[Frontispiece: From the girl's revolver leaped forth a sudden spurt ofsmoke and flame. ]

THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN

A STORY OF THE THREE RIVER COUNTRY

BY

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD

AUTHOR OF "THE RIVER'S END, " ETC. 

THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN

Before the railroad's thin lines of steel bit their way up through thewilderness, Athabasca Landing was the picturesque threshold over whichone must step who would enter into the mystery and adventure of thegreat white North. It is still Iskwatam--the "door" which opens to thelower reaches of the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie. It issomewhat difficult to find on the map, yet it is there, because itshistory is written in more than a hundred and forty years of romanceand tragedy and adventure in the lives of men, and is not easilyforgotten. Over the old trail it was about a hundred and fifty milesnorth of Edmonton. The railroad has brought it nearer to that base ofcivilization, but beyond it the wilderness still howls as it has howledfor a thousand years, and the waters of a continent flow north and intothe Arctic Ocean. It is possible that the beautiful dream of thereal-estate dealers may come true, for the most avid of all thesportsmen of the earth, the money-hunters, have come up on the bumpyrailroad that sometimes lights its sleeping cars with lanterns, andwith them have come typewriters, and stenographers, and the art ofprinting advertisements, and the Golden Rule of those who sell handfulsof earth to hopeful purchasers thousands of miles away--"Do others asthey would do you. " And with it, too, has come the legitimate businessof barter and trade, with eyes on all that treasure of the North whichlies between the Grand Rapids of the Athabasca and the edge of thepolar sea. But still more beautiful than the dream of fortunes quicklymade is the deep-forest superstition that the spirits of the wildernessdead move onward as steam and steel advance, and if this is so, theghosts of a thousand Pierres and Jacquelines have risen uneasily fromtheir graves at Athabasca Landing, hunting a new quiet farther north. 

For it was Pierre and Jacqueline, Henri and Marie, Jacques and hisJeanne, whose brown hands for a hundred and forty years opened andclosed this door. And those hands still master a savage world for twothousand miles north of that threshold of Athabasca Landing. South ofit a wheezy engine drags up the freight that came not so many monthsago by boat. 

It is over this threshold that the dark eyes of Pierre and Jacqueline, Henri and Marie, Jacques and his Jeanne, look into the blue and thegray and the sometimes watery ones of a destroying civilization. Andthere it is that the shriek of a mad locomotive mingles with theirage-old river chants; the smut of coal drifts over their forests; thephonograph screeches its reply to le violon; and Pierre and Henri andJacques no longer find themselves the kings of the earth when they comein from far countries with their precious cargoes of furs. And they nolonger swagger and tell loud-voiced adventure, or sing their wild riversongs in the same old abandon, for there are streets at AthabascaLanding now, and hotels, and schools, and rules and regulations of akind new and terrifying to the bold of the old voyageurs. 

It seems only yesterday that the railroad was not there, and a greatworld of wilderness lay between the Landing and the upper rim ofcivilization. And when word first came that a steam thing was eatingits way up foot by foot through forest and swamp and impassable muskeg, that word passed up and down the water-ways for two thousand miles, acolossal joke, a stupendous bit of drollery, the funniest thing thatPierre and Henri and Jacques had heard in all their lives. And whenJacques wanted to impress upon Pierre his utter disbelief of a thing, he would say:

"It will happen, m'sieu, when the steam thing comes to the Landing, when cow-beasts eat with the moose, and when our bread is found for usin yonder swamps!"

And the steam thing came, and cows grazed where moose had fed, andbread WAS gathered close to the edge of the great swamps. Thus didcivilization break into Athabasca Landing. 

Northward from the Landing, for two thousand miles, reached the domainof the rivermen. And the Landing, with its two hundred and twenty-sevensouls before the railroad came, was the wilderness clearing-house whichsat at the beginning of things. To it came from the south all thefreight which must go into the north; on its flat river front werebuilt the great scows which carried this freight to the end of theearth. It was from the Landing that the greatest of all river brigadesset forth upon their long adventures, and it was back to the Landing, perhaps a year or more later, that still smaller scows and huge canoesbrought as the price of exchange their cargoes of furs. 

Thus for nearly a century and a half the larger craft, with their greatsweeps and their wild-throated crews, had gone DOWN the river towardthe Arctic Ocean, and the smaller craft, with their still wilder crews, had come UP the river toward civilization. The River, as the Landingspeaks of it, is the Athabasca, with its headwaters away off in theBritish Columbian mountains, where Baptiste and McLeod, explorers ofold, gave up their lives to find where the cradle of it lay. And itsweeps past the Landing, a slow and mighty giant, unswervingly on itsway to the northern sea. With it the river brigades set forth. ForPierre and Henri and Jacques it is going from one end to the other ofthe earth. The Athabasca ends and is replaced by the Slave, and theSlave empties into Great Slave Lake, and from the narrow tip of thatLake the Mackenzie carries on for more than a thousand miles to the sea. 

In this distance of the long water trail one sees and hears manythings. It is life. It is adventure. It is mystery and romance andhazard. Its tales are so many that books could not hold them. In thefaces of men and women they are written. They lie buried in graves soold that the forest trees grow over them. Epics of tragedy, of love, ofthe fight to live! And as one goes farther north, and still farther, just so do the stories of things that have happened change. 

For the world is changing, the sun is changing, and the breeds of menare changing. At the Landing in July there are seventeen hours ofsunlight; at Fort Chippewyan there are eighteen; at Fort Resolution, Fort Simpson, and Fort Providence there are nineteen; at the Great Beartwenty-one, and at Fort McPherson, close to the polar sea, fromtwenty-two to twenty-three. And in December there are also these hoursof darkness. With light and darkness men change, women change, and lifechanges. And Pierre and Henri and Jacques meet them all, but alwaysTHEY are the same, chanting the old songs, enshrining the old loves, dreaming the same dreams, and worshiping always the same gods. Theymeet a thousand perils with eyes that glisten with the love ofadventure. 

The thunder of rapids and the howlings of storm do not frighten them. Death has no fear for them. They grapple with it, wrestle joyously withit, and are glorious when they win. Their blood is red and strong. Their hearts are big. Their souls chant themselves up to the skies. Yetthey are simple as children, and when they are afraid, it is of thingswhich children fear. For in those hearts of theirs is superstition--andalso, perhaps, royal blood. For princes and the sons of princes and thenoblest aristocracy of France were the first of the gentlemenadventurers who came with ruffles on their sleeves and rapiers at theirsides to seek furs worth many times their weight in gold two hundredand fifty years ago, and of these ancient forebears Pierre and Henriand Jacques, with their Maries and Jeannes and Jacquelines, are theliving voices of today. 

And these voices tell many stories. Sometimes they whisper them, as thewind would whisper, for there are stories weird and strange that mustbe spoken softly. They darken no printed pages. The trees listen tothem beside red camp-fires at night. Lovers tell them in the gladsunshine of day. Some of them are chanted in song. Some of them comedown through the generations, epics of the wilderness, remembered fromfather to son. And each year there are the new things to pass frommouth to mouth, from cabin to cabin, from the lower reaches of theMackenzie to the far end of the world at Athabasca Landing. For thethree rivers are always makers of romance, of tragedy, of adventure. The story will never be forgotten of how Follette and Ladouceur swamtheir mad race through the Death Chute for love of the girl who waitedat the other end, or of how Campbell O'Doone, the red-headed giant atFort Resolution, fought the whole of a great brigade in his effort torun away with a scow captain's daughter. 

And the brigade loved O'Doone, though it beat him, for these men of thestrong north love courage and daring. The epic of the lost scow--howthere were men who saw it disappear from under their very eyes, floating upward and afterward riding swiftly away in the skies--is toldand retold by strong-faced men, deep in whose eyes are the smolderingflames of an undying superstition, and these same men thrill as theytell over again the strange and unbelievable story of Hartshope, thearistocratic Englishman who set off into the North in all the glory ofmonocle and unprecedented luggage, and how he joined in a tribal war, became a chief of the Dog Ribs, and married a dark-eyed, sleek-haired, little Indian beauty, who is now the mother of his children. 

But deepest and most thrilling of all the stories they tell are thestories of the long arm of the Law--that arm which reaches for twothousand miles from Athabasca Landing to the polar sea, the arm Of theRoyal Northwest Mounted Police. 

And of these it is the story of Jim Kent we are going to tell, of JimKent and of Marette, that wonderful little goddess of the Valley ofSilent Men, in whose veins there must have run the blood of fightingmen--and of ancient queens. A story of the days before the railroadcame. 

CHAPTER I

In the mind of James Grenfell Kent, sergeant in the Royal NorthwestMounted Police, there remained no shadow of a doubt. He knew that hewas dying. He had implicit faith in Cardigan, his surgeon friend, andCardigan had told him that what was left of his life would be measuredout in hours--perhaps in minutes or seconds. It was an unusual case. There was one chance in fifty that he might live two or three days, butthere was no chance at all that he would live more than three. The endmight come with any breath he drew into his lungs. That was thepathological history of the thing, as far as medical and surgicalscience knew of cases similar to his own. 

Personally, Kent did not feel like a dying man. His vision and hisbrain were clear. He felt no pain, and only at infrequent intervals washis temperature above normal. His voice was particularly calm andnatural. 

At first he had smiled incredulously when Cardigan broke the news. Thatthe bullet which a drunken half-breed had sent into his chest two weeksbefore had nicked the arch of the aorta, thus forming an aneurism, wasa statement by Cardigan which did not sound especially wicked orconvincing to him. "Aorta" and "aneurism" held about as muchsignificance for him as his perichondrium or the process of hisstylomastoid. But Kent possessed an unswerving passion to grip at factsin detail, a characteristic that had largely helped him to earn thereputation of being the best man-hunter in all the northland service. So he had insisted, and his surgeon friend had explained. 

The aorta, he found, was the main blood-vessel arching over and leadingfrom the heart, and in nicking it the bullet had so weakened its outerwall that it bulged out in the form of a sack, just as the inner tubeof an automobile tire bulges through the outer casing when there is ablowout. 

"And when that sack gives way inside you, " Cardigan had explained, "you'll go like that!" He snapped a forefinger and thumb to drive thefact home. 

After that it was merely a matter of common sense to believe, and now, sure that he was about to die. Kent had acted. He was acting in thefull health of his mind and in extreme cognizance of the paralyzingshock he was contributing as a final legacy to the world at large, orat least to that part of it which knew him or was interested. Thetragedy of the thing did not oppress him. A thousand times in his lifehe had discovered that humor and tragedy were very closely related, andthat there were times when only the breadth of a hair separated thetwo. Many times he had seen a laugh change suddenly to tears, and tearsto laughter. 

The tableau, as it presented itself about his bedside now, amused him. Its humor was grim, but even in these last hours of his life heappreciated it. He had always more or less regarded life as a joke--avery serious joke, but a joke for all that--a whimsical and trickfulsort of thing played by the Great Arbiter on humanity at large; andthis last count in his own life, as it was solemnly and tragicallyticking itself off, was the greatest joke of all. The amazed faces thatstared at him, their passing moments of disbelief, their repressed butat times visible betrayals of horror, the steadiness of their eyes, thetenseness of their lips--all added to what he might have called, atanother time, the dramatic artistry of his last great adventure. 

That he was dying did not chill him, or make him afraid, or put atremble into his voice. The contemplation of throwing off the merehabit of breathing had never at any stage of his thirty-six years oflife appalled him. Those years, because he had spent a sufficientnumber of them in the raw places of the earth, had given him aphilosophy and viewpoint of his own, both of which he kept unto himselfwithout effort to impress them on other people. He believed that lifeitself was the cheapest thing on the face of all the earth. All otherthings had their limitations. 

There was so much water and so much land, so many mountains and so manyplains, so many square feet to live on and so many square feet to beburied in. All things could be measured, and stood up, andcatalogued--except life itself. "Given time, " he would say, "a singlepair of humans can populate all creation. " Therefore, being thecheapest of all things, it was true philosophy that life should be theeasiest of all things to give up when the necessity came. 

Which is only another way of emphasizing that Kent was not, and neverhad been, afraid to die. But it does not say that he treasured life awhit less than the man in another room, who, a day or so before, hadfought like a lunatic before going under an anesthetic for theamputation of a bad finger. No man had loved life more than he. No manhad lived nearer it. 

It had been a passion with him. Full of dreams, and always withanticipations ahead, no matter how far short realizations fell, he wasan optimist, a lover of the sun and the moon and the stars, a worshiperof the forests and of the mountains, a man who loved his life, and whohad fought for it, and yet who was ready--at the last--to yield it upwithout a whimper when the fates asked for it. 

Bolstered up against his pillows, he did not look the part of the fiendhe was confessing himself to be to the people about him. Sickness hadnot emaciated him. The bronze of his lean, clean-cut face had faded alittle, but the tanning of wind and sun and campfire was still there. His blue eyes were perhaps dulled somewhat by the nearness of death. One would not have judged him to be thirty-six, even though over onetemple there was a streak of gray in his blond hair--a heritage fromhis mother, who was dead. Looking at him, as his lips quietly andcalmly confessed himself beyond the pale of men's sympathy orforgiveness, one would have said that his crime was impossible. 

Through his window, as he sat bolstered up in his cot, Kent could seethe slow-moving shimmer of the great Athabasca River as it moved on itsway toward the Arctic Ocean. The sun was shining, and he saw the cool, thick masses of the spruce and cedar forests beyond, the risingundulations of wilderness ridges and hills, and through that openwindow he caught the sweet scents that came with a soft wind from outof the forests he had loved for so many years. 

"They've been my best friends, " he had said to Cardigan, "and when thisnice little thing you're promising happens to me, old man, I want to gowith my eyes on them. "

So his cot was close to the window. 

Nearest to him sat Cardigan. In his face, more than in any of theothers, was disbelief. Kedsty, Inspector of the Royal Northwest MountedPolice, in charge of N Division during an indefinite leave of absenceof the superintendent, was paler even than the girl whose nervousfingers were swiftly putting upon paper every word that was spoken bythose in the room. O'Connor, staff-sergeant, was like one struck dumb. The little, smooth-faced Catholic missioner whose presence as a witnessKent had requested, sat with his thin fingers tightly interlaced, silently placing this among all the other strange tragedies that thewilderness had given up to him. They had all been Kent's friends, hisintimate friends, with the exception of the girl, whom Inspector Kedstyhad borrowed for the occasion. With the little missioner he had spentmany an evening, exchanging in mutual confidence the strange andmysterious happenings of the deep forests, and of the great northbeyond the forests. O'Connor's friendship was a friendship bred of thebrotherhood of the trails. It was Kent and O'Connor who had broughtdown the two Eskimo murderers from the mouth of the Mackenzie, and theadventure had taken them fourteen months. Kent loved O'Connor, with hisred face, his red hair, and his big heart, and to him the most tragicpart of it all was that he was breaking this friendship now. 

But it was Inspector Kedsty, commanding N Division, the biggest andwildest division in all the Northland, that roused in Kent an unusualemotion, even as he waited for that explosion just over his heart whichthe surgeon had told him might occur at any moment. On his death-bedhis mind still worked analytically. And Kedsty, since the moment he hadentered the room, had puzzled Kent. The commander of N Division was anunusual man. He was sixty, with iron-gray hair, cold, almost colorlesseyes in which one would search long for a gleam of either mercy orfear, and a nerve that Kent had never seen even slightly disturbed. Ittook such a man, an iron man, to run N Division according to law, for NDivision covered an area of six hundred and twenty thousand squaremiles of wildest North America, extending more than two thousand milesnorth of the 70th parallel of latitude, with its farthest limit threeand one-half degrees within the Arctic Circle. To police this areameant upholding the law in a country fourteen times the size of thestate of Ohio. And Kedsty was the man who had performed this duty asonly one other man had ever succeeded in doing it. 

Yet Kedsty, of the five about Kent, was most disturbed. His face wasash-gray. A number of times Kent had detected a broken note in hisvoice. He had seen his hands grip at the arms of the chair he sat inuntil the cords stood out on them as if about to burst. He had neverseen Kedsty sweat until now. 

Twice the Inspector had wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He wasno longer Minisak--"The Rock"--a name given to him by the Crees. Thearmor that no shaft had ever penetrated seemed to have dropped fromhim. He had ceased to be Kedsty, the most dreaded inquisitor in theservice. He was nervous, and Kent could see that he was fighting torepossess himself. 

"Of course you know what this means to the Service, " he said in a hard, low voice. "It means--"

"Disgrace, " nodded Kent. "I know. It means a black spot on theotherwise bright escutcheon of N Division. But it can't be helped. Ikilled John Barkley. The man you've got in the guard-house, condemnedto be hanged by the neck until he is dead, is innocent. I understand. It won't be nice for the Service to let it be known that a sergeant inHis Majesty's Royal Mounted is an ordinary murderer, but--"

"Not an ORDINARY murderer, " interrupted Kedsty. "As you have describedit, the crime was deliberate--horrible and inexcusable to its lastdetail. You were not moved by a sudden passion. You tortured yourvictim. It is inconceivable!"

"And yet true, " said Kent. 

He was looking at the stenographer's slim fingers as they put down hiswords and Kedsty's. A bit of sunshine touched her bowed head, and heobserved the red lights in her hair. His eyes swept to O'Connor, and inthat moment the commander of N Division bent over him, so close thathis face almost touched Kent's, and he whispered, in a voice so lowthat no one of the other four could hear, "KENT--YOU LIE!"

"No, it is true, " replied Kent. 

Kedsty drew back, again wiping the moisture from his forehead. 

"I killed Barkley, and I killed him as I planned that he should die, "Kent went on. "It was my desire that he should suffer. The one thingwhich I shall not tell you is WHY I killed him. But it was a sufficientreason. "

He saw the shuddering tremor that swept through the shoulders of thegirl who was putting down the condemning notes. 

"And you refuse to confess your motive?"

"Absolutely--except that he had wronged me in a way that deserveddeath. "

"And you make this confession knowing that you are about to die?"

The flicker of a smile passed over Kent's lips. He looked at O'Connorand for an instant saw in O'Connor's eyes a flash of their oldcomradeship. 

"Yes. Dr. Cardigan has told me. Otherwise I should have let the man inthe guard-house hang. It's simply that this accursed bullet has spoiledmy luck--and saved him!"

Kedsty spoke to the girl. For half an hour she read her notes, andafter that Kent wrote his name on the last page. Then Kedsty rose fromhis chair. 

"We have finished, gentlemen, " he said. 

They trailed out, the girl hurrying through the door first in herdesire to free herself of an ordeal that had strained every nerve inher body. The commander of N Division was last to go. Cardiganhesitated, as if to remain, but Kedsty motioned him on. It was Kedstywho closed the door, and as he closed it he looked back, and for aflash Kent met his eyes squarely. In that moment he received animpression which he had not caught while the Inspector was in the room. It was like an electrical shock in its unexpectedness, and Kedsty musthave seen the effect of it in his face, for he moved back quickly andclosed the door. In that instant Kent had seen in Kedsty's eyes andface a look that was not only of horror, but what in the face and eyesof another man he would have sworn was fear. 

It was a gruesome moment in which to smile, but Kent smiled. The shockwas over. By the rules of the Criminal Code he knew that Kedsty evennow was instructing Staff-Sergeant O'Connor to detail an officer toguard his door. The fact that he was ready to pop off at any momentwould make no difference in the regulations of the law. And Kedsty wasa stickler for the law as it was written. Through the closed door heheard voices indistinctly. Then there were footsteps, dying away. Hecould hear the heavy thump, thump of O'Connor's big feet. O'Connor hadalways walked like that, even on the trail. 

Softly then the door reopened, and Father Layonne, the littlemissioner, came in. Kent knew that this would be so, for Father Layonneknew neither code nor creed that did not reach all the hearts of thewilderness. He came back, and sat down close to Kent, and took one ofhis hands and held it closely in both of his own. They were not thesoft, smooth hands of the priestly hierarchy, but were hard with thecallosity of toil, yet gentle with the gentleness of a great sympathy. He had loved Kent yesterday, when Kent had stood clean in the eyes ofboth God and men, and he still loved him today, when his soul wasstained with a thing that must be washed away with his own life. 

"I'm sorry, lad, " he said. "I'm sorry. "

Something rose up in Kent's throat that was not the blood he had beenwiping away since morning. His fingers returned the pressure of thelittle missioner's hands. Then he pointed out through the window to thepanorama of shimmering river and green forests. 

"It is hard to say good-by to all that, Father, " he said. "But, if youdon't mind, I'd rather not talk about it. I'm not afraid of it. And whybe unhappy because one has only a little while to live? Looking backover your life, does it seem so very long ago that you were a boy, asmall boy?"

"The time has gone swiftly, very swiftly. "

"It seems only yesterday--or so?"

"Yes, only yesterday--or so. "

Kent's face lit up with the whimsical smile that long ago had reachedthe little missioner's heart. "Well, that's the way I'm looking at it, Father. There is only a yesterday, a today, and a tomorrow in thelongest of our lives. Looking back from seventy years isn't muchdifferent from looking back from thirty-six WHEN you're looking backand not ahead. Do you think what I have just said will free SandyMcTrigger?"

"There is no doubt. Your statements have been accepted as a death-bedconfession. "

The little missioner, instead of Kent, was betraying a bit ofnervousness. 

"There are matters, my son--some few matters--which you will wantattended to. Shall we not talk about them?"

"You mean--"

"Your people, first. I remember that once you told me there was no one. But surely there is some one somewhere. "

Kent shook his head. "There is no one now. For ten years those forestsout there have been father, mother, and home to me. "

"But there must be personal affairs, affairs which you would like toentrust, perhaps, to me?"

Kent's face brightened, and for an instant a flash of humor leaped intohis eyes. "It is funny, " he chuckled. "Since you remind me of it, Father, it is quite in form to make my will. I've bought a few littlepieces of land here. Now that the railroad has almost reached us fromEdmonton, they've jumped up from the seven or eight hundred dollars Igave for them to about ten thousand. I want you to sell the lots anduse the money in your work. Put as much of it on the Indians as youcan. They've always been good brothers to me. And I wouldn't waste muchtime in getting my signature on some sort of paper to that effect. "

Father Layonne's eyes shone softly. "God will bless you for that, Jimmy, " he said, using the intimate name by which he had known him. "And I think He is going to pardon you for something else, if you havethe courage to ask Him. "

"I am pardoned, " replied Kent, looking out through the window. "I feelit. I know it, Father. "

In his soul the little missioner was praying. He knew that Kent'sreligion was not his religion, and he did not press the service whichhe would otherwise have rendered. After a moment he rose to his feet, and it was the old Kent who looked up into his face, the clean-faced, gray-eyed, unafraid Kent, smiling in the old way. 

"I have one big favor to ask of you, Father, " he said. "If I've got aday to live, I don't want every one forcing the fact on me that I'mdying. If I've any friends left, I want them to come in and see me, andtalk, and crack jokes. I want to smoke my pipe. I'll appreciate a boxof cigars if you'll send 'em up. Cardigan can't object now. Will youarrange these things for me? They'll listen to you--and please shove mycot a little nearer the window before you go. "

Father Layonne performed the service in silence. Then at last theyearning overcame him to have the soul speak out, that his God might bemore merciful, and he said: "My boy, you are sorry? You repent that youkilled John Barkley?"

"No, I'm not sorry. It had to be done. And please don't forget thecigars, will you, Father?"

"No, I won't forget, " said the little missioner, and turned away. 

As the door opened and closed behind him, the flash of humor leapedinto Kent's eyes again, and he chuckled even as he wiped another of thetelltale stains of blood from his lips. He had played the game. And thefunny part about it was that no one in all the world would ever know, except himself--and perhaps one other. 

CHAPTER II

Outside Kent's window was Spring, the glorious Spring of the Northland, and in spite of the death-grip that was tightening in his chest hedrank it in deeply and leaned over so that his eyes traveled over widespaces of the world that had been his only a short time before. 

It occurred to him that he had suggested this knoll that overlookedboth settlement and river as the site for the building which Dr. Cardigan called his hospital. It was a structure rough and unadorned, unpainted, and sweetly smelling with the aroma of the spruce trees fromthe heart of which its unplaned lumber was cut. The breath of it was athing to bring cheer and hope. Its silvery walls, in places golden andbrown with pitch and freckled with knots, spoke joyously of life thatwould not die, and the woodpeckers came and hammered on it as though itwere still a part of the forest, and red squirrels chattered on theroof and scampered about in play with a soft patter of feet. 

"It's a pretty poor specimen of man that would die up here with allthat under his eyes, " Kent had said a year before, when he and Cardiganhad picked out the site. "If he died looking at that, why, he justsimply ought to die, Cardigan, " he had laughed. 

And now he was that poor specimen, looking out on the glory of theworld!

His vision took in the South and a part of the East and West, and inall those directions there was no end of the forest. It was like avast, many-colored sea with uneven billows rising and falling until theblue sky came down to meet them many miles away. More than once hisheart ached at the thought of the two thin ribs of steel creeping upfoot by foot and mile by mile from Edmonton, a hundred and fifty milesaway. It was, to him, a desecration, a crime against Nature, the murderof his beloved wilderness. For in his soul that wilderness had grown tobe more than a thing of spruce and cedar and balsam, of poplar andbirch; more than a great, unused world of river and lake and swamp. Itwas an individual, a thing. His love for it was greater than his lovefor man. It was his inarticulate God. It held him as no religion in theworld could have held him, and deeper and deeper it had drawn him intothe soul of itself, delivering up to him one by one its guarded secretsand its mysteries, opening for him page by page the book that was thegreatest of all books. And it was the wonder of it now, the fact thatit was near him, about him, embracing him, glowing for him in thesunshine, whispering to him in the soft breath of the air, nodding andtalking to him from the crest of every ridge, that gave to him astrange happiness even in these hours when he knew that he was dying. 

And then his eyes fell nearer to the settlement which nestled along theedge of the shining river a quarter of a mile away. That, too, had beenthe wilderness, in the days before the railroad came. The poison ofspeculation was stirring, but it had not yet destroyed. AthabascaLanding was still the door that opened and closed on the great North. Its buildings were scattered and few, and built of logs and roughlumber. Even now he could hear the drowsy hum of the distant sawmillthat was lazily turning out its grist. Not far away the wind-worn flagof the British Empire was floating over a Hudson Bay Company's postthat had bartered in the trades of the North for more than a hundredyears. Through that hundred years Athabasca Landing had pulsed with theheart-beats of strong men bred to the wilderness. Through it, workingits way by river and dog sledge from the South, had gone the preciousfreight for which the farther North gave in exchange its still moreprecious furs. And today, as Kent looked down upon it, he saw that sameactivity as it had existed through the years of a century. A brigade ofscows, laden to their gunwales, was just sweeping out into the riverand into its current. Kent had watched the loading of them; now he sawthem drifting lazily out from the shore, their long sweeps glinting inthe sun, their crews singing wildly and fiercely their beloved Chansondes Voyageurs as their faces turned to the adventure of the North. 

In Kent's throat rose a thing which he tried to choke back, but whichbroke from his lips in a low cry, almost a sob. He heard the distantsinging, wild and free as the forests themselves, and he wanted to leanout of his window and shout a last good-by. For the brigade--a Companybrigade, the brigade that had chanted its songs up and down the waterreaches of the land for more than two hundred and fifty years--wasstarting north. And he knew where it was going--north, and stillfarther north; a hundred miles, five hundred, a thousand--and thenanother thousand before the last of the scows unburdened itself of itsprecious freight. For the lean and brown-visaged men who went with themthere would be many months of clean living and joyous thrill under theopen skies. Overwhelmed by the yearning that swept over him, Kentleaned back against his pillows and covered his eyes. 

In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly thethings he was losing. Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and theriver brigade would still be sweeping on--on into the Grand Rapids ofthe Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding valiantly the rocksand rapids of the Grand Cascade, the whirlpools of the Devil's Mouth, the thundering roar and boiling dragon teeth of the Black Run--on tothe end of the Athabasca, to the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, untilthe last rock-blunted nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of theArctic Ocean. And he, James Kent, would be DEAD!

He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as helooked forth once more. There were sixteen scows in the brigade, andthe biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand. He could fancyPierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre's wife waswaiting for him a thousand miles away. The scows were caught steadilynow in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched themgo, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroachingmonsters of steel. Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, andhis soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent. 

He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chantingoarsmen were lost in the distance. Again he listened to the lazy hum ofthe sawmill, and over his head he heard the velvety run of a redsquirrel and then its reckless chattering. The forests came back tohim. Across his cot fell a patch of golden sunlight. A stronger breathof air came laden with the perfume of balsam and cedar through hiswindow, and when the door opened and Cardigan entered, he found the oldKent facing him. 

There was no change in Cardigan's voice or manner as he greeted him. But there was a tenseness in his face which he could not conceal. Hehad brought in Kent's pipe and tobacco. These he laid on a table untilhe had placed his head close to Kent's hearty listening to what hecalled the bruit--the rushing of blood through the aneurismal sac. 

"Seems to me that I can hear it myself now and then, " said Kent. "Worse, isn't it?"

Cardigan nodded. "Smoking may hurry it up a bit, " he said. "Still, ifyou want to--"

Kent held out his hand for the pipe and tobacco. "It's worth it. Thanks, old man. "

Kent loaded the pipe, and Cardigan lighted a match. For the first timein two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent's lips. 

"The brigade is starting north, " he said. 

"Mostly Mackenzie River freight, " replied Cardigan. "A long run. "

"The finest in all the North. Three years ago O'Connor and I made itwith the Follette outfit. Remember Follette--and Ladouceur? They bothloved the same girl, and being good friends they decided to settle thematter by a swim through the Death Chute. The man who came throughfirst was to have her. Gawd, Cardigan, what funny things happen!Follette came out first, but he was dead. He'd brained himself on arock. And to this day Ladouceur hasn't married the girl, because hesays Follette beat him; and that Follette's something-or-other wouldhaunt him if he didn't play fair. It's a queer--"

He stopped and listened. In the hall was the approaching tread ofunmistakable feet. 

"O'Connor, " he said. 

Cardigan went to the door and opened it as O'Connor was about to knock. When the door closed again, the staff-sergeant was in the room alonewith Kent. In one of his big hands he clutched a box of cigars, and inthe other he held a bunch of vividly red fire-flowers. 

"Father Layonne shoved these into my hands as I was coming up, " heexplained, dropping them on the table. "And I--well--I'm breakingregulations to come up an' tell you something, Jimmy. I never calledyou a liar in my life, but I'm calling you one now!"

He was gripping Kent's hands in the fierce clasp of a friendship thatnothing could kill. Kent winced, but the pain of it was joy. He hadfeared that O'Connor, like Kedsty, must of necessity turn against him. Then he noticed something unusual in O'Connor's face and eyes. Thestaff-sergeant was not easily excited, yet he was visibly disturbed now. 

"I don't know what the others saw, when you were making thatconfession, Kent. Mebby my eyesight was better because I spent a yearand a half with you on the trail. You were lying. What's your game, oldman?"

Kent groaned. "Have I got to go all over it again?" he appealed. 

O'Connor began thumping back and forth over the floor. Kent had seenhim that way sometimes in camp when there were perplexing problemsahead of them. 

"You didn't kill John Barkley, " he insisted. "I don't believe you did, and Inspector Kedsty doesn't believe it--yet the mighty queer part ofit is--"

"What?"

"That Kedsty is acting on your confession in a big hurry. I don'tbelieve it's according to Hoyle, as the regulations are written. Buthe's doing it. And I want to know--it's the biggest thing I EVER wantedto know--did you kill Barkley?"

"O'Connor, if you don't believe a dying man's word--you haven't muchrespect for death, have you?"

"That's the theory on which the law works, but sometimes it ain'thuman. Confound it, man, DID YOU?"

"Yes. "

O'Connor sat down and with his finger-nails pried open the box ofcigars. "Mind if I smoke with you?" he asked. "I need it. I'm shot upwith unexpected things this morning. Do you care if I ask you about thegirl?"

"The girl!" exclaimed Kent. He sat up straighter, staring at O'Connor. 

The staff-sergeant's eyes were on him with questioning steadiness. "Isee--you don't know her, " he said, lighting his cigar. "Neither do I. Never saw her before. That's why I am wondering about Inspector Kedsty. I tell you, it's queer. He didn't believe you this morning, yet he wasall shot up. He wanted me to go with him to his house. The cords stoodout on his neck like that--like my little finger. 

"Then suddenly he changed his mind and said we'd go to the office. Thattook us along the road that runs through the poplar grove. It happenedthere. I'm not much of a girl's man, Kent, and I'd be a fool to try totell you what she looked like. But there she was, standing in the pathnot ten feet ahead of us, and she stopped me in my tracks as quick asthough she'd sent a shot into me. And she stopped Kedsty, too. I heardhim give a sort of grunt--a funny sound, as though some one had hithim. I don't believe I could tell whether she had a dress on or not, for I never saw anything like her face, and her eyes, and her hair, andI stared at them like a thunder-struck fool. She didn't seem to noticeme any more than if I'd been thin air, a ghost she couldn't see. 

