. Stonor signed to him to start first, and they trotted out from among the tepees. Stonor sat stiffly with the butt of his gun on his thigh, and disdained to look around. The instant they got in motion a wailing sound swept from tepee to tepee. Stonor wondered greatly at the hold this fellow had obtained over the simple people; even the Kakisas, it seemed to him, should have been able to see that he was no good.
They trotted smartly over the first ridge and out of sight. A long, grassy bottom followed. When they had put what Stonor considered a safe distance between them and the village, he called a halt. Picketing the horses, and building a fire, he set about preparing their simple meal. Imbrie seemed willing enough to do his share of unpacking, fetching wood and water, etc.; indeed in his cynical way he was almost good-natured.
As they sat over their meal he said tauntingly: “Why are you afraid to tell me what the charge is against me?”
Stonor had no intention of letting out what he knew. He figured that Imbrie’s mind was probably perfectly at ease regarding the murder—always supposing there had been a murder—because he could not possibly guess that the body had not been carried over the falls. He retorted: “If your conscience is easy, what do you care what charge is made?”
“Naturally I want to know why I’m obliged to upset all my plans to make this journey.”
“There is no charge yet.”
“But when you bring me in you’ll have to make some kind of a charge.”
“Oh, I suppose they’ll merely ask you to explain your business up here.”
“And if I stand on my rights as a free man, and refuse to tell my business?”
Stonor shrugged. “That’s not up to me. I shan’t be the one to question you.”
“Is it a crime to live alone?”
“No. But why did you run away when I came to see you?”
“I didn’t run away.”
“Don’t know what you call it, then. When you saw us coming you hid in a tree.”
“Who was us?” asked Imbrie, with a leer.
Stonor could not bring himself to name Clare’s name to the man. “I think you know,” he said quietly. “When night came you fell or jumped out of the tree, and took to the bush. Later you attempted to sneak into the house——”
“Well, it was my own house, wasn’t it?”
“Sure, that’s what puzzles me. What were you afraid of? Then when the Indian woman screamed you lit out for the beach, and beat it up the river.”
“Well, was that a crime?”
“No, only a suspicious circumstance. Frankly, now, don’t you consider yourself a suspicious character?”
“Oh, it’s your business to suspect everybody!”
“Well, when I first met you, why did you lie to me concerning your identity?”
“I didn’t lie. I just kept the truth to myself.”
“You told me your name was Hooliam.”
“Can’t a man have more than one baptismal name?”
“Is it Ernest William, or William Ernest?” asked Stonor mockingly.
“I shan’t tell you. I shan’t tell you anything aboutmyself until I know what I’m wanted for. I suppose that’s my right, isn’t it?”
“Sure!” said Stonor good-naturedly. “Anything you like. Travellers must be saying something to each other.”
But Imbrie was not content to let the matter drop. There was a little gnawing anxiety somewhere. He burst out: “And have I got to put myself to the trouble of taking this long journey, just because you’re too thick-witted to understand my perfectly natural motives?”
“Put it that way if you like,” said Stonor, grinning. “The policearethick sometimes in dealing with clever fellows like you.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I came up to this country because I choose to live alone. My reasons are my own affair. I’m not wanted by the police of this or any other country. But I don’t choose to be spied on and followed up. That’s why I got out of the way.”
“Did you live alone down there?” asked Stonor casually.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there was that lady who left Carcajou Point with you.”
“Oh, that was just a temporary affair,” said Imbrie, with a leer.
Stonor, thinking of Clare, could have struck him for it. With an effort he swallowed his rage. “Did you never have any visitors?” he asked coolly.
Imbrie favoured him with a lightning glance. “What put that idea into your head?”
Stonor lied in the good cause. “One of the Indians said you had a visitor.”
“When?”
“Just a few days before we went down.”
“What kind of visitor?”
“A man much like yourself,” said Stonor.
Imbrie lost his grin for the moment. “It’s a lie,” he said thickly.
“Oh, well, it’s no crime to have a visitor,” said Stonor smoothly.
Imbrie saw his mistake, and quickly commanded himself. He laughed easily. “Just my way,” he said. “I’m cracked on the subject of living alone.”
They had to spell at short intervals during the day, for Stonor’s horse was growing very tired. Whenever they halted they began to fence with words in much the same way, each trying to discover the other’s weak joint without letting down his own guard. It seemed to Stonor that, under his cynical insolence, his prisoner was growing ever more anxious.
On one occasion Imbrie said with a careless air: “Did you see the big falls when you were down the river?”
“No,” said Stonor instantly.
“Very fine sight.”
It occurred to Stonor that a certain amount of curiosity on his part would appear natural. “What are they like?”
Imbrie looked at him through slightly narrowed lids. “Big horse-shoe effect. The water falls all around in a sort of half-circle, and there are tremendous rocks below. The water falls on the rocks.”
This description sounded purposely misleading. The place, of course, was not like that at all. Stonor thought: “What does he tell me that for? Living there all that time, it isn’t possible he hasn’t seen the falls. In his diary he mentioned going there.” Suddenly the explanation came to him. “I know! He’s trying to tempt me to call him a liar, and then he’ll know I’ve been there.”
“Must be great!” he said offhand.
