Isobel

 A Romance of the Northern Trail

 by James Oliver Curwood, 1913

 TO CARLOTTA WHO IS WITH ME AND TO VIOLA WHO FILLS FOR ME A DREAM OF THE FUTURE I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS BOOK

 I

 THE MOST TERRIBLE THING IN THE WORLD

At Point Fullerton, one thousand miles straight north of civilization, Sergeant William MacVeigh wrote with the stub end of a pencil betweenhis fingers the last words of his semi-annual report to theCommissioner of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police at Regina. 

He concluded:

 "I beg to say that I have made every effort to run down Scottie Deane, the murderer. I have not given up hope of finding him, but I believe that he has gone from my territory and is probably now somewhere within the limits of the Fort Churchill patrol. We have hunted the country for three hundred miles south along the shore of Hudson's Bay to Eskimo Point, and as far north as Wagner Inlet. Within three months we have made three patrols west of the Bay, unraveling sixteen hundred miles without finding our man or word of him. I respectfully advise a close watch of the patrols south of the Barren Lands. "

"There!" said MacVeigh aloud, straightening his rounded shoulders witha groan of relief. "It's done. "

From his bunk in a corner of the little wind and storm beaten cabinwhich represented Law at the top end of the earth Private Pelliterlifted a head wearily from his sick bed and said: "I'm bloomin' gladof it, Mac. Now mebbe you'll give me a drink of water and shoot thatdevilish huskie that keeps howling every now and then out there asthough death was after me. "

"Nervous?" said MacVeigh, stretching his strong young frame withanother sigh of satisfaction. "What if you had to write this twice ayear?" And he pointed at the report. 

"It isn't any longer than the letters you wrote to that girl ofyours--"

Pelliter stopped short. There was a moment of embarrassing silence. Then he added, bluntly, and with a hand reaching out: "I beg yourpardon, Mac. It's this fever. I forgot for a moment that-- that youtwo-- had broken. "

"That's all right, " said MacVeigh, with a quiver in his voice, as heturned for the water. 

"You see, " he added, returning with a tin cup, "this report isdifferent. When you're writing to the Big Mogul himself something getson your nerves. And it has been a bad year with us, Pelly. We felldown on Scottie, and let the raiders from that whaler get away fromus. And-- By Jo, I forgot to mention the wolves!"

"Put in a P. S. , " suggested Pelliter. 

"A P. S. To his Royal Nibs!" cried MacVeigh, staring incredulously athis mate. "There's no use of feeling your pulse any more, Pelly. Thefever's got you. You're sure out of your head. "

He spoke cheerfully, trying to bring a smile to the other's pale face. Pelliter dropped back with a sigh. 

"No-- there isn't any use feeling my pulse, " he repeated. "It isn'tsickness, Bill-- not sickness of the ordinary sort. It's in my brain--that's where it is. Think of it-- nine months up here, and never aglimpse of a white man's face except yours. Nine months without thesound of a woman's voice. Nine months of just that dead, gray worldout there, with the northern lights hissing at us every night likesnakes and the black rocks staring at us as they've stared for amillion centuries. There may be glory in it, but that's all. We're'eroes all right, but there's no one knows it but ourselves and thesix hundred and forty-nine other men of the Royal Mounted. My God, what I'd give for the sight of a girl's face, for just a moment'stouch of her hand! It would drive out this fever, for it's the feverof loneliness, Mac-- a sort of madness, and it's splitting my 'ead. "

"Tush, tush!" said MacVeigh, taking his mate's hand. "Wake up, Pelly!Think of what's coming. Only a few months more of it, and we'll bechanged. And then-- think of what a heaven you'll be entering. You'llbe able to enjoy it more than the other fellows, for they've never hadthis. And I'm going to bring you back a letter-- from the littlegirl--"

Pelliter's face brightened. 

"God bless her!" he exclaimed. "There'll be letters from her-- a dozenof them. She's waited a long time for me, and she's true to the bottomof her dear heart. You've got my letter safe?"

"Yes. "

MacVeigh went back to the rough little table and added still furtherto his report to the Commissioner of the Royal Mounted in thefollowing words:

 "Pelliter is sick with a strange trouble in his head. At times I have been afraid he was going mad, and if he lives I advise his transfer south at an early date. I am leaving for Churchill two weeks ahead of the usual time in order to get medicines. I also wish to add a word to what I said about wolves in my last report. We have seem them repeatedly in packs of from fifty to one thousand. Late this autumn a pack attacked a large herd of traveling caribou fifteen miles in from the Bay, and we counted the remands of one hundred and sixty animals killed over a distance of less than three miles. It is my opinion that the wolves kill at least five thousand caribou in this patrol each year. 

 "I have the honor to be, sir, "Your obedient servant, " WILLIAM MACVEIGH, Sergeant, "In charge of detachment. "

He folded the report, placed it with other treasures in the waterproofrubber bag which always went into his pack, and returned to Pelliter'sside. 

"I hate to leave you alone, Pelly, " he said. "But I'll make a fasttrip of it-- four hundred and fifty miles over the ice, and I'll do itin ten days or bust. Then ten days back, mebbe two weeks, and you'llhave the medicines and the letters. Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" cried Pelliter. 

He turned his face a little to the wall. Something rose up inMacVeigh's throat and choked him as he gripped Pelliter's hand. 

"My God, Bill, is that the sun ?" suddenly cried Pelliter. 

MacVeigh wheeled toward the one window of the cabin. The sick mantumbled from his bunk. Together they stood for a moment at the window, staring far to the south and east, where a faint red rim of gold shotup through the leaden sky. 

"It's the sun, " said MacVeigh, like one speaking a prayer. 

"The first in four months, " breathed Pelliter. 

Like starving men the two gazed through the window. The golden lightlingered for a few moments, then died away. Pelliter went back to hisbunk. 

Half an hour later four dogs, a sledge, and a man were moving swiftlythrough the dead and silent gloom of Arctic day. Sergeant MacVeigh wason his way to Fort Churchill, more than four hundred miles away. 

This is the loneliest journey in the world, the trip down from thesolitary little wind-beaten cabin at Point Fullerton to FortChurchill. That cabin has but one rival in the whole of theNorthland-- the other cabin at Herschel Island, at the mouth of theFirth, where twenty-one wooden crosses mark twenty-one white men'sgraves. But whalers come to Herschel. Unless by accident, or to breakthe laws, they never come in the neighborhood of Fullerton. It is atFullerton that men die of the most terrible thing in the world--loneliness. In the little cabin men have gone mad. 

The gloomy truth oppressed MacVeigh as he guided his dog team over theice into the south. He was afraid for Pelliter. He prayed thatPelliter might see the sun now and then. On the second day he stoppedat a cache of fish which they had put up in the early autumn for dogfeed. He stopped at a second cache on the fifth day, and spent thesixth night at an Eskimo igloo at Blind Eskimo Point. Late en theninth day he came into Fort Churchill, with an average of fifty milesa day to his credit. 

From Fullerton men came in nearer dead than alive when they made thehazard in winter. MacVeigh's face was raw from the beat of the wind. His eyes were red. He had a touch of runner's cramp. He slept fortwenty-four hours in a warm bed without stirring. When he awoke heraged at the commanding officer of the barrack for letting him sleepso long, ate three meals in one, and did up his business in a hurry. 

His heart warmed with pleasure when he sorted out of his mail nineletters for Pelliter, all addressed in the same small, girlish hand. There was none for himself-- none of the sort which Pelliter wasreceiving, and the sickening loneliness within him grew almostsuffocating. 

He laughed softly as he broke a law. He opened one of Pelliter'sletters-- the last one written-- and calmly read it. It was filledwith the sweet tenderness of a girl's love, and tears came into hisred eyes. Then he sat down and answered it. He told the girl aboutPelliter, and confessed to her that he had opened her last letter. Andthe chief of what he said was that it would be a glorious surprise toa man who was going mad (only he used loneliness in place of madness)if she would come up to Churchill the following spring and marry himthere. He told her that he had opened her letter because he lovedPelliter more than most men loved their brothers. Then he resealed theletter, gave his mail to the superintendent, packed his medicines andsupplies, and made ready to return. 

On this same day there came into Churchill a halfbreed who had beenhunting white foxes near Blind Eskimo, and who now and then did scoutwork for the department. He brought the information that he had seen awhite man and a white woman ten miles south of the Maguse River. Thenews thrilled MacVeigh. 

"I'll stop at the Eskimo camp, " he said to the superintendent. "It'sworth investigating, for I never knew of a white woman north of sixtyin this country. It might be Scottie Deane. "

"Not very likely, " replied the superintendent. "Scottie is a tall man, straight and powerful. Coujag says this man was no taller thanhimself, and walked like a hunchback. But if there are white peopleout there their history is worth knowing. "

The following morning MacVeigh started north. He reached thehalf-dozen igloos which made up the Eskimo village late the third day. Bye-Bye, the chief man, offered him no encouragement, MacVeigh gavehim a pound of bacon, and in return for the magnificent presentBye-Bye told him that he had seen no white people. MacVeigh gave himanother pound, and Bye-Bye added that he had not heard of any whitepeople. He listened with the lifeless stare of a walrus while MacVeighimpressed upon him that he was going inland the next morning to searchfor white people whom he had heard were there. That night, in ablinding snow-storm, Bye-Bye disappeared from camp. 

MacVeigh left his dogs to rest up at the igloo village and swungnorthwest on snow-shoes with the break of arctic dawn, which was butlittle better than the night itself. He planned to continue in thisdirection until he struck the Barren, then patrol in a wide circlethat would bring him back to the Eskimo camp the next night. From thefirst he was handicapped by the storm. He lost Bye-Bye's snow-shoetracks a hundred yards from the igloos. All that day he searched insheltered places for signs of a camp or trail. In the afternoon thewind died away, the sky cleared, and in the wake of the calm the coldbecame so intense that trees cracked with reports like pistol shots. 

He stopped to build a fire of scrub bush and eat his supper on theedge of the Barren just as the cold stars began blazing over his head. It was a white, still night. The southern timberline lay far behindhim, and to the north there was no timber for three hundred miles. Between those lines there was no life, and so there was no sound. Onthe west the Barren thrust itself down in a long finger ten miles inwidth, and across that MacVeigh would have to strike to reach thewooded country beyond. It was over there that he had the greatest hopeof discovering a trail. After he had finished his supper he loaded hispipe, and sat hunched close up to his fire, staring out over theBarren. For some reason he was filled with a strange and uncomfortableemotion, and he wished that he had brought along one of his tired dogsto keep him company. 

He was accustomed to loneliness; he had laughed in the face of thingsthat had driven other men mad. But to-night there seemed to besomething about him that he had never known before, something thatwormed its way deep down into his soul and made his pulse beat faster. He thought of Pelliter on his fever bed, of Scottie Deane, and then ofhimself. After all, was there much to choose between the three ofthem?

A picture rose slowly before him in the bush-fire, and in that picturehe saw Scottie, the man-hunted man, fighting a great fight to keephimself from being hung by the neck until he was dead; and then he sawPelliter, dying of the sickness which comes of loneliness, and beyondthose two, like a pale cameo appearing for a moment out of gloom, hesaw the picture of a face. It was a girl's face, and it was gone in aninstant. He had hoped against hope that she would write to him again. But she had failed him. 

He rose to his feet with a little laugh, partly of joy and partly ofpain, as he thought of the true heart that was waiting for Pelliter. He tied on his snow-shoes and struck out over the Barren. He movedswiftly, looking sharply ahead of him. The night grew brighter, thestars more brilliant. The zipp, zipp, zipp of the tails of hissnow-shoes was the only sound he heard except the first faint, hissingmonotone of the aurora in the northern skies, which came to him likethe shivering run of steel sledge runners on hard snow. 

In place of sound the night about him began to fill with ghostly life. His shadow beckoned and grimaced ahead of him, and the stunted bushseemed to move. His eyes were alert and questing. Within himself hereasoned that he would see nothing, and yet some unusual instinctmoved him to caution. At regular intervals he stopped to listen and tosniff the air for an odor of smoke. More and more he became like abeast of prey. He left the last bush behind him. Ahead of him thestarlit space was now unbroken by a single shadow. Weird whispers camewith a low wind that was gathering in the north. 

Suddenly MacVeigh stopped and swung his rifle into the crook of hisarm. Something that was not the wind had come up out of the night. Helifted his fur cap from his ears and listened. He heard it again, faintly, the frosty singing of sledge runners. The sledge wasapproaching from the open Barren, and he cleared for action. He tookoff his heavy fur mittens and snapped them to his belt, replaced themwith his light service gloves, and examined his revolver to see thatthe cylinder was not frozen. Then he stood silent and waited. 

 II

 BILLY MEETS THE WOMAN

Out of the gloom a sledge approached slowly. It took form at last in adim shadow, and MacVeigh saw that it would pass very near to him. Hemade out, one after another, a human figure, three dogs, and thetoboggan. There was something appalling in the quiet of this specterof life looming up out of the night. He could no longer hear thesledge, though it was within fifty paces of him. The figure in advancewalked slowly and with bowed head, and the dogs and the sledgefollowed in a ghostly line. Human leader and animals were oblivious toMacVeigh, silent and staring in the white night. They were oppositehim before he moved. 

Then he strode out quickly, with a loud holloa. At the sound of hisvoice there followed a low cry, the dogs stopped in their traces, andthe figure ran back to the sledge. MacVeigh drew his revolver. Half adozen long strides and he had reached the sledge. From the oppositeside a white face stared at him, and with one hand resting on theheavily laden sledge, and his revolver at level with his waist, MacVeigh stared back in speechless astonishment. 

For the great, dark, frightened eyes that looked across at him, andthe white, staring face he recognized as the eyes and the face of awoman. For a moment he was unable to move or speak, and the womanraised her hands and pushed back her fur hood so that he saw her hairshimmering in the starlight. She was a white woman. Suddenly he sawsomething in her face that struck him with a chill, and he looked downat the thing under his hand. It was a long, rough box. He drew back astep. 

"Good God!" he said. "Are you alone?"

She bowed her head, and he heard her voice in a half sob. 

"Yes-- alone. "

He passed quickly around to her side. "I am Sergeant MacVeigh, of theRoyal Mounted, " he said, gently. "Tell me, where are you going, andhow does it happen that you are out here in the Barren-- alone. "

Her hood had fallen upon her shoulder, and she lifted her face full toMacVeigh. The stars shone in her eyes. They were wonderful eyes, andnow they were filled with pain. And it was a wonderful face toMacVeigh, who had not seen a white woman's face for nearly a year. Shewas young, so young that in the pale glow of the night she lookedalmost like a girl, and in her eyes and mouth and the upturn of herchin there was something so like that other face of which he haddreamed that he reached out and took her two hesitating hands in hisown, and asked again:

"Where are you going, and why are you out here-- alone?"

"I am going-- down there, " she said, turning her head toward thetimber-line. "I am going with him-- my husband--"

Her voice choked her, and, drawing her hands suddenly from him, shewent to the sledge and stood facing him. For a moment there was a glowof defiance in her eyes, as though she feared him and was ready tofight for herself and her dead. The dogs slunk in at her feet, andMacVeigh saw the gleam of their naked fangs in the starlight. 

"He died three days ago, " she finished, quietly, "and I am taking himback to my people, down on the Little Seul. "

"It is two hundred miles, " said MacVeigh, looking at her as if shewere mad. "You will die. "

"I have traveled two days, " replied the woman. "I am going on. "

"Two days-- across the Barren!"

MacVeigh looked at the box, grim and terrible in the ghostly radiancethat fell upon it. Then he looked at the woman. She had bowed her headupon her breast, and her shining hair fell loose and disheveled. Hesaw the pathetic droop of her tired shoulders, and knew that she wascrying. In that moment a thrilling warmth flooded every fiber of hisbody, and the glory of this that had come to him from out of theBarren held him mute. To him woman was all that was glorious and good. The pitiless loneliness of his life had placed them next to angels inhis code of things, and before him now he saw all that he had everdreamed of in the love and loyalty of womanhood and of wifehood. 

The bowed little figure before him was facing death for the man shehad loved, and who was dead. In a way he knew that she was mad. Andyet her madness was the madness of a devotion that was beyond fear, ofa faithfulness that made no measure of storm and cold and starvation;and he was filled with a desire to go up to her as she stood crumpledand exhausted against the box, to take her close in his arms and tellher that of such a love he had built for himself the visions which hadkept him alive in his loneliness. She looked pathetically like achild. 

"Come, little girl, " he said. "We'll go on. I'll see you safely onyour way to the Little Seul. You mustn't go alone. You'd never reachyour people alive. My God, if I were he--"

He stopped at the frightened look in the white face she lifted to him. 

"What?" she asked. 

"Nothing-- only it's hard for a man to die and lose a woman like you, "said MacVeigh. "There-- let me lift you up on the box. "

"The dogs cannot pull the load, " she objected. "I have helped them--"

"If they can't, I can, " he laughed, softly; and with a quick movementhe picked her up and seated her on the sledge. He stripped off hispack and placed it behind her, and then he gave her his rifle. Thewoman looked straight at him with a tense, white face as she placedthe weapon across her lap. 

"You can shoot me if I don't do my duty, " said MacVeigh. He tried tohide the happiness that came to him in this companionship of woman, but it trembled in his voice. He stopped suddenly, listening. 

"What was that?"

"I heard nothing, " said the woman. Her face was deadly white. Her eyeshad grown black. 

MacVeigh turned, with a word to the dogs. He picked up the end of thebabiche rope with which the woman had assisted them to drag theirload, and set off across the Barren. The presence of the dead hadalways been oppressive to him, but to-night it was otherwise. Hisfatigue of the day was gone, and in spite of the thing he was helpingto drag behind him he was filled with a strange elation. He was in thepresence of a woman. Now and then he turned his head to look at her. He could feel her behind him, and the sound of her low voice when shespoke to the dogs was like music to him. He wanted to burst forth inthe wild song with which he and Pelliter had kept up their courage inthe little cabin, but he throttled his desire and whistled instead. Hewondered how the woman and the dogs had dragged the sledge. It sankdeep in the soft drift-snow, and taxed his strength. Now and then hepaused to rest, and at last the woman jumped from the sledge and cameto his side. 

"I am going to walk, " she said. "The load is too heavy. "

"The snow is soft, " replied MacVeigh. "Come. "

He held out his hand to her; and, with the same strange, white look inher face, the woman gave him her own. She glanced back uneasily towardthe box, and MacVeigh understood. He pressed her fingers a littletighter and drew her nearer to him. Hand in hand, they resumed theirway across the Barren. MacVeigh said nothing, but his blood wasrunning like fire through his body. The little hand he held trembledand started uneasily. Once or twice it tried to draw itself away, andhe held it closer. After that it remained submissively in his own, warm and thrilling. Looking down, he could see the profile of thewoman's face. 

A long, shining tress of her hair had freed itself from under herhood, and the light wind lifted it so that it fell across his arm. Like a thief he raised it to his lips, while the woman looked straightahead to where the timber-line began to show in a thin, black streak. His cheeks burned, half with shame, half with tumultuous joy. Then hestraightened his shoulders and shook the floating tress from his arm. 

Three-quarters of an hour later they came to the first of the timber. He still held her hand. He was still holding it, with the brilliantstarlight falling upon them, when his chin shot suddenly into the airagain, alert and fighting, and he cried, softly:

"What was that?"

"Nothing, " said the woman. "I heard nothing-- unless it was the windin the trees. "

She drew away from him. The dogs whined and slunk close to the box. Across the Barren came a low, wailing wind. 

"The storm is coming back, " said MacVeigh. "It must have been the windthat I heard. "

 III

 IN HONOR OF THE LIVING

For a few moments after uttering those words Billy stood silentlistening for a sound that was not the low moaning of the wind far outon the Barren. He was sure that he had heard it-- something very near, almost at his feet, and yet it was a sound which he could not place orunderstand. He looked at the woman. She was gazing steadily at him. 

"I hear it now, " she said. "It is the wind. It has frightened me. Itmakes such terrible sounds at times-- out on the Barren. A littlewhile ago-- I thought-- I heard-- a child crying--"

Billy saw her clutch a hand at her throat, and there were both terrorand grief in the eyes that never for an instant left his face. Heunderstood. She was almost ready to give way under the terrible strainof the Barren. He smiled at her, and spoke in a voice that he mighthave used to a little child. 

"You are tired, little girl ?"

"Yes-- yes-- I am tired--"

"And hungry and cold?"

"Yes. "

"Then we will camp in the timber. "

They went on until they came to a growth of spruce so dense that itformed a shelter from both snow and wind, with a thick carpet of brownneedles under foot. They were shut out from the stars, and in thedarkness MacVeigh began to whistle cheerfully. He unstrapped his packand spread out one of his blankets close to the box and wrapped theother about the woman's shoulders. 

"You sit here while I make a fire, " he said. 

He piled up dry needles over a precious bit of his birchbark andstruck a flame. In the glowing light he found other fuel, and added tothe fire until the crackling blaze leaped as high as his head. Thewoman's face was hidden, and she looked as though she had fallenasleep in the warmth of the fire. For half an hour Mac-Veigh draggedin fuel until he had a great pile of it in readiness. 

Then he forked out a deep bed of burning coals and soon the odor ofcoffee and frying bacon aroused his companion. She raised her head andthrew back the blanket with which he had covered her shoulders. It waswarm where she sat, and she took off her hood while he smiled at hercompanionably from over the fire. Her reddish-brown hair tumbled abouther shoulders, rippling and glistening in the fire glow, and for a fewmoments she sat with it falling loosely about her, with her eyes uponMacVeigh. Then she gathered it between her fingers, and MacVeighwatched her while she divided it into shining strands and pleated itinto a big braid. 

"Supper is ready, " he said. "Will you eat it there?"

She nodded, and for the first time she smiled at him. He brought baconand bread and coffee and other things from his pack and placed them ona folded blanket between them. He sat opposite her, cross-legged. Forthe first time he noticed that her eyes were blue and that there was aflush in her cheeks. The flush deepened as he looked at her, and shesmiled at him again. 

The smile, the momentary drooping of her eyes, set his heart leaping, and for a little while he was unconscious of taste in the food heswallowed. He told her of his post away up at Point Fullerton, and ofPelliter, who was dying of loneliness. 

"It's been a long time since I've seen a woman like you, " he confided. "And it seems like heaven. You don't know how lonely I am!" His voicetrembled. "I wish that Pelliter could see you-- just for a moment, " headded. "It would make him live again. "

Something in the soft glow of her eyes urged other words to his lips. 

"Mebbe you don't know what it means not to see a white woman in-- in--all this time, " he went on. "You won't think that I've gone mad, willyou, or that I'm saying or doing anything that's wrong? I'm trying tohold myself back, but I feel like shouting, I'm that glad. If Pellitercould see you--" He reached suddenly in his pocket and drew out theprecious packet of letters. "He's got a girl down south-- just likeyou, " he said. "These are from her. If I get 'em up in time they'llbring him round. It's not medicine he wants. It's woman-- just a sightof her, and sound of her, and a touch of her hand. "

She reached across and took the letters. In the firelight he saw thather hand was trembling. 

"Are they-- married?" she asked, softly. 

"No, but they're going to be, " he cried, triumphantly. "She's the mostbeautiful thing in the world, next to--"

He paused, and she finished for him. 

"Next to one other girl-- who is yours. "

"No, I wasn't going to say that. You won't think I mean wrong, willyou, if I tell you? I was going to say next to-- you. For you've comeout of the blizzard-- like an angel to give me new hope. I was sort ofbroke when you came. If you disappeared now and I never saw you againI'd go back and fight the rest of my time out, an' dream of pleasantthings. Gawd! Do you know a man has to be put up here before he knowsthat life isn't the sun an' the moon an' the stars an' the air webreathe. It's woman-- just woman. "

He was returning the letters to his pocket. The woman's voice wasclear and gentle. To Billy it rose like sweetest music above thecrackling of the fire and the murmuring of the wind in the sprucetops. 

"Men like you-- ought to have a woman to care for, " she said. "He waslike that. "

"You mean--" His eyes sought the long, dark box. 

"Yes-- he was like that. "

"I know how you feel, " he said; and for a moment he did not look ather. "I've gone through-- a lot of it. Father an' mother and a sister. Mother was the last, and I wasn't much more than a kid-- eighteen, Iguess-- but it don't seem much more than yesterday. When you come uphere and you don't see the sun for months nor a white face for a yearor more it brings up all those things pretty much as though theyhappened only a little while ago. '"

"All of them are-- dead?" she asked. 

"All but one. She wrote to me for a long time, and I thought she'dkeep her word. Pelly-- that's Pelliter-- thinks we've just had amisunderstanding, and that she'll write again. I haven't told him thatshe turned me down to marry another fellow. I didn't want to make himthink any unpleasant things about his own girl. You're apt to do thatwhen you're almost dying of loneliness. "

The woman's eyes were shining. She leaned a little toward him. 

"You should be glad, " she said. "If she turned you down she wouldn'thave been worthy of you-- afterward. She wasn't a true woman. If shehad been, her love wouldn't have grown cold because you were away. Itmustn't spoil your faith-- because that is-- beautiful. "

He had put a hand into his pocket again, and drew out now a thinpackage wrapped in buckskin. His face was like a boy's. 

"I might have-- if I hadn't met you, " he said. "I'd like to let youknow-- some way-- what you've done for me. You and this. "

He had unfolded the buckskin, and gave it to her. In it were the bigblue petals and dried, stem of a blue flower. 

"A blue flower!" she said. 

"Yes. You know what it means. The Indians call it i-o-waka, orsomething like that, because they believe that it is the flower spiritof the purest and most beautiful thing in the world. I have called itwoman. "

He laughed, and there was a joyous sort of note in the laugh. 

"You may think me a little mad, " he said, "but do you care if I tellyou about that blue flower?"

The woman nodded. There was a little quiver at her throat which Billydid not see. 

"I was away up on the Great Bear, " he said, "and for ten days and tennights I was in camp-- alone-- laid up with a sprained ankle. It was awild and gloomy place, shut in by barren ridge mountains, with stuntedblack spruce all about, and those spruce were haunted by owls thatmade my blood run cold nights. The second day I found company. It wasa blue flower. It grew close to my tent, as high as my knee, andduring the day I used to spread out my blanket close to it and liethere and smoke. And the blue flower would wave on its slender stem, an' bob at me, an' talk in sign language that I imagined I understood. Sometimes it was so funny and vivacious that I laughed, and then itseemed to be inviting me to a dance. And at other times it was justbeautiful and still, and seemed listening to what the forest wassaying-- and once or twice, I thought, it might be praying. Lonelinessmakes a fellow foolish, you know. With the going of the sun my blueflower would always fold its petals and go to sleep, like a littlechild tired out by the day's play, and after that I would feelterribly lonely. But it was always awake again when I rolled out inthe morning. At last the time came when I was well enough to leave. Onthe ninth night I watched my blue flower go to sleep for the lasttime. Then I packed. The sun was up when I went away the next morning, and from a little distance I turned and looked back. I suppose I wasfoolish, and weak for a man, but I felt like crying. Blue flower hadtaught me many things I had not known before. It had made me think. And when I looked back it was in a pool of sunlight, and it was wavingat me! It seemed to me that it was calling-- calling me back-- and Iran to it and picked it from the stem, and it has been with me eversince that hour. It has been my Bible an' my comrade, an' I've knownit was the spirit of the purest and the most beautiful thing in theworld-- woman. I--" His voice broke a little. "I-- I may be foolish, but I'd like to have you take it, an' keep it-- always-- for me. "

He could see now the quiver of her lips as she looked across at him. 

"Yes, I will take it, " she said. "I will take it and keep it--always. "

"I've been keeping it for a woman-- somewhere, " he said. "Foolishidea, wasn't it? And I've been telling you all this, when I want tohear what happened back there, and what you are going to do when youreach your people. Do you mind-- telling me?"

"He died-- that's all, " she replied, fighting to speak calmly. "Ipromised to take him back-- to my people, And when I get there-- Idon't know-- what I shall-- do--"

She caught her breath. A low sob broke from her lips. 

"You don't know-- what you will do--"

Billy's voice sounded strange even to himself. He rose to his feet andlooked down into her upturned face, his hands clenched, his bodytrembling with the fight he was making. Words came to his lips andwere forced back again-- words which almost won in their struggle totell her again that she had come to him from out of the Barren like anangel, that within the short space since their meeting he had lived alifetime, and that he loved her as no man had ever loved a womanbefore. Her blue eyes looked at him questioningly as he stood aboveher. 

And then he saw the thing which for a moment he had forgotten-- thelong, rough box at the woman's back. His fingers dug deeper into hispalms, and with a gasping breath he turned away. A hundred paces backin the spruce he had found a bare rock with a red bakneesh vinegrowing over it. With his knife he cut off an armful, and when hereturned with it into the light of the fire the bakneesh glowed like amass of crimson flowers. The woman had risen to her feet, and lookedat him speechlessly as he scattered the vine over the box. He turnedto her and said, softly:

"In honor of the dead!"

The color had faded from her face, but her eyes shone like stars. Billy advanced toward her with his hands reaching out. But suddenly hestopped and stood listening. After a moment he turned and asked again:

"What was that?"

"I heard the dogs-- and the wind, " she replied. 

"It's something cracking in my head, I guess, " said MacVeigh. "Itsounded like--" He passed a hand over his forehead and looked at thedogs huddled in deep sleep beside the sledge. The woman did not seethe shiver that passed through him. He laughed cheerfully, and seizedhis ax. 

"Now for the camp, " he announced. "We're going to get the storm withinan hour. "

On the box the woman carried a small tent, and he pitched it close tothe fire, filling the interior two feet deep with cedar and balsamboughs. His own silk service tent he put back in the deeper shadows ofthe spruce. When he had finished he looked questioningly at the womanand then at the box. 

"If there is room-- I would like it in there-- with me, " she said, andwhile she stood with her face to the fire he dragged the box into thetent. Then he piled fresh fuel upon the fire and came to bid her goodnight. Her face was pale and haggard now, but she smiled at him, andto MacVeigh she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Withinhimself he felt that he had known her for years and years, and he tookher hands and looked down into her blue eyes and said, almost in awhisper:

"Will you forgive me if I'm doing wrong? You don't know how lonesomeI've been, and how lonesome I am, and what it means to me to look oncemore into a woman's face. I don't want to hurt you, and I'd-- I'd"--his voice broke a little--"I'd give him back life if I could, justbecause I've seen you and know you and-- and love you. "

She started and drew a quick, sharp breath that came almost in a lowcry. 

"Forgive me, little girl, " he went on. "I may be a little mad. I guessI am. But I'd die for you, and I'm going to see you safely down toyour people-- and-- and-- I wonder-- I wonder-- if you'd kiss me goodnight--"

Her eyes never left his face. They were dazzlingly blue in thefirelight. Slowly she drew her hands away from him, still lookingstraight into his eyes, and then she placed them against each of hisarms and slowly lifted her face to him. Reverently he bent and kissedher. 

"God bless you!" he whispered. 

For hours after that he sat beside the fire. The wind came up strongeracross the Barren; the storm broke fresh from the north, the spruceand the balsam wailed over his head, and he could hear the moaningsweep of the blizzard out in the open spaces. But the sounds came tohim now like a new kind of music, and his heart throbbed and his soulwas warm with joy as he looked at the little tent wherein there laysleeping the woman whom he loved. 

He still felt the warmth of her lips, he saw again and again the bluesoftness that had come for an instant into her eyes, and he thankedGod for the wonderful happiness that had come to him. For thesweetness of the woman's lips and the greater sweetness of her blueeyes told him what life held for him now. A day's journey to the southwas an Indian camp. He would take her there, and would hire runners tocarry up Pelliter's medicines and his letters. Then he would go on--with the woman-- and he laughed softly and joyously at the gloriousnews which he would take back to Pelliter a little later. For the kissburned on his lips, the blue eyes smiled at him still from out of thefirelit gloom, and he knew nothing but hope. 

It was late, almost midnight, when he went to bed. With the stormwailing and twisting more fiercely about him, he fell asleep. And itwas late when he awoke. The forest was filled with a moaning sound. The fire was low. Beyond it the flap of the woman's tent was stilldown, and he put on fresh fuel quietly, so that he would not awakenher. He looked at his watch and found that he had been sleeping fornearly seven hours. Then he returned to his tent to get the things forbreakfast. Half a dozen paces from the door flap he stopped in suddenastonishment. 

