Part 10

"It depends on when you get them," Deering replied. "A June steelhead, fresh from the sea, is pretty good, but a salmon that has pushed through to head waters in the fall is another thing. When you think about it, the salmons' journey inland is remarkable. They bore against the autumn floods when the melted snow comes down; they force tremendous rapids, whirlpools, and roaring falls. Where the water's calm in the valleys, eagles and fish-hawks harry them, and the mink hunts them in the shallows. But they can't be stopped; they follow Nature's urge and shove on across all obstacles for the distant gravel banks. Then they spawn, where they were hatched, and the bears eat their spent carcasses. The trouble is, I'm not a bear, but I've got to eat salmon."

When the Indian had fried two or three thick steaks, Jimmy sympathized with Deering. The flesh was soft and its taste was rank. For all that, he thought if he had not seen the salmon he might have had a better appetite. At the hotel he had eaten because his food tempted him; now he ate because he must. By and by he threw down his tin plate.

"I've had enough. If we can find a deer, we must risk another cartridge. We have got twelve."

"You can't reckon on getting a deer for every shot, and although, as a rule, the deer are pretty numerous about the small clearings, in some belts of back country you can't find one. I expect they're attracted by the crops. In fact, the wild animals and large birds aren't much afraid of the ranchers; they quit when the automobiles and city sports arrive."

"But if we stop in the neighborhood of a settlement, the police may get on our trail," Jimmy rejoined.

"The police are smart and I allow they're obstinate. All the same, to search the rocks from Banff to Revelstoke is a big job. You can give yourself away by two things, shooting and smoke, but we can fix the smoke and we're not going to shoot much. As soon as we hit a proper spot, we'll build a shack."

"By and by our supplies will run out."

"That is so," Deering agreed. "In the meantime, we're baffling the police. Just now I expect they're busy looking for our tracks, but they have got other jobs and can't keep it up. Well, when we think they're forced to quit, we'll find a plan----"

He stopped and the Indian turned his head. A faint, hoarse bark came from the distance and echoed across the valley. Jimmy jumped up and looked about. The light was going and the pines were blurred.

"A dog?" he said.

"A timber wolf," said Deering. "He's not alone. I hear another."

A howl, pitched on a high mournful note, pierced the gloom and Jimmy shivered. The noise was strangely dreary.

"Will the wolves bother us?"

"I think not," said Deering and talked in Chinook to the Indian, who nodded. "The fellow agrees," he resumed. "In North Ontario we watch out for wolves when the snow is on the ground, but as a rule in British Columbia they leave the ranchers alone. Sometimes they take a sheep; I reckon that's all. The trouble is, they kill deer, and when the wolves start hunting the deer pull out."

Jimmy got down on his blanket by the fire. He felt the wilds were daunting and to see the flame leap about the branches was some comfort. Now and then a wolf howled in the distance, but by and by all was quiet and he went to sleep.

XIX

USEFUL FRIENDS

Breakfast was over and, although Jimmy would have liked another bannock, he got up and strapped on his pack. Deering needed the bannock, for flour was running out. A fire burned on the stone hearth and the little shack in a corner of the rocks was warm. Jimmy did not want to leave it, but he knew he must, and the Indian waited for him to start.

They had not killed a deer and although they had shot two or three blue grouse a blue grouse is not large. Sometimes one can knock down a little willow grouse with a stick, but the willow grouse had recently vanished and the Indian had caught nothing in his snares. In fact, it looked as if all the birds and animals had gone south. Jimmy had eaten salmon until he loathed the battered fish, but the salmon had begun to die.

"Your load's not big," said Deering, "Have you put up all the food you need?"

"I've got all the food I'm going to take," Jimmy rejoined. "I can load up at Kelshope, but you must wait until I get back."

"Oh, well; but since I know the bush and might make better time, you ought to let me go."

"You're obstinate," said Jimmy. "I know Jardine and we want his help."

"That is so," said Deering and gave him his hand. "Anyhow, you have got the Indian and I expect he'll hit the shortest line. I wish you luck."

Jimmy pulled up his pack and set off. Speed was important, for he imagined he had left Deering a larger supply of food than the other knew. Since he was going to Kelshope, he could get fresh supplies, but Deering could not. Yet if he was longer than he calculated, it would be awkward. Jimmy felt lonely and rather daunted. The shack was small and rude, but the bark walls kept out the wind and in the cold evenings he had liked to sit by the snapping fire.