During the last spell Imbrie slept part of the time. Stonor dared not close his eyes, though he needed sleepsorely. He sat smoking and watching Imbrie, trying to speculate on what lay behind that smooth, comely mask.
“It’s like a book I read once,” he thought. “A man had two natures in him, one good, one bad. At one time the good nature would have the upper hand; at another time the bad. He was like two entirely different people. A case of double personality, they called it. It must be something like that with this man. Clare married the good man in him, and the bad turned up later. No doubt that was why she left him. Then the good man reappeared, and she felt she had done him a wrong. It explains everything.”
But a theory may work too perfectly to fit the haphazard facts of life. There was still the dead man to be explained. And a theory, however perfect, did not bring him any nearer to solving the personal problems concerned. What was one to do with a man who was at once sane and irresponsible? He could give up Clare like a man, he told himself, if it were necessary to her happiness; but to give her up to this——! He jumped up and shook himself with the gesture that was becoming habitual. He could not allow himself to dwell on that subject; frenzy lay that way.
They had struck off from the main trail between the two Indian villages, and were within a mile or two of Stonor’s camp. Their pace was slow, for the going was bad, and Stonor’s horse was utterly jaded. The trooper’s face was set in grim lines. He was thinking of the scene that waited ahead.
Imbrie, too, had the grace to look anxious and downcast. He had been exasperatingly chipper all the way, until it had occurred to him just now to ask Stonor what he had done with the women. Upon learning that they were waiting just ahead, his feathers drooped. A whine crept into his voice, and, without saying anything definite, he began to hedge in an odd way.
“The truth about this case hasn’t come out yet,” he said.
“I never thought it had,” said Stonor.
“Well, a man under arrest has the right to lie to protect his interests, at least until he has the opportunity to consult a lawyer.”
“Sure, and an officer has the right to draw his own inferences from the lies.”
“Hell! I don’t care what you think. As you said, you’re not going to try me.”
“When did you lie to me?”
“Well, if I thought it necessary to lie to you awhile ago, I’m not going to tell the truth now.”
“All right. Why bring the matter up?”
“I just wanted to warn you not to jump to conclusions.”
The trooper was dead tired, and dead sick of gazing at the smooth, evil face of his companion. “Oh, go to hell!” he said. “You talk too much!”
Imbrie subsided into a sullen silence.
Stonor thought: “For some reason he’s afraid of meeting Clare. I suppose that’s natural enough when he’s like this. He must know what’s the matter with him. Probably he hates everything connected with his better side. Well, if he doesn’t want Clare it may simplify matters.” Thus he was still making his theory work.
At last they came out from among the trees, and the little grassy valley of the Meander lay below them. There were the three little tents pitched on the other side of the stream, and the four horses quietly grazing in the bottom. Mary was baking bread at the fire. It was a picture of peace, and Stonor’s first anxiety for their safety was relieved.
He had not the heart to hail them; they would see soon enough. And almost immediately Mary did look up and see the two horsemen. She spoke over her shoulder, and Clare quickly appeared from her tent. The two women awaited them motionless.
Imbrie still rode ahead, hunched in his saddle. He glanced over his shoulder, and Stonor saw that a sickly yellow tint had crept under his skin. He looked at Stonor’s failing horse. Suddenly he clapped heels to his own beast, and, jerking the animal’s head round, circled Stonor and attempted to regain the trail behind him. He evidently counted on the fact that the policeman would be unable to follow.
To urge his spent beast to a run would only have been to provoke a fall. Stonor made no attempt to follow. Pulling his horse round, he whipped up his gun and fired into the air. It was sufficient. Imbriepulled up. Stonor possessed himself of the other’s bridle-rein and turned him round again. They said nothing to each other.
They splashed across the shallow ford. On the other side Stonor curtly bade Imbrie to dismount and ungirth. He did likewise. Clare and Mary awaited their coming at a few paces’ distance. Clare’s eyes were fixed on Imbrie with a painful intensity. Curiosity and apprehension were blended in her gaze. Imbrie avoided looking at her as long as possible.
They turned out the weary beasts to the grass, and Stonor marched his prisoner up to Clare—there was no use trying to hedge with what had to be gone through.
“Here is Imbrie,” he said laconically.
The man moistened his dry lips, and mustered a kind of bravado. “Hello, Clare!” he said flippantly.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Stonor—dreading her answer.
“No—I don’t know—perhaps,” she stammered. “I feel that I have seen him before somewhere.”
Imbrie’s face underwent an extraordinary change. He stared at Clare dumbfounded.
“You’re sure,” murmured Clare uncertainly to Stonor.
“Oh, yes, this is the Kakisas’ White Medicine Man.”
Imbrie turned sharply to Stonor. “What’s the matter with her?” he demanded.
“She’s temporarily lost her memory.”
“Lost her memory!” echoed Imbrie incredulously. He stared at Clare with sharp, eager eyes that transfixed her like a spear. She turned away to escape it. Imbrie drew a long breath, the ruddy colour returned to his cheeks, the old impudent grin wreathed itself about his lips once more.
“Too bad!” he said, with a leer. “You don’t recognize your hubby!”
Clare shrank back, and involuntarily flung an arm up over her face.