"She looked straight at Kedsty, and she kept looking at him--and thenshe passed us. Never said a word, mind you. She came so near I couldhave touched her with my hand, and not until she was that close did shetake her eyes from Kedsty and look at me. And when she'd passed Ithought what a couple of cursed idiots we were, standing thereparalyzed, as if we'd never seen a beautiful girl before in our lives. I went to remark that much to the Old Man when--"

O'Connor bit his cigar half in two as he leaned nearer to the cot. 

"Kent, I swear that Kedsty was as white as chalk when I looked at him!There wasn't a drop of blood left in his face, and he was staringstraight ahead, as though the girl still stood there, and he gaveanother of those grunts--it wasn't a laugh--as if something was chokinghim. And then he said:

"'Sergeant, I've forgotten something important. I must go back to seeDr. Cardigan. You have my authority to give McTrigger his liberty atonce!'"

O'Connor paused, as if expecting some expression of disbelief fromKent. When none came, he demanded, "Was that according to the Criminal Code? Was it, Kent?"

"Not exactly. But, coming from the S. O. D. , it was law. "

"And I obeyed it, " grunted the staff-sergeant. "And if you could haveseen McTrigger! When I told him he was free, and unlocked his cell, hecame out of it gropingly, like a blind man. And he would go no fartherthan the Inspector's office. He said he would wait there for him. "

"And Kedsty?"

O'Connor jumped from his chair and began thumping back and forth acrossthe room again. "Followed the girl, " he exploded. "He couldn't havedone anything else. He lied to me about Cardigan. There wouldn't beanything mysterious about it if he wasn't sixty and she less thantwenty. She was pretty enough! But it wasn't her beauty that made himturn white there in the path. Not on your life it wasn't! I tell you heaged ten years in as many seconds. There was something in that girl'seyes more terrifying to him than a leveled gun, and after he'd lookedinto them, his first thought was of McTrigger, the man you're savingfrom the hangman. It's queer, Kent. The whole business is queer. Andthe queerest of it all is your confession. "

"Yes, it's all very funny, " agreed Kent. "That's what I've been tellingmyself right along, old man. You see, a little thing like a bulletchanged it all. For if the bullet hadn't got me, I assure you Iwouldn't have given Kedsty that confession, and an innocent man wouldhave been hanged. As it is, Kedsty is shocked, demoralized. I'm thefirst man to soil the honor of the finest Service on the face of theearth, and I'm in Kedsty's division. Quite natural that he should beupset. And as for the girl--"

He shrugged his shoulders and tried to laugh. "Perhaps she came in thismorning with one of the up-river scows and was merely taking a littleconstitutional, " he suggested. "Didn't you ever notice, O'Connor, thatin a certain light under poplar trees one's face is sometimes ghastly?"

"Yes, I've noticed it, when the trees are in full leaf, but not whenthey're just opening, Jimmy. It was the girl. Her eyes shattered everynerve in him. And his first words were an order for me to freeMcTrigger, coupled with the lie that he was coming back to seeCardigan. And if you could have seen her eyes when she turned them onme! They were blue--blue as violets--but shooting fire. I could imagineblack eyes like that, but not blue ones. Kedsty simply wilted in theirblaze. And there was a reason--I know it--a reason that sent his mindlike lightning to the man in the cell!"

"Now, that you leave me out of it, the thing begins to getinteresting, " said Kent. "It's a matter of the relationship of thisblonde girl and--"

"She isn't blonde--and I'm not leaving you out of it, " interruptedO'Connor. "I never saw anything so black in my life as her hair. It wasmagnificent. If you saw that girl once, you would never forget heragain as long as you lived. She has never been in Athabasca Landingbefore, or anywhere near here. If she had, we surely would have heardabout her. She came for a purpose, and I believe that purpose wasaccomplished when Kedsty gave me the order to free McTrigger. "

"That's possible, and probable, " agreed Kent. "I always said you werethe best clue-analyst in the force, Bucky. But I don't see where I comein. "

O'Connor smiled grimly. "You don't? Well, I may be both blind and afool, and perhaps a little excited. But it seemed to me that from themoment Inspector Kedsty laid his eyes on that girl he was a little tooanxious to let McTrigger go and hang you in his place. A little tooanxious, Kent. "

The irony of the thing brought a hard smile to Kent's lips as he noddedfor the cigars. "I'll try one of these on top of the pipe, " he said, nipping off the end of the cigar with his teeth. "And you forget thatI'm not going to hang, Bucky. Cardigan has given me until tomorrownight. Perhaps until the next day. Did you see Rossand's fleet leavingfor up north? It made me think of three years ago!"

O'Connor was gripping his hand again. The coldness of it sent a chillinto the staff-sergeant's heart. He rose and looked through the upperpart of the window, so that the twitching in his throat was hidden fromKent. Then he went to the door. 

"I'll see you again tomorrow, " he said. "And if I find out anythingmore about the girl, I'll report. "

He tried to laugh, but there was a tremble in his voice, a break in thehumor he attempted to force. 

Kent listened to the tramp of his heavy feet as they went down the hall. 

CHAPTER III

Again the world came back to Kent, the world that lay just beyond hisopen window. But scarcely had O'Connor gone when it began to change, and in spite of his determination to keep hold of his nerve Kent feltcreeping up with that change a thing that was oppressive andsmothering. Swiftly the distant billowings of the forests were changingtheir tones and colors under the darkening approach of storm. Thelaughter of the hills and ridges went out. The shimmer of spruce andcedar and balsam turned to a somber black. The flashing gold and silverof birch and poplar dissolved into a ghostly and unanimated gray thatwas almost invisible. A deepening and somber gloom spread itself like aveil over the river that only a short time before had reflected theglory of the sun in the faces of dark-visaged men of the Companybrigade. And with the gloom came steadily nearer a low rumbling ofthunder. 

For the first time since the mental excitement of his confession Kentfelt upon him an appalling loneliness. He still was not afraid ofdeath, but a part of his philosophy was gone. It was, after all, adifficult thing to die alone. He felt that the pressure in his chestwas perceptible greater than it had been an hour or two before, and thethought grew upon him that it would be a terrible thing for the"explosion" to come when the sun was not shining. He wanted O'Connorback again. He had the desire to call out for Cardigan. He would havewelcomed Father Layonne with a glad cry. Yet more than all else wouldhe have had at his side in these moments of distress a woman. For thestorm, as it massed heavier and nearer, filling the earth with itsdesolation, bridged vast spaces for him, and he found himself suddenlyface to face with the might-have-beens of yesterday. 

He saw, as he had never guessed before, the immeasurable gulf betweenhelplessness and the wild, brute freedom of man, and his soul criedout--not for adventure, not for the savage strength of life--but forthe presence of a creature frailer than himself, yet in the gentletouch of whose hand lay the might of all humanity. 

He struggled with himself. He remembered that Dr. Cardigan had told himthere would be moments of deep depression, and he tried to fighthimself out of the grip of this that was on him. There was a bell athand, but he refused to use it, for he sensed his own cowardice. Hiscigar had gone out, and he relighted it. He made an effort to bring hismind back to O'Connor, and the mystery girl, and Kedsty. He tried tovisualize McTrigger, the man he had saved from the hangman, waiting forKedsty in the office at barracks. He pictured the girl, as O'Connor haddescribed her, with her black hair and blue eyes--and then the stormbroke. 

The rain came down in a deluge, and scarcely had it struck when thedoor opened and Cardigan hurried in to close the window. He remainedfor half an hour, and after that young Mercer, one of his twoassistants, came in at intervals. Late in the afternoon it began toclear up, and Father Layonne returned with papers properly made out forKent's signature. He was with Kent until sundown, when Mercer came inwith supper. 

Between that hour and ten o'clock Kent observed a vigilance on the partof Dr. Cardigan which struck him as being unusual. Four times helistened with the stethoscope at his chest, but when Kent asked thequestion which was in his mind, Cardigan shook his head. 

"It's no worse, Kent. I don't think it will happen tonight. "

In spite of this assurance Kent was positive there was in Cardigan'smanner an anxiety of a different quality than he had perceived earlierin the day. The thought was a definite and convincing one. He believedthat Cardigan was smoothing the way with a professional lie. 

He had no desire to sleep. His light was turned low, and his window wasopen again, for the night had cleared. Never had air tasted sweeter tohim than that which came in through his window. The little bell in hiswatch tinkled the hour of eleven, when he heard Cardigan's door closefor a last time across the hall. After that everything was quiet. Hedrew himself nearer to the window, so that by leaning forward he couldrest himself partly on the sill. He loved the night. The mystery andlure of those still hours of darkness when the world slept had neverceased to hold their fascination for him. Night and he were friends. Hehad discovered many of its secrets. A thousand times he had walked handin hand with the spirit of it, approaching each time a little nearer tothe heart of it, mastering its life, its sound, the whisperinglanguages of that "other side of life" which rises quietly and as if infear to live and breathe long after the sun has gone out. To him it wasmore wonderful than day. 

And this night that lay outside his window now was magnificent. Stormhad washed the atmosphere between earth and sky, and it seemed asthough the stars had descended nearer to his forests, shining in goldenconstellations. The moon was coming up late, and he watched the ruddyglow of it as it rode up over the wilderness, a splendid queen enteringupon a stage already prepared by the lesser satellites for her coming. No longer was Kent oppressed or afraid. In still deeper inhalations hedrank the night air into his lungs, and in him there seemed to growslowly a new strength. His eyes and ears were wide open and attentive. The town was asleep, but a few lights burned dimly here and there alongthe river's edge, and occasionally a lazy sound came up to him--theclink of a scow chain, the bark of a dog, the rooster crowing. In spiteof himself he smiled at that. Old Duperow's rooster was a foolish birdand always crowed himself hoarse when the moon was bright. And in frontof him, not far away, were two white, lightning-shriven spruce stubsstanding like ghosts in the night. In one of these a pair of owls hadnested, and Kent listened to the queer, chuckling notes of theirhoneymooning and the flutter of their wings as they darted out now andthen in play close to his window. And then suddenly he heard the sharpsnap of their beaks. An enemy was prowling near, and the owls weregiving warning. He thought he heard a step. In another moment or twothe step was unmistakable. Some one was approaching his window from theend of the building. He leaned over the sill and found himself staringinto O'Connor's face. 

"These confounded feet of mine!" grunted the staff-sergeant. "Were youasleep, Kent?"

"Wide-awake as those owls, " assured Kent. 

O'Connor drew up to the window. "I saw your light and thought you wereawake, " he said. "I wanted to make sure Cardigan wasn't with you. Idon't want him to know I am here. And--if you don't mind--will you turnoff the light? Kedsty is awake, too--as wide-awake as the owls. "

Kent reached out a hand, and his room was in darkness except for theglow of moon and stars. O'Connor's bulk at the window shut out a partof this. His face was half in gloom. 

"It's a crime to come to you like this, Kent, " he said, keeping his bigvoice down to a whisper. "But I had to. It's my last chance. And I knowthere's something wrong. Kedsty is getting me out of the way--because Iwas with him when he met the girl over in the poplar bush. I'm detailedon special duty up at Fort Simpson, two thousand miles by water if it'sa foot! It means six months or a year. We leave in the motor boat atdawn to overtake Rossand and his outfit, so I had to take this chanceof seeing you. I hesitated until I knew that some one was awake in yourroom. "

"I'm glad you came, " said Kent warmly. "And--good God, how I would liketo go with you, Bucky! If it wasn't for this thing in my chest, ballooning up for an explosion--"

"I wouldn't be going, " interrupted O'Connor in a low voice. "If youwere on your feet, Kent, there are a number of things that wouldn't behappening. Something mighty queer has come over Kedsty since thismorning. He isn't the Kedsty you knew yesterday or for the last tenyears. He's nervous, and I miss my guess if he isn't constantly on thewatch for some one. And he's afraid of me. I know it. He's afraid of mebecause I saw him go to pieces when he met that girl. Fort Simpson issimply a frame-up to get me away for a time. He tried to smooth theedge off the thing by promising me an inspectorship within the year. That was this afternoon, just before the storm. Since then--"

O'Connor turned and faced the moonlight for a moment. 

"Since then I've been on a still-hunt for the girl and SandyMcTrigger, " he added. "And they've disappeared, Kent. I guess McTriggerjust melted away into the woods. But it's the girl that puzzles me. I've questioned every scow cheman at the Landing. I've investigatedevery place where she might have got food or lodging, and I bribedMooie, the old trailer, to search the near-by timber. The unbelievablepart of it isn't her disappearance. It's the fact that not a soul inAthabasca Landing has seen her! Sounds incredible, doesn't it? Andthen, Kent, the big hunch came to me. Remember how we've always playedup to the big hunch? And this one struck me strong. I think I knowwhere the girl is. "

Kent, forgetful of his own impending doom, was deeply interested in thethrill of O'Connor's mystery. He had begun to visualize the situation. More than once they had worked out enigmas of this kind together, andthe staff-sergeant saw the old, eager glow in his eyes. And Kentchuckled joyously in that thrill of the game of man-hunting, and said:

"Kedsty is a bachelor and doesn't even so much as look at a woman. Buthe likes home life--"

"And has built himself a log bungalow somewhat removed from the town, "added O'Connor. 

"And his Chinaman cook and housekeeper is away. "

"And the bungalow is closed, or supposed to be. "

"Except at night, when Kedsty goes there to sleep. "

O'Connor's hand gripped Kent's. "Jimmy, there never was a team in NDivision that could beat us, The girl is hiding at Kedsty's place!"

"But why HIDING?" insisted Kent. "She hasn't committed a crime. "

O'Connor sat silent for a moment. Kent could hear him stuffing the bowlof his pipe. 

"It's simply the big hunch, " he grunted. "It's got hold of me, Kent, and I can't throw it off. Why, man--"

He lighted a match in the cup of his hands, and Kent saw his face. There was more than uncertainty in the hard, set lines of it. 

"You see, I went back to the poplars again after I left you today, "O'Connor went on. "I found her footprints. She had turned off thetrail, and in places they were very clear. 

"She had on high-heeled shoes, Kent--those Frenchy things--and I swearher feet can't be much bigger than a baby's! I found where Kedstycaught up with her, and the moss was pretty well beaten down. Hereturned through the poplars, but the girl went on and into the edge ofthe spruce. I lost her trail there. By traveling in that timber it waspossible for her to reach Kedsty's bungalow without being seen. It musthave been difficult going, with shoes half as big as my hand and heelstwo inches high! And I've been wondering, why didn't she wearbush-country shoes or moccasins?"

"Because she came from the South and not the North, " suggested Kent. "Probably up from Edmonton. "

"Exactly. And Kedsty wasn't expecting her, was he? If he had been, thatfirst sight of her wouldn't have shattered every nerve in his body. That's why the big hunch won't let loose of me, Kent. From the momenthe saw her, he was a different man. His attitude toward you changedinstantly. If he could save you now by raising his little finger, hewouldn't do it, simply because it's absolutely necessary for him tohave an excuse for freeing McTrigger. Your confession came at just thepsychological moment. The girl's unspoken demand there in the poplarswas that he free McTrigger, and it was backed up by a threat whichKedsty understood and which terrified him to his marrow. McTrigger musthave seen him afterward, for he waited at the office until Kedsty came. I don't know what passed between them. Constable Doyle says they weretogether for half an hour. Then McTrigger walked out of barracks, andno one has seen him since. It's mighty queer. The whole thing is queer. And the queerest part of the whole business is this sudden commissionof mine at Fort Simpson. "

Kent leaned back against his pillows. His breath came in a series ofshort, hacking coughs. In the star glow O'Connor saw his face growsuddenly haggard and tired-looking, and he leaned far in so that inboth his own hands he held one of Kent's. 

"I'm tiring you, Jimmy, " he said huskily. "Good-by, old pal! I--I--" Hehesitated and then lied steadily. "I'm going up to take a look aroundKedsty's place. I won't be gone more than half an hour and will stop onmy way back. If you're asleep--"

"I won't be asleep, " said Kent. 

O'Connor's hands gripped closer. "Good-by, Jimmy. "

"Good-by. " And then, as O'Connor stepped back into the night, Kent'svoice called after him softly: "I'll be with you on the long trip, Bucky. Take care of yourself--always. "

O'Connor's answer was a sob, a sob that rose in his throat like a greatfist, and choked him, and filled his eyes with scalding tears that shutout the glow of moon and stars. And he did not go toward Kedsty's, buttrudged heavily in the direction of the river, for he knew that Kenthad called his lie, and that they had said their last farewell. 

CHAPTER IV

It was a long time after O'Connor had gone before Kent at last fellasleep. It was a slumber weighted with the restlessness of a brainfighting to the last against exhaustion and the inevitable end. Astrange spirit seemed whirling Kent back through the years he hadlived, even to the days of his boyhood, leaping from crest to crest, giving to him swift and passing visions of valleys almost forgotten, ofhappenings and things long ago faded and indistinct in his memory. Vividly his dreams were filled with ghosts--ghosts that weretransformed, as his spirit went back to them, until they were riotouswith life and pulsating with the red blood of reality. He was a boyagain, playing three-old-cat in front of the little old red brickschoolhouse half a mile from the farm where he was born, and where hismother had died. 

And Skinny Hill, dead many years ago, was his partner at thebat--lovable Skinny, with his smirking grin and his breath that alwayssmelled of the most delicious onions ever raised in Ohio. And then, atdinner hour, he was trading some of his mother's cucumber pickles forsome of Skinny's onions--two onions for a pickle, and never a change inthe price. And he played old-fashioned casino with his mother, and theywere picking blackberries together in the woods, and he killed overagain a snake that he had clubbed to death more than twenty years ago, while his mother ran away and screamed and then sat down and cried. 

He had worshiped that mother, and the spirit of his dreams did not lethim look down into the valley where she lay dead, under a little whitestone in the country cemetery a thousand miles away, with his fatherclose beside her. But it gave him a passing thrill of the days in whichhe had fought his way through college--and then it brought him into theNorth, his beloved North. 

For hours the wilderness was heavy about Kent. He moved restlessly, attimes he seemed about to awaken, but always he slipped back into theslumberous arms of his forests. He was on the trail in the cold, graybeginning of Winter, and the glow of his campfire made a radiant patchof red glory in the heart of the night, and close to him in that glowsat O'Connor. He was behind dogs and sledge, fighting storm; dark andmysterious streams rippled under his canoe; he was on the Big River, O'Connor with him again--and then, suddenly, he was holding a blazinggun in his hand, and he and O'Connor stood with their backs to a rack, facing the bloodthirsty rage of McCaw and his free-traders. The roar ofthe guns half roused him, and after that came pleasanter things--thedroning of wind in the spruce tops, the singing of swollen streams inSpringtime, the songs of birds, the sweet smells of life, the glory oflife as he had lived it, he and O'Connor. In the end, half betweensleep and wakefulness, he was fighting a smothering pressure on hischest. It was an oppressive and torturing thing, like the tree that hadfallen on him over in the Jackfish country, and he felt himselfslipping off into darkness. Suddenly there was a gleam of light. Heopened his eyes. The sun was flooding in at his window, and the weighton his chest was the gentle pressure of Cardigan's stethoscope. 

In spite of the physical stress of the phantoms which his mind hasconceived, Kent awakened so quietly that Cardigan was not conscious ofthe fact until he raised his head. There was something in his facewhich he tried to conceal, but Kent caught it before it was gone. Therewere dark hollows under his eyes. He was a bit haggard, as though hehad spent a sleepless night. Kent pulled himself up, squinting at thesun and grinning apologetically. He had slept well along into the day, and--

He caught himself with a sudden grimace of pain. A flash of somethinghot and burning swept through his chest. It was like a knife. He openedhis mouth to breathe in the air. The pressure inside him was no longerthe pressure of a stethoscope. It was real. 

Cardigan, standing over him, was trying to look cheerful. "Too much ofthe night air, Kent, " he explained. "That will pass away--soon. "

It seemed to Kent that Cardigan gave an almost imperceptible emphasisto the word "soon, " but he asked no question. He was quite sure that heunderstood, and he knew how unpleasant for Cardigan the answer to itwould be. He fumbled under his pillow for his watch. It was nineo'clock. Cardigan was moving about uneasily, arranging the things onthe table and adjusting the shade at the window. For a few moments, with his back to Kent, he stood without moving. Then he turned, andsaid:

"Which will you have, Kent--a wash-up and breakfast, or a visitor?"

"I am not hungry, and I don't feel like soap and water just now. Who'sthe visitor? Father Layonne or--Kedsty?"

"Neither. It's a lady. "

"Then I'd better have the soap and water! Do you mind telling me who itis?"

Cardigan shook his head. "I don't know. I've never seen her before. Shecame this morning while I was still in pajamas, and has been waitingever since. I told her to come back again, but she insisted that shewould remain until you were awake. She has been very patient for twohours. "

A thrill which he made no effort to conceal leaped through Kent. "Isshe a young woman?" he demanded eagerly. "Wonderful black hair, blueeyes, wears high-heeled shoes just about half as big as your hand--andvery beautiful?"

"All of that, " nodded Cardigan. "I even noticed the shoes, Jimmy. Avery beautiful young woman!"

"Please let her come in, " said Kent. "Mercer scrubbed me last night, and I feel fairly fit. She'll forgive this beard, and I'll apologizefor your sake. What is her name?"

"I asked her, and she didn't seem to hear. A little later Mercer askedher, and he said she just looked at him for a moment and he froze. Sheis reading a volume of my Plutarch's 'Lives'--actually reading it. Iknow it by the way she turns the pages!"

Kent drew himself up higher against his pillows and faced the door whenCardigan went out. In a flash all that O'Connor had said swept backupon him--this girl, Kedsty, the mystery of it all. Why had she come tosee him? What could be the motive of her visit--unless it was to thankhim for the confession that had given Sandy McTrigger his freedom?O'Connor was right. She was deeply concerned in McTrigger and had cometo express her gratitude. He listened. Distant footsteps sounded in thehall. They approached quickly and paused outside his door. A hand movedthe latch, but for a moment the door did not open. He heard Cardigan'svoice, then Cardigan's footsteps retreating down the hall. His heartthumped. He could not remember when he had been so upset over anunimportant thing. 

CHAPTER V

The latch moved slowly, and with its movement came a gentle tap on thepanel. 

"Come in, " he said. 

The next instant he was staring. The girl had entered and closed thedoor behind her. O'Connor's picture stood in flesh and blood beforehim. The girl's eyes met his own. They were like glorious violets, asO'Connor had said, but they were not the eyes he had expected to see. They were the wide-open, curious eyes of a child. He had visualizedthem as pools of slumbering flame--the idea O'Connor had given him--andthey were the opposite of that. Their one emotion seemed to be theemotion roused by an overwhelming, questioning curiosity. They wereapparently not regarding him as a dying human being, but as a creatureimmensely interesting to look upon. In place of the gratitude he hadanticipated, they were filled with a great, wondering interrogation, and there was not the slightest hint of embarrassment in their gaze. For a space it seemed to Kent that he saw nothing but those wonderful, dispassionate eyes looking at him. Then he saw the rest of her--heramazing hair, her pale, exquisite face, the slimness and beauty of heras she stood with her back to the door, one hand still resting on thelatch. He had never seen anything quite like her. He might have guessedthat she was eighteen, or twenty, or twenty-two. Her hair, wreathed inshimmering, velvety coils from the back to the crown of her head, struck him as it had struck O'Connor, as unbelievable. The glory of itgave to her an appearance of height which she did not possess, for shewas not tall, and her slimness added to the illusion. 

And then, greatly to his embarrassment in the next instant, his eyeswent to her feet. Again O'Connor was right--tiny feet, high-heeledpumps, ravishingly turned ankles showing under a skirt of some fluffybrown stuff or other--

Correcting himself, his face flushed red. The faintest tremble of asmile was on the girl's lips. She looked down, and for the first timehe saw what O'Connor had seen, the sunlight kindling slumberous firesin her hair. 

Kent tried to say something, but before he succeeded she had takenpossession of the chair near his bedside. 

"I have been waiting a long time to see you, " she said. "You are JamesKent, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Jim Kent. I'm sorry Dr. Cardigan kept you waiting. If I hadknown--"

He was getting a grip on himself again, and smiled at her. He noticedthe amazing length of her dark lashes, but the violet eyes behind themdid not smile back at him. The tranquillity of their gaze wasdisconcerting. It was as if she had not quite made up her mind abouthim yet and was still trying to classify him in the museum of thingsshe had known. 

"He should have awakened me, " Kent went on, trying to keep himself fromslipping once more. "It isn't polite to keep a young lady waiting twohours!"

This time the blue eyes made him feel that his smile was a maudlin grin. 

"Yes--you are different. " She spoke softly, as if expressing thethought to herself. "That is what I came to find out, if you weredifferent. You are dying?"

"My God--yes--I'm dying!" gasped Kent. "According to Dr. Cardigan I'mdue to pop off this minute. Aren't you a little nervous, sitting sonear to a man who's ready to explode while you're looking at him?"

For the first time the eyes changed. She was not facing the window, yeta glow like the glow of sunlight flashed into them, soft, luminous, almost laughing. 

"No, it doesn't frighten me, " she assured him. "I have always thought Ishould like to see a man die--not quickly, like drowning or being shot, but slowly, an inch at a time. But I shouldn't like to see YOU die. "

"I'm glad, " breathed Kent. "It's a great satisfaction to me. "

"Yet I shouldn't be frightened if you did. "

"Oh!"

Kent drew himself up straighter against his pillows. He had been a manof many adventures. He had faced almost every conceivable kind ofshock. But this was a new one. He stared into the blue eyes, tonguelessand mentally dazed. They were cool and sweet and not at all excited. And he knew that she spoke the truth. Not by a quiver of those lovelylashes would she betray either fear or horror if he popped off rightthere. It was astonishing. 

Something like resentment shot for an instant into his bewilderedbrain. Then it was gone, and in a flash it came upon him that she wasbut uttering his own philosophy of life, showing him life's cheapness, life's littleness, the absurdity of being distressed by looking uponthe light as it flickered out. And she was doing it, not as aphilosopher, but with the beautiful unconcern of a child. 

Suddenly, as if impelled by an emotion in direct contradiction to herapparent lack of sympathy, she reached out a hand and placed it onKent's forehead. It was another shock. It was not a professional touch, but a soft, cool little pressure that sent a comforting thrill throughhim. The hand was there for only a moment, and she withdrew it toentwine the slim fingers with those of the others in her lap. 

"You have no fever, " she said. "What makes you think you are dying?"

Kent explained what was happening inside him. He was completely shuntedoff his original track of thought and anticipation. He had expected toask for at least a mutual introduction when his visitor came into hisroom, and had anticipated taking upon himself the position of a politeinquisitor. In spite of O'Connor, he had not thought she would be quiteso pretty. He had not believed her eyes would be so beautiful, or theirlashes so long, or the touch of her hand so pleasantly unnerving. Andnow, in place of asking for her name and the reason for her visit, hebecame an irrational idiot, explaining to her certain matters ofphysiology that had to do with aortas and aneurismal sacs. He hadfinished before the absurdity of the situation dawned upon him, andwith absurdity came the humor of it. Even dying, Kent could not fail tosee the funny side of a thing It struck him as suddenly as had thegirl's beauty and her bewildering and unaffected ingenuousness. 

Looking at him, that same glow of mysterious questioning in her eyes, the girl found him suddenly laughing straight into her face. 

"This is funny. It's very funny, Miss--Miss--"

"Marette, " she supplied, answering his hesitation. 

"It's funny, Miss Marette. "

"Not Miss Marette. Just Marette, " she corrected. 

"I say, it's funny, " he tried again. "You see, it's not so terriblypleasant as you might think to--er--be here, where I am, dying. Andlast night I thought about the finest thing in the world would be tohave a woman beside me, a woman who'd be sort of sympathetic, you know, ease the thing off a little, maybe say she was sorry. And then the Lordanswers my prayer, and YOU come--and you sort of give me the impressionthat you made the appointment with yourself to see how a fellow lookswhen he pops off. "

The shimmer of light came into the blue eyes again. She seemed to havedone with her mental analysis of him, and he saw that a bit of colorwas creeping into her cheeks, pale when she had entered the room. 

"You wouldn't be the first I've seen pop off, " she assured him. "Therehave been a number, and I've never cried very much. I'd rather see aman die than some animals. But I shouldn't like to see YOU do it. Doesthat comfort you--like the woman you prayed the Lord for?"

"It does, " gasped Kent. "But why the devil, Miss Marette--"

"Marette, " she corrected again. 

"Yes, Marette--why the devil have you come to see me at just the momentI'm due to explode? And what's your other name, and how old are you, and what do you want of me?"

"I haven't any other name, I'm twenty, and I came to get acquaintedwith you and see what you are like. "

"Bully!" exclaimed Kent. "We're getting there fast! And now, why?"

The girl drew her chair a few inches nearer, and for a moment Kentthought that her lovely mouth was trembling on the edge of a smile. 

"Because you have lied so splendidly to save another man who was aboutto die. "

"Et tu, Brute!" sighed Kent, leaning back against his pillows. "Isn'tit possible for a decent man to kill another man and not be called aliar when he tells about it? Why do so many believe that I lie?"

"They don't, " said the girl. "They believe you--now. You have gone socompletely into the details of the murder in your confession that theyare quite convinced. It would be too bad if you lived, for you surelywould be hanged. Your lie sounds and reads like the truth. But I knowit is a lie. You did not kill John Barkley. "

"And the reason for your suspicion?"

For fully half a minute the girl's eyes rested on, his own. Again theyseemed to be looking through him and into him. "Because I know the manwho DID kill him, " she said quietly, "and it was not you. "

Kent made a mighty effort to appear calm. He reached for a cigar fromthe box that Cardigan had placed on his bed, and nibbled the end of it. "Has some one else been confessing?" he asked. 

She shook her head the slightest bit. 

"Did you--er--see this other gentleman kill John Barkley?" he insisted. 

"No. "

"Then I must answer you as I have answered at least one other. I killedJohn Barkley. If you suspect some other person, your suspicion iswrong. "

"What a splendid liar!" she breathed softly. "Don't you believe in God?"

Kent winced. "In a large, embracing sense, yes, " he said. "I believe inHim, for instance, as revealed to our senses in all that living, growing glory you see out there through the window Nature and I havebecome pretty good pals, and you see I've sort of built up a mothergoddess to worship instead of a he-god. Sacrilege, maybe, but it's agreat comfort at times. But you didn't come to talk religion?"

The lovely head bent still nearer him. He felt an impelling desire toput up his hand and touch her shining hair, as she laid her hand on hisforehead. 

"I know who killed John Barkley, " she insisted. "I know how and whenand why he was killed. Please tell me the truth. I want to know. Whydid you confess to a crime which you did not commit?"

Kent took time to light his cigar. The girl watched him closely, almosteagerly. 

"I may be mad, " he said. "It is possible for any human being to be madand not know it. That's the funny part about insanity. But if I'm notinsane, I killed Barkley; if I didn't kill him, I must be insane, forI'm very well convinced that I did. Either that, or you are insane. Ihave my suspicions that you are. Would a sane person wear pumps withheels like those up here?" He pointed accusingly to the floor. 

For the first time the girl smiled, openly, frankly, gloriously. It wasas if her heart had leaped forth for an instant and had greeted him. And then, like sunlight shadowed by cloud, the smile was gone. "You area brave man, " she said. "You are splendid. I hate men. But I think ifyou lived very long, I should love you. I will believe that you killedBarkley. You compel me to believe it. You confessed, when you found youwere going to die, that an innocent man might be saved. Wasn't that it?"

Kent nodded weakly. "That's it. I hate to think of it that way, but Iguess it's true. I confessed because I knew I was going to die. Otherwise I am quite sure that I should have let the other fellow takemy medicine for me. You must think I am a beast. "

"All men are beasts, " she agreed quickly. "But you are--a differentkind of beast. I like you. If there were a chance, I might fight foryou. I can fight. " She held up her two small hands, half smiling at himagain. 

"But not with those, " he exclaimed. "I think you would fight with youreyes. O'Connor told me they half killed Kedsty when you met them in thepoplar grove yesterday. "

He had expected that the mention of Inspector Kedsty's name woulddisturb her. It had no effect that he could perceive. 

"O'Connor was the big, red-faced man with Mr. Kedsty?"

"Yes, my trail partner. He came to me yesterday and raved about youreyes. They ARE beautiful; I've never seen eyes half so lovely. But thatwasn't what struck Bucky so hard. It was the effect they had on Kedsty. He said they shattered every nerve in Kedsty's body, and Kedsty isn'tthe sort to get easily frightened. And the queer part of it was thatthe instant you had gone, he gave O'Connor an order to freeMcTrigger--and then turned and followed you. All the rest of that dayO'Connor tried to discover something about you at the Landing. Hecouldn't find hide nor hair--I beg pardon!--I mean he couldn't find outanything about you at all. We made up our minds that for some reason orother you were hiding up at Kedsty's bungalow. You don't mind a fellowsaying all this--when he is going to pop off soon--do you?"

He was half frightened at the directness with which he had expressedthe thing. He would gladly have buried his own curiosity and all ofO'Connor's suspicions for another moment of her hand on his forehead. But it was out, and he waited. 