Hanging to his tent in the form of a great wreath was the red bakneeshwhich he had cut the night before, and over it, scrawled in charcoalon the silk, there stared at him the crudely written words:

"In honor of the living. "

With a low cry he sprang back toward the other tent, and then, assudden as his movement, there flashed upon him the significance of thebakneesh wreath. The woman was saying to him what she had not spokenin words. She had come out in the night while he was asleep and hadhung the wreath where he would see it in the morning. The blood rushedwarm and joyous through his body, and with something which was not alaugh, but which was an exultant breath from the soul itself, hestraightened himself, and his hand fell in its old trick to hisrevolver holster. It was empty. 

He dragged out his blankets, but the weapon was not between them. Helooked into the corner where he had placed his rifle. That, too, wasgone. His face grew tense and white as he walked slowly beyond thefire to the woman's tent. With his ear at the flap he listened. Therewas no sound within-- no sound of movement, of life, of a sleeper'sbreath; and like one who feared to reveal a terrible picture he drewback the flap. The balsam bed which he had made for the woman wasempty, and across it had been drawn the big rough box. He steppedinside. The box was open-- and empty, except for a mass of worn andhard-packed balsam boughs in the bottom. In another instant the truthburst in all its force upon MacVeigh. The box had held life, and thewoman--

Something on the side of the box caught his eyes. It was a folded bitof paper, pinned where he must see it. He tore it off and staggeredwith it back into the light of day. A low, hard cry came from his lipsas he read what the woman had written to him:

 "May God bless you for being good to me. In the storm me have gone-- my husband and I. Word came to us that you were on our trail, and we saw your fire out on the Barren. My husband made the box for me to keep me from cold and storm. When we saw you we changed places, and so you met me with my dead. He could have killed you-- a dozen times, but you were good to me, and so you live. Some day may God give you a good woman who will love you as I love him. He killed a man, but killing is not always murder. We have taken your weapons, and the storm will cover our trail. But you would not follow. I know that. For you know what it means to love a woman, and so you know what life means to a woman when she loves a man. MRS. ISOBEL DEANE. "

 IV

 THE MAN-HUNTERS

Like one dazed by a blow Billy read once more the words which IsobelDeane had left for him. He made no sound after that first cry that hadbroken from his lips, but stood looking into the crackling flames ofthe fire until a sudden lash of the wind whipped the note from betweenhis fingers and sent it scurrying away in a white volley of fine snow. The loss of the note awoke him to action. He started to pursue the bitof paper, then stopped and laughed. It was a short, mirthless laugh, the kind of a laugh with which a strong man covers pain. He returnedto the tent again and looked in. He flung back the tent flaps so thatthe light could enter and he could see into the box. A few hoursbefore that box had hidden Scottie Deane, the murderer. And she washis wife ! He turned back to the fire, and he saw again the redbakneesh hanging over his tent flap, and the words she had scrawledwith the end of a charred stick, "In honor of the living. " That meanthim. Something thick and uncomfortable rose in his throat, and a blurthat was not caused by snow or wind filled his eyes. She had made amagnificent fight. And she had won. And it suddenly occurred to himthat what she had said in the note was true, and that Scottie Deanecould easily have killed him. The next moment he wondered why he hadnot done that. Deane had taken a big chance in allowing him to live. They had only a few hours' start of him, and their trail could not beentirely obliterated by the storm. Deane would be hampered in hisflight by the presence of his wife. He could still follow and overtakethem. They had taken his weapons, but this would not be the first timethat he had gone after his man without weapons. 

Swiftly the reaction worked in him. He ran beyond the fire, andcircled quickly until he came upon the trail of the outgoing sledge. It was still quite distinct. Deeper in the forest it could be easilyfollowed. Something fluttered at his feet. It was Isobel Deane's note. He picked it up, and again his eyes fell upon those last words thatshe had written: But you would not follow. I know that. For you knowwhat it means to love a woman, and so you know what life means to awoman when she loves a man. That was why Scottie Deane had not killedhim. It was because of the woman. And she had faith in him! This timehe folded the note and placed it in his pocket, where the blue flowerhad been. Then he went slowly back to the fire. 

"I told you I'd give him back his life-- if I could, " he said. "And Iguess I'm going to keep my word. " He fell into his old habit oftalking to himself-- a habit that comes easily to one in the big openspaces-- and he laughed as he stood beside the fire and loaded hispipe. "If it wasn't for her!" he added, thinking of Scottie Deane. "Gawd-- if it wasn't for her!"

He finished loading his pipe, and lighted it, staring off into thethicker spruce forest into which Scottie and his wife had fled. Theentire force was on the lookout for Scottie Deane. For more than ayear he had been as elusive as the little white ermine of the woods. He had outwitted the best men in the service, and his name was knownto every man of the Royal Mounted from Calgary to Herschel Island. There was a price on his head, and fame for the man who captured him. Those who dreamed of promotions also dreamed of Scottie Deane; and asBilly thought of these things something that was not the man-huntinginstinct rose in him and his blood warmed with a strange feeling ofbrotherhood. Scottie Deane was more than an outlaw to him now, morethan a mere man. Hunted like a rat, chased from place to place, hemust be more than those things for a woman like Isobel Deane still tocling to. He recalled the gentleness of her voice, the sweetness ofher face, the tenderness of her blue eyes, and for the first time thethought came to him that such a woman could not love a man who waswholly bad. And she did love him. A twinge of pain came with thattruth, and yet with it a thrill of pleasure. Her loyalty was atriumph-- even for him. She had come to him like an angel out of thestorm, and she had gone from him like an angel. He was glad. A living, breathing reality had taken the place of the dream vision in hisheart, a woman who was flesh and blood, and who was as true and asbeautiful as the blue flower he had carried against his breast. Inthat moment he would have liked to grip Scottie Deane by the hand, because he was her husband and because he was man enough to make herlove him. Perhaps it was Deane who had hung the wreath of bakneesh onhis tent and who had scribbled the words in charcoal. And Deane surelyknew of the note his wife had written. The feeling of brotherhood grewstronger in Billy, and thought of their faith in him filled him with astrange elation. 

The fire was growing low, and he turned to add fresh fuel. His eyescaught sight of the box in the tent, and he dragged it out. He wasabout to throw it on the fire when he hesitated and examined it moreclosely. How far had they come, he wondered? It must have been fromthe other side of the Barren, for Deane had built the box to protectIsobel from the fierce winds of the open. It was built of light, drywood, hewn with a belt ax, and the corners were fastened with babichecord made of caribou skin in place of nails. The balsam that had beenplaced in it for Isobel was still in the box, and Billy's heart beat alittle more quickly as he drew it out. It had been Isobel's bed. Hecould see where the balsam was thicker, where her head had rested. With a sudden breathless cry he thrust the box on the fire. 

He was not hungry, but he made himself a pot of coffee and drank it. Until now he had not observed that the storm was growing steadilyworse. The thick, low-hanging spruce broke the force of it. Beyond theshelter of the forest he could hear the roar of it as it swept throughthe thin scrub and open spaces of the edge of the Barren. It recalledhim once more to Pelliter. In the excitement of Isobel's presence andthe shock and despair that had followed her flight he had been guiltyof partly forgetting Pelliter. By the time he reached the Eskimoigloos there would be two days lost. Those two days might meaneverything to his sick comrade. He jumped to his feet, felt in hispocket to see that the letters were safe, and began to arrange hispack. Through the trees there came now fine white volleys ofblistering snow. It was like the hardest granulated sugar. A suddenblast of it stung his eyes; and, leaving his pack and tent, he madehis way anxiously toward the more open timber and scrub. A few hundredyards from the camp he was forced to bow his head against the snowvolleys and pull the broad flaps of his cap down over his cheeks andears. A hundred yards more and he stopped, sheltering himself behind agnarled and stunted banskian. He looked out into the beginning of theopen. It was a white and seething chaos into which he could not seethe distance of a pistol shot. The Eskimo igloos were twenty milesacross the Barren, and Billy's heart sank. He could not make it. Noman could live in the storm that was sweeping straight down from theArctic, and he turned back to the camp. He had scarcely made the movewhen he was startled by a strange sound coming with the wind. He facedthe white blur again, a hand dropping to his empty pistol holster. Itcame again, and this time he recognized it. It was a shout, a man'svoice. Instantly his mind leaped to Deane and Isobel. What miraclecould be bringing them back?

A shadow grew out of the twisting blur of the storm. It quicklyseparated itself into definite parts-- a team of dogs, a sledge, threemen. A minute more and the dogs stopped in a snarling tangle as theysaw Billy. Billy stepped forth. Almost instantly he found a revolverleveled at his breast. 

"Put that up, Bucky Smith, " he called. "If you're looking for a manyou've found the wrong one!"

The man advanced. His eyes were red and staring. His pistol armdropped as he came within a yard of Billy. 

"By-- It's you, is it, Billy MacVeigh!" he exclaimed. His laugh washarsh and unpleasant. Bucky was a corporal in the service, and whenBilly had last heard of him he was stationed at Nelson House. For ayear the two men had been in the same patrol, and there was bad bloodbetween them. Billy had never told of a certain affair down at NorwayHouse, the knowledge of which at headquarters would have meant Bucky'sdisgraceful retirement from the force. But he had called Bucky out infair fight and had whipped him within an inch of his life. The oldhatred burned in the corporal's eyes as he stared into Billy's face. Billy ignored the look, and shook hands with the other men. One ofthem was a Hudson's Bay Company's driver, and the other was ConstableWalker, from Churchill. 

"Thought we'd never live to reach shelter, " gasped Walker, as theyshook hands. "We're out after Scottie Deane, and we ain't losing aminute. We're going to get him, too. His trail is so hot we can smellit. My God, but I'm bushed!"

The dogs, with the company man at their head, were already making forthe camp. Billy grinned at the corporal as they followed. 

"Had a pretty good chance to get me, if you'd been alone, didn't you, Bucky?" he asked, in a voice that Walker did not hear. "You see, Ihaven't forgotten your threat. "

There was a steely hardness behind his laugh. He knew that Bucky Smithwas a scoundrel whose good fortune was that he had never been foundout in some of his evil work. In a flash his mind traveled back tothat day at Norway House when Rousseau, the half Frenchman, had cometo him from a sick-bed to tell him that Bucky had ruined his youngwife. Rousseau, who should have been in bed with his fever, died twodays later. Billy could still hear the taunt in Bucky's voice when hehad cornered him with Rousseau's accusation, and the fight hadfollowed. The thought that this man was now close after Isobel andDeane filled him with a sort of rage, and as Walker went ahead he laida hand on Bucky's arm. 

"I've been thinking about you of late, Bucky, " he said. "I've beenthinking a lot about that affair down at Norway, an' I've been lackingmyself for not reporting it. I'm going to do it-- unless you cut aright-angle track to the one you're taking. I'm after Scottie Deanemyself!"

In the next breath he could have cut out his tongue for having utteredthe words. A gleam of triumph shot into Bucky's eyes. 

"I thought we was right, " he said. "We sort of lost the trail in thestorm. Glad we found you to set us right. How much of a start of ushas he and that squaw that's traveling with him got ?"

Billy's mittened hands clenched fiercely. He made no reply, butfollowed quickly after Walker. His mind worked swiftly. As he came into the fire he saw that the dogs had already dropped down in theirtraces and that they were exhausted. Walker's face was pinched, hiseyes half closed by the sting of the snow. The driver was halfstretched out on the sledge, his feet to the fire. In a glance he hadassured himself that both dogs and men had gone through a long anddesperate struggle in the storm. He looked at Bucky, and this timethere was neither rancor nor threat in his voice when he spoke. 

"You fellows have had a hard time of it, " he said. "Make yourselves athome. I'm not overburdened with grub, but if you'll dig out some ofyour own rations I'll get it ready while you thaw out. "

Bucky was looking curiously at the two tents. 

"Who's with you?" he asked. 

Billy shrugged his shoulders. His voice was almost affable. 

"Hate to tell you who was with me, Bucky, " he laughed, "I came in latelast night, half dead, and found a half-breed camped here-- in thatsilk tent. He was quite chummy-- mighty fine chap. Young fellow, too--almost a kid. When I got up this morning--" Billy shrugged hisshoulders again and pointed to his empty pistol holster. "Everythingwas gone-- dogs, sledge, extra tent, even my rifle and automatic. Hewasn't quite bad, though, for he left me my grub. He was a funny cuss, too. Look at that!" He pointed to the bakneesh wreath that still hungto the front of his tent. "`In honor of the living, ' " he read, aloud, "Just a sort of reminder, you know, that he might have hit me on thehead with a club if he'd wanted to. " He came nearer to Bucky, andsaid, good-naturedly: "I guess you've got me beat this time, Bucky. Scottie Deane is pretty safe from me, wherever he is. I haven't evengot a gun!"

"He must have left a trail, " remarked Bucky, eying him shrewdly. 

"He did-- out there!"

As Bucky went to examine what was left of the trail Billy thankedHeaven that Deane had placed Isobel on the sledge before he left camp. There was nothing to betray her presence. Walker had unlaced theiroutfit, and Billy was busy preparing a meal when Bucky returned. Therewas a sneer on his lips. 

"Didn't know you was that easy, " he said. "Wonder why he didn't takehis tent! Pretty good tent, isn't it?"

He went inside. A minute later he appeared at the flap and called toBilly. 

"Look here!" he said, and there was a tremble of excitement in hisvoice. His eyes were blazing with an ugly triumph. "Your half-breedhad pretty long hair, didn't he?"

He pointed to a splinter on one of the light tent-poles. Billy's heartgave a sudden jump. A tress of Isobel's long, loose hair had caught inthe splinter, and a dozen golden-brown strands had remained to givehim away. For a moment he forgot that Bucky Smith was watching him. Hesaw Isobel again as she had last entered the tent, her beautiful hairflowing in a firelit glory about her, her eyes still filled withtender gratitude. Once more he felt the warmth of her lips, the touchof her hand, the thrill of her presence near him. Perhaps theseemotions covered any suspicious movement or word by which he mightotherwise have betrayed himself. By the time they were gone he hadrecovered himself, and he turned to his companion with a low laugh. 

"It's a woman's hair, all right, Bucky. He told me all sorts of nicethings about a girl `back home. ' They must have been true. "

The eyes of the two men met unflinchingly. There was a sneer on Buck'slips; Billy was smiling. 

"I'm going to follow this Frenchman after we've had a little rest, "said the corporal, trying to cover a certain note of excitement andtriumph in his voice. "There's a woman traveling with Scottie Deane, you know-- a white woman-- and there's only one other north ofChurchill. Of course, you're anxious to get back your stolen outfit?"

"You bet I am, " exclaimed Billy, concealing the effect of thebull's-eye shot Bucky had made. "I'm not particularly happy in thethought of reporting myself stripped in this sort of way. The breedwill hang to thick cover, and it won't be difficult to follow histrail. "

He saw that Bucky was a little taken aback by his ready acquiescence, and before the other could reply he hurried out to join Walker in thepreparation of breakfast. He made a gallon of tea, fried some bacon, and brought out and toasted his own stock of frozen bannock. He made asecond kettle of tea while the others were eating, and shook out theblankets in his own tent. Walker had told him that they had travelednearly all night. 

"Better have an hour or two of sleep before you go on, " he invited. 

The driver's name was Conway. He was the first to accept Billy'sinvitation. When he had finished eating, Walker followed him into thetent. When they were gone Bucky looked hard at Billy. 

"What's your game?" he asked. 

"The Golden Rule, that's all, " replied Billy, proffering his tobacco. "The half-breed treated me square and made me comfortable, even if hedid take his pay afterward. I'm doing the same. "

"And what do you expect to take-- afterward?"

Billy's eyes narrowed as he returned the other's searching look. 

"Bucky, I didn't think you were quite a fool, " he said. "You've got alittle decency in your hide, haven't you? A man might as well be injail as up here without a gun. I expect you to contribute one-- whenyou go after the half-breed-- you or Walker. He'll do it if you won't. Better go in with the others. I'll keep up the fire. "

Bucky rose sullenly. He was still suspicious of Billy's hospitality, but at the same time he could see the strength of Billy's argument andthe importance of the price he was asking. He joined Walker andConway. Fifteen minutes later Billy approached the tent and looked in. The three men were in the deep sleep of exhaustion. Instantly Billy'sactions changed. He had thrown his pack outside the tent to make moreroom, and he quickly slipped a spare blanket in with his provisions. Then he entered the other tent, and a flush spread over his face, andhe felt his blood grow warmer. 

"You may be a fool, Billy MacVeigh, " he laughed, softly. "You may be afool, but we're going to do it!"

Gently he disentangled the long silken strands of golden brown fromthe tent-pole. He wound the hair about his fingers, and it made a softand shining ring. It was all that he would ever possess of IsobelDeane, and his breath came more quickly as he pressed it for a momentto his rough and storm-beaten face. He put it in his pocket, carefullywrapped in Isobel's note, and then once more he went back to the tentin which the three men were sleeping. They had not moved. Walker'sholster was within reach of his hand. For a moment the temptation toreach out and pluck the gun from it was strong. He pulled himselfaway. He would win in this fight with Bucky as surely as he had won inthe other, and he would win without theft. Quickly he threw his packover his shoulder and struck the trail made by Deane in his flight. Onhis snow-shoes he followed it in a long, swift pace. A hundred yardsfrom the camp he looked back for an instant. Then he turned, and hisface was grim and set. 

"If you've got to be caught, it's not going to be by that outfit backthere, Mr. Scottie Deane, " he said to himself. "It's up to yourstruly, and Billy MacVeigh is the man who can do the trick, if hehasn't got a gun!"

 V

 BILLY FOLLOWS ISOBEL

From the first Billy could see the difficulty with which Deane and hisdogs had made their way through the soft drifts of snow piled up bythe blizzard. In places where the trees had thinned out Deane hadfloundered ahead and pulled with the team. Only once in the first milehad Isobel climbed from the sledge, and that was where traces, toboggan, and team had all become mixed up in the snow-covered top ofa fallen tree. The fact that Deane was compelling his wife to rideadded to Billy's liking for the man. It was probable that Isobel hadnot gone to sleep at all after her hard experience on the Barren, buthad lain awake planning with her husband until the hour of theirflight. If Isobel had been able to travel on snow-shoes Billy reasonedthat Deane would have left the dogs behind, for in the deep, soft snowhe could have made better time without them, and snow-shoe trailswould have been obliterated by the storm hours ago. As it was, hecould not lose them. He knew that he had no time to lose if he madesure of beating out Bucky and his men. The suspicious corporal wouldnot sleep long. While he had the advantage of being comparativelyfresh, Billy's snow-shoes were smoothing and packing the trail, andthe others, if they followed, would be able to travel a mile or two anhour faster than himself. That Bucky would follow he did not doubt fora moment. The corporal was already half convinced that Scottie Deanehad made the trail from camp and that the hair he had found entangledin the splinter on the tent-pole belonged to the outlaw's wife. AndScottie Deane was too big a prize to lose. 

Billy's mind worked rapidly as he bent more determinedly to thepursuit. He knew that there were only two things that Bucky could dounder the circumstances. Either he would follow after him with Walkerand the driver or he would come alone. If Walker and Conwayaccompanied him the fight for Scottie Deane's capture would be a fairone, and the man who first put manacles about the outlaw's wristswould be the victor. But if he left his two companions in camp andcame after him alone--

The thought was not a pleasant one. He was almost sorry that he hadnot taken Walker's gun. If Bucky came alone it would be with but onepurpose in mind-- to make sure of Scottie Dean by "squaring up" withhim first. Billy was sure that he had measured the man right, and thathe would not hesitate to carry out his old threat by putting a bulletinto him at the first opportunity. And here would be opportunity. Thestorm would cover up any foul work he might accomplish, and his rewardwould be Scottie Deane-- unless Deane played too good a hand for him. 

At thought of Deane Billy chuckled. Until now he had not taken himfully into consideration, and suddenly it dawned upon him that therewas a bit of humor as well as tragedy in the situation. He cheerfullyconceded to himself that for a long time Deane had proved himself abetter man than either Bucky or himself, and that, after all, he wasthe man who held the situation well in hand even now. He was wellarmed. He was as cautions as a fox, and would not be caught napping. And yet this thought filled Billy with satisfaction rather than fear. Deane would be more than a match for Bucky alone if he failed inbeating out the corporal. But if he did beat him out--

Billy's lips set grimly, and there was a hard light in his eyes as heglanced back over his shoulder. He would not only beat him out, but hewould capture Scottie Deane. It would be a game of fox against fox, and he would win. No one would ever know why he was playing the gameas he had planned to play it. Bucky would never know. Down atheadquarters they would never know. And yet deep down in his heart hehoped and believed that Isobel would guess and understand. To saveDeane, to save Isobel, he must keep them out of the hands of BuckySmith, and to do that he must make them his own prisoners. It would bea terrible ordeal at first. A picture of Isobel rose before him, herfaith and trust in him broken, her face white and drawn with grief anddespair, her blue eyes flashing at him-- hatred. But he felt now thathe could stand those things. One moment-- the fatal moment, when shewould understand and know that he had remained true-- would repay himfor what he might suffer. 

He traveled swiftly for an hour, and paused then to get his wind wherethe partly covered trail dipped down into a frozen swamp. Here Isobelhad climbed from the sledge and had followed in the path of thetoboggan. In places where the spruce and balsam were thick overheadBilly could make out the imprints of her moccasins. Deane had led thedogs in the darkness of the storm, and twice Billy found the burnedends of matches, where he had stopped to look at his compass. He wasstriking a course almost due west. At the farther edge of the swampthe trail struck a lake, and straight across this Deane had led histeam. The worst of the storm was over now. The wind was slowlyshifting to the south and east, and the fine, steely snow had givenplace to a thicker and softer downfall. Billy shuddered as he thoughtof what this lake must have been a few hours before, when Isobel andDeane had crossed it in the thick blackness of the blizzard that hadswept it like a hurricane. 

It was half a mile across the lake, and here, fifty yards from shore, the trail was completely covered. Billy lost no time by endeavoring tofind signs of it in the open, but struck directly for the oppositetimber field and swung along in the shelter of the scrub forest. Hepicked up the trail easily. Half an hour later he stopped. Spruce andbalsam grew thick about him, shutting out what was left of the wind. Here Scottie Deane had stopped to build a fire. Close to the charredembers was a mass of balsam boughs on which Isobel had rested. Scottiehad made a pot of boiling tea and had afterward thrown the grounds onthe snow. The warm bodies of the dogs had made smooth, round pits inthe snow, and Billy figured that the fugitives had rested for a coupleof hours. They had traveled eight miles through the blizzard without afire, and his heart was filled with a sickening pain as he thought ofIsobel Deane and the suffering he had brought to her. For a fewmoments there swept over him a revulsion for that thing which he stoodfor-- the Law. More than once in his experience he had thought thatits punishment had been greater than the crime. Isobel had suffered, and was suffering, far more than if Deane had been captured a yearbefore and hanged. And Deane himself had paid a penalty greater thandeath in being a witness of the suffering of the woman who hadremained loyal to him. Billy's heart went out to them in a low, yearning cry as he looked at the balsam bed and the black char of thefire. He wished that he could give them, life and freedom andhappiness, and his hands clenched tightly as he thought that he waswilling to surrender everything, even to his own honor, for the womanhe loved. 

Fifteen minutes after he had struck the shelter of the camp he wasagain in pursuit. His blood leaped a little excitedly when he foundthat Scottie Deane's trail was now almost as straight as a plumb-lineand that the sledge no longer became entangled in hidden windfalls andbrush. It was proof that it was light when Deane and Isobel had lefttheir camp. Isobel was walking now, and their sledge was travelingfaster. Billy encouraged his own pace, and over two or three openspaces he broke into a long, swinging run. The trail was comparativelyfresh, and at the end of another hour he knew that they could not befar ahead of him. He had followed through a thin swamp and had climbedto the top of a rough ridge when he stopped. Isobel had reached thebald cap of the ridge exhausted. The last twenty yards he could seewhere Deane had assisted her; and then she had dropped down in thesnow, and he had placed a blanket under her. They had taken a drink oftea made back over the fire, and a little of it had fallen into thesnow. It had not yet formed ice, and instinctively he dropped behind arock and looked down into the wooded valley at his feet. In a fewmoments he began to descend. 

He had almost reached the foot of the ridge when he brought himselfshort with a sudden low cry of horror. He had reached a point wherethe side of the ridge seemed to have broken off, leaving a precipitouswall. In a flash he realized what had happened. Deane and Isobel haddescended upon a "snow trap, " and it had given way under their weight, plunging them to the rocks below. For no longer than a breath he stoodstill, and in that moment there came a sound from far behind that senta strange thrill through him. It was the howl of a dog. Bucky and hismen were in close pursuit, and they were traveling with the team. 

He swung a little to the left to escape the edge of the trap andplunged recklessly to the bottom. Not until he saw where Scottie Deaneand the team had dragged themselves from the snow avalanche did hebreathe freely again. Isobel was safe! He laughed in his joy and wipedthe nervous sweat from his face as he saw the prints of her moccasinswhere Deane had righted the sledge. And then, for the first time, heobserved a number of small red stains on the snow. Either Isobel orDeane had been injured in the fall, perhaps slightly. A hundred yardsfrom the "trap" the sledge had stopped again, and from this point itwas Deane who rode and Isobel who walked!

He followed more cautiously now. Another hundred yards and he stoppedto sniff the air. Ahead of him the spruce and balsam grew close andthick, and from that shelter he was sure that something was coming tohim on the air. At first he thought it was the odor of the balsam. Amoment later he knew that it was smoke. 

Force of habit brought his hand for the twentieth time to his emptypistol holster. Its emptiness added to the caution with which heapproached the thick spruce and balsam ahead of him. Taking advantageof a mass of low snow-laden bushes, he swung out at a right angle tothe trail and began making a wide circle. He worked swiftly. Withinhalf or three-quarters of an hour Bucky would reach the ridge. Whatever he accomplished must be done before then. Five minutes afterleaving the trail he caught his first glimpse of smoke and began toedge in toward the fire. The stillness oppressed him. He drew nearerand nearer, yet he heard no sound of voice or of the dogs. At last hereached a point where he could look out from behind a young groundspruce and see the fire. It was not more than thirty feet away. Heheld his breath tensely at what he saw. On a blanket spread out closeto the fire lay Scottie Deane, his head pillowed on a pack-sack. Therewas no sign of Isobel, and no sign of the sledge and dogs. Billy'sheart thumped excitedly as he rose to his feet. He did not stop to askhimself where Isobel and the dogs had gone. Deane was alone, and laywith his back toward him. Fate could not have given him a betteropportunity, and his moccasined feet fell swiftly and quietly in thesnow. He was within six feet of Scottie before the injured man heardhim, and scarcely had the other moved when he was upon him. He wasastonished at the ease with which he twisted Deane upon his back andput the handcuffs about his wrists. The work was no sooner done thanhe understood. A rag was tied about Deane's head, and it was stainedwith blood. The man's arms and body were limp. He looked at Billy withdulled eyes, and as he slowly realized what had happened a groan brokefrom his lips. 

In an instant Billy was on his knees beside him. He had seen Deanetwice before, over at Churchill, but this was the first time that hehad ever looked closely into his face. It was a face worn by hardshipand mental torture. The cheeks were thinned, and the steel-gray eyesthat looked up into Billy's were reddened by weeks and months offighting against storm. It was the face, not of a criminal, but of aman whom Billy would have trusted-- blonde-mustached, fearless, andfilled with that clean-cut strength which associates itself withfairness and open fighting. Hardly had he drawn a second breath whenBilly realized why this man had not killed him when he had the chance. Deane was not of the sort to strike in the dark or from behind. He hadlet Billy live because he still believed in the manhood of man, andthe thought that he had repaid Deane's faith in him by leaping uponhim when he was down and wounded filled Billy with a bitter shame. Hegripped one of Deane's hands in his own. 

"I hate to do this, old man, " he cried, quickly. "It's hell to putthose things on a man who's hurt. But I've got to do it. I didn't meanto come-- no, s'elp me God, I didn't-- if Bucky Smith and two othershadn't hit your trail back at the old camp. They'd have got you--sure. And she wouldn't have been safe with them. Understand ? Shewouldn't have been safe! So I made up my mind to beat on ahead andtake you myself. I want you to understand. And you do know, I guess. You must have heard, for I thought you were sure-enough dead in thebox, an' I swear to Heaven I meant all I said then. I wouldn't havecome. I was glad you two got away. But this Bucky is a skunk and ascoundrel-- and mebbe if I take you-- I can help you-- later on. They'll be here in a few minutes. "

He spoke quickly, his voice quivering with the emotion that inspiredhis words, and not for an instant did Scottie Deane allow his eyes toshift from Billy's face. When Billy stopped he still looked at him fora moment, judging the truth of what he had heard by what he saw in theother's face. And then Billy felt his hand tighten for an instantabout his own. 

"I guess you're pretty square, MacVeigh, " he said, "and I guess it hadto come pretty soon, too. I'm not sorry that it's you-- and I knowyou'll take care of her. "

"I'll do it-- if I have to fight-- and kill!"

Billy had withdrawn his hand, and both were clenched. Into Deane'seyes there leaped a sudden flash of fire. 

"That's what I did, " he breathed, gripping his fingers hard. "Ikilled-- for her. He was a skunk-- and a scoundrel-- too. And you'dhave done it!" He looked at Billy again. "I'm glad you said what youdid-- when I was in the box, " he added. "If she wasn't as pure and assweet as the stars I'd feel different. But it's just sort of in mybones that you'll treat her like a brother. I haven't had faith inmany men. I've got it in you. "

Billy leaned low over the other. His face was flushed, and his voicetrembled. 

"God bless you for that, Scottie!" he said. 

A sound from the forest turned both men's eyes. 

"She took the dogs and went out there a little way for a load ofwood, " said Deane. "She's coming back. "

Billy had leaped to his feet, and turned his face toward the ridge. He, too, had heard a sound-- another sound, and from anotherdirection. He laughed grimly as he turned to Deane. 

"And they're coming, too, Scottie, " he replied. "They're climbing theridge. I'll take your guns, old man. It's just possible there may be afight!"

He slipped Deane's revolver into his holster and quickly emptied thechamber of the rifle that stood near. 

"Where's mine?" he asked. 

"Threw 'em away, " said Deane. "Those are the only guns in the outfit. "

Billy waited while Isobel Deane came through low-hanging spruce withthe dogs. 

 VI

 THE FIGHT

There was a smile for Deane on Isobel's lips as she struggled throughthe spruce, knee-deep in snow, the dogs tugging at the sledge behindher. And then in a moment she saw MacVeigh, and the smile froze into alook of horror on her face. She was not twenty feet distant when sheemerged into the little opening, and Billy heard the rattling cry inher throat. She stopped, and her hands went to her breast. Deane hadhalf raised himself, his pale, thin face smiling encouragingly at her;and with a wild cry Isobel rushed to him and flung herself upon herknees at his side, her hands gripping fiercely at the steel bandsabout his wrists. Billy turned away. He could hear her sobbing, and hecould hear the low, comforting voice of the injured man. A groan ofanguish rose to his own lips, and he clenched his hands hard, dreadingthe terrible moment when he would have to face the woman he lovedabove all else on earth. 

It was her voice that brought him about. She had risen to her feet, and she stood before him panting like a hunted animal, and Billy sawin her face the thing which he had feared more than the sting ofdeath. No longer were her blue eyes filled with the sweetness andfaith of the angel who had come to him from out of the Barren. Theywere hard and terrible and filled with that madness which made himthink she was about to leap upon him. In those eyes, in the quiveringof her bare throat, in the sobbing rise and fall of her breast werethe rage, the grief, and the fear of one whose faith had turnedsuddenly into the deadliest of all emotions; and Billy stood beforeher without a word on his lips, his face as cold and as bloodless asthe snow under his feet. 

"And so you-- you followed-- after-- that!"