Stonor saw red. “Hold your tongue!” he cried, suddenly beside himself.
Imbrie cringed from the clenched fist. “Can’t a man speak to his wife?” he snarled.
“Speak to her with respect, or I’ll smash you!”
“You daren’t! You’ve got to treat me well. It’s regulations.”
“Damn the regulations! You mind what I tell you!”
Imbrie looked from one to another with insufferable malice. “Ah! So that’s the way the wind lies,” he drawled.
Stonor turned on his heel and walked away, grinding his teeth in the effort to get a grip on himself.
Imbrie was never one to forego such an advantage. He looked from one to another with bright, spiteful eyes. When Stonor came back he said:
“You must excuse me if I gave you a turn. To tell the truth, a man forgets how attractive his wife is. I’m sorry I had to turn up, old man. Perhaps you didn’t know that she had a Mrs. to her name. She took back her maiden name, they told me.”
“I knew it very well,” said Stonor. “Since before we started to look for you.”
“Well, if you knew it, that’s your look-out,” said Imbrie. “You can’t say I didn’t do my best to keep out of your way.”
This was intolerable. Stonor suddenly bethought himself what to do. In a low voice he bade Mary bring him the tracking-line. Imbrie, who stood stroking his chin and surveying them with the air of master of the situation, lost countenance when he saw the rope. Stonor cut off an end of it.
“What’s that for?” demanded Imbrie.
“Turn round and put your hands behind you,” said the policeman.
Imbrie defiantly folded his arms.
Stonor smiled. “If you resist my orders,” he said softly, “there is no need for me to hold my hand.—Put your hands behind you!” he suddenly rasped.
Imbrie thought better to obey. Stonor bound his wrists firmly together. He then led Imbrie a hundred yards from their camp, and, making him sit in the grass, tied his ankles and invited him to meditate.
“I’ll get square with you for this, old man!” snarled Imbrie. “You had no right to tie me up!”
“I didn’t like the style of your conversation,” said Stonor coolly.
“You’re damn right, you didn’t! You snivelling preacher! You snooper after other men’s wives! Oh, I’ve got you where I want you now! Any charge you bring against me will look foolish when I tell them——”
“Tell them what?”
“Tell them you’re after her!”
Stonor walked away and left the man.
Clare still stood in the same place like a carven woman. She waited for him with wide, harassed eyes. As he came to her she said simply:
“This is worse than I expected.”
“The man is not right in his head!” said Stonor. “There is something queer. Don’t pay any attention to him. Don’t think of him.”
“But I must think of him; I can’t escape it. What do you mean by not right?”
“A screw loose somewhere. What they call a case of double personality, perhaps. It is the only way to reconcile what you told me about him and what we see.”
Clare’s glance was turned inward in the endeavour to solve the riddle of her own blind spot. She said slowly: “I have known him somewhere; I am sure ofthat. But he is strange to me. He makes my blood run cold. I cannot explain it.”
“Do not brood on it,” urged Stonor.
She transferred her thoughts to Stonor. “You look utterly worn out. Will you sleep now?”
“Yes. We won’t leave here until morning. My horse must have a good rest.”
“You’d wait for him, but not for yourself!”
“Tole ought to be along in the morning to help pack, and to guard the prisoner.”
Before Stonor had a chance to lie down, Imbrie called him. There was a propitiatory note in his voice.
The trooper went to him. “What do you want?” he asked sternly.
“Say, I’m sorry I riled you, Sergeant,” said Imbrie with a grin. “I was a bit carried off my feet by the situation. I’ll be more careful hereafter. Untie this damned rope, will you?”
Stonor slowly shook his head. “I think we’re both better off with a little distance between us.”
Imbrie repented of his honeyed tones. His lip curled back. But he made an effort to control himself. “Aren’t you afraid your spotless reputation will suffer?” he asked, sneering.
“Not a bit!” said Stonor promptly.
Imbrie was taken aback. “Well—can I speak to my wife for a minute?” he asked sullenly.
Stonor observed, wincing, how he loved to bring out the word “wife.” “That’s up to her,” he answered. “I’ll put it to her.”
Returning to Clare, he said: “He wants to speak to you.”
She shrank involuntarily. “What should I do, Martin?”
“I see nothing to be gained by it,” said Stonor quickly.
“But if, as you say, in a way he’s sick, perhaps I ought——”
“He’s not too sick to have a devil in him. Leave him alone!”
She shook her head. She was gaining in firmness. “It won’t hurt me to hear what he has to say. It may throw some light on the situation.”
“I doubt it,” said Stonor. “His object is to raise as much dust as possible. But go ahead. If he’s insulting, leave him instantly. And don’t let him know what I suspect him of.”
She went, and Stonor walked up and down in the grass in a fever until she returned. She was with Imbrie some little time. Stonor could not guess of what they talked. Clare’s white composed face, and Imbrie’s invariable grin, told him nothing.
The instant she came towards him he burst out: “He didn’t annoy you?”
She shook her head. “No, he seemed quite anxious to please. He apologized for what he said before.”
Stonor said, blushing and scowling: “Perhaps you do not care to tell me what you——”
“Certainly!” she said, with a quick look. “Don’t be silly, Martin. It was just what you might expect. Nothing important. He asked me dozens of questions as to what we did down the river.”