She was looking down, her fingers twisting some sort of tasseled dressornament in her lap, and Kent mentally measured the length of herlashes with a foot rule in mind. They were superb, and in the thrill ofhis admiration he would have sworn they were an inch long. She lookedup suddenly and caught the glow in his eyes and the flush that layunder the tan of his cheeks. Her own color had deepened a little. 

"What if you shouldn't die?" she asked him bluntly, as if she had notheard a word of all he had said about Kedsty. "What would you do?"

"I'm going to. "

"But if you shouldn't?"

Kent shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I'd have to take my medicine. You're not going?"

She had straightened up and was sitting on the edge of her chair. "Yes, I'm going. I'm afraid of my eyes. I may look at you as I looked at Mr. Kedsty, and then--pop you'd go, quick! And I don't want to be here whenyou die!"

He heard a soft little note of laughter in her throat. It sent a chillthrough him. What an adorable, blood-thirsty little wretch she was! Hestared at her bent head, at the shining coils of her wonderful hair. Undone, he could see it completely hiding her. And it was so soft andwarm that again he was tempted to reach out and touch it. She waswonderful, and yet it was not possible that she had a heart. Herapparent disregard of the fact that he was a dying man was almostdiabolic. There was no sympathy in the expression of her violet eyes asshe looked at him. She was even making fun of the fact that he wasabout to die!

She stood up, surveying for the first time the room in which she hadbeen sitting. Then she turned to the window and looked out. Shereminded Kent of a beautiful young willow that had grown at the edge ofa stream, exquisite, slender, strong. He could have picked her up inhis arms as easily as a child, yet he sensed in the lithe beauty of herbody forces that could endure magnificently. The careless poise of herhead fascinated him. For that head and the hair that crowned it he knewthat half the women of the earth would have traded precious years oftheir lives. 

And then, without turning toward him, she said, "Some day, when I die, I wish I might have as pleasant a room as this. "

"I hope you never die, " he replied devoutly. 

She came back and stood for a moment beside him. 

"I have had a very pleasant time, " she said, as though he had given hera special sort of entertainment. "It's too bad you are going to die. I'm sure we should have been good friends. Aren't you?"

"Yes, very sure. If you had only arrived sooner--"

"And I shall always think of you as a different kind of man-beast, " sheinterrupted him. "It is really true that I shouldn't like to see youdie. I want to get away before it happens. Would you care to have mekiss you?"

For an instant Kent felt that his aorta was about to give away. "I--Iwould, " he gasped huskily. 

"Then--close your eyes, please. "

He obeyed. She bent over him. He felt the soft touch of her hands andcaught for an instant the perfume of her face and hair, and then thethrill of her lips pressed warm and soft upon his. 

She was not flushed or embarrassed when he looked at her again. It wasas if she had kissed a baby and was wondering at its red face. "I'veonly kissed three men before you, " she avowed. "It is strange. I neverthought I should do it again. And now, good-by!" She moved quickly tothe door. 

"Wait, " he cried plaintively. "Please wait. I want to know your name. It is Marette--"

"Radisson, " she finished for him. "Marette Radisson, and I come fromaway off there, from a place we call the Valley of Silent Men. " She waspointing into the north. 

"The North!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, it is far north. Very far. "

Her hand was on the latch. The door opened slowly. 

"Wait, " he pleaded again. "You must not go. "

"Yes, I must go. I have remained too long. I am sorry I kissed you. Ishouldn't have done that. But I had to because you are such a splendidliar!"

The door opened quickly and closed behind her. He heard her stepsalmost running down the hall, where not long ago he had listened to thelast of O'Connor's. 

And then there was silence, and in that silence he heard her wordsagain, drumming like little hammers in his head, "BECAUSE YOU ARE SUCHA SPLENDID LIAR!"

CHAPTER VI

James Kent, among his other qualities good and bad, possessed amerciless opinion of his own shortcomings, but never, in that opinion, had he fallen so low as in the interval which immediately followed theclosing of his door behind the mysterious girl who had told him thather name was Marette Radisson. No sooner was she gone than theoverwhelming superiority of her childlike cleverness smote him until, ashamed of himself, he burned red in his aloneness. 

He, Sergeant Kent, the coolest man on the force next to InspectorKedsty, the most dreaded of catechists when questioning criminals, theman who had won the reputation of facing quietly and with deadlysureness the most menacing of dangers, had been beaten--horriblybeaten--by a girl! And yet, in defeat, an irrepressible and at timesdistorted sense of humor made him give credit to the victor. The shameof the thing was his acknowledgment that a bit of feminine beauty haddone the trick. He had made fun of O'Connor when the big staff-sergeanthad described the effect of the girl's eyes on Inspector Kedsty. And, now, if O'Connor could know of what had happened here--

And then, like a rubber ball, that saving sense of humor bounced up outof the mess, and Kent found himself chuckling as his face grew cooler. His visitor had come, and she had gone, and he knew no more about herthan when she had entered his room, except that her very pretty namewas Marette Radisson. He was just beginning to think of the questionshe had wanted to ask, a dozen, half a hundred of them--more definitelywho she was; how and why she had come to Athabasca Landing; herinterest in Sandy McTrigger; the mysterious relationship that mustsurely exist between her and Inspector Kedsty; and, chiefly, her realmotive in coming to him when she knew that he was dying. He comfortedhimself by the assurance that he would have learned these things hadshe not left him so suddenly. He had not expected that. 

The question which seated itself most insistently in his mind was, whyhad she come? Was it, after all, merely a matter of curiosity? Was herrelationship to Sandy McTrigger such that inquisitiveness alone hadbrought her to see the man who had saved him? Surely she had not beenurged by a sense of gratitude, for in no way had she given expressionto that. On his death-bed she had almost made fun of him. And she couldnot have come as a messenger from McTrigger, or she would have left hermessage. For the first time he began to doubt that she knew the man atall, in spite of the strange thing that had happened under O'Connor'seyes. But she must know Kedsty. She had made no answer to hishalf-accusation that she was hiding up at the Inspector's bungalow. Hehad used that word--"hiding. " It should have had an effect. And she wasas beautifully unconscious of it as though she had not heard him, andhe knew that she had heard him very distinctly. It was then that shehad given him that splendid view of her amazingly long lashes and hadcountered softly, "What if you shouldn't die?"

Kent felt himself suddenly aglow with an irresistible appreciation ofthe genius of her subtlety, and with that appreciation came a thrill ofdeeper understanding. He believed that he knew why she had left him sosuddenly. It was because she had seen herself close to the danger-line. There were things which she did not want him to know or question herabout, and his daring intimation that she was hiding in Kedsty'sbungalow had warned her. Was it possible that Kedsty himself had senther for some reason which he could not even guess at? Positively it wasnot because of McTrigger, the man he had saved. At least she would havethanked him in some way. She would not have appeared quite so adorablycold-blooded, quite so sweetly unconscious of the fact that he wasdying. If McTrigger's freedom had meant anything to her, she could nothave done less than reveal to him a bit of sympathy. And her greatestcompliment, if he excepted the kiss, was that she had called him asplendid liar!

Kent grimaced and drew in a deep breath because of the tightness in hischest. Why was it that every one seemed to disbelieve him? Why was itthat even this mysterious girl, whom he had never seen before in hislife, politely called him a liar when he insisted that he had killedJohn Barkley? Was the fact of murder necessarily branded in one's face?If so, he had never observed it. Some of the hardest criminals he hadbrought in from the down-river country were likable-looking men. Therewas Horrigan, for instance, who for seven long weeks kept him in goodhumor with his drollery, though he was bringing him in to be hanged. And there were McTab, and le Bete Noir--the Black Beast--a lovablevagabond in spite of his record, and Le Beau, the gentlemanly robber ofthe wilderness mail, and half a dozen others he could recall withoutany effort at all. No one called them liars when, like real men, theyconfessed their crimes when they saw their game was up. To a man theyhad given up the ghost with their boots on, and Kent respected theirmemory because of it. And he was dying--and even this stranger girlcalled him a liar? And no case had ever been more complete than hisown. He had gone mercilessly into the condemning detail of it all. Itwas down in black and white. He had signed it. And still he wasdisbelieved. It was funny, deuced funny, thought Kent. 

Until young Mercer opened the door and came in with his late breakfast, he had forgotten that he had really been hungry when he awakened withCardigan's stethoscope at his chest. Mercer had amused him from thefirst. The pink-faced young Englishman, fresh from the old country, could not conceal in his face and attitude the fact that he was walkingin the presence of the gallows whenever he entered the room. He was, ashe had confided in Cardigan, "beastly hit up" over the thing. To feedand wash a man who would undoubtedly die, but who would be hanged bythe neck until he was dead if he lived, filled him with peculiar and attimes conspicuous emotions. It was like attending to a living corpse, if such a thing could be conceived. And Mercer had conceived it. Kenthad come to regard him as more or less of a barometer giving awayCardigan's secrets. He had not told Cardigan, but had kept thediscovery for his own amusement. 

This morning Mercer's face was less pink, and his pale eyes were paler, Kent thought. Also he started to sprinkle sugar on his eggs in place ofsalt. 

Kent laughed and stopped his hand. "You may sugar my eggs when I'mdead, Mercer, " he said, "but while I'm alive I want salt on 'em! Do youknow, old man, you look bad this morning. Is it because this is my lastbreakfast?"

"I hope not, sir, I hope not, " replied Mercer quickly. "Indeed, I hopeyou are going to live, sir. "

"Thanks!" said Kent dryly. "Where is Cardigan?"

"The Inspector sent a messenger for him, sir. I think he has gone tosee him. Are your eggs properly done, sir?"

"Mercer, if you ever worked in a butler's pantry, for the love ofheaven forget it now!" exploded Kent, "I want you to tell me somethingstraight out. How long have I got?"

Mercer fidgeted for a moment, and a shade or two more of the red wentout of his face. "I can't say, sir. Doctor Cardigan hasn't told me. ButI think not very long, sir. Doctor Cardigan is cut up all in rags thismorning. And Father Layonne is coming to see you at any moment. "

"Much obliged, " nodded Kent, calmly beginning his second egg. "And, bythe way, what did you think of the young lady?"

"Ripping, positively ripping!" exclaimed Mercer. 

"That's the word, " agreed Kent. "Ripping. It sounds like the calicocounter in a dry-goods store, but means a lot. Don't happen to knowwhere she is staying or why she is at the Landing, do you?"

He knew that he was asking a foolish question and scarcely expected ananswer from Mercer. He was astonished when the other said:

"I heard Doctor Cardigan ask her if we might expect her to honor uswith another visit, and she told him it would be impossible, becauseshe was leaving on a down-river scow tonight. Fort Simpson, I think shesaid she was going to, sir. "

"The deuce you say!" cried Kent, spilling a bit of his coffee in thethrill of the moment. "Why, that's where Staff-Sergeant O'Connor isbound for!"

"So I heard Doctor Cardigan tell her. But she didn't reply to that. Shejust--went. If you don't mind a little joke in your present condition, sir, I might say that Doctor Cardigan was considerably flayed up overher. A deuced pretty girl, sir, deuced pretty! And I think he was shotthrough!"

"Now you're human, Mercer. She was pretty, wasn't she?"

"Er--yes--stunningly so, Mr. Kent, " agreed Mercer, reddening suddenlyto the roots of his pasty, blond hair. "I don't mind confessing that inthis unusual place her appearance was quite upsetting. "

"I agree with you, friend Mercer, " nodded Kent. "She upset me. And--seehere, old man!--will you do a dying man the biggest favor he ever askedin his life?"

"I should be most happy, sir, most happy. "

"It's this, " said Kent. "I want to know if that girl actually leaves onthe down-river scow tonight. If I'm alive tomorrow morning, will youtell me?"

"I shall do my best, sir. "

"Good. It's simply the silly whim of a dying man, Mercer. But I want tobe humored in it. And I'm sensitive--like yourself. I don't wantCardigan to know. There's an old Indian named Mooie, who lives in ashack just beyond the sawmill. Give him ten dollars and tell him thereis another ten in it if he sees the business through, and reportsproperly to you, and keeps his mouth shut afterward. Here--the money isunder my pillow. "

Kent pulled out a wallet and put fifty dollars in Mercer's hands. 

"Buy cigars with the rest of it, old man. It's of no more use to me. And this little trick you are going to pull off is worth it. It's mylast fling on earth, you might say. "

"Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you. "

Mercer belonged to a class of wandering Englishmen typical of theCanadian West, the sort that sometimes made real Canadians wonder why abig and glorious country like their own should cling to the mothercountry. Ingratiating and obsequiously polite at all times, he gave onethe impression of having had splendid training as a servant, yet hadthis intimation been made to him, he would have become highlyindignant. Kent had learned their ways pretty well. He had met them inall sorts of places, for one of their inexplicable characteristics wasthe recklessness and apparent lack of judgment with which they locatedthemselves. Mercer, for instance, should have held a petty clerical jobof some kind in a city, and here he was acting as nurse in the heart ofa wilderness!

After Mercer had gone with the breakfast things and the money, Kentrecalled a number of his species. And he knew that under their veneerof apparent servility was a thing of courage and daring which neededonly the right kind of incentive to rouse it. And when roused, it waspeculiarly efficient in a secretive, artful-dodger sort of way. Itwould not stand up before a gun. But it would creep under the mouths ofguns on a black night. And Kent was positive his fifty dollars wouldbring him results--if he lived. 

Just why he wanted the information he was after, he could not have toldhimself. It was a pet aphorism between O'Connor and him that they hadoften traveled to success on the backs of their hunches. And hisproposition to Mercer was made on the spur of one of those moments whenthe spirit of a hunch possessed him. His morning had been one ofunexpected excitement, and now he leaned back in an effort to review itand to forget, if he could, the distressing thing that was bound tohappen to him within the next few hours. But he could not get away fromthe thickening in his chest. It seemed growing on him. Now and then hewas compelled to make quite an effort to get sufficient air into hislungs. 

He found himself wondering if there was a possibility that the girlmight return. For a long time he lay thinking about her, and it struckhim as incongruous and in bad taste that fate should have left thisadventure for his last. If he had met her six months ago--or eventhree--it was probable that she would so have changed the events oflife for him that he would not have got the half-breed's bullet in hischest. He confessed the thing unblushingly. The wilderness had takenthe place of woman for him. It had claimed him, body and soul. He haddesired nothing beyond its wild freedom and its never-ending games ofchance. He had dreamed, as every man dreams, but realities and not thedreams had been the red pulse of his life. And yet, if this girl hadcome sooner--

He revisioned for himself over and over again her hair and eyes, theslimness of her as she had stood at the window, the freedom andstrength of that slender body, the poise of her exquisite head, and hefelt again the thrill of her hand and the still more wonderful thrillof her lips as she had pressed them warmly upon his. 

AND SHE WAS OF THE NORTH! That was the thought that overwhelmed him. Hedid not permit himself to believe that she might have told him anuntruth. He was confident, if he lived until tomorrow, that Mercerwould corroborate his faith in her. He had never heard of a placecalled the Valley of Silent Men, but it was a big country, and FortSimpson with its Hudson Bay Company's post and its half-dozen shackswas a thousand miles away. He was not sure that such a place as thatvalley really existed. It was easier to believe that the girl's homewas at Fort Providence, Fort Simpson, Fort Good Hope, or even at FortMcPherson. It was not difficult for him to picture her as the daughterof one of the factor lords of the North. Yet this, upon closerconsideration, he gave up as unreasonable. The word "Fort" did notstand for population, and there were probably not more than fifty whitepeople at all the posts between the Great Slave and the Arctic. She wasnot one of these, or the fact would have been known at the Landing. 

Neither could she be a riverman's daughter, for it was inconceivablethat either a riverman or a trapper would have sent this girl down intocivilization, where this girl had undoubtedly been. It was that pointchiefly which puzzled Kent. She was not only beautiful. She had beentutored in schools that were not taught by wilderness missioners. Inher, it seemed to him, he had seen the beauty and the wild freedom ofthe forests as they had come to him straight out of the heart of anancient aristocracy that was born nearly two hundred years ago in theold cities of Quebec and Montreal. 

His mind flashed back at that thought: he remembered the time when hehad sought out every nook and cranny of that ancient town of Quebec, and had stood over graves two centuries old, and deep in his soul hadenvied the dead the lives they had lived. He had always thought ofQuebec as a rare old bit of time-yellowed lace among cities--the heartof the New World as it had once been, still beating, still whisperingof its one-time power, still living in the memory of its mellowedromance, its almost forgotten tragedies--a ghost that lived, that stillbeat back defiantly the destroying modernism that would desecrate itssacred things. And it pleased him to think of Marette Radisson as thespirit of it, wandering north, and still farther north--even as thespirits of the profaned dead had risen from the Landing to go fartheron. 

And feeling that the way had at last been made easy for him, Kentsmiled out into the glorious day and whispered softly, as if she werestanding there, listening to him:

"If I had lived--I would have called you--my Quebec. It's pretty, thatname. It stands for a lot. And so do you. "

And out in the hall, as Kent whispered those words, stood FatherLayonne, with a face that was whiter than the mere presence of deathhad ever made it before. At his side stood Cardigan, aged ten yearssince he had placed his stethoscope at Kent's chest that morning. Andbehind these two were Kedsty, with a face like gray rock, and youngMercer, in whose staring eyes was the horror of a thing he could notyet quite comprehend. Cardigan made an effort to speak and failed. Kedsty wiped his forehead, as he had wiped it the morning of Kent'sconfession. And Father Layonne, as he went to Kent's door, wasbreathing softly to himself a prayer. 

CHAPTER VII

From the window, the glorious day outside, and the vision he had madefor himself of Marette Radisson, Kent turned at the sound of a hand athis door and saw it slowly open. He was expecting it. He had read youngMercer like a book. Mercer's nervousness and the increased tighteningof the thing in his chest had given him warning. The thing was going tohappen soon, and Father Layonne had come. He tried to smile, that hemight greet his wilderness friend cheerfully and unafraid. But thesmile froze when the door opened and he saw the missioner standingthere. 

More than once he had accompanied Father Layonne over the threshold oflife into the presence of death, but he had never before seen in hisface what he saw there now. He stared. The missioner remained in thedoorway, hesitating, as if at the last moment a great fear held himback. For an interval the eyes of the two men rested upon each other ina silence that was like the grip of a living thing. Then Father Layonnecame quietly into the room and closed the door behind him. 

Kent drew a deep breath and tried to grin. "You woke me out of adream, " he said, "a day-dream. I've had a very pleasant experience thismorning, mon pere. "

"So some one was trying to tell me, Jimmy, " replied the littlemissioner with an effort to smile back. 

"Mercer?"

"Yes. He told me about it confidentially. The poor boy must have fallenin love with the young lady. "

"So have I, mon pere. I don't mind confessing it to you. I'm ratherglad. And if Cardigan hadn't scheduled me to die--"

"Jimmy, " interrupted the missioner quickly, but a bit huskily, "has itever occurred to you that Doctor Cardigan may be mistaken?"

He had taken one of Kent's hands. His grip tightened. It began to hurt. And Kent, looking into his eyes, found his brain all at once like ablack room suddenly illuminated by a flash of fire. Drop by drop theblood went out of his face until it was whiter than Father Layonne's. 

"You--you don't--mean--"

"Yes, yes, boy, I mean just that, " said the missioner, in a voice sostrange that it did not seem to be his own. "You are not going to die, Jimmy. You are going to live!"

"Live!" Kent dropped back against his pillows. "LIVE!" His lips gaspedthe one word. 

He closed his eyes for an instant, and it seemed to him that the worldwas aflame. And he repeated the word again, but only his lips formedit, and there came no sound. His senses, strained to the breaking-pointto meet the ordeal of death, gave way slowly to the mighty reaction. Hefelt in those moments like a reeling man. He opened his eyes, and therewas a meaningless green haze through the window where the world shouldhave been. But he heard Father Layonne's voice. It seemed a greatdistance off, but it was very clear. Doctor Cardigan had made an error, it was saying. And Doctor Cardigan, because of that error, was like aman whose heart had been taken out of him. But it was an excusableerror. 

If there had been an X-ray--But there had been none. And DoctorCardigan had made the diagnosis that nine out of ten good surgeonswould probably have made. What he had taken to be the aneurismalblood-rush was an exaggerated heart murmur, and the increasedthickening in his chest was a simple complication brought about by toomuch night air. It was too bad the error had happened. But he must notblame Cardigan!

HE MUST NOT BLAME CARDIGAN! Those last words pounded like an endlessseries of little waves in Kent's brain. He must not blame Cardigan! Helaughed, laughed before his dazed senses readjusted themselves, beforethe world through the window pieced itself into shape again. At leasthe thought he was laughing. He must--not--blame--Cardigan! What anamazingly stupid thing for Father Layonne to say! Blame Cardigan forgiving him back his life? Blame him for the glorious knowledge that hewas not going to die? Blame him for--

Things were coming clearer. Like a bolt slipping into its groove hisbrain found itself. He saw Father Layonne again, with his white, tenseface and eyes in which were still seated the fear and the horror he hadseen in the doorway. It was not until then that he gripped fully at thetruth. 

"I--I see, " he said. "You and Cardigan think it would have been betterif I had died!"

The missioner was still holding his hand. "I don't know, Jimmy, I don'tknow. What has happened is terrible. "

"But not so terrible as death, " cried Kent, suddenly growing rigidagainst his pillows. "Great God, mon pere, I want to live! Oh--"

He snatched his hand free and stretched forth both arms to the openwindow. "Look at it out there! My world again! MY WORLD! I want to goback to it. It's ten times more precious to me now than it was. Whyshould I blame Cardigan? Mon pere--mon pere--listen to me. I can say itnow, because I've got a right to say it. I LIED. I didn't kill JohnBarkley!"

A strange cry fell from Father Layonne's lips. It was a choking cry, acry, not of rejoicing, but of a grief-stung thing. "Jimmy!"

"I swear it! Great heaven, mon pere, don't you believe me?"

The missioner had risen. In his eyes and face was another look. It wasas if in all his life he had never seen James Kent before. It was alook born suddenly of shock, the shock of amazement, of incredulity, ofa new kind of horror. Then swiftly again his countenance changed, andhe put a hand on Kent's head. 

"God forgive you, Jimmy, " he said. "And God help you, too!"

Where a moment before Kent had felt the hot throb of an inundating joy, his heart was chilled now by the thing he sensed in Father Layonne'svoice and saw in his face and eyes. It was not entirely disbelief. Itwas a more hopeless thing than that. 

"You do not believe me!" he said. 

"It is my religion to believe, Jimmy, " replied Father Layonne in agentle voice into which the old calmness had returned. "I must believe, for your sake. But it is not a matter of human sentiment now, lad. Itis the Law! Whatever my heart feels toward you can do you no good. Youare--" He hesitated to speak the words. 

Then it was that Kent saw fully and clearly the whole monstroussituation. It had taken time for it to fasten itself upon him. In ageneral way it had been clear to him a few moments before; now, detailby detail, it closed in upon him, and his muscles tightened, and FatherLayonne saw his jaw set hard and his hands clench. Death was gone. Butthe mockery of it, the grim exultation of the thing over the colossaltrick it had played, seemed to din an infernal laughter in his ears. But--he was going to live! That was the one fact that rose above allothers. No matter what happened to him a month or six months from now, he was not going to die today. He would live to receive Mercer'sreport. He would live to stand on his feet again and to fight for thelife which he had thrown away. He was, above everything else, afighting man. It was born in him to fight, not so much against hisfellow men as against the overwhelming odds of adventure as they cameto him. And now he was up against the deadliest game of all. He saw it. He felt it. The thing gripped him. In the eyes of that Law of which hehad so recently been a part he was a murderer. And in the province ofAlberta the penalty for killing a man was hanging. Because horror andfear did not seize upon him, he wondered if he still realized thesituation. He believed that he did. It was merely a matter of humannature. Death, he had supposed, was a fixed and foregone thing. He hadbelieved that only a few hours of life were left for him. And now itwas given back to him, for months at least. It was a glorious reprieve, and--

Suddenly his heart stood still in the thrill of the thought that cameto him. Marette Radisson had known that he was not going to die! Shehad hinted the fact, and he, like a blundering idiot, had failed tocatch the significance of it. She had given him no sympathy, hadlaughed at him, had almost made fun of him, simply because she knewthat he was going to live!

He turned suddenly on Father Layonne. 

"They shall believe me!" he cried. "I shall make them believe me! Monpere, I lied! I lied to save Sandy McTrigger, and I shall tell themwhy. If Doctor Cardigan has not made another mistake, I want them allhere again. Will you arrange it?"

"Inspector Kedsty is waiting outside, " said Father Layonne quietly, "but I should not act in haste, Jimmy. I should wait. I shouldthink--think. "

"You mean take time to think up a story that will hold water, mon pere?I have that. I have the story. And yet--" He smiled a bit dismally. "Idid make one pretty thorough confession, didn't I, Father?"

"It was very convincing, Jimmy. It went so particularly into thedetails, and those details, coupled with the facts that you were seenat John Barkley's earlier in the evening, and that it was you who foundhim dead a number of hours later--"

"All make a strong case against me, " agreed Kent. "As a matter of fact, I was up at Barkley's to look over an old map he had made of thePorcupine country twenty years ago. He couldn't find it. Later he sentword he had run across it. I returned and found him dead. "

The little missioner nodded, but did not speak. 

"It is embarrassing, " Kent went on. "It almost seems as though I oughtto go through with it, like a sport. When a man loses, it isn't goodtaste to set up a howl. It makes him sort of yellow-backed, you know. To play the game according to rules, I suppose I ought to keep quietand allow myself to be hung without making any disturbance. Die game, and all that, you know. Then there is the other way of looking at it. This poor neck of mine depends on me. It has given me a lot of goodservice. It has been mighty loyal. It has even swallowed eggs on theday it thought it was going to die. And I'd be a poor specimen ofhumanity to go back on it now. I want to do that neck a good turn. Iwant to save it. And I'm going to--if I can!"

In spite of the unpleasant tension of the moment, it cheered FatherLayonne to see this old humor returning into the heart of his friend. With him love was an enduring thing. He might grieve for James Kent, hemight pray for the salvation of his soul, he might believe him guilty, yet he still bore for him the affection which was too deeply rooted inhis heart to be uptorn by physical things or the happenings of chance. So the old cheer of his smile came back, and he said:

"To fight for his life is a privilege which God gives to every man, Jimmy. I was terrified when I came to you. I believed it would havebeen better if you had died. I can see my error. It will be a terriblefight. If you win, I shall be glad. If you lose, I know that you willlose bravely. Perhaps you are right. It may be best to see InspectorKedsty before you have had time to think. That point will have itspsychological effect. Shall I tell him you are prepared to see him?"

Kent nodded. "Yes. Now. "

Father Layonne went to the door. Even there he seemed to hesitate aninstant, as if again to call upon Kent to reconsider. Then he opened itand went out. 

Kent waited impatiently. His hand, fumbling at his bedclothes, seizedupon the cloth with which he had wiped his lips, and it suddenlyoccurred to him that it had been a long time since it had shown a freshstain of blood. Now that he knew it was not a deadly thing, thetightening in his chest was less uncomfortable. He felt like getting upand meeting his visitors on his feet. Every nerve in his body wantedaction, and the minutes of silence which followed the closing of thedoor after the missioner were drawn out and tedious to him. A quarterof an hour passed before he heard returning footsteps, and by the soundof them he knew Kedsty was not coming alone. Probably le pere wouldreturn with him. And possibly Cardigan. 

What happened in the next few seconds was somewhat of a shock to him. Father Layonne entered first, and then came Inspector Kedsty. Kent'seyes shot to the face of the commander of N Division. There wasscarcely recognition in it. A mere inclination of the head, not enoughto call a greeting, was the reply to Kent's nod and salute. Never hadhe seen Kedsty's face more like the face of an emotionless sphinx. Butwhat disturbed him most was the presence of people he had not expected. Close behind Kedsty was McDougal, the magistrate, and behind McDougalentered Constables Felly and Brant, stiffly erect and clearly underorders. Cardigan, pale and uneasy, came in last, with the stenographer. Scarcely had they entered the room when Constable Pelly pronounced theformal warning of the Criminal Code of the Royal Northwest MountedPolice, and Kent was legally under arrest. 

He had not looked for this. He knew, of course, that the process of theLaw would take its course, but he had not anticipated this bloodthirstysuddenness. He had expected, first of all, to talk with Kedsty as manto man. And yet--it was the Law. He realized this as his eyes traveledfrom Kedsty's rock-like face to the expressionless immobility of hisold friends, Constables Pelly and Brant. If there was sympathy, it washidden except in the faces of Cardigan and Father Layonne. And Kent, exultantly hopeful a little while before, felt his heart grow heavywithin him as he waited for the moment when he would begin the fight torepossess himself of the life and freed which he had lost. 

CHAPTER VIII

For some time after the door to Kent's room had closed upon the ominousvisitation of the Law, young Mercer remained standing in the hall, debating with himself whether his own moment had not arrived. In theend he decided that it had, and with Kent's fifty dollars in his pockethe made for the shack of the old Indian trailer, Mooie. It was an hourlater when he returned, just in time to see Kent's door open again. Doctor Cardigan and Father Layonne reappeared first, followed in turnby the blonde stenographer, the magistrate, and Constables Pelly andBrant. Then the door closed. 

Within the room, sweating from the ordeal through which he had passed, Kent sat bolstered against his pillows, facing Inspector Kedsty withblazing eyes. 

"I've asked for these few moments alone with you, Kedsty, because Iwanted to talk to you as a man, and not as my superior officer. I am, Itake it, no longer a member of the force. That being the case, I oweyou no more respect than I owe to any other man. And I am pleased tohave the very great privilege of calling you a cursed scoundrel!"

Kedsty's face was hot, but as his hands clenched slowly, it turnedredder. Before he could speak, Kent went on. 

"You have not shown me the courtesy or the sympathy you have had forthe worst criminals that ever faced you. You amazed every man that wasin this room, because at one time--if not now--they were my friends. Itwasn't what you said. It was how you said it. Whenever there was aninclination on their part to believe, you killed it--not honestly andsquarely, by giving me a chance. Whenever you saw a chance for me towin a point, you fell back upon the law. And you don't believe that Ikilled John Barkley. I know it. You called me a liar the day I madethat fool confession. You still believe that I lied. And I have waiteduntil we were alone to ask you certain things, for I still havesomething of courtesy left in me, if you haven't. What is your game?What has brought about the change in you? Is it--"

His right hand clenched hard as a rock as he leaned toward Kedsty. 

"Is it because of the girl hiding up at your bungalow, Kedsty?"

Even in that moment, when he had the desire to strike the man beforehim, it was impossible for him not to admire the stone-likeinvulnerability of Kedsty. He had never heard of another man callingKedsty a scoundrel or dishonest. And yet, except that his faced burnedmore dully red, the Inspector was as impassively calm as ever. EvenKent's intimation that he was playing a game, and his direct accusationthat he was keeping Marette Radisson in hiding at his bungalow, seemedto have no disturbing effect on him. For a space he looked at Kent, asif measuring the poise of the other's mind. When he spoke, it was in avoice so quiet and calm that Kent stared at him in amazement. 

"I don't blame you, Kent, " he said. "I don't blame you for calling me ascoundrel, or anything else you want to. I think I should do the sameif I were in your place. You think it is incredible, because of ourprevious association, that I should not make every effort to save you. I would, if I thought you were innocent. But I don't. I believe you areguilty. I cannot see where there is a loophole in the evidence againstyou, as given in your own confession. Why, man, even if I could help toprove you innocent of killing John Barkley--"

He paused and twisted one of his gray mustaches, half facing the windowfor a moment. "Even if I did that, " he went on, "you would still havetwenty years of prison ahead of you for the worst kind of perjury onthe face of the earth, perjury committed at a time when you thought youwere dying! You are guilty, Kent. If not of one thing, then of theother. I am not playing a game. And as for the girl--there is no girlat my bungalow. "

He turned to the door; and Kent made no effort to stop him. Words cameto his lips and died there, and for a space after Kedsty had gone hestared out into the green forest world beyond his window, seeingnothing. Inspector Kedsty, quietly and calmly, had spoken words thatsent his hopes crashing in ruin about him. For even if he escaped thehangman, he was still a criminal--a criminal of the worst sort, perhaps, next to the man who kills another. If he proved that he hadnot killed John Barkley, he would convict himself, at the same time, ofhaving made solemn oath to a lie on what he supposed was his death-bed. And for that, a possible twenty years in the Edmonton penitentiary! Atbest he could not expect less than ten. Ten years--twenty years--inprison! That, or hang. 

The sweat broke out on his face. He did not curse Kedsty now. His angerwas gone. Kedsty had seen all the time what he, like a fool, had notthought of. No matter how the Inspector might feel in that deeplyburied heart of his, he could not do otherwise than he was doing. He, James Kent, who hated a lie above all the things on the earth, waskin-as-kisew--the blackest liar of all, a man who lied when he wasdying. 

And for that lie there was a great punishment. The Law saw with its owneyes. It was a single-track affair, narrow-visioned, caring nothing forwhat was to the right or the left. It would tolerate no excuse which hemight find for himself. He had lied to save a human life, but that lifethe Law itself had wanted. So he had both robbed and outraged the Law, even though a miracle saved him the greatest penalty of all. 