It was all she said, and yet the voice, the significance of thechoking words, hurt him more than if she had struck him. In them therewas none of the passion and condemnation he had expected. Quietly, almost whisperingly uttered, they stung him to the soul. He had meantto say to her what he had said to Deane-- even more. But the crudenessof the wilderness had made him slow of tongue, and while his heartcried out for words Isobel turned and went to her husband. And thenthere came the thing he had been expecting. Down the ridge there raceda flurry of snow and a yelping of dogs. He loosened the revolver inhis holster, and stood in readiness when Bucky Smith ran a few pacesahead of his men into the camp. At sight of his enemy's face, tornbetween rage and disappointment, all of Billy's old coolness returnedto him. 

With a bound Bucky was at Scottie Deane's side. He looked down at hismanacled hands and at the woman who was clasping them in her own, andthen he whirled on Billy with the quickness of a cat. 

"You're a liar and a sneak!" he panted. "You'll answer for this atheadquarters. I understand now why you let 'em go back there. It washer! She paid you-- paid you in her own way-- to free him! But shewon't pay you again--"

At his words Deane had started as if stung by a wasp. Billy sawIsobel's whitened face. The meaning of Buck's words had gone home toher as swiftly as a lightning flash, and for an instant her eyes hadturned to him! Bucky got no further than those last words. Before hecould add another syllable Billy was upon him. His fist shot out--once, twice-- and the blows that fell sent Bucky crashing through thefire. Billy did not wait for him to regain his feet. A red lightblazed before his eyes. He forgot the presence of Deane and Walker andConway. His one thought was that the scoundrel he had struck down hadflung at Isobel the deadliest insult that a man could offer a woman, and before either Conway or Walker could make a move he was uponBucky. He did not know how long or how many times he struck, but whenat last Conway and Walker succeeded in dragging him away Bucky layupon his back in the snow, blood gushing from his mouth and nose. Walker ran to him. Panting for breath, Billy turned toward Isobel andDeane. He was almost sobbing. He made no effort to speak. But he sawthat the thing he had dreaded was gone. Isobel was looking at himagain-- and there was the old faith in her eyes. At last-- sheunderstood! Dean's handcuffed hands were clenched. The light ofbrotherhood shone in his eyes, and where a moment before there hadbeen grief and despair in Billy's heart there came now a warm glow ofjoy. Once more they had faith in him!

Walker had raised Bucky to a sitting posture, and was wiping the bloodfrom his face when Billy went to them. The corporal's hand made a limpmove toward his revolver. Billy struck it away and secured the weapon. Then he spoke to Walker. 

"There is no doubt in your mind that I hold a sergeancy in theservice, is there, Walker?" he asked. 

His tone was no longer one of comradeship. In it there was the ring ofauthority. Walker was quick to understand. 

"None, sir!"

"And you are familiar with our laws governing insubordination andconduct unbecoming an officer of the service?"

Walker nodded. 

"Then, as a superior officer and in the name of his Majesty the King, I place Corporal Bucky Smith under arrest, and commission you, underoath of the service, to take him under your guard to Churchill, alongwith the letter which I shall give you for the officer in chargethere. I shall appear against him a little later with the evidencethat will outlaw him from the service. Put the handcuffs on him!"

Stunned by the sudden change in the situation, Walker obeyed without aword. Billy turned to Conway, the driver. 

"Deane is too badly injured to travel, " he explained, " Put up yourtent for him and his wife close to the fire. You can take mine inexchange for it as you go back. "

He went to his kit and found a pencil and paper. Fifteen minutes laterhe gave Walker the letter in which he described to the commandingofficer at Churchill certain things which he knew would hold Bucky aprisoner until he could personally appear against him. MeanwhileConway had put up the tent and had assisted Deane into it. Isobel hadaccompanied him. Billy then had a five-minute confidential talk withWalker, and when the constable gave instructions for Conway to preparethe dogs for the return trip there was a determined hardness in hiseyes as he looked at Bucky. In those five minutes he had heard thestory of Rousseau, the young Frenchman down at Norway House, and ofthe wife whose faithlessness had killed him. Besides, he hated BuckySmith, as all men hated him. Billy was confident that he could relyupon him. 

Not until dogs and sledge were ready did Bucky utter a word. Theterrific beating he had received had stunned him for a few minutes;but now he jumped to his feet, not waiting for the command fromWalker, and strode up close to Billy. There was a vengeful leer on hisbloody face and his eyes blazed almost white, but his voice was so lowthat Conway and Walker could only hear the murmur of it. His wordswere meant for Billy alone. 

"For this I'm going to kill you, MacVeigh, " he said; and in spite ofBilly's contempt for the man there was a quality in the low voice thatsent a curious shiver through him. "You can send me from the service, but you're going to die for doing it!"

Billy made no reply, and Bucky did not wait for one. He set off at thehead of the sledge, with Conway a step behind them. Billy followedwith Walker until they reached the foot of the ridge. There they shookhands, and Billy stood watching them until they passed over the cap ofthe ridge. 

He returned to the camp slowly. Deane had emerged from the tent, supported by Isobel. They waited for him, and in Deane's face he sawthe look that had filled it after he had struck down Bucky Smith. Fora moment he dared not look at Isobel. She saw the change in him, andher cheeks flushed. Deane would have extended his hands, but she washolding them tightly in her own. 

"You'd better go into the tent and keep quiet, " advised Billy. "Ihaven't had time yet to see if you're badly hurt. "

"It's not bad, " Deane assured him. "I bumped into a rock sliding downthe ridge, and it made me sick for a few minutes. "

Billy knew that Isobel's eyes were on him, and he could almost feeltheir questioning. He began to take wood from the sledge she hadloaded and throw it on the fire. He wished that Scottie and she hadremained in the tent for a little longer. His face burned and hisblood seemed like fire when he caught a glimpse of the steel cuffsabout Deane's wrists. Through the smoke he saw Isobel still claspingher husband. He could see one of her little hands gripping at thesteel band, and suddenly he sprang across and faced them, no longerfearing to meet Isobel's eyes or Deane's. Now his face was aflame, andhe half held out his arms to them as he spoke, as though he wouldclasp them both to him in this moment of sacrifice and self-abnegationand the dawning of new life. 

"You know-- you both know why I've done this!" he cried, "You heardwhat I said back there, Deane-- when you was in the box; an' all Isaid was true. She came to me out of that storm like an angel-- an'I'll think of her as an angel all my life. I don't know much aboutGod-- not the God they have down there, where they take an eye for aneye an' a tooth for a tooth and kill because some one else has killed. But there's something up here in the big open places, something thatmakes you think and makes you want to do what's right and square; an'she's got all I know of God in that little Bible of mine-- the blueflower. I gave the blue flower to her, an' now an' forever she's myblue flower. I ain't ashamed to tell you, Deane, because you've heardit before, an' you know I'm not thinking it in a sinful way. It 'llhelp me if I can see her face an' hear her voice and know there's suchlove as yours after you're gone. For I'm going to let you go, Deane, old man. That's what I came for, to save you from the others an' giveyou back to her. I guess mebbe you'll know-- now-- how I feel--"

His voice choked him. Isobel's glorious eyes were looking into hissoul, and he looked straight back into them and saw all his rewardthere. He turned to Deane. His key clicked in the locks to thehandcuffs, and as they fell into the snow the two men gripped hands, and in their strong faces was that rarest of all things-- love of manfor man. 

"I'm glad you know, " said Billy, softly. "It wouldn't be fair if youdidn't, Scottie. I can think of her now, an' it won't be mean and low. And if you ever need help-- if you're down in South America orAfrica-- anywhere-- I'll come if you send word. You'd better go toSouth America. That's a good place. I'll report to headquarters thatyou died-- from the fall. It's a lie, but blue flower would do it, andso will I. Sometimes, you know, the friend who lies is the only friendwho's true-- and she'd do it-- a thousand times-- for you. "

"And for you, " whispered Isobel. 

She was holding out her hands, her blue eyes streaming with tears ofhappiness, and for a moment Billy accepted one of them and held it inhis own. He looked over her head as she spoke. 

"God will bless you for this-- some day, " she said; and a sob broke inher voice. "He will bring you happiness-- happiness-- in what you havedreamed of. You will find a blue flower-- sweet and pure and loyal--and then you will know, even more fully, what life means to me withhim. "

And then she broke down, sobbing like a child, and with her faceburied in her hands turned into the tent. 

"Gawd!" whispered Billy, drawing a deep breath. 

He looked Deane in the eyes; and Deane smiled, a rare and beautifulsmile. 

For a quarter of an hour they talked alone, and then Billy drew awallet from his pocket. 

"You'll need money, Scottie, " he said. "I don't want you to lose aminute in getting out of the country. Make for Vancouver. I've gotthree hundred dollars here. You've got to take it or I'll shoot you!"

He thrust the money into Deane's hands as Isobel came out of the tent. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling; and she held something in herhand. She showed it to the two men. It was the blue flower Billy hadgiven her. But now its petals were torn apart, and nine of them lay inthe palm of her hand. 

"It can't go with one. " She spoke softly and the smile died on herlips. "There are nine petals, three for each of us. "

She gave three to her husband and three to Billy, and for a moment themen stared at them as they lay in their rough and calloused palms. Then Billy drew out the bit of buckskin in which he had placed thestrands of Isobel's hair and slipped the blue petals in with them. Deane had drawn a worn envelope from his pocket. Billy spoke low toDeane. 

"I want to be alone for a while-- until dinner-time. Will you go intothe tent-- with her ?"

When they were gone Billy went to the spot where he had dropped hispack before crawling up on Deane. He picked it up and slipped it overhis shoulders as he walked. He went swiftly back over his old trail, and this time it was with a heart leaden with a deep and terribleloneliness. When he reached the ridge he tried to whistle, but hislips seemed thick, and there was something in his throat that chokedhim. From the cap of the ridge he looked down. A thin mist of smokewas rising from out of the spruce. It blurred before his eyes, and asobbing break came in his low cry of Isobel's name. Then he turnedonce more back into the loneliness and desolation of his old life. 

"I'm coming, Pelly, " he laughed, in a strained, hard way. "I haven'tgiven you exactly a square deal, old man, but I'll hustle and make upfor lost time!"

A wind was beginning to moan in the spruce tops again. He was glad ofthat. It promised storm. And a storm would cover up all trails. 

 VII

 THE MADNESS OF PELLITER

Away up at Fullerton Point amid the storm and crash of the arcticgloom Pelliter fought himself through day after day of fever, waitingfor MacVeigh. At first he had been filled with hope. That firstglimpse of the sun they had seen through the little window on themorning that Billy left for Fort Churchill had come just in time tokeep reason from snapping in his head. For three days after that helooked through the window at the same hour and prayed moaningly foranother glimpse of that paradise in the southern sky. But the stormthrough which Isobel had struggled across the Barren gathered over hishead and behind him, day after day of it, rolling and twisting andmoaning with the roar of the cracking fields of ice, bringing backonce more the thick death-gloom of the arctic night that had almostdriven him mad. He tried to think only of Billy, of his loyalcomrade's race into the south, and of the precious letters he wouldbring back to him; and he kept track of the days by making pencilmarks on the door that opened out upon the gray and purple desolationof the arctic sea. 

At last there came the day when he gave up hope. He believed that hewas dying. He counted the marks on the door and found that there weresixteen. Just that many days ago Billy had set off with the dogs. Ifall had gone well he was a third of the way back, and within anotherweek would be "home. "

Pelliter's thin, fever-flushed face relaxed into a wan smile as hecounted the pencil marks again. Long before that week was ended hefigured that he would be dead. The medicines-- and the letters-- wouldcome too late, probably four or five days too late. Straight out fromhis last mark he drew a long line, and at the end of it added in ascrawling, almost unintelligible, hand: "Dear Billy, I guess this isgoing to be my last day. " Then he staggered from the door to thewindow. 

Out there was what was killing him-- loneliness, a maddeningdesolation, a lifeless world that reached for hundreds of milesfarther than his eyes could see. To the north and east there wasnothing but ice, piled-up masses and grinning mountains of it, whiteat first, of a somber gray farther off, and then purple and almostblack. There came to him now the low, never-ceasing thunder of theundercurrents fighting their way down from the Arctic Ocean, brokennow and then by a growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, likea great knife, through one of the frozen mountains. He had listened tothose sounds for five months, and in those five months he had heard noother voice but his own and MacVeigh's and the babble of an Eskimo. Only once in four months had he seen the sun, and that was on themorning that MacVeigh went south. So he had gone half mad. Others hadgone completely mad before him. Through the window his eyes rested onthe five rough wooden crosses that marked their graves. In the serviceof the Royal Northwest Mounted Police they were called heroes. And ina short time he, Constable Pelliter, would be numbered among them. MacVeigh would send the whole story down to her, the true little girla thousand miles south; and she would always remember him-- her hero--and his lonely grave at Point Fullerton, the northernmost point of theLaw. But she would never see that grave. She could never come to putflowers on it, as she put flowers on the grave of his mother; shewould never know the whole story, not a half of it-- his terriblelonging for a sound of her voice, a touch of her hand, a glimpse ofher sweet blue eyes before he died. They were to be married in August, when his service in the Royal Mounted ended. She would be waiting forhim. And in August-- or July-- word would reach her that he had died. 

With a dry sob he turned from the window to the rough table that hehad drawn close to his bunk, and for the thousandth time he heldbefore his red and feverish eyes a photograph. It was a portrait of agirl, marvelously beautiful to Tommy Pelliter, with soft brown hairand eyes that seemed always to talk to him and tell him how much sheloved him. And for the thousandth time he turned the picture over andread the words she had written on the back:

 "My own dear boy, remember that I am always with you, always thinking of you, always praying for you; and I know, dear, that you will always do what you would do if I were at your side. "

"Good Lord!" groaned Pelliter. "I can't die! I can't! I've got tolive-- to see her--"

He dropped back on his bunk exhausted. The fires burned in his headagain. He grew dizzy, and he talked to her, or thought he was talking, but it was only a babble of incoherent sound that made Kazan, theone-eyed old Eskimo dog, lift his shaggy head and sniff suspiciously. Kazan had listened to Pelliter's deliriums many times since MacVeighhad left them alone, and soon he dropped his muzzle between hisforepaws and dozed again. A long time afterward he raised his headonce more. Pelliter was quiet. But the dog sniffed, went to the door, whined softly, and nervously muzzled the sick man's thin hand. Then hesettled back on his haunches, turned his nose straight up, and fromhis throat there came that wailing, mourning cry, long-drawn andterrible, with which Indian dogs lament before the tepees of masterswho are newly dead. The sound aroused Pelliter. He sat up again, andhe found that once more the fire and the pain had gone from his head. 

"Kazan, Kazan, " he pleaded, weakly, "it isn't time-- yet!"

Kazan had gone to the window that looked to the west, and stood withhis forefeet on the sill. Pelliter shivered. 

"Wolves again, " he said, "or mebbe a fox. "

He had grown into that habit of talking to himself, which is as commonas human life itself in the far north, where one's own voice is oftenthe one thing that breaks a killing monotony. He edged his way to thewindow as he spoke and looked out with Kazan. Westward there stretchedthe lifeless Barren illimitable and void, without rock or bush andoverhung by a sky that always made Pelliter think of a terriblepicture he had once seen of Doré's "Inferno. " It was a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always threatening to pitch itself downin terrific avalanches, and between the earth and this sky was thethin, smothered worldrM which MacVeigh had once called God's insaneasylum. 

Through the gloom Kazan's one eye and Pelliter's feverish vision couldnot see far, but at last the man made out an object toiling slowlytoward the cabin. At first he thought it was a fox, and then a wolf, and then, as it loomed larger, a straying caribou. Kazan whined. Thebristles along his spine rose stiff and menacing. Pelliter staredharder and harder, with his face pressed close against the cold glassof the window, and suddenly he gave a gasping cry of excitement. Itwas a man who was toiling toward the cabin! He was bent almost double, and he staggered in a zigzag fashion as he advanced. Pelliter made hisway feebly to the door, unbarred it, and pushed it partly open. Overcome by weakness he fell back then on the edge of his bunk, It seemed an age before he heard steps. They were slow and stumbling, and an instant later a face appeared at the door. It was a terribleface, overgrown with beard, with wild and staring eyes; but it was awhite man's face. Pelliter had expected an Eskimo, and he sprang tohis feet with sudden strength as the stranger came in. 

"Something to eat, mate, for the love o' God give me something toeat!"

The stranger fell in a heap on the floor and stared up at him with theravenous entreaty of an animal. Pelliter's first move was to getwhisky, and the other drank it in great gulps. Then he dragged himselfto his feet, and Pelliter sank in a chair beside the table. 

"I'm sick, " he said. "Sergeant MacVeigh has gone to Churchill, and Iguess I'm in a bad way. You'll have to help yourself. There's meat--'n' bannock--"

Whisky had revived the new-comer. He stared at Pelliter, and as hestared he grinned, ugly yellow teeth leering from between his mattedbeard. The look cleared Pelliter's brain. For some reason which hecould not explain, his pistol hand fell to the place where he usuallycarried his holster. Then he remembered that his service revolver wasunder the pillow. 

"Fever, " said the sailor; for Pelliter knew that he was a sailor. 

He took off his heavy coat and tossed it on the table. Then hefollowed Pelliter's instructions in quest of food, and for ten minutesate ravenously. Not until he was through and seated opposite him atthe table did Pelliter speak. 

"Who are you, and where in Heaven's name did you come from?" he asked. 

"Blake-- Jim Blake's my name, an' I come from what I call StarvationIgloo Inlet, thirty miles up the coast. Five months ago I was left ahundred miles farther up to take care of a cache for the whaler JohnB. Sidney, and the cache was swept away by an overflow of ice. Then westruck south, hunting and starving, me 'n' the woman--"

"The woman!" cried Pelliter. 

"Eskimo squaw, " said Blake, producing a black pipe. "The cap'n boughther to keep me company-- paid four sacks of flour an' a knife to herhusband up at Wagner Inlet. Got any tobacco?"

Pelliter rose to get the tobacco. He was surprised to find that he wassteadier on his feet and that Blake's words were clearing his brain. That had been his and MacVeigh's great fight-- the fight to put an endto the white man's immoral trade in Eskimo women and girls, and Blakehad already confessed himself a criminal. Promise of action, quickaction, momentarily overcame his sickness. He went back with thetobacco, and sat down. 

"Where's the woman?" be asked. 

"Back in the igloo, " said Blake, filling his pipe. "We killed a walrusup there and built an icehouse. The meat's gone. She's probably goneby this time. " He laughed coarsely across at Pelliter as he lightedhis pipe. "It seems good to get into a white man's shack again. "

"She's not dead?" insisted Pelliter. 

"Will be-- shortly, " replied Blake. "She was so weak she couldn't walkwhen I left. But them Eskimo animals die hard, 'specially the women. "

"Of course you're going back for her?"

The other stared for a moment into Pelliter's flushed face, and thenlaughed as though he had just heard a good joke. 

"Not on your life, my boy. I wouldn't hike that thirty miles again--an' thirty back-- for all the Eskimo women up at Wagner. "

The red in Pelliter's eyes grew redder as he leaned over the table. 

"See here, " he said, "you're going back-- now! Do you understand?You're going back!"

Suddenly he stopped. He stared at Blake's coat, and with a swiftnessthat took the other by surprise he reached across and picked somethingfrom it. A startled cry broke from his lips. Between his fingers heheld a single filament of hair. It was nearly a foot long, and it wasnot an Eskimo woman's hair. It shone a dull gold in the gray lightthat came through the window. He raised his eyes, terrible in theiraccusation of the man opposite him. 

"You lie!" he said. "She's not an Eskimo!"

Blake had half risen, his great hands clutching the ends of the table, his brutal face thrust forward, his whole body in an attitude thatsent Pelliter back out of his reach. He was not an instant too soon. With an oath Blake sent the table crashing aside and sprang upon thesick man. 

"I'll kill you!" he cried. "I'll kill you, an' put you where I've puther, 'n' when your pard comes back I'll--"

His hands caught Pelliter by the throat, but not before there had comefrom between the sick man's lips a cry of "Kazan! Kazan!"

With a wolfish snarl the old one-eyed sledge-dog sprang upon Blake, and the three fell with a crash upon Pelliter's bunk. For an instantKazan's attack drew one of Blake's powerful hands from Pelliter'sthroat, and as he turned to strike off the dog Pelliter's hand gropedout under his flattened pillow. Blake's murderous face was stillturned when he drew out his heavy service revolver; and as Blake cutat Kazan with a long sheath-knife which he had drawn from his beltPelliter fired. Blake's grip relaxed. Without a groan he slipped tothe floor, and Pelliter staggered back to his feet. Kazan's teeth wereburied in Blake's leg. 

"There, there, boy, " said Pelliter, pulling him away. "That was aclose one!"

He sat down and looked at Blake. He knew that the man was dead. Kazanwas sniffing about the sailor's head with stiffened spines. And then aray of light flashed for an instant through the window. It was thesun-- the second time that Pelliter had seen it in four months. A cryof joy welled up from his heart. But it was stopped midway. On thefloor close beside Blake something glittered in the fiery ray, andPelliter was upon his knees in an instant. It was the short goldenhair he had snatched from the dead man's coat, and partly covering itwas the picture of his sweetheart which had fallen when the table wasoverturned. With the photograph in one hand and that single thread ofwoman's hair between the fingers of his other Pelliter rose slowly tohis feet and faced the window. The sun was gone. But its coming hadput a new life into him. He turned joyously to Kazan. 

"That means something, boy, " he said, in a low, awed voice, "the sun, the picture, and this! She sent it, do you hear, boy? She sent it! Ican almost hear her voice, an' she's telling me to go. `Tommy, ' she'ssaying, `you wouldn't be a man if you didn't go, even though you knowyou're going to die on the way. You can take her something to eat, 'she's saying, boy, `an' you can just as well die in an igloo as here. You can leave word for Billy, an' you can take her grub enough to lastuntil he comes, an' then he'll bring her down here, an' you'll beburied out there with the others just the same. ' That's what she'ssaying, Kazan, so we're going!" He looked about him a little wildly. "Straight up the coast, " he mumbled. "Thirty miles. We might make it. "

He began filling a pack with food. Outside the door there was a smallsledge, and after he had bundled himself in his traveling-clothes hedragged the pack to the sledge, and behind the pack tied on a bundleof firewood, a lantern, blankets, and oil. After he had done this hewrote a few lines to MacVeigh and pinned the paper to the door. Thenhe hitched old Kazan to the sledge and started off, leaving the deadman where he had fallen. 

"It's what she'd have us do, " he said again to Kazan. "She sure wouldhave us do this, Kazan. God bless her dear little heart!"

 VIII

 LITTLE MYSTERY

Pelliter hung close to the ice-bound coast. He traveled slowly, leading the way for Kazan, who strained every muscle in his aged bodyto drag the sledge. For a time the excitement of what had occurredgave Pelliter a strength which soon began to ebb. But his old weaknessdid not entirely return. He found that his worst trouble at first wasin his eyes. Weeks of fever had enfeebled his vision until the worldabout him looked new and strange. He could see only a few hundredpaces ahead, and beyond this little circle everything turned gray andblack. Singularly enough, it struck him that there was some humor aswell as tragedy in the situation, that there was something to laugh atin the fact that Kazan had but one eye, and that he was nearly blind. He chuckled to himself and spoke aloud to the dog. 

"Makes me think of the games o' hide-'n'-seek we used to play when wewere kids, boy, " he said. "She used to tie her handkerchief over myeyes, 'n' then I'd follow her all through the old orchard, and when Icaught her it was a part of the game she'd have to let me kiss her. Once I bumped into an apple tree--"

The toe of his snow-shoe caught in an ice-hummock and sent him facedownward into the snow. He picked himself up and went on. 

"We played that game till we was grown-ups, old man, " he went on. "Last time we played it she was seventeen. Had her hair in a big brownbraid, an' it all came undone so that when I caught her an' took offthe handkerchief I could just see her eyes an' her mouth laughing atme, and it was that time I hugged her up closer than ever and told herI was going out to make a home for us. Then I came up here. "

He stopped and rubbed his eyes; and for an hour after that, as heplodded onward, he mumbled things which neither Kazan nor any otherliving thing could have understood. But whatever delirium found itsway into his voice, the fighting spark in his brain remained sane. Theigloo and the starving woman whom Blake had abandoned formed the oneliving picture which he did not for a moment forget. He must find theigloo, and the igloo was close to the sea. He could not miss it-- ifhe lived long enough to travel thirty miles. It did not occur to himthat Blake might have lied-- that the igloo was farther than he hadsaid, or perhaps much nearer. 

It was two o'clock when he stopped to make tea. He figured that he hadtraveled at least eighteen miles; the fact was he had gone but alittle over half that distance. He was not hungry, and ate nothing, but he fed Kazan heartily of meat. The hot tea, strengthened with alittle whisky, revived him for the time more than food would havedone. 

"Twelve miles more at the most, " he said to Kazan. "We'll make it. Thank God, we'll make it!"

If his eyes had been better he would have seen and recognized the hugesnow-covered rock called the Blind Eskimo, which was just nine milesfrom the cabin. As it was, he went on, filled with hope. There weresharper pains in his head now, and his legs dragged wearily. Day endedat a little after two, but at this season there was not much change inlight and darkness, and Pelliter scarcely noted the difference. Thetime came when the picture of the igloo and the dying woman came andwent fitfully in his brain. There were dark spaces. The fighting sparkwas slowly giving way, and at last Pelliter dropped upon the sledge. 

"Go on, Kazan!" he cried, weakly. "Mush it-- go on!"

Kazan tugged, with gaping jaws; and Pelliter's head dropped upon thefood-filled pack. 

What Kazan heard was a groan. He stopped and looked back, whiningsoftly. For a time he sat on his haunches, sniffing a strange thingwhich had come to him in the air. Then he went on, straining a littlefaster at the sledge and still whining. If Pelliter had been conscioushe would have urged him straight ahead. But old Kazan turned away fromthe sea. Twice in the next ten minutes he stopped and sniffed the air, and each time he changed his course a little. Half an hour later hecame to a white mound that rose up out of the level waste of snow, andthen he settled himself back on his haunches, lifted his shaggy headto the dark night sky, and for the second time that day he sent forththe weird, wailing, mourning death-howl. 

It aroused Pelliter. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, staggered to hisfeet, and saw the mound a dozen paces away. Rest had cleared his brainagain. He knew that it was an igloo. He could make out the door, andhe caught up his lantern and stumbled toward it. He wasted half adozen matches before he could make a light. Then he crawled in, withKazan still in his traces close at his heels. 

There was a musty, uncomfortable odor in the snow-house. And there wasno sound, no movement. The lantern lighted up the small interior, andon the floor Pelliter made out a heap of blankets and a bearskin. There was no life, and instinctively he turned his eyes down to Kazan. The dog's head was stretched out toward the blankets, his ears werealert, his eyes burned fiercely, and a low, whining growl rumbled inhis throat. 

He looked at the blankets again, moved slowly toward them. He pulledback the bearskin and found what Blake had told him he would find-- awoman. For a moment he stared, and then a low cry broke from his lipsas he fell upon his knees. Blake had not lied, for it was an Eskimowoman. She was dead. She had not died of starvation. Blake had killedher!

He rose to his feet again and looked about him. After all, did thatgolden hair, that white woman's hair, mean nothing? What was that? Hesprang back toward Kazan, his weakened nerves shattered by a sound anda movement from the farthest and darkest part of the igloo. Kazantugged at his traces, panting and whining, held back by the sledgewedged in the door. The sound came again, a human, wailing, sobbingcry. 

With his lantern in his hand Pelliter darted across to it. There wasanother roll of blankets on the floor, and as he looked he saw thebundle move. It took him but an instant to drop beside it, as he haddropped beside the other, and as he drew back the damp and partlyfrozen covering his heart leaped up and choked him. The lantern lightfell full upon the thin, pale face and golden head of a little child. A pair of big frightened eyes were staring up at him; and as he kneltthere, powerless to move or speak in the face of this miracle, theeyes closed again, and there came again the wailing, hungry note whichKazan had first heard as they approached the igloo. Pelliter flungback the blanket and caught the child in his arms. 

"It's a girl-- a little girl!" he almost shouted to Kazan. "Quick, boy-- go back-- get out!"

He laid the child upon the other blankets, and then thrust back Kazan. He seemed suddenly possessed of the strength of two men as he tore athis own blankets and dumped the contents of the pack out upon thesnow. "She sent us, boy, " he cried, his breath coming in sobbinggasps. "Where's the milk 'n' the stove--"

In ten seconds more he was back in the igloo with a can of condensedcream, a pan, and the alcohol lamp. His fingers trembled so that hehad difficulty in lighting the wick, and as he cut open the can withhis knife he saw the child's eyes flutter wide for an instant and thenclose again. 

"Just a minute, a half minute, " he pleaded, pouring the cream into thepan. "Hungry, eh, little one? Hungry? Starving ?" He held the panclose down over the blue liame and gazed terrified at the white littleface near him. Its thinness and quiet frightened him. He thrust hisfinger into the cream and found it warm. 

"A cup, Kazan! Why didn't I bring a cup?" He darted out again andreturned with a tin basin. In another moment the child was in hisarms, and he forced the first few drops of cream between her lips. Hereyes shot open. Life seemed to spring into her little body; and shedrank with a loud noise, one of her tiny hands gripping him by thewrist. The touch, the sound, the feel of life against him thrilledPelliter. He gave her half of what the basin contained, and thenwrapped her up warmly in his thick service blanket, so that all of herwas hidden but her face and her tangled golden hair. He held her for amoment close to the lantern. She was looking at him now, wide-eyed andwondering, but not frightened. 

"God bless your little soul!" he exclaimed, his amazement growing. "Who are you, 'n' where'd you come from? You ain't more'n three yearsold, if you're an hour. Where's your mama 'n' your papa?" He placedher back on the blankets. "Now, a fire, Kazan!" he said. 

He held the lantern above his head and found the narrow vent throughthe snow-and-ice wall which Blake had made for the escape of smoke. Then he went outside for the fuel, freeing Kazan on the way. In a fewminutes more a small bright blaze of almost smokeless larchwood waslighting up and warming the interior of the igloo. To his surprise, Pelliter found the child asleep when he went to her again. He movedher gently and carried the dead body of the little Eskimo womanthrough the opening and half a hundred paces from the igloo. Not untilthen did he stop to marvel at the strength which had returned to him. He stretched his arms above his head and breathed deeply of the coldair. It seemed as though something had loosened inside of him, that acrushing weight had lifted itself from his eyes. Kazan had followedhim, and he stared down at the dog. 

"It's gone, Kazan, " he cried, in a low, half-credulous voice. "I don'tfeel-- sick-- any more. It's her--"

He turned back to the igloo. The lantern and the fire made a cheerfulglow inside, and it was growing warm. He threw off his heavy coat, drew the bearskin in front of the fire, and sat down with the child inhis arms. She still slept. Like a starving man Pelliter stared downupon the little thin face. Gently his rough fingers stroked back thegolden curls. He smiled. A light came into his eyes. His head bentlower and lower, slowly and a little fearfully. At last his lipstouched the child's cheek. And then his own rough grizzled face, toughened by wind and storm and intense cold, nestled against thelittle face of this new and mysterious life he had found at the top ofthe world. 

Kazan listened for a time, squatted on his haunches. Then he curledhimself near the fire and slept. For a long time Pelliter sat rockinggently back and forth, thrilled by a happiness that was growing deeperand stronger in him each instant. He could feel the tiny beat of thelittle one's heart against his breast; he could feel her breathagainst his cheek; one of her little hands had gripped him by histhumb. 

A hundred questions ran through his mind now. Who was this littleabandoned mite? Who were her father and her mother, and where werethey? How had she come to be with the Eskimo woman and Blake? Blakewas not her father; the Eskimo woman was not her mother. What tragedyhad placed her here? Somehow he was conscious of a sensation of joy ashe reasoned that he would never be able to answer these questions. Shebelonged to him. He had found her. No one would ever come todispossess him. Without awakening her, he thrust a hand into hisbreast pocket and drew out the photograph of the sweet-faced girl whowas going to be his wife. It did not occur to him now that he mightdie. The old fear and the old sickness were gone. He knew that he wasgoing to live. 