Now the trackless wilderness was in front, and he must get across before his food was gone. He did get across, but he imagined the Indian's inherited talents accounted for his doing so. Jimmy himself did not know much about the journey. When he thought about it afterwards, he dully pictured the fatigue and strain, the sharpening pinch of hunger and the stern effort to push on.

At length they came down the rocks one morning and saw his clearing in the distance. Jimmy gave the Indian all the food he had, and telling him to camp at the ranch, started for Jardine's. He was hungry and for a day or two his side had hurt. Sometimes he was faint, and when he crossed a stony belt he stumbled awkwardly. For all that, in the evening he reached the split-rail fence at Kelshope.

Jimmy knew how one pulled out the bars, but they baffled him and he knocked down the crossed supports. In front of the house he stopped, for a flickering light shone from the window and he saw Margaret sewing by the fire. His broken boots and torn clothes embarrassed him, but he braced up and went to the door.

Margaret put down her sewing and her look was rather strained. Jimmy leaned against the table and gave her an apologetic smile. His hair was long, his beard had begun to grow and his face was pinched. His ragged clothes looked slack and although he had given the Indian his blanket, his shoulders were bent from weariness.

"Oh, Mr. Leyland!" Margaret exclaimed in a pitiful voice.

"To my friends, I'm Jimmy," he rejoined. "To know you and your father are my friends is some comfort, because I'm going to use your friendship. Besides, I rather think I don't look like Mr. Leyland."

Margaret's voice was gentle and she said, "Very well, Jimmy! But where have you come from?"

"I started, about a week since, from our bark shack across the range, but I don't know much about it. The Indian's at my ranch and can hold out until the morning. I want to borrow some cartridges and food."

"Why of course!" said Margaret and indicated a chair. "I'll get supper ready. Father's at the depot, but we won't wait for him."

Jimmy got into the chair; for he imagined he did not sit down gracefully. The deerskin was soft and his head went back against the rail. Now he was not forced to keep going, he knew he was very tired. Margaret began to move about and by and by he asked: "Can't I help?"

Margaret looked up with a smile. "No, Jimmy. I have not much use for the help you could give."

Jimmy was satisfied to rest. He was dull, but he liked to see Margaret break up the fire and carry about the plates. She was very graceful and he knew her sympathetic, but this was not all. After the lonely bush, the ranch kitchen, lighted by the snapping flames, was like home. When supper was ready it cost him something of an effort to pull around his chair, and then for a time he tried to conquer his savage appetite. When one was opposite an attractive girl one did not eat like a wolf. Margaret knew the bush and smiled.

"Isn't the food good? I really think I can cook."

"My notion is, the best hotel cook in Canada could not serve a supper like yours."

"Very well," said Margaret "If you are polite, you will annoy me. What did you eat in the bush?"

"Salmon! When I see a river, I want to go the other way."

"Oh!" said Margaret "You ate salmon now?"

"When they began to float up on the stones, we stopped," Jimmy replied.

Margaret was moved. She knew the trackless bush sometimes was cruel and all who felt its lure did not return. Sometimes one, crossing a creek, lost a load of food, and sometimes one's rifle jambed. Then, if the march to the settlements were long, one starved. Jimmy had not starved, but he was worn and thin.

"The coffee's very good; may I have some more?" he resumed. "We used green tea, because it's light and goes far; but I mustn't bother you about our housekeeping. Do you know if the police have brought back the game warden?"

"They arrived some time since and put Douglas on the cars. A doctor went with him----"

"Then he's alive?" said Jimmy, with keen relief.

"He was badly hurt, but that is all I know," Margaret replied. "Nobody was allowed to see him----" She stopped and resumed with some hesitation: "Mr. Stannard's packers stated----"

Jimmy gave her a steady glance. "It looks as if I shot Douglas; in the dark, I thought him a deer. You did not imagine I meant to hurt the man?"

"I know you did not," said Margaret in a quiet voice.

"Very well. I must tell you all I know, but I'll wait until your father arrives. Perhaps he'll see a fresh light. Sometimes I'm puzzled----"

"You mustn't bother to talk," said Margaret. "Turn your chair to the fire and take a smoke."