The weight of the thing crushed him. It was as if for the first time awindow had opened for him, and he saw what Kedsty had seen. And then, as the minutes passed, the fighting spirit in him rose again. He wasnot of the sort to go under easily. Personal danger had always stirredhim to his greatest depths, and he had never confronted a dangergreater than this he was facing now. It was not a matter of leapingquickly and on the spur of the moment. For ten years his training hadbeen that of a hunter of men, and the psychology of the man hunt hadbeen his strong point. Always, in seeking his quarry, he had triedfirst to bring himself into a mental sympathy and understanding withthat quarry. To analyze what an outlaw would do under certainconditions and with certain environments and racial inheritances behindhim was to Kent the premier move in the thrilling game. He had evolvedrules of great importance for himself, but always he had worked themout from the vantage point of the huntsman. Now he began to turn themaround. He, James Kent, was no longer the hunter, but the hunted, andall the tricks which he had mastered must now be worked the other way. His woodcraft, his cunning, the fine points he had learned of the gameof one-against-one would avail him but little when it came to thewitness chair and a trial. 

The open window was his first inspiration. Adventure had been the bloodof his life. And out there, behind the green forests rolling away likethe billows of an ocean, lay the greatest adventure of all. Once inthose beloved forests covering almost the half of a continent, he wouldbe willing to die if the world beat him. He could see himself playingthe game of the hunted as no other man had ever played it before. Lethim once have his guns and his freedom, with all that world waiting forhim--

Eagerness gleamed in his eyes, and then, slowly, it died out. The openwindow, after all, was but a mockery. He rolled sideways from his bedand partly balanced himself on his feet. The effort made him dizzy. Hedoubted if he could have walked a hundred yards after climbing throughthe window. Instantly another thought leaped into his brain. His headwas clearing. He swayed across the room and back again, the first timehe had been on his feet since the half-breed's bullet had laid him out. He would fool Cardigan. He would fool Kedsty. As he recovered hisstrength, he would keep it to himself. He would play sick man to thelimit, and then some night he would take advantage of the open window!

The thought thrilled him as no other thing in the world had everthrilled him before. For the first time he sensed the vast differencebetween the hunter and the hunted, between the man who played the gameof life and death alone and the one who played it with the Law and allits might behind him. To hunt was thrilling. To be hunted was morethrilling. Every nerve in his body tingled. A different kind of fireburned in his brain. He was the creature who was at bay. The otherfellow was the hunter now. 

He went back to the window and leaned far out. He looked at the forestand saw it with new eyes. The gleam of the slowly moving river held ameaning for him that it had never held before. Doctor Cardigan, seeinghim then, would have sworn the fever had returned. His eyes held aslumbering fire. His face was flushed. In these moments Kent did notsee death. He was not visioning the iron bars of a prison. His bloodpulsed only to the stir of that greatest of all adventures which layahead of him. He, the best man-hunter in two thousand miles ofwilderness, would beat the hunters themselves. The hound had turnedfox, and that fox knew the tricks of both the hunter and the hunted. Hewould win! A world beckoned to him, and he would reach the heart ofthat world. Already there began to flash through his mind memory of theplaces where he could find safety and freedom for all time. No man inall the Northland knew its out-of-the-way corners better than he--itsunmapped and unexplored places, the far and mysterious patches of terraincognita, where the sun still rose and set without permission of theLaw, and God laughed as in the days when prehistoric monsters fed fromthe tops of trees no taller than themselves. Once through that window, with the strength to travel, and the Law might seek him for a hundredyears without profit to itself. 

It was not bravado in his blood that stirred these thoughts. It was notpanic or an unsound excitement. He was measuring things even as hevisioned them. He would go down-river way, toward the Arctic. And hewould find Marette Radisson! Yes, even though she lived at Barracks atFort Simpson, he would find her! And after that? The question blurredall other questions in his mind. There were many answers to it. 

Knowing that it would be fatal to his scheme if he were found on hisfeet, he returned to his bed. The flush of his exertion and excitementwas still in his face when Doctor Cardigan came half an hour later. 

Within the next few minutes he put Cardigan more at his ease than hehad been during the preceding day and night. It was, after all, anerror which made him happier the more he thought about it, he told thesurgeon. He admitted that at first the discovery that he was going tolive had horrified him. But now the whole thing bore a different aspectfor him. As soon as he was sufficiently strong, he would begingathering the evidences for his alibi, and he was confident of provinghimself innocent of John Barkley's murder. 

He anticipated ten years in the Edmonton penitentiary. But what wereten years there as compared with forty or fifty under the sod? He wrungCardigan's hand. He thanked him for the splendid care he had given him. It was he, Cardigan, who had saved him from the grave, he said--andCardigan grew younger under his eyes. 

"I thought you'd look at it differently, Kent, " he said, drawing in adeep breath. "My God, when I found I had made that mistake--"

"You figured you were handing me over to the hangman, " smiled Kent. "It's true I shouldn't have made that confession, old man, if I hadn'trated you right next to God Almighty when it came to telling whether aman was going to live or die. But we all make slips. I've made 'em. Andyou've got no apology to make. I may ask you to send me good cigars nowand then while I'm in retirement at Edmonton, and I shall probablyinsist that you come to smoke with me occasionally and tell me the newsof the rivers. But I'm afraid, old chap, that I'm going to worry you abit more here. I feel queer today, queer inside me. Now it would be atopping joke if some other complication should set in and fool us allagain, wouldn't it?"

He could see the impression he was making on Cardigan. Again his faithin the psychology of the mind found its absolute verification. Cardigan, lifted unexpectedly out of the slough of despond by the veryman whom he expected to condemn him, became from that moment, in theface of the mental reaction, almost hypersympathetic. When finally heleft the room, Kent was inwardly rejoicing. For Cardigan had told himit would be some time before he was strong enough to stand on his feet. 

He did not see Mercer all the rest of that day. It was Cardigan whopersonally brought his dinner and his supper and attended him last atnight. He asked not to be interrupted again, as he felt that he wantedto sleep. There was a guard outside his door now. 

Cardigan scowled when he volunteered this information. It was sheernonsense in Kedsty taking such a silly precaution. But he would givethe guard rubber-soled shoes and insist that he make no sound thatwould disturb him. Kent thanked him, and grinned exultantly when he wasgone. 

He waited until his watch told him it was ten o'clock before he beganthe exercise which he had prescribed for himself. Noiselessly he rolledout of bed. There was no sensation of dizziness when he stood on hisfeet this time. His head was as clear as a bell. He began experimentingby inhaling deeper and still deeper breaths and by straightening hischest. 

There was no pain, as he had expected there would be. He felt likecrying out in his joy. One after the other he stretched up his arms. Hebent over until the tips of his fingers touched the floor. He crookedhis knees, leaned from side to side, changed from one attitude toanother, amazed at the strength and elasticity of his body. Twentytimes, before he returned to his bed, he walked back and forth acrosshis room. 

He was sleepless. Lying with his back to the pillows he looked out intothe starlight, watching for the first glow of the moon and listeningagain to the owls that had nested in the lightning-shriven tree. Anhour later he resumed his exercise. 

He was on his feet when through his window he heard the sound ofapproaching voices and then of running feet. A moment later some onewas pounding at a door, and a loud voice shouted for Doctor Cardigan. Kent drew cautiously nearer the window. The moon had risen, and he sawfigures approaching, slowly, as if weighted under a burden. Before theyturned out of his vision, he made out two men bearing some heavy objectbetween them. Then came the opening of a door, other voices, and afterthat an interval of quiet. 

He returned to his bed, wondering who the new patient could be. 

He was breathing easier after his exertion. The fact that he wasfeeling keenly alive, and that the thickening in his chest wasdisappearing, flushed him with elation. An unbounded optimism possessedhim. It was late when he fell asleep, and he slept late. It wasMercer's entrance into his room that roused him. He came in softly, closed the door softly, yet Kent heard him. The moment he pulledhimself up, he knew that Mercer had a report to make, and he also sawthat something upsetting had happened to him. Mercer was a bit excited. 

"I beg pardon for waking you, sir, " he said, leaning close over Kent, as though fearing the guard might be listening at the door. "But Ithought it best for you to hear about the Indian, sir. "

"The Indian?"

"Yes, sir--Mooie, sir. I am quite upset over it, Mr. Kent. He told meearly last evening that he had found the scow on which the girl wasgoing down-river. He said it was hidden in Kim's Bayou. "

"Kim's Bayou! That was a good hiding-place, Mercer!"

"A very good place of concealment indeed, sir. As soon as it was dark, Mooie returned to watch. What happened to him I haven't fullydiscovered, sir. But it must have been near midnight when he staggeredup to Crossen's place, bleeding and half out of his senses. Theybrought him here, and I watched over him most of the night. He says thegirl went aboard the scow and that the scow started down-river. Thatmuch I learned, sir. But all the rest he mumbles in a tongue I can notunderstand. Crossen says it's Cree, and that old Mooie believes devilsjumped on him with clubs down at Kim's Bayou. Of course they must havebeen men. I don't believe in Mooie's devils, sir. "

"Nor I, " said Kent, the blood stirring strangely in his veins. "Mercer, it simply means there was some one cleverer than old Mooie watchingthat trail. "

With a curiously tense face Mercer was looking cautiously toward thedoor. Then he leaned still lower over Kent. 

"During his mumblings, when I was alone with him, I heard him speak aname, sir. Half a dozen times, sir--and it was--KEDSTY!"

Kent's fingers gripped the young Englishman's hand. 

"You heard THAT, Mercer?"

"I am sure I could not have been mistaken, sir. It was repeated anumber of times. "

Kent fell back against his pillows. His mind was working swiftly. Heknew that behind an effort to appear calm Mercer was uneasy over whathad happened. 

"We mustn't let this get out, Mercer, " he said. "If Mooie should bebadly hurt--should die, for instance--and it was discovered that youand I--"

He knew he had gone far enough to give effect to his words. He did noteven look at Mercer. 

"Watch him closely, old man, and report to me everything that happens. Find out more about Kedsty, if you can. I shall advise you how to act. It is rather ticklish, you know--for you! And"--he smiled atMercer--"I'm unusually hungry this morning. Add another egg, will you, Mercer? Three instead of two, and a couple of extra slices of toast. And don't let any one know that my appetite is improving. It may bebest for both of us--especially if Mooie should happen to die. Understand, old man?"

"I--I think I do, sir, " replied Mercer, paling at the grimly smilingthing he saw in Kent's eyes. "I shall do as you say, sir. "

When he had gone, Kent knew that he had accurately measured his man. True to a certain type, Mercer would do a great deal for fiftydollars--under cover. In the open he was a coward. And Kent knew thevalue of such a man under certain conditions. The present was one ofthose conditions. From this hour Mercer would be a priceless asset tohis scheme for personal salvation. 

CHAPTER IX

That morning Kent ate a breakfast that would have amazed DoctorCardigan and would have roused a greater caution in Inspector Kedstyhad he known of it. While eating he strengthened the bonds alreadywelded between himself and Mercer. He feigned great uneasiness over thecondition of Mooie, who he knew was not fatally hurt because Mercer hadtold him there was no fracture. But if he should happen to die, he toldMercer, it would mean something pretty bad for them, if their part inthe affair leaked out. 

As for himself, it would make little difference, as he was "in bad"anyway. But he did not want to see a good friend get into trouble onhis account. Mercer was impressed. He saw himself an instrument in apossible murder affair, and the thought terrified him. Even at best, Kent told him, they had given and taken bribes, a fact that would gohard with them unless Mooie kept his mouth shut. And if the Indian knewanything out of the way about Kedsty, it was mighty important that he, Mercer, get hold of it, for it might prove a trump card with them inthe event of a showdown with the Inspector of Police. As a matter ofform, Mercer took his temperature. It was perfectly normal, but it waseasy for Kent to persuade a notation on the chart a degree above. 

"Better keep them thinking I'm still pretty sick, " he assured Mercer. "They won't suspect there is anything between us then. "

Mercer was so much in sympathy with the idea that he suggested addinganother half-degree. 

It was a splendid day for Kent. He could feel himself growing strongerwith each hour that passed. Yet not once during the day did he get outof his bed, fearing that he might be discovered. Cardigan visited himtwice and had no suspicion of Mercer's temperature chart. He dressedhis wound, which was healing fast. It was the fever which depressedhim. There must be, he said, some internal disarrangement which wouldsoon clear itself up. Otherwise there seemed to be no very great reasonwhy Kent should not get on his feet. He smiled apologetically. 

"Seems queer to say that, when a little while ago I was telling you itwas time to die, " he said. 

That night, after ten o'clock, Kent went through his setting-upexercises four times. He marveled even more than the preceding night atthe swiftness with which his strength was returning. Half a dozen timesthe little devils of eagerness working in his blood prompted him totake to the window at once. 

For three days and nights thereafter he kept his secret and added tohis strength. Doctor Cardigan came in to see him at intervals, andFather Layonne visited him regularly every afternoon. Mercer was hismost frequent visitor. On the third day two things happened to create alittle excitement. Doctor Cardigan left on a four-day journey to asettlement fifty miles south, leaving Mercer in charge--and Mooie camesuddenly out of his fever into his normal senses again. The first eventfilled Kent with joy. With Cardigan out of the way there would be noimmediate danger of the discovery that he was no longer a sick man. Butit was the recovery of Mooie from the thumping he had received aboutthe head that delighted Mercer. He was exultant. With the quickreaction of his kind he gloated over the fact before Kent. He let it beknown that he was no longer afraid, and from the moment Mooie was outof danger his attitude was such that more than once Kent would havetaken keen pleasure in kicking him from the room. Also, from the hourhe was safely in charge of Doctor Cardigan's place, Mercer began toswell with importance. Kent saw the new danger and began to humor him. He flattered him. He assured him that it was a burning shame Cardiganhad not taken him into partnership. He deserved it. And, in justice tohimself, Mercer should demand that partnership when Cardigan returned. He, Kent, would talk to Father Layonne about it, and the missionerwould spread the gospel of what ought to be among others who wereinfluential at the Landing. For two days he played with Mercer as anangler plays with a treacherous fish. He tried to get Mercer todiscover more about Mooie's reference to Kedsty. But the old Indian hadshut up like a clam. 

"He was frightened when I told him he had said things about theInspector, " Mercer reported. "He disavowed everything. He shook hishead--no, no, no. He had not seen Kedsty. He knew nothing about him. Ican do nothing with him, Kent. "

He had dropped his "sirs, " also his servant-like servility. He helpedto smoke Kent's cigars with the intimacy of proprietorship, and withoffensive freedom called him "Kent. " He spoke of the Inspector as"Kedsty, " and of Father Layonne as "the little preacher. " He swelledperceptibly, and Kent knew that each hour of that swelling added to hisown danger. 

He believed that Mercer was talking. Several times a day he heard himin conversation with the guard, and not infrequently Mercer went downto the Landing, twirling a little reed cane that he had not dared touse before. He began to drop opinions and information to Kent in asuperior sort of way. On the fourth day word came that Doctor Cardiganwould not return for another forty-eight hours, and with unblushingconceit Mercer intimated that when he did return he would find bigchanges. Then it was that in the stupidity of his egotism he said:

"Kedsty has taken a great fancy to me, Kent. He's a square old top, when you take him right. Had me over this afternoon, and we smoked acigar together. When I told him that I looked in at your window lastnight and saw you going through a lot of exercises, he jumped up as ifsome one had stuck a pin in him. 'Why, I thought he was sick--BAD!' hesaid. And I let him know there were better ways of making a sick manwell than Cardigan's. 'Give them plenty to eat, ' I said. 'Let 'em livenormal, ' I argued. 'Look at Kent, for instance, ' I told him. 'He's beeneating like a bear for a week, and he can turn somersaults thisminute!' That topped him over, Kent. I knew it would be a bit of asurprise for him, that I should do what Cardigan couldn't do. He walkedback and forth, black as a hat--thinking of Cardigan, I suppose. Thenhe called in that Pelly chap and gave him something which he wrote on apiece of paper. After that he shook hands with me, slapped me on theshoulder most intimately, and gave me another cigar. He's a keen oldblade, Kent. He doesn't need more than one pair of eyes to see whatI've done since Cardigan went away!"

If ever Kent's hands had itched to get at the throat of a human being, the yearning convulsed his fingers now. At the moment when he was aboutto act Mercer had betrayed him to Kedsty! He turned his face away sothat Mercer could not see what was in his eyes. Under his body heconcealed his clenched hands. Within himself he fought against theinsane desire that was raging in his blood, the desire to leap onMercer and kill him. If Cardigan had reported his condition to Kedsty, it would have been different. He would have accepted the report as amatter of honorable necessity on Cardigan's part. But Mercer--a toadblown up by his own wind, a consummate fiend who would sell his bestfriend, a fool, an ass--

For a space he held himself rigid as a stone, his face turned away fromMercer. His better sense won. He knew that his last chance dependedupon his coolness now. And Mercer unwittingly helped him to win byslyly pocketing a couple of his cigars and leaving the room. For aminute or two Kent heard him talking to the guard outside the door. 

He sat up then. It was five o'clock. How long ago was it that Mercerhad seen Kedsty? What was the order that the Inspector had written on asheet of paper for Constable Pelly? Was it simply that he should bemore closely watched, or was it a command to move him to one of thecells close to the detachment office? If it was the latter, all hishopes and plans were destroyed. His mind flew to those cells. 

The Landing had no jail, not even a guard-house, though the members ofthe force sometimes spoke of the cells just behind Inspector Kedsty'soffice by that name. The cells were of cement, and Kent himself hadhelped to plan them! The irony of the thing did not strike him justthen. He was recalling the fact that no prisoner had ever escaped fromthose cement cells. If no action were taken before six o'clock, he wassure that it would be postponed until the following morning. It waspossible that Kedsty's order was for Pelly to prepare a cell for him. Deep in his soul he prayed fervently that it was only a matter ofpreparation. If they would give him one more night--just one!

His watch tinkled the half-hour. Then a quarter of six. Then six. Hisblood ran feverishly, in spite of the fact that he possessed thereputation of being the coolest man in N Division. He lighted his lastcigar and smoked it slowly to cover the suspense which he fearedrevealed itself in his face, should any one come into his room. Hissupper was due at seven. At eight it would begin to get dusk. The moonwas rising later each night, and it would not appear over the forestsuntil after eleven. He would go through his window at ten o'clock. Hismind worked swiftly and surely as to the method of his first night'sflight. There were always a number of boats down at Crossen's place. Hewould start in one of these, and by the time Mercer discovered he wasgone, he would be forty miles on his way to freedom. Then he would sethis boat adrift, or hide it, and start cross-country until his trailwas lost. Somewhere and in some way he would find both guns and food. It was fortunate that he had not given Mercer the other fifty dollarsunder his pillow. 

At seven Mercer came with his supper. A little gleam of disappointmentshot into his pale eyes when he found the last cigar gone from the box. Kent saw the expression and tried to grin good-humoredly. 

"I'm going to have Father Layonne bring me up another box in themorning, Mercer, " he said. "That is, if I can get hold of him. "

"You probably can, " snapped Mercer. "He doesn't live far from barracks, and that's where you are going. I've got orders to have you ready tomove in the morning. "

Kent's blood seemed for an instant to flash into living flame. He dranka part of his cup of coffee and said then, with a shrug of hisshoulders: "I'm glad of it, Mercer. I'm anxious to have the thing over. The sooner they get me down there, the quicker they will take action. And I'm not afraid, not a bit of it. I'm bound to win. There isn't achance in a hundred that they can convict me. " Then he added: "And I'mgoing to have a box of cigars sent up to you, Mercer. I'm grateful toyou for the splendid treatment you have given me. "

No sooner had Mercer gone with the supper things than Kent's knottedfist shook itself fiercely in the direction of the door. 

"My God, how I'd like to have you out in the woods--alone--for just onehour!" he whispered. 

Eight o'clock came, and nine. Two or three times he heard voices in thehall, probably Mercer talking with the guard. Once he thought he hearda rumble of thunder, and his heart throbbed joyously. Never had hewelcomed a storm as he would have welcomed it tonight. But the skiesremained clear. Not only that, but the stars as they began to appearseemed to him more brilliant than he had ever seen them before. And itwas very still. The rattle of a scow-chain came up to him from theriver as though it were only a hundred yards away. He knew that it wasone of Mooie's dogs he heard howling over near the sawmill. The owls, flitting past his window, seemed to click their beaks more loudly thanlast night. A dozen times he fancied he could hear the rippling voiceof the river that very soon was to carry him on toward freedom. 

The river! Every dream and aspiration found its voice for him in thatriver now. Down it Marette Radisson had gone. And somewhere along it, or on the river beyond, or the third river still beyond that, he wouldfind her. In the long, tense wait between the hours of nine and ten hebrought the girl back into his room again. He recalled every gestureshe had made, every word she had spoken. He felt the thrill of her handon his forehead, her kiss, and in his brain her softly spoken wordsrepeated themselves over and over again, "I think that if you livedvery long I should love you. " And as she had spoken those words SHEKNEW THAT HE WAS NOT GOING TO DIE!

Why, then, had she gone away? Knowing that he was going to live, whyhad she not remained to help him if she could? Either she had spokenthe words in jest, or--

A new thought flashed into his mind. It almost drew a cry from hislips. It brought him up tense, erect, his heart pounding. Had she goneaway? Was it not possible that she, too, was playing a game in givingthe impression that she was leaving down-river on the hidden scow? Wasit conceivable that she was playing that game against Kedsty? Apicture, clean-cut as the stars in the sky, began to outline itself inhis mental vision. It was clear, now, what Mooie's mumblings aboutKedsty had signified. Kedsty had accompanied Marette to the scow. Mooiehad seen him and had given the fact away in his fever. Afterward he hadclamped his mouth shut through fear of the "big man" of the Law. Butwhy, still later, had he almost been done to death? Mooie was aharmless creature. He had no enemies. 

There was no one at the Landing who would have assaulted the oldtrailer, whose hair was white with age. No one, unless it was Kedstyhimself--Kedsty at bay, Kedsty in a rage. Even that was inconceivable. Whatever the motive of the assault might be, and no matter who hadcommitted it, Mooie had most certainly seen the Inspector of Policeaccompany Marette Radisson to the scow. And the question which Kentfound it impossible to answer was, had Marette Radisson really gonedown the river on that scow?

It was almost with a feeling of disappointment that he told himself itwas possible she had not. He wanted her on the river. He wanted hergoing north and still farther north. The thought that she was mixed upin some affair that had to do with Kedsty was displeasing to him. Ifshe was still in the Landing or near the Landing, it could no longer beon account of Sandy McTrigger, the man his confession had saved. In hisheart he prayed that she was many days down the Athabasca, for it wasthere--and only there--that he would ever see her again. And hisgreatest desire, next to his desire for his freedom, was to find her. He was frank with himself in making that confession. He was more thanthat. He knew that not a day or night would pass that he would notthink or dream of Marette Radisson. The wonder of her had grown morevivid for him with each hour that passed, and he was sorry now that hehad not dared to touch her hair. She would not have been offended withhim, for she had kissed him--after he had killed the impulse to lay hishand on that soft glory that had crowned her head. 

And then the little bell in his watch tinkled the hour of ten! He satup with a jerk. For a space he held his breath while he listened. Inthe hall outside his room there was no sound. An inch at a time he drewhimself off his bed until he stood on his feet. His clothes hung onhooks in the wall, and he groped his way to them so quietly that onelistening at the crack of his door would not have heard him. He dressedswiftly. Then he made his way to the window, looked out, and listened. 

In the brilliant starlight he saw nothing but the two white stubs ofthe lightning-shattered trees in which the owls lived. And it was verystill. The air was fresh and sweet in his face. In it he caught thescent of the distant balsams and cedars. The world, wonderful in itsnight silence, waited for him. It was impossible for him to conceive offailure or death out there, and it seemed unreal and trivial that theLaw should expect to hold him, with that world reaching out its arms tohim and calling him. 

Assured that the moment for action was at hand, he moved quickly. Inanother ten seconds he was through the window, and his feet were on theground. For a space he stood out clear in the starlight. Then hehurried to the end of the building and hid himself in the shadow. Theswiftness of his movement had brought him no physical discomfort, andhis blood danced with the thrill of the earth under his feet and thethought that his wound must be even more completely healed than he hadsupposed. A wild exultation swept over him. He was free! He could seethe river now, shimmering and talking to him in the starlight, urginghim to hurry, telling him that only a little while ago another had gonenorth on the breast of it, and that if he hastened it would help him toovertake her. He felt the throb of new life in his body. His eyes shonestrangely in the semi-gloom. 

It seemed to him that only yesterday Marette had gone. She could not befar away, even now. And in these moments, with the breath of freedomstirring him with the glory of new life, she was different for him fromwhat she had ever been. She was a part of him. He could not think ofescape without thinking of her. She became, in these precious moments, the living soul of his wilderness. He felt her presence. The thoughtpossessed him that somewhere down the river she was thinking of him, waiting, expecting him. And in that same flash he made up his mind thathe would not discard the boat, as he had planned; he would concealhimself by day, and float downstream by night, until at last he came toMarette Radisson. And then he would tell her why he had come. And afterthat--

He looked toward Crossen's place. He would make straight for it, openly, like a man bent on a mission there was no reason to conceal. Ifluck went right, and Crossen was abed, he would be on the river withinfifteen minutes. His blood ran faster as he took his first step outinto the open starlight. Fifty yards ahead of him was the buildingwhich Cardigan used for his fuel. Safely beyond that, no one could seehim from the windows of the hospital. He walked swiftly. Twenty paces, thirty, forty--and he stopped as suddenly as the half-breed's bullethad stopped him weeks before. Round the end of Cardigan's fuel housecame a figure. It was Mercer. He was twirling his little cane andtraveling quietly as a cat. They were not ten feet apart, yet Kent hadnot heard him. 

Mercer stopped. The cane dropped from his hand. Even in the starlightKent could see his face turn white. 

"Don't make a sound, Mercer, " he warned. "I'm taking a little exercisein the open air. If you cry out, I'll kill you!"

He advanced slowly, speaking in a voice that could not have been heardat the windows behind him. And then a thing happened that froze theblood in his veins. He had heard the scream of every beast of the greatforests, but never a scream like that which came from Mercer's lipsnow. It was not the cry of a man. To Kent it was the voice of a fiend, a devil. It did not call for help. It was wordless. And as the horriblesound issued from Mercer's mouth he could see the swelling throat andbulging eyes that accompanied the effort. They made him think of asnake, a cobra. 

The chill went out of his blood, replaced by a flame of hottest fire. He forgot everything but that this serpent was in his path. Twice hehad stood in his way. And he hated him. He hated him with a virulencythat was death. Neither the call of freedom nor the threat of prisoncould keep him from wreaking vengeance now. Without a sound he was atMercer's throat, and the scream ended in a choking shriek. His fingersdug into flabby flesh, and his clenched fist beat again and again intoMercer's face. 

He went to the ground, crushing the human serpent under him. And hecontinued to strike and choke as he had never struck or choked anotherman, all other things overwhelmed by his mad desire to tear into piecesthis two-legged English vermin who was too foul to exist on the face ofthe earth. 

And he still continued to strike--even after the path lay clear oncemore between him and the river. 

CHAPTER X

What a terrible and inexcusable madness had possessed him, Kentrealized the instant he rose from Mercer's prostrate body. Never hadhis brain flamed to that madness before. He believed at first that hehad killed Mercer. It was neither pity nor regret that brought him tohis senses. Mercer, a coward and a traitor, a sneak of the lowest type, had no excuse for living. It was the thought that he had lost hischance to reach the river that cleared his head as he swayed overMercer. 

He heard running feet. He saw figures approaching swiftly through thestarlight. And he was too weak to fight or run. The little strength hehad saved up, and which he had planned to use so carefully in hisflight, was gone. His wound, weeks in bed, muscles unaccustomed to theterrific exertion he had made in these moments of his vengeance, lefthim now panting and swaying as the running footsteps came nearer. 

His head swam. For a space he was sickeningly dizzy, and in the firstmoment of that dizziness, when every drop of blood in his body seemedrushing to his brain, his vision was twisted and his sense of directiongone. In his rage he had overexerted himself. He knew that somethinghad gone wrong inside him and that he was helpless. Even then hisimpulse was to stagger toward the inanimate Mercer and kick him, buthands caught him and held him. He heard an amazed voice, thenanother--and something hard and cold shut round his wrists like a pairof toothless jaws. 

It was Constable Carter, Inspector Kedsty's right-hand man aboutbarracks, that he saw first; then old Sands, the caretaker atCardigan's place. Swiftly as he had turned sick, his brain grew clear, and his blood distributed itself evenly again through his body. He heldup his hands. Carter had slipped a pair of irons on him, and thestarlight glinted on the shining steel. Sands was bending over Mercer, and Carter was saying in a low voice:

"It's too bad, Kent. But I've got to do it. I saw you from the windowjust as Mercer screamed. Why did you stop for him?"

Mercer was getting up with the assistance of Sands. He turned a bloatedand unseeing face toward Kent and Carter. He was blubbering andmoaning, as though entreating for mercy in the fear that Kent had notfinished with him. Carter pulled Kent away. 

"There's only one thing for me to do now, " he said. "It isn't pleasant. But the law says I must take you to barracks. "

In the sky Kent saw the stars clearly again, and his lungs weredrinking in the cool air as in the wonderful moments before hisencounter with Mercer. 

He had lost. And it was Mercer who had made him lose. Carter felt thesudden tightening of his muscles as he walked with a hand on his arm. And Kent shut his teeth close and made no answer to what Carter hadsaid, except that Carter heard something which he thought was a sobchoked to death in the other's throat. 

Carter, too, was a man bred of the red blood of the North, and he knewwhat was in Kent's heart. For only by the breadth of a hair had Kentfailed in his flight. 

Pelly was on duty at barracks, and it was Pelly who locked him in oneof the three cells behind the detachment office. When he was gone, Kentsat down on the edge of his prison cot and for the first time let theagony of his despair escape in a gasping breath from between his lips. Half an hour ago the world had reached out its arms to him, and he hadgone forth to its welcome, only to have the grimmest tragedy of all hislife descend upon him like the sword of Damocles. For this was realtragedy. Here there was no hope. The tentacles of the law had him intheir grip, and he could no longer dream of escape. 

Ghastly was the thought that it was he, James Kent, who had supervisedthe building of these cells! Acquainted with every trick and stratagemof the prisoner plotting for his freedom, he had left no weak point intheir structure. Again he clenched his hands, and in his soul he cursedMercer as he went to the little barred window that overlooked the riverfrom his cell. The river was near now. He could hear the murmur of it. He could see its movement, and that movement, played upon by the stars, seemed now a writhing sort of almost noiseless laughter taunting him inhis folly. 

He went back to his cot, and in his despair buried his face in hishands. In the half-hour after that he did not raise his head. For thefirst time in his life he knew that he was beaten, so utterly beatenthat he no more had the desire to fight, and his soul was dark with thechaos of the things he had lost. 

At last he opened his eyes to the blackness of his prison room, and hebeheld a marvelous thing. Across the gloom of the cell lay a shaft ofgolden fire. It was the light of the rising moon coming through hislittle, steel-barred window. To Kent it had crept into his cell like aliving thing. He watched it, fascinated. His eyes followed it to thefoot-square aperture, and there, red and glorious as it rose over theforests, the moon itself filled the world. For a space he saw nothingbut that moon crowding the frame of his window. And as he rose to hisfeet and stood where his face was flooded in the light of it, he feltstirring within him the ghosts of his old hopes. One by one they roseup and came to life. He held out his hands, as if to fill them with theliquid glow; his heart beat faster in that glory of the moonrise. Thetaunting murmur of the river changed once more into hopeful song, hisfingers closed tightly around the bars, and the fighting spirit rose inhim again. As that spirit surged stronger, beating down his despair, driving the chaos out of his brain, he watched the moon as it climbedhigher, changing from the red of the lower atmosphere to the yellowgold of the greater heights, marveling at the miracle of light andcolor that had never failed to stir him. 

And then he laughed. If Pelly or Carter had heard him, they would havewondered if he was mad. It was madness of a sort--the madness ofrestored confidence, of an unlimited faith, of an optimism that wasbound to make dreams come true. Again he looked beyond the bars of hiscell. The world was still there; the river was there; all the thingsthat were worth fighting for were there. And he would fight. Just how, he did not try to tell himself now. And then he laughed again, softly, a bit grimly, for he saw the melancholy humour of the fact that he hadbuilt his own prison. 

He sat down again on the edge of his cot, and the whimsical thoughtstruck him that all those he had brought to this same cell, and who hadpaid the first of their penance here, must be laughing at him now inthe spirit way. In his mental fancy a little army of faces troopedbefore him, faces dark and white, faces filled with hatred and despair, faces brave with the cheer of hope and faces pallid with the dread ofdeath. And of these ghosts of his man-hunting prowess it was AntonFournet's face that came out of the crowd and remained with him. For hehad brought Anton to this same cell--Anton, the big Frenchman, with hisblack hair, his black beard, and his great, rolling laugh that even inthe days when he was waiting for death had rattled the paper-weights onKedsty's desk. 