"You, " he breathed, softly, "you did it, and I know you'll be gladwhen I bring her down to you. " And then to the little sleeping girl:"And if you ain't got a name I guess I'll have to call you Mystery--how is that?-- my Little Mystery. "

When he looked from the picture again Little Mystery's eyes were openand gazing up at him. He dropped the picture and made a lunge for thepan of cream warming before the fire. The child drank as hungrily asbefore, with Pelliter babbling incoherent nonsense into her baby ears. When she had done he picked up the photograph, with a sudden andfoolish inspiration that she might understand. 

"Looky, " he cried. "Pretty--"

To his astonishment and joy, Little Mystery put out a hand and placedthe tip of her tiny forefinger on the girl's face. Then she looked upinto Pelliter's eyes. 

"Mama, " she lisped. 

Pelliter tried to speak, but something rose like a knot in his throatand choked him. A fire leaped all at once through his body; the joy ofthat one word blinded him with hot tears. When he spoke at last hisvoice was broken, like a sobbing woman's. 

"That's it. " he said. "You're right, little one. She's your mama!"

 IX

 THE SECRET OF THE DEAD

On the eighth day after Pelliter found the Eskimo igloo Billy MacVeighcame up through a gray dawn with his footsore dogs, his letters, andhis medicines. He had traveled all of the preceding night, and hisfeet dragged heavily. It was with a feeling of fear that he at lastsaw the black cliffs of Fullerton rising above the ice. He dreaded thefirst opening of the cabin door. What would he find? During the pastforty-eight hours he had figured on Pelliter's chances, and they weretwo to one that he would find his partner dead in his bunk. 

And if not, if Pelliter still lived, what a tale there would be totell the sick man! For he knew that he must tell some one, andPelliter would keep his secret. And he would understand. Day afterday, as he had hurried straight into the north, Billy's loneliness andheartbreak weighed more and more heavily upon him. He tried to forceIsobel out of his thoughts, but it was impossible. A thousand visionsof her rose before him, and each mile that he drew himself fartheraway from her seemed only to add to the nearness of her spirit at hisside and to the strange pain in his heart that rose now and then tohis lips in sobbing breaths that he fought with himself to stifle. Andyet, with his own grief and hopelessness, he experienced more and moreeach day a compensating joy. It was the joy of knowing that he hadgiven back life and hope to Isobel and her husband. Each day hefigured their progress along with his own. From the Eskimo village hehad sent a messenger back to Churchill with a long report for theofficer in command there, and in that report he had lied. He reportedScottie Deane as having died of the injury he had received in thesnow-slide. Not for a moment had he regretted the falsehood. He alsopromised to report at Churchill to testify against Bucky Smith as soonas he reached Pelliter and put him on his feet. 

On this last day, as he saw the towering cliffs of Fullerton ahead ofhim, he wondered how much he would tell to Pelliter if he found himalive. Mentally he rehearsed the amazing story of what came to himthat night on the Barren, of the dogs coming across the snow, thegreat, dark, frightened eyes of the woman, and the long, narrow box onthe sledge. He would tell pelliter all that. He would tell how he hadmade a camp for her that night, and how, later, he had told her thathe loved her and had begged one kiss. And then the disclosures of themorning, the deserted tent, the empty box, the little note fromIsobel, and the revelation that the box had contained the living bodyof the man for whom he and Pelliter had patrolled this desolatecountry for two thousand miles. But would he tell the truth of whathad happened after that ?

He quickened his tired pace as the dogs climbed up from the ice of theBay to the sloping ridge, and stared hard ahead of him. The dogstugged harder as the smell of home entered their nostrils. At last theroof of the cabin came in view. MacVeigh's bloodshot eyes were like ananimal's in their eagerness. 

"Pelly, old boy, " he gasped to himself. "Pelly--"

He stared harder. And then he spoke a low word to the dogs andstopped. He wiped his face. A deep breath of relief fell from hislips. 

Straight up from the chimney of the cabin there rose a thick column ofsmoke!

He came up to the door of the cabin quietly, wondering why Pelliterdid not see him or hear the three or four sharp yelps the dogs hadgiven. He twisted off his snow-shoes, chuckling as he thought of thesurprise he would give his mate. His hand was on the door latch whenhe stopped. The smile left his lips. Startled wonderment filled hisface as he bent close to the door and listened, and for a moment hisheart throbbed with a terrible fear. He had returned too late--perhaps a day-- two days. Pelliter had gone mad! He could hear himraving inside, filling the cabin with a laughter that sent a chill ofhorror through his veins. Mad! A sob broke from his lips, and heturned his face up to the gray sky. And then the laughter turned tosong. It was the sweet love song which Pelliter had told him that thegirl down south used to sing to him when they were alone out under thestars. Suddenly it broke off short, and in its place he heard anothersound. With a cry he opened the door and burst in. 

"My God!" he cried. "Pelly-- Pelly--"

Pelliter was on his knees in the middle of the floor. But it was notthe look of wonderment and joy in his face that Billy saw first. Hestared at the little golden-haired creature on the floor in front ofhim. He had traveled hard, almost day and night, and for an instant itflashed upon him that what he saw was not real. Before he could moveor speak again Pelliter was on his feet, wringing his hands and almostcrying in his gladness. There was no sign of fever or madness in hisface now. Like one in a dream Billy heard what he said. 

"God bless you, Billy! I'm glad you've come!" he cried. "We've beenwaiting 'n' watching, and not more'n a minute ago we were at thewindow looking along the edge of the Bay through the binoculars. Youmust have been under the ridge. My God! A little while ago I thought Iwas dying-- I thought I was alone in the world-- alone-- alone. Butlook-- look, Billy, I've got a fam'ly!"

Little Mystery had climbed to her feet. She was looking at Billywonderingly, her golden curls tousled about her pretty face, andgripping two or three of Pelliter's old letters in her tiny hand. Andthen she smiled at Billy and held out the letters to him. In aninstant he had dropped Pelliter's hands and caught her up in his arms. 

"I've got letters for you in my pocket, Pelly, " he gasped. "But--first-- you've got to tell me who she is and where you got her--"

Briefly Pelliter told of Blake's visit, the fight, and of the findingof Little Mystery. 

"I'd have died if it hadn't been for her, Billy, " he finished. "Shebrought me back to life. But I don't know who she is or where she camefrom. There wasn't anything in his pockets or in the igloo to tell. Iburied him out there-- shallow-- so you could take a look when youcame back. "

He snatched like a starving man for food at the letters MacVeighpulled from his pocket. While he read Billy sat down with LittleMystery on his knees. She laughed and put her warm little hands up tohis rough face. Her eyes were blue, like Isobel's; and suddenly hecrushed his face close down against her soft curls and held her soclose to him that for a moment she was frightened. A little laterPelliter looked up. His eyes shone, his thin face was radiant withjoy. 

"God bless the sweetest little girl in the world, Billy!" hewhispered, huskily. "She says she's lonely for me. She tells me tohurry-- hurry down there to her. She says that if I don't come soonshe'll come up to me! Read 'em, Billy!"

He looked in astonishment at the change which he saw in MacVeigh'sface. Billy accepted the letters mechanically and placed them on theedge of the bunk near which he was sitting. 

"I'll read them-- after a while, " he said, slowly. 

Little Mystery clambered from his knee and ran to Pelliter. Billy wasstaring straight into the other's face. 

"You're sure you've told me everything, Pelly? There wasn't anythingin his pockets? You searched well?"

"Yes. There was nothing. "

"But-- you were sick--"

"That's why I buried him shallow, " interrupted Pelliter. "He's closeto the last cross, just under the ice and snow. I wanted you to look--for yourself. "

Billy rose to his feet. He took Little Mystery in his arms again andlooked closely in her face. There was a strange look in his eyes. Shelaughed at him, but he did not seem to notice it. And then he held herout to Pelliter. 

"Pelly, did you ever-- ever notice eyes-- very closely?" he asked. "Blue eyes?"

Pelliter stared at him amazed. 

"My Jeanne has blue eyes--"

"And have they little brown dots in them like a wood violet?"

"No-o-o--"

"They're blue, just blue, ain't they?"

"Yes. "

"And I suppose most all blue eyes are just blue, without the littlebrown spots. Wouldn't you think so?"

"What in Heaven's name are you driving at?" demanded Pelliter. 

"I just wanted you to notice that her eyes have little brown spots inthem, " replied Billy. "I've only seen one other pair of eyes-- justlike hers. " He turned toward the door. "I'm going out to care for thedogs and dig up Blake, " he added. "I can't rest until I've seen him. "

Pelliter placed Little Mystery on her feet. 

"I'll see to the dogs, " he said. "But I don't want to look at Blakeagain. "

The two men went out, and while Pelliter led the dogs to a lean-tobehind the cabin Billy began to work with an ax and spade at the spothis comrade had pointed out to him. Ten minutes later he came toBlake. An excitement which he had tried to hide from Pelliter overcamehis sense of horror as he dragged out the stiff and frozen corpse ofthe man. It was a terrible picture that the dead man made, with hiscoarse bearded face turned up to the sky and his teeth still snarlingas they had snarled on the day he died. Billy knew most men who hadcome into the north above Churchill, but he had never looked uponBlake before. It was probable that the dead man had told a part of thetruth, and that he was a sailor left on the upper coast by somewhaler. He shivered as he began going through his pockets. Each momentadded to his disappointment. He found a few things-- a knife, twokeys, several coins, a fire-flint, and other articles-- but there wasno letter or writing of any kind, and that was what he had hoped tofind. There was nothing that might solve the mystery of the miraclethat had descended upon them. He rolled the dead man into the grave, covered him over, and went into the cabin. 

Pelliter was in his usual place-- on his hands and knees, with LittleMystery astride his back. He paused in a mad race across the cabinfloor and looked up with inquiring eyes. The little girl held up herarms, and MacVeigh tossed her half-way to the ceiling and then huggedher golden head close up to his chilled face. Pelliter jumped to hisfeet; his face grew serious as Billy looked at him over the child'stousled curls. 

"I found nothing-- absolutely nothing of any account, " he said. 

He placed Little Mystery on one of the bunks and faced the other witha puzzled loko in his eyes. 

"I wish you hadn't been in a fever on that day of the fight, Pelly, "he said. "He must have said something-- something that would give us aclue. "

"Mebbe he did, Billy, " replied Pelliter, looking with a shiver at thefew things MacVeigh had placed on the cabin table. "But there's no useworrying any more about it. It ain't in reason that she's got anypeople up here, six hundred miles from the shack of a white man that'd own a little beauty like her. She's mine. I found her. She's mineto keep. "

He sat down at the table, and MacVeigh sat down opposite him, smilingsympathetically into Pelliter's eyes. 

"I know you want her-- want her bad, Pelly, " he said. "And I know thegirl would love her. But she's got people-- somewhere, and it's ourduty to find 'em. She didn't drop out of a balloon, Pelly. Do yousuppose-- the dead man-- might be her father?"

It was the first time he had asked this question, and he noted theother's sudden shudder of revulsion. 

"I've thought of that. But it can't be. He was a beast, and she--she's a little angel. Billy, her mother must have been beautiful. Hadthat's what made me guess-- fear--"

Pelliter wiped his face uneasily, and the two young men stared intoeach other's eyes. MacVeigh leaned forward, waiting. 

"I figured it all out last night, lying awake there in my bunk, "continued Pelliter, "and as the second best friend I have on earth Iwant to ask you not to go any farther, Billy. She's mine. My Jeanne, down there, will love her like a real mother, and we'll bring her upright. But if you go on, Billy, you'll find something unpleasant-- I--I-- swear you will!"

"You know--"

"I've guessed, " interrupted the other. "Billy, sometimes a beast-- aman beast-- holds an attraction for a woman, and Blake was that sortof a beast. You remember-- two years ago-- a sailor ran away with thewife of a whaler's captain away up at Narwhale Inlet. Well--"

Again the two men stared silently at each other. MacVeigh turnedslowly toward the child. She had fallen asleep, and he could see thedull shimmer of her golden curls as they lay scattered over Pelliter'spillow. 

"Poor little devil!" he exclaimed, softly. 

"I believe that woman was Little Mystery's mother, " Pelliter went on. "She couldn't bear to leave the little kid when she went with Blake, so she took her along. Some women do that. And after a time she died. Then Blake took up with an Eskimo woman. You know what happened afterthat. We don't want Little Mystery to know all this when she grows up. It's better not. She's too little to remember, ain't she? She won'tever know. "

"I remember the ship, " said Billy, not taking his eyes off LittleMystery. "She was the Silver Seal. Her captain's name was Thompson. "

He did not look at Pelliter, but he could feel the quick, tensestiffening of the other's body. There was a moment's silence. ThenPelliter spoke in a low, unnatural voice. 

"Billy, you ain't going to hunt him up, are you? That wouldn't be fairto me or to the kid. My Jeanne 'll love her, an' mebbe-- mebbe someday your kid 'll come along an' marry her--"

MacVeigh rose to his feet. Pelliter did not see the sudden look ofgrief that shot into his face. 

"What do you say, Billy?"

"Think it over, Pelly, " came back Billy's voice, huskily. "Think itover. I don't want to hurt you, and I know you think a lot of her, but-- think it over. You wouldn't rob her father, would you? An' she'sall he's got left of the woman. Think it over, Pelly, good 'n' hard. I'm going to bed an' sleep a week!"

 X

 IN DEFIANCE OF THE LAW

Billy slept all that day and the night that followed, and Pelliter didnot awaken him. He aroused himself from his long sleep of exhaustionan hour or two before dawn of the following morning, and for the firsttime he had the opportunity of going over with himself all the thingsthat had happened since his return to Fullerton Point. His firstthought was Pelliter and Little Mystery. He could hear his comrade'sdeep breathing in the bunk opposite him, and again he wondered ifPelliter had told him everything. Was it possible that Blake had saidnothing to reveal Little Mystery's identity, and that the igloo andthe dead Eskimo woman had not given up the secret ? It seemedinconceivable that there would not be something in the igloo thatwould help to clear up the mystery. And yet, after all, he had faithin Pelliter. He knew that he would keep nothing from him even thoughit meant possession of the child. And then his mind leaped to IsobelDeane. Her eyes were blue, and they had in them those same littlespots of brown he had found in Little Mystery's. They were unusualeyes, and he had noticed the brown in them because it had added totheir loveliness and had made him think of the violets he had toldPelliter about. Was it possible, he asked himself, that there could besome association between Isobel and Little Mystery ? He confessed thatit was scarcely conceivable, and yet it was impossible for him to getthe thought out of his mind. 

Before Pelliter awoke he had determined upon his own course of action. He would say nothing of what had happened to himself on the Barren, atleast not for a time. He would not tell of his meeting with Isobel andher husband or of what had followed. Until he was absolutely certainthat Pelliter was keeping nothing from him he would not confide thesecret of his own treachery to him. For he had been a traitor-- to theLaw. He realized that. He could tell the story, with its fictitiousending, before they set out for Churchill, where he would giveevidence against Bucky Smith. Meanwhile he would watch Pelliter, andwait for him to reveal whatever he might have hidden from him. He knewthat if Pelliter was concealing something he was inspired by hisalmost insane worship of the little girl he had found who had savedhim from madness and death. He smiled in the darkness as he thoughtthat if Pelliter were working to achieve his own end-- possession ofLittle Mystery-- he was inspired by emotions no more selfish than hisown in giving back life to Isobel Deane and her husband. On that scorethey were even. 

He was up and had breakfast started before Pelliter awoke. LittleMystery was still sleeping, and the two men moved about softly intheir moccasined feet. On this morning the sun shone brilliantly overthe southern ice-fields, and Pelliter aroused Little Mystery so thatshe might see it before it disappeared. But to-day it did not dropbelow the gray murkiness of the snow-horizon for nearly an hour. Afterbreakfast Pelliter read his letters again, and then Billy read them. In one of the letters the girl had put a tress of sunny hair, andPelliter kissed it shamelessly before his comrade. 

"She says she's making the dress she's going to wear when we'remarried, and that if I don't come home before it's out of style she'llnever marry me at all, " he cried, joyously. "Look there, on that pageshe's told me all about it. You're-- you're goin' to be there, ain'tyou, Billy?"

"If I can make it, Pelly. "

"If you can make it! I thought you was going out of the Service when Idid. "

"I've sort of changed my mind. "

"And you're going to stick ?"

"Mebbe for another three years. "

Life in the cabin was different after this. Pelliter and LittleMystery were happy, and Billy fought with himself every hour to keepdown his own gloom and despair. The sun helped him. It rose earliereach day and remained longer in the sky, and soon the warmth of itbegan to soften the snow underfoot. The vast fields of ice began togive evidence of the approach of spring, and the air was more and morefilled with the thunderous echoes of the "break up. " Great floes brokefrom the shore-runs, and the sea began to open. Down from the norththe powerful arctic currents began to move their grinding, roaringavalanches. But it was a full month before Billy was sure thatPelliter was strong enough to begin the long trip south. Even then hewaited for another week. 

Late one afternoon he went out alone and stood on the cliff watchingthe thunderous movement of arctic ice out in the Roes Welcome. Standing motionless fifty paces from the little storm-beaten cabinthat represented Law at this loneliest outpost on the Americancontinent, he looked like a carven thing of dun-gray rock, with adun-gray world over his head and on all sides of him, broken only inits terrific monotony of deathlike sameness by the darker gloom of thesky and the whiter and ghostlier gloom that hung over the ice-fields. The wind was still bitter, and his vision was shut in by a nearhorizon which Billy had often thought of as the rim of hell. On thisafternoon his heart was as leaden as the day. Under his feet thefrozen earth shivered with the rumbling reverberations of the crashingand breaking mountains of ice. His ears were filled with a dull andsteady roar, like the echoes of distant thunder, broken now and then--when an ice-mountain split asunder-- with a report like that of athirteen-inch gun. There were curious wailings, strange screechingsounds, and heartbreaking moanings in the air. Two days beforeMacVeigh had heard the roar of the ice ten miles inland, where he hadgone for caribou. 

But he scarcely heard that roar now. He was looking toward the warringfields of ice, but he did not see them. It was not the dead gloom andthe gray monotony that weighted his heart, but the sounds that heheard now and then in the cabin-- the laughing of Little Mystery andof Pelliter. A few days more and he would lose them. And after thatwhat would be left for him? A cry broke from his lips, and he grippedhis hands in despair. He would be alone. There was no one waiting forhim down in that world to which Pelliter was going, no girl to meethim, no father, no mother-- nothing. He laughed in his pain as hefaced the cold wind from the north. The sting of that wind was likethe mocking ghost of his own past life. For all his life he had knownonly the stings of pain and of loneliness. And then, suddenly, therecame Pelliter's words to him again-- "Mebbe some day you'll have akid. " A flood of warmth swept through his veins, and in the moment offorgetfulness and hope which came with it he turned his eyes into thesouth and west and saw the sweet face and upturned lips of IsobelDeane. 

He pulled himself together with a low laugh and faced the breakingseas of ice and the north. The gloom of night had drawn the horizonnearer. The rumble and thunder of crumbling floes came from out of apurple chaos that was growing blue-black in the distance. For severalminutes he stood listening and looking into nothingness. The breakingof the ice, the moaning discontent in the air, and the growlingmonotone of the giant currents had driven other men mad; but they helda fascination for him. He knew what was happening, and he could almostmeasure the strength of the unseen hands of nature. No sound was newor strange to him. But now, as he stood there, there rose above allthe other tumult a sound that he had not heard before. His body becamesuddenly tense and alert as he faced squarely to the north. For a fullminute he listened, and then turned and ran to the cabin. 

Pelliter had lighted a lamp, and in its glow Billy's face shone whitewith excitement. 

"Good God, Pelly, come here!" he cried from the door. 

As Pelliter ran out he gripped him by the shoulders. 

"Listen!" he commanded. "Listen to that!"

"Wolves!" said Pelliter. 

The wind was rising, and sent a whistling blast through the open doorof the cabin. It awakened Little Mystery, who sat up with frightenedcries. 

"No, it's not wolves, " cried MacVeigh, and it did not sound likeMacVeigh's voice that spoke. "I never heard wolves like that. Listen!"

He clutched Pelliter's arm as on a fresh burst of the wind there camethe strange and terrible sound from out of the night. It was rapidlydrawing nearer-- a wailing burst of savage voice, as if a great wolfpack had struck the fresh and blood-stained trail of game. But withthis there was the other and more fearful sound, a shrieking andyelping as if half-human creatures were being torn by the fangs ofbeasts. As Pelliter and MacVeigh stood waiting for something to appearout of the gray-and-black mystery of the night they heard a sound thatwas like the slow tolling of a thing that was half bell and half drum. 

"It's not wolves, " shouted Billy. "Whatever it is, there's men withit! Hurry, Pelly, into the cabin with our dogs and sledge! Those aredogs we hear-- dogs who are howling because they smell us-- and thereare hundreds of 'em! Where there's dogs there's men-- but who inHeaven's name can they be?"

He dragged the sledge into the cabin while Pelliter unleashed thehuskies from the lean-to. When he came in with the dogs Pelliterlocked and bolted the door. 

Billy slipped a clipful of cartridges into his big-game Remington. Hiscarbine was already on the table, and as Pelliter stood staring at himin indecision he pulled out two Savage automatics from under his bunkand gave one of them to his companion. His face was white and set. 

"Better get ready, Pelly, " he said, quietly. "I've been in thiscountry a long time, and I tell you they're dogs and men. Did you hearthe drum? It's made of seal belly, and there's a bell on each side ofit. They're Eskimos, and there isn't an Eskimo village within twohundred miles of us this winter. They're Eskimos, and they're not on ahunt, unless it's for us!"

In an instant Pelliter was buckling on his revolver andcartridge-belt. He grinned as he looked at the wicked littleblue-steeled Savage. 

"I hope you ain't mistaken, Billy, " he said, "for it 'll be the firstexcitement we've had in a year. "

None of his enthusiasm revealed itself in MacVeigh's face. 

"The Eskimo never fights until he's gone mad, Pelly, " he said, "andyou know what madmen are. I can't guess what they've got to fightover, unless they want our grub. But if they do--" He moved toward thedoor, his swift-firing Remington in his hand. "Be ready to cover me, Pelly. I'm going out. Don't fire until you hear me shoot. "

He opened the door and stepped out. The howling had ceased now, butthere came in its place strange barking voices and a cracking whichBilly knew was made by the long Eskimo whips. He advanced to meet manydim forms which he saw breaking out of the wall of gloom, raising hisvoice in a loud holloa. From the Doorway Pelliter saw him suddenlylost in a mass of dogs and men, and half flung his carbine to hisshoulder. But there was no shooting from MacVeigh. A score of sledgeshad drawn up about him, and the whips of dozens of little black mencracked viciously as their dogs sank upon their bellies in the snow. Both men and dogs were tired, and Billy saw that they had been runninglong and hard. Still as quick as animals the little men gathered abouthim, their white-and-black eyes staring at him out of round, thick, dumb-looking faces. He noted that they were half a hundred strong, andthat all were armed, many with their little javelin-like narwhalharpoons, some with spears, and others with rifles. From the circle ofstrangely dressed and hideously visaged beings that had gathered abouthim one advanced and began talking to him in a language that was likethe rapid clack of knuckle bones. 

"Kogmollocks!" Billy groaned, and he lifted both hands to show that hedid not understand. Then he raised his voice. "Nuna-talmute, " hecried. "Nuna-talmute-- Nuna-talmute! Ain't there one of that lingoamong you?"

He spoke directly to the chief man, who stared at him in silence for amoment and then pointed both short arms toward the lighted cabin. 

"Come on!" said Billy. He caught the little Eskimo by one of his thickarms and led him boldly through the breach that was made for them inthe circle. The chief man's voice broke out in a few words of command, like a dozen quick, sharp yelps of a dog, and six other Eskimosdropped in behind them. 

"Kogmollocks-- the blackest-hearted little devils alive when it comesto trading wives and fighting, " said MacVeigh to Pelliter, as he cameup at the head of the seven little black men. " Watch the door, Pelly. They're coming in. "

He stepped into the cabin, and the Eskimos followed. From Pelliter'sbunk Little Mystery looked at the strange visitors with eyes whichsuddenly widened with surprise and joy, and in another moment she hadgiven the strange story that Pelliter or Billy had ever heard herutter. Scarcely had that cry fallen from her lips when one of theEskimos sprang toward her. His black hands were already upon her, dragging the child from the bunk, when with a warning yell of ragePelliter leaped from the door and sent him crashing back among hiscompanions. In another instant both men were facing the seven Eskimoswith leveled automatics. 

"If you fire don't shoot to kill!" commanded MacVeigh. 

The chief man was pointing to Little Mystery, his weird voice risinguntil it was almost a scream. Suddenly he doubled himself back andraised his javelin. Simultaneously two streams of fire leaped from theautomatics. The javelin dropped to the floor, and with a shrill crywhich was half pain and half command the leader staggered back to thedoor, a stream of blood running from his wounded hand. The otherssprang out ahead of him, and Pelliter closed and bolted the door. Whenhe turned MacVeigh was closing and slipping the bolts to the heavybarricades of the two windows. From Pelliter's bunk Little Mysterylooked at them and laughed. 

"So it's you?" said Billy, coming to her, and breathing hard. "It'syou they want, eh? Now, I wonder why ?"

Pelliter's face was flushed with excitement. He was reloading hisautomatic. There was almost a triumph in his eyes as he met MacVeigh'squestioning gaze. 

They stood and listened, heard only the rumbling monotone of thedrifting ice-- not the breath of a sound from the scores of men anddogs. 

"We've given them a lesson, " said Pelliter, at last, smiling with theconfidence of a man who was half a tenderfoot among the little brownmen. 

Billy pointed to the door. 

"That door is about the only place vulnerable to their bullets, " hesaid, as though he had not heard Pelliter. "Keep out of its range. Idon't believe what guns they've got are heavy enough to penetrate thelogs. Your bunk is out of line and safe. "

He went to Little Mystery, and his stern face relaxed into a smile asshe put up her arms to greet him. 

"So it's you, is it ?" he asked again, taking her warm little face andsoft curls between his two hands. "They want you, an' they want youbad. Well, they can have grub, an' they can have me, but"-- he lookedup to meet Pelliter's eyes-- "I'm damned if they can have you, " hefinished. 

Suddenly the night was broken by another sound, the sharp, explosivecrack of rifles. They could hear the beat of bullets against the logwall of the cabin. One crashed through the door, tearing away asplinter as wide as a man's arm, and as MacVeigh nodded to the path ofthe bullet he laughed. Pelliter had heard that laugh before. He knewwhat it meant. He knew what the death-whiteness of MacVeigh's facemeant. It was not fear, but something more terrible than fear. His ownface was flushed. That is the difference in men. 

MacVeigh suddenly darted across the danger zone to the opposite halfof the cabin. 

"If that's your game, here goes, " he cried. "Now, damn y', you're soanxious to fight-- get at it 'n' fight!"

He spoke the last words to Pelliter. Billy always swore when he wentinto action. 

 XI

 THE NIGHT OF PERIL

On his own side of the cabin Pelliter began tugging at a small, thinblock laid between two of the logs. The shooting outside had ceasedwhen the two men opened up the loopholes that commanded a rangeseaward. Almost immediately it began again, the dull red flashesshowing the location of the Eskimos, who had drawn back to the ridgethat sloped down to the Bay. As the last of five shots left hisRemington Billy pulled in his gun and faced across to Pelliter, whowas already reloading. 

"Pelly, I don't want to croak, " he said, "but this is the last of Lawat Fullerton Point-- for you and me. Look at that!"

He raised the muzzle of his rifle to one of the logs over his head. Pelliter could see the fresh splinters sticking out. 

"They've got some heavy calibers, " continued Billy, "and they'vehidden behind the slope, where they're safe from us for a thousandyears. As soon as it grows light enough to see they'll fill this shackas full of holes as an old cheese. "

As if to verify his words a single shot rang out and a bullet plowedthrough a log so close to Pelliter that the splinters flew into hisface. 

"I know these little devils, Pelly, " went on MacVeigh. "If they wereNuna-talmutes you could scare 'em with a sky-rocket. But they'reKogmollocks. They've murdered the crews of half a dozen whalers, and Ishouldn't wonder if they'd got the kid in some such way. They wouldn'tlet us off now, even if we gave her up. It wouldn't do. They knowbetter than to let the Law get any evidence against them. If we'rekilled and the cabin burned, who's going to say what happened to us ?There's just two things for us to do--"

Another fusillade of shots came from the snow ridge, and a thirdbullet crashed into the cabin. 

"Just two things, " Billy went on, as he completely shaded the dimlyburning lamp. "We can stay here 'n' die-- or run. "

"Run!"

This was an unknown word in the Service, and in Pelliter's voice therewere both amazement and contempt. 

"Yes, run, " said Billy, quietly. "Run-- for the kid's sake. "

It was almost dark in the cabin, and Pelliter came close to hiscompanion. 

"You mean--"

"That it's the only way to save the kid. We might give her up, thenfight it out, but that means she'd go back to the Eskimos, 'n' mebbenever be found again. The men and dogs out there are bushed. We arefresh. If we can get away from the cabin we can beat 'em out. "

"We'll run, then, " said Pelliter. He went to Little Mystery, who satstunned into silence by the strange things that were happening, andhugged her up in his arms, his back turned to the possible bullet thatmight come through the wall. "We're going to run, little sweetheart, "he mumbled, half laughingly, in her curls. 

Billy began to pack, and Pelliter put Little Mystery down on the bunkand started to harness the six dogs, ranging them close along thewall, with old one-eyed Kazan, the hero who had saved him from Blake, in the lead. Outside the firing had ceased. It was evident that theEskimos had made up their minds to save their ammunition until dawn. 

Fifteen minutes sufficed to load the sledge; and while Pelliter wasfastening the sledge traces MacVeigh bundled Little Mystery into herthick fur coat. The sleeves caught, and he turned it back, exposingthe white edge of the lining. On that lining was something which drewhim down close, and when the strange cry that fell from his lips drewPelliter's eyes toward him he was staring down into Little Mystery'supturned face with the look of one who saw a vision. 

"Mother of Heaven!" he gasped, "she's--" He caught himself, andsmothered Little Mystery up close to him for a moment before hebrought her to the sledge. "She's the bravest little kid in theworld, " he finished; and Pelliter wondered at the strangeness of hisvoice. He tucked her into a nest made of blankets and then tied her insecurely with babiche rope. Pelliter stood up first and saw thehungry, staring look in MacVeigh's face as he kept his eyes steadilyupon Little Mystery. 

"What's the matter, Mac?" he asked. "Are you very much afraid-- forher ?"

"No, " said MacVeigh, without lifting his head. "If you're ready, Pelly, open the door. " He rose to his feet and picked up his rifle. Hedid not seem like the old MacVeigh; but the dogs were nipping andwhining, and there was no time for Pelliter's questions. 

"I'm going out first, Billy, " he said. "You can make up your mindthey're watching the cabin pretty close, and as soon as the dogs nosethe open air they'll begin yapping 'n' let 'em on to us. We can't riskher under fire. So I'm going to back along the edge of the ridge andgive it to 'em as fast as I can work the gun. They'll all turn to me, and that's the time for you to open the door and make your getaway. I'll be with you inside of five minutes. "

He turned out the lights as he spoke. Then he opened the door andslipped out into the darkness without a protesting word from MacVeigh. Hardly had he gone when the latter fell upon his knees beside LittleMystery and in the deep gloom crushed his rough face down against hersoft, warm little body. 

"So it's you, is it?" he cried, softly; and then he mumbled thingswhich the little girl could not possibly have understood. 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door with a word tofaithful old Kazan, the leader. 

From far down the snow-ridge there came the rapid firing of Pelliter'srifle. 

For a moment Billy waited, his hand on the door, to give the watchingEskimos time to turn their attention toward Pelliter. He could perhapshave counted fifty before he gave Kazan the leash and the six dogsdragged the sledge out into the night. With his humanlike intelligenceold Kazan swung quickly after his master, and the team darted like astreak into the south and west, giving tongue to that first sharp, yapping voice which it is impossible to beat or train out of a band ofhuskies. As he ran Billy looked back over his shoulder. In thehundred-yard stretch of gray bloom between the cabin and thesnow-ridge he saw three figures speeding like wolves. In a flash themeaning of this unexpected move of the Eskimos dawned upon him. Theywere cutting Pelliter off from the cabin and his course of flight. 