Jimmy pulled out his tobacco pouch and frowned. Margaret saw the pouch was flat and took a plug of tobacco from a shelf.

"Wait a moment; don't get up," she said and began to cut the plug.

For a few moments Jimmy watched her with dull satisfaction. She cut the tobacco in thin, even slices; Jimmy had remarked before that all Margaret did was properly done. Although it was nearly dark, she had not got a light, and red and yellow reflections from the logs played about the room. Sometimes her eyes and hair shone and her face stood out against a background of shadow. Jimmy thought the picture charming and when it melted he waited for the flames to leap again, but by and by it got indistinct.

"Give me your pouch," said Margaret and he tried to push it across.

The pouch fell from the table and his pipe went down. His head leaned to one side and found the chair rail, and he knew nothing more.

Margaret heard his sigh and was quiet. Now sleep smoothed out the marks of strain and fatigue, Jimmy's look was boyishly calm. He moved her to pity, but he moved her to trust. Margaret was not a raw, romantic girl; she knew the Canadian cities and she had studied men. If Jimmy had, indeed, shot the agent, a strange blunder accounted for his doing so, but Margaret doubted. She had some grounds to think the shot another's. Then she got up quietly and carried off the plates.

Some time afterwards Jardine came in and, seeing Jimmy, stopped and turned to Margaret. It was typical that he said nothing, but his glance was keen. Margaret smiled and in a low voice narrated all she knew. Jardine nodded, and sitting down, waited until Jimmy's head slipped from the chair rail and the jerk woke him up. He looked about as if he were puzzled, and then said, "Hello, Mr. Jardine! I didn't understand your sitting opposite me. I expect I was asleep."

"Sure thing," Jardine agreed with a twinkle. "We have sortit the bit back room for ye and ye had better go to bed."

"I'm not going yet," said Jimmy. "I want a smoke, but my tobacco's run out."

Margaret gave him his pouch and he smiled, "The tobacco's yours, sir. Miss Jardine is very kind. Well, I reckoned on her kindness, because I want to borrow a quantity of truck, but we'll talk about this again. Do you know where Stannard is?"

"Stannard and his daughter are at the hotel," Jardine replied and looked at Jimmy rather hard. "Maybe he feels he ought to stay until the police have settled who shot warden Douglas."

"But Stannard had nothing to do with it," Jimmy replied.

"He was leader o' your party and, in a way, accountable. Maybe ye ken Okanagan started for the bush soon after ye went?"

"I didn't know," said Jimmy with some surprise. "Bob claimed he hadn't a gun and I think he had not. Sometimes I'm puzzled, but I really think the unlucky shot was mine."

"The packers allood it was yours, although they werena sure how many shots they heard. Can ye locate the others' stands?"

"I tried, afterwards. In the evenings when we camped in the woods I speculated about the accident," said Jimmy, and pulling out a few small objects arranged them to indicate the spots the sportsmen had occupied. "If you will imagine the table's the clearing, Bob posted us something like this. Well, I expect the warden was going straight for my stand behind the stump."

"Ye're thinking aboot the bullet mark in front," said Jardine. "The packers telt me aboot it. Did ye see the other mark?"

"I did not," said Jimmy with a shiver. "When we carried Douglas to the house I'd had enough. But I don't see where you lead."

"If the mark at the back was at the middle, he was going straight for you. Weel, I'll take a smoke----"

He knitted his brows and for some minutes quietly studied Jimmy's plan of the clearing. Then he said, "It's no' as plain as it looks, but the packers reckoned two o' the police who went in with the doctor were pretty good bushmen. We dinna ken what they think. Anyhow, ye're going to sleep and ought to go to bed."

Jimmy went and Jardine resumed his study. Margaret left him alone. In Scotland her father was a poacher; in the Canadian woods his rifle supplied the ranch with meat. One could trust his judgment about shooting. By and by he looked up.

"If Jimmy has fixed their stands right, it's possible he shot Douglas and he reckons he did so. That's something; but he has a kind o' notion he heard another shot. Weel, the lad's a tenderfoot. Maybe he was excited and did not hold straight."

"_Bob_ would not get excited and he can hit a jumping deer," said Margaret.