Anton rose up like a god before Kent now. He had killed a man, and likea brave man he had not denied it. With a heart in his great body asgentle as a girl's, Anton had taken pride in the killing. In his prisondays he sang songs to glorify it. He had killed the white man fromChippewyan who had stolen his neighbor's wife! Not HIS wife, but hisneighbor's! For Anton's creed was, "Do unto others as you would haveothers do unto you, " and he had loved his neighbor with the greatforest love of man for man. His neighbor was weak, and Anton was strongwith the strength of a bull, so that when the hour came, it was Antonwho had measured out vengeance. When Kent brought Anton in, the gianthad laughed first at the littleness of his cell, then at theunsuspected strength of it, and after that he had laughed and sunggreat, roaring songs every day of the brief tenure of life that wasgiven him. When he died, it was with the smiling glory in his face ofone who had cheaply righted a great wrong. 

Kent would never forget Anton Fournet. He had never ceased to grievethat it had been his misfortune to bring Anton in, and always, in closemoments, the thought of Anton, the stout-hearted, rallied him back tocourage. Never would he be the man that Anton Fournet had been, he toldhimself many times. Never would his heart be as great or as big, thoughthe Law had hanged Anton by the neck until the soul was choked out ofhis splendid body, for it was history that Anton Fournet had neverharmed man, woman, or child until he set out to kill a human snake andthe Law placed its heel upon him and crushed him. 

And tonight Anton Fournet came into the cell again and sat with Kent onthe cot where he had slept many nights, and the ghosts of his laughterand his song filled Kent's ears, and his great courage poured itselfout in the moonlit prison room so that at last, when Kent stretchedhimself on the cot to sleep, it was with the knowledge that the soul ofthe splendid dead had given him a strength which it was impossible tohave gained from the living. For Anton Fournet had died smiling, laughing, singing--and it was of Anton Fournet that he dreamed when hefell asleep. And in that dream came also the vision of a man calledDirty Fingers--and with it inspiration. 

CHAPTER XI

Where a bit of the big river curved inward like the tongue of afriendly dog, lapping the shore at Athabasca Landing, there stillremained Fingers' Row--nine dilapidated, weather-worn, andcrazily-built shacks put there by the eccentric genius who had foreseena boom ten years ahead of its time. And the fifth of these nine, counting from either one end or the other, was named by its owner, Dirty Fingers himself, the Good Old Queen Bess. It was a shack coveredwith black tar paper, with two windows, like square eyes, fronting theriver as if always on the watch for something. Across the front of thisshack Dirty Fingers had built a porch to protect himself from the rainin springtime, from the sun in Summer time, and from the snow in themonths of Winter. For it was here that Dirty Fingers sat out all ofthat part of his life which was not spent in bed. 

Up and down two thousand miles of the Three Rivers was Dirty Fingersknown, and there were superstitious ones who believed that little godsand devils came to sit and commune with him in the front of thetar-papered shack. No one was so wise along those rivers, no one was sosatisfied with himself, that he would not have given much to possessthe many things that were hidden away in Dirty Fingers' brain. Onewould not have suspected the workings of that brain by a look at DirtyFingers on the porch of his Good Old Queen Bess. He was a great softlump of a man, a giant of flabbiness. Sitting in his smooth-worn, wooden armchair, he was almost formless. His head was huge, his hairuncut and scraggy, his face smooth as a baby's, fat as a cherub's, andas expressionless as an apple. His folded arms always rested on a hugestomach, whose conspicuousness was increased by an enormous watch-chainmade from beaten nuggets of Klondike gold, and Dirty Fingers' thumb andforefinger were always twiddling at this chain. How he had come by thename of Dirty Fingers, when his right name was Alexander ToppetFingers, no one could definitely say, unless it was that he always borean unkempt and unwashed appearance. 

Whatever the quality of the two hundred and forty-odd pounds of fleshin Dirty Fingers' body, it was the quality of his brain that madepeople hold him in a sort of awe. For Dirty Fingers was a lawyer, awilderness lawyer, a forest bencher, a legal strategist of the trail, of the river, of the great timber-lands. 

Stored away in his brain was every rule of equity and common law of thegreat North country. For his knowledge he went back two hundred years. He knew that a law did not die of age, that it must be legislated todeath, and out of the moldering past he had dug up every trick and trapof his trade. He had no law-books. His library was in his head, and hisfacts were marshaled in pile after pile of closely-written, dust-covered papers in his shack. He did not go to court as otherlawyers; and there were barristers in Edmonton who blessed him for that. 

His shack was his tabernacle of justice. There he sat, hands folded, and gave out his decisions, his advice, his sentences. He sat untilother men would have gone mad. From morning until night, moving onlyfor his meals or to get out of heat or storm, he was a fixture on theporch of the Good Old Queen Bess. For hours he would stare at theriver, his pale eyes never seeming to blink. For hours he would remainwithout a move or a word. One constant companion he had, a dog, fat, emotionless, lazy, like his master. Always this dog was sleeping at hisfeet or dragging himself wearily at his heels when Dirty Fingerselected to make a journey to the little store where he bartered forfood and necessities. 

It was Father Layonne who came first to see Kent in his cell themorning after Kent's unsuccessful attempt at flight. An hour later itwas Father Layonne who traveled the beaten path to the door of DirtyFingers' shack. If a visible emotion of pleasure ever entered intoDirty Fingers' face, it was when the little missioner came occasionallyto see him. It was then that his tongue let itself loose, and untillate at night they talked of many things of which other men knew butlittle. This morning Father Layonne did not come casually, butdeterminedly on business, and when Dirty Fingers learned what thatbusiness was, he shook his head disconsolately, folded his fat armsmore tightly over his stomach, and stated the sheer impossibility ofhis going to see Kent. It was not his custom. People must come to him. And he did not like to walk. It was fully a third of a mile from hisshack to barracks, possibly half a mile. And it was mostly upgrade! IfKent could be brought to him--

In his cell Kent waited. It was not difficult for him to hear voices inKedsty's office when the door was open, and he knew that the Inspectordid not come in until after the missioner had gone on his mission toDirty Fingers. Usually he was at the barracks an hour or so earlier. Kent made no effort to figure out a reason for Kedsty's lateness, buthe did observe that after his arrival there was more than the usualmovement between the office door and the outside of the barracks. Oncehe was positive that he heard Cardigan's voice, and then he was equallysure that he heard Mercer's. He grinned at that. He must be wrong, forMercer would be in no condition to talk for several days. He was gladthat a turn in the hall hid the door of the detachment office from him, and that the three cells were in an alcove, safely out of sight of thecurious eyes of visitors. He was also glad that he had no otherprisoner for company. His situation was one in which he wanted to bealone. To the plan that was forming itself in his mind, solitude was asvital as the cooperation of Alexander Toppet Fingers. 

Just how far he could win that cooperation was the problem whichconfronted him now, and he waited anxiously for the return of FatherLayonne, listening for the sound of his footsteps in the outer hall. If, after all, that inspirational thought of last night came tonothing, if Fingers should fail him--

He shrugged his shoulders. If that happened, he could see no otherchance. He would have to go on and take his medicine at the hands of ajury. But if Fingers played up to the game--

He looked out on the river again, and again it was the river thatseemed to answer him. If Fingers played with him, they would beatKedsty and the whole of N Division! And in winning he would prove outthe greatest psychological experiment he had ever dared to make. Themagnitude of the thing, when he stopped to think of it, was a littleappalling, but his faith was equally large. He did not consider hisphilosophy at all supernatural. He had brought it down to the level ofthe average man and woman. 

He believed that every man and woman possessed a subliminalconsciousness which it was possible to rouse to tremendous heights ifthe right psychological key was found to fit its particular lock, andhe believed he possessed the key which fitted the deeply-buried andlong-hidden thing in Dirty Fingers' remarkable brain. Because hebelieved in this metaphysics which he had not read out of Aristotle, hehad faith that Fingers would prove his salvation. He felt growing inhim stronger than ever a strange kind of elation. He felt betterphysically than last night. The few minutes of strenuous action inwhich he had half killed Mercer had been a pretty good test, he toldhimself. It had left no bad effect, and he need no longer fear thereopening of his wound. 

A dozen times he had heard a far door open and close. Now he heard itagain, and a few moments later it was followed by a sound which drew alow cry of satisfaction from him. Dirty Fingers, because of overweightand lack of exercise, had what he called an "asthmatic wind, " and itwas this strenuous working of his lungs that announced his approach toKent. His dog was also afflicted and for the same reasons, so that whenthey traveled together there was some rivalry between them. 

"We're both bad put out for wind, thank God, " Dirty Fingers would saysometimes. "It's a good thing, for if we had more of it, we'd walkfarther, and we don't like walking. "

The dog was with Fingers now, also Father Layonne, and Pelly. Pellyunlocked the cell, then relocked it again after Fingers and the dogentered. With a nod and a hopeful look the missioner returned withPelly to the detachment office. Fingers wiped his red face with a bighandkerchief, gasping deeply for breath. Togs, his dog, was panting asif he had just finished the race of his life. 

"A difficult climb, " wheezed Fingers. "A most difficult climb. "

He sat down, rolling out like a great bag of jelly in the one chair inthe cell, and began to fan himself with his hat. Kent had already takenstock of the situation. In Fingers' florid countenance and in hisalmost colorless eyes he detected a bit of excitement which Fingers wastrying to hide. Kent knew what it meant. Father Layonne had found itnecessary to play his full hand to lure Fingers up the hill, and hadgiven him a hint of what it was that Kent had in store for him. Alreadythe psychological key had begun to work. 

Kent sat down on the edge of his cot and grinned sympathetically. "Ithasn't always been like this, has it, Fingers?" he said then, leaning abit forward and speaking with a sudden, low-voiced seriousness. "Therewas a time, twenty years ago, when you didn't puff after climbing ahill. Twenty years make a big difference, sometimes. "

"Yes, sometimes, " agreed Fingers in a wheezy whisper. 

"Twenty years ago you were--a fighter. "

It seemed to Kent that a deeper color came into Dirty Fingers' paleeyes in the few seconds that followed these words. 

"A fighter, " he repeated. "Most men were fighters in those days of thegold rushes, weren't they, Fingers? I've heard a lot of the old storiesabout them in my wanderings, and some of them have made me thrill. Theyweren't afraid to die. And most of them were pretty white when it cameto a show-down. You were one of them, Fingers. I heard the story oneWinter far north. I've kept it to myself, because I've sort of had theidea that you didn't want people to know or you would have told ityourself. That's why I wanted you to come to see me, Fingers. You knowthe situation. It's either the noose or iron bars for me. Naturally onewould seek for assistance among those who have been his friends. But Ido not, with the exception of Father Layonne. Just friendship won'tsave me, not the sort of friendship we have today. That's why I sentfor you. Don't think that I am prying into secrets that are sacred toyou, Fingers. God knows I don't mean it that way. But I've got to tellyou of a thing that happened a long time ago, before you canunderstand. You haven't forgotten--you will never forget--Ben Tatman?"

As Kent spoke the name, a name which Dirty Fingers had heard no lipsbut his own speak aloud in nearly a quarter of a century, a strange andpotent force seemed suddenly to take possession of the forest bencher'shuge and flabby body. It rippled over and through him like anelectrical voltaism, making his body rigid, stiffening what had seemedto be fat into muscle, tensing his hands until they knotted themselvesslowly into fists. The wheeze went out of his breath, and it was thevoice of another man who answered Kent. 

"You have heard--about--Ben Tatman?"

"Yes. I heard it away up in the Porcupine country. They say it happenedtwenty years ago or more. This Tatman, so I was told, was a youngfellow green from San Francisco--a bank clerk, I think--who came intothe gold country and brought his wife with him. They were bothchuck-full of courage, and the story was that each worshiped the groundthe other walked on, and that the girl had insisted on being herhusband's comrade in adventure. Of course neither guessed the sort ofthing that was ahead of them. 

"Then came that death Winter in Lost City. You know better than I whatthe laws were in those days, Fingers. Food failed to come up. Snow cameearly, the thermometer never rose over fifty below zero for threestraight months, and Lost City was an inferno of starvation and death. You could go out and kill a man, then, and perhaps get away with it, Fingers. But if you stole so much as a crust of bread or a single bean, you were taken to the edge of the camp and told to go! And that meantcertain death--death from hunger and cold, more terrible than shootingor hanging, and for that reason it was the penalty for theft. 

"Tatman wasn't a thief. It was seeing his young wife slowly dying ofhunger, and his horror at the thought of seeing her fall, as otherswere falling, a victim to scurvy, that made him steal. He broke into acabin in the dead of night and stole two cans of beans and a pan ofpotatoes, more precious than a thousand times their weight in gold. Andhe was caught. Of course, there was the wife. But those were the dayswhen a woman couldn't save a man, no matter how lovely she was. Tatmanwas taken to the edge of camp and given his pack and his gun--but nofood. And the girl, hooded and booted, was at his side, for she wasdetermined to die with him. For her sake Tatman had lied up to the lastminute, protesting his innocence. 

"But the beans and the potatoes were found in his cabin, and that wasevidence enough. And then, just as they were about to go straight outinto the blizzard that meant death within a few hours, then--"

Kent rose to his feet, and walked to the little window, and stoodthere, looking out. "Fingers, now and then a superman is born on earth. And a superman was there in that crowd of hunger-stricken andembittered men. At the last moment he stepped out and in a loud voicedeclared that Tatman was innocent and that he was guilty. Unafraid, hemade a remarkable confession. He had stolen the beans and the potatoesand had slipped them into the Tatman cabin when they were asleep. Why?Because he wanted to save the woman from hunger! Yes, he lied, Fingers. He lied because he loved the wife that belonged to another man--liedbecause in him there was a heart as true as any heart God ever made. Helied! And his lie was a splendid thing. He went out into that blizzard, strengthened by a love that was greater than his fear of death, and thecamp never heard of him again. Tatman and his wife returned to theircabin and lived. Fingers--" Kent whirled suddenly from the window. "Fingers--"

And Fingers, like a sphynx, sat and stared at Kent. 

"You were that man, " Kent went on, coming nearer to him. "You lied, because you loved a woman, and you went out to face death because ofthat woman. The men at Lost City didn't know it, Fingers. The husbanddidn't know it. And the girl, that girl-wife you worshiped in secret, didn't dream of it! But that was the truth, and you know it deep downin your soul. You fought your way out. You lived! And all these years, down here on your porch, you've been dreaming of a woman, of the girlyou were willing to die for a long time ago. Fingers, am I right? Andif I am, will you shake hands?"

Slowly Fingers had risen from his chair. No longer were his eyes dulland lifeless, but flaming with a fire that Kent had lighted again aftermany years. And he reached out a hand and gripped Kent's, still staringat him as though something had come back to him from the dead. 

"I thank you, Kent, for your opinion of that man, " he said. "Somehow, you haven't made me--ashamed. But it was only the shell of a man thatwon out after that day when I took Tatman's place. Something happened. I don't know what. But--you see me now. I never went back into thediggings. I degenerated. I became what I am. "

"And you are today just what you were when you went out to die for MaryTatman, " cried Kent. "The same heart and the same soul are in you. Wouldn't you fight again today for her?"

A stifled cry came from Fingers' lips. "My God, yes, Kent--I would!"

"And that's why I wanted you, of all men, to come to me, Fingers, " Kentwent on swiftly. "To you, of all the men on earth, I wanted to tell mystory. And now, will you listen to it? Will you forgive me for bringingup this memory that must be precious to you, only that you might morefully understand what I am going to say? I don't want you to think ofit as a subterfuge on my part. It is more than that. It is--Fingers, isit inspiration? Listen, and tell me. "

And for a long time after that James Kent talked, and Fingers listened, the soul within him writhing and dragging itself back into fierce life, demanding for the first time in many years the something which it hadonce possessed, but which it had lost. It was not the lazy, mysterious, silent Dirty Fingers who sat in the cell with Kent. In him the spiritof twenty years ago had roused itself from long slumber, and the thrillof it pounded in his blood. Two-Fisted Fingers they had called himthen, and he was Two-Fisted Fingers in this hour with Kent. TwiceFather Layonne came to the head of the cell alcove, but turned backwhen he heard the low and steady murmur of Kent's voice. Nothing didKent keep hidden, and when he had finished, something that was like thefire of a revelation had come into Fingers' face. 

"My God!" he breathed deeply. "Kent, I've been sitting down there on myporch a long time, and a good many strange things have come to me, butnever anything like this. Oh, if it wasn't for this accursed flesh ofmine!"

He jumped from his chair more quickly than he had moved in ten years, and he laughed as he had not laughed in all that time. He thrust out agreat arm and doubled it up, like a prizefighter testing his muscle. "Old? I'm not old! I was only twenty-eight when that happened up there, and I'm forty-eight now. That isn't old. It's what is in me that'sgrown old. I'll do it, Kent! I'll do it, if I hang for it!"

Kent fairly leaped upon him. "God bless you!" he cried huskily. "Godbless you, Fingers! Look! Look at that!" He pulled Fingers to thelittle window, and together they looked out upon the river, shimmeringgloriously under a sun-filled sky of blue. "Two thousand miles of it, "he breathed. "Two thousand miles of it, running straight through theheart of that world we both have known! No, you're not old, Fingers. The things you used to know are calling you again, as they are callingme, for somewhere off there are the ghosts of Lost City, ghosts--andrealities!"

"Ghosts--and hopes, " said Fingers. 

"Hopes make life, " softly whispered Kent, as if to himself. And then, without turning from the window, his hand found Fingers' and clasped ittight. "It may be that mine, like yours, will never come true. Butthey're fine to think about, Fingers. Funny, isn't it, that their namesshould be so strangely alike--Mary and Marette? I say, Fingers--"

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Both turned from the window asConstable Pelly came to the door of the cell. They recognized thisintimation that their time was up, and with his foot Fingers roused hissleeping dog. 

It was a new Fingers who walked back to the river five minutes later, and it was an amazed and discomfited dog who followed at his heels, forat times the misshapen and flesh-ridden Togs was compelled to trot fora few steps to keep up. And Fingers did not sink into the chair on theshady porch when he reached his shack. He threw off his coat andwaistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, and for hours after that he wasburied deep in the accumulated masses of dust-covered legal treasuresstored away in hidden corners of the Good Old Queen Bess. 

CHAPTER XII

That morning Kent had heard wild songs floating up from the river, andnow he felt like shouting forth his own joy and exultation in song. Hewondered if he could hide the truth from the eyes of others, andespecially from Kedsty if he came to see him. It seemed that someglimmer of the hope blazing within him must surely reveal itself, nomatter how he tried to hold it back. He felt the vital forces of thathope more powerful within him now than in the hour when he had creptfrom the hospital window with freedom in his face. For then he was notsure of himself. He had not tested his physical strength. And in thepresent moment, fanned by his unbounded optimism, the thought came tohim that perhaps it was good luck and not bad that had thrown Mercer inhis way. For with Fingers behind him now, his chances for a cleanget-away were better. He would not be taking a hazardous leap chancedon the immediate smiles of fortune. He would be going deliberately, prepared. 

He blessed the man who had been known as Dirty Fingers, but whom hecould not think of now in the terms of that name. He blessed the day hehad heard that chance story of Fingers, far north. He no longerregarded him as the fat pig of a man he had been for so many years. Forhe looked upon the miracle of a great awakening. He had seen the soulof Fingers lift itself up out of its tabernacle of flesh and grow youngagain; he had seen stagnant blood race with new fire. He had seenemotions roused that had slept for long years. And he felt towardFingers, in the face of that awakening, differently than he had felttoward any other living man. His emotion was one of deep and embracingcomradeship. 

Father Layonne did not come again until afternoon, and then he broughtinformation that thrilled Kent. The missioner had walked down to seeFingers, and Fingers was not on his porch. Neither was the dog. He hadknocked loudly on the door, but there was no answer. Where was Fingers?Kent shook his head, feigning an anxious questioning, but inside himhis heart was leaping. He knew! He told Father Layonne he was afraidall Fingers' knowledge of the law could do him but little good, thatFingers had told him as much, and the little missioner went awayconsiderably depressed. He would talk with Fingers again, he said, andoffer certain suggestions he had in mind. Kent chuckled when he wasgone. How shocked le Pere would be if he, too, could know!

The next morning Father Layonne came again, and his information waseven more thrilling to Kent. The missioner was displeased with Fingers. Last night, noticing a light in his shack, he had walked down to seehim. And he had found three men closely drawn up about a table withDirty Fingers. One of them was Ponte, the half-breed; another was Kinoothe outcast Dog Rib from over on Sand Creek; the third was Mooie, theold Indian trailer. Kent wanted to jump up and shout, for those threewere the three greatest trailers in all that part of the Northland. Fingers had lost no time, and he wanted to voice his approbation like asmall boy on the Fourth of July. 

But his face, seen by Father Layonne, betrayed none of the excitementthat was in his blood. Fingers had told him he was going into a timberdeal with these men, a long-distance deal where there would be muchtraveling, and that he could not interrupt himself just then to talkabout Kent. Would Father Layonne come again in the morning? And he hadgone again that morning, and Fingers' place was locked up!

All the rest of the day Kent waited eagerly for Fingers. For the firsttime Kedsty came to see him, and as a matter of courtesy said he hopedFingers might be of assistance to him. He did not mention Mercer andremained no longer than a couple of minutes, standing outside the cell. In the afternoon Doctor Cardigan came and shook hands warmly with Kent. He had found a tough job waiting for him, he said. Mercer was all cutup, in a literal as well as a mental way. He had five teeth missing, and he had to have seventeen stitches taken in his face. It wasCardigan's opinion that some one had given him a considerablebeating--and he grinned at Kent. Then he added in a whisper, "My God, Kent, how I wish you had made it!"

It was four o'clock when Fingers came. Even less than yesterday did helook like the old Fingers. He was not wheezing. He seemed to have lostflesh. His face was alive. That was what struck Kent--the new life init. There was color in his eyes. And Togs, the dog, was not with him. He smiled when he shook hands with Kent, and nodded, and chuckled. AndKent, after that, gripped him by the shoulders and shook him in hissilent joy. 

"I was up all last night, " said Fingers in a low voice. "I don't daremove much in the day, or people will wonder. But, God bless my soul!--Idid move last night, Kent. I must have walked ten miles, more or less. And things are coming--coming!"

"And Ponte, Kinoo, Mooie--?"

"Are working like devils, " whispered Fingers. "It's the only way, Kent. I've gone through all my law, and there's nothing in man-made law thatcan save you. I've read your confession, and I don't think you couldeven get off with the penitentiary. A noose is already tied around yourneck. I think you'd hang. We've simply got to get you out some otherway. I've had a talk with Kedsty. He has made arrangements to have yousent to Edmonton two weeks from tomorrow. We'll need all that time, butit's enough. "

For three days thereafter Fingers came to Kent's cell each afternoon, and each time was looking better. Something was swiftly puttinghardness into his flesh and form into his body. The second day he toldKent that he had found the way at last, and that when the hour came, escape would be easy, but he thought it best not to let Kent in on thelittle secret just yet. He must be patient and have faith. That was thechief thing, to have faith at all times, no matter what happened. Several times he emphasized that "no matter what happens. " The thirdday he puzzled Kent. He was restless, a bit nervous. He still thoughtit best not to tell Kent what his scheme was, until to-morrow. He wasin the cell not more than five or ten minutes, and there was an unusualpressure in the grip of his hand when he bade Kent good-by. SomehowKent did not feel so well when he had gone. He waited impatiently forthe next day. It came, and hour after hour he listened for Fingers'heavy tread in the hall. The morning passed. The afternoon lengthened. Night came, and Fingers had not come. Kent did not sleep much betweenthe hour when he went to bed and morning. It was eleven o'clock whenthe missioner made his call. Before he left, Kent gave him a brief notefor Fingers. He had just finished his dinner, and Carter had taken thedishes away, when Father Layonne returned. A look at his face, and Kentknew that he bore unpleasant tidings. 

"Fingers is an--an apostate, " he said, his lips twitching as if to keepback a denunciation still more emphatic. "He was sitting on his porchagain this morning, half asleep, and says that after a great deal ofthought he has come to the definite opinion that he can do nothing foryou. He read your note and burned it with a match. He asked me to tellyou that the scheme he had in mind was too risky--for him. He says hewon't come up again. And--"

The missioner was rubbing his brown, knotted hands together raspingly. 

"Go on, " said Kent a little thickly. 

"He has also sent Inspector Kedsty the same word, " finished FatherLayonne. "His word to Kedsty is that he can see no fighting chance foryou, and that it is useless effort on his part to put up a defense foryou. Jimmy!" His hand touched Kent's arm gently. 

Kent's face was white. He faced the window, and for a space he did notsee. Then with pencil and paper he wrote again to Fingers. 

It was late in the afternoon before Father Layonne returned with ananswer. Again it was verbal. Fingers had read his note and had burnedit with a match. He was particular that the last scrap of it was turnedinto ash, the missioner said. And he had nothing to say to Kent that hehad not previously said. He simply could not go on with their plans. And he requested Kent not to write to him again. He was sorry, but thatwas his definite stand in the matter. 

Even then Kent could not bring himself to believe. All the rest of theday he tried to put himself in Fingers' brain, but his old trick oflosing his personality in that of another failed him this time. Hecould find no reason for the sudden change in Fingers, unless it waswhat Fingers had frankly confessed to Father Layonne--fear. Theinfluence of mind, in this instance, had failed in its assault upon amass of matter. Fingers' nerve had gone back on him. 

The fifth day Kent rose from his cot with hope still not quite dead inhis heart. But that day passed and the sixth, and the missioner broughtword that Fingers was the old Dirty Fingers again, sitting from morningtill night on his porch. 

On the seventh day came the final crash to Kent's hopes. Kedsty'sprogram had changed. He, Kent, was to start for Edmonton the followingmorning under charge of Pelly and a special constable!

After this Kent felt a strange change come over him. Years seemed tomultiply themselves in his body. His mind, beaten back, no longercontinued in its old channels of thought. The thing pressed upon himnow as fatalistic. Fingers had failed him. Fortune had failed him. Everything had failed, and for the first time in the weeks of hisstruggle against death and a thing worse than death, he cursed himself. There was a limit to optimism and a limit to hope. His limit wasreached. 

In the afternoon of this seventh day came a depressing gloom. It wasfilled with a drizzling rain. Hour after hour this drizzle kept up, thickening as the night came. He ate his supper by the light of a celllamp. By eight o'clock it was black outside. In that blackness therewas an occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. On the roofof the barracks the rain beat steadily and monotonously. 

His watch was in his hand--it was a quarter after nine o'clock, when heheard the door at the far exit of the hall open and close. He had heardit a dozen times since supper and paid no attention to it, but thistime it was followed by a voice at the detachment office that hit himlike an electrical shock. Then, a moment later, came low laughter. Itwas a woman who laughed. 

He stood up. He heard the detachment office door close, and silencefollowed. The watch in his hand seemed ticking off the seconds withfrantic noise. He shoved it into his pocket and stood staring out intothe prison alcove. A few minutes later the office door opened again. This time it was not closed. He heard distinctly a few light, hesitating footsteps, and his heart seemed to stop its beating. Theycame to the head of the lighted alcove, and for perhaps the space of adozen seconds there was silence again. Then they advanced. 

Another moment, and Kent was staring through the bars into the gloriouseyes of Marette Radisson!

CHAPTER XIII

In that moment Kent did not speak. He made no sound. He gave no sign ofwelcome, but stood in the middle of his cell, staring. If life had hungupon speech in those few seconds, he would have died, but everything hewould have said, and more, was in his face. The girl must have seen it. With her two hands she was gripping at the bars of the cell and lookingthrough at him. Kent saw that her face was pale in the lamp glow. Inthat pallor her violet eyes were like pools of black. The hood of herdripping raincoat was thrown partly back, and against the whiteness ofher cheeks her hair glistened wet, and her long lashes were heavy withthe rain. 

Kent, without moving over the narrow space between them, reached outhis hands and found his voice. "Marette!"

Her hands had tightened about the bars until they were bloodless. Herlips were parted. She was breathing quickly, but she did not smile; shemade no response to his greeting, gave no sign even of recognition. What happened after that was so sudden and amazing that his heartstopped dead still. Without warning she stepped back from the cell andbegan to scream and then drew away from him, still facing him and stillscreaming, as if something had terrified her. 

Kent heard the crash of a chair in the detachment office, excitedvoices, and the running of feet. Marette Radisson had withdrawn to thefar corner of the alcove, and as Carter and Pelly ran toward her, shestood, a picture of horror, pointing at Kent's cell. The two constablesrushed past her. Close behind them followed the special officerdetailed to take Kent to Edmonton. 

Kent had not moved. He was like one petrified. Close up against thebars came the faces of Pelly, Carter, and the special constable, filledwith the expressions of men who had expected to look in upon tragedy. And then, behind their backs, Kent saw the other thing happen. Swift asa flash Marette Radisson's hand went in and out of her raincoat, and atthe backs of the three men she was leveling a revolver! Not only didKent see that swift change, but the still swifter change that came intoher face. Her eyes shot to his just once, and they were filled with alaughing, exultant fire. With one mighty throb Kent's heart seemed toleap out through the bars of his prison, and at the look in his faceand eyes Carter swung suddenly around. 

"Please don't make any disturbance, gentlemen, " said Marette Radisson. "The first man that makes a suspicious move, I shall kill!"

Her voice was calm and thrilling. It had a deadly ring in it. Therevolver in her hand was held steadily. It was a slim-barreled, blackthing. The very color of it was menacing. And behind it were the girl'seyes, pools of flame. The three men were facing them now, shocked tospeechlessness. Automatically they seemed to obey her command to throwup their hands. Then she leveled her grim little gun straight atPelly's heart. 

"You have the key, " she said. "Unlock the cell!" Felly fumbled andproduced the key. She watched him closely. Then suddenly the specialconstable dropped his arms with a coarse laugh. "A pretty trick, " hesaid, "but the bluff won't work!"

"Oh, but it will!" came the reply. 

The little black gun was shifted to him, even as the constable'sfingers touched his revolver holster. With half-smiling lips, Marette'seyes blazed at him. 

"Please put up your hands, " she commanded. 

The constable hesitated; then his fingers gripped the butt of his gun. Kent, holding his breath, saw the almost imperceptible tensing ofMarette's body and the wavering of Pelly's arms over his head. Anothermoment and he, too, would have called the bluff if it were that. Butthat moment did not come. From the slim, black barrel of the girl'srevolver leaped forth a sudden spurt of smoke and flame, and thespecial constable lurched back against the cell bars, caught himself ashe half fell, and then stood with his pistol arm hanging limp anduseless at his side. He had not made a sound, but his face was twistedin pain. 

"Open the cell door!"

A second time the deadly-looking little gun was pointed straight atPelly's heart. The half-smile was gone from the girl's lips now. Hereyes blazed a deeper fire. She was breathing quickly, and she leaned alittle toward Pelly, repeating her command. The words were partlydrowned in a sudden crash of thunder. But Pelly understood. He saw herlips form the words, and half heard, "Open the door, or I shall kill you!"

He no longer hesitated. The key grated in the lock, and Kent himselfflung the door wide open and sprang out. He was quick to see and seizeupon opportunity and swift to act. The astounding audacity of thegirl's ruse, her clever acting in feigning horror to line the guards upat the cell door and the thrilling decisiveness with which she had usedthe little black gun in her hand set every drop of blood in his bodyafire. No sooner was he outside his cell than he was the old Jim Kent, fighting man. He whipped Carter's automatic out of its holster and, covering Pelly and the special constable, relieved them of their guns. Behind him he heard Marette's voice, calm and triumphant, "Lock them in the cell, Mr. Kent!"

He did not look at her, but swung his gun on Pelly and the specialconstable, and they backed through the door into the cell. Carter hadnot moved. He was looking straight at the girl, and the little blackgun was leveled at his breast. Pelly and the wounded man did not see, but on Carter's lips was a strange smile. His eyes met Kent's, andthere was revealed for an instant a silent flash of comradeship and anunmistakable something else. Carter was glad! It made Kent want toreach out and grip his hand, but in place of that he backed him intothe cell, turned the key in the lock, and with the key in his handfaced Marette Radisson. Her eyes were shining gloriously. He had neverseen such splendid, fighting eyes, nor the birdlike swiftness withwhich she turned and ran down the hall, calling him to follow her. 

He was only a step behind her in passing Kedsty's office. She reachedthe outer door and opened it. It was pitch-dark outside, and a delugeof rain beat into their faces. He observed that she did not replace thehood of her raincoat when she darted out. As he closed the door, herhand groped to his arm and from that found his hand. Her fingers clungto his tightly. 

He did not ask questions as they faced the black chaos of rain. Arending streak of lightning revealed her for an instant, her bare headbowed to the wind. Then came a crash of thunder that shook the earthunder their feet, and her fingers closed more tightly about his hand. And in that crash he heard her voice, half laughing, half broken, saying, "I'm afraid--of thunder!"

