Part 11

He got no further. Linda sprang up like a released bowstring. "It's a lie!" she cried, her small white face working with passion.

"Linda! Linda!" implored Mrs. Worsley, following her aghast.

Linda thrust her away with a strength more than her own. "Let me alone!" she cried. "I won't be quiet any longer! I can't stand it!" She ran across the grass, and clung to Jack's arm, facing Mary. Gone were all the pretty affectations and refinements; this was the primitive woman. "He's not hers!" she cried hysterically. "He's mine! He's mine! She's trying to take him from me by making believe to defend him. I can defend him as well as she can. I don't believe he's guilty either. I don't care if he is or not. I love him, and he loves me!"

A dreadful silence in the tent succeeded this outburst, broken only by Linda's tempestuous sobs. She hid her face on Jack's shoulder. His arm was around her; a man could do no less. Vassall and Ferrie turned away their heads, shamed and sick at heart to see the lady of their dreams so abase herself. Mrs. Worsley sank back in her chair, and covered her face with her hands.

Mary Cranston, just now all alive, and warm and eager, turned to ice where she stood. Jack was fiery red and scowling like a pirate. For a second his eyes sought Mary's imploringly. Seeing no hope there, he stiffened his back, and drew on the old scornful, stubborn mask, letting them think what they chose. If he had had a moustache he would have twirled it in their faces. Sir Bryson was staring at his daughter clownishly.

Mary broke the silence. "I am sorry," she said, smoothly and clearly, "that the young lady has misunderstood my reasons for mixing myself in this. She need not distress herself any further. Malcolm Piers is nothing to me, nor I to him. If she still thinks I have any share in him, I cheerfully give it to her here and now."

With that she was gone. David Cranston would have been proud of her exit. Not until after she had gone did any of those present realize the wonder of it, that as long as she had remained in the tent this native girl of less than twenty years had dominated them all.

Sir Bryson's faculties were completely scattered. His eyes were almost as blank as Garrod's; his hands trembled; his breathing was stertorous. Whatever his absurdities and weaknesses, at that moment the little man was an object worthy of compassion. Gradually his voice returned to him.

"Linda! How can you shame me so!" he murmured huskily. Then in a stronger voice: "Leave that man!" He turned to Kate Worsley. "Take her away."

The storm of Linda's passion passed with the departure of the other woman. She was now terrified by what she had done. She allowed herself to be led away, weeping brokenly.

Sir Bryson turned to Jack. "As for you, you young blackguard," he said tremulously, "you needn't expect to profit by this. If she persists in her infatuation she is no daughter of mine. But I'll save her if I can."

Jack's chin stuck out. He said nothing.

Jean Paul had listened to all this, outwardly shocked, but with the hint of a smirk playing around the corners of his lips. Fate was unexpectedly playing into his hands! He now looked at Sir Bryson for orders, and Sir Bryson, as if in answer, rose and said:

"Jean Paul, I order you to arrest this man. Secure him, and keep him under guard until we can reach the nearest police post. Mr. Vassall and Mr. Ferrie will assist you."

The other two men who, up to the moment of Linda's avowal, had been well enough disposed toward Jack, now turned hard and inimical faces against him, and hastened to lend Jean Paul their aid. All this while Garrod sat in his chair staring dully before him.

Jack's hands clenched, and his eyes shot out cold sparks. "Keep your hands off me," he said. "All of you!"

Jean Paul with an air of bravado motioned Vassall and Ferrie back. To outward appearances he was fully Jack's match. Lacking an inch or two of his height, he more than made it up in breadth of trunk, and length of arm. He slowly approached the white man, alert and smiling evilly. For a moment they measured each other warily, Jean Paul crouching, Jack upright. Then the half-breed sprang forward. Jack drew off, and his fist shot out. There was the crack of bone on bone, and Jean Paul measured his length on the grass. He twisted a few times, and lay still.

"Good God!" cried Vassall and Ferrie, falling back. They were not muscular men.

"He's not dead," said Jack off-hand. "A bucket of water will bring him to."

Jack walked to the door with none to hinder. Holding up the flap, he faced them. "You needn't think that I'm going to run," he said. "I don't mean to do anything that would suit you so well. I'm going to fight for my good name, and my claims, and my girl, and the whole government of Athabasca can't stop me!"

