Chapter 31

THE ROBE OF DIABLESSE

It required three days of hard labor to remove the fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs to a position of safety. Jacques made a trip to the log camp, returning with a stout rope and an armload of baling wire which he collected from the vicinity of the stables.

The fact that bird's-eye maple logs, when green, will sink in water, rendered necessary the use of two large pine logs as floats. These were connected at the ends and in the middle with rope sufficiently long to permit four of the heavier logs to rest upon the ropes between the floats.

The raft thus formed was laboriously towed up-stream to the eddy where the bird's-eye logs were wired together, weighted with stones, and allowed to sink.

During the whole time Jeanne worked tirelessly by the side of the men, and when the last log rested safely upon the bottom of the river, and the scars were carefully removed from the bank, Bill surveyed the result with satisfaction.

"I think that will keep Moncrossen guessing," he laughed. "He won't know whether Creed ate the logs or an air-ship made away with them."

"But, he will know they are _somewhere_," said Jeanne gravely, "and he will search for them far and wide."

"He will not find them," Jacques interrupted. "No man would search up-stream for logs, even though he believed them to be upon the bottom of the river."

"But, in the searching, he may come upon the lodge, and in his rage, who can tell what he would do?" Bill's eyes narrowed, and he answered the girl with a smile.

"I will remain, and if Moncrossen comes----"

The girl laid a small hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes.

"I am but a girl and know nothing of logs, but, is it not better that he return down the river without searching?"

Carmody smiled into the serious dark eyes. "Go on, Jeanne," he said, "tell us what you would do."

"It is simple--only to build a big fire upon the spot where the logs were piled, and when Moncrossen finds the ashes he will seek no farther for his logs."

"Great!" cried Bill, in undisguised admiration and, with the help of the others, proceeded to carry the plan into effect. All night they piled fuel upon the fire, and in the morning their efforts were rewarded by a pile of ashes that would easily be mistaken for the ruins of the bird's-eye rollway.

With the passing of the long, hot days of summer, Bill Carmody regained his strength, and yet he lingered in the camp of the Lacombies.

Creed was seen no more upon Blood River, and Bill assumed the responsibility of guarding the log camp, making for the purpose almost daily excursions with Jeanne or Jacques.

August mellowed into smoky September--September gave place to the red and gold of October, and the blood of the forest folk quickened to the tang of the North.

At the conclusion of one of these tours of inspection, Bill came suddenly upon the girl standing in awe before the skin of Diablesse, which remained where he and Fallon had nailed it on the wall of the bunk-house. Bill carefully removed the nails and laid the dry pelt at the feet of the girl.

"See," he said, "the skin of the werwolf--it is yours."

"Mine!" she cried, with shining eyes. "You would give me _this_!"

Bill smiled. "Yes, that is all I have, here in the woods. But when I return I will bring you many things from the land of the white men."

"The robe of Diablesse!" she breathed softly, as she gazed down upon the peculiar silvery sheen of the great white wolfskin. "I had rather you gave me this than anything else in the world."

She stopped in sudden confusion.

"And why?" questioned Bill, pleased at her evident delight.

"It is," she hesitated, and a slender hand clutched at her breast. "It is as you spoke of the hunting shirt--that you would always keep it because it is the work of my hands. Only the robe means much more, for, among men but one man could have slain the _loup-garou_, and in all the North there is none like it--the robe of Diablesse! and it shall bring us luck--and--and happiness?" she added, the rich voice melting to softness.

At the words the man glanced quickly into the face of the girl and encountered the shy, questioning gaze of the mysterious dark eyes. The gaze did not falter, and the deep, lustrous eyes held the man enthralled in their liquid depths. She advanced a step, and stood her lithe young body almost touching his own, holding him fascinated in the compelling gaze of the limpid eyes.

"And happiness?" The words were a whispered breath; the bronzed face of the man paled and, with an effort, he turned swiftly away.

"Luck! Happiness!" he repeated dully, with bowed head. "For me there can be no happiness."

With a low cry the girl was at his side and two tiny, white-brown hands clutched at the fringed arm of his buckskin shirt. The beautiful face was flushed, the bosom heaved, and from between the red lips poured a torrent of words:

"You _shall_ find happiness! You, who are great and strong and brave above all men! You, who are good, and whom the Great Spirit sent to me from the waters of the river!

"You, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die, shall turn from your own kind, and shall find your happiness beside the rivers, and in the forests of my people! Together we will journey to some far place, and in our lodge will dwell love and great happiness.

"And you shall become a mighty hunter, and in all the North you shall be feared and loved."

The girl paused and gazed wildly into the eyes of the man. His face was drawn and pale, and in his eyes she read deep pain. Gently his hand closed over the slender fingers that gripped his sleeve, and at the touch the girl trembled and leaned closer, until her warm body rested lightly against his arm. Bill's lips moved and the words of his toneless voice fell upon her ears like the dry rustle of dead husks.

"Jeanne--little girl--you do not understand. These things cannot be. Only unhappiness would come to us. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you.

"To you I owe my life--to you and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. But, love cannot be ordered. It is written--and, far away, in the great city of the white men, is a girl--a woman of my own people----"

The girl sprang from his side and faced him with blazing eyes.

"A woman of your people!" she almost hissed. "In your sleep you talked of her, while the fever-spirit was upon you. I _hate_ her--this Ethel! She does not love you, for she will marry another! Ah, in the darkness I have listened, and listening, have learned to _hate_! She sent you away from her--for, in your eyes she could not read the goodness of your heart!"

Bill raised his hand.

"You do not understand," he repeated, patiently. "I was not good--I was a bad man!"

"Who, then, among white men is good? The men of the logs, who drink whisky, and fight among themselves, and kill one another? Is it these men that are good in the sight of your woman? And are you, who scorn these things--are you bad?"

"I, too, drank whisky--and for that reason she sent me away."

"But, you cannot return to her! She is the wife of another! Over and over again you said it, in the voice of the fever-spirit."

"No," replied the man softly. "To her I cannot return. But, listen; I start to-morrow for the white man's country. To find the man for whom I work, and tell him of the bird's-eye.

"Soon I shall come again into the woods. I cannot marry you, for only evil would come of it. I will bring you many presents, and always we shall be friends--and more than friends, for you shall be to me a sister and I shall be your brother, and shall keep you from harm.

"To-morrow I go, and you shall promise me that whenever you are in trouble of whatsoever kind you will send for me--and I shall come to you--be it far or near, in the night-time or in the daytime, I will come--Jeanne, look into my eyes--will you promise?"

The girl looked up, and a ray of hope lightened the pain in her eyes.

"You will surely return into the North?"

"I will surely return."

"I will promise," she whispered, and, side by side, in the silence of the twilight, they left the clearing.