"Go it, Kazan!" he cried, fiercely, bending low over the leader. "Moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh, old man!" And Kazan leaped into aswift run, nipping and whining at the empty air. 

Billy stopped and whirled about. Two other figures had joined thefirst three, and he opened fire. One of the running Eskimos pitchedforward with a cry that rose shrill and scarcely human above themoaning and roar of the ice-fields, and the other four fell flat uponthe snow to escape the hail of lead that sang close over their heads. From the snow-ridge there came a fusillade of shots, and a singlefigure darted like a streak in MacVeigh's direction. He knew that itwas Pelliter; and, running slowly after Kazan and the sledge, herammed a fresh clipful of cartridges into the chamber of his rifle. The figures in the open had risen again, and Pelliter's automaticSavage trailed out a stream of fire as he ran. He was breathingheavily when he reached Billy. 

"Kazan has got the kid well in the lead, " shouted the latter. "Godbless that old scoundrel! I believe he's human. "

They set off swiftly, and the thick night soon engulfed all signs ofthe Eskimos. Ahead of them the sledge loomed up slowly, and when theyreached it both men thrust their rifles under the blanket straps. Thusrelieved of their weight, they forged ahead of Kazan. 

"Moo-hoosh-- moo-hoosh!" encouraged Billy. 

He glanced at Pelliter on the opposite side. His comrade was runningwith one arm raised at the proper angle to reserve breath andendurance; the other hung straight and limp at his side. A sudden fearshot through him, and he darted ahead of the lead dog to Pelliter'sside. He did not speak, but touched the other's arm. 

"One of the little devil's winged me, " gasped Pelliter. "It's notbad. "

He was breathing as though the short run was already winding him, andwithout a word Billy ran up to Kazan's head and stopped the teamwithin twenty paces. The open blade of his knife was ripping upPelliter's sleeve before his comrade could find words to object. Pelliter was bleeding, and bleeding hard. His face was shot with pain. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his forearm, but hadfortunately missed the main artery. With the quick deftness of thewilderness-trained surgeon Billy drew the wound close and bound ittightly with his own and Pelliter's handkerchiefs. Then he thrustPelliter toward the sledge. 

"You've got to ride, Pelly, " he said. "If you don't you'll go under, and that means all of us. "

Far behind them there rose the yapping and howling of dogs. 

"They're after us with the dogs!" groaned Pelliter. "I can't ride. I've got to run-- and fight!"

"You get on the sledge, or I'll stave your head in!" commandedMacVeigh. "Face the enemy, Pelly, and give 'em hell. You've got threerifles there. You can do the shooting while I hustle on the dogs. Andkeep yourself in front of her, " he added, pointing to the almostcompletely buried Little Mystery. 

 XII

 LITTLE MYSTERY FINDS HER OWN

After convincing Pelliter that he must ride on the sledge Billy ran onahead, and the dogs started with their heavier load. 

"Now for the timber-line, " he called down to Kazan. "It's fifty miles, old boy, and you've got to make it by dawn. If we don't--"

He left the words unfinished, but Kazan tugged harder, as if he hadheard and understood. The sledge had reached the unbroken sweep of theBarren now, and MacVeigh felt the wind in his face. It was blowingfrom the north and west, and with it came sudden gusts filled withfine particles of snow. After a few moments he fell back to see thatLittle Mystery's face was completely covered. Pelliter was crouchinglow on the sledge, his feet braced in the blanket straps. His woundand the uncomfortable sensation of riding backward on a swaying sledgewere making him dizzy, and he wondered if what he saw creeping up outof the night was a result of this dizziness or a reality. There was nosound from behind. But a darker spot had grown within his vision, attimes becoming larger, then almost disappearing. Twice he raised hisrifle. Twice he lowered it again, convinced that the thing behind wasonly a shadowy fabric of his imagination. It was possible that theirpursuers would lose trace of them in the darkness, and so he held hisfire. 

He was staring at the shadow when from out of it there leaped a littlespurt of flame, and a bullet sang past the sledge, a yard to theright. It was a splendid shot. There was a marksman with the shadow, and Pelliter replied so quickly that the first shot had not died awaybefore there followed the second. Five times his automatic sent itsleaden messengers back into the night, and at the fifth shot therecame a wild outburst of pain from one of the Eskimo dogs. 

"Hurrah!" shouted Billy. "That's one team out of business, Pelly. Wecan beat 'em in a running fight!"

He heard the quick metallic snap of fresh cartridges as Pelliterslipped them into the chamber of his rifle, but beyond that sound, thewind, and the straining of the huskies there was no other. A grimsilence fell behind. The roar of the distant ice grew less. The earthno longer seemed to shudder under their feet at the terrificexplosions of the crumbling bergs. But in place of these the wind wasrising and the fine snow was thickening. Billy no longer turned tolook behind. He stared ahead and as far as he could see on each sideof them. At the end of half an hour the panting dogs dropped into awalk, and he walked close beside his comrade. 

"They've given it up, " groaned Pelliter, weakly. "I'm glad of it, Mac, for I'm-- I'm-- dizzy. " He was lying on the sledge now, with his headbolstered up on a pile of blankets. 

"You know how the wolves hunt, Pelly, " said MacVeigh-- "in amoon-shape half circle, you know, that closes in on the running gamefrom in front? Well, that's how the Eskimos hunt, and I'm wondering ifthey're trying to get ahead of us-- off there, and off there. " Hemotioned to the north and the south. 

"They can't, " replied Pelliter, raising himself to his elbow with aneffort. "Their dogs are bushed. Let me walk, Mac. I can--" He fellback with a sudden low cry. "Gawd, but I'm dizzy--"

MacVeigh halted the dogs, and while they dropped upon their bellies, panting and licking up the snow, he kneeled beside Pelliter. Darknessconcealed the fear in his eyes and face. His voice was strong andcheerful. 

"You've got to lie still, Pelly, " he warned, arranging the blankets sothat the wounded man could rest comfortably. "You've got a pretty badnip, and it's best for all of us that you don't make a move. You'reright about the Eskimos and their dogs. They're bushed, and they'vegiven the chase up as a bad job, so what's the use of making a fool ofyourself? Ride it out, Pelly. Go to sleep with Little Mystery if youcan. She thinks she's in a cradle. "

He got up and started the dogs. For a long time he was alone. LittleMystery was sleeping and Pelliter was quiet. Now and then he droppedhis mittened hand on Kazan's head, and the faithful old leader whinedsoftly at his touch. With the others it was different. They snappedviciously, and he kept his distance. He went on for hours, halting theteam now and then for a few minutes' rest. He struck a match each timeand looked at Pelliter. His comrade breathed heavily, with his eyesclosed. Once, long after midnight, he opened them and stared at theflare of the match and into MacVeigh's white face. 

"I'm all right, Billy, " he said. "Let me walk--"

MacVeigh forced him back gently, and went on. He was alone until thefirst cold, gray break of dawn. Then he stopped, gave each of the dogsa frozen fish, and with the fuel on the sledge built a small fire. Hescraped up snow for tea, and hung the pail over the fire. He wasfrying bacon and toasting hard bannock biscuits when Pelliter arousedhimself and sat up. Billy did not see him until he faced about. 

"Good morning, Pelly, " he grinned. "Have a good nap?"

Pelliter groped about on the sledge. 

"Wish I could find a club, " he growled. "I'd-- I'd brain you! You letme sleep!"

He thrust out his uninjured arm, and the two shook hands. Once ortwice before they had done this after hours of great peril. It was notan ordinary handshake. 

Billy rose to his feet. Half a mile away the edge of the big forestfor which they had been fighting rose out of the dawn gloom. 

"If I'd known that, " he said, pointing, "we'd have camped in shelter. Fifty miles, Pelly. Not so bad, was it?"

Behind them the gray Barren was lifting itself into the light of day. The two men ate and drank tea. During those few minutes neither gaveattention to the forest or the Barren. Billy was ravenously hungry. Pelliter could not get enough of the tea. And then their attentionwent to Little Mystery, who awoke with a wailing protest at thesmothering cover of blankets over her face. Billy dug her out and heldher up to view the strange change since yesterday. It was then thatKazan stopped licking his ashy chops to send up a wailing howl. 

Both men turned their eyes toward the forest. Halfway between a figurewas toiling slowly toward them. It was a man, and Billy gave a low cryof astonishment. 

But Kazan was facing the gray Barren, and he howled again, long andmenacingly. The other dogs took up the cry, and when Pelliter andMacVeigh followed the direction of their warning they stood for a fullquarter of a minute as if turned into stone. 

A mile away the Barren was dotted with a dozen swiftly moving sledgesand a score of running men!

After all, their last stand was to be made at the edge of thetimber-line!

In such situations men like MacVeigh and Pelliter do not wasteprecious moments in prearranging actions in words. Their mentalprocesses are instantaneous and correlative-- and they act. Without aword Billy replaced Little Mystery in her nest without even giving hera sip of the warm tea, and by the time the dogs were straightened intheir traces Pelliter was handing him his Remington. 

"I've ranged it for three hundred and fifty yards, " he said. "We won'twant to waste our fire until they come that near. "

They set out at a trot, Pelliter running with his wounded arm down athis side. Suddenly the lone figure between them and the forestdisappeared. It had fallen flat in the snow, where it lay only a blackspeck. In a moment it rose again and advanced. Both Pelliter and Billywere looking when it fell for a second time. 

An unpleasant laugh came from MacVeigh's lips. 

The figure was climbing to its feet for the fifth time, and was onlyon its hands and knees when the sledge drew up. It was a white man. His head was bare, his face deathlike. His neck was open to the coldwind, and, to the others' astonishment, he wore no heavier garmentover his dark flannel shirt. His eyes burned wildly from out of ashaggy growth of beard and hair, and he was panting like one who hadtraveled miles instead of a few hundred yards. 

All this Billy saw at a glance, and then he gave a sudden unbelievingcry. The man's red eyes rested on his, and every fiber in his bodyseemed for a moment to have lost the power of action. He gasped andstared, and Pelliter started as if stung at the words which came firstfrom his lips. 

"Deane-- Scottie Deane!"

An amazed cry broke from Pelliter. He looked at MacVeigh, his chief. He made an involuntary movement forward, but Billy was ahead of him. He had flung down his rifle, and in an instant was on his knees atDeane's side, supporting his emaciated figure in his arms. 

"Good God! what does this mean, old man?" he cried, forgettingPelliter. "What has happened? Why are you away up here? And where--where-- is she?"

He had gripped Deane's hand. He was holding him tight; and Deane, looking up into his eyes, saw that he was no longer looking into theface of the Law, but that of a brother. He smiled feebly. 

"Cabin-- back there-- in edge-- woods, " he gasped. "Saw you-- coming. Thought mebbe you'd pass-- so-- came out. I'm done for-- dying. "

He drew a deep breath and tried to assist himself as Billy raised himto his feet. A little wailing cry came from the sledge. Startled, Deane turned his eyes toward that cry. 

"My God!" he screamed. 

He tore himself away from Billy and flung himself upon his kneesbeside Little Mystery, sobbing and talking like a madman as he claspedthe frightened child in his arms. With her he leaped to his feet withnew strength. 

"She's mine-- mine!" he cried, fiercely. "She's what brought me back!I was going for her! Where did you get her? How--"

There came to them now in sudden chorus the wild voice of the Eskimodogs out on the plain. Deane heard the cry and faced with the othersin their direction. They were not more than half a mile away, bearingdown upon them swiftly. Billy knew that there was not a moment tolose. In a flash it had leaped upon him that in some way Deane andIsobel and Little Mystery were associated with that avenging horde, and as quickly as he could he told Deane what had happened. Sanity hadcome back into Deane's eyes, and no sooner had he heard than he ranout in the face of the army of little brown men with Little Mystery inhis arms. MacVeigh and Pelliter could hear him calling to them from adistance. They were in the edge of the forest when Deane met theEskimos. There was a long wait, and then Deane and Little Mystery cameback-- on a sledge drawn by Eskimo dogs. Beside the sledge walked thechief who had been wounded in the cabin at Fullerton Point. Deane wasswaying, his head was bowed half upon his breast, and the chief andanother Eskimo were supporting him. He nodded to the right, and ahundred yards away they found a cabin. The powerful little northernerscarried him in, still clutching Little Mystery in his arms, and hemade a motion for Billy to follow him-- alone. Inside the cabin theyplaced him on a low bunk, and with a weak cough he beckoned Billy tohis side. MacVeigh knew what that cough meant. The sick man hadsuffered terrible exposure, and the tissue of his lungs was sloughingaway. It was death, the most terrible death of the north. 

For a few moments Deane lay panting, clasping one of Billy's hands. Little Mystery slipped to the floor and began to investigate thecabin. Deane smiled into Billy's eyes. 

"You've come again-- just in time, " he said, quite steadily. "Seemsqueer, don't it, Billy?"

For the first time he spoke the other's name as if he had known him alifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, andin spite of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane sawthe look. 

"She didn't come, " he whispered. "I left her--"

He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to hislips. Billy felt a choking grief. 

"You must be quiet, " he said. "Don't try to talk now. You have nofire, and I will build one. Then I'll make you something hot. "

He went to move away, but one of Deane's hands detained him. 

"Not until I've said something to you, Billy, " he insisted. "Youknow-- you understand. I'm dying. It's liable to come any minute now, and I've got to tell you-- things. You must understand-- before I go. I won't be long. I killed a man, but I'm-- not sorry. He tried toinsult her-- my wife-- an' you-- you'd have killed him, too. Youpeople began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north-- among theEskimos-- an' lived there-- long time. The Eskimos-- they loved thelittle girl an' wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels--some sort. Then we heard you were goin' to hunt for me-- up there--among the Eskimos. So we set out with the box. Box was for her-- tokeep her from fearful cold. We didn't dare take the baby-- so we lefther up there. We were going back-- soon-- after you'd made your hunt. When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in thebox-- an' so-- so you found us. You know-- after that. You thought itwas-- coffin-- an' she told you I was dead. You were good-- good toher-- an' you must go down there where she is, and take little Isobel. We were goin' to do as you said-- an' go to South America. But we hadto have the baby, an' I came back. Should have told you. We knewthat-- afterward. But we were afraid-- to tell the secret-- even toyou--"

He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin, cold hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting tostifle the sobbing grief in his breath. 

"You were good-- good-- good-- to her, " repeated Deane, weakly, "Youloved her-- an' it was right-- because you thought I was dead an' shewas alone an' needed help. I'm glad-- you love her. You've been good--'n' honest-- an I want some one like you to love her an' care for her. She ain't got nobody but me-- an' little Isobel. I'm glad-- glad--I've found a man-- like you!"

He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy's tense facebetween them, staring straight into his eyes. 

"An'-- an'-- I give her to you, " he said. "She's an angel, and she'salone-- needs some one-- an' you-- you'll be good to her. You must godown to her-- Pierre Couchée's cabin-- on the Little Beaver. An'you'll be good to her-- good to her--"

"I will go to her, " said Billy, softly. "And I swear here on my kneesbefore the great and good God that I will do what an honorable manshould do!"

Deane's rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with asigh of relief. 

"I worried-- for her, " he said. "I've always believed in a God--though I killed a man-- an' He sent you here in time!" A suddenquestioning light came into his eyes. "The man who stole littleIsobel, " he breathed-- "who was he?"

"Pelliter-- the man out there-- killed him when he came to the cabin, "said Billy. "He said his name was Blake-- Jim Blake. "

"Blake! Blake! Blake!" Again Deane's voice rose from the edge of deathto a shriek. "Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with redhair-- red beard-- yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake-- Blake--" Hesank back again, with a thrilling, half-mad laugh. "Then-- then it'sall been a mistake-- a funny mistake, " he said; and his eyes closed, and his voice spoke the words as though he were uttering them from outof a dream. 

Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man'slast words. Deane's hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white. And then Deane whispered:

"We fought-- I thought I killed him-- an' threw him into the sea. Hisright name was Samuelson. You knew him-- by that name-- but he wentoften-- by Blake-- Jim Blake. So-- so-- I'm not a murderer-- afterall. An' he-- he came back for revenge-- and-- stole-- little--Isobel. I'm-- I'm-- not-- a-- murderer. You-- you-- will-- tell-- her. You'll tell her-- I didn't kill him-- after all. You'll tell her--an'-- be-- good-- good--"

He smiled. Billy bent lower. 

"Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorableman should do, " he replied. 

Deane made no answer. He did not hear. The smile did not fade entirelyfrom his lips. But Billy knew that in this moment death had come inthrough the cabin door. With a groan of anguish he dropped Deane'sstiffening hand. Little Isobel pattered across the floor to his side. She laughed; and suddenly Billy turned and caught her in his arms, and, crumpled down there on the floor beside the one brother he hadknown in life, he sobbed like a woman. 

 XIII

 THE TWO GODS

It was little Isobel who pulled MacVeigh together, and after a littlehe rose with her in his arms and turned her from the wall while hecovered Deane's face with the end of a blanket. Then he went to thedoor. The Eskimos were building fires. Pelliter was seated on thesledge a short distance from the cabin, and at Billy's call he cametoward him. 

"If you don't mind, you can take her over to one of the fires for alittle while, " said Billy. "Scottie is dead. Try and make the chiefunderstand, "

He did not wait for Pelliter to question him, but closed the doorquietly and went back to Deane. He drew off the blanket and gazed fora moment into the still, bearded face. 

"My Gawd, an' she's waitin' for you, 'n' looking for you, an' thinksyou're coming back soon, " he whispered. "You 'n' the kid!"

Reverently he began the task ahead of him. One after another he wentinto Deane's pockets and drew forth what he found. In one pocket therewas a small knife, some cartridges, and a match box. He knew thatIsobel would prize these and keep them because her husband had carriedthem, and he placed them in a handkerchief along with other things hefound. Last of all he found in Deane's breast pocket a worn and fadedenvelope. He peered into the open end before he placed it on thelittle pile, and his heart gave a sudden throb when he saw the blueflower petals Isobel had given him. When he was done he crossedDeane's hands upon his breast. He was tying the ends of thehandkerchief when the door opened softly behind him. 

The little dark chief entered. He was followed by four other Eskimos. They had left their weapons outside. They seemed scarcely to breatheas they ranged themselves in a line and looked down upon ScottieDeane. Not a sign of emotion came into their expressionless faces, notthe flicker of an eyelash did the immobility of their faces change. Ina low, clacking monotone they began to speak, and there was noexpression of grief in their voices. Yet Billy understood now that inthe hearts of these little brown men Scottie Deane stood enshrinedlike a god. Before he was cold in death they had come to chant hisdeeds and his virtues to the unseen spirits who would wait and watchat his side until the beginning of the new day. For ten minutes themonotone continued. Then the five men turned and without a word, without looking at him, went out of the cabin. Billy followed them, wondering if Deane had convinced them that he and Pelliter were hisfriends. If he had not done that he feared that there would still betrouble over little Isobel. He was delighted when he found Pellitertalking with one of the men. 

"I've found a flunkey here whose lingo I can get along with, " criedPelliter. "I've been telling 'em what bully friends we are, and havemade 'em understand all about Blake. I've shaken hands with them allthree or four times, and we feel pretty good. Better mix a little. They don't like the idea of giving us the kid, now that Scottie'sdead. They're asking for the woman. "

Half an hour later MacVeigh and Pelliter returned to the cabin. At theend of that time he was confident that the Eskimos would give them nofurther trouble and that they expected to leave Isobel in theirpossession. The chief, however, had given Billy to understand thatthey reserved the right to bury Deane. 

Billy felt that he was now in a position where he would have to tellPelliter some of the things that had happened to him on his return toChurchill. He had reported Deane's death as having occurred weeksbefore as the result of a fall, and when he returned to Fort Churchillhe knew that he would have to stick to that story. Unless Pelliterknew of Isobel, his love for her, and his own defiance of the Law ingiving them their freedom, his comrade might let out the truth andruin him. 

In the cabin they sat down at the table. Pelliter's arm was in asling. His face was drawn and haggard and blackened by powder. He drewhis revolver, emptied it of cartridges, and gave it to little Isobelto play with. He kept up his spirits among the Eskimos, but he made noeffort to conceal his dejection now. 

"I've lost her, " he said, looking at Billy. "You're going to take herto her mother?"

"Yes. "

"It hurts. You don't know how it's goin' to hurt to lose her, " hesaid. 

MacVeigh leaned across the table and spoke earnestly. 

"Yes, I know what it means, Pelly, " he replied. "I know what it meansto love some one-- and lose. I know. Listen. "

Quickly he told Pelliter the story of the Barren, of the coming ofIsobel, the mother, of the kiss she had given him, and of the flight, the pursuit, the recapture, and of that final moment when he had takenthe steel cuffs from Deane's wrists. Once he had begun the story heleft nothing untold, even to the division of the blue-flower petalsand the tress of Isobel's hair. He drew both from his pocket andshowed them to Pelliter, and at the tremble in his voice there came amistiness in his comrade's eyes. When he had finished Pelliter reachedacross with his one good arm and gripped the other's hand. 

"An' what she said about the blue flower is comin' true, Billy, " hewhispered. "It's bringing happiness to you, just as she said, foryou're going down to her--"

MacVeigh interrupted him. 

"No, it's not, " he said, softly. "She loved him-- as much as the girldown there will ever love you, Pelly, and when I tell her what hashappened-- her heart will break. That can't bring happiness-- for me!"

The hours of that day bore leaden weights for Billy. The two men madetheir plans. A number of the Eskimos agreed to accompany Pelliter asfar as Eskimo Point, whence he would make his way alone to Churchill. Billy would strike south to the Little Beaver in search of Couchée'scabin and Isobel. He was glad when night came. It was late when hewent to the door, opened it, and looked out. 

In the edge of the timber-line it was black, black not only with thegloom of night, but with the concentrated darkness of spruce andbalsam and a sky so low and thick that one could almost hear thewailing swish of it overhead like the steady sobbing of surf on aseashore. It was black, save for the small circles of light made bythe Eskimo fires, about which half a hundred of the little brown mensat or crouched. The masters of the camp were all awake, but twice asmany dogs, exhausted and footsore, lay curled in heaps, as inanimateas if dead. There was present a strange silence and a strange andunnatural gloom that was not of the night alone, a silence broken onlyby the low moaning of the wind out on the Barren, the restlessness inthe air above the tree-tops, and the crackling of the fires. TheEskimos were as motionless as so many dead men. Their round, expressionless eyes were wide open. They sat or crouched with theirbacks to the Barren, their faces turned into the still deeperblackness of the forest. Some distance away, like a star, theregleamed the small and steady light in the cabin window. For two hoursthe eyes of those about the fires had been fixed on that light. And atintervals there had risen from among the stony-faced watchers thelittle chief, whose clacking voice joined for a few moments each timethe wailing of the wind, the swish of the low-hanging sky, and thecrackling of the fires. But there was sound of no other voice ormovement. He alone moved and spoke, for to the others the clackingsounds he made was speech, words spoken each time for the man who laydead in the cabin. 

A dozen times Pelliter and MacVeigh had looked out to the fires, andlooked each time at the hour. This time Billy said:

"They're moving, Pelly! They're jumping to their feet and coming thisway!" He looked at his watch again. "They're mighty good guessers. It's a quarter after twelve. When a chief or a big man dies they buryhim in the first hour of the new day. They're coming after Deane. "

He opened the door and stepped out into the night. Pelliter joinedhim. The Eskimos advanced without a sound and stopped in a shadowygroup twenty paces from the cabin. Five of these little fur-clad mendetached themselves from the others and filed into the cabin, with thechief man at their head. As they bent over Deane they began to chant alow monotone which awakened little Isobel, who sat up and staredsleepily at the strange scene. Billy went to her and gathered herclose in his arms. She was sleeping again when he put her down amongthe blankets. The Eskimos were gone with their burden. He could hearthe low chanting of the tribe. 

"I found her, and I thought she was mine, " said Pelliter's low voiceat his side. "But she ain't, Billy. She's yours. "

MacVeigh broke in on him as though he had not heard. 

"You better get to bed, Pelly, " he warned. "That arm needs rest. I'mgoing out to see where they bury him. "

He put on his cap and heavy coat and went as far as the door, thenturned back. From his kit he took a belt-ax and nails. 

The wind was blowing more strongly over the Barren, and MacVeigh couldno longer hear the low lament of the Eskimos. He moved toward theirfires, and found them deserted of men, only the dogs rema g in theirdeathlike sleep. And then, far down the edge of the timber, he saw aflare of light. Five minutes later he stood hidden in a deep shadow, afew paces from the Eskimos. They had dug the grave early in theevening, out on the great snow-plain, free of the trees; and as thefire they had built lighted up their dark, round faces MacVeigh sawthe five little black men who had borne forth Scottie Deane leaningover the shallow hole in the frozen earth. Scottie was already gone. The earth and ice and frozen moss were falling in upon him, and not asound fell now from the thick lips of his savage mourners. In a fewminutes the crude work was done, and like a thin black shadow thenatives filed back to their camp. Only one remained, sittingcross-legged at the head of the grave, his long narwhal spear at hisback. It was O-gluck-gluck, the Eskimo chief, guarding the dead manfrom the devils who come to steal body and soul during the first fewhours of burial. 

Billy went deeper into the forest until he found a thin, straightsapling, which he cut down with half a dozen strokes of his belt-ax. From the sapling he stripped the bark, and then he chopped off a thirdof its length and nailed it crosswise to what remained. After that hesharpened the bottom end and returned to the grave, carrying the crossover his shoulder. Stripped to whiteness, it gleamed in the firelight. The Eskimo watcher stared at it for a moment, his dull eyes burningdarker in the night, for he knew that after this two gods, and notone, were to guard the grave. Billy drove the cross deep, and as theblows of his ax fell upon it the Eskimo slunk back until he wasswallowed in the gloom. When MacVeigh was done he pulled off his cap. But it was not to pray. 

"I'm sorry, old man, " he said to what was under the cross. "God knowsI'm sorry. I wish you was alive. I wish you was going back to her--with the kid-- instid o' me. But I'll keep that promise. I swear it. I'll do-- what's right-- by her. "

From the forest he looked back. The Eskimo chief had returned to hissomber watch. The cross gleamed a ghostly white against the thickblackness of the Barren. He turned his face away for the last time, and there filled him the oppression of a leaden hand, a thing that wasboth dread and fear. Scottie Deane was dead-- dead and in his grave, and yet he walked with him now at his side. He could feel thepresence, and that presence was like a warning, stirring strangethoughts within him. He turned back to the cabin and entered softly. Pelliter was asleep. Little Isobel was breathing the sweetforgetfulness of childhood. He stooped and kissed her silken curls, and for a long time he stood with one of those soft curls between hisfingers. In a few years more, he thought, it would be the darker goldand brown of the woman's hair-- of the woman he loved. Slowly a greatpeace entered into him. After all, there was more than hope ahead forhim. She-- the older Isobel-- knew that he loved her as no other manin the world could love her. He had given proof of that. And now hewas going to her. 

 XIV

 THE SNOW-MAN

After his return from the scene of burial Billy undressed, put out thelight, and went to bed. He fell asleep quickly, and his slumber wasfilled with many dreams. They were sweet and joyous at first, and helived again his first meeting with the woman; he was once more in thepresence of her beauty, her purity, her faith and confidence in him. And then more trouble visions came to him. He awoke twice, and eachtime he sat up, filled with the shuddering dread that had come to himat the graveside. 

A third time he awakened, and he struck a match to look at his watch. It was four o'clock. He was still exhausted. His limbs ached from thetremendous strain of the fifty-mile race across the Barren, but hecould no longer sleep. Something-- he did not attempt to ask himselfwhat it was-- was urging him to action. He got up and dressed. 

When Pelliter awoke two hours later MacVeigh's pack and sledge wereready for the trip south. While they ate their breakfast the two menfinished their plans. When the hour of parting came Billy left hiscomrade alone with little Isobel and went out to hitch up the dogs. When he returned there was a fresh redness in Pelliter's eyes, and hepuffed out thick clouds of smoke from his pipe to hide his face. MacVeigh thought of that parting often in the days that followed. Pelliter stood last in the door, and in his face was a look whichMacVeigh wished that he had not seen. In his own heart was the dreadand the fear, the thing which he could not name. 

For hours he could not shake off the gloom that oppressed him. Hestrode at the head of old Kazan, the leader, striking a course duesouth by compass. When he fell back for the third time to look atlittle Isobel he found the child buried deep in her blankets soundasleep. She did not awake until he stopped to make tea at noon. It wasfour o'clock when he halted again to make camp in the shelter of aclump of tall spruce. Isobel had slept most of the day. She was wideawake now, laughing at him as he dug her out of her nest. 

"Give me a kiss, " he demanded. 

Isobel complied, putting her two little hands to his face. 

"You're a-- a little peach, " he cried. "There ain't been a whimper outof you all day. And now we're going to have a fire-- a big fire. "

He set about his work, whistling for the first time since morning. Heset up his silk Service tent, cut spruce and balsam boughs until hehad them a foot deep inside, and then dragged in wood for half anhour. By that time it was dark and the big fire was softening the snowfor thirty feet around. He had taken off Isobel's thick, swaddlingcoat, and the child's pretty face shone pink in the fireglow. Thelight danced red and gold in her tangled curls, and as they atesupper, both on the same blanket, Billy saw opposite him more and moreof what he knew he would find in the woman. When they had finished heproduced a small pocket comb and drew Isobel close up to him. One byone he smoothed the tangles out of her curls, his heart beatingjoyously as the silken touch of them ran through his fingers. Once hehad felt that same soft touch of the woman's hair against his face. Ithad been an accidental caress, but he had treasured it in his memory. It seemed real again now, and the thrill of it made him place littleIsobel alone again on the blanket, while he rose to his feet. He threwfresh fuel on the fire, and then he found that the warmth had softenedthe snow until it clung to his feet. The discovery gave him aninspiration. A warmth that was not of the fire leaped into his face, and he gathered up the softened snow, raking it into piles with asnow-shoe; and before Isobel's astonished and delighted eyes theregrew into shape a snow-man almost as big as himself. He gave it armsand a head, and eyes of charred wood, and when it was done he placedhis own cap on the crown of it and his pipe in its mouth. LittleIsobel screamed with delight, and together, hand in hand, they dancedaround and around it, just as he and the other girls and boys haddanced years and years ago. And when they stopped there were tears oflaughter and joy in the child's eyes and a filmy mist of another sortin Billy's. 

It was the snow-man that brought back to him years and years of losthopes. They flooded in upon him until it seemed as though the old lifewas the life of yesterday and waiting for him now just beyond the edgeof the black forest. Long after Isobel was asleep in the tent he satand looked at the snow-man; and more and more his heart sang with anew joy, until it seemed as though he must rise and cry out in theeagerness and hope that filled him. In the snow-man, slowly meltingbefore the fire, there was a heart and a soul and voice. It wascalling to him, urging him as nothing in the world had ever urged himbefore. He would go back to the old home down in God's country, to theold playmates who were men and women now. They would welcome him-- andthey would welcome the woman. For he would take her. For the firsttime he made himself believe that she would go. And there, hand inhand, they would follow his boyhood footprints over the meadows andthrough the hills, and he would gather flowers for her in place of themother that was gone, and he would tell her all the old stories of thedays that were passed. 

It was the snow-man!

 XV

 LE MORT ROUGE-- AND ISOBEL

Until late that night Billy sat beside his campfire with the snow-man. Strange and new thoughts had come to him, and among these was thewondering one asking himself why he had never built a snow-man before. When he went to bed he dreamed of the snow-man and of little Isobel;and the little girl's laughter and happiness when she saw the curiousform the dissolving snow-man had taken in the heat of the fire whenshe awoke the following morning filled him again with those boyishvisions of happiness that he had seen just ahead of him. At othertimes he would have told himself that he was no longer reasonable. After they had breakfasted and started on the day's journey he laughedand talked with baby Isobel, and a dozen times in the forenoon hepicked her up in his arms and carried her behind the dogs. 