XII

JACK FINDS OUT

Dinner-time came and went at Camp Trangmar without any one's feeling much interested except the four Indian lads who ate largely, to the accompaniment of chatter and laughter by their own fire. It was nothing to them what high words were passed, and what tears were shed in the big tent. They were making the most of such a time of plenty as had never come their way before, and was not likely to be repeated.

By the cook-fire Humpy Jull exerted himself to tempt his hero's appetite--not wholly without success, it must be said; for what had happened could not check the coursing of the blood through Jack's veins. Twenty-five years old must be fed though the heavens fall. Gabriel's trumpet had better not be sounded for the young until after dinner. Jack ate silently and scowlingly. To one of his nature it was galling when there was so much to be overcome, not to be up and doing, not to be able to strike a blow.

Afterward the trees up the trail suffered for his wrath. Having eased his breast a little, he sat down to find a way out. Here, being a hewer instead of a thinker, he was at a disadvantage. He was conscious of an anomaly somewhere. He was in perfect condition; to fill his chest, and to stretch his muscles afforded him a keen sting of pleasure, but wind and limb availed him nothing against the subtle moral complications that beset him. It was one thing to defy the government of Athabasca in a bold voice, and another thing to find a vulnerable spot to hit the creature.

He was sitting with his chin in his palms, considering this, when Kate Worsley approached him from behind, and spoke his name. He sprang up, scowling. Linda was waiting a little way off. "Good heavens!" he thought. "Another scene to go through with!"

Mrs. Worsley was always simple in manner, and direct of speech. "Jack," she said at once, "Linda has told me everything that has happened between you, and I do not blame you as much as I did at first."

"Thanks," he said, looking away, and speaking gruffly as he was obliged to do when he was moved. "I value your good opinion, Mrs. Worsley. I don't think of you like the others."

"I am taking you into my confidence," she went on. "I am in a difficult position. Linda is terribly distressed by what has happened. She begged so to be allowed to see you for a moment, that I was afraid if I refused--well, I have brought her on my own responsibility. You will not say anything to her to make me sorry I brought her, will you?"

"You needn't be afraid," said Jack. "Nor Sir Bryson. I can't say it properly, but I shall not have anything to do with her until I can come out in the open."

"I knew you felt that way," she said quietly. "Of course it's no use telling Sir Bryson in his present state of mind."

"He hates me," said Jack frowning. "His kind always does. He won't give me a chance, and I say things that only make matters worse." He rubbed his furrowed forehead with his knuckle. "It's a rotten, mixed-up mess, isn't it?" he said with an appealing look.

Her eyes softened. His strength and his weakness appealed alike to the woman in her. Her hand went out impulsively. "You boy!" she said. "It's no wonder!"

Jack, wondering what was no wonder, grabbed her hand, and pressed it until she winced.

"If I can help you, come to me," she said.

"Thanks, anyway," he said. "But nobody can, I suspect."

"Now talk to Linda," she said. "Be gentle with her."

Jack frowned. "I told her not to say anything," he began.

"I know, I know," she said cajolingly. "But you are strong; be merciful with her weakness. Make allowances for women's nerves and emotions. It was a terrible scene on us all; most of all on her. She was foolish; but there was a kind of bravery, too, in avowing you before them all. Think of that!"

"If she only had your sense," said Jack.

Kate smiled and turned away. "What do you expect?" she said over her shoulder. "I'm thirty-eight years old, and I was always plain! Linda!" she called. "Three minutes only, remember." She walked away.

Linda came running, and cast herself in Jack's arms, weeping, protesting, scarcely coherent. "Oh, Jack! I had to see you! I was terrified, thinking of your anger! That woman enrages me so! I can't think! What did you give her a mining-claim for? If you'd only love me more, I wouldn't be so jealous of her. I didn't mean to injure you! You know I'd never do that! Don't be angry with me. I've disgraced myself forever with them, and if you go back on me too, what will I do?"

What was he to do with the helpless, contrite little thing but comfort her? His arms closed around her. "Who says I'm going back on you?" he muttered gruffly.