“You did not tell him?”
“How could I? Apparently he is greatly puzzled by my condition. He seems not fully to believe, or at least he pretends not to believe, that I cannot remember. He tried to work on my feelings to get you to liberate him. And of course he was most anxious to know what he was wanted for. I told him I could not interfere in your affairs, that’s all.”
Stonor nodded.
“Martin,” she said, with the withdrawn look thathe had marked before, “I cannot remember anything, yet I am conscious of a deep resentment against this man. At some time in the past he has injured me cruelly, I am sure.—Yet I told you I had injured him, didn’t I?” She passed a hand across her face. “It is very puzzling.”
“Don’t worry!” he said cheerily. “It’s bound to be made clear in the end.”
“You wish to do all the worrying, don’t you?” she said, with a wry smile.
He could not meet her dear eyes. “Worry nothing!” he cried. “I only have one idea in my mind, and that is to get some sleep!” He bustled to get his blankets.
They awoke him for the evening meal. After eating, he inspected his camp, sent Clare to bed, moved Imbrie closer, instructed Mary to keep watch that he did not succeed in freeing himself, and went back to sleep again. Mary was to call him at dawn, and they would take the trail at sunrise.
In the middle of the night he was brought leaping to his feet by a cry out of the dark: a cry that was neither from wolf, coyote, nor screech-owl. Wakened from a deep sleep, his consciousness was aware only of something dreadful. Outside the tent Mary ran to him: her teeth were chattering with terror: she could not speak. Clare crept from her tent. Both women instinctively drew close to their protector.
“What was it?” Clare asked, tremblingly.
A shriek answered her; a dreadful urgent cry of agony that made the whole night shudder. It came from a little way down the trail, from the edge of the woods perhaps, not more than a quarter of a mile away.
“A human voice!” gasped Clare.
“A woman’s!” muttered Stonor grimly.
Again it shattered the stillness, this time more dreadful, for they heard words in their own tongue. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” Then a horrible pause, and with added urgency: “Help! Help!”
“By God! English words!” cried Stonor, astounded.
“Go to her! Go to her!” cried Clare, urging him with her hands.
On the other hand, Mary, falling to her knees, clung to him, fairly gibbering in the extremity of her terror.
Stonor was suspicious, yet every instinct of manliness drew him towards these cries. Under that pull it was impossible to think clearly. He shook Mary off, and started to run. He took three steps and pulled himself up short.
“Look at Imbrie,” he muttered. “Strange he hasn’t wakened.”
It was true the prisoner still lay motionless, entirely covered with his blanket.
“It’s a trick!” said Stonor. “There could be no English woman near here. It’s a trick to draw me out of camp!”
“But none of the Kakisas could speak English,” said Clare.
“I don’t know,” muttered Stonor, in an agony of indecision. “My first duty is here. Look at Mary. She thinks it’s a trick.”
Mary was lying on the ground, muttering a Kakisa word over and over.
“What is it?” Stonor harshly demanded.
“Spirits!” she gasped.
Stonor turned away, flinging his arms up. “Good God! Ghosts again!” he cried, in exasperation.
The dreadful cries were raised again. “Help! Help! He’s killing me!”
“I can’t stand it!” cried Clare. “I must go myself!”
“Stay where you are!” commanded Stonor. “It istoo strange a thing to happen so close to our camp if it was not staged for our benefit!”
Just the same, it was not easy for him to hold himself. When the cries were raised again a deep groan was forced from him:
“If I only had another man!”
“Go! Mary and I will be all right!” said Clare.
“Don’ go! Don’ go!” wailed Mary from the ground.
Stonor shouted into the darkness. “Come this way! Help is here!”
The cries were redoubled.
Imbrie suddenly awoke, and rolled clear of his blanket. “What’s that?” he cried, with an admirable assumption of surprise. “A woman’s voice! A white woman! Why don’t you go to her?”
It was a little too well done; Stonor felt partly reassured.
Imbrie appeared to be struggling desperately in his bonds. “For God’s sake, man!” he cried. “If you won’t go, cut me loose! I can’t stand it!”
“I am sure now,” said Stonor, in a voice of relief. “This was what he fixed up with Myengeen this morning. I ought to have been prepared for it. Mary, help me make up the fire. A blaze will help chase the horrors.”
“Oh, you coward!” taunted Imbrie. “If I had my hands free! This is the famous nerve of the police!”
Stonor could afford to laugh at this. His courage was tried.
The voice came with a fresh note of despair. “He’s taking me away! He’s taking me away! Oh, come! come!” Sure enough the sounds began to recede.
But the spell was broken now. They were only conscious of relief at the prospect of an end to the grim farce.
“Damn clever work here,” said Stonor. “She says the very things that ought to pull the hardest.”
“Where could they have got the English words?” said Clare.
“Search me! It’s another mystery to add to what’s facing us.”
Meanwhile the flames were beginning to lick the twigs that Mary placed with trembling hands.
“If we make a big fire won’t it reveal us to them?” said Clare nervously.
“They won’t shoot,” said Stonor contemptuously. “Stage business is more their line; conjure-tricks.”
