Chapter 44

THE MISSING BONDS

The walls of the room seemed the restraining bars of a prison, shutting her apart from life and the right to love. She lifted the latch and flung open the door, standing upon the threshold amid the seething inrush of the storm.

The fine snow felt good against her throbbing temples, and she stared into the blackness whose whirling chaos voiced the violence of the heart-storm that raged within her breast. _He_ had conquered the storm!

She shivered as an icy blast sent the snow-powder flying half across the room, closed the door, and resumed her tireless journey to and fro, to and fro, and at each turn she glanced at the sleeping man.

She dropped to her knees beside the bunk and looked long into his rugged face. He, too, had suffered. She remembered the deep hurt in his eyes at their parting. Yet he was not beaten.

She had sent him from her, heartsick and alone into the great world, and he had fought and conquered and earned a place among men.

And as the girl looked, her eyes grew tender and the pain in her heart seemed more than she could bear. When she rose to her feet the savage hatred was gone from her heart, and in its place was determination--the determination to win back the love of this man.

She, too, would fight, even as he had fought--and win. He had not been discouraged and beaten. She remembered the look upon his face as he strode toward her that morning on the skidway in search of Leduc.

Unconsciously her tiny fists doubled, her delicate white jaw squared, and her eyes narrowed to slits, even as his had narrowed--but her lips did not smile.

He was _her_ man! She could give him more than this half-breed girl could give him, and she would fight to win back her own--that which had been her own from the first.

Almost at her feet upon the floor, just under the edge of the bunk where it had been carelessly tossed, lay his mackinaw of coarse, striped cloth. The girl stooped, drew it forth, and smoothed it out.

"His coat," she breathed almost reverently as she patted its rough folds. "He took it off and wrapped it around Charlie. Oh, it must have been terrible--_terrible_!"

She was about to hang it upon its peg when something fell to the floor with a sharp slap--a long, heavy envelope that had dropped from a ragged tear in the lining where the men had ripped it from the body of the boy.

She hung the garment upon its peg and stooped to recover the packet. The envelope was old, and had evidently been exposed to the action of water, for the flap gaped open and the edges were worn through at the ends. Upon one side was tightly bound a photograph, dim and indistinct from the rub of the coarse cloth.

Her lips tightened at the corners as she stepped to the desk and turned up the lamp. She would see what manner of girl it was who had scored so heavily against her in this battle of hearts. She held the picture close to the yellow flame and stared unbelievingly at the nearly effaced features.

With a swift movement she tore the encircling cord from the packet and examined it more closely. Her heart beat wildly, and the blood surged through her veins in great, joyous waves. For the photograph showed, not the dark features of the Indian girl, but--_her own_!

Worn almost beyond recognition it was, with corners peeled and rolled back from the warped and water-thickened mounting--but unmistakably _her picture_.

"He cares! He does care!" she repeated over and over. "Oh, my boy! My boy!" And then her eyes fell upon the thick envelope with its worn edges and open flap which lay unheeded upon the desk-top.

Mechanically she reached for it, and her hand came in contact with its thick, heavily engraved contents. She raised the papers to the light and stared; there were five in all, neatly folded, lying one upon another.

The green background of the topmost one was faded and streaked, and a thin, green wash had trickled over the edges of the others, staining them.

A yellow slip of paper fluttered to the desk. She picked it up and read the almost illegible, typewritten lines. It was a memorandum addressed to Strang, Liebhardt & Co., and bearing the faded signature of Hiram Carmody.

A sudden numbness overcame the girl. She sank slowly into the chair in front of the desk and stared dully from the yellowed slip of paper to the faded green bonds.

The room seemed suddenly cold, and she stared, unseeing, at her bloodless finger-tips. She tried to think--to concentrate her mind upon the present--but her brain refused to act, and she muttered helplessly:

"The bonds--the bonds--he took the bonds!"

Like one in a dream, she arose and replenished the fire in the little air-tight. It had burned almost to ashes.

