Chapter 17

"Four shots," Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal."

Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick," he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga--after supplies."

"Yes--but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfish character of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. There was a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face.

"That means--big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go."

Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Some of these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmen of the region,--for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of their weapons. The red race--at least such representatives of it as lived in Clearwater--was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. It was noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, and Pete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt. Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.

There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place,--a spring a half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. The look on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would, it seemed, be big doings, and very soon.

A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk. Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his features were drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands, however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette.

For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessons Harold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear too eager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference, gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold was seared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black and bitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a long time in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame.

There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatred was an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Bill from the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stood for--so opposite to Harold in everything--but also for that first mortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him for rescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, and Bill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factor in his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further cause for hatred, till now it stung and burned him like strong drink, like live hot steam in his brain. In his inner soul he knew that Bill had endured tests in which he had failed, and he hated him the worse for it. He had sensed Bill's contempt for him, and the absolute fairness with which the woodsman had always treated him brought no remorse. Bill had found the mine for which he sought, to which, by the degenerate code by which he lived, he felt he had an ancestral right.

Ever since he had gone down into that darkened treasure house he had known in his own soul, late or soon, his future course. The gold alone was worth the crime he planned. And as a crowning touch came the events of the day and night just passed.

He had had no desire for Bill to return to the cabin alive. It would have been a simple way out of his difficulties for the woodsman to fall and die in the snow wastes of Clearwater. For him to lie so still and impotent in the drifts would compensate for many things, and in such a case he would never have opportunity to record the finding of his mine. The only imperfection, in this event, was that it deprived Harold of his personal vengeance, and magnanimously he was willing to forgo that. It wouldn't be his pleasure to see the final agony, the last shudder of the frame,--but yet at least he might see much remnants as would be left when the snow had melted in spring.

Every event of the day had pointed to a successful trip, from Harold's point of view. He had known that Bill couldn't make it through to his Twenty-three Mile cabin after the Chinook wind had softened the snow. The bitter night that followed would have likely claimed quickly any one that tried to sleep, without blankets, unsheltered in the snow fields. And when Virginia had gone out to save him and had brought back the blind and reeling man, his first impulse had been to leap upon him, in his helplessness, and drive his hunting knife through his heart!

It wouldn't, however, had been a wise course to pursue. He didn't want to lose Virginia. He flattered himself that he had been cunning and self-mastered. He had watched Virginia's tender services to the woodsman, and once he had seen a luster in her eyes that had seemed to shatter his reason. And he knew that the time had come to strike.

He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks with which civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father's son.

This was a land of savage and primitive passions, and he felt no self-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhuman crime. He had learned certain lessons of cruelty from the wilderness; the savage breeds with whom he had mingled had had their influence too. Bill, born and living in a land of beasts, had kept the glory of manhood; Harold, coming from a land of men, had fallen to the beasts' own level. And even the savage wolf does not slay the pack-brother that frees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was prompting his every step.

He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of his two confederates. The breeds waited patiently for him to speak. "Where's Sindy?" he asked at last.

They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lines on their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's--just where you said," Joe replied.

"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'm going to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now--and soon I'm going out with her--to the Outside. But there's things to do first. Bill has found the mine."

The others nodded gravely. They expected some such development.

"And Bill is as blind as a mole--got caught in a cabin full of green-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So I sent for you right away."

The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete's eyes had begun to gleam,--such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in the eyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow.

"The mine's worth millions--more money than you can dream of. Each of you get a sixth--one third divided between you. You'll never get more money for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live a hundred winters. But you agree first to these terms--or you won't know where the mine is."

"Me--I want a fourth," Joe answered sullenly.

"All right. Turn around and go home. I don't want you."

It was a bluff, but it worked. Joe came to terms at once. Treacherous himself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn't divulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work was done.

"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claim notices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record the claim," Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. No one'll make any trouble."

Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a very pertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"

Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his own woman. "Didn't you hear me say she was _my_ squaw? I'll tend to her. Besides--the way I've got it planned, she won't know--at least she won't understand. Now listen, you two, and don't make any mistake. I've got to go back to the cabin now--try to be there before they wake up. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday--and, as I told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher.

"Both of you are to come to the cabin, just about dark. You'll tell me you have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yuga village. Bring along a quart of booze--firewater--and maybe two quarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring along something in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in a better mood. And now--you see what you've got to do?"

Neither of them answered. They could guess--but they didn't conceive of the real brilliancy of the plan.

"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"--and Harold's face drew into an unlovely snarl--"sometime in the early evening give Bill what's coming to him."

"Do him off----?" Joe asked stolidly.

"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breeds leaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmatic now. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savage faces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even as his; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.

"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him--better still, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him before he knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go back to my cabin and hide out."

"No food in cabin," Joe objected. "Get some from you?"

For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunate circumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up the supplies, eh? Got any booze----?"

"Still two bottles firewater----"

"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either--not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supper to-night, or as much of it as you need--and after you're through with Bill go back to your cabin and get what you have left----"

"There won't be none left----"

"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill's Twenty-three Mile cabin is?"

Pete nodded. Joe made no response.