Imbrie, seeing that the game was up, had given over trying to taunt Stonor, and lay watching them with an unabashed grin. He seemed rather proud of his scheme, though it had failed.
“Can I smoke?” he said.
“Mary, fill his pipe, and stick it in his mouth,” said Stonor.
They heaped up a big fire, and at Stonor’s initiative, sat around it clearly revealed in the glare. He knew his Indians. At first Clare trembled, thinking of the possible hostile eyes gazing at them from beyond the radius of light, but Stonor’s coolness was infectious. He joked and laughed, and, toasting slices of bacon, handed them round.
“We can eat all we want to-night,” he said. “Tole will be along with a fresh supply to-morrow.”
Imbrie lay about fifteen paces from the fire, near enough to make himself unpleasant, if not to hear what was said. “Mighty brave man by the fire,” he sneered.
Stonor answered mildly. “One more remark like that, my friend, and I’ll have to retire you again from good society.”
Imbrie held his tongue thereafter.
Clare, wishing to show Stonor that she too could set an example of coolness, said: “Let’s sing something.”
But Stonor shook his head. “That would look as if we were trying to keep our courage up,” he said, smiling, “and of course it is up. But let Mary tell us a story to pass the time.”
Mary, having reflected that it was her own people and not ghostly visitants that had made the hideous interruption in the night, had regained her outward stolidity. She was not in the humour for telling stories, though.
“My mout’ too dry,” she said.
“Go ahead,” coaxed Stonor. “You know your own folks better than I do. You know that if we sit here by the fire, eating, talking, and laughing like a pleasant company, it will put respect into their hearts. They’ll have no appetite for further devilry.”
“Can’t tell stories,” she said. “Too late, too dark, too scare. Words won’t come.”
“Just tell us why the rabbits have a black spot on their backs. That’s a short one.”
After a little more urging Mary began in her stolid way:
“One tam Old Man him travel in the bush. Hear ver’ queer singin’. Never hear not’ing like that before. Look all round see where it come. Wah! he see cottontail rabbits singing and making medicine. They mak’ fire. Got plenty hot ashes. They lie down in those ashes and sing, and another rabbit cover them up with ashes. They not stay there ver’ long for cause those ashes moch hot.
“Old Man say: ‘Little brothers, that is wonderful how you lie down in those hot ashes without burning. Show me how to do it.’
“Rabbits say: ‘Come on, Old Man. We show you how. You got sing our song, only stay in ashes littlewhile.’ So Old Man begin to sing, and he lie down, and they cover him with ashes. Him not burn at all.
“He say: ‘That is ver’ nice. You sure got ver’ strong medicine. Now I want do it myself. You lie down, and I cover you up.’
“So rabbits all lie down in ashes, and Old Man cover them up. Then he put the whole fire over them. Only one old rabbit get out. Old Man catch her and go put her back, but she say: ‘Pity me, my children soon be born.’
“Old Man say: ‘All right, I let you go, so there is plenty more rabbits bam-bye. But I will cook these nicely and have a feast.’ And he put more wood on the fire. When those rabbits cooked nice, he cut red willow bush and lay them on to cool. Grease soak into those branches; that is why when you hold red willow to the fire you see grease on the bark. You can see too, since that time, how rabbits got burnt place on their back. That is where the one that got away was singed.
“Old Man sit down waitin’ for rabbits to cool a little. His mouth is wet for to taste them. Coyote come along limpin’ ver’ bad. Say: ‘Pity me, Old Man, you got plenty cooked rabbits, give me one.’
“Old Man say: ‘Go along! You too lazy catch your dinner, I not help you!’
“Coyote say: ‘My leg broke. I can’t catch not’ing. I starving. Just give me half a rabbit.’
“Old Man say: ‘I don’t care if you die. I work hard to cook all these rabbits. I will not give away. But I tell you what we do. We run a race to that big hill way off there. If you beat me I give you a rabbit.’
“Coyote say: ‘All right.’ So they start run. Old Man run ver’ fast. Coyote limp along close behind. Then coyote turn round and run back very fast. Him not lame at all. Tak’ Old Man long tam to get back.Jus’ before he get there coyote swallow las’ rabbit, and trot away over the prairie with his tail up.
“That is the end.”
Stonor laughed. “That’s the kind of story I like. No cut and dried moral!”
Mary never could be got to see anything funny in the stories she told. Just what her attitude was towards them the whites could not guess.
“Give us another about Old Man,” Stonor went on. “A longer one. Tell how Old Man made medicine. A crackerjack!”
Clare looked at him wonderingly. If he were aware of the weirdness of their situation no sign betrayed it. The crackling flames mounted straight in the air, the smoke made a pillar reaching into the darkness. Fifteen paces from Stonor lay his prisoner, staring unwinkingly at him with eyes that glittered with hatred; and from all around them in the darkness perhaps scores of their enemies were watching.
Mary stolidly began again:
“It was long tam ago before the white man come. The people not have horses then. Kakisas hunt on the great prairie that touch the sky all around. Many buffalo had been killed. The camp was full of meat. Great sheets hung in the lodges and on the racks outside to smoke. Now the meat was all cut up and the women were working on the hides. Cure some for robes. Scrape hair from some for leather——”
The story got no further. From across the little stream they heard a muffled thunder of hoofs in the grass.