She watched the yellow flames lick hungrily at the bubbling pitch of the knot she had thrown upon the coals, and glanced from the flaring flames to the little pile of green papers--and back again at the little flames that climbed higher about the resinous chunk.

"Why not?" she muttered. "They can never prove he took them, and he would think that they were lost." For a long time she sat, thinking, and then she closed the stove and returned to the desk.

"I stood by him when his father accused him," she murmured, "when I thought he was innocent. And now--oh, I can't! I can't give him up!" Her voice quavered pitifully, and she clutched at the hurt in her throat.

"I can't!" she gasped again. "He needs me now. He is mine! _Mine!_" she cried fiercely. "We will work it out together. He was weak then--but now he is strong. I will tell him that I know, and persuade him to return them. And then he will be clean--brave and strong and _clean_!"

She started nervously at the sound of a fumbling at the latch. Hastily catching up the bonds, she thrust them into the bosom of her gown and turned to face Blood River Jack, who entered, bearing a steaming pail of broth and a larger pail covered with a clean white cloth.

Behind him Daddy Dunnigan noisily stamped the snow from his feet. The old man hobbled to the side of the bunk and looked intently into the face of the sleeper, and, stooping, held his ear close to the man's heart.

With a satisfied nod he turned to the girl, who stood close by his side.

"He's shlaypin' foine," he said, and the little red-rimmed eyes looked straight into the eyes of blue. "But, miss, hear-rt-hunger has kilt more good min thin belly-hunger--ye'll foind th' _broth_ in yon buckut."

He joined the half-breed, who waited in silence. At the door he turned and again addressed the girl.

"In th' big buckut's ye're oun snack. Ate ut befoor ut gits cowld. Phwin ye're done, wake um up an' make um dhrink some coffee an' all he c'n howld av th' broth. He's th' bist man in th' woods, an' ut's up to you to pull um t'rough."

Before the girl could reply the door closed and the two men were swallowed up in the storm.

Ethel was surprised to find that she was hungry, and the appetizing luncheon which old Daddy Dunnigan had carefully prepared and packed for her was soon disposed of.

The hands of the little alarm-clock pointed to two as she crossed and knelt at the side of the sleeping man. She leaned over and kissed his forehead--his lips--and whispered softly into his ear.

"Bill--Bill, _dear_."

She blushed at the sound of the word, and glanced hurriedly about the room, but there was no one to hear, and the man slept on undisturbed by the tiny whisper. She laid a hand upon his shoulder and shook him gently.

"Bill--wake up!" He stirred slightly, and a sigh escaped him.

"Come, wake up, dear, you must eat."

This time she did not blush at the word, and the shaking became more vigorous. Carmody moved uneasily, grunted, and opened his eyes. Ethel started at the steady gaze of the grey eyes so close to her own. The grey eyes closed and he passed a hand slowly across them.

"A dream," he muttered, and the girl leaned closer.

"No, Bill," she whispered, "it is not a dream. I am here--Ethel--don't you know me?"

"Ethel," he repeated, and the name seemed to linger on his lips. "We must get back to her, kid, she is worrying--come--mush, kid--mush!" The girl laid a soft hand on his forehead and smoothed back the tangled hair.

"Bill, dear," she whispered, with her lips close to his, "Charlie is safe. And you are safe, here in the office--with me."

Bill seemed suddenly to grasp the situation.

"Ethel!" he exclaimed. And then, in a dull, tired voice, "I--I brought him back to you." His eyes closed, and he turned his face toward the wall.

Ethel poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, and returning, seated herself upon the edge of the bunk. Deftly her arm slipped under his head, and she held the cup to his lips. Bill drank greedily to the last drop, and the girl filled another cup with broth.

This time he helped a little, and she raised him higher and pillowed his head against her breast. He sipped the broth hungrily, but very slowly, pausing a long time between sips.

Ethel's body thrilled at the touch of him, the little hand that held the cup trembled, and the man, close-pressed against her soft breast, heard the wild pounding of her heart.