"Then you can find it, Pete. I haven't any idea where it is myself. It's only a day's march, and he's got it packed with grub. You hide out there, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough to take us down there too--the woman and I--we'll follow your snowshoes tracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if we have to, we can go over to a grizzly carcass I know of and cut off a few pounds of meat--but we won't have to. We'll join you at the Twenty-three Mile cabin to-morrow night."

Pete the breed looked doubtful. "Bear over--east?" he asked.

"Somewhere over there," Harold replied.

"Don't guess any bear meat left. Heard coyotes--hundred of 'em--over east. Pack of wolves came through too--sang song over there."

Harold could agree with him. If indeed the wolves and the coyotes had gathered--starving gray skulkers of the forest--the great skeleton would have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicate his own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin with the morsel of food they had left--he and Virginia could follow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill's cabin.

"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out," Harold went on. "I'll go down to the recorder's office with the woman. Don't worry about her, I'll tell 'em that you were two Indians from the East Selkirks, give 'em a couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple as day and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through your heads, I'm going back to the cabin."

They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, was exceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete had one more question--one that was wholly characteristic of his weasel soul.

"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thin blade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"

Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a lust, a desire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark and evil ways. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't much matter----" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguely exciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to stand listening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if he were scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from the past was speaking through his lips. The words came with no conscious effort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester in his soul. His father's blood was in the full ascendancy at last.

"There's an old pick on the table--Bill had it prospecting." he said.

XXVIII

Bill's eyes were considerably better when he wakened--full in the daylight. The warm wet cloths had taken part of the inflammation out of them, and when he strained to open the lids, he was aware of a little, dim gleam of light. He couldn't make out objects, however, and except for a fleeting shadow he could not discern the hand that he swept before his face. Several days and perhaps weeks would pass before the full strength of his sight returned.

His greatest hope at present was that he could grope his way about the cabin and build a fire for Virginia. Whether she wished to get up or not to-day, the growing chill in the room must be removed. He got up, fumbled on the floor for such of his outer garments as Virginia had removed, and after a world of difficulty managed to get them on. He was amazingly refreshed by the night's sleep and Virginia's nursing. His eyes throbbed, of course; his muscles were lame and painful, his head ached and his arms and legs seemed to be dismembered, yet he knew that complete recovery was only a matter of hours.

Building the fire, however, was a grievous task. He felt it incumbent upon him to move with utmost caution so that Virginia would not waken. By groping about the walls he encountered the stove. It was pleasantly warm to his hands, and when he opened the door he found that hot coals were still glowing in the ashes. Then he fumbled about the floor for such fuel as Harold had provided.

He found a piece at last, and soon a cheery crackle told him that it had ignited. He grinned with delight at the thought that he, almost stone blind, had been able to build a fire in a room with a sleeping girl and not waken her. But his joy was a trifle premature. At that instant he tripped over a piece of firewood and his hands crashed against the logs.

"Oh, blast my clumsiness!" he whispered; then stood still as death to see what had befallen. Virginia stirred behind her curtain.

"Is that you, Harold?" she asked.

She was wide awake, and further deception was unavailing. "No. It's Bill."

"Well, what are you doing, up? Did Harold--do you mean to say you built the fire yourself?"

"That's me, lady----"

"Then you must have your sight again----" The girl snatched aside the curtain and peered into his face.

"No such luck. Coals were still glowing; all I had to do was put in a piece of firewood. But I'm all well otherwise, as far as I can tell. How about you?"

The girl stretched up her arms. "A little stiff--Bill, I've certainly gained recuperative powers since I came up here. But, Heavens, I've had bad dreams. And now--I want you to tell me just how this blindness of yours--is going to affect our getting out."

It was a serious question, one to which Bill had already given much thought. "I don't see how it can affect us a great deal," he answered at last. "I realize you don't know one step of the way down to Bradleyburg, and I can't see the way; but Harold knows it perfectly. Of course if we had plenty of food the sensible thing to do would be to wait--till I get back my sight. But you know--we haven't scarcely any food at all. The last of the meat is gone, except one little piece of jerky. We've got a cup or two of flour and one or two cans. Of course there isn't enough to get down to the settlements on."

"Then we'll have to use the grizzly--after all?"

"Of course. Thank God we had him to fall back on. But even with him, I don't think we ought to wait till I get back my sight. We might have other delays, and perhaps another softening of the crust. It will be pretty annoying--traveling on grizzly flesh--and pretty awkward to have a blind man in the party, but--I'll be some good, anyway. Maybe I can cut fuel."

The girl was deeply touched. It was so characteristic of this man that even in his blindness he wished to make the difficulties of the journey just as light as possible for her.

"I won't let you do a thing," she told him. "Harold and I can do the work of camp."

"There won't be much to do, unfortunately; our camping will have to be exceedingly simple. We'll take the sled full of blankets and grizzly meat and what other little things we need. I don't see why you can't ride on it, too--most of the way; the going is largely downhill and the crust is perfect. We can skim along. At night we'll have to sleep out--and not get much sleep, either--but by going hard, even on snowshoes, we can make it through in three days--sleeping out just two nights. Harold and I can build raging fires--he starting them and helping me with the the fuel cutting. Oh, I know, Virginia, I won't be much good on this trip--and those two nights will be pretty terrible. We'll have to take turns in watching the fire. But with blankets around our shoulders, acting as reflectors for the heat, we can get some rest."