Stonor sprang up. “My horses!” he cried. “Stampeded, by God! The cowardly devils!”
Imbrie laughed.
Stonor snatched up his gun. “Back from the fire!” he cried to the women. “I’m going to shoot!”
He splashed across the ford, and, climbing the bank,dropped on his knee in the grass. The horses swerved, and galloped off at a tangent. They were barely visible to eyes that had just left the fire. Stonor counted seven animals, and he had but six with Imbrie’s. On the seventh there was the suggestion of a crouching figure. Stonor fired at the horse.
The animal collapsed with a thud. Stonor ran to where he lay twitching in the grass. It was a strange horse to him. The rider had escaped. But he could not have got far. The temptation to follow was strong, but Stonor, remembering his prisoner and the women who depended on him, refused to be drawn. He returned to where Clare and Mary awaited him at a little distance from the fire. Meanwhile the horses galloped away out of hearing into the bush beyond the little meadow. Imbrie was still secure in his bonds. Stonor kept a close watch on him.
They had not long to wait before dawn began to weave colour in the sky. Light revealed nothing living but themselves in the little valley, or around its rim. The horse Stonor had shot still lay where he had dropped. Stonor returned to him, taking Mary. The animal was dead, with a bullet behind its shoulder. It was a blue roan, an ugly brute with a chewed ear. It had borne a saddle, but its owner had succeeded in retrieving that under cover of darkness. The man’s tracks were visible, leading off towards the side trail.
“Mary, whose horse is that?” Stonor asked.
She shrugged and spread out her hands. As she had been living at Fort Enterprise for years, and saw her own people but seldom, he had no choice but to believe that she did not know. They returned to Clare.
Stonor said: “I shall have to leave you for awhile. There’s no help for it. I’m expecting Tole Grampierre this morning, but I can’t tell for sure how fast he willtravel, and in the meantime the horses may be getting further away every minute. If you are afraid to stay, I suppose you can come with me—though I may have to tramp for miles.”
Clare kept her chin up. “I’ll stay here. If you have to go far I’d only be a drag on you. I shan’t be afraid.”
The harassed policeman gave her a grateful glance. “I’ll leave you my revolver. There’s no use arming Mary, because I couldn’t ask her to fire on her own people. I do not think there is the slightest danger of your being attacked. If the Indians, seeing me go, come around, pay no attention to them. Show no fear and you are safe. If they want Imbrie let them take him. I’ll get him later. It only means a little delay. He cannot escape me up here.”
“You must eat before you start,” said Clare anxiously.
“I’ll take cold food. Can’t wait for hot bread.”
As Stonor started off Imbrie cried mockingly: “So long, Redbreast!” Stonor doubted very much if he would find him on his return. But there was no help for it. One has to make the best of a bad situation.
After traversing the little meadow the stampeded horses had taken to the trail in the direction of Fort Enterprise. Stonor took heart, hoping that Tole might meet them and drive them back. But, reliable as Tole was, of course he could not count on him to the hour; nor had he any assurance that the horses would stay in the trail. He kept on.
The horses’ tracks made clear reading. For several miles Stonor followed through the bush at a dog-trot. Then he came to another little open glade and saw that they had stopped to feed. He gained on them here. A short distance further he suddenly came upon his bay in the trail, the horse that had carried him to Swan Lake and back. As he had expected, she washopelessly foundered, a pitiable sight. He regretfully put a bullet through her brain.
Near here the remaining horses had swerved from the trail and turned northward, looking for water perhaps. Stonor pinned a note to a tree, briefly telling Tole what had happened, and bidding him hasten forward with all speed.
Stonor followed the hoof-prints then through the trackless bush, painfully slow going over the stones and the fallen trunks, with many a pitfall concealed under the smooth moss. After an hour of this he finally came upon them all five standing dejectedly about in a narrow opening, as if ashamed of their escapade and perfectly willing to be caught.
Mounting Miles Aroon, he drove the others before him. To avoid the risk of breaking their legs he had to let them make their own slow pace over the down timber, and it was a sore trial to his patience. He had already been gone two hours. When finally he struck the trail again he saw that his note to Tole was still where he had left it. He let it stay, on the chance of its bringing him on a little quicker. He put his horses to the trail at a smart pace. They all clattered through the bush, making dizzying turns around the tree-trunks.
As he approached the little meadow by the Meander his heart rose slowly in his throat. He had been more anxious for their safety than he would let himself believe. As he came to the edge of the trees his eyes were ready to leap to the spot where he had left his charges. A shock awaited them. Of the three little tents there was but one remaining, and no sign of life around it. He furiously urged his horse to the place.
Mary and Clare were gone with Imbrie. The camp site was trampled by scores of hoofs. The Indians had taken nothing, however, but the two little tents andthe personal belongings of the women—an odd scrupulousness in the face of the greater offence. All the tracks made off across the meadow towards the side trail back to the Swan.
Stonor sat down on a grub-box, and, gripping his bursting head between his hands, tried to think. His throbbing blood urged him to gallop instantly in pursuit. They could not have more than two hours’ start of him, and Miles Aroon was better than anything they had in the way ofhorse-flesh, fresh into the bargain. But a deeper instinct was telling him that a little slow thought in the beginning brings quicker results at the end.