Jardine nodded meaningly. "I've thought aboot Bob! The warden was after him and he lit oot. There's the puzzle for the police; three o' the party quit!"

"Mr. Deering went because he is Jimmy's friend," said Margaret.

"Just that! Ye can trust the big fellow," Jardine agreed. "Then, if he was where Jimmy puts him, he didna shoot. Stannard stopped and it looks as if he had nothing to do wi' it; but I dinna ken. Stannard's no' a man ye can reckon up, and a line from his stand would cut the warden's track."

"But the bullet mark----"

Jardine smiled. "Jimmy, and maybe the trooper lad, would think that fixed it, but he didna look where the bullet _cam' oot_. I wonder if Stannard looked."

"Bob is accountable," said Margaret obstinately.

"Verra weel. Bob's in the rocks. Are ye for tracking the man?"

"By and by he must come down for food. When he does come down we'll try to find him."

"Bob's a good bushman," Jardine remarked. "I alloo the police will not hit his trail, but maybe he will not bother to watch out for us----" He stopped and gave Margaret a thoughtful look when he resumed: "Bob would reckon to find out who shot Douglas is no' our job."

"The job is ours," said Margaret quietly, but Jardine thought the blood came to her skin. She, however, got up and when she had put out the plates for breakfast went to bed.

In the morning Jardine gave Jimmy boots and clothes, and two days afterwards loaded him with all the supplies he would carry. After breakfast Jimmy strapped on his pack, but when he was ready to go he hesitated. The loghouse was warm and home-like, and for two days he had rested and enjoyed Margaret's society. Now he must plunge into the wilds, he frowned. The snow was creeping down the rocks and a cold wind wailed in the dark pine-tops. Then Jimmy turned to his hosts and forced a smile.

"You have given me all I needed; I knew you would see me out."

"Sure thing," said Jardine. "In the bush, your friends' job is to see ye oot."

"You are useful friends," Jimmy replied with a touch of emotion. "All the same, I feel I ought not to bother you; I ought to start for the railroad and give myself up to the police. If Douglas was hurt by my carelessness, I ought to pay."

"You mustn't go yet," said Margaret firmly. "You don't altogether know the carelessness was yours, and perhaps it was not. Somehow I think we will find out."

"Ah," said Jimmy, "if you do find out the shot wasn't mine---- But I doubt and the doubt weighs on me."

Margaret smiled and gave him her hand. "Brace up and trust your luck! Stop in the mountains until we send for you. Perhaps we will send for you sooner than you think."

Jimmy went down the path and joined the waiting Indian. He was comforted, and when he plunged into the woods his moodiness was gone. Margaret went back into the house and Jardine said in a thoughtful voice, "Ye kind o' engaged ye'd send for the lad; but until ye satisfy the police he's no' their man, he canna come back."

"That is so. The thing is rather obvious," Margaret agreed and smiled. "However, since I did engage to send for Jimmy, I must try to make good."

XX

BOB'S DENIAL

Not long after Jimmy's visit to Kelshope, Margaret one evening rode up the trail from the station. Her cayuse carried a load of groceries, but when she set off her object was not altogether to bring home supplies. Wakening before daybreak, she imagined she heard the fence-rails rattle at the corner farthest from the house. Sometimes a deer jumped the fence, and when Margaret got up she went to the spot. She saw no tracks, but some time afterwards found a footmark where the trail left the clearing. The mark was fresh and she thought it was not made by her father's boot.

Margaret said nothing to Jardine. Had a stranger come down the valley, he would have kept the smooth path, because in the dark the belt of slashing that generally surrounds a forest ranch is an awkward obstacle. Moreover, to account for a stranger's coming from the mountains was hard. Had Jimmy returned, he would have stopped at the house; but Bob would not and Margaret had undertaken to find Bob.

When the Vancouver train rolled into the station nobody got on board, but a police trooper came from the agent's office, and going along the line, looked into the cars. Margaret had not remarked him before the train stopped and thought his curiosity ominous. If Bob had stolen past the ranch, he, however, had not tried to get on board and was hiding somewhere about. Margaret was puzzled and resolved to stop at the hotel and see Stannard. She admitted that her resolve was perhaps not logical, because if Stannard knew more about the shooting than others, he would not enlighten her. All the same, she meant to see him.