"But you are sure Harold knows the way? I couldn't even get as far as the river, and you are blind----"

"Harold knows the way as well as I do. I can mush all right, by hanging on the gee-pole. It will be comparatively easy going; the brush is covered with snow. The only thing that remains is to have Harold go over and get a supply of the grizzly meat. Or, better still, since he'll have to take the sled, we can pick it up on the way out. It's frozen hard and won't take harm, and it's only a half mile out of our way."

As if the invocation of his name were a magic summons, Harold opened the door and entered. He carried Bill's loud-mouthed rifle in the hollow of his arm.

"You've been hunting?" Virginia cried. She was pleased that this sweetheart of hers should have risen so early in an attempt to secure fresh meat for their depleted larder. It was wholly the manly thing to do.

"Of course. I figured we needed meat. I carried Bill's rifle because I don't trust the sights of mine. They were a yard off that day I shot at the caribou."

"Did you see any game?"

Harold's eyes met hers an narrowed, ever so slightly. But his answer was apt. "I saw a caribou--about two miles away. There didn't seem a chance in the world to hit it, but considering our scarcity of meat, I took that chance. Of course, I didn't hit within ten feet of him; Bill's gun isn't built for such long ranges. I shot--four times."

Bill did not reply. He was thinking about those same four shots. It was incomprehensible that they should have made such an impression upon him.

"And for all that Bill hasn't got his sight back yet, we're going to start down to-morrow," Virginia went on in a gay voice. She glanced once at Bill, but she did not see the world of despair that came into his face at the delight with which she spoke. "You and I will take turns pulling the sled; Bill will hang on to the gee-pole. And Bill says you know the way. We're going to dash right through--camp out only two nights."

"I know the way all right," Harold answered. "What about food?"

"It's only a half-mile out of the way to Bill's mine. There we're going to load the sled with grizzly meat."

It was in Harold's mind that their journey would be far different--down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin and to the Yuga rather than over Grizzly River. But for certain very good reasons he kept this knowledge to himself. His lips opened to tell them that the wolves and coyotes had already devoured the carcass of the bear; but he caught himself in time. It would be somewhat hard to explain how he had learned that fact, in the first place; and in the second, there was a real danger to his plot if this revelation were made. Likely they would suggest that, to conserve what little food they had, they start at once. The time had not yet come to unfold this knowledge.

He nodded. The day passed like those preceding,--simple meals, a few hours of talk around the fire, such fuel cutting as was necessary to keep the cabin snug and to provide a supply for the night. This was their last day in Clearwater,--and Virginia could hardly accept the truth.

How untrue had been her gayety! In all the white lies of her past, all the little pretenses that are as much a part of life in civilization as buildings and streets, she had never been as false to herself as now. She had never had to act a part more cruel,--that she could feel joy at the prospect of her departure.

She could deceive herself no longer. The events of the previous day had opened her eyes--in a small measure at least--and her thoughts groped in vain for a single anticipation, a single prospect that could lighten the overpowering weight of her sadness. And the one hope that came to her was that strange sister of despair,--that back in her old life, in her own city, full forgetfulness might come to her.

Wasn't it true that she would say good-by to the bitter cold and the snow wastes? Was there no joy in this? Yet these same solitudes had brought her happiness that, though now to be blasted, had been a revelation and a wonder that no words could name or no triumphs of the future could equal. The end of her adventure,--and she felt it might as well be the end of her life. Three little days of bitter hardship, Bill tramping at her side,--and then a long, dark road leading nowhere except to barren old age and death.

Never again would she know the winter forest, the silence and the mystery, and the wolf pack chanting with infinite sadness from the hill. The North Wind, a reality now, would be a forgotten myth: she would forget that she had seen the woodland caribou, quivering with irrepressible vigor against the snowfields. The thrill, the exhilaration of battle, the heat of red blood in her veins would be strangers soon: the whole adventure would seem like some happy, impossible dream. Never to hear a friendly voice wishing her good morning, never a returning step on the threshold, the touch of a strong hand in a moment of fear! She was aghast and crushed at the realization that this man was going out of her life forever. She would leave him to his forests,--their shadows hiding him forever from her gaze.

She found it hard to believe that she could fit into her old niche. Some way, this northern adventure had changed the very fiber of her soul. She could find no joy at the thought of the old gayeties she had once loved, the beauty and the warmth. Was it not true that Harold would go out beside her, the lover of her girlhood? His uncle would start him in business; her course with him would be smooth. But her hands were cold and her heart sick at the thought.

As the hours passed, the realization of her impending departure seemed to grow, like a horror, in her thoughts. She still made her pathetic effort to be gay. It would not do for these men to know the truth, so she laughed often and her words were joyous. She fought back the tears that burned in her eyelids. She could only play the game; there was no way out.