Even with only two hours’ start they might make the village before he overtook them, and Imbrie might get away on the lake. A stern chase with all the hazards of travel in the wilderness might continue for days; Stonor was running short of grub; he must provide for their coming back; above all it was necessary that he get word out of what had happened; Clare’s safety must not depend alone on the one mortal life he had to give her. Hard as it was to bring himself to it, he determined to get in touch with Tole before starting after Imbrie and the Kakisas.
To that end he mounted one of his poorer horses and galloped headlong back through the bush. After ten miles or so, in a little open meadow he came upon the handsome breed boy riding along without a care in the world, hand on hip and “Stetson” cocked askew, singing lustily ofGentille Alouette. Never in his life had Stonor been so glad to see anybody. Hisset, white face worked painfully; for a moment he could not speak, but only grip the boy’s shoulder. Tole was scared half out of his wits to see his revered idol so much affected.
All the way along Stonor had been thinking what he would do. It would not be sufficient to send a message by Tole; he must write to John Gaviller and to Lambert at the Crossing; one letter would do for both; the phrases were all ready to his pencil. Briefly explaining the situation to Tole, he sat down to his note-book. Two pages held it all; Stonor would have been surprised had he been told that it was a model of conciseness.
“John Gavillerand SergeantLambert, R.N.W.M.P.“While returning with my prisoner Ernest Imbrie, suspected of murder, at a point on the Horse Track six miles from Swan River, a band of Indians from Swan Lake drove off my horses, and while I was away looking for them, rescued my prisoner, and also carried off the two women in my party. Am returning to Swan Lake now with four horses. Suppose that Imbrie reaching there will take to the lake and the upper Swan, as that provides his only means of getting out of the country this way. Suggest that Mr. Gaviller get this through to Lambert regardless of expense. Suggest that Lambert as soon as he gets it might ride overland from the Crossing to the nearest point on the Swan. If he takes one of his folding boats, and takes a man to ride the horses back, he could come down the Swan. I will be coming up, and we ought to pinch Imbrie between the two of us. The situation is a serious one, as Imbrie has the whole tribe of Kakisas under his thumb. He will stop at nothing now; may be insane. The position of the women is a frightful one.“Martin Stonor.”
“John Gavillerand SergeantLambert, R.N.W.M.P.
“While returning with my prisoner Ernest Imbrie, suspected of murder, at a point on the Horse Track six miles from Swan River, a band of Indians from Swan Lake drove off my horses, and while I was away looking for them, rescued my prisoner, and also carried off the two women in my party. Am returning to Swan Lake now with four horses. Suppose that Imbrie reaching there will take to the lake and the upper Swan, as that provides his only means of getting out of the country this way. Suggest that Mr. Gaviller get this through to Lambert regardless of expense. Suggest that Lambert as soon as he gets it might ride overland from the Crossing to the nearest point on the Swan. If he takes one of his folding boats, and takes a man to ride the horses back, he could come down the Swan. I will be coming up, and we ought to pinch Imbrie between the two of us. The situation is a serious one, as Imbrie has the whole tribe of Kakisas under his thumb. He will stop at nothing now; may be insane. The position of the women is a frightful one.
“Martin Stonor.”
Stonor took Tole’s pack-horse with its load of grub, and the breed tied his bed and rations for three days behind his saddle. Stonor gripped his hand.
“So long, kid! Ride like hell. It’s the most you can do for me.”
Eight hours later, Stonor, haggard with anxiety and fatigue, and driving his spent horses before him, rode among the tepees of the village beside Swan Lake. That single day had aged him ten years. His second coming was received with a significant lack of surprise. The Indians were ostentatiously engaged at their customary occupations: mending boats and other gear, cleaning guns, etc. Stonor doubted if such a picture of universal industry had ever been offered there. Dismounting, he called peremptorily for Myengeen.
The head man came to him with a certain air of boldness, that slowly withered, however, under the fire that leaped up in the white man’s weary blue eyes. Under his savage inscrutability the signs of fidgets became perceptible. Perhaps he had not expected the trooper to brave himsingle-handed, but had hoped for more time to obliterate tracks, and let matters quiet down. Many a dark breast within hearing quailed at the sound of the policeman’s ringing voice, though his words were not understood. The one determined man struck more terror than a troop.
“Myengeen, you and your people have defied the law! Swift and terrible punishment awaits you. Don’t think you can escape it. You have carried off a white woman. Such a thing was never known. If a single hair of her head is harmed, God help you! Where is she?”
Myengeen’s reply was a pantomime of general denial.
Stonor marched him back of the tepees where the Kakisas’ horses were feeding on the flat. He silentlypointed to their hanging heads and sweaty flanks. Many of the beasts were still too weary to feed: one or two were lying down done for. Stonor pointed out certain peculiarities in their feet, and indicated that he had been following those tracks. This mute testimony impressed Myengeen more than words; his eyes bolted; he took refuge in making believe not to understand.
Stonor’s inability to command them in their own tongue made him feel maddeningly impotent.
“Where is the woman who speaks English?” he cried, pointing to his own tongue.
Myengeen merely shrugged.