"We're going home, " he kept telling her over and over again. "We'regoing home-- down to mama-- mama-- mama!" He emphasized that; and eachtime Isobel's pretty mouth formed the word mama after him his heartleaped exultantly. By the end of that day it had become the sweetestword in the world to him. He tried mother, but his little comradelooked at him blankly, and he did not like it himself. "Mama, mama, mama, " he said a hundred times that night beside their campfire, andbefore he tucked her away in her warm blankets he said something toher about "Now I lay me down to sleep. " Isobel was too tired andsleepy to comprehend much of that. Even after she was deep in slumberand Billy sat alone smoking his pipe he whispered that sweetest wordin the world to himself, and took out the tress of shining hair andgazed at it joyously in the glow of the fire. By the end of the nextday little Isobel could say almost the whole of the prayer his ownmother had taught him years and years and years ago, so far back thathis vision of her was not that of a woman, but of an elusive andwonderful angel; and the fourth day at noon she lisped the whole of itwithout a word of assistance from him. 

On the morning of the fifth day Billy struck the Gray Beaver, andlittle Isobel grew serious at the change in him. He no longer amusedher, but urged the dogs along, never for an instant relaxing hisvigilant quest for a sign of smoke, a trail, a blazed tree. At hisheart there began to burn a suspense that was almost suffocating. Inthese last hours before he was to see Isobel there came the inevitablereaction within him. Gloom oppressed him where a little while beforejoyous anticipation had given him hope. The one terrible thought droveout all others now-- he was bringing her news of death, her husband'sdeath. And to Isobel he knew that Deane had meant all that the worldheld of joy or hope-- Deane and the baby. 

It was like a shock when he came suddenly upon the cabin, in the edgeof a small clearing. For a moment he hesitated. Then he took Isobel inhis arms and went to the door. It was slightly ajar, and afterknocking upon it with his fist he thrust it open and entered. 

There was no one in the room in which he found himself, but there wasa stove and a fire. At the end of the room was a second door, and itopened slowly. In another moment Isobel stood there. He had never seenher as he saw her now, with the light from a window falling upon her. She was dressed in a loose gown, and her long hair fell in disheveledprofusion over her shoulders and bosom. MacVeigh would have cried outher name-- he had told himself a hundred times what he would first sayto her-- but what he saw in her face startled him and held him silentwhile their eyes met. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips burned anunnatural red. Her eyes were glowing with strange fires. She looked athim first, and her hands clutched at her bosom, crumpling the massesof her lustrous hair. Not until she had looked into his eyes did sherecognize what he carried in his arms. When he held the child out toher she sprang forward with the strangest cry he had ever heard. 

"My baby!" she almost shrieked. "My baby-- my baby--"

She staggered back and sank into a chair near a table, with littleIsobel clasped to her breast. For a time Billy heard only those wordsin her dry, sobbing voice as she crushed her burning face down againsther child's. He knew that she was sick, that it was fever which hadsent the hot flush into her cheeks. He gulped hard, and went near toher. Trembling, he put out a hand and touched her. She looked up. Abit of that old, glorious light leaped into her eyes, the light whichhe had seen when in gratitude she had given him her lips to kiss. 

"You?" she whispered. "You-- brought her--"

She caught his hand, and the soft smother of her loose hair fell overit. He could feel the quick rise and fall of her bosom. 

"Yes, " he said. 

There was a demand in her face, her eyes, her parted lips. He went on, her hand clasping his tighter, until he could feel the swift beatingof her heart. He had never thought that he could tell the story in asfew words as he told it now, with more and more of the glorious lightcreeping into Isobel's eyes. She stopped breathing when he told her ofthe fight in the cabin and the death of the man who had stolen littleIsobel. A hundred words more brought him to the edge of the forest. Hestopped there. But she still questioned him in silence. She drew himdown nearer, until he could feel her breath. There was somethingterrible in the demand of her eyes. He tried to find words to say, butsomething rose up in his throat and choked him. She saw his effort. 

"Go on, " she said, softly. 

"And then-- I brought her to you, " he said. 

"You met him?"

Her question was so sudden that it startled him, and in an instant hehad betrayed himself. 

Little Isobel slipped to the floor, and Isobel stood up. She came nearto him, as she came that marvelous night out on the Barren, and in hereyes there was the same prayer as she put her two hands up to him andlooked straight into his face. 

He thought it would be easier. But it was terrible. She did not move. No sound came from her tight-drawn lips as he told her of the meetingwith Deane, and of her husband's illness. She guessed what was comingbefore he had spoken it. At his words, telling of death, she drew awayfrom him slowly. She did not cry out. Her only evidence that she hadheard and understood was the low moan that fell from her lips. Shecovered her face with her hands and stood for a moment an arm's lengthaway, and in that moment all the force of his great love for her sweptupon MacVeigh in an overwhelming flood. He opened his arms, longing togather her into them and comfort her as he would have comforted alittle child. In that love he would willingly have dropped dead at herfeet if he could have given back to her the man she had lost. Sheraised her head in time to see his outstretched arms, she saw the loveand the pleading in his face, and into her own eyes there leaped thefire of a tigress. 

"You-- you--" she cried. "It was you who killed him! He had done nowrong-- save to protect me and avenge me from the insult of a brute!He had done no wrong. But the Law-- your Law-- set you after him, andyou hunted him like a beast; you drove him from our home, from me andthe baby. You hunted him until he died up there-- alone. You-- youkilled him. "

With a sudden cry she turned and caught up little Isobel and rantoward the other door. And as she disappeared into the room from whichshe had first appeared Billy heard her moaning those terrible words. 

"You-- you-- you--"

Like a man who had been struck a blow he swayed back to the outerdoor. Near his dogs and sledge he met Pierre Couchée and hishalf-French wife coming in from their trap line. He scarcely knew whatexplanation he gave to the half-breed, who helped him to put up histent. But when the latter left to follow his wife into the cabin hesaid:

"She ess seek, ver' seek. An' she grow more seek each day until-- monDieu!-- my wife, she ess scare!"

He cut a few balsam boughs and spread out his blankets, but did nottrouble to build a fire. When the half-breed returned to say thatsupper was waiting he told him that he was not hungry, and that he wasgoing to sleep. He doubled himself up under his blankets, silent andstaring, even neglecting to feed the dogs. He was awake when the starsappeared. He was awake when the moon rose. He was still awake when thelight went out in Pierre Couchée's cabin. The snow-man was gone fromhis vision-- home and hope. He had never been hurt as he was hurt now. He was yet awake when the moon passed far over his head, sank behindthe wilderness to the west, and blackness came. Toward dawn he fellinto an uneasy slumber, and from that sleep he was awakened by PierreCouchée's voice. 

When he opened his eyes it was day, and the half-breed stood at theopening of the tent. His face was filled with horror. His voice wasalmost a scream when he saw that MacVeigh was awake and sitting up. 

"The great God in heaven!" he cried. "It is the plague, m'sieur-- lemort rouge-- the small pox! She is dying--"

MacVeigh was on his feet, gripping him by the arms. 

He turned and ran toward the cabin, and Billy saw that thehalf-breed's team was harnessed, and that Pierre's wife was bringingforth blankets and bundles. He did not wait to question them, buthurried into the plague-stricken cabin. From the woman's room came alow moaning, and he rushed in and fell upon his knees at her side. Herface was flushed with the fever, half hidden in the disheveled massesof her hair. She recognized him, and her dark eyes burned madly. 

"Take-- the baby!" she panted. "My God-- go-- go with her!"

Tenderly he put out a hand and stroked back her hair from her face. 

"You are sick-- sick with the bad fever, " he said, gently. 

"Yes-- yes, it is that. I did not think-- until last night-- what itmight be. You-- you love me! Then take her-- take the baby and go--go-- go!"

All his old strength came back to him now. He felt no fear. He smileddown into her face, and the silken touch of her hair set his heartleaping and the love into his eyes. 

"I will take her out there, " he said. "But she is all right-- Isobel. "He spoke her name almost pleadingly. "She is all right. She will nottake the fever. "

He picked up the child and carried her out into the larger room. Pierre and his wife were at the door. They were dressed for travel, ashe had seen them come in off the trap line the evening before. Hedropped Isobel and sprang in front of them. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "You are not going away! You cannotgo!" He turned almost fiercely upon the woman. "She will die-- if youdo not stay and care for her. You shall not run away!"

"It is the plague, " said Pierre. "It is death to remain!"

"You shall stay!" said MacVeigh, still speaking to Pierre's wife. "Youare the one woman-- the only woman-- within a hundred miles. She willdie without you. You shall stay if I have to tie you!"

With the quickness of a cat Pierre raised the butt of the heavydog-whip which he held in his hand and it came down with a sickeningthud on Billy's head. As he staggered into the middle of the cabinfloor, groping blindly for a moment before he fell, he heard astrange, terrified cry, and in the open inner door he saw thewhite-robed figure of Isobel Deane. Then he sank down into a pit ofblackness. 

It was Isobel's face that he first saw when he came from out of thatblack pit. He knew that it was her voice calling to him before he hadopened his eyes. He felt the touch of her hands, and when he looked upher loose, soft hair swept his breast. His head was bolstered up, andso he could look straight into her face. It frightened him. He knewnow what she had been saying to him as he lay there upon the floor. 

"You must get up! You must go!" he heard her mooning. "You must takemy baby away. And you-- you-- must go!"

He pulled himself half erect, then rose to his feet, swaying a little. He came to her then, with the look in his face she had first seen outon the Barren when he had told her that he was going with her throughthe forest. 

"No, I am not going away, " he said, firmly, and yet with that same oldgentleness in his voice. "If I go you will die. So I am going tostay. "

She stared at him, speechless. 

"You-- you can't, " she gasped, at last. "Don't you see-- don't youunderstand? I'm a woman-- and you can't. You must take her-- my baby--and go for help. "

"There is no help, " said MacVeigh, quietly. "Within a few hours youwill be helpless. I am going to stay and-- and-- I swear to God I willcare for you-- as he-- would have done. He made me promise that-- tocare for you-- to stick by you--"

She looked straight into his eyes. He saw the twitching of her throat, the quiver of her lips. In another moment she would have fallen if hehad not put a supporting arm about her. 

"If-- anything-- happens, " she gasped, brokenly, "you will take care--of her-- my baby--"

"Yes-- always. "

"And if I-- get well--"

Her head swayed dizzily and dropped to his breast. 

"If I get-- well--"

"Yes, " he urged. "Yes--"

"If I--"

He saw her struggle and fail. 

"Yes, I know-- I understand, " he cried, quickly, as she grew heavierin his arms. "If you get well I will go. I swear to do that. I will goaway. No one will ever know-- no one-- in the whole world. And I willbe good to you-- and care for you--"

He stopped, brushed back her hair, and looked into her face. Then hecarried her into the inner room; and when he came out little Isobelwas crying. 

"You poor little kid, " he cried, and caught her up in his arms. "Youpoor little--"

The child smiled at him through her tears, and Billy suddenly sat downon the edge of the table. 

"You've been a little brick from the beginning, and you're going tokeep it up, little one, " he said, taking her pretty face between histwo big hands. "You've got to be good, for we're going to have a--a--" He turned away, and finished under his breath. "We're going tohave a devil of a time !"

 XVI

 THE LAW-- MURDERER OF MEN

Seated on the table, little Isobel looked up into Billy's face andlaughed, and when the laugh ended in a half wail Billy found that hisfingers had tightened on her little shoulder until they hurt. Hetousled her hair to bring back her good-humor, and put her on thefloor. Then he went back to the partly open door. It was quiet in thedarkened room. He listened for a breath or a sob, and could hearneither. A curtain was drawn over the one window, and he could butindistinctly make out the darker shadow where Isobel lay on the bed. His heart beat faster as he softly called Isobel's name. There was noanswer. He looked back. Little Isobel had found something on the floorand was amusing herself with it. Again he called the mother, and stillthere was no answer. He was filled with a sort of horror. He wanted togo over to the dark shadow and assure himself that she was breathing, but a hand seemed to thrust him back. And then, piercing him like aknife, there came again those low, moaning words of accusation:

"It was you-- it was you-- it was you--"

In that voice, low and moaning as it was, he recognized some ofPelliter's madness. It was the fever. He fell back a step and drew ahand across his forehead. It was damp, clammy with a coldperspiration. He felt a burning pain where he had been struck, and amomentary dizziness made him stagger. Then, with a tremendous effort, he threw himself together and turned to the little girl. As he carriedher out through the door into the fresh air Isobel's feverish wordsstill followed him:

"It was you-- you-- you-- you!"

The cold air did him good, and he hurried toward the tent with babyIsobel. As he deposited her among the blankets and bearskins thehopelessness of his position impressed itself swiftly upon him. Thechild could not remain in the cabin, and yet she would not be immunefrom danger in the tent, for he would have to spend a part of his timewith her. He shuddered as he thought of what it might mean. Forhimself he had no fear of the dread disease that had stricken Isobel. He had run the risk of contagion several times before and had remainedunscathed, but his soul trembled with fear as he looked into littleIsobel's bright blue eyes and tenderly caressed the soft curls abouther face, If Couchée and his wife had only taken her! At thought ofthem he sprang suddenly to his feet. 

"Looky, little one, you've got to stay here!" he commanded. "Understand? I'm going to pin down the tent-flap, and you mustn't cry. If I don't get that damned half-breed, dead or alive, my name ain'tBilly MacVeigh. "

He fastened the tent-flap so that Isobel could not escape, and lefther alone, quiet and wondering. Loneliness was not new to her. Solitude did not frighten her; and, listening with his ear close tothe canvas, Billy soon heard her playing with the armful of things hehad scattered about her. He hurried to the dogs and harnessed them tothe sledge. Couchée and his wife did not have over half an hour thestart of him-- three-quarters at the most. He would run the race ofhis life for an hour or two, overtake them, and bring them back at thepoint of his revolver. If there had to be a fight he would fight. 

Where the trail struck into the forest he hesitated, wondering if hewould not make better speed by leaving the team and sledge behind. Theexcited actions of the dogs decided him. They were sniffing at thescent left in the snow by the rival huskies, and were waiting eagerlyfor the command to pursue. Billy snapped his whip over their heads. 

"You want a fight, do you, boys?" he cried. "So do I. Get on with you!M'hoosh! M'hoosh!"

Billy dropped upon his knees on the sledge as the dogs leaped ahead. They needed no guidance, but followed swiftly in Couchée's trail. Fiveminutes later they broke into thin timber, and then came out into anarrow plain, dotted with stunted scrub, through which ran the Beaver. Here the snow was soft and drifted, and Billy ran behind, hanging tothe tail-rope to keep the sledge from leaving him if the dogs shoulddevelop an unexpected spurt. He could see that Couchée was exertingevery effort to place distance between himself and the plague-strickencabin, and it suddenly struck Billy that something besides fear of lemort rouge was adding speed to his heels. It was evident that thehalf-breed was spurred on by the thought of the blow he had struck inthe cabin. Possibly he believed that he was a murderer, and Billysmiled as he observed where Couchée had whipped his dogs at a runthrough the soft drifts. He brought his own team down to a walk, convinced that the half-breed had lost his head, and that he wouldbush himself and his dogs within a few miles. He was confident, nowthat he would overtake them somewhere on the plain. 

With the elation of this thought there came again the sudden, sickening pain in his head. It was over in an instant, but in thatmoment the snow had turned black, and he had flung out his arms tokeep himself from falling. The babiche rope had slipped from his hand, and when things cleared before his eyes again the sledge was twentyyards ahead of him. He overtook it, and dropped upon it, panting asthough he had run a race. He laughed as he recovered himself, andlooked over the gray backs of the tugging dogs, but in the same breaththe laugh was cut short on his lips. It was as if a knife-blade hadrun in one lightning thrust from the back of his neck to his brain, and he fell forward on his face with a cry of pain. After all, Couchée's blow had done the work. He realized that, and made an effortto call the dogs to a stop. For five minutes they went on, unheedingthe half-dozen weak commands that he called out from the darkness thathad fallen thickly about him. When at last he pulled himself up fromhis face and the snow turned white again, the dogs had halted. Theywere tangled in their traces and sniffing at the snow. 

Billy sat up. Darkness and pain left him as swiftly as they had come. He saw Couchée's trail ahead, and then he looked at the dogs. They hadswung at right angles to the sledge and had pulled the nose of it deepinto a drift. With a sharp cry of command he sent the lash of his whipamong them and went to the leader's head. The dogs slunk to theirbellies, snarling at him. 

"What the devil--" he began, and stopped. 

He stared at the snow. Straight out from Couchée's trail there rananother-- a snow-shoe trail. For a moment he thought that Couchée orhis wife had for some reason struck out a distance from their sledge. A second glance assured him that in this supposition he was wrong. Both the half-breed and his wife wore the long, narrow "bush"snow-shoes, and this second trail was made by the big, basket-shapedshoes worn by Indians and trappers on the Barrens. In addition tothis, the trail was well beaten. Whoever had traveled it recently hadgone over it many times before, and Billy gave utterance to his joy ina low cry. He had struck a trap line. The trapper's cabin could not befar away, and the trapper himself had passed that way not many minutessince. He examined the two trails and found where the blunt, roundpoint of a snow-shoe had covered an imprint left by Couchée, and atthis discovery Billy made a megaphone of his mittened hands and gaveutterance to the long, wailing holloa of the forest man. It was a crythat would carry a mile. Twice he shouted, and the second time therecame a reply. It was not far distant, and he responded with a thirdand still louder shout. In a flash there came again the terrible painin his head, and he sank down on the sledge. This time he was rousedfrom his stupor by the barking and snarling of the dogs and the voiceof a man. When he lifted his head out of his arms he saw some oneclose to the dogs. He made an effort to rise, and staggered half tohis feet. Then he fell back, and the darkness closed in about him morethickly than before. When he opened his eyes again he was in a cabin. He was conscious of warmth. The first sound that he heard was thecrackling of a fire and the closing of a stove door. And then he heardsome one say:

"S'help me God, if it ain't Billy MacVeigh!"

He stared up into the face that was looking down at him. It was awhite man's face, covered with a scrubby red beard. The beard was new, but the eyes and the voice he would have recognized anywhere. For twoyears he had messed with Rookie McTabb down at Norway and NelsonHouse. McTabb had quit the Service because of a bad leg. 

"Rookie!" he gasped. 

He drew himself up, and McTabb's hands grasped his shoulders. 

"S'help me, if it ain't Billy MacVeigh!" he exclaimed again, amazementin his voice and face. "Joe brought you in five minutes ago, and Iain't had a straight squint at you until now. Billy MacVeigh! Well, I'm--" He stopped to stare at Billy's forehead, where there was astain of blood. "Hurt?" he demanded, sharply. "Was it that damnedhalf-breed?"

Billy was gripping his hands now. Over near the stove, still kneelingbefore the closed door, he saw the dark face of an Indian turnedtoward him. 

"It was Couchée, " he said. "He hit me with the butt of his whip, andI've had funny spells ever since. Before I have another I want to tellyou what I'm up against, Rookie. My Gawd, it's a funny chance that ranme up against you-- just in time! Listen. "

He told McTabb briefly of Scottie Deane's death, of Couchée's flightfrom the cabin, and the present situation there. 

"There isn't a minute to lose, " he finished, tightening his hold onMcTabb's hand. "There's the kid and the mother, and I've got to getback to them, Rookie. The rest is up to you. We've got to get a woman. If we don't-- soon--"

He rose to his feet and stood there looking at McTabb. The othernodded. 

"I understand, " he said. "You're in a bad fix, Billy. It's two hundredmiles to the nearest white woman, away over near Du Brochet. Youcouldn't get an Indian to go within half a mile of a cabin that'sstruck by the plague, and I doubt if this white woman would come. Theonly game I can see is to send to Fort Churchill or Nelson House andhave the force send up a nurse. It will take two weeks. "

Billy gave a gesture of despair. Indian Joe had listened attentively, and now rose quietly from his position in front of the stove. 

"There's Indian camp over on Arrow Lake, " he said, facing Billy. "Iknow squaw there who not afraid of plague. "

"Sure as fate!" cried McTabb, exultantly. "Joe's mother is over there, and if there is anything on earth she won't do for Joe I can't guesswhat it is. Early this winter she came a hundred and fifty miles--alone-- to pay him a visit. She'll come. Go after her, Joe. I'll goBilly MacVeigh's bond to get the Service to pay her five dollars a dayfrom the hour she starts!" He turned to Billy. "How's your head?" heasked. 

"Better. It was the run that fixed me, I guess. "

"Then we'll go over to Couchée's cabin and I'll bring back the kid. "

They left Joe preparing for his three-day trip into the south andeast, and outside the cabin McTabb insisted on Billy riding behind thedogs. They struck back for Couchée's trail, and when they came to itMcTabb laughed. 

"I'll bet they're running like rabbits, " he said. "What in thunder didyou expect to do if you caught 'em, Billy? Drag the woman back by thehair of 'er 'ead? I'm glad you tumbled where you did. You've got tobeat a lynx to beat Couchée. He'd have perforated you from behind asnow-drift sure as your name's Billy MacVeigh. "

Billy felt that an immense load had been lifted from him, and he waspartly inclined to tell his companion more about Isobel and himself. This, however, he did not do. As McTabb strode ahead and urged on thedogs he figured on the chances of Joe and his mother returning withina week. During that time he would be alone with Isobel, and in spiteof the horrible fear that never for a moment left his heart it wasimpossible for him not to feel a thrill of pleasure at the thought. Those would be days of agony for himself as well as for her, and yethe would be near, always near, the woman he loved. And little Isobelwould be safe in Rookie's cabin. If anything happened--

His hands gripped the edges of the sledge at the thought that leapedinto his brain. It was Pelliter's thought. If anything happened toIsobel the little girl would be his own, forever and forever. Hethrust the thought from him as if it were the plague itself. Isobelwould live. He would make her live, If she died--

McTabb heard the low cry that broke from his lips. He could not keepit back. Good God, if she went, how empty the world would be! He mightnever see her again after these days of terror that were ahead of him;but if she lived, and he knew that the sun was shining in her brighthair, and that her blue eyes still looked up at the stars, and that inher sweet prayers she sometimes thought of him-- along with Deane--life could not be quite so lonely for him. 

McTabb had dropped back to his side. 

"Head hurt?" he asked. 

"A little, " lied Billy. "There's a level stretch ahead, Rookie. Hustleup the dogs!"

Half an hour later the sledge drew up in front of Couchée's cabin. Billy pointed to the tent. 

"The little one is in there, " he said. "Go over an' get acquainted, Rookie. I'm going to take a look inside to see if everything is allright. "

He entered the cabin quietly and closed the door softly behind him. The inner door was as he had left it, partly open, and he looked in, with a wildly beating heart. He could no longer hesitate. He steppedin and spoke her name. 

"Isobel!"

There was a movement on the bed, and he was startled by the suddennesswith which Isobel sprang to her feet. She drew aside the heavy curtainfrom the window and stood in the light. For a moment Billy saw herblue eyes filled with a strange fire as she stared at him. There was awild flush in her cheeks, and he could hear her dry breath as it camefrom between her parted lips. Her hair was still undone and coveredher in a shimmering veil. 

"I've found a trapper's cabin, Isobel, and we're taking the babythere, " he went on. "She will be safe. And we're sending for help--for a woman--"

He stopped, horror striking him dumb. He saw more plainly the feverishmadness in Isobel's eyes. She dropped the curtain, and they were ingloom. The whispered words he heard were more terrible than themadness in her eyes. 

"You won't kill her?" she pleaded. "You won't kill my baby? You won'tkill her--"

She staggered, back toward the bed, whispering the words over and overagain. Not until she had dropped upon it did Billy move. The blood inhis body seemed to have turned cold. Be dropped upon his knees at herside. His hand buried itself in the soft smother of her hair, but heno longer felt the touch of it. He tried to speak, but words would notcome. And then, suddenly, she thrust him back, and he could see theglow of her eyes in the half darkness. For a moment she seemed to havefought herself out of her delirium. 

"It was you-- you-- who helped to kill him!" she panted. "It was theLaw-- and you are the Law. It kills-- kills-- kills-- and it nevergives back when it makes a mistake. He was innocent, but you and theLaw hounded him until he died. You are the murderers. You killed him. You have killed me. And you will never be punished-- never-- never--because you are the Law-- and because the Law can kill-- kill--kill--"

She dropped back, moaning, and MacVeigh crouched at her side, hisfingers buried in her hair, with no words to say. In a moment shebreathed easier. He felt her tense body relax. He forced himself tohis feet and dragged himself into the outer room, closing the doorafter him. Even in her delirium Isobel had spoken the truth. Forevershe had digged for him a black abyss between them. The Law had killedScottie Deane. And he was the Law. And for the Law there was nopunishment, even though it took the life of an innocent man. 

He went outside. McTabb was in the tent. The gloom of evening wasclosing in on a desolate world. Overhead the sky was thick, andsuddenly, with a great cry, Billy flung his arms straight up over hishead and cursed that Law which could not be punished, the Law that hadkilled Scottie Deane. For he was that Law, and Isobel had called him amurderer. 

 XVII

 ISOBEL FACES THE ABYSS

It was not the face of MacVeigh-- the old MacVeigh-- that RookieMcTabb, the ex-constable, looked into a few moments later. Days ofsickness could have laid no heavier hand upon him than had those fewminutes in the darkened room of the cabin. His face was white anddrawn. There were tense lines at the corners of his mouth andsomething strange and disquieting in his eyes. McTabb did not see thechange until he came out into what remained of the day with littleIsobel in his arms. Then he stared. 

"That blow got you bad, " he said. "You look sick. Mebbe I'd betterstay with you here to-night. "

"No, you hadn't, " replied Billy, trying to throw off what he knew theother saw. "Take the kid over to the cabin. A night's sleep and I'llbe as lively as a cat. I'm going to vaccinate her before you go. "

He went into the tent and dug out from his pack the small rubber pouchin which he carried a few medicines and a roll of medicated cotton. Ina small bottle there were three vaccine points. He returned with theseand the cotton. 

"Watch her close, " he said, as he rolled back the child's sleeve. "I'mgoing to give you an extra point, and if this doesn't work by theseventh or eighth day you must do the job over again. "

With the point of his knife he began to work gently on baby Isobel'stender pink skin. He had expected that she would cry. But she was notfrightened, and her big blue eyes followed his movements wonderingly. At last it began to hurt, and her lips quivered. But she made nosound, and as tears welled into her eyes Billy dropped his knife andcaught her up close to his breast. 

"God bless your dear little heart, " he cried, smothering his face inher silken curls. "You've been hurt so much, an' you've froze, an'you've starved, an' you ain't never said a word about it since thatday up at Fullerton! Little sweetheart--"

McTabb heard him whispering things, and little Isobel's arms crepttightly about his neck. After a little Billy held her out to himagain, and a part of what Rookie had seen in his face was gone. 

"It won't hurt any more, " he said, as he rubbed the vaccine point overthe red spot on her arm. "You don't want to be sick, do you? And that'll keep you from being sick. There--"

He wound a strip of the cotton about her arm, tied it, and gave partof what remained to McTabb. Then he took her in his arms again andkissed her warm face and her soft curls, and after that bundled her infurs and put her on the sledge. Rookie was straightening out the dogswhen, like a thief, he clipped off one of the curls with his knife. Isobel laughed gleefully when she saw the curl between his fingers. Before McTabb had turned it was in his pocket. 

"I won't see her again-- soon, " MacVeigh said; and he tried to keep athickness out of his voice. "That is, I-- I won't see her to-- tohandle her. I'll come over now and then an' look at her from the edgeof the woods. You bring 'er out, Rookie, an' don't you dare to let herknow I'm out there. She wouldn't know what it meant if I didn't cometo her. "

He watched them as they disappeared into the gloom of night, and whenthey had gone a groan of anguish broke from his lips. For he knew thatlittle Isobel was going from him forever. He would see her again--from the edge of the forest; but he would never hold her in his arms, nor feel again her tender arms about his neck or the soft smother ofher hair against his face. Long before the dread menace of the plaguewas lifted from the cabin and from himself he would be gone. For thatwas what Isobel, the mother, had demanded, and he would keep hispromise to her. She would never know what happened in these days ofher delirium. She would not have to face him afterward. He knewalready how he would go. When help came he would slip away quietlysome night, and the big wilderness would swallow him up. His plansseemed to come without thought on his own part. He would go to FortChurchill and testify against Bucky Smith. And then he would quit theService. His term of enlistment expired in a month, and he would notre-enlist. "It was the Law that killed him-- and you are the Law. Itkills-- kills-- kills-- and it never gives back when it makes amistake. " Under the dark sky those words seemed never to end in hisears, and each moment they added to his hatred of the thing of whichhe had been a part for years. He seemed to hear Isobel's accusingvoice in the low soughing of the night wind in the spruce tops; and inthe stillness of the world that hung heavy and close about him thewords chased each other through his brain until they seemed to leavebehind them a path of fire. 

"It kills-- kills-- kills-- and it never gives back when it makes amistake. "

His lips were set tensely as he faced the cabin. He remembered nowmore than one instance where the Law had killed and had never givenback. That was a part of the game of man-hunting. But he had neverthought of it in Isobel's way until she had painted for him in thosefew half-mad, accusing words a picture of himself. The fact that hehad fought for Scottie Deane and had given him his freedom did notexonerate himself in his own eyes now. It was because of himself andPelliter chiefly that Deane and Isobel had been forced to seek refugeamong the Eskimos. From Fullerton they had watched and hunted for himas they would have hunted for an animal. He saw himself as Isobel mustsee him now-- the murderer of her husband. He was glad, as he returnedto the cabin, that he had happened to come in the second or third dayof her fever. He dreaded her sanity now more than her delirium, He lighted a tin lamp in the cabin and listened for a moment at theinner door. Isobel was quiet. For the first time he made a morecareful note of the cabin. Couchée and his wife had left plenty offood. He had noticed a frozen haunch of venison hanging outside thecabin, and he went out and chopped off several pieces of the meat. Hedid not feel hungry enough to prepare food for himself, but put themeat in a pot and placed it on the stove, that he might have broth forIsobel. 

He began to find signs of her presence in the room as he moved about. Hanging on a wooden peg in the log wall he saw a scarf which he knewbelonged to her. Under the scarf there was a pair of her shoes, andthen he noticed that the crude cabin table was covered with a litterof stuff which he had not observed before. There were needles andthread, some cloth, a pair of gloves, and a red bow of ribbon whichIsobel had worn at her throat. What held his eyes were two bundles ofold letters tied with blue ribbon, and a third pile, undone andscattered. In the light of the lamp he saw that all of the writing onthe envelopes was in the same hand. The top envelope on the first pilewas addressed to "Mrs. Isobel Deane, Prince Albert, Saskatchewan"; thefirst envelope of the other bundle to "Miss Isobel Rowland, Montreal, Canada. " Billy's heart choked him as he gathered the loose letters inhis hands and placed them, with the others, on a little shelf abovethe table. He knew that they were letters from Deane, and that in herfever and loneliness Isobel had been reading them when he brought toher news of her husband's death. 

He was about to remove the other articles from the table where afolded newspaper clipping was uncovered by the removal of the cloth. It was a half page from a Montreal daily, and out of it there lookedstraight up at him the face of Isobel Deane. It was a younger, moregirlish-looking face, but to him it was not half so beautiful as theface of the Isobel who had come to him from out of the Barren. Hisfingers trembled and his breath came more quickly as he held the paperin the light and read the few lines under the picture:

 ISOBEL ROWLAND, ONE OF THE LAST OF MONTREAL'S DAUGHTERS OF THE NORTH, WHO HAS SACRIFICED A FORTUNE FOR LOVE OF A YOUNG ENGINEER

In spite of the feeling of shame that crept over him at thus allowinghimself to be drawn into a past sacred to Isobel and the man who haddied, Billy's eyes sought the date-line. The paper was eight yearsold. And then he read what followed. In those few minutes, as thecold, black type revealed to him the story of Isobel and Deane, heforgot that he was in the cabin, and that he could almost hear thebreathing of the woman whose sweet romance had ended now in tragedy. He was with Deane that day, years ago, when he had first looked intoIsobel's eyes in the little old cemetery of nameless and savage deadat Ste. Anne de Beaupré; he heard the tolling of the ancient bell inthe church that had stood on the hillside for more than two hundredand fifty years; and he could hear Deane's voice as he told Isobel thestory of that bell and how, in the days of old, it had often calledthe settlers in to fight against the Indians. And then, as he read on, he could feel the sudden thrill in Deane's blood when Isobel had toldhim who she was, and that Pierre Radisson, one of the great lords ofthe north, had been her great-grandfather; that he had broughtofferings to the little old church, and that he had fought there anddied close by, and that his body was somewhere among the nameless andunmarked dead. It was a beautiful story, and MacVeigh saw more of itbetween the lines than could ever have been printed. Once he had goneto Ste. Anne de Beaupré to see the pilgrims and the miracles there, and there flashed before him the sunlit slope overlooking the broadSt. Lawrence, where Isobel and Deane had afterward met, and where shehad told him how large a part the little old cracked bell, the ancientchurch, and the plot of nameless dead had played in her life eversince she could remember. His blood grew hot as he read of whatfollowed the beginning of love at the pilgrims' shrine. Isobel had nofather or mother, the paper said. Her uncle and guardian was an ironmaster of the old blood-- the blood that had been a part of thewilderness and the great company since the day the first "gentlemenadventurers" came over with Prince Rupert. He lived alone with Isobelin a big white house on the top of a hill, shut in by stone walls andiron pickets, and looked out upon the world with the cold hauteur of afeudal lord. He was young David Deane's enemy from the moment he firstheard about him, largely because he was nothing more than a strugglingmining engineer, but chiefly because he was an American and had comefrom across the border. The stone walls and iron pickets were made abarrier to him. The heavy gates never opened for him. Then had comethe break. Isobel, loyal in her love, had gone to Deane. The storyended there. 