Getting down where the wagon road went round to the front of the hotel, she tied her horse to a tree and took a path across the hill. The trees were thick, but the moon was bright and in places its beams pierced the wood. In front and some distance above her, she saw illuminated windows at the top of the hotel; then the terrace wall cut the reflection from the drawing-room and rotunda. The high wall was in the gloom, but at the bottom pools of silver light broke the dark shadow of the trees. Margaret knew the steps to the terrace. Had she gone to the front door, she must have waited at the office until a page brought Stannard, and she thought she would sooner find him in the rotunda before he knew she was about.

She heard music in the drawing-room and somebody on the terrace talking, but the wall was high and when the music stopped all was quiet. In the woods one lifts one's feet with mechanical caution and Margaret was a rancher's daughter. Her advance was noiseless, but at a bend of the path she stopped.

A few yards off, a man stood under a tree. His back was to Margaret, but the dark object across his shoulder was a slung rifle and she thought she knew him. Stannard leaned against a trunk opposite. He wore dinner dress and a loose light coat. He was in the moonlight, and when he shook his head Margaret thought his smile ironical. The other's pose was stiff and his fist was clenched. Margaret put her hand in the pocket of her deerskin coat and then moved a branch. The man turned and his hand went to his rifle. Margaret heard the sling rattle.

"You don't want your gun, Bob; I know you. Besides, I've got a pistol," she said.

Bob swore softly and Stannard lifted his hat.

"Aren't you rather theatrical, Miss Jardine? I imagined gun pulling was out of date."

"Bob's theatrical; but he's _slow_," Margaret rejoined, and although her heart beat her voice was steady. "I haven't yet pulled my gun."

"It looks as if you had better leave yours alone," Stannard remarked to Bob.

Bob's face got very dark, but Stannard smiled.

"Did you want to see me or the other, Miss Jardine?"

"I want to see Bob first, but you may remain," said Margaret and gave Bob a searching glance. "Who shot warden Douglas?"

"I did not, anyhow," Bob replied fiercely. "I hadn't a gun and when I'd fixed the others I put out my lamp. I'd no use for using the pit-light. The fool plan was Deering's."

"All the same, you quit!"

"I sure quit. Somebody shot Douglas and the police knew he'd got a pick on me. They'd got to put the shooting on one of the gang."

"Perhaps it's important the police knew you had a pick on Douglas," Stannard remarked.

"For all that, I didn't use my gun," Bob rejoined.

Margaret pondered. As a rule, Bob was marked by a rather sinister quietness, but now he talked with something like passion. He had stepped forward and a moonbeam touched his face. Margaret thought he knew, but he did not move out of the light. Somehow she felt she must believe his statement. Then Stannard turned to her.

"Perhaps it's strange, but I rather think he speaks the truth."

"If you did not use your gun, who did shoot Douglas?" Margaret resumed, looking at Bob. "I want to know. A trooper's watching the station, and if I shout, the hotel clerk will call him on the 'phone."

Bob's passion vanished and Margaret thought his calm ominous.

"That's another thing! Looks as if Jimmy plugged the fellow. He sort of allowed he done it and he started for the rocks."

"I imagine Bob doesn't know," said Stannard. "Before you arrived he implied that I was accountable and demanded a hundred dollars. In fact, when he didn't get the sum he was much annoyed."

"I was mad all right," Bob agreed. "My flour and tea's gone, and I can't hire up about the settlements, but if I'd a hundred dollars, I'd try to make the coast." He looked hard at Stannard and resumed: "Are you going to help me get off?"

"Certainly not," said Stannard in a careless voice. "I am not as rich as you think, and to give you money would be rash, particularly when Miss Jardine is about."

Margaret pulled out her wallet. "I can give you ten dollars, Bob; but I can shout to the people at the hotel. You know Mr. Leyland did not shoot Douglas."

"I sure don't know," said Bob and gave Margaret a haughty glance. "Put up your wad; I've no use for your money. If you like, shout for them to 'phone the police."

For a moment or two Margaret hesitated. She was persuaded Bob himself was not accountable, but she thought this was all she would know. She was hurt and humiliated, for now she had found Bob she had not helped Jimmy much.

"Shall I shout?" she asked Stannard.