Stonor then ordered all the people into their tepees, and such is the power of a single resolute voice that they meekly obeyed. Proceeding from tepee to tepee he called out likely-looking individuals to be questioned out of sight of the others. For a long time it was without result; men and women alike, having taken their cue from Myengeen, feigned not to understand. Such children as he tried to question were scared almost into insensibility. Stonor began to feel as if he were butting his head against a stone wall.
At last from a maiden he received a hint that was sufficient. She was a comely girl with a limpid brown eye. Either she had a soul above the Kakisas or else the bright-haired trooper touched her fancy. At any rate, when he looked in the tepee, where she sat demurely beyond her male relatives, she gave him a shy glance that did not lack humanity. Calling her outside, he put the invariable question to her, accompanied with appropriate signs: where was the white woman?
She merely glanced towards the mouth of the creek where the canoes lay, then looked up the lake. It was sufficient. Stonor gave her a grateful glance andlet her go. He never knew her name. That the Kakisas might not suspect her of having betrayed them, he continued his questioning for awhile. Last of all he re-interrogated Myengeen. He did not care if suspicion fell on him.
Stonor coolly picked out the best-looking canoe in the creek, and loaded aboard what he required of his outfit. Myengeen and his men sullenly looked on. The trooper, seeing that a fair breeze was blowing up the lake, cut two poplar poles, and with a blanket quickly rigged mast and sail. When he was ready to start he delivered the rest of his outfit to Myengeen, and left his horses in his care.
“This is government property,” he said sternly. “If anything is lost full payment will be collected.”
He sailed down the creek followed by the wondering exclamations of the Kakisas. Sailing was an unknown art to them, and in their amazement at the sight, like the children they were, they completely forgot the grimness of the situation. Stonor thought: “How can you make such a scatter-brained lot realize what they’re doing!”
Stonor had supposed that Imbrie would take to the lake. On arriving at the brow of the last ridge his first thought had been to search its expanse, but he had seen nothing. Since then various indications suggested that they had between four and five hours’ start of him. He had been delayed on the trail by his pack-horses. The speed he was making under sail was not much better than he could have paddled, but it enabled him to take things easy for a while.
Swan Lake is about thirty miles long. Fully ten miles of it was visible from the start. It is shaped roughly like three uneven links of a chain, and in width it varies from half a mile to perhaps five miles. It seems vaster than it is on account of its low shoreswhich stretch back, flat and reedy, for miles. Here dwelt the great flocks of wild geese or “wavies” that gave both lake and river their names.
As he got out into the lake the wind gradually strengthened behind him, and his canoe was blown hither and yon like an inflated skin on the water. She had no keel, she took no grip of the water, and much of the goodly aid of the wind was vainly measured against the strength of Stonor’s arms as he laboured to keep her before it. When he did get the wind full in his top-heavy sail it blew him almost bodily under. Stonor welcomed the struggle. He was now making much better time than he could have hoped for by his paddle. He grimly carried on.
In order to accommodate the two women and their necessary outfit, Stonor supposed that Imbrie must have taken one of the dug-outs. He did not believe that any of the Kakisas had accompanied the fugitive. The prospect of a long journey would appal them. And Stonor was pretty sure that Mary was not over-working herself at the paddle, so that it was not too much to hope that he was catching up on them at this rate. Thinking of their outfit, Stonor wondered how Imbrie would feed Clare; the ordinary fare of the Kakisas would be a cruel hardship on her. Such are the things one worries about in the face of much more dreadful dangers.
It had been nearly six o’clock before Stonor left Myengeen’s village, and the sun went down while he was still far from the head of the lake. He surveyed the flat shores somewhat anxiously. Nowhere, as far as he could see, was there any promising landing-place. In the end he decided to sail on through the night. As darkness gathered he took his bearings from the stars. With the going-down of the sun the wind moderated, but it still held fair and strong enough to give him goodsteerage-way. After an hour or two the shores began to close around him. He could not find the outlet of the river in the dark, so he drove into the reeds, and, taking down his sail, supped on cold bread and lake-water and lay down in his canoe.
In the morning he found the river without difficulty. It was a sluggish stream here, winding interminably between low cut banks, edged with dangling grass-roots on the one side and mud-flats on the other. From the canoe he could see nothing above the banks. Landing to take a survey, Stonor beheld a vast treeless bottom, covered with rank grass, and stretching to low piny ridges several miles back on either hand. No tell-tale thread of smoke on the still air betrayed the camp of the man he was seeking.
He resumed his way. Of his whole journey this part was the most difficult trial to his patience. There was just current enough to mock at his efforts with the paddle. He seemed scarcely to crawl. It was maddening after his brisk progress up the lake. Moreover, each bend was so much like the last that he had no sense of getting on, and the invariable banks hemmed in his sight. He felt like a man condemned to a treadmill.
He had been about two hours on the river when he saw a little object floating towards him on the current that instantly caught his eye because it had the look of something fashioned. He paddled to it with a beating heart. It proved to be a tiny raft contrived out of several lengths of stout stick, tied together with strips of rag. On the little platform, out of reach of the water, was tied with another strip a roll of the white outer bark of the birch. Stonor untied it and spread it out on his knee with a trembling hand. It was a letter printed in crooked characters with a point charred in the fire.