In that storm his laugh rang out, a great, free, joyous laugh. Hewanted to stop in that instant, sweep her up into his arms, and carryher. He wanted to shout like an insane man in his mad joy. And a momentbefore she had risked everything in facing three of the bravest men inthe service and had shot one of them! He started to say something, butshe increased her speed until she was almost running. 

She was not leading Jim in the direction of the river, but toward theforest beyond Kedsty's bungalow. Not for an instant did she falter inthat drenched and impenetrable darkness. There was something imperativein the clasp of her fingers, even though they tightened perceptiblywhen the thunder crashed. They gave Kent the conviction that there wasno doubt in her mind as to the point she was striving for. He tookadvantage of the lightning, for each time it gave him a glimpse of herbare, wet head bowed to the storm, her white profile, and her slimfigure fighting over the sticky earth under her feet. 

It was this presence of her, and not the thought of escape, thatexalted him now. She was at his side. Her hand lay close in his. Thelightning gave him glimpses of her. He felt the touch of her shoulder, her arm, her body, as they drew close together. The life and warmth andthrill of her seemed to leap into his own veins through the hand heheld. He had dreamed of her. And now suddenly she had become a part ofhim, and the glory of it rode overwhelmingly over all other emotionsthat were struggling in his brain--the glory of the thought that it wasshe who had come to him in the last moment, who had saved him, and whowas now leading him to freedom through the crash of storm. 

At the crest of a low knoll between barracks and Kedsty's bungalow shestopped for the first time. He had there, again, the almostirresistible impulse to reach out in the darkness and take her into hisarms, crying out to her of his joy, of a happiness that had come to himgreater even than the happiness of freedom. But he stood, holding herhand, his tongue speechless, and he was looking at her when thelightning revealed her again. In a rending flash it cut open the nightso close that the hiss of it was like the passing of a giant rocket, and involuntarily she shrank against him, and her free hand caught hisarm at the instant thunder crashed low over their heads. His own handgroped out, and in the blackness it touched for an instant her wet faceand then her drenched hair. 

"Marette, " he cried, "where are we going?"

"Down there, " came her voice. 

Her hand had left his arm, and he sensed that she was pointing, thoughhe could not see. Ahead of them was a chaotic pit of gloom, a sea ofblackness, and in the heart of that sea he saw a light. He knew that itwas a lamp in one of Kedsty's windows and that Marette was guidingherself by that light when she started down the slope with her handstill in his. That she had made no effort to withdraw it made himunconscious of the almost drowning discomfort of the fresh deluge ofrain that beat their faces. One of her fingers had gripped itselfconvulsively about his thumb, like a child afraid of falling. And eachtime the thunder crashed that soft hold on his thumb tightened, andKent's soul acclaimed. 

They drew swiftly nearer to the light, for it was not far from theknoll to Kedsty's place. Kent's mind leaped ahead. A little west bynorth from the inspector's bungalow was Kim's Bayou and it wasundoubtedly to the forest trail over which she had gone at least oncebefore, on the night of the mysterious assault upon Mooie, that Marettewas leading him. Questions began to rush upon him now, immediatedemanding questions. They were going to the river. They must be goingto the river. It was the quickest and surest way of escape. Had Maretteprepared for that? And was she going with him?

He had no time to answer. Their feet struck the gravel path leading tothe door of Kedsty's place, and straight up this path the girl turned, straight toward the light blazing in the window. Then, to hisamazement, he heard in the sweep of storm her voice crying out in gladtriumph, "We're home!"

Home! His breath came in a sudden gulp. He was more than astounded. Hewas shocked. Was she mad or playing an amazingly improper joke? She hadfreed him from a cell to lead him to the home of the Inspector ofPolice, the deadliest enemy the world now held for him. He stopped, andMarette Radisson tugged at his hand, pulling him after her, insistingthat he follow. She was clutching his thumb as though she thought hemight attempt to escape. 

"It is safe, M'sieu Jeems, " she cried. "Don't be afraid!"

M'sieu Jeems! And the laughing note of mockery in her voice! He ralliedhimself and followed her up the three steps to the door. Her hand foundthe latch, the door opened, and swiftly they were inside. The lamp inthe window was close to them, but for a space he could not see becauseof the water in his eyes. He blinked it out, drew a hand across hisface, and looked at Marette. She stood three or four paces from him. Her face was very white, and she was panting as if hard-run for breath, but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him. The water wasrunning from her in streams. 

"You are wet, " she said. "And I am afraid you will catch cold. Comewith me!"

Again she was making fun of him just as she had made fun of him atCardigan's! She turned, and he ran upstairs behind her. At the top shewaited for him, and as he came up, she reached out her hand, as ifapologizing for having taken it from him when they entered thebungalow. He held it again as she led him down the hall to a doorfarthest from the stair. This she opened, and they entered. It was darkinside, and the girl withdrew her hand again, and Kent heard her movingacross the room. In that darkness a new and thrilling emotion possessedhim. The air he was breathing was not the air he had breathed in thehall. In it was the sweet scent of flowers, and of something else--thefaint and intangible perfume of a woman's room. He waited, staring. Hiseyes were wide when a match leaped into flame in Marette's fingers. Then he stood in the glow of a lamp. 

He continued to stare in the stupidity of a shock to which he was notaccustomed. Marette, as if to give him time to acquaint himself withhis environment, was taking off her raincoat. Under it her slim littlefigure was dry, except where the water had run down from her uncoveredhead to her shoulders. He noticed that she wore a short skirt, andboots, adorably small boots of splendidly worked caribou. And thensuddenly she came toward him with both hands reaching out to him. 

"Please shake hands and say you're glad, " she said. "Don't lookso--so--frightened. This is my room and you are safe here. "

He held her hands tight, staring into the wonderful, violet eyes thatwere looking at him with the frank and unembarrassed directness of achild's. "I--I don't understand, " he struggled. "Marette, where isKedsty?"

"He should be returning very soon. "

"And he knows you are here, of course?"

She nodded. "I have been here for a month. "

Kent's hands closed tighter about hers. "I--I don't understand, " herepeated. "Tonight Kedsty will know that it was you who rescued me andyou who shot Constable Willis. Good God, we must lose no time ingetting away!"

"There is great reason why Kedsty dare not betray my presence in hishouse, " she said quietly. "He would die first! And he will not suspectthat I have brought you to my room, that an escaped murderer is hidingunder the very roof of the Inspector of Police! They will search foryou everywhere but here! Isn't it splendid? He planned it all, everymove, even to the screaming in front of your cell--"

"You mean--Kedsty?"

She withdrew her hands and stepped back from him, and again he saw inher eyes a flash of the fire that had come into them when she leveledher gun at the three men in the prison alcove. "No, not Kedsty. Hewould hang you, and he would kill me, if he dared. I mean that great, big, funny-looking friend of yours, M'sieu Fingers!"

CHAPTER XIV

The manner in which Kent stared at Marette Radisson after herannouncement that it was Dirty Fingers who had planned his escape musthave been, he thought afterward, little less than imbecile. He hadwronged Fingers, he believed. He had called him a coward and abackslider. In his mind he had reviled him for helping to raise hishopes to the highest pitch, only to smash them in the end. And all thetime Dirty Fingers had been planning this! Kent began to grin. Thething was clear in a moment--that is, the immediate situation wasclear--or he thought it was. But there were questions--one, ten, ahundred of them. They wanted to pile over the end of his tongue, questions that had little or nothing to do with Kedsty. He saw nothingnow but Marette. 

She had begun to take down her hair. It fell about her in wet, shiningmasses. Kent had never seen anything like it. It clung to her face, herneck, her shoulders and arms, and shrouded her slender body to herhips, lovely in its confusion. Little drops of water glistened in itlike diamonds in the lamp glow, trickling down and dropping to thefloor. It was like a glowing coat of velvety sable beaten by storm. Marette ran her arms up through it, shaking it out in clouds, and amist of rain leaped out from it, some of it striking Kent in the face. He forgot Fingers. He forgot Kedsty. His brain flamed only with theelectrifying nearness of her. It was the thought of her that hadinspired the greatest hope in him. It was his dreams of her, somewhereon the Big River, that had given him his great courage to believe inthe ultimate of things. And now time and space had taken a leapbackward. She was not four or five hundred miles north. There was nolong quest ahead of him. She was here, within a few feet of him, tossing the wet from that glorious hair he had yearned to touch, brushing it out now, with her back toward him, in front of her mirror. 

And as he sat there, uttering no word, looking at her, the demands ofthe immense responsibility that had fallen upon him and of the greatfight that lay ahead pounded within him with naked fists. Fingers hadplanned. She had executed. It was up to him to finish. 

He saw her, not as a creature to win, but as a priceless possession. Her fight had now become his fight. The rain was beating against thewindow near him. Out there was blackness, the river, the big world. Hisblood leaped with the old fighting fire. They were going tonight; theymust be going tonight! Why should they wait? Why should they waste timeunder Kedsty's roof when freedom lay out there for the taking? Hewatched the swift movements of her hand, listened to the silken rustleof the brush as it smoothed out her long hair. Bewilderment, reason, desire for action fought inside him. 

Suddenly she faced him again. "It has just this moment occurred to me, "she said, "that you haven't said 'Thank you. '"

So suddenly that he startled her he was at her side. He did nothesitate this time, as he had hesitated in his room at Cardigan'splace. He caught her two hands in his, and with them he felt the soft, damp crush of her hair between his fingers. Words tumbled from hislips. He could not remember afterward all that he said. Her eyeswidened, and they never for an instant left his own. Thank her! He toldher what had happened to him--in the heart and soul of him--from thehour she had come to him at Cardigan's. He told her of dreams andplans, of his determination to find her again after he had escaped, ifit took him all his life. He told her of Mercer, of his discovery ofher visit to Kim's Bayou, of his scheme to follow her down the ThreeRivers, to seek for her at Fort Simpson, to follow her to the Valley ofSilent Men, wherever it was. Thank her! He held her hands so tight theyhurt, and his voice trembled. Under the cloud of her hair a slow fireburned in Marette Radisson's cheeks. But it did not show in her eyes. They looked at him so steadily, so unfalteringly, that his own faceburned before he had finished what was in his mind to say, and he freedher hands and stepped back from her again. 

"Forgive me for saying all that, " he entreated. "But it's true. Youcame to me there, at Cardigan's place, like something I'd alwaysdreamed about, but never expected to find. And you came to me again, atthe cell, like--"

"Yes, I know how I came, " she interrupted him. "Through the mud and therain, Mr. Kent. And it was so black I lost my way and was terrified tothink that I might not find barracks. I was half an hour behind Mr. Fingers' schedule. For that reason I think Inspector Kedsty may returnat any moment, and you must not talk so loud--or so much. "

"Lord!" he breathed in a whisper. "I have said a lot in a short time, haven't I? But it isn't a hundredth part of what I want to get out ofmy system. I won't ask the million questions that want to be asked. ButI must know why we are here. Why have we come to Kedsty's? Why didn'twe make for the river? There couldn't be a better night to get away. "

"But it is not so good as the fifth night from now will be, " she said, resuming the task of drying her hair. "On that night you may go to theriver. Our plans were a little upset, you know, by Inspector Kedsty'schange in the date on which you were to leave for Edmonton. Arrangements have been made so that on the fifth night you may leavesafely. "

"And you?"

"I shall remain here. " And then she added in a low voice that struckhis heart cold, "I shall remain to pay Kedsty the price which he willask for what has happened tonight. "

"Good God!" he cried. "Marette!"

She turned on him swiftly. "No, no, I don't mean that he will hurt me, "she cried, a fierce little note in her voice. "I would kill him beforethat! I'm sorry I told you. But you must not question me. You shallnot!"

She was trembling. He had never seen her excited like that before, andas she stood there before him, he knew that he was not afraid for herin the way that had flashed into his mind. She had not spoken emptywords. She would fight. She would kill, if it was necessary to kill. And he saw her, all at once, as he had not seen her before. Heremembered a painting which he had seen a long time ago in Montreal. Itwas L'Esprit de la Solitude--The Spirit of the Wild--painted by Conne, the picturesque French-Canadian friend of Lord Strathcona and MountRoyal, and a genius of the far backwoods who had drawn his inspirationfrom the heart of the wilderness itself. And that painting stood beforehim now in flesh and blood, its crudeness gone, but the marvelousspirit it had breathed remaining. Shrouded in her tumbled hair, herlips a little parted, every line of her slender body vibrant with anemotion which seemed consuming her, her beautiful eyes aglow with itsfire, he saw in her, as Conne must have seen at another time, the soulof the great North itself. She seemed to him to breathe of the God'scountry far down the Three Rivers; of its almost savage fearlessness;its beauty, its sunshine, and its storm; its tragedy, its pathos, andits song. In her was the courage and the glory of that North. He hadseen; and now he felt these things, and the thrill of them swept overhim like an inundation. 

He had heard her soft laugh, she had made fun of him when he thought hewas dying; she had kissed him, she had fought for him, she had clung interror to his hand when the lightning flashed; and now she stood withher little hands clenched in her hair, like a storm about to break. Amoment ago she was so near that he had almost taken her in his arms. Now, in an instant, she had placed something so vast between them thathe would not have dared to touch her hand or her hair. Like sun andcloud and wind she changed, and for him each change added to the wonderof her. And now it was storm. He saw it in her eyes, her hands, herbody. He felt the electrical nearness of it in those low-spoken, trembling words, "YOU SHALL NOT!" The room seemed surcharged for amoment with impending shock. And then his physical eyes took in againthe slimness of her, seized upon the alluring smallness of her and thefact that he could have tossed her to the ceiling without great effort. And yet he saw her as one sees a goddess. 

"No, I won't ask you questions, when you look at me like that, " hesaid, finding his tongue. "I won't ask you what this price is thatKedsty may demand, because you're not going to pay it. If you won't gowith me, I won't go. I'd rather stay here and be hung. I'm not askingyou questions, so please don't shoot, but if you told me the truth, andyou belong in the North, you're going back with me--or I'm not going. I'll not budge an inch. "

She drew a deep breath, as if something had greatly relieved her. Againher violet eyes came out from the shadow into sunlight, and hertrembling mouth suddenly broke into a smile. It was not apologetic. There was about it a quick and spontaneous gladness which she made noeffort at all to conceal. 

"That is nice of you, " she said. "I'm glad to hear you say it. I neverknew how pleasant it was to have some one who was willing to be hungfor me. But you will go. And I will not go. There isn't time to explainall about it just now, for Inspector Kedsty will be here very soon, andI must dry my hair and show you your hiding-place--if you have to hide. "

She began to brush her hair again. In the mirror Kent caught a glimpseof the smile still trembling on her lips. 

"I'm not questioning you, " he guarded himself again, "but if you couldonly understand how anxious I am to know where Kedsty is, how Fingersfound you, why you made us believe you were leaving the Landing andthen returned--and--how badly I want to know something about you--Ialmost believe you'd talk a little while you are drying your hair. "

"It was Mooie, the old Indian, " she said. "It was he who found out insome way that I was here, and then M'sieu Fingers came himself onenight when the Inspector was away--got in through a window and simplysaid that you had sent him, when I was just about to shoot him. Yousee, I knew you weren't going to die. Kedsty had told me that. I wasgoing to help you in another way, if M'sieu Fingers hadn't come. Inspector Kedsty was over there tonight, at his cabin, when the thinghappened down there. It was a part of Fingers' scheme--to keep him outof the way. "

Suddenly she grew rigid. The brush remained poised in her hair. Kent, too, heard the sound that she had heard. It was a loud tapping at oneof the curtained windows, the tapping of some metallic object. And thatwindow was fifteen feet above the ground!

With a little cry the girl threw down her brush, ran to the window, andraised and lowered the curtain once. Then she turned to Kent, swiftlydividing her hair into thick strands and weaving them into a braid. 

"It is Mooie, " she cried. "Kedsty is coming!"

She caught his hand and hurried him toward the head of the bed, wheretwo long curtains were strung on a wire. She drew these apart. Behindthem were what seemed to Kent an innumerable number of femininegarments. 

"You must hide in them, if you have to, " she said, the excited littletremble in her voice again. "I don't think it will come to that, but ifit does, you must! Bury yourself way back in them, and keep quiet. IfKedsty finds you are here--"

She looked into his eyes, and it seemed to Kent that there wassomething which was very near to fear in them now. 

"If he should find you here, it would mean something terrible for me, "she went on, her hands creeping to his arms. "I can not tell you whatit is now, but it would be worse than death. Will you promise to stayhere, no matter what happens down there, no matter what you may hear?Will you--Mr. Kent?"

"Not if you call me Mr. Kent, " he said, something thickening in histhroat. 

"Will you--Jeems? Will you--no matter what happens--if I promise--whenI come back--to kiss you?"

Her hands slipped almost caressingly from his arms, and then she hadturned swiftly and was gone through the partly open door, closing itafter her, before he could give his promise. 

CHAPTER XV

For a space he stood where she had left him, staring at the doorthrough which she had gone. The nearness of her in those last fewseconds of her presence, the caressing touch of her hands, what he hadseen in her eyes, her promise to kiss him if he did not revealhimself--these things, and the thought of the splendid courage thatmust be inspiring her to face Kedsty now, made him blind even to thedoor and the wall at which he was apparently looking. He saw only herface, as he had seen it in that last moment--her eyes, the tremble ofher lips, and the fear which she had not quite hidden from him. She wasafraid of Kedsty. He was sure of it. For she had not smiled; there wasno flicker of humor in her eyes, when she called him Jeems, an intimateuse of the names Jim and James in the far North. It was not facetiouslythat she had promised to kiss him. An almost tragic seriousness hadpossessed her. And it was that seriousness that thrilled him--that, andthe amazing frankness with which she had coupled the name Jeems withthe promise of her lips. Once before she had called him Jeems. But itwas M'sieu Jeems then, and there had been a bit of taunting laughter inher voice. Jim or James meant nothing, but Jeems--He had heard motherscall little children that, in moments of endearment. He knew that wivesand sweethearts used it in that same way. For Jim and James were notuncommon names up and down the Three Rivers, even among the half-breedsand French, and Jeems was the closer and more intimate thing bred of it. 

His heart was thumping riotously as he went to the door and listened. Alittle while ago, when she faced him with flashing eyes, commanding himnot to question her, he had felt an abyss under his feet. Now he was ona mountain. And he knew that no matter what he heard, unless it was hercry for help, he would not go down. 

After a little he opened the door a mere crack so that sound might cometo him. She had not forbidden that. Through the crack he could see adim glow of light in the lower hall. But he heard no sound, and itoccurred to him that old Mooie could still run swiftly, and that itmight be some time before Kedsty would arrive. 

As he waited, he looked about the room. His first impression was thatMarette must have lived in it for a long time. It was a woman's room, without the newness of sudden and unpremeditated occupancy. He knewthat formerly it had been Kedsty's room, but nothing of Kedsty remainedin it now. And then, as his wondering eyes beheld the miracle, a numberof things struck him with amazing significance. He no longer doubtedthat Marette Radisson was of the far Northland. His faith in that wasabsolute. If there had been a last question in his mind, it was wipedaway because she called him Jeems. Yet this room seemed to give the lieto his faith. Fascinated by his discovery of things, he drew away fromthe door and stood over the dressing-table in front of the mirror. 

Marette had not prepared the room for him, and her possessions werethere. It did not strike him as sacrilege to look at them, the manyintimate little things that are mysteriously used in the process of alady's toilette. It was their number and variety that astounded him. Hemight have expected them in the boudoir of the Governor General'sdaughter at Ottawa, but not here--and much less farther north. What hesaw was of exquisite material and workmanship. And then, as ifattracted by a magnet, his eyes were drawn to something else. It was arow of shoes neatly and carefully arranged on the floor at one side ofthe dressing-table. 

He stared at them, astounded. Never had he seen such an array offeminine footwear intended for the same pair of feet. And it was notNorthern footwear. Every individual little beauty in that amazing rowstood on a high heel! Their variety was something to which he had longbeen a stranger. There were buttoned boots, laced boots, brown boots, black boots, and white boots, with dangerously high and fragile lookingheels; there were dainty little white kid slippers, slippers with bows, slippers with cut steel buckles, and slippers with dainty ribbon ties;there were high-heeled oxfords and high-heeled patent leather pumps! Hegasped. He reached over, moved by an automatic sort of impulse, andtook a satiny little pump in his hand. 

The size of it gave him a decidedly pleasant mental shock, and, beginning to feel like one prying into a sleeper's secrets, he lookedinside it. The size was there--number three. And it had come fromFavre's in Montreal! One after another he looked inside half a dozenothers. And all of them had come from Favre's in Montreal. The littleshoes, more than all else that he had seen or that had happened, sent aquestion pounding through his brain. Who was Marette Radisson?

And that question was followed by other questions, until they tumbledover one another in his head. If she was from Montreal, why was shegoing north? If she belonged in the North, if she was a part of it, whywas she taking all of this apparently worthless footwear with her? Whyhad she come to Athabasca Landing? What was she to Kedsty? Why was shehiding under his roof? Why--

He stopped himself, trying to find some one answer in all that chaos ofquestions. It was impossible for him to take his eyes from the shoes. Athought seized him. Ludicrously he dropped upon his knees in front ofthe row and with a face growing hotter each moment examined them all. But he wanted to know. And the discovery he made was that most of thefootwear had been worn, some of it so slightly, however, that theimpression of the foot was barely visible. 

He rose to his feet and continued his inquiry. Of course she hadexpected him to look about. One couldn't help seeing, unless one wereblind. He would have cut off a hand before opening one of thedressing-table drawers. But Marette herself had told him to hide behindthe curtains if it became necessary, and it was an excusable cautionfor him to look behind those curtains now, to see what sort ofhiding-place he had. He returned to the door first and listened. Therewas still no sound from below. Then he drew the curtains apart, asMarette had drawn them. Only he looked longer. He would tell her aboutit when she returned, if the act needed an apology. 

His impression was a man's impression. What he saw was a billowing, filmy mass of soft stuff, and out of it there greeted him the faintestpossible scent of lilac sachet powder. He closed the curtains with adeep breath of utter joy and of consternation. The two emotions were ajumble to him. The shoes, all that mass of soft stuff behind thecurtains, were exquisitely feminine. The breath of perfume had come tohim straight out of a woman's soul. There were seduction and witcheryto it. He saw Marette, an enrapturing vision of loveliness, floatingbefore his eyes in that sacred and mysterious vestment of which he hadstolen a half-frightened glimpse. In white--the white, cobwebby thingof laces and embroidery that had hung straight before his eyes--inwhite--with her glorious black hair, her violet eyes, her--

And then it was that the incongruity of the thing, the almost sheerimpossibility of it, clashed in upon his vision. Yet his faith was notshaken. Marette Radisson was of the North. He could not disbelievethat, even in the face of these amazing things that confronted him. 

Suddenly he heard a sound that was like the explosion of a gun underhis feet. It was the opening and closing of the hall door--but mostlythe closing. The slam of it shook the house and rattled the glass inthe windows. Kedsty had returned, and he was in a rage. Kentextinguished the light so that the room was in darkness. Then he wentto the door. He could hear the quick, heavy tread of Kedsty's feetAfter that came the closing of a second door, followed by the rumble ofKedsty's voice. Kent was disappointed. 

The Inspector of Police and Marette were in a room too far distant forhim to distinguish what was said. But he knew that Kedsty had returnedto barracks and had discovered what had happened there. After aninterval his voice was a steady rumble. It rose higher. He heard thecrash of a chair. Then the voice ceased, and after it came the trampingof Kedsty's feet. Not once did he catch the sound of Marette's voice, but he was sure that in the interval of silence she was talking. ThenKedsty's voice broke forth more furiously than before. Kent's fingersdug into the sill of the door. Each moment added to his conviction thatMarette was in danger. It was not physical violence he feared. He didnot believe Kedsty capable of perpetrating that upon a woman. It wasfear that he would take her to barracks. The fact that Marette had toldhim there was a powerful reason why Kedsty would not do this failed toassure him. For she had also told him that Kedsty would kill her, if hedared. He held himself in readiness. At a cry from her, or the firstmove on Kedsty's part to take her from the bungalow, he would givebattle in spite of Marette's warning. 

He almost hoped one of these two things would happen. As he stoodthere, listening, waiting, the thought became almost a prayer. He hadPelly's revolver. Within twenty seconds he could have Kedsty lookingdown the barrel of it. The night was ideal for escape. Within half anhour they would be on the river. They could even load up withprovisions from Kedsty's place. He opened the door a little more, scarcely making an effort to combat the impulse that dragged him out. Marette must be in danger, or she would not have confessed to him thatshe was in the house of a man who would like to see her dead. Why shewas there did not interest him deeply now. It was the fact of themoment that was moving him swiftly toward action. 

The door below opened again, and Kent's body grew rigid. He heardKedsty charging through the lower hall like a mad bull. The outer dooropened, slammed shut, and he was gone. 

Kent drew back into the darkness of his room. It was some momentsbefore he heard Marette coming slowly up the stairs. She seemed to begroping her way, though there was a dim illumination out there. Thenshe came through the door into the blackness of her room. 

"Jeems, " she whispered. 

He went to her. Her hands reached out, and again they rested on hisarms. 

"You--you didn't come down the stair?"

"No. "

"You--didn't hear?"

"I heard no words. Only Kedsty's voice. "

It seemed to him that her voice, when she spoke again, trembled with animmeasurable relief. "You were good, Jeems. I am glad. "

In that darkness he could not see. Yet something reached into him, thrilling him, quickening his pulse with a thing to which his eyes wereblind. He bent down. He found her lips upturned, offering him thesweetness of the kiss which was to be his reward; and as he felt theirwarmth upon his own, he felt also the slightest pressure of her handsupon his arms. 

"He is gone. We will light the lamp again, " she said then. 

CHAPTER XVI

Kent stood still while Marette moved in that gloom, found matches, andlighted the lamp. He had not spoken a word after the kiss. He had nottaken advantage of it. The gentle pressure of her hands had restrainedhim from taking her in his arms. But the kiss itself fired him with awild and glorious thrill that was like a vibrant music to which everyatom of life in his body responded. If he claimed his reward at all, hehad expected her kiss to be perhaps indifferent, at least neutral. Butthe lips she had given him there in the darkness of the room were warm, living, breathing lips. They had not been snatched away from him tooquickly. Their sweetness, for an instant, had lingered. 

Then, in the lamp glow, he was looking into Marette Radisson's face. Heknew that his own was aflame. He had no desire to hide its confession, and he was eager to find what lay in her own eyes. And he wasastonished, and then startled. The kiss had not disturbed Marette. Itwas as if it had never happened. 

She was not embarrassed, and there was no hint of color in her face. Itwas her deathly whiteness that startled him, a pallor emphasized by thedark masses of her hair, and a strange glow in her eyes. It was not aglow brought there by the kiss. It was fear, fading slowly out of themas he looked, until at last it was gone, and her lips trembled with anapologetic smile. 

"He was very angry, " she said. "How easily some men lose their tempers, don't they--Jeems?"

The little break in her voice, her brave effort to control herself, andthe whimsical bit of smile that accompanied her words made him want todo what the gentle pressure of her hands had kept him from doing a fewmoments before--pick her up in his arms. What she was trying to hide hesaw plainly. She had been in danger, a danger greater than that whichshe had quietly and fearlessly faced at barracks. And she was stillafraid of that menace. It was the last thing which she wanted him toknow, and yet he knew it. A new force swept through him. It was theforce which comes of mastery, of possessorship, of fighting grimlyagainst odds. It rose in a mighty triumph. It told him this girlbelonged to him, that she was his to fight for. And he was going tofight. Marette saw the change that came into his face. For a momentafter she had spoken there was silence between them. Outside the stormbeat in a fiercer blast. A roll of thunder crashed over the bungalow. The windows rattled in a sweep of wind and rain. Kent, looking at her, his muscles hardening, his face growing grimmer, nodded toward thewindow at which Mooie's signal had come. 

"It is a splendid night--for us, " he said. "And we must go. "

She did not answer. 

"In the eyes of the law I am a murderer, " he went on. "You saved me. You shot a man. In those same eyes you are a criminal. It is folly toremain here. It is sheer suicide for both of us. If Kedsty--"

"If Kedsty does not do what I told him to do to-night, I shall killhim!" she said. 

The quietness of her words, the steadiness of her eyes, held himspeechless. Again it seemed to him, as it had seemed to him in his roomat Cardigan's place, that it was a child who was looking at him andspeaking to him. If she had shown fear a few moments before, that fearwas not revealed in her face now. She was not excited. Her eyes weresoftly and quietly beautiful. She amazed him and discomfited him. Against that child-like sureness he felt himself helpless. Its potencywas greater than his strength and greater than his determination. Itplaced between them instantly a vast gulf, a gulf that might be bridgedby prayer and entreaty, but never by force. There was no hint ofexcitement in her threat against Kedsty, and yet in the very calmnessof it he felt its deadliness. 

A whimsical half-smile was trembling on her lips again, and a warmerglow came into her eyes. "Do you know, " she said, "that according to anold and sacred code of the North you belong to me?"

"I have heard of that code, " he replied. "A hundred years ago I shouldhave been your slave. If it exists today, I am happy. "

"Yes, you see the point, Jeems, don't you? You were about to die, probably. I think they would have hanged you. And I saved your life. Therefore your life belongs to me, for I insist that the code stilllives. You are my property, and I am going to do with you as I please, until I turn you over to the Rivers. And you are not going tonight. Youshall wait here for Laselle and his brigade. "

"Laselle--Jean Laselle?"

She nodded. "Yes, that is why you must wait. We have made a splendidarrangement. When Laselle and his brigade start north, you go withthem. And no one will ever know. You are safe here. No one will thinkof looking for you under the roof of the Inspector of Police. "

"But you, Marette!" He caught himself, remembering her injunction notto question her. Marette shrugged her slim shoulders the slightest bitand nodded for him to look upon what she knew he had already seen, herroom. 

"It is not uncomfortable, " she said. "I have been here for a number ofweeks, and nothing has happened to me. I am quite safe. InspectorKedsty has not looked inside that door since the day your bigred-headed friend saw me down in the poplars. He has not put a foot onthe stair. That is the dead-line. And--I know--you are wondering. Youare asking yourself a great many questions--a bon droit, M'sieu Jeems. You are burning up with them. I can see it. And I--"

There was something suddenly pathetic about her, as she sank into thebig-armed, upholstered chair which had been Kedsty's favorite readingchair. She was tired, and for a moment it seemed to Kent that she wasalmost ready to cry. Her ringers twisted nervously at the shining endof the braid in her lap, and more than ever he thought how slim andhelpless, she was, yet how gloriously unafraid, how unconquerable withthat something within her that burned like the fire of a dynamo. Theflame of that force had gone down now, as though the fire itself wasdying out; but when she raised her eyes to him, looking up at him fromout of the big chair, he knew that back of the yearning, child-likeglow that lay in them the heart of that fire was living andunquenchable. Again, for him, she had ceased to be a woman. It was thesoul of a child that lay in her wide-open, wonderfully blue eyes. Twicebefore he had seen that miracle, and it held him now, as it had heldhim that first time when she had stood with her back at Cardigan'sdoor. And as it had changed then, so it changed now, slowly, and shewas a woman again, with that great gulf of unapproachableness betweenthem. But the yearning was still there, revealing itself to him, andyet, like the sun, infinitely remote from him. 

"I wish that I might answer those questions for you, " she said, in avoice that was low and tired. "I should like to have you know, becauseI--I have great faith in you, Jeems. But I cannot. It is impossible. Itis inconceivable. If I did--" She made a hopeless little gesture. "If Itold you everything, you would not like me any more. And I want you tolike me--until you go north with M'sieu Jean and his brigade. "

"And when I do that, " cried Kent, almost savagely, "I shall find thisplace you call the Valley of Silent Men, if it takes me all my life. "

It was becoming a joy for him to see the sudden flashes of pleasurethat leaped into her eyes. She attempted no concealment. Whatever heremotions were they revealed themselves unaffectedly and with a simplefreedom from embarrassment that swept him with an almost reverentialworship. And what he had just said pleased her. Unreservedly herglowing eyes and her partly smiling lips told him that, and she said:"I am glad you feel that way, Jeems. And I think you would find it--intime. Because--"

Her little trick of looking at him so steadily, as if there wassomething inside him which she was trying to see more clearly, made himfeel more helplessly than ever her slave. It was as if, in thosemoments, she forgot that he was of flesh and blood, and was lookinginto his heart to see what was there before she gave voice to things. 

And then she said, still twisting her braid between her slim fingers, "You would find it--perhaps--because you are one who would not give upeasily. Shall I tell you why I came to see you at Doctor Cardigan's? Itwas curiosity, at first--largely that. Just why or how I was interestedin the man you freed is one of the things I can not tell you. And I cannot tell you why I came to the Landing. Nor can I say a word aboutKedsty. It may be, some day, that you will know. And then you will notlike me. For nearly four years before I saw you that day I had been ina desolation. It was a terrible place. It ate my heart and soul outwith its ugliness, its loneliness, its emptiness. A little while longerand I would have died. Then the thing happened that brought me away. Can you guess where it was?"

He shook his head, "No. "

"To all the others it was a beautiful place, Montreal. "

"You were at school there?" he guessed. 