For a few moments Billy stood with the paper in his hand, the type ablur before his eyes. He could almost see Isobel's old home inMontreal. It was on the steep, shaded road leading up to Mount Royal, where he had once watched a string of horses "tacking" with theirtwo-wheeled carts of coal in their arduous journey to Sir GeorgeAllen's basement at the end of it. He remembered how that street hadheld a curious sort of fascination for him, with its massive stonewalls, its old French homes, and that old atmosphere still clinging toit of the Montreal of a hundred years ago. Twelve years before he hadgone there first and carved his name on the wooden stairway leading tothe top of the mountain. Isobel had been there then. Perhaps it wasshe he had heard singing behind one of the walls. 

He put the paper with the letters, making a note of the uncle's name. If anything happened it would be his duty to send word to him--perhaps. And then, deliberately, he tore into little pieces the slipof paper on which he had written the name. Geoffrey Renaud had castoff his niece. And if she died why should he-- Billy MacVeigh-- tellhim anything about little Isobel? Since Isobel's terrible castigationof himself and the Law duty had begun to hold a diferent meaning forhim. 

Several times during the next hour Billy listened at the door. Then hemade some tea and toast and took the broth from the stove. He wentinto the room, leaving these on the hearth of the stove so that theywould not grow cold. He heard Isobel move, and as he went to her sideshe gave a little breathless cry. 

"David-- David-- is it you?" she moaned. "Oh, David, I'm so glad youhave come!"

Billy stood over her. In the darkness his face was ashen gray, forlike a flash of fire in the lightless room the truth rushed upon him. Shock and fever had done their work. And in her delirium Isobelbelieved that he was Deane, her husband. In the gloom he saw that shewas reaching up her arms to him. 

"David!" she whispered; and in her voice there were a love andgladness that thrilled and terrified him to the quick of his soul. 

 XVIII

 THE FULFILMENT OF A PROMISE

In the space of silence that followed Isobel's whispered words therecame to Billy a realization of the crisis which he faced. The thoughtof surrendering himself to his first impulse, and of taking Deane'splace in these hours of Isobel's fever, filled him instantly with arevulsion that sent him back a step from the bed, his hands clencheduntil his nails hurt his calloused palms. 

"No, no, I am not David, " he began, but the words died in his throat. 

To tell her that, to make her know the truth-- that her husband wasdead-- might kill her now. Hope, belief that he was alive and withher, would help to make her live. So quickly that he could not havespoken his thoughts in words these things flashed upon him. If Deanewere alive and at her side his presence would save her. And if shebelieved that he was Deane he would save her. In the end she wouldnever know. He remembered how Pelliter had forgotten things that hadhappened in his delirium. To Isobel, when she awakened into sanity, itwould only seem like a dream at most. A few words from him then wouldconvince her of that. If necessary, he would tell her that she hadtalked much about David in her fever and had imagined him with her. She would have no suspicion that he had played that part. 

Isobel had waited a moment, but now she whispered again, as if alittle frightened at his silence. 

"David-- David--"

He stepped back quickly to the bed and his hands met those reaching upto him. They were hot and dry, and Isobel's fingers tightened abouthis own almost fiercely, and drew his hands down on her breast. Shegave a sigh, as though she would rest easier now that his hands weretouching her. 

"I have been making some broth for you, " he said, scarcely daring tospeak. "Will you take some of it, Isobel? You must-- and sleep. "

He felt the pressure of Isobel's hands, and she spoke to him so calmlythat for a breath he thought that she must surely be herself again. 

"I don't like the dark, David, " she said. "I can't see you. And I wantto do up my hair. Will you bring in a light?"

"Not until you are better, " he whispered. "A light will hurt youreyes. I will stay with you-- near you--"

She raised a hand in the darkness, and it stroked his face. In thattouch were all the love and gentleness that had lived for the man whowas dead, and the caress thrilled Billy until it seemed as though whatwas in his heart must burst forth in a sobbing breath. Suddenly herhand left his face, and he heard her moving restlessly. 

"My hair-- David--"

He put out a hand, and it fell in the soft smother of her hair. It wastangled about her face and neck, and he lifted her gently while hedrew out the thick masses of it. He did not dare to speak while hesmoothed out the rich tresses and pleated them into a braid. Isobelsighed restfully when he had done. 

"I am going to get the broth now, " he said then. 

He went into the outer room where the lamp was lighted. Not until hetook up the cup of broth did he notice how his hand trembled. A bit ofthe broth spilled on the floor, and he dropped a piece of the toast. He, too, was passing through the crucible with Isobel Deane. 

He went back and lifted her so that her head rested against hisshoulder and the warmth of her hair lay against his cheek and neck. Obediently she ate the half-dozen bits of toast he moistened in thebroth, and then drank a few sips of the liquid. She would have restedthere after that, with her face turned against his, and Billy knewthat she would have slept. But he lowered her gently to the pillow. 

"You must go to sleep now, " he urged, softly. "Good night--"

"David!"

"Yes--"

"You-- you-- haven't-- kissed-- me--"

There was a childish plaint in her voice, and with a sob in his ownbreath he bent over her. For an instant her arms clung about his neck. He felt the sweet, thrilling touch of her warm lips, and then he drewhimself back; and, with her "Good night, David" following him to thedoor, he went into the outer room, and with a strange, broken cryflung himself on the cot in which Couchée had slept. 

It was an hour before he raised his face from the blankets. Yet he hadnot slept. In that hour, and in the half-hour that had preceded it inIsobel's room, there had come lines into his face which made him lookolder. Once Isobel had kissed him, and he had treasured that kiss asthe sweetest thing that had come to him in all his life. And to-nightshe had given him more than that, for there had been love, and notgratitude alone, in the warmth of her lips, in the caress of her handsand arms, and in the pressure of her feverish face against his own. But they brought him none of the pleasure of that which she had givento him on the Barren. Grief-stricken, he rose and faced the door. Inspite of the fact that he knew there was no alternative for him, heregarded himself as worse than a thief. He was taking an advantage ofher which filled him with a repugnance for himself, and he prayed forthe hour when sanity would return to her, though it brought back theheartbreak and despair that were now lost in the oblivion of herfever. Always in the northland there is somewhere the dread trail ofle mort rouge, the "red death, " and he was well acquainted with thecourse it would have to run. He believed that the fever had strickenIsobel the third or fourth day before, and there would follow three orfour days more in which she would not be herself. Then would come thereaction. She would awaken to the truth then that her husband wasdead, and that he had been with her alone all that time. 

He listened for a moment at the door. Isobel was resting quietly, andhe went out of the cabin without making a sound. The night had grownblacker and gloomier. There was not a rift in the sullen darkness ofthe sky over him. A wind had risen from out of the north and east, just enough of a wind to set the tree-tops moaning and fill theclosed-in world about him with uneasy sound. He walked toward the tentwhere little Isobel had been, and there was something in the air thatchoked him. He wished that he had not sent all of the dogs withMcTabb. A terrible loneliness oppressed him. It was like a clammy handsmothering his heart in its grip, and it made him sick. He turned andlooked at the light in the cabin. Isobel was there, and he had thoughtthat where she was he could never be lonely. But he knew now thatthere lay between them a gulf which an eternity could not bridge. 

He shuddered, for with the night wind it seemed to him that there cameagain the presence of Scottie Deane. He gripped his hands and staredout into a pit of blackness. It was as if he had heard the WildHorsemen passing that way, panting and galloping through the sprucetops on their mission of gathering the souls of the dead. Deane waswith him, as his spirit had been with him on that night he hadreturned to Pelliter after putting the cross over Scottie's grave. Andin a moment or two the feeling of that presence seemed to lift thesmothering weight from his heart. He knew that Deane could understand, and the presence comforted him. He went to the tent and looked in, though there was nothing to see. And then he turned back to the cabin. Thought of the grave with its sapling cross brought home to him hisduty to the woman. From the rubber pouch he brought forth his pad ofpaper and a pencil. 

For more than an hour after that he worked. Steadily in the dull glowof the lamp. He knew that Isobel would return to Deane. It might besoon-- or a long time from now. But she would go. And step by step hemapped out for her the trail that led to the little cabin on the edgeof the Barren. And after that he wrote in his big, rough hand what wasoverflowing from his heart. 

"May God take care of you always. I would give my life to give youback his. I won't let his grave be lost. I will go back some day andplant blue flowers over it. I guess you will never know what I woulddo to give him back to you and make you happy. "

He knew that he had not promised what he would fail to do. He wouldreturn to the lonely grave on the edge of the Barren. There wassomething that called him to it now, something that he could notunderstand, and which came of his own desolation. He folded the pagesof paper, wrapped them in a clean sheet, and wrote Isobel Deans's nameon the outside. Then he placed the packet with the letters on theshelf over the table. He knew that she would find it with them. 

What happened during the terrible week that followed that night no onebut MacVeigh would ever know. To him they were seven days of a fightwhose memory would remain with him until the end of time. Sleeplessnights and almost sleepless days. A bitter struggle, almost withoutrest, with the horrible specter that ever hovered within the innerroom. A struggle that drew his cheeks in and put deep lines in hisface; a struggle during which Isobel's voice spoke tenderly andpleadingly with him in one hour and bitterly in the next. He felt thecaress of her hands. More than once she drew him down to the softthrill of her feverish lips. And then, in more terrible moments, sheaccused him of hunting to death the man who lay back under the saplingcross. The three days of torment lengthened into four, and the fourinto seven, To the bottom of his soul he suffered, for he understoodwhat it all meant for him. On the third and the fifth and the seventhdays he went over to McTabb's cabin, and Rookie came out and talkedwith him at a distance through a birchbark megaphone. On the seventhday there was still no news of Indian Joe and his mother. And on thisday Billy played his last part as Deane. He went into her room at noonwith broth and toast and a dish of water, and after she had eaten alittle he lifted her and made a prop of blankets at her back so thathe could brush out and braid her beautiful hair. It was light in theroom in spite of the curtain which he kept closely drawn. Outside thesun was shining brightly, and the pale luster of it came through thecurtain and lit up the rich tresses he was brushing. When he was donehe lowered her gently to her pillow. She was looking at him strangely. And then, with a shock that seemed to turn him cold to the depths ofhis soul, he saw what was in her eyes. Sanity and reason. He sawswiftly gathering in them the old terror, the old grief-- recognitionof his true self! He waited to hear no word, but turned as he had donea hundred times before and left the room. 

In the outer room he stood for a few silent minutes, gatheringstrength for the ordeal that was near. The end was at hand-- for him. He choked back his weakness, and after a time returned to the innerdoor. But now he did not go in as he had entered before. He knocked. It was the first time. And Isobel's voice bade him enter. 

His heart was filled with a sudden throbbing pain when he saw that shehad turned so that she lay with her face turned away from him. He bentover her and said, softly:

"You are better. The danger is past. "

"I am better and-- and-- it is over ?" he heard her whisper. 

"Yes. "

"The-- the baby?"

"Is well-- yes. "

There was a moment's silence. The room seemed to tremble with it. Thenshe said, faintly:

"You have been alone?"

"Yes-- alone-- for seven days. "

She turned her eyes upon him fully. He could see the glow of them inthe faint light. It seemed to him that she was reading him to thedepths of his soul, and that in this moment she knew! She knew that hehad taken the part of David, and suddenly she turned her face awayfrom him again with a strange, choking sob. He could feel hertrembling. She seemed, struggling for breath and strength, and heheard again the words "You-- you-- you--"

"Yes, yes-- I know-- I understand, " he said, and his heart choked him. "You must be quiet-- now. I promised you that if you got well I wouldgo. And-- I will. No one will ever know. I will go. "

"And you will never come to me again?" Her voice was terribly quietand cold. 

"Never, " he said. "I swear that. "

She had drawn away from him now until he could see nothing of her butthe shimmer of her thick braid where it lay in a ray of light. But hecould hear her sobbing breath. She scarcely knew when he left theroom, he went so quietly. He closed her door after him, and this timehe latched it. The outer door was open, and suddenly he heard that forwhich he had been waiting and listening-- the short, sharp yelping ofdogs, and a human voice. 

In three leaps he was out in the open. Halfway across the narrowclearing Indian Joe had halted with his team. One glance at the sledgeshowed Billy that Joe's mother had not failed him. A thin, weazenedlittle old woman scrambled from a pile of bearskins as he ran towardthem. She had sunken eyes that watched his approach with a ratlikeglitter, and her naked hands were so emaciated that they looked likeclaws; but in spite of her unprepossessing appearance Billy almosthugged her in his delight at their coming. Maballa was her name, Rookie had told him, and she understood and could talk English betterthan her son. Billy told her of the condition in the cabin, and whenhe had finished she took a small pack from the sledge, cackled a fewwords to Indian Joe, and followed him without a moment's hesitation. That she had no fear of the plague added to Billy's feeling of relief. As soon as she had taken off her hood and heavy blanket she wentfearlessly into the inner room, and a moment later Billy heard hertalking to Isobel. 

It took him but a few moments to gather up the few things he possessedand put them in his pack. Then he went out and took down his tent. Indian Joe had already gone, and he followed in his trail. An hourlater McTabb appeared at the door of his cabin, summoned by Billy'sshout. He circled about and came up with the wind, until he stoodwithin fifty paces of MacVeigh. Billy told him what he was going todo. He was going to Churchill, and would leave Isobel and the baby inhis care. From Fort Churchill he would send back an escort to take thewoman and little Isobel down to civilization. He wanted freshclothes-- anything he could wear. Those he had on he would becompelled to burn. He suggested that he could get into one of IndianJoe's outfits, if he had any spare garments, and McTabb went back tothe cabin, returning a few minutes later with an armful of clothes. 

"Here's everything you'll need, except an undershirt an' drawers, "said McTabb, placing them in a pile on the snow. "I'll wait a littlewhile you're changing. Better burn those quick. The wind might change, and I don't want to be caught in a whiff of it. "

He moved to a safe distance while Billy secured the clothes and wentinto the timber. From a birch tree he pulled off a pile of bark, andas he stripped he put his old clothes on it. McTabb could hear thecrackling and snapping of the fire when Billy reappeared arrayed inIndian Joe's "second best"-- buckskin trousers, a worn and tatteredfur coat, a fisher-skin cap, and moccasins a size too small for him. For fifteen minutes the two men talked, McTabb still drawing thedead-line at fifty paces. Then he went back and brought up Billy'sdogs and sledge. 

"I'd like to shake hands with you, Billy, " he apologized, "but I guessit's best not to. I don't suppose-- we'd dare-- bring out the kid?"

"No, " said Billy. "Good-by, Mac. I'll see you-- sometime-- later. Justgo back-- an' bring her to the door, will you? I don't want her toknow I'm here, an' I'll take a look at her from the bush. She wouldn'tunderstand, you know, if she knew I was here an' wouldn't come up an'see her. "

He concealed himself among the spruce as McTabb went into the cabin. Amoment later he reappeared. Isobel was in his arms, and Billy gulpedback a sob. For an instant she turned her face his way, and he couldsee that she was pointing in his direction as Rookie talked to her, and then for another instant the sun lit up the child's hair with agolden fire, as he had first seen it on that wonderful day atFullerton. He wanted to cry out one word to her-- at least one-- butwhat came was only the sob he had fought to keep back. He turned hisface into the forest. And this time he knew that the parting wasfinal. 

 XIX

 A PILGRIMAGE TO THE BARREN

The fourth night after he had left the plague-stricken cabin Billy wascamped on Lame Otter Creek, one hundred and eighty miles from FortChurchill, over on Hudson's Bay. He had eaten his supper, and wassmoking his pipe. It was a clear and glorious night, with the skyafire with stars and a full moon. Several times Billy had stared atthe moon. It was what the Indians called "the bleeding moon"-- red asblood, with an uneven, dripping edge. It was the Indian superstitionthat it meant misfortune to those who did not keep it at their backs. For seven consecutive nights it had made a red trail through the skiesin that terrible year of plague nineteen years before, when a quarterof the forest population of the north had died. Since then it had beenknown as the "plague moon. " Billy had seen it only twice before. Hewas not superstitious, but to-night he was filled with a strangesensation of uneasiness. He laughed an unpleasant laugh as he staredinto the crackling birch flames and wondered what new misfortune couldcome to him. 

And then, slowly, something seemed to come to him from out of thewonderful night like a quieting hand to still the pain in his brokenheart. At last, once more, he was home. For the wind-swept Barrens andthe forest had been his home, and more than once he had told himselfthat life away from them would be impossible for him. More deeply thanever this thought came to him to-night. He had become a part of themand they a part of him. And as he looked up again at the red moon thesight of it no longer brought him uneasiness, but a strange sort ofjoy. For an hour he sat there, and the fire died down. About him therustle and whisper of the wild closed in nearer. It was his world, andhe breathed more deeply and listened. Lonely and sick at heart, hefelt the life and sympathy and love of it creeping into him, grievingwith him in his grief, warming him with its hope, pledging him againthe eternal friendship of its trees, its mountains, and all of thewild that it held therein. A hundred times, in that strange man-playthat comes of loneliness in the far north, he had given life and formto the star shadows about him, to the shadows of the tall spruce, thetwisted shrub, the rocks, and even the mountains. And now it was nolonger play. With each hour that passed this night, and with each dayand night that followed, they became more real to MacVeigh; and thefires he built in the black gloom painted him pictures as they hadnever painted them before; and the trees and the rocks and the twistedshrub comforted him more and more in his loneliness, and gave to himthe presence of life in their movement, in the coming and going oftheir shadow forms. Everywhere they were the same old friends, unvarying and changeless. The spruce shadow of to-night, nodding tohim in its silent way, was the same that nodded to him last night-- ahundred nights ago; the stars were the same, the winds whispering tohim in the tree-tops were the same, everything was as it wasyesterday-- years ago. He knew that in these things, and in thesethings alone, he would always possess Isobel. She would return tocivilization, and the shifting scenes of life down there would soonmake her forget him-- almost. But in his world there was no change. Ten years from now he might go over their old trail and still find thecharred remains of the campfire he had built for her that night besidethe Barren. The wilderness would bear memory of her so long as he wasa part of it; and now, as he came nearer to Churchill, he knew that hewould always be a part of it. 

Three weeks after he had left Couchée's cabin he came into FortChurchill. A month had changed him so that the factor did notrecognize him at first. The inspector in charge stared at him twice, and then cried, "My God, is it you, MacVeigh?" To Pelliter alone, whowas waiting for him, did Billy tell all that had happened down on theLittle Beaver. There were several letters waiting for him atChurchill, and one of these told him that a silver property in whichhe was interested over at Cobalt had turned out well and that hisshare in the sale was something over ten thousand dollars. He usedthis unexpected piece of good-fortune as an excuse to the inspectorwhen he refused to re-enlist. A week after his arrival at ChurchillBucky Smith was dishonorably discharged from the Service. There wereseveral near them when Bucky came up to him with a smile on his faceand offered to shake hands. 

"I don't bear you any ill-will, Billy, " he said, loud enough for theothers to hear. "Only you've made a big mistake. " And then, in wordsfor Billy's ears alone, he added: "Remember what I promised you! I'llkill you for this if I have to hunt you round the world!"

A few days later Pelliter left on the last of the slush snows in aneffort to reach Nelson House before the sledging was gone. 

"I wish you'd go with me, Billy, " he entreated for the hundredth time. "My girl 'd love to have you come, an' you know how I'd like it. "

But Billy could not be moved. 

"I'll come and see you some day-- when you've got the kid, " hepromised, trying to laugh, as he shook hands for the last time withhis old comrade. 

For three days after Pelliter's departure he remained at the post. Onthe morning of the fourth, with his pack on his back and without dogs, he struck off into the north and west. 

"I think I'll spend next winter at Fond du Lac, " he told theinspector. "If there's any mail for me you can send it there if youhave a chance, and if I'm not at Fond du Lac it can be returned toChurchill. "

He said Fond du Lac because Deane's grave lay between Churchill andthe old Hudson's Bay Company's post over in the country of theAthabasca. The Barrens were the one thing that called to him now-- theone thing to which he dared respond. He would keep his promise toIsobel and visit Scottie's grave. At least he tried to make himselfbelieve that he was keeping a promise. But deep in him there was anundercurrent of feeling which he could not explain. It was as if therewere a spirit with him at times, walking at his side, and hoveringabout his campfire at nights, and when he gave himself up to the rightmood he felt that it was the presence of Deane. He believed in strongfriendship, but he had never believed in the love of man for man. Hehad not thought that such a thing could exist, except, perhaps, between father and son. With him, in all the castles he had built andthe dreams he had dreamed, the alpha and omega of love had remainedwith woman. For the first time he knew what it meant to love a man--the memory of a man. 

Something held him from telling the secret of his mission at Churchilleven to Pelliter. The evening before he left he had smuggled an axinto the edge of the forest, and the second day he found use for this. He came to a straight-grained, thick birch, eighteen inches indiameter, and he put up his tent fifty paces from it. Before he rolledhimself in his blankets that night he had cut down the tree. The nextday he chopped off the butt, and before another nightfall had hewn outa slab two inches thick, a foot wide, and three feet long. When hetook up the trail into the north and west again the following morninghe left the ax behind. 

The fourth night he worked with his hunting-knife and his belt-ax, thinning down the slab and making it smooth. The fifth and the sixthnights he passed in the same way, and he ended the sixth night byheating the end of a small iron rod in the fire and burning the firstthree letters of Deane's epitaph on the slab. For a time he waspuzzled, wondering whether he should use the name Scottie or David. Hedecided on David. 

He did not travel fast, for to him spring was the most beautiful ofall seasons in the wilderness. It was underfoot and overhead now. Thesnow-floods were singing between the ridges and gathering in thehollows. The poplar buds were swollen almost to the bursting point, and the bakneesh vines were as red as blood with the glow of new life. Seventeen days after he left Churchill he came to the edge of the bigBarren. For two days he swung westward, and early in the forenoon ofthe third looked out over the gray waste, dotted with moving caribou, over which he and Pelliter had raced ahead of the Eskimos with littleIsobel. He went to the cabin first and entered. It was evident that noone had been there since he had left, On the bunk where Deane had diedhe found one of baby Isobel's little mittens. He had wondered whereshe had lost it, and had made her a new one of lynx-skin on the waydown to Couchée's cabin. The tiny bed that he had made for her on thefloor was as she had last slept in it, and in the part of a blanketthat he had used as a pillow was still the imprint of her head. On thewall hung a pair of old trousers that Deane had worn. Billy looked atthese things, standing silently, with his pack at his feet. There wassomething in the cabin that closed in about him and choked him, and hestruggled to overcome it by whistling. His lips seemed thick. At lasthe turned and went to the grave. 

The foxes had been there, and had dug a little about the saplingcross. There was no other change. During the remainder of the forenoonBilly cut down a heavier sapling and sunk the butt of it three feetinto the half-frozen earth at the head of Deane's grave. Then, withspikes he had brought with him, he nailed on the slab. He believedthat no one would ever know what the words on that slab meant-- no oneexcept himself and the spirit of Scottie Deane. With the end of theheated rod he had burned into the wood:

 DAVID DEANE

 Died Feb. 27, 1908

 BELOVED OF ISOBEL AND THE ONE

 WHO WISHES HE COULD TAKE

 YOUR PLACE AND GIVE

 YOU BACK TO

 HER

 W. M. April 15, 1908

He did not stop when it was time for dinner, but carried rocks from aridge a couple of hundred yards away, and built a cairn four feet higharound the sapling, so that storm or wild animals could not knock itdown. Then he began a search in the warmest and sunniest parts of theforest, where the green tips of plant life were beginning to revealthemselves. He found snowflowers, redglow, and bakneesh, and dug uproot after root, and at last, peeping out from between two rocks, hefound the arrowlike tip of a blue flower. The bakneesh roots heplanted about the cairn, and the blue flower he planted by itself atthe head of the grave. 

It was long past midday when he returned to the cabin, and once morehe was oppressed by the appalling loneliness of it. It was not as hehad thought it would be. Deane's spirit and companionship had seemedto be nearer to him beside his campfires and in the forest. He cookeda meal over the stove, but the snapping of the fire seemed strange andunnatural in the deserted room. Even the air he breathed was heavywith the oppression of death and broken hopes. He found it difficultto swallow the food he had cooked, though he had eaten nothing sincemorning. When he was done he looked at his watch. It was four o'clock. The northern sun had dropped behind the distant forests and wasfollowed now by the thickening gloom of early evening. For a fewmoments Billy stood motionless outside the cabin. Behind him an owlhooted its lonely mating-song. Over his head a brush sparrowtwittered. It was that hour, just between the end of day and thebeginning of night, when the wilderness holds its breath and all isstill. Billy clenched his hands and listened. He could not keep backthe break that was in his breath. Something out there in the silenceand the gathering darkness was calling him-- calling him away from thecabin, away from the grave, and the gray, dead waste of the Barren. Heturned back into the cabin and put his things into the pack. He tookthe little mitten to keep with his other treasures, and then he wentout and closed the door behind him. He passed close to the grave andfor the last time gazed upon the spot where Deane lay buried. 

"Good-by, old man, " he whispered. Goodby--"

The owl hooted louder as he turned his face into the west. It made himshiver, and he hurried his steps into the unbroken wilderness that layfor hundreds of miles between him and the post at Fond du Lac. 

 XX

 THE LETTER

Days and weeks and months of a loneliness which Billy had never knownbefore followed after his pilgrimage to Deane's grave. It was morethan loneliness. He had known loneliness, the heartbreak and thelonging of it, in the black and silent chaos of the arctic night; hehad almost gone mad of it, and he had seen Pelliter nearly die for aglimpse of the sun and the sound of a voice. But this was different. It was something that ate deeper at his soul each day and each nightthat he lived. He had believed that thought of Isobel and his memoriesof her would make him happier, even though he never saw her again. Butin this he was mistaken. The wilderness does not lend toforgetfulness, and each day her voice seemed nearer and more real tohim, and she became more and more insistently a part of his thoughts. Never an hour of the day passed that he did not ask himself where shewas. He hoped that she and the baby Isobel had returned to the oldhome in Montreal, where they would surely find friends and be caredfor. And yet the dread was upon him that she had remained in thewilderness, that her love for Deane would keep her there, and that shewould find a woman's work at some post between the Height of Land andthe Barrens. At times there possessed him an overwhelming desire toreturn to McTabb's cabin and find where they had gone. But he foughtagainst this desire as a man fights against death. He knew that oncehe surrendered himself to the temptation to be near her again he wouldlose much that he had won in his struggle during the days of plague inCouchée's cabin. 

So his feet carried him steadily westward, while the invisible handstugged at him from behind. He did not go straight to Fond du Lac, butspent nearly three weeks with a trapper whom he ran across on thePipestone River. It was June when he struck Fond du Lac, and heremained there a month. He had more than half expected to pass thewinter there, but the factor at the post proved a disagreeableacquaintance, and he did not like the country. So early in July he setout deeper into the Athabasca country to the west, followed thenorthern shore of the big lake, and two months later came to FortChippewyan, near the mouth of the Slave River. 

He struck Chippewyan at a fortunate time. A government geological andmap-making party was just preparing to leave for the terra incognitabetween the Great Slave and the Great Bear, and the three men who hadcome up from Ottawa urged Billy to join them. He jumped at theopportunity, and remained with them until the party returned to theMackenzie River by the way of Fort Providence five months later. Heremained at Fort Providence until late spring, and then came down toFort Wrigley, where he had several friends in the service. Fifteenmonths of wandering had had their effect upon him. He could no longerresist the call of the wanderlust. It urged him from place to place, and stronger and stronger grew in him the desire to return to his oldcountry along the shores of the big Bay far to the west. He had partlyplanned to join the railroad builders on the new trans-continental inthe mountains of British Columbia, but in August, instead of findinghimself at Edmonton or Tête Jaune Cache, he was at Prince Albert, three hundred and fifty miles to the east. From this point he strucknorthward with a party of company men into the Lac La Ronge country, and in October swung eastward alone through the Sissipuk and Burntwoodwaterways to Nelson House. He continued northward after a week's rest, and on the eighteenth of December the first of the two great stormswhich made the winter of 1909-10 one of the most tragic in the historyof the far northern people overtook him thirty miles from YorkFactory. It took him five days to reach the post, where he was held upfor several weeks. These were the first of those terrible weeks offamine and intense cold during which more than fifteen hundred peopledied in the north country. From the Barren Lands to the edge of thesouthern watershed the earth lay under from four to six feet of snow, and from the middle of December until late in January the temperaturedid not rise above forty degrees below zero, and remained for the mostof the time between fifty and sixty. From all points in the wildernessreports of starvation and death came to the company's posts. Traplines could not be followed because of the intense cold. Moose, caribou, and even the furred animals had buried themselves under thesnow. Indians and half-breeds dragged themselves into the posts. Twiceat York Factory Billy saw mothers who brought dead babies in theirarms. One day a white trapper came in with his dogs and sledge, and onthe sledge, wrapped in a bearskin, was his wife, who had died fiftymiles back in the forest. 

During these terrible weeks Billy found it impossible to keep Isobeland the baby Isobel out of his mind night or day. The fear grew in himthat somewhere in the wilderness they were suffering as others weresuffering. So obsessed did he become with the thought that he had aterrible dream one night, and in that dream baby Isobel's faceappeared to him, a deathlike mask, white and cold and thinned bystarvation. The vision decided him. He would go to Fort Churchill, andif McTabb had not been driven in he would go to his cabin, over on theLittle Beaver, and learn what had become of Isobel and the littlegirl. A few days later, on the twenty-seventh day of January, therecame a sudden rise in the temperature, and Billy prepared at once totake advantage of the change. A half-breed, on his way to Churchill, accompanied him, and they set out together the following morning. Onthe twentieth of February they arrived at Fort Churchill. 

Billy went immediately to detachment headquarters. There had beenseveral changes in two years, and there was only one of the old forceto shake hands with him. His first inquiry was about McTabb and IsobelDeane. Neither was at Churchill, nor had been there since the arrivalof the new officer in charge. But there was mail for Billy-- threeletters. There had been half a dozen others, but they were nowfollowing up his old trails somewhere out in the wilderness. Thesethree had been returned recently from Fond du Lac. One was fromPelliter, the fourth he had written, he said, without an answer. The"kid" had come-- a girl-- and he wondered if Billy was dead. Thesecond letter was from his Cobalt partner. 

The third he turned over several times before he opened it. It did notlook much like a letter. It was torn and ragged at the edges, and wasso soiled and water-stained that the address on it was only partlylegible. It had been to Fond du Lac, and from there it had followedhim to Fort Chippewyan. He opened it and found that the writing insidewas scarcely more legible than the inscription on the envelope. Thelast words were quite plain, and he gave a low cry when he found thatit was from Rookie McTabb. 