"It's no more than I deserve after disobeying you," she went on. "I was such a fool! I'm so sorry! Say you forgive me, Jack. I'll do better after this!"

"I can't forgive you right away," he said with his awkward honesty. "But I'm not going back on anything. Don't distress yourself like this. Everything will come right."

"But love me a little," she begged, lifting her tear-stained face.

He put her away not ungently. "We mustn't," he said.

"Why?" she asked, gripping his arm.

"I promised Mrs. Worsley."

"What did you promise?"

"Oh, you know," he said uncomfortably. "Don't you see that if there is any--well, love-making between us, it makes me out a villain to them?"

"No, I don't see it," she said. "Not if I make you."

Jack began to sense that father and daughter had an exasperating trait in common, the inability to see a thing they did not wish to see. "I should be blamed, anyway," he said.

"But I'll tell everybody the truth," she said. "I'm not ashamed of you. They shall see that I have chosen you of my own free will."

"You have done harm enough," said Jack grimly. "Better not say anything more."

"I don't care," she whimpered. "I've got to love you."

Jack's face became hard. "I do care," he said. "Understand, we have got to cut all this out. No one, not even a woman, can make me do what I don't choose to do."

"Jack, don't speak to me like that," she murmured terrified.

"You brought it on yourself," he said miserably. "You always seem to make me stubborn and hateful."

"But you do love me?" she said desperately.

He inwardly groaned. "I'm not going back on anything," he said lamely.

"That's not enough," she said, beginning to tremble again. "It would kill me if you didn't. They'll never have anything to do with me again. I have no one but you. You must love me. You do love me, don't you?"

"Of course I love you," he said with a strange sinking of the heart.

"Then I'll do whatever you tell me," she said submissively.

"No more talks off by ourselves," said Jack. "And around camp you must treat me exactly the same as the other men."

"But if you shouldn't succeed in proving----" she began.

"I will," said Jack.

"Time's up, Linda," said Kate, coming back.

Linda kissed him in spite of himself, and hurried away. Jack breathed a sigh of relief, and took up his axe again.

At the top of the bench a few hundred yards from where Jack was working, the trail from over the portage divided. One branch came down to Camp Trangmar and the river; the other turned west along the edge of the bench, and became the Fort Erskine trail. A mile or two up the valley the latter was joined by the trail that led directly west from Camp Trangmar.

As Jack stood breathing himself after a spell of chopping, he became aware of the sound of horses' footfalls coming along the Fort Erskine trail. There was no sound of a bell. Struck by this fact, he bent his head to listen attentively. It is exceptional for the horses to stray away from the one of their number who is belled. Moreover, to Jack's experienced ears, these had the sound of laden horses. He could not guess who it might be, but Indians or whites, they would hardly ride so near to Camp Trangmar without coming in, unless they had a reason to avoid observation. He therefore dropped his axe, and ran up the hill to intercept whoever was coming, and make them account for themselves.

At the forks of the trail to his astonishment he came face to face with Mary and Davy mounted, and leading their two pack-horses. The bell of the leading horse had been silenced with a wisp of grass. At the sight of Jack they pulled up in obvious embarrassment. Jack's heart went down like a stone in deep water.

"You're pulling out?" he faltered.

"What else was there for us to do?" said Mary coldly.

"Without telling me?" cried Jack reproachfully.

"_I_ didn't want to," put in Davy eagerly. "Mary said we had to."

Pride, indignation, and exquisite discomfort struggled in Mary's face. "It seemed easier," she said. "I'm sorry we met you. There's nothing to say!"

"But Mary--Mary!" urged Jack, scarcely knowing what he said, but filled with his need of her. "Not like this! Wait until to-morrow. Who knows what may happen to-morrow!"

"What can happen?" said Mary. "More humiliating scenes?"

Jack caught her bridle rein. "I swear to you," he said, "if Sir Bryson or any of the men----"

"I'm not thinking of them," Mary interrupted. "You can't stop her tongue. You've given her the right to speak that way."

Jack hung his head. Like a man under the circumstances he muttered: "You're pretty hard on a fellow."

"Hard?" cried Mary sharply. "What do you think I----" She checked herself with an odd smile.

Jack was determined to be aggrieved. "It's unfriendly," he burst out; "stealing out of camp by a roundabout way like this and even muffling your bell."