"Yes, the Villa Maria. I wasn't quite sixteen then. They were kind. Ithink they liked me. But each night I prayed one prayer. You know whatthe Three Rivers are to us, to the people of the North. The Athabascais Grandmother, the Slave is Mother, the Mackenzie is Daughter, andover them watches always the goddess Niska, the Gray Goose. And myprayer was that I might go back to them. In Montreal there were people, people everywhere, thousands and tens of thousands of them, so manythat I was lonely and heartsick and wanted to get away. For the GrayGoose blood is in me, Jeems. I love the forests. And Niska's Goddoesn't live in Montreal. Her sun doesn't rise there. Her moon isn'tthe same there. The flowers are not hers. The winds tell differentstories. The air is another air. People, when they look at you, look inanother way. Away down the Three Rivers I had loved men. There I waslearning to hate them. Then, something happened. I came to AthabascaLanding. I went to see you because--"

She clasped her two hands tightly in her lap. "Because, after thosefour terrible years, you were the first man I found who was playing agreat, big, square game to the end. Don't ask me how I found it out. Please don't ask me anything. I am telling you all you can know, allyou SHALL know. But I did find it out. And then I learned that you werenot going to die. Kedsty told me that. And when I had talked with you Iknew that you would play any game square, and I made up my mind to helpyou. That is why I am telling you all this--just to let you know that Ihave faith in you, and that you must not break that faith. You must notinsist on knowing more about me. You must still play the game. I amplaying mine, and you must play yours. And to play yours clean, youmust go with Laselle's brigade and leave me with Kedsty. You mustforget what has happened. You must forget what MAY happen. You can nothelp me. You can only harm me. And if--some day, a long time fromnow--you should happen to find the Valley of Silent Men--"

He waited, his heart pounding like a fist. 

"I may--be there, " she finished, in a voice so low that it was scarcelyabove a whisper. 

It seemed to him that she was looking a long way off, and it was not inhis direction. And then she smiled, not at him, but in a half-hopelesslittle way. 

"I think I shall be disappointed if you don't find it, " she said then, and her eyes were pure as the blue flowers from which they had stolentheir color, as she looked at him. "You know the great Sulphur Countrybeyond Fort Simpson, westward between the Two Nahannis?"

"Yes. That is where Kilbane and his patrol were lost. The Indians callit the Devil Country. Is that it?"

She nodded. "They say no living thing has ever been through the SulphurCountry, " she said. "But that is not true. I have been through it. Itis beyond the Sulphur Country you must go to find the Valley of SilentMen, straight through that gap between the North and the South Nahanni. That is the way YOU must go if you should ever find it, Jeems, forotherwise you would have to come down from Dawson or up from Skagway, and the country is so great that you would never come upon it in athousand years. The police will not find you there. You will always besafe. Perhaps I shall tell you more before the Brigade comes. But thatis all tonight. I may never tell you anything more. And you must notquestion me. "

Speechless he had stood, all the life of his soul burning like a firein his eyes as he looked at her and listened to her, and now, quietlyand unexcitedly, he said:

"Marette, I am going to play this game as you want me to play it, because I love you. It is only honest for me to tell you in words whatyou must already know. And I am going to fight for you as long as thereis a drop of blood in my body. If I go with Jean Laselle's brigade, will you promise me--"

His voice trembled. He was repressing a mighty emotion. But not by thequiver of one of her long lashes did Marette Radisson give evidencethat she had even heard his confession of love. She interrupted himbefore he had finished. 

"I can promise you nothing, no matter what you do. Jeems, Jeems, youare not like those other men I learned to hate? You will not INSIST? Ifyou do--if you are like them--yes, you may go away from here tonightand not wait for Jean Laselle. Listen! The storm will not break forhours. If you are going to demand a price for playing the game as Iwant you to play it, you may go. You have my permission. "

She was very white. She rose from the big chair and stood before him. There was no anger in her voice or gesture, but her eyes glowed likeluminous stars. There was something in them which he had not seenbefore, and suddenly a thought struck his heart cold as ice. 

With a low cry he stretched out his hands, "My God, Marette, I am not amurderer! I did not kill John Barkley!"

She did not answer him. 

"You don't believe me, " he cried. "You believe that I killed Barkley, and that now--a murderer--I dare to tell you that I love you!"

She was trembling. It was like a little shiver running through her. Foronly a flash it seemed to him that he had caught a glimpse of somethingterrible, a thing she was hiding, a thing she was fighting as she stoodthere with her two little clenched hands. For in her face, in her eyes, in the beating throb of her white throat he saw, in that moment, thealmost hidden agony of a hurt thing. And then it was gone, even as heentreated again, pleading for her faith. 

"I did not kill John Barkley!"

"I am not thinking of that, Jeems, " she said. "It is of something--"

They had forgotten the storm. It was howling and beating at the windowsoutside. But suddenly there came a sound that rose above the monotonoustumult of it, and Marette started as if it had sent an electric shockthrough her. Kent, too, turned toward the window. 

It was the metallic tap, tap, tapping which once before had warned themof approaching danger. And this time it was insistent. It was as if avoice was crying out to them from beyond the window. It was more thanpremonition--it was the alarm of a near and impending menace. And inthat moment Kent saw Marette Radisson's hands go swiftly to her throatand her eyes leap with sudden fire, and she gave a little cry as shelistened to the sound. 

CHAPTER XVII

In ten seconds, it seemed to Kent, Marette Radisson was again thesplendid creature who had held the three men at bay over the end of herlittle black gun at barracks. The sound of Mooie's second warning cameat first as a shock. Accompanying it there was a moment of fear, offear driven almost to the point of actual terror. Following it came areaction so swift that Kent was dazed. Within those ten seconds thegirl's slender body seemed to grow taller; a new light flamed in herface; her eyes, turning swiftly to him, were filled with the same firewith which they had faced the three constables. She was unafraid. Shewas ready to fight. 

In such moments as these it was the quiet and dispassionate composureof her voice that amazed him most. It was musical in its softness now. Yet in that softness was a hidden thing. It was like velvet coveringsteel. She had spoken of Niska, the Gray Goose, the goddess of theThree Rivers. And he thought that something of the spirit of a goddessmust be in Marette Radisson to give her the courage with which shefaced him, even as the metallic thing outside tapped its warning againat the window. 

"Inspector Kedsty is coming back, " she said. "I did not think he woulddo that--tonight. "

"He has not had time to go to barracks, " said Kent. 

"No. Possibly he has forgotten something. Before he arrives, I want toshow you the nest I have made for you, Jeems. Come quickly!"

It was her first intimation that he was not to remain in her room, apossibility that had already caused him some inward embarrassment. Sheseized a number of matches, turned down her light, and hurried into thehall. Kent followed her to the end of this hall, where she pausedbefore a low half-door that apparently opened into some sort of a spaceclose under the sloping roof of the bungalow. 

"It is an old storeroom, " she whispered. "I have made it quitecomfortable, I think. I have covered the window, so you may light thelamp. But you must see that no light shows under this door. Lock it onthe inside, and be very quiet. For whatever you find in there you mustthank M'sieu Fingers. "

She pulled the door slightly open and gave him the matches. Theillumination in the lower hall made its way only dimly to where theystood. In the gloom he found himself close to the soft glow of hereyes. His fingers closed about her hand as he took the matches. 

"Marette, you believe me?" he entreated. "You believe that I love you, that I didn't kill John Barkley, that I am going to fight for you aslong as God gives me breath to fight?"

For a moment there was silence. Her hand withdrew gently from his. 

"Yes, I think that I believe. Good-night, Jeems. "

She went from him quickly. At her door she turned. "Go in now, please, "she called back softly. "If you care as you say you do, go IN. "

She did not wait for his reply. Her own door closed behind her, andKent, striking a match, stooped low and entered his hiding-place. In amoment he saw directly ahead of him a lamp on a box. He lighted this, and his first movement then was to close the door and turn the key thatwas in the lock. After that he looked about him. The storeroom was notmore than ten feet square, and the roof was so close over his head thathe could not stand upright. It was not the smallness of the place thatstruck him first, but the preparations which Marette had made for him. In a corner was a bed of blankets, and the rough floor of the place wascarpeted with blankets, except for a two-or-three-foot space around theedge of it. Beyond the box was a table and a chair, and it was theburden of this table that made his pulse jump quickest. Marette had notforgotten that he might grow hungry. It was laid sumptuously, with aplate for one, but with food for half a dozen. There were a brace ofroasted grouse, brown as nuts; a cold roast of moose meat or beef; adish piled high with golden potato salad; olives, pickles, an open canof cherries, a loaf of bread, butter, cheese--and one of Kedsty'streasured thermos bottles, which undoubtedly held hot coffee or tea. And then he noticed what was on the chair--a belt and holster and aColt automatic forty-five! Marette had not figured on securing a gun inthe affair at barracks, and her foresight had not forgotten a weapon. She had placed it conspicuously where he could not fail to see it atonce. And just beyond the chair, on the floor, was a shoulder-pack. Itwas of the regulation service sort, partly filled. Resting against thepack was a Winchester. He recognized the gun. He had seen it hanging inDirty Fingers' shack. 

For a matter of five minutes he scarcely moved from where he stoodbeside the table. Nothing but an unplastered roof was between him andthe storm, and over his head the thunder crashed, and the rain beat intorrents. He saw where the window was, carefully covered with ablanket. Even through the blanket he caught faintly the illumination oflightning. This window overlooked the entrance to Kedsty's bungalow, and the idea came to him of turning out the light and opening it. Indarkness he took down the blanket. But the window itself was notmovable, and after assuring himself of this fact he flattened his faceagainst it, peering out into the chaos of the night. 

In that instant came a flare of lightning, and to Kent, looking down, was revealed a sight that tightened every muscle in his body. Morevividly than if it had been day he saw a man standing below in thedeluge. It was not Mooie. It was not Kedsty. It was no one that he hadever seen. Even more like a ghost than a man was that apparition of thelightning flare. A great, gaunt giant of a ghost, bare-headed, withlong, dripping hair and a long, storm-twisted beard. The picture shotto his brain with the swiftness of the lightning itself. It was likethe sudden throwing of a cinema picture on a screen. Then blacknessshut it out. Kent stared harder. He waited. 

Again came the lightning, and again he saw that tragic, ghost-likefigure waiting in the storm. Three times he saw it. And he knew thatthe mysterious, bearded giant was an old man. The fourth time thelightning came, the figure was gone. And in that flare it was the bowedfigure of Kedsty he saw hurrying up the gravel path to the door. 

Quickly Kent covered the window, but he did not relight the lamp. Before Kedsty could have reached the foot of the stair, he had unlockedthe door. Cautiously he opened it three or four inches and sat downwith his back against the wall, listening. He heard Kedsty pass throughinto the big room where Marette had waited for him a short time before. After that there was silence except for the tumult of the storm. 

For an hour Kent listened. In all that time he did not hear a soundfrom the lower hall or from Marette's room. He wondered if she wassleeping, and if Kedsty had gone to bed, waiting for morning before heset in action his bloodhounds of the law. 

Kent had no intention of disturbing the comfortable looking bed ofblankets. He was not only sleepless, but filled with a premonition ofevents about to happen. He felt impinging itself more and more upon hima sense of watchfulness. That Inspector Kedsty and Marette Radissonwere under the same roof, and that there was some potent and mysteriousreason which kept Kedsty from betraying the girl's presence, was thethought which troubled him most. He was not developing further theplans for his own escape. 

He was thinking of Marette. What was her power over Kedsty? Why was itthat Kedsty would like to see her dead? Why was she in his house? Againand again he asked himself the questions and found no answers to them. And yet, even in this purgatory of mystery that environed him, he felthimself happier than he had ever been in his life. For Marette was notfour or five hundred miles down the river. She was in the same housewith him. And he had told her that he loved her. He was glad that hehad been given courage to let her know that. He relighted the lamp, andopened his watch and placed it on the table, where frequently he couldlook at the time. He wanted to smoke his pipe, but the odor of tobacco, he was sure, would reach Kedsty, unless the Inspector had actuallyretired into his bedroom for the night. 

Half a dozen times he questioned himself as to the identity of theghostly apparition he had seen in the lightning flare of the storm. Perhaps it was some one of Fingers' strange friends from out of thewilderness, Mooie's partner in watching the bungalow. The picture ofthat giant of a man with his great beard and long hair, as his eyes hadcaught him in a sea of electrical fire, was indelibly burned into hisbrain. It was a tragic picture. 

Again he put out the light and bared the blanketed window, but he sawnothing but the sodden gleam of the earth when the lightning flashed. Asecond time he opened the door a few inches and sat down with his backto the wall, listening. 

How long it was before drowsiness stole upon him he did not know, butit came, and for a few moments at a time, as his eyes closed, it robbedhim of his caution. And then, for a space, he slept. A sound broughthim suddenly into wide wakefulness. His first impression was that thesound had been a cry. For a moment or two, as his senses adjustedthemselves, he was not sure. Then swiftly the thing grew upon him. 

He rose to his feet and widened the crack of his door. A bar of lightshot across the upper hall. It was from Marette's room. He had takenoff his boots to deaden the sound of his feet, and he stepped outsidehis door. He was positive he heard a low cry, a choking, sobbing cry, only barely audible, and that it came from down the stair. 

No longer hesitating, he moved quickly to Marette's room and looked in. His first glimpse was of the bed. It had not been used. The room wasempty. 

Something cold and chilling gripped at his heart, and an impulse whichhe no longer made an effort to resist pulled him to the head of thestair. It was more than an impulse--it was a demand. Step by step hewent down, his hand on the butt of his Colt. 

He reached the lower hall, which was still lighted, and a step or twobrought him to a view of the door that opened into the big living-roombeyond. That door was partly open, and the room itself was filled withlight. Soundlessly Kent approached. He looked in. 

What he saw first brought him relief together with shock. At one end ofthe long desk table over which hung a great brass lamp stood Marette. She was in profile to him. He could not see her face. Her hair fellloose about her, glowing like a rich, sable cape in the light of thelamp. She was safe, alive, and yet the attitude of her as she lookeddown was the thing that gave him shock. He was compelled to move a fewinches more before he could see what she was staring at. And then hisheart stopped dead still. 

Huddled down in his chair, with his head flung back so that theterrible ghastliness of his face fronted Kent, was Kedsty. And Kent, inan instant, knew. Only a dead man could look like that. 

With a cry he entered the room. Marette did not start, but an answeringcry came into her throat as she turned her eyes from Kedsty to him. ToKent it was like looking upon the dead in two ways. Marette Radisson, living and breathing, was whiter than Kedsty, who was white with theunbreathing pallor of the actually dead. She did not speak. She made nosound after that answering cry in her throat. She simply looked. AndKent spoke her name gently as he saw her great, wide eyes blazing dullytheir agony and despair. Then, like one stunned and fascinated, shestared down upon Kedsty again. 

Every instinct of the man-hunter became alive in Kent's brain as he, too, turned toward the Inspector of Police. Kedsty's arms hung limpover the side of his chair. On the floor under his right hand was hisColt automatic. His head was strained so far over the back of the chairthat it looked as though his neck had been broken. On his forehead, close up against his short-cropped, iron-gray hair, was a red stain. 

Kent approached and bent over him. He had seen death too many times notto recognize it now, but seldom had he seen a face twisted anddistorted as Kedsty's was. His eyes were open and bulging in a glassystare. His jaws hung loose. His--

It was then Kent's blood froze in his veins. Kedsty had received ablow, but it was not the blow that had killed him. Afterward he hadbeen choked to death. And the thing that had choked him was a TRESS OFWOMAN'S HAIR. 

In the seconds that followed that discovery Kent could not have movedif his own life had paid the penalty of inaction. For the story wastold--there about Kedsty's throat and on his chest. The tress of hairwas long and soft and shining and black. It was twisted twice aroundKedsty's neck, and the loose end rippled down over his shoulder, GLOWING LIKE A BIT OF RICH SABLE IN THE LAMPLIGHT. It was that thoughtof velvety sable that had come to him at the doorway, looking atMarette. It was the thought that came to him now. He touched it; hetook it in his fingers; he unwound it from about Kedsty's neck, whereit had made two deep rings in the flesh. From his fingers it rippledout full length. And he turned slowly and faced Marette Radisson. 

Never had human eyes looked at him as she was looking at him now. Shereached out a hand, her lips mute, and Kent gave her the tress of hair. And the next instant she turned, with a hand clasped at her own throat, and passed through the door. 

After that he heard her going unsteadily up the stairs. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Kent did not move. His senses for a space were stunned. He was almostphysically insensible to all emotions but that one of shock and horror. He was staring at Kedsty's gray-white, twisted face when he heardMarette's door close. A cry came from his lips, but he did not hearit--was unconscious that he had made a sound. His body shook with asudden tremor. He could not disbelieve, for the evidence was there. From behind, as he had sat in his chair Marette Radisson had struck theInspector of Police with some blunt object. The blow had stunned him. And after that--

He drew a hand across his eyes, as if to clear his vision. What he hadseen was impossible. The evidence was impossible. Assaulted, in deadlyperil, defending either honor or love, Marette Radisson was of theblood to kill. But to creep up behind her victim--it was inconceivable!Yet there had been no struggle. Even the automatic on the floor gave noevidence of that. Kent picked it up. He looked at it closely, and againthe unconscious cry of despair came in a half groan from his lips. Foron the butt of the Colt was a stain of blood and a few gray hairs. Kedsty had been stunned by a blow from his own gun!

As Kent placed it on the table, his eyes caught suddenly a gleam ofsteel under the edge of a newspaper, and he drew out from theirhiding-place the long-bladed clipping scissors which Kedsty had used inthe preparation of his scrap-books and official reports. It was thelast link in the deadly evidence--the automatic with its telltalestain, the scissors, the tress of hair, and Marette Radisson. He felt asensation of sudden dizziness. Every nerve-center in his body hadreceived its shock, and when the shock had passed it left him sweating. 

Swiftly the reaction came. It was a lie, he told himself. The evidencewas false. Marette could not have committed that crime, as the crimehad visualized itself before his eyes. There was something which he hadnot seen, something which he could not see, something that was hidingitself from him. He became, in an instant, the old James Kent. Theinstinctive processes of the man-hunter leaped to their stations liketrained soldiers. He saw Marette again, as she had looked at him whenhe entered the room. It was not murder he had caught in her wide-openeyes. It was not hatred. It was not madness. It was a quivering, bleeding soul crying out to him in an agony that no other human eyeshad ever revealed to him before. And suddenly a great voice cried outin his brain, drowning all other things, telling him how contemptible athing was love unless in that love was faith. 

With his heart choking him, he turned again to Kedsty. The futility ofthe thing which he had told himself was faith gripped at himsickeningly, yet he fought for that faith, even as his eyes lookedagain upon the ghastly torture that was in Kedsty's face. 

He was becoming calmer. He touched the dead man's cheek and found thatit was no longer warm. The tragedy must have occurred an hour before. He examined more closely the abrasion on Kedsty's forehead. It was nota deep wound, and the blow that had made it must have stunned theInspector of Police for only a short time. In that space the otherthing had happened. In spite of his almost superhuman effort to keepthe picture away from him, Kent saw it vividly--the swift turning tothe table, the inspiration of the scissors, the clipping of the longtress of hair, the choking to death of Kedsty as he regainedconsciousness. Over and over again he whispered to himself theimpossibility of it, the absurdity of it, the utter incongruity of it. Only a brain gone mad would have conceived that monstrous way ofkilling Kedsty. And Marette was not mad. She was sane. 

Like the eyes of a hunting ferret his own eyes swept quickly about theroom. At the four windows there were long curtain cords. On the walls, hung there as trophies, were a number of weapons. On one end ofKedsty's desk, used as a paperweight, was a stone tomahawk. Stillnearer to the dead man's hands, unhidden by papers, was a boot-lace. Under his limp right hand was the automatic. With these possibleinstruments of death close at hand, ready to be snatched up withouttrouble or waste of time, why had the murderer used a tress of woman'shair?

The boot-lace drew Kent's eyes. It was impossible not to see it, forty-eight inches long and quarter-inch-wide buckskin. He beganseeking for its mate, and found it on the floor where Marette Radissonhad been standing. And again the unanswerable question pounded inKent's brain--why had Kedsty's murderer used a tress of hair instead ofa buckskin lace or one of the curtain cords hanging conspicuously atthe windows?

He went to each of these windows and found them locked. Then, a lasttime, he bent over Kedsty. He knew that in the final moments of hislife Kedsty had suffered a slow and torturing agony. His twisted faceleft the story. And the Inspector of Police was a powerful man. He hadstruggled, still partly dazed by the blow. But it had taken strength toovercome him even then, to hold his head back, to choke life out of himslowly with the noose of hair. And Kent, now that the significance ofwhat he saw began to grow upon him more clearly, felt triumphing overall other things in his soul a slow and mighty joy. It wasinconceivable that with the strength of her own hands and body MaretteRadisson had killed Kedsty. A greater strength than hers had held himin the death-chair, and a greater strength than hers had choked lifefrom the Inspector of Police!

He drew slowly out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behindhim. He found that the front door was as Kedsty had left it, unlocked. 

Close to that door he stood for a space, scarcely allowing himself tobreathe. He listened, but no sound came down the dimly illuminedstairway. 

A new thing was pressing upon him now. It rode over the shock oftragedy, over the first-roused instincts of the man-hunter, overwhelming him with the realization of a horror such as had neverconfronted him before. It gripped him more fiercely than the merekilling of Kedsty. His thought was of Marette, of the fate which dawnand discovery would bring for her. His hands clenched and his jawstightened. The world was against him, and tomorrow it would be againsther. Only he, in the face of all that condemning evidence in the roombeyond, would disbelieve her guilty of Kedsty's death. And he, JimKent, was already a murderer in the eyes of the law. 

He felt within him the slow-growing inspiration of a new spirit, thegathering might of a new force. A few hours ago he was an outcast. Hewas condemned. Life, for him, had been robbed of its last hope. And inthat hour of his grimmest despair Marette Radisson had come to him. Through storm that had rocked the earth under her feet and set ablazethe chaotic blackness of the sky over her head she had struggled--forhim. She had counted no cost. She had measured no chances. She hadsimply come--BECAUSE SHE BELIEVED IN HIM. And now, upstairs, she wasthe victim of the terrible price that was the first cost of hisfreedom. For he believed, now that the thought came to him like adagger stroke, that this was so. Her act in freeing him had broughtabout the final climax, and as a result of it, Kedsty was dead. 

He went to the foot of the stair. Quietly, in his shoeless feet, hebegan to climb them. He wanted to cry out Marette's name even before hecame to the top. He wanted to reach up to her with his armsoutstretched. But he came silently to her door and looked in. 

She lay in a crumpled, huddled heap on her bed. Her face was hidden, and all about her lay her smothering hair. For a moment he wasfrightened. He could not see that she was breathing. So still was shethat she was like one dead. 

His footsteps were unheard as he moved across the room. He knelt downbeside her, reached out his arms, and gathered her into them. 

"Marette!" he cried in a low voice. 

He felt the sudden quiver, like a little shock, that ran through her. He crushed his face down, so that it lay in her hair, still damp fromits wetting. He drew her closer, tightening his arms about her slenderbody, and a little cry came from her a cry that was a broken thing, asob without tears. 

"Marette!"

It was all he said. It was all he could say in that moment when hisheart was beating like a drum against her breast. And then he felt theslow pressure of her hands against him, saw her white face, her wide, staring eyes within a few inches of his own, and she drew away fromhim, back against the wall, still huddled like a child on the bed, withher eyes fixed on him in a way that frightened him. There were no tearsin them. She had not been crying. But her face was as white as he hadseen it down in Kedsty's room. Some of the horror and shock had goneout of it. In it was another look as her eyes glowed upon Kent. It wasa look of incredulity, of disbelief, a thing slowly fading away underthe miracle of an amazing revelation. The truth thrust itself upon him. 

Marette had not expected that he would come to her like this. She hadbelieved that he would take flight into the night, escaping from her ashe would have run from a plague. She put up her two hands, in the trickthey had of groping at her white throat, and her lips formed a wordwhich she did not speak. 

Kent, to his own amazement, was smiling and still on his knees. Hepulled himself to his feet, and stood up straight, looking down at herin that same strange, comforting, all-powerful way. The thrill of itwas passing into her veins. A flush of color was driving the deathlypallor from her face. Her lips were parted, and she breathed quickly, alittle excitedly. 

"I thought--you would go!" she said. 

"Not without you, " he said. "I have come to take you with me. "

He drew out his watch. It was two o'clock. He held it down so that shecould look at the dial. 

"If the storm keeps up, we have three hours before dawn, " he said. "Howsoon can you be ready, Marette?"

He was fighting to make his voice quiet and unexcited. It was aterrific struggle. And Marette was not blind to it. She drew herselffrom the bed and stood up before him, her two hands still clasped ather throbbing throat. 

"You believe--that I killed Kedsty, " she said in a voice that wasforced from her lips. "And you have come to help me--to pay me for whatI tried to do for you? That is it--Jeems?"

"Pay you?" he cried. "I couldn't pay you in a million years! From thatday you first came to Cardigan's place you gave me life. You came whenthe last spark of hope in me had died. I shall always believe that Iwould have died that night. But you saved me. 

"From the moment I saw you I loved you, and I believe it was that lovethat kept me alive. And then you came to me again, down there, throughthis storm. Pay you! I can't. I never shall be able to. Because youthought I had killed a man made no difference You came just the same. And you came ready to kill, if necessary--for me. I'm not trying totell myself WHY! But you did. You were ready to kill. And I am ready tokill--tonight--for you! I haven't got time to think about Kedsty. I'mthinking about you. If you killed him, I'm just telling myself therewas a mighty good reason for it. But I don't believe it was you whokilled him. You couldn't do it--with those hands!"

He reached out suddenly and seized them, slipping his grip to herwrists, so that her hands lay upward in his own, hands that were small, slim-fingered, soft-palmed, beautiful. 

"They couldn't!" he cried, almost fiercely. "I swear to God theycouldn't!"

Her eyes and face flamed at his words. "You believe that, Jeems?"

"Yes, just as you believe that I did not kill John Barkley. But theworld is against us. It is against us both now. And we've got to huntthat hidden valley of yours together. Understand, Marette? AndI'm--rather glad. "

He turned toward the door. "Will you be ready in ten minutes?" he asked. 

She nodded. "Yes, in ten minutes. "

He ran out into the hall and down the stair, locking the front door. Then he returned to his hiding-place under the roof. He knew that astrange sort of madness was in his blood, for in the face of tonight'stragedy only madness could inspire him with the ecstatic thrill thatwas in his veins. Kedsty's death seemed far removed from a moreimportant thing--the fact that from this hour Marette was his to fightfor, that she belonged to him, that she must go with him. He loved her. In spite of whoever she was and whatever she had done, he loved her. Very soon she would tell him what had happened in the room below, andthe thing would be clear. 

There was one little corner of his brain that fought him. It kepttelling him, like a parrot, that it was a tress of Marette's hair aboutKedsty's throat, and that it was the hair that had choked him. ButMarette would explain that, too. He was sure of it. In the face of thefacts below he was illogical and unreasonable. He knew it. But his lovefor this girl, who had come strangely and tragically into his life, waslike an intoxicant. And his faith was illimitable. She did not killKedsty. Another part of his brain kept repeating that over and over, even as he recalled that only a few hours before she had told him quitecalmly that she would kill the Inspector of Police--if a certain thingshould happen. 

His hands worked as swiftly as his thoughts. He laced up his serviceboots. All the food and dishes on the table he made into a compactbundle and placed in the shoulder-pack. He carried this and the rifleout into the hall. Then he returned to Marette's room. The door wasclosed. At his knock the girl's voice told him that she was not quiteready. 

He waited. He could hear her moving about quickly in her room. Aninterval of silence followed. Another five minutespassed--ten--fifteen. He tapped at the door again. This time it wasopened. 

He stared, amazed at the change in Marette. She had stepped back fromthe door to let him enter, and stood full in the lamp-glow. Her slim, beautiful body was dressed in a velvety blue corduroy; the coat wasclose-fitting and boyish; the skirt came only a little below her knees. On her feet were high-topped caribou boots. About her waist was aholster and the little black gun. Her hair was done up and crowdedunder a close-fitting turban. She was exquisitely lovely, as she stoodthere waiting for him, and in that loveliness Kent saw there was notone thing out of place. The corduroy, the turban, the short skirt, andthe high, laced boots were made for the wilderness. She was not atenderfoot. She was a little sourdough--clear through! Gladness leapedinto Kent's face. But it was not the transformation of her dress alonethat amazed him. She was changed in another way. Her cheeks wereflushed. Her eyes glowed with a strange and wonderful radiance as shelooked at him. Her lips were red, as he had seen them that first timeat Cardigan's place. Her pallor, her fear, her horror were gone, and intheir place was the repressed excitement of one about to enter upon astrange adventure. 

On the floor was a pack only half as large as Kent's and when he pickedit up, he found it of almost no weight. He fastened it to his own packwhile Marette put on her raincoat and went down the stair ahead of him. In the hall below she was waiting, when he came down, with Kedsty's bigrubber slicker in her hands. 

"You must put it on, " she said. 

She shuddered slightly as she held the garment. The color was almostgone from her cheeks, as she faced the door beyond which the dead mansat in his chair, but the marvelous glow was still in her eyes as shehelped Kent with his pack and the slicker and afterward stood for aninstant with her hands touching his breast and her lips as if about tospeak something which she held back. 

A few steps beyond them they heard the storm. It seemed to rush uponthe bungalow in a new fury, beating at the door, crashing over theirheads in thunder, daring them to come out. Kent reached up and turnedout the hall light. 

In darkness he opened the door. Rain and wind swept in. With his freehand he groped out, found Marette, drew her after him, and closed thedoor again. Entering from the lighted hall into the storm was likebeing swallowed in a pit of blackness. It engulfed and smothered them. Then came suddenly a flash of lightning, and he saw Marette's face, white and drenched, but looking at him with that same strange glow inher eyes. It thrilled him. Even in the darkness it was there. It hadbeen there since he had returned to her from Kedsty and had knelt ather bedside, with his arms about her for a moment. 

Only now, in the beat of the storm, did an answer to the miracle of itcome to him. It was because of HIM. It was because of his FAITH in her. Even death and horror could not keep it from her eyes. He wanted to cryout the joy of his discovery, to give wild voice to it in the teeth ofthe wind and the rain. He felt sweeping through him a force mightierthan that of the night. Her hands were on his arm, as if she was afraidof losing him in that pit of blackness; the soft cling of them was likea contact through which came a warm thrill of electrical life. He putout his arm and drew her to him, so that for a moment his face pressedagainst the top of her wet little turban. 

And then he heard her say: "There is a scow at the bayou, Jeems. It isclose to the end of the path. M'sieu Fingers has kept it there, waiting, ready. "

He had been thinking of Crossen's place and an open boat. He blessedFingers again, as he took Marette's hand in his own and started for thetrail that led through the poplar thicket. 

Their feet slopped deep in wet and mud, and with the rain there was awind that took their breath away. It was impossible to see a tree anarm's length away, and Kent hoped that the lightning would comefrequently enough to guide him. In the first flare of it he looked downthe slope that led riverward. Little rivulets of water were runningdown it. Rocks and stumps were in their way, and underfoot it wasslippery. Marette's fingers were clinging to his again, as she had heldto them on the wild race up to Kedsty's bungalow from the barracks. Hehad tingled then in the sheer joy of their thrill, but it was adifferent thrill that stirred him now--an overwhelming emotion ofpossessorship. This night, with its storm and its blackness, was themost wonderful of all his nights. 

He sensed nothing of its discomfort. It could not beat back the joyousracing of the blood in his body. Sun and stars, day and night, sunshineand cloud, were trivial and inconsequential to him now. For close tohim, struggling with him, fighting through the night with him, trustinghim, helpless without him, was the living, breathing thing he lovedmore than he loved his own life. For many years, without knowing it, hehad waited for this night, and now that it was upon him, it inundatedand swept away his old life. He was no longer the huntsman, but thehunted. He was no longer alone, but had a priceless thing to fight for, a priceless and helpless thing that was clinging to his fingers in thedarkness. He did not feel like a fugitive, but as one who has come intoa great triumph. He sensed no uncertainty or doubt. 

The river lay ahead, and for him the river had become the soul and thepromise of life. It was Marette's river and his river, and in a littlewhile they would be on it. And Marette would then tell him aboutKedsty. He was sure of that. She would tell him what had happened whilehe slept. His faith was illimitable. 