He went close to a window and tried to make out what McTabb hadwritten. Here and there, where water had not obliterated the writing, he could make out a line or a few words. Nearly all was gone but thelast paragraph, and when Billy came to this and read the first wordsof it his heart seemed all at once to die within him, and he could notsee. Word by word he made out the rest after that, and when he wasdone he turned his stony face to the white whirl of the storm outsidethe window, his lips as dry as though he had passed through a fever. 

A part of that last paragraph was unintelligible, but enough was leftto tell him what had happened in the cabin down on the Little Beaver. 

McTabb had written:

 "We thought she was getting well... Took sick again.... Did everything... Could. But it didn't do any good, ... Died just five weeks to a day after you left. We buried her just behind the cabin. God... That kid... You don't know how I got to love her, Billy.... Give her up... "

McTabb had written a dozen lines after that, but all of them were awater-stained and unintelligible blur. 

Billy crushed the letter in his hand. The new inspector wondered whatterrible news he had received as he walked out into the blinding chaosof the storm. 

 XXI

 THE FIGHTING SPARK

For ten minutes Billy buried himself blindly in the storm. He scarcelyknew which direction he took, but at last he found himself in theshelter of the forest, and he was whispering Isobel's name over andover again to himself. 

"Dead-- dead--" he moaned. "She is dead-- dead--"

And then there rushed upon him, crushing back his deeper grief, athought of the baby Isobel. She was still with McTabb down on theLittle Beaver. In the blur of the storm he read again what he couldmake out of Rookie's letter. Something in that last paragraph struckhim with a deadly fear. "God... That kid... You, don't know how I gotto love her, Billy, ... Give her up... "

What did it mean? What had McTabb told him in that part of the letterthat was gone?

The reaction came as he put the letter back into his pocket. He walkedswiftly back to the inspector's office. 

"I'm going down to the Little Beaver. I'm going to start to-day, " hesaid. "Who is there in Churchill that I can get to go with me?"

Two hours later Billy was ready to start, with an Indian as acompanion. Dogs could not be had for love or money, and they set outon snowshoes with two weeks' supply of provisions, striking south andwest. The remainder of that day and the next they traveled with butlittle rest. Each hour that passed added to Billy's mad impatience toreach McTabb's cabin. 

With the morning of the third day began the second of those twoterrible storms which swept over the northland in that winter offamine and death. In spite of the Indian's advice to build a permanentcamp until the temperature rose again Billy insisted on pushing ahead. The fifth night, in the wild Barren country west of the Etawney, hisIndian failed to keep up the fire, and when Billy investigated hefound him half dead with a strange sickness. He made the Indian'sbalsam shelter snow and wind proof, cut wood, and waited. Thetemperature continued to fall, and the cold became intense. Each daythe provisions grew less, and at last the time came when Billy knewthat he was standing face to face with the Great Peril. He wentfarther and farther from camp in his search for game. Even the brushsparrows and snow-hawks were gone. Once the thought came to him thatbe might take what food was left and accept the little chance thatremained of saving himself. But the idea never got farther than afirst thought. On the twelfth day the Indian died. It was a terribleday. There was food for another twenty-four hours. 

Billy packed it, together with his blankets and a few pieces oftinware. He wondered if the Indian had died of a contagious disease. Anyway, he made up his mind to put out the warning for others if theycame that way, and over the dead Indian's balsam shelter he planted asapling, and at the end of the sapling he fastened a strip of redcotton cloth-- the plague signal of the north. 

Than he struck out through the deep snows and the twisting storm, knowing that there was no more than one chance in a thousand ahead ofhim, and that the one chance was to keep the wind at his back. 

At the end of his first day's struggle Billy built himself a camp in abit of scrub timber which was not much more than bush. He had observedthat the timber and that every tree and bush he had passed since noonwas stripped and dead on the side that faced the north. He cooked andate his last food the following day, and went on. The small timberturned to scrub, and the scrub, in time, to vast snow wastes overwhich the storm swept mercilessly. All this day he looked for game, for a flutter of bird life; he chewed bark, and in the afternoon got amouthful of foxbite, which made his throat swell until he couldscarcely breathe. At night he made tea, but had nothing to eat. Hishunger was acute and painful. It was torture the next day-- thethird-- for the process of starvation is a rapid one in this countrywhere only the fittest survive on from four to five meals a day. Hecamped, built a small bush-fire at night, and slept. He almost failedto rouse himself on the morning that followed, and when he staggeredto his feet and felt the cutting sting of the storm still in his faceand heard the swishing wail of it over the Barren he knew that at lastthe hour had come when he was standing face to face with the Almighty. 

For some strange reason he was not frightened at the situation. Hefound that even over the level spaces he could scarce drag hissnow-shoes, but this had ceased to alarm him as he had been alarmed atfirst. He went on, hour after hour, weaker and weaker. Within himselfthere was still life which reasoned that if death were to come itcould not come in a better way. It at least promised to be painless--even pleasant. The sharp, stinging pains of hunger, like littleelectrical knives piercing him, were gone; he no longer experienced asensation of intense cold; he almost felt that he could lie down inthe drifted snow and sleep peacefully. He knew what it would be-- asleep without end, with the arctic foxes to pick his bones afterward--and so he resisted the temptation and forced himself onward. The stormstill swept straight west from Hudson's Bay, bringing with it endlessvolleys of snow, round and hard as fine shot, snow that had at firstseemed to pierce his flesh and which swished past his feet as iftrying to trip him and tossed itself in windrows and mountains in hispath. If he could only find timber, shelter! That was what he workedfor now. When he had last looked at his watch it was nine o'clock inthe morning; now it was late in the afternoon. It might as well havebeen night. The storm had long since half blinded him. He could notsee a dozen paces ahead. But the little life in him still reasonedbravely. It was a heroic spark of life, a fighting spark, and hard toput out. It told him that when he came to shelter he would at leastfeel it, and that he must fight until the last. The pack on his backheld no significance and no weight for him. He might have traveled amile or ten miles an hour and he would not have sensed the difference. Most men would have buried themselves in the snow and died in comfort, dreaming the pleasant dreams that come as a sort of recompense to theunfortunate who dies of starvation and cold. But the fighting sparkcommanded Billy to die upon his feet if he died at all. It was thisspark which brought him at last to a bit of timber thick enough togive him shelter from wind and snow. It burned a little more warmlythen. It flared up and gave him new vision. And then, for the firsttime, he realized that it must be night. For a light was burning aheadof him, and all else was gloom. His first thought was that it was acampfire miles and miles away. Then it drew nearer, until he knew thatit was a light in a cabin window. He dragged himself toward it, andwhen he came to the door he tried to shout. But no sound fell from hisswollen lips. It seemed an hour before he could twist his feet out ofhis snow-shoes. Then he groped for a latch, pressed against the door, and plunged in. 

What he saw was like a picture suddenly revealed for an instant by aflashlight. In the cabin there were four men. Two sat at a tabledirectly in front of him. One held a dice box poised in the air, andhad turned a rough, bearded face toward him. The other was a youngerman, and in this moment it struck Billy as strange that he should beclutching a can of beans between his hands. A third man stared fromwhere he had been looking down upon the dice-play of the other two. AsBilly came in he was in the act of lowering a half-filled bottle fromhis lips. The fourth man sat on the edge of a bunk, with a face sowhite and thin that he might have been taken for a corpse if it hadnot been for the dark glare in his sunken eyes. Billy smelled the odorof whisky; he smelled food. He saw no sign of welcome in the facesturned toward him, but he advanced upon them, mumbling incoherently. And then the spark, the fighting spark in him, gave out, and hecrumpled down on the floor. He heard a voice which came to him from agreat distance, and which said, "Who the hell is this?" and then, after what seemed to be a long time, he heard that same voice say, "Pitch him back into the snow. "

After that he lost consciousness. But in that last moment betweenlight and darkness he experienced a strange thrill that made him wantto spring to his feet, for it seemed to him that he had recognized thevoice that had said "Pitch him back into the snow. "

 XXII

 INTO THE SOUTH

A long time before he awoke Billy knew that he was not in the snow, and that hot stuff was running down his throat. When he opened hiseyes there was no longer a light burning in the cabin. It was day. Hefelt strangely comfortable, but there was thing in the cabin thatstirred him from his rest. It was the odor of frying bacon. All of hishunger had come back. The joy of life, of anticipation, shone in histhin face as he pulled himself up. Another face-- the bearded face--red-eyed, almost animal-like in its fierce questioning, bent over him. 

"Where's your grub, pardner?"

The question was like a stab. Billy did not hear his own voice as heexplained. 

"Got none!" The bearded man's voice was like a bellow as he turnedupon the others, "He's got no grub!"

In that moment Billy choked back the cry on his lips. He knew thevoice now-- and the man. It was Bucky Smith! He half rose to his feetand then dropped back. Bucky had not recognized him. His own beard, shaggy hair, and pinched face had saved him from recognition. Fate hadplayed his way. 

"We'll divvy up, Bucky, " came a weak voice. It was from the thin, white-faced man who had sat corpselike on the edge of his bunk thenight before. 

"Divvy hell!" growled the other. "It's up to you-- you 'n' Sweedy. You're to blame!"

You're to blame!

The words struck upon Billy's ears with a chill of horror. Starvationwas in the cabin. He had fallen among animals instead of men. He sawthe thin-faced man who had spoken for him sitting again on the edge ofhis bunk. Mutely he looked to the others to see who was Sweedy. He wasthe young man who had clutched the can of beans. It was he who wasfrying bacon over the sheet-iron stove. 

"We'll divvy, Henry and I, " he said. "I told you that last night. " Helooked over at Billy. "Glad you're better, " he greeted. "You see, you've struck us at a bad time. We're on our last legs for grub. Ourtwo Indians went out to hunt a week ago and never came back. They'redead, or gone, and we're as good as dead if the storm doesn't let uppretty soon. You can have some of our grub-- Henry's and mine. "

It was a cold invitation, lacking warmth or sympathy, and Billy feltthat even this man wished that he had died before he reached thecabin. But the man was human; he had at least not cast his voice withthe one that had wanted to throw him back into the snow, and he triedto voice his gratitude and at the same time to hide his hunger. He sawthat there were three thin slices of bacon in the frying-pan, and itstruck him that it would be bad taste to reveal a starvation appetitein the face of such famine. Bucky was looking straight at him as helimped to his feet, and he was sure now that the man he had drivenfrom the Service had not recognized him. He approached Sweedy. 

"You saved my life, " he said, holding out a hand. "Will you shake ?"

Sweedy shook hands limply. 

"It's hell, " he said, in a low voice. "We'd have had beans thismorning if I hadn't shook dice with him last night. " He nodded towardBucky, who was cutting open the top of a can. "He won!"

"My God--" began Billy. 

He didn't finish. Sweedy turned the meat, and added:

"He won a square meal off me yesterday-- a quarter of a pound ofbacon. Day before that he won Henry's last can of beans. He's got hisshare under his blanket over there, and swears he'll shoot any one whogoes to monkeyin' with his bed-- so you'd better fight shy of it. Thompson-- he isn't up yet-- chose the whisky for his share, so you'dbetter fight shy of him, too. Henry and I'll divvy up with you. "

"Thanks, " said Billy, the one word choking him. 

Henry came from his bunk, bent and wabbling. He looked like a dyingman, and for the first time Billy noticed that his hair was gray. Hewas a little man, and his thin hands shook as he held them out overthe stove and nodded to Billy. Bucky had opened his can, andapproached the stove with a pan of water, coming in beside Billywithout noticing him. He brought with him a foul odor of stale tobaccosmoke and whisky. After he had put his water over the fire he turnedto one of the bunks and with half a dozen coarse epithets rousedThompson, who sat up stupidly, still half drunk. Henry had gone to asmall table, and Sweedy followed him with the bacon. Billy did notmove. He forgot his hunger. His pulse was beating quickly. Sensationsfilled him which he had never known or imagined before. Was itpossible that these were people of his own kind? Had a madness of somesort driven all human instincts from them? He saw Thompson's red eyesfastened upon him, and he turned his face to escape their questioning, stupid leer. Bucky was turning out the can of beans he had won. Beyondhim the door creaked, and Billy heard the wail of the storm. It cameto him now as a friendly sort of sound. 

"Better draw up, pardner, " he heard Sweedy say. "Here's your share. "

One of the thin slices of bacon and a hard biscuit were waiting forhim on a tin plate. He ate as ravenously as Henry and Sweedy, anddrank a cup of hot tea. In two minutes the meal was over. It wasterribly inadequate. The few mouthfuls of food stirred up all hiscraving, and he found it impossible to keep his eyes from Bucky Smithand his beans. Bucky was the only one who seemed well fed, and hishorror increased when Henry bent over him and said, in a low whisper:"He didn't get my beans fair. I had three aces and a pair, of deuces, an' he took it on three fives and two sixes. When I objected he calledme a liar an' hit me. Them's my beans, or Sweedy's!" There wassomething almost like murder in the little man's red eyes. 

Billy remained silent. He did not care to talk or question. No oneasked him who he was or whence he came, and he felt no inclination toknow more of the men he had fallen among. Bucky finished, wiped hismouth with his hand, and looked across at Billy. 

"How about going out with me to get some wood?" he demanded. 

"I'm ready, " replied Billy. 

For the first time he took notice of himself. He was lame andsickeningly weak, but apparently sound in other ways. The intense coldhad not frozen his ears or feet. He put on his heavy moccasins, histhick coat and fur cap, and followed Bucky to the door. He was filledwith a strange uneasiness. He was sure that his old enemy had notrecognized him, and yet he felt that recognition might come at anymoment. If Bucky recognized him-- when they were out alone--

He was not afraid, but he shivered. He was too weak to put up a fight. He did not catch the ugly leer which Bucky turned upon Thompson. ButHenry did, and his little eyes grew smaller and blacker. On snow-shoesthe two men went out into the storm, Bucky carrying an ax. He led theway through the bit of thin timber, and across a wide open over whichthe storm swept so fiercely that their trail was covered behind themas they traveled. Billy figured that they had gone a quarter of a milewhen they came to the edge of a ravine so steep that it was almost aprecipice. For the first time Bucky touched him. He seized him by thearm, and in his voice there was an inhuman, taunting triumph. 

"Didn't think I knew you, did you, Billy?" he asked. "Well, I did, andI've just been waiting to get you out alone. Remember my promise, Billy ? I've changed my mind since then. I ain't going to kill you. It's too risky. It's safer to let you die-- by yourself-- as you'regoin' to die to-day or to-night. If you come back to the cabin-- I'llshoot you!"

With a movement so quick that Billy had no chance to prepare himselffor it Bucky sent him plunging headlong down the side of the ravine. The deep snow saved him in the long fall. For a few moments Billy laystunned. Then he staggered to his feet and looked up. Bucky was gone. His first thought was to return to the cabin. He could easily find itand confront Bucky there before the others. And yet he did not move. His inclination to go back grew less and less, and after a briefhesitation he made up his mind to continue the struggle for life byhimself. After all, his situation would not be much more desperatethan that of the men he was leaving behind in the cabin. He buttonedhimself up closely, saw that his snow-shoes were securely fastened, and climbed the opposite side of the ridge. 

The timber thinned out again, and Billy struck out boldly into the lowbush. As he went he wondered what would happen in the cabin. Hebelieved that Henry, of the four, would not pull through alive, andthat Bucky would come out best. It was not until the following summerthat he learned the facts of Henry's madness, and of the terriblemanner in which he avenged himself on Bucky Smith by sticking a knifeunder the latter's ribs. 

Billy now found himself in a position to measure the amount of energycontained in a slice of bacon and a cold biscuit. It was not much. Long before noon his old weakness was upon him again. He found evengreater difficulty in dragging his feet over the snow, and it seemednow as though all ambition had left him, and that even the fightingspark was becoming disheartened. He made up his mind to go on untilthe beginning of night, then he would stop, build a fire, and go tosleep in its warmth. 

During the afternoon he passed out of the scrub into a roughercountry. His progress was slower, but more comfortable, for at timeshe found himself protected from the wind. A gloom darker and moresomber than that of the storm was falling about him when he came towhat appeared to be the end of the Barren country. The earth droppedaway from under his feet, and far below him, in a ravine shut out fromwind and storm, he saw the black tops of thick spruce. He began toscramble downward. His eyes were no longer fit to judge distance orchance, and he slipped. He slipped a dozen times in the first fiveminutes, and then there came the time when he did not make a recovery, but plunged down the side of the mountain like a rock. He stopped witha terrific jar, and for the first time during the fall he wanted tocry out with pain. But the voice that he heard did not come from hisown lips. It was another voice-- and then two, three, many of them, itseemed to him. His dazed eyes caught glimpses of dark objectsfloundering in the deep snow about him, and just beyond these objectswere four or five tall mounds of snow, like tents, arranged in acircle. He knew what they meant. He had fallen into an Indian camp. Inhis joy he tried to call out words of greeting, but he had no tongue. Then the floundering figures caught him up, and he was carried to thecircle of snow mounds. The last that he knew was that warmth wasentering his lungs. 

It was a face that he first saw after that, a face that seemed to cometo him slowly from out of night, approaching nearer and nearer untilhe knew that it was a girl's face, with great, dark, strangely shiningeyes. In these first moments of his returning consciousness thewhimsical thought came to him that he was dying and the face was apart of a pleasant dream. If that were not so, he had fallen at lastamong friends. His eyes opened wider, he moved, and the face drewback. Movement stimulated returning life, and reason rehabilitateditself in great bounds. In a dozen flashes he went over all that hadhappened up to the point where he had fallen down the mountain andinto the Cree camp. Straight above him he saw the funnel-like peak ofa large birch wigwam, and beyond his feet he saw an opening in thebirch-bark wall through which there drifted a blue film of smoke. Hewas in a wigwam. It was warm and exceedingly comfortable. Wondering ifhe was hurt, he moved. The movement drew a sharp exclamation of painfrom him. It was the first real sound he had made, and in an instantthe face was over him again. He saw it plainly this time, with itsdark eyes and oval cheeks framed between two great braids of blackhair. A hand touched his brow, cool and gentle, and a low voicesoothed him in half a dozen musical words. The girl was a Cree. 

At the sound of her voice an indian woman came up beside the girl, looked down at him for a moment, and then went to the door of thewigwam, speaking in a low voice to some one who was outside. When shereturned a man followed in after her. He was old and bent, and hisface was thin. His cheek-bones shone, so tightly was the skin drawnover them. Behind him came a younger man, as straight as a tree, withstrong shoulders and a head set like a piece of bronze sculpture. Thisman carried in his hand a frozen fish, which he gave to the woman. Ashe gave it to her he spoke words in Cree which Billy understood. 

"It is the last fish. "

For a moment a terrible hand gripped at Billy's heart and almoststopped its beating. He saw the woman take the fish and cut it intotwo equal parts with a knife, and one of these parts she dropped intoa pot of boiling water which hung over the stone fireplace built underthe vent in the wall. They were dividing with him their last fish! Hemade an effort and sat up. The younger man came to him and put abearskin at his back. He had picked up some of the patois ofhalf-blood French and English. 

"You seek, " he said, "you hurt-- and hungry! You have eat soon. "

He motioned with his hand to the boiling pot. There was not a flickerof animation in his splendid face. There was something god-like in hisimmobility, something that was awesome in the way he moved andbreathed. He sat in silence as the half of the last fish was broughtby the girl; and not until Billy stopped eating, choked by theknowledge that he was taking life from these people, did he speak, andthen it was to urge him to finish the fish. When he had done, Billyspoke to the Indian in Cree. Instantly the Indian reached over hishand, his face lighting up, and Billy gripped it hard. Mukoki told himwhat had happened. There had been a camp of twenty-two, and there werenow fifteen. Seven had died-- four men, two women, and one child. Eachday during the great storm the men had gone out on their futile searchfor game, and every few days one of them had failed to return. Thusfour had died. The dogs were eaten. Corn and fish were gone; thereremained but a little flour, and this was for the women and thechildren. The men had eaten nothing but bark and roots for five days. And there seemed to be no hope. It was death to stray far from camp. That morning two men had set out for the nearest post, but Mukoki saidcalmly that they would never return. 

That night and the next day and the terrible night and day thatfollowed were filled with hours that Billy would never forget. He hadsprained one hip badly in his fall, and could not rise from the cotMukoki was often at his side, his face thinner, his eyes morelusterless. The second day, late in the afternoon, there came a lowwailing grief from one of the tepees, a moaning sound that pitcheditself to the key of the storm until it seemed to be a part of it. Achild had died, and the mother was mourning. That night another of thecamp huntsmen failed to return at dusk. But the next day there came atthe same time the end of both storm and famine. With dawn the sunshone. And early in the day one of the hunters ran in from the forestnearly crazed with joy. He had ventured farther away than the others, and had found a moose-yard. He had killed two of the animals andbrought with him meat for the first feast. 

This last great storm of the winter of 1910 passed well into the"break-up" season, and, once the temperature began to rise, the changewas swift. Within a week the snow was growing soft underfoot. Two dayslater Billy hobbled from his cot for the first time. And then, in thepassing of a single day and night, the glory of the northern springburst upon the wilderness. The sun rose warm and golden. From thesides of the mountains and in the valleys water poured forth inrippling, singing floods. The red bakneesh glowed on bared rocks. Moose-birds and jays and wood-thrushes flitted about the camp, and theair was filled with the fragrant smells of new life bursting fromearth and tree and shrub. 

With return of health and strength Billy's impatience to reachMcTabb's cabin grew hourly. He would have set out before his hip wasin condition to travel had not Mukoki kept him back. At last the daycame when he bade his forest friends good-by and started into thesouth. 

 XXIII

 AT THE END OF THE TRAIL

The long days and nights of inactivity which Billy had passed in theIndian camp had given him the opportunity to think more calmly of thetragedy which had come into his life, and with returning strength hehad drawn himself partly out from the pit of hopelessness and despairinto which he had fallen. Deane was dead. Isobel was dead. But thebaby Isobel still lived; and in the hope of finding and claiming herfor his own he built other dreams for himself out of the ashes of allthat had gone for him. He believed that he would find McTabb at thecabin and he would find the child there. So confident had he been thatIsobel would live that he had not told McTabb of the uncle who haddriven her from the old home in Montreal. He was glad that he had keptthis to himself, for there would not be much of a chance of Rookiehaving found the child's relative. And he made up his mind that hewould not give the little Isobel up. He would keep her for himself. Hewould return to civilization, for he would have her to live for. Hewould build a home for her, with a garden and dogs and birds andflowers. With his silver-claim money he had fifteen thousand dollarslaid away, and she would never know what it meant to be poor. He wouldeducate her and buy her a piano and she would have no end of prettydresses and things to make her a lady. They would be together andinseparable always, and when she grew up he prayed deep down in hissoul that she would be like the older Isobel, her mother. 

His grief was deep. He knew that he could never forget, and that theold memories of the wilderness and of the woman he had loved wouldforce themselves upon him, year after year, with their old pain. Butthese new thoughts and plans for the child made his grief lesspoignant. 

It was late in the afternoon of a day that had been filled withsunlight and the warmth of spring that he came to the Little Beaver, ashort distance above McTabb's cabin. He almost ran from there to theclearing, and the sun was just sinking behind the forest in the westwhen he paused on the edge of the break in the forest and saw thecabin. It was from here that he had last seen little Isobel. The bushbehind which he had concealed himself was less than a dozen pacesaway. He noticed this, and then he observed things which made hisheart sink in a strange, cold way. A path had led into the forest atthe point where he stood. Now it was almost obliterated by a tangle oflast year's weeds and plants. Rookie must have made a new path, hethought. And then, fearfully, he looked about the clearing and at thecabin. Everywhere there was the air of desolation. There was no smokerising from the chimney. The door was closed. There were no evidencesof life outside. Not the sound of a dog, of a laugh, or of a voicebroke the dead stillness. 

Scarcely breathing, Billy advanced, his heart choked more and more bythe fear that gripped him. The door to the cabin was not barred. Heopened it. There was nothing inside. The old stove was broken. Thebare cots had not been used for months-- perhaps for two years. As hetook another step an ermine scampered away ahead of him. He heard themouselike squeal of its young a moment later under the sapling floor. He went back to the door and stood in the open. 

"My God!" he moaned. 

He looked in the direction of Couchée's cabin, where Isobel had died. Was there a chance there, he wondered? There was little hope, but hestarted quickly over the old trail. The gloom of evening fell swiftlyabout him. It was almost dark when he reached the other clearing. Andagain his voice broke in a groaning cry. There was no cabin here. McTabb had burned it after the passing of the plague. Where it hadstood was now a black and charred mass, already partly covered by theverdure of the wilderness. Billy gripped his hands hard and walkedback from it searchingly. A few steps away he found what McTabb hadtold him that he would find, a mound and a sapling cross. And then, inspite of all the fighting strength that was in him, he flung himselfdown upon Isobel's grave, and a great, broken cry of grief burst fromhis lips. 

When he raised his head a long time afterward the stars wereshimmering in the sky. It was a wonderfully still night, and all thathe could hear was the ripple and song of the spring floods in theLittle Beaver. He rose silently to his feet and stood for a fewmoments as motionless as a statue over the grave. Then he turned andwent back over the old trail, and from the edge of the clearing helooked back and whispered to himself and to her:

"I'll come back for you, Isobel. I'll come back. "

At McTabb's cabin he had left his pack. He put the straps over hisshoulder and started south again. There was but one move for him tomake now. McTabb was known at Le Pas. He got his supplies and sold hisfurs there. Some one at Le Pas would know where he had gone withlittle Isobel. 

Not until he was several miles distant from the scene of death and hisown broken hopes did he spread out his blanket and lie down for thenight. He was up and had breakfast at dawn. On the fourth day he cameto the little wilderness outpost-- the end of rail-- on theSaskatchewan. Within an hour he discovered that Rookie McTabb had notbeen to Le Pas for nearly two years. No one had seen him with a child. That same night a construction train was leaving for Etomami, down onthe main line, and Billy lost no time in making up his mind what hewould do. He would go to Montreal. If little Isobel was not there shewas still somewhere in the wilderness with McTabb. Then he wouldreturn, and he would find her if it took him a lifetime. 

Days and nights of travel followed, and during those days and nightsBilly prayed that he would not find her in Montreal. If by some chanceMcTabb had discovered her relatives, if Isobel had revealed her secretto him before she died, his last hope in life was gone. He did notthink of wasting time in the purchase of new clothes. That would havemeant the missing of a train. He still wore his wilderness outfit, even to his fur cap. As he traveled farther eastward people began toregard him curiously. He got the porter to shave off his beard. Buthis hair was long. His moccasins and German socks were ragged andtorn, and there were rents in his caribou-skin coat and his heavyHudson's Bay sweater-shirt. The hardships he had gone through had lefttheir lines in his face. There was something about him, outside of hisstrange attire, that made men look at him more than once. Women, morekeenly observant than the men, saw the deep-seated grief in his eyes. As he approached Montreal he kept himself more and more aloof from theothers. 

When at last the train came to a stop at the big station in the heartof the city he walked through the gates and strode up the hill towardMount Royal. It was an hour or more past noon, and he had eatennothing since morning. But he had no thought of hunger. Twenty minuteslater he was at the foot of the street on which Isobel had told himthat she had lived. One by one he passed the old houses of brick andstone, sheltered behind their solid walls. There had been no change inthe years since he had been there. Half-way up the hill to the base ofthe mountain he saw an old gardener trimming ivy about an ancientcannon near a driveway. He stopped and asked:

"Can you tell me where Geoffrey Renaud lives?"

The old gardener looked at him curiously for a moment withoutspeaking. Then he said:

"Renaud? Geoffrey Renaud? That is his house up there behind thered-sandstone wall. Is it the house you want to see-- or Renaud?"

"Both, " said Billy. 

"Geoffrey Renaud has been dead for three years, " informed thegardener. "Are you a-- relative?"

"No, no, " cried Billy, trying to keep his voice steady as he asked thenext question. "There are others there. Who are they?"

The old man shook his head. 

"I don't know. "

"There is a little girl there-- four-- five years old, with goldenhair--"

"She was playing in the garden when I came along a few moments ago, "replied the gardener. "I heard her-- with the dog--"

Billy waited to hear no more. Thanking his informant, he walkedswiftly up the hill to the red-sandstone wall. Before he came to therusted iron gate he, too, heard a child's laughter, and it set hisheart beating wildly. It was just over the wall. In his eagerness hethrust the toe of his moccasined foot into a break in the stone anddrew himself up. He looked down into a great garden, and a dozen stepsaway, close to a thick clump of shrubbery, he saw a child playing witha little puppy. The sun gleamed in her golden hair. He heard herjoyous laughter; and then, for an instant, her face was turned towardhim. 

In that moment he forgot everything, and with a great, glad cry hedrew himself up and sprang to the ground on the other side. 

"Isobel-- Isobel-- my little Isobel!"

He was beside her, on his knees, with her in his hungry arms, and fora brief space the child was so frightened that she held her breath andstared at him without a sound. 

"Don't you know me-- don't you know me--" he almost sobbed. "LittleMystery-- Isobel--"

He heard a sound, a strange, stifled cry, and he looked up. Frombehind the shrubbery there had come a woman, and she was staring atBilly MacVeigh with a face as white as chalk. He staggered to hisfeet, and he believed that at last he had gone mad. For it was thevision of Isobel Deane that he saw there, and her blue eyes wereglowing at him as he had seen them for an instant that night a longtime ago on the edge of the Barren. He could not speak. And then, ashe staggered another step back toward the wall, he held out his raggedarms, without knowing what he was doing, and called her name as he hadspoken it a hundred times at night beside his lonely campfires. Starvation, his injury, weeks of illness, and his almost superhumanstruggle to reach McTabb's cabin, and after that civilization, hadconsumed his last strength. For days he had lived on the reserveforces of a nervous energy that slipped away from him now, leaving himdizzy and swaying. He fought to overcome the weakness that seemed tohave taken the last ounce of strength from his exhausted body, but inspite of his strongest efforts the sunlit garden suddenly darkenedbefore his eyes. In that moment the vision became real, and as heturned toward the wall Isobel Deane called him by name; and in anothermoment she was at his side, clutching him almost fiercely by the armsand calling him by name over and over again. The weakness anddizziness passed from him in a moment, but in that space he seemedonly to realize that he must get back-- over the wall. 

"I wouldn't have come-- but-- I-- I-- thought you were-- dead, " hesaid. "They told me-- you were dead. I'm glad-- glad-- but I wouldn'thave come--"

She felt the weight of him for an instant on her arm. She knew thethings that were in his face-- starvation, pain, the signs of ravageleft behind by fever. In these moments Billy did not see the wonderfullook that had come into her own face or the wonderful glow in hereyes. 

"It was Indian Joe's mother who died, " he heard her say. "And sincethen we have been waiting-- waiting-- waiting-- little Isobel and I. Iwent away north, to David's grave, and I saw what you had done, andwhat you had burned into the wood. Some day, I knew, you'd come backto me. We've been waiting-- for you--"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but Billy heard it; and allat once his dizziness was gone, and he saw the sunlight shining inIsobel's bright hair and the look in her face and eyes. 

"I'm sorry-- sorry-- so sorry I said what I did-- about you-- killinghim, " she went on. "You remember-- I said that if I got well--"

"Yes--"

"And you thought I meant that if I got well you should go away-- andyou promised-- and kept your promise. But I couldn't finish. It didn'tseem right-- then. I wanted to tell you-- out there-- that I wassorry-- and that if I got well you could come to me again-- some daysomewhere-- and then--"

"Isobel!"

"And now-- you may tell me again what you told me out on the Barren--a long time ago. "

"Isobel-- Isobel--"

"You understand"-- she spoke softly-- "you understand, it cannothappen now-- perhaps not for another year. But now"-- she drew alittle nearer-- "you may kiss me, " she said. "And then you must kisslittle Isobel. And we don't want you to go very far away again. It'slonely-- terribly lonely all by ourselves in the city-- and we're gladyou've come-- so glad--"

Her voice broke to a sobbing whisper, and as Billy opened his great, ragged arms and caught her to him he heard that whisper again, saying, "We're glad-- glad-- glad you've come back to us. "

"And I-- may-- stay?"

She raised her face, glorious in its welcome. 

"If you want me-- still. "

At last he believed. But he could not speak. He bent his face to hers, and for a moment they stood thus, while from behind the shrubbery camethe sound of little Isobel's joyous laughter. 

 THE END