Suddenly he looked up into her eyes. Her face flushed crimson, and the swift down-sweep of the long lashes hid the soft, blue eyes from the intense, burning gaze of the hard grey ones. In confusion she averted her face.

There was a swift movement beside her, and the next instant strong arms were about her, and she heard, as from afar, the heavy thud as the porcelain cup struck the floor.

Vainly she struggled in a sudden frenzy of panic to free herself from the embrace of the encircling arms, and her heart was filled with a great, passionate gladness at the futility of her tiny efforts as she felt herself drawn closer and ever closer against the mighty chest of the big man whom, in spite of herself, and of his own shortcomings and weaknesses, she loved with the savage abandon that is the wonder-love of woman. She knew, too, that the deep music in her ears was the sound of his voice which came in short, stabbing, half-sentences.

"Ethel! Ethel! Little girl--you are mine, mine, _mine_! You _do_ love me! Darling, better than life itself, I love you. I have always loved you! Tell me, dear, it was all a lie--about St. Ledger. Tell me you love me, dearest!"

The bearded lips found hers, and for answer, her struggles ceased, her body relaxed against his body, her soft arms stole timidly about his neck, and there was a wild singing in her heart.

"And there has never been another?" she whispered a few minutes later as she sat close beside him and watched him sip hot broth from the thick cup. The grey eyes twinkled.

"Don't you _know_, sweetheart, that there has never been another? Why, you have known me all my life!" But the blue eyes were serious.

"I mean, since--since you went away?" For answer the man raised his arm and pointed toward the opposite wall.

"Hand me that mackinaw," he said. Ethel gasped and stared at him wide eyed. "The _mackinaw_--that old striped coat next to the slicker," he smiled.

"But----" she stifled the protest, and the man wondered at the sudden pallor of her face.

"Hand it here," he repeated, "there is something I want to show you."

Without a word the girl crossed the room and, removing the mackinaw from its peg, laid it upon the blanket within reach of his hand. He drew it to him, and the girl watched in silence while he ran his fingers over the lining.

He plunged his arm to the elbow into the ragged hole and explored to the very corners the space between the lining and the cloth. With a blank expression of disappointment he looked up at her.

"They are gone," he said in a low voice. "My letters and my picture. _Your_ letters, dear--and _your_ picture----"

"Letters!" the girl gasped, leaning forward and staring into his eyes.

"Why, yes, darling. There were only a few. You wrote them when I was in Europe. They were all I had--those few little letters, and the photograph. You remember--the one you gave me----"

"But--I don't understand----"

"I always kept it on my desk at home," he continued, ignoring the interruption. "And your letters, too--all sealed in a big envelope. And the morning I went away I bound the picture to the envelope and put it in my pocket, and I have always kept it with me.

"A thousand times, dear, I have looked at the picture. It has been my fetish--the little amulet that keeps a man from harm. And whether or not it has succeeded, dear heart, you must judge for yourself."

"But, the letters--you never took them out--never read them?" The man was surprised at the intense eagerness of her tone.

"No," he answered, "I never read them. You see, it got to be a sort of game with me. It was a big game that I played against myself, and when I was sure I had won I was going to open the letters."

He paused and looked into the girl's eyes. "And then, one day I happened to read in an old newspaper the account of your engagement to St. Ledger. I almost lost the game, then--but I didn't. And--after that--the letters never were the same, and I--I just played the game to _win_."

There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she clutched at his hand.

"But the bonds?" she cried. The man regarded her with a puzzled look.

"Bonds--bonds--what bonds?"

"Why, the bonds you were to have delivered to Strang, Liebhardt & Co. Securities, or something."

Bill stared uncomprehendingly, then suddenly he laughed.

"Oh! Those! Why, I handed them over to father. You see, Dad handed it to me pretty straight that morning. In fact, he--er--fired me. So I gave him the bonds and----"

The sentence was never finished. With a glad cry the girl flung herself upon him, and to his unutterable wonder sobbed and sobbed.