"That's what I said!" put in Davy.

Mary flashed a hurt look at Davy that forgave him while she accused. That he should take sides against her at such a moment--but of course he was only a child. She was silent. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked away over the little valley and the river for support. All three of them looked at the lovely scene below them, softened and silvered in the creeping twilight, each wondering miserably what had happened to the joy of life.

At last Mary said quietly: "It wasn't easy to decide what to do. I have to think of myself. I have to think of father, what he would like. There is nothing else. I am sorry. You and I cannot be friends. We might as well make up our minds to it."

"Why can't we be?" demanded Jack.

"Because you have chosen a girl that will not allow you to have another woman for a friend," she said.

This was unanswerable. Jack could only hang his head again.

"I will not be friends with you secretly," Mary went on. "Nor can I lay myself open to her abuse. So we must not see each other any more."

"I need you!" Jack blurted out. His pride was hauled down. It was the first appeal for help that had passed his lips.

"I--I'm sorry," she faltered, but without relenting. "Watch Jean Paul well," she went on. "He can't keep the man hypnotized always. Get Garrod away from him if you can."

Jack scarcely heard. "I'm under arrest," he said. "You're leaving me without a friend in camp."

"You have her," said Mary softly, with an indescribable look; compassion, reproach or disdain--or all three.

"Mary!" he burst out.

She jerked her bridle rein out of his hand, and clapped heels to her horse's ribs. "This does no good," she muttered. "And it hurts! Come, Davy." She loped out of sight among the trees.

Davy lingered. Leaning out of the saddle he put his arm around Jack's shoulders. The boy was near tears. "Jack, what's the matter?" he begged to know. "I want to stay. I feel so bad about it. I don't understand. Why can't we be friends like we were before? Mary won't tell me anything. We think such a heap of you, Jack. The other girl--she's nothing to you, is she? Mary's worth a dozen of her. There's nobody like Mary. Why can't you and Mary----"

This was like a knife turned in Jack's breast. "Get along with you!" he said harshly. "You don't know what you're talking about." Disengaging himself from the boy's arm, he clapped the horse's haunch, and the animal sprang ahead. The pack-horses lumped after.

When they were out of sight Jack flung himself full length in the grass with his face in his arms. Now he knew. This pain in his breast was the thing they called love. Blind fool that he had been, he had dismissed her with the light term "native girl," and had not seen that it was a woman in a thousand, the woman his manhood had always been unconsciously yearning for, generous, true and lovely. She rode away, dragging his heart after her. He was tied fast. The pain of it was insupportable.

"Good God! how did I ever get into it!" he groaned. "What a price to pay for a kiss in the dark!"

XIII

THE RETREAT

Two days passed at Camp Trangmar. There was little outward evidence of the several storms that agitated the breasts of the company. The men left Jack severely alone, and Jack for his own part took care to keep out of Linda's way. He made it his business to watch Garrod, visiting him night and day in Jean Paul's tent, careless of the owner. There was no change in Garrod's condition. Jean Paul sheered off at Jack's approach like the wary animal he was. Meanwhile Sir Bryson, Baldwin Ferrie, and the Indians were busy staking out additional claims along Tetrahedron creek.

On the third morning the camp was plunged into a fresh agitation. Jack and Humpy Jull were breakfasting by the cook-fire, Jack looking like a sulky young Olympian in the morning sunlight, and Humpy naïvely trying to cheer him up.

"Gosh!" he said. "If I had your looks and figger I wouldn't care about nothin'."

Jack, who disdained the false modesty that disclaims such tributes with a simper, merely held out his plate for porridge.

Suddenly Vassall came quickly across the grass. His face was pale and streaked from the effects of nervous emotion.

"Sir Bryson wants you," he said to Jack.

Jack continued to eat leisurely. "What about?" he asked, coolly. "I've no mind to stand up and be abused again."

"Garrod is gone," said Vassall.

Jack's indifference vanished like sleight of hand. He sprang up. "Gone!" he echoed.

He headed straight for the big tent, Vassall following, and Humpy Jull looking after them both with round eyes.

The inside of the big tent presented evidences of confusion. Breakfast was spread on the two little tables pushed together, and Linda, Mrs. Worsley, and Baldwin Ferrie were seated, playing with their food. Sir Bryson's chair was pushed back, and his napkin lay on the grass. The little man was agitatedly walking up and down. Jean Paul stood by with a deferential air.

This time Linda gave no sign at Jack's entrance except for an access of self-consciousness.

"What do you know about this?" Sir Bryson immediately demanded.

"I know nothing," Jack said. "I have come to find out."

"Garrod has escaped," said Sir Bryson.

"Why not?" said Jack bitterly. "He ought to have been secured."

Jean Paul spoke up. "I get no order to tie him," he said smoothly. "He all time ver' quiet. I mak' him sleep inside me, and I tie a buckskin lace from him to me. If he move a little I wake. This morning when I wake, the lace cut and him gone."

"Did you let him keep a knife, too?" asked Jack, sneering.

Jean Paul looked confused. "He got no knife w'en I look on him," he said.

"It sounds fishy," said Jack scornfully.

"Do you mean to imply----" began Sir Bryson.

"Jean Paul sleeps like a cat," Jack went on. "If so much as a stick turns in the fire he wakes and looks to see. Follow it out for yourselves. He can't keep the man hypnotized forever. And once Garrod comes to his senses, the truth comes out!"

"These are empty accusations," puffed Sir Bryson. "The poor fellow has wandered away in his distraction."

"Or been carried," Jack amended.

"By whom?" said Sir Bryson. "We're all here."

"There are Sapi Indians a few miles west," said Jack. "Jean Paul is a power in the tribe."

"Excuse me, your excellency," purred Jean Paul, "if I do this, I not stay be'ind myself me, to get your punishment."

"Make you mind easy, Jean Paul," said Sir Bryson graciously. "This fellow attempts to twist everything that happens, to his own advantage. I commend your ingenuity, young sir," he added sarcastically.

"We're wasting time!" cried Jack with an impatient gesture. "He's got to be found! Whatever you choose to think of me, you can safely leave that in my hands. It means more to me than to any one else. It means everything to me to find him."

"Jean Paul says the horses have strayed----" Sir Bryson began.

"The horses, too?" cried Jack. The half-breed's eyes quailed under the fiery question that Jack's eyes bent on him. Without another word Jack turned and ran out of the tent.

In half an hour he was back--with a grim face. The occupants of the big tent were much as he had left them, but Jack sensed from the increased agitation of their faces, and from Jean Paul's sleekness, that the half-breed had not failed to improve the interval.

"It's true," said Jack shortly. "They've been driven off."

It had a terrifying sound to them. They looked at him with wide eyes.

"I found their tracks on the Fort Erskine trail," Jack went on. "They were travelling at a dead run. The tracks were six hours old."

Sir Bryson stopped his pacing. "Driven off?" he said agitatedly. "Are you sure? Couldn't they have run off by themselves?"

"They could," said Jack, "but they didn't. Five of the horses were hobbled when we turned them out. The hobbles had been removed."

"Well, well," stammered Sir Bryson, "what are we to do?"

"Let me take ten days' grub from the store," said Jack. "I'll undertake to bring Garrod back, and at least some of the horses."

"You'd follow on foot?" Linda burst out.

Jack answered to Sir Bryson. "They can't travel fast with their families and baggage."

It was not Jack's safety that Sir Bryson was concerned about. "But--but, leave us here without horses?" he faltered.

Jack smiled a little. "What good am I to you? I'm under arrest. Jean Paul has your ear. Why won't he do?"

Sir Bryson gave no sign of hearing this. "We must return," he said nervously. "We can't stay here--without horses."

Jack's heart sank. "What have the horses got to do with it?" he asked. "You're safe here. You've grub enough for months."

Sir Bryson looked at the half-breed. "Jean Paul says perhaps it is the Indians," he said. "He thinks they may have driven off the horses as a preliminary to attacking us."

"I not say that, me," put in Jean Paul quickly. "I jus' say best to be ready."

"So that's his game," cried Jack scornfully. "He's fooling you! It's an old redskin trick to drive off the horses to prevent pursuit. But as to standing up to white men--well, I'm willing to go and take my man and my horses away from the whole village of them."