They came into the sodden dip at the foot of the ridge, and thelightning revealed to him the edge of the poplar growth in whichO'Connor had seen Marette many weeks ago. The bayou trail wound throughthis, and Kent struck out for it blindly in the darkness. He did nottry to talk, but he freed his companion's hand and put his arm abouther when they came to the level ground, so that she was sheltered byhim from the beat of the storm. Then brush swished in their faces, andthey stopped, waiting for the lightning again. Kent was not anxious forit to come. He drew the girl still closer, and in that pit ofblackness, with the deluge about her and the crash of thunder over herhead, she snuggled up against his breast, the throb of her body againsthim, waiting, watching, with him. Her frailty, the helplessness of her, the slimness of her in the crook of his arm, filled him with anexquisite exultation. He did not think of her now as the splendid, fearless creature who had leveled her little black gun at the three menin barracks. She was no longer the mysterious, defiant, unafraid personwho had held him in a sort of awe that first hour in Kedsty's place. For she was crumpled against him now, utterly dependent and afraid. Inthat chaos of storm something told him that her nerve was broken, thatwithout him she would be lost and would cry out in fear. AND HE WASGLAD! He held her tighter; he bent his head until his face touched thewet, crushed hair under the edge of her turban. And then the lightningsplit open the night again, and he saw the way ahead of him to thetrail. 

Even in darkness it was not difficult to follow in the clean-cut wagonpath. Over their heads the tops of the poplars swished and wailed. Under their feet the roadway in places was a running stream orinundated until it became a pool. In pitch blackness they struck such apool, and in spite of the handicap of his packs and rifle Kent stoppedsuddenly, and picked Marette up in his arms, and carried her until theyreached high ground. He did not ask permission. And Marette, for aminute or two, lay crumpled up close in his arms, and for a thrillinginstant his face touched her rain-wet cheek. 

The miracle of their adventure was that neither spoke. To Kent thesilence between them had become a thing which he had no desire tobreak. In that silence, excused and abetted by the tumult of the storm, he felt that a wonderful something was drawing them closer and closertogether, and that words might spoil the indescribable magic of thething that was happening. When he set Marette on her feet again, herhand accidentally fell upon his, and for a moment her fingers closedupon it in a soft pressure that meant more to him than a thousand wordsof gratitude. 

A quarter of a mile beyond the poplar thicket they came to the edge ofthe spruce and cedar timber, and Soon the thick walls of the forestshut them in, sheltering them from the wind, but the blackness was evenmore like that of a bottomless pit. Kent had noticed that the thunderand lightning were drifting steadily eastward, and now the occasionalflashes of electrical fire scarcely illumined the trail ahead of them. The rain was not beating so fiercely. They could hear the wail of thespruce and cedar tops and the slush of their boots in mud and water. Aninterval came, where the spruce-tops met overhead, when it was almostcalm. It was then that Kent threw out of him a great, deep breath andlaughed joyously and exultantly. 

"Are you wet, little Gray Goose?"

"Only outside, Big Otter. My feathers have kept me dry. "

Her voice had a trembling, half-sobbing, half-rejoicing note in it. Itwas not the voice of one who had recently killed a man. In it was apathos which Kent knew she was trying to hide behind brave words. Herhands clung to the arm of his rubber slicker even as they stood there, close together, as if she was afraid something might drag them apart inthat treacherous gloom. Kent, fumbling for a moment, drew from an innerpocket a dry handkerchief. Then he found her face, tilted it a bitupward, and wiped it dry. He might have done the same thing to a childwho had been crying. After that he scrubbed his own, and they went on, his arm about her again. 

It was half a mile from the edge of the forest to the bayou, and half adozen times in that distance Kent took the girl in his arms and carriedher through water that almost reached his boot tops. The lightning nolonger served them. The rain still fell steadily, but the wind had gonewith the eastward sweep of the storm. Close-hung with the forest walls, the bayou itself was indiscernible in the blackness. Marette guided himnow, though Kent walked ahead of her, holding firmly to her hand. Unless Fingers had changed its location, the scow should be somewherewithin forty or fifty paces of the end of the trail. It was small, atwo-man scow, with a tight little house built amidships. And it wastied close up against the shore. Marette told him this as they felttheir way through brush and reeds. Then he stumbled against somethingtaut and knee-high, and he found it was the tie-rope. 

Leaving Marette with her back to the anchor tree, he went aboard. Thewater was three or four inches deep in the bottom of the scow, but thecabin was built on a platform raised above the floor of the boat, andKent hoped it was still dry. He groped until he found the twisted wirewhich held the door shut. Opening it, he ducked his head low andentered. The little room was not more than four feet high, and forgreater convenience he fell upon his knees while fumbling under hisslicker for his water-proof box of matches. The water had not yet risenabove the floor. 

The first light he struck revealed the interior to him. It was a tinycabin, scarcely larger than some boxes he had seen. It was about eightfeet long by six in width, and the ceiling was so low that, evenkneeling, his head touched it. His match burned out, and he lightedanother. This time he saw a candle stuck in a bit of split birch thatprojected from the wall. He crept to it and lighted it. For a moment helooked about him, and again he blessed Fingers. The little scow wasprepared for a voyage. Two narrow bunks were built at the far end, oneso close above the other that Kent grinned as he thought of squeezingbetween. There were blankets. Within reach of his arm was a tiny stove, and close to the stove a supply of kindling and dry wood. The wholething made him think of a child's playhouse. Yet there was still roomfor a wide, comfortable, cane-bottomed chair, a stool, and asmooth-planed board fastened under a window, so that it answered thepurpose of a table. This table was piled with many packages. 

He stripped off his packs and returned for Marette. She had come to theedge of the scow and called to him softly as she heard him splashingthrough the water. Her arms were reaching toward him, to meet him inthe darkness. He carried her through the shallow sea about his feet andlaughed as he put her down on the edge of the platform at the door. Itwas a low, joyous laugh. The yellow light of the candle sputtered intheir wet faces. Only dimly could he see her, but her eyes were shining. 

"Your nest, little Gray Goose, " he cried gently. 

Her hand reached up and touched his face. "You have been good to me, Jeems, " she said, a little tremble in her voice. "You may--kiss me. "

Out in the beat of the rain Kent's heart choked him with song. His soulswelled with the desire to shout forth a paean of joy and triumph atthe world he was leaving this night for all time. With the warm thrillof Marette's lips he had become the superman, and as he leaped ashorein the darkness and cut the tie-rope with a single slash of his knife, he wanted to give voice to the thing that was in him as the rivermenhad chanted in the glory of their freedom the day the big brigadestarted north. And he DID sing, under his laughing, sobbing breath. With a giant's strength he sent the scow out into the bayou, and thenback and forth he swung the long one-man sweep, twisting the craftriverward with the force of two pairs of arms instead of one. Behindthe closed door of the tiny cabin was all that the world now held worthfighting for. By turning his head he could see the faint illuminationof the candle at the window. The light--the cabin--Marette!

He laughed inanely, foolishly, like a boy. He began to hear a dull, droning murmur, a sound that with each stroke of the sweep grew into amore distinct, cataract-like roar. It was the river. Swollen by flood, it was a terrifying sound. But Kent did not dread it. It was his river;it was his friend. It was the pulse and throb of life to him now. Thegrowing tumult of it was not menace, but the joyous thunder of manyvoices calling to him, rejoicing at his coming. It grew in his ears. Over his head the black sky opened again, and a deluge of rain fellstraight down. But above the sound of it the rush of the river drewnearer, and still nearer. He felt the first eddying swirl of it againstthe scow head, and powerful hands seemed to reach in out of thedarkness. He knew that the nose of the current had caught him and wascarrying him out on the breast of the stream. He shipped the sweep andstraightened himself, facing the utter chaos of blackness ahead. Hefelt under him the slow and mighty pulse of the great flood as it swepttoward the Slave, the Mackenzie, and the Arctic. And he cried out atlast in the downpour of storm, a cry of joy, of exultation, of hopethat reached beyond the laws of men--and then he turned toward thelittle cabin, where through the thickness of sodden night the tinywindow was glowing yellow with candle-light. 

CHAPTER XIX

To the cabin Kent groped his way, and knocked, and it was Marette whoopened the door for him and stepped back for him to enter. Like a greatwet dog he came in, doubling until his hands almost touched the floor. He sensed the incongruity of it, the misplacement of his overgrown bodyin this playhouse thing, and he grinned through the trickles of wetthat ran down his face, and tried to see. Marette had taken off herturban and rain-coat, and she, too, stooped low in the four-feet spaceof the cabin--but not so ridiculously low as Kent. He dropped on hisknees again. And then he saw that in the tiny stove a fire was burning. The crackle of it rose above the beat of the rain on the roof, and theair was already mellowing with the warmth of it. He looked at Marette. Her wet hair was still clinging to her face, her feet and arms and partof her body were wet; but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling athim. She seemed to him, in this moment, like a child that was glad ithad found refuge. He had thought that the terror of the night wouldshow in her face, but it was gone. She was not thinking of the thunderand the lightning, the black trail, or of Kedsty lying dead in hisbungalow. She was thinking of him. 

He laughed outright. It was a joyous, thrilling thing, this black nightwith the storm over their heads and the roll of the great river underthem--they two--alone--in this cockleshell cabin that was not highenough to stand in and scarcely big enough in any direction to turnround in. The snug cheer of it, the warmth of the fire beginning toreach their chilled bodies, and the inspiring crackle of the birch inthe little stove filled Kent, for a space, with other thoughts thanthose of the world they were leaving. And Marette, whose eyes and lipswere smiling at him softly in the candle-glow, seemed also to haveforgotten. It was the little window that brought them back to thetragedy of their flight. Kent visioned it as it must look from theshore--a telltale blotch of light traveling through the darkness. Therewere occasional cabins for several miles below the Landing, and eyesturned riverward in the storm might see it. He made his way to thewindow and fastened his slicker over it. 

"We're off, Gray Goose, " he said then, rubbing his hands. "Would itseem more homelike if I smoked?"

She nodded, her eyes on the slicker at the window. 

"It's pretty safe, " said Kent, fishing out his pipe, and beginning tofill it. "Everybody asleep, probably. But we won't take any chances. "The scow was swinging sideways in the current. Kent felt the change inits movement, and added: "No danger of being wrecked, either. Thereisn't a rock or rapids for thirty miles. River clear as a floor. If webump ashore, don't get frightened. "

"I'm not afraid--of the river, " she said. Then, with rather startlingunexpectedness, she asked him, "Where will they look for us tomorrow?"

Kent lighted his pipe, eyeing her a bit speculatively as she seatedherself on the stool, leaning toward him as she waited for an answer toher question. 

"The woods, the river, everywhere, " he said. "They'll look for amissing boat, of course. We've simply got to watch behind us and takeadvantage of a good start. "

"Will the rain wipe out our footprints, Jeems?"

"Yes. Everything in the open. "

"But--perhaps--in a sheltered place--?"

"We were in no sheltered place, " he assured her. "Can you remember thatwe were, Gray Goose?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. But there was Mooie, under the window. "

"His footprints will be wiped out. "

"I am glad. I would not have him, or M'sieu Fingers, or any of ourfriends brought into this trouble. "

She made no effort to hide the relief his words brought her. He was alittle amazed that she should worry over Fingers and the old Indian inthis hour of their own peril. That danger he had decided to keep as farfrom her mind as possible. But she could not help realizing theimpending menace of it. She must know that within a few hours Kedstywould be found, and the long arm of the wilderness police would beginits work. And if it caught them--

She had thrust her feet toward him and was wriggling them inside herboots, so that he heard the slushing sound of water. "Ugh, but they arewet!" she shivered. "Will you unlace them and pull them off for me, Jeems?"

He laid his pipe aside and knelt close to her. It took him five minutesto get the boots off. Then he held one of her sodden little feet closebetween his two big hands. 

"Cold--cold as ice, " he said. "You must take off your stockings, Marette. Please. "

He arranged a pile of wood in front of the stove and covered it with ablanket which he pulled from one of the bunks. Then, still on hisknees, he drew the cane chair close to the fire and covered it with asecond blanket. A few moments later Marette was tucked comfortably inthis chair, with her bare feet on the blanketed pile of wood. Kentopened the stove door. Then he extinguished one of the smoking candles, and after that, the other. The flaming birch illumined the little cabinwith a mellower light. It gave a subdued flush to the girl's face. Hereyes seemed to Kent wonderfully soft and beautiful in that changedlight. And when he had finished, she reached out a hand, and for aninstant it touched his face and his wet hair so lightly that he sensedthe thrilling caress of it without feeling its weight. 

"You are so good to me, Jeems, " she said, and he thought there was alittle choking note in her throat. 

He had seated himself on the floor, close to her chair, with his backto the wall. "It is because I love you, Gray Goose, " he repliedquietly, looking straight into the fire. 

She was silent. She, too, was looking into the fire. Close over theirheads they heard the beating of the rain, like a thousand soft littlefists pounding the top of the cabin. Under them they could feel theslow swinging of the scow as it responded to the twists and vagaries ofthe current that was carrying them on. And Kent, unseen by the girl whowas looking away from him, raised his eyes. The birch light was glowingin her hair; it trembled on her white throat; her long lashes werecaught in the shimmer of it. And, looking at her, Kent thought ofKedsty lying back in his bungalow room, choked to death by a tress ofthat glorious hair, so near to him now that, by leaning a littleforward, he might have touched it with his lips. The thought broughthim no horror. For even as he looked, one of her hands crept up to hercheek--the small, soft hand that had touched his face and hair aslightly as a bit of thistle-down--and he knew that two hands like thatcould not have killed a man who was fighting for life when he died. 

And Kent reached up, and took the hand, and held it close in his own, as he said, "Little Gray Goose, please tell me now--what happened inKedsty's room?"

His voice thrilled with an immeasurable faith. He wanted her to know, no matter what had happened, that this faith and his love for her couldnot be shaken. He believed in her, and would always believe in her. 

Already he was sure that he knew how Kedsty had died. The picture ofthe tragedy had pieced itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Whilehe slept, Marette and a man were down in the big room with theInspector of Police. The climax had come, and Kedsty was struck ablow--in some unaccountable way--with his own gun. Then, just as Kedstywas recovering sufficiently from the shock of the blow to fight, Marette's companion had killed him. Horrified, dazed by what hadalready happened, perhaps unconscious, she had been powerless toprevent the use of a tress of her hair in the murderer's final work. Kent, in this picture, eliminated the boot-laces and the curtain cords. He knew that the unusual and the least expected happened frequently incrime. And Marette's long hair was flowing loose about her. To use ithad simply been the first inspiration of the murderer. And Kentbelieved, as he waited for her answer now, that Marette would tell himthis. 

And as he waited, he felt her fingers tighten in his hand. 

"Tell me, Gray Goose--what happened?"

"I--don't--know--Jeems--"

His eyes went to her suddenly from the fire, as if he was not quitesure he had heard what she had said. She did not move her head, butcontinued to gaze unseeingly into the flames. Inside his palm herfingers worked to his thumb and held it tightly again, as they hadclung to it when she was frightened by the thunder and lightning. 

"I don't know what happened, Jeems. "

This time he did not feel the clinging thrill of her little fingers andsoft palm. Deep within him he experienced something that was like asudden and unexpected blow. He was ready to fight for her until hislast breath was gone. He was ready to believe anything she toldhim--anything except this impossible thing which she had just spoken. For she did know what had happened in Kedsty's room. She knew--unless--

Suddenly his heart leaped with joyous hope. "You mean--you wereunconscious?" he cried in a low voice that trembled with his eagerness. "You fainted--and it happened then?"

She shook her head. "No. I was asleep in my room. I didn't intend tosleep, but--I did. Something awakened me. I thought I had beendreaming. But something kept pulling me, pulling me downstairs. Andwhen I went, I found Kedsty like that. He was dead. I was paralyzed, standing there, when you came. "

She drew her, hand away from him, gently, but significantly. "I knowyou can't believe me, Jeems. It is impossible for you to believe me. "

"And you don't want me to believe you, Marette. "

"Yes--I do. You must believe me. "

"But the tress of hair--your hair--round Kedsty's neck--"

He stopped. His words, spoken gently as they were, seemed brutal tohim. Yet he could not see that they affected her. She did not flinch. He saw no tremor of horror. Steadily she continued to look into thefire. And his brain grew confused. Never in all his experience had heseen such absolute and unaffected self-control. And somehow, it chilledhim. It chilled him even as he wanted to reach out and gather her closein his arms, and pour his love into her ears, entreating her to tellhim everything, to keep nothing back from him that might help in thefight he was going to make. 

And then she said, "Jeems, if we should be caught by the Police--itwould probably be quite soon, wouldn't it?"

"They won't catch us. "

"But our greatest danger of being caught is right now, isn't it?" sheinsisted. 

Kent took out his watch and leaned over to look at it in the fireglow. "It is three o'clock, " he said. "Give me another day and night, GrayGoose, and the Police will never find us. "

For a moment or two more she was silent. Then her hand reached out, andher fingers twined softly round his thumb again. "Jeems--when we aresafe--when we are sure the Police won't find us--I will tell you allthat I know--about what happened in Kedsty's room. And I will tellyou--about--the hair. I will tell you--everything. " Her fingerstightened almost fiercely. "Everything, " she repeated. "I will tell youabout that in Kedsty's room--and I will tell you about myself--andafter that--I am afraid--you won't like me. "

"I love you, " he said, making no movement to touch her. "No matter whatyou tell me, Gray Goose, I shall love you. "

She gave a little cry, scarcely more than a broken note in her throat, and Kent--had her face been turned toward him then--would have seen theglory that came into it, and into her eyes, like a swift flash oflight--and passed as swiftly away. 

What he did see, when she turned her head, were eyes caught suddenly bysomething at the cabin door. He looked. Water was trickling in slowlyover the sill. 

"I expected that, " he said cheerfully. "Our scow is turning into arain-barrel, Marette. Unless I bail out, we'll soon be flooded. "

He reached for his slicker and put it on. "It won't take me long tothrow the water overboard, " he added. "And while I'm doing that I wantyou to take OFF your wet things and tuck yourself into bed. Will you, Gray Goose?"

"I'm not tired, but if you think it is best--" Her hand touched his arm. 

"It is best, " he said, and for a moment he bent over her until his lipstouched her hair. 

Then he seized a pail, and went out into the rain. 

CHAPTER XX

It was that hour when, with clear skies, the gray northern dawn wouldhave been breaking faintly over the eastern forests. Kent found thedarkness more fog-like; about him was a grayer, ghostlier sort ofgloom. But he could not see the water under his feet. Nor could he seethe rail of the scow, or the river. From the stern, ten feet from thecabin door, the cabin itself was swallowed up and invisible. 

With the steady, swinging motion of the riverman he began bailing. Soregular became his movements that they ran in a sort of rhythmicaccompaniment to his thoughts. The monotonous splash, splash, splash ofthe outflung pails of water assumed, after a few minutes, the characterof a mechanical thing. He could smell the nearness of the shore. Evenin the rain the tang of cedar and balsam came to him faintly. 

But it was the river that impressed itself most upon his senses. Itseemed to him, as the minutes passed, like a living thing. He couldhear it gurgling and playing under the end of the scow. And with thatsound there was another and more indescribable thing, the tremble ofit, the pulse of it, the thrill of it in the impenetrable gloom, thelife of it as it swept on in a slow and mighty flood between itswilderness walls. Kent had always said, "You can hear the river's heartbeat--if you know how to listen for it. " And he heard it now. He feltit. The rain could not beat it out, nor could the splash of the waterhe was throwing overboard drown it, and the darkness could not hide itfrom the vision that was burning like a living coal within him. Alwaysit was the river that had given him consolation in times of loneliness. For him it had grown into a thing with a soul, a thing that personifiedhope, courage, comradeship, everything that was big and great in finalachievement. And tonight--for he still thought of the darkness asnight--the soul of it seemed whispering to him a sort of paean. 

He could not lose. That was the thought that filled him. Never had hispulse beat with greater assurance, never had a more positive sense ofthe inevitable possessed him. It was inconceivable, he thought, even tofear the possibility of being taken by the Police. He was more than aman fighting for his freedom alone, more than an individual strugglingfor the right to exist. A thing vastly more priceless than eitherfreedom or life, if they were to be accepted alone, waited for him inthe little cabin, shut in by its sea of darkness. And ahead of them laytheir world. He emphasized that. THEIR world--the world which, in anillusive and unreal sort of way, had been a part of his dreams all hislife. In that world they would shut themselves in. No one would everfind them. And the glory of the sun and the stars and God's opencountry would be with them always. 

Marette was the very heart of that reality which impinged itself uponhim now. He did not worry about what it was she would tell himtomorrow, or day after tomorrow. He believed that it was then--when shehad told him what there was to tell, and he still reached, out his armsto her--that she would come into those arms. And he knew that nothingthat might have happened in Kedsty's room would keep his arms fromreaching, to her. Such was his faith, potent as the mighty flood hiddenin the gray-ghost gloom of approaching dawn. 

Yet he did not expect to win easily. As he worked, his mind swept upand down the Three Rivers from the Landing to Fort Simpson, andmentally he pictured the situations that might arise, and how he wouldtriumph over them. He figured that the men at Barracks would not enterKedsty's bungalow until noon at the earliest. The Police gasolinelaunch would probably set out on a river search soon after. Bymid-afternoon the scow would have a fifty-mile start. 

Before darkness came again they would be through the Death Chute, whereFollette and Ladouceur swam their mad race for the love of a girl. Andnot many miles below the Chute was a swampy country where he could hidethe scow. Then they would start overland, west and north. Given untilanother sunset, and they would be safe. This was what he expected. Butif it came to fighting--he would fight. 

The rain had slackened to a thin drizzle by the time he finished hisbailing. The aroma of cedar and balsam came to him more clearly, and heheard more distinctly the murmuring surge of the river. He tapped againat the door of the cabin, and Marette answered him. 

The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals when he entered. Again he fell on his knees, and took off his dripping slicker. 

The girl greeted him from the berth. "You look like a great bear, Jeems. " There was a glad, welcoming note in her voice. 

He laughed, and drew the stool beside her, and managed to sit on it, the roof compelling him to bend his head over a little. "I feel like anelephant in a birdcage, " he replied. "Are you comfortable, little GrayGoose?"

"Yes. But you, Jeems? You are wet!"

"But so happy that I don't feel it, Gray Goose. "

He could make her out only dimly there in the darkness of the berth. Her face was a pale shadow, and she had loosened her damp hair so thatthe warmth and dry air might reach it more easily. Kent wondered if shecould hear the beating of his heart. He forgot the fire, and thedarkness grew thicker. He could no longer see the pale outline of herface, and he drew back a little, possessed by the thought that it wassacrilegious to bend nearer to her, like a thief, in that gloom. Shesensed his movement, and her hand reached to him and lay lightly withits fingertips touching his arm. 

"Jeems, " she said softly. "I'm not sorry--now--that I came up toCardigan's place that day--when you thought you were dying. I wasn'twrong. You are different. And I made fun of you then, and laughed atyou, because I knew that you were not going to die. Will you forgiveme?"

He laughed happily. "It's funny how little things work out, sometimes, "he said. "Wasn't a kingdom lost once upon a time because some fellowdidn't have a horseshoe? Anyway, I knew of a man whose life was savedbecause of a broken pipe-stem. And you came to me, and I'm here withyou now, because--"

"Of what?" she whispered. 

"Because of something that happened a long time ago, " he said. "Something you wouldn't dream could have anything to do with you orwith me. Shall I tell you about it, Marette?"

Her fingers pressed slightly upon his arm. "Yes. "

"Of course, it's a story of the Police, " he began. "And I won't mentionthis fellow's name. You may think of him as that red-headed O'Connor, if you want to. But I don't say that it was he. He was a constable inthe Service and had been away North looking up some Indians who werebrewing an intoxicating liquor from roots. That was six years ago. Andhe caught something. Le Mort Rouge, we sometimes call it--the RedDeath--or smallpox. And he was alone when the fever knocked him down, three hundred miles from anywhere. His Indian ran away at the firstsign of it, and he had just time to get up his tent before he was flaton his back. I won't try to tell you of the days he went through. Itwas a living death. And he would have died, there is no doubt of it, ifit hadn't been for a stranger who came along. He was a white man. Marette, it doesn't take a great deal of nerve to go up against a manwith a gun, when you've got a gun of your own; and it doesn't take sucha lot of nerve to go into battle when a thousand others are going withyou. But it does take nerve to face what that stranger faced. And thesick man was nothing to him. He went into that tent and nursed theother back to life. Then the sickness got him, and for ten weeks thosetwo were together, each fighting to save the other's life, and they wonout. But the glory of it was with the stranger. He was going west. Theconstable was going south. They shook hands and parted. "

Marette's fingers tightened on Kent's arm. And Kent went on. 

"And the constable never forgot, Gray Goose. He wanted the day to comewhen he might repay. And the time came. It was years later, and itworked out in a curious way. A man was murdered. And the constable, whohad become a sergeant now, had talked with the dead man only a littlewhile before he was killed. Returning for something he had forgotten, it was the sergeant who found him dead. Very shortly afterward a manwas arrested. There was blood on his clothing. The evidence wasconvincing, deadly. And this man--"

Kent paused, and in the darkness Marette's hand crept down his arm tohis hand, and her fingers closed round it. 

"Was the man you lied to save, " she whispered. 

"Yes. When the halfbreed's bullet got me, I thought it was a goodchance to repay Sandy McTrigger for what he did for me in that tentyears before. But it wasn't heroic. It wasn't even brave. I thought Iwas going to die and that I was risking nothing. "

And then there came a soft, joyous little laugh from where her head layon the pillow. "And all the time you were lying so splendidly, Jeems--IKNEW, " she cried. "I knew that you didn't kill Barkley, and I knew thatyou weren't going to die, and I knew what happened in that tent tenyears ago. And--Jeems--Jeems--"

She raised herself from the pillow. Her breath was coming a littleexcitedly. Both her hands, instead of one, were gripping his hand now. "I knew that you didn't kill John Barkley, " she repeated. "And--SANDYMCTRIGGER DIDN'T KILL HIM!"

"But--"

"He DIDN'T, " she interrupted him, almost fiercely. "He was innocent, asinnocent as you were. Jeems--I Jeems--I know who killed Barkley. Oh, IKNOW--I KNOW!"

A choking sob came into her throat, and then she added, in a voicewhich she was straining to make calm, "Don't think that I haven't faithin you because I can't tell you more now, Jeems, " she said. "You willunderstand--quite soon. When we are safe from the Police, I shall tellyou. I shall keep nothing from you then. I shall tell you aboutBarkley, and Kedsty--everything. But I can't now. It won't be long. When you tell me we are safe, I shall believe you. And then--" Shewithdrew her hands from his and dropped back on her pillow. 

"And then--what?" he asked, leaning far over. 

"You may not like me, Jeems. "

"I love you, " he whispered. "Nothing in the world can stop my lovingyou. "

"Even if I tell you--soon--that I killed Barkley?"

"No. You would be lying. "

"Or--if I told you--that I--killed--Kedsty?"

"No matter what you said, or what proof there might be back there, Iwould not believe you. "

She was silent. And then, "Jeems--"

"Yes, Niska, Little Goddess--?"

"I'm going to tell you something--now!"

He waited. 

"It is going to--shock you--Jeems. "

He felt her arms reaching up. Her two hands touched his shoulders. 

"Are you listening?"

"Yes, I am listening. "

"Because I'm not going to say it very loud. " And then she whispered, "Jeems--I LOVE YOU!"

CHAPTER XXI

In the slowly breaking gloom of the cabin, with Marette's arms roundhis neck, her soft lips given him to kiss, Kent for many minutes wasconscious of nothing but the thrill of his one great hope on earth cometrue. What he had prayed for was no longer a prayer, and what he haddreamed of was no longer a dream; yet for a space the reality of itseemed unreal. What he said in those first moments of his exaltation hewould probably never remember. 

His own physical existence seemed a thing trivial and almost lost, athing submerged and swallowed up by the warm beat and throb of thatother life, a thousand times more precious than his own, which he heldin his arms. Yet with the mad thrill that possessed him, in the embraceof his arms, there was an infinite tenderness, a gentleness, that drewfrom Marette's lips a low, glad whispering of his name. She drew hishead down and kissed him, and Kent fell upon his knees at her side andcrushed his face close down to her--while outside the patter of rain onthe roof had ceased, and the fog-like darkness was breaking with graydawn. 

In that dawn of the new day Kent came at last out of the cabin andlooked upon a splendid world. In his breast was the glory of a thingnew-born, and the world, like himself, was changed. Storm had passed. The gray river lay under his eyes. Shoreward he made out the darkoutlines of the deep spruce and cedar and balsam forests. About himthere was a great stillness, broken only by the murmur of the river andthe ripple of water under the scow. Wind had gone with the blackrainclouds, and Kent, as he looked about him, saw the swift dissolutionof the last shadows of night, and the breaking in the East of a newparadise. In the East, as the minutes passed, there came a soft andluminous gray, and after that, swiftly, with the miracle of farNorthern dawn, a vast, low-burning fire seemed to start far beyond theforests, tinting the sky with a delicate pink that crept higher andhigher as Kent watched it. The river, all at once, came out of its lastdrifting haze of fog and night. The scow was about in the middle of thechannel. Two hundred yards on either side were thick green walls offorest glistening fresh and cool with the wet of storm and breathingforth the perfume which Kent was drawing deep into his lungs. 

In the cabin he heard sound. Marette was up, and he was eager to haveher come out and stand with him in this glory of their first day. Hewatched the smoke of the fire he had built, hardwood smoke that driftedup white and clean into the rain-washed air. 

The smell of it, like the smell of balsam and cedar, was to Kent thearoma of life. And then he began to clean out what was left of thewater in the bottom of the scow, and as he worked he whistled. Hewanted Marette to hear that whistle. He wanted her to know that day hadbrought with it no doubt for him. A great and glorious world was aboutthem and ahead of them. And they were safe. 

As he worked, his mind became more than ever set upon the resolution totake no chances. He paused in his whistling for a moment to laughsoftly and exultantly as he thought of the years of experience whichwere his surest safeguard now. He had become almost uncannily expert inall the finesse and trickery of his craft of hunting human game, and heknew what the man-hunters would do and what they would not do. He hadthem checkmated at the start. And, besides--with Kedsty, O'Connor, andhimself gone--the Landing was short-handed just at present. There wasan enormous satisfaction in that. But even with a score of men behindhim Kent knew that he would beat them. His hazard, if there was perilat all, lay in this first day. Only the Police gasoline launch couldpossibly overtake them. And with the start they had, he was sure theywould pass the Death Chute, conceal the scow, and take to the untrackedforests north and west before the launch could menace them. After thathe would keep always west and north, deeper and deeper into that wildand untraveled country which would be the last place in which the Lawwould seek for them. He straightened himself and looked at the smokeagain, drifting like gray-white lace between him and the blue of thesky, and in that moment the sun capped the tall green tops of thehighest cedars, and day broke gloriously over the earth. 

For a quarter of an hour longer Kent mopped at the floor of the scow, and then--with a suddenness that drew him up as if a whip-lash hadsnapped behind him--he caught another aroma in the clean, forest-scented air. It was bacon and coffee! He had believed thatMarette was taking her time in putting on dry footwear and making somesort of morning toilet. Instead of that, she was getting breakfast. Itwas not an extraordinary thing to do. To fry bacon and make coffee wasnot, in any sense, a remarkable achievement. But at the present momentit was the crowning touch to Kent's paradise. She was getting HISbreakfast! And--coffee and bacon--To Kent those two things had alwaysstood for home. They were intimate and companionable. Where there werecoffee and bacon, he had known children who laughed, women who sang, and men with happy, welcoming faces. They were home-builders. 

"Whenever you smell coffee and bacon at a cabin, " O'Connor had alwayssaid, "they'll ask you in to breakfast if you knock at the door. "

But Kent was not recalling his old trail mate's words. In the presentmoment all other thoughts were lost in the discovery that Marette wasgetting breakfast--for him. 

He went to the door and listened. Then he opened it and looked in. Marette was on her knees before the open door of the stove, toastingbread on two forks. Her face was flushed pink. She had not taken timeto brush her hair, but had woven it carelessly into a thick braid thatfell down her back. She gave a little exclamation of mockdisappointment when she saw Kent. 

"Why didn't you wait?" she remonstrated. "I wanted to surprise you. "

"You have, " he said. "And I couldn't wait. I had to come in and help. "

He was inside the door and on his knees beside her. As he reached forthe two forks, his lips pressed against her hair. The pink deepened inMarette's face, and the soft little note that was like laughter cameinto her throat. Her hand caressed his cheek as she rose to her feet, and Kent laughed back. And after that, as she arranged things on theshelf table, her hand now and then touched his shoulder, or his hair, and two or three times he heard that wonderful little throat-note thatsent through him a wild pulse of happiness. And then, he sitting in thelow chair and she on the stool, they drew close together before theboard that answered as a table, and ate their breakfast. Marette pouredhis coffee and stirred sugar and condensed milk in it, and so happy wasKent that he did not tell her he used neither milk nor sugar in hiscoffee. The morning sun burst through the little window, and throughthe open door Kent pointed to the glory of it on the river and in theshimmering green of the forests slipping away behind. When they hadfinished, Marette went outside with him. 

For a space she stood silent and without movement, looking upon themarvelous world that encompassed them. It seemed to Kent that for a fewmoments she did not breathe. With her head thrown back and her whitethroat bare to the soft, balsam-laden air she faced the forests. Hereyes became suddenly filled with the luminous glow of stars. Her facereflected the radiance of the rising sun, and Kent, looking at her, knew that he had never seen her so beautiful as in these wonderfulmoments. He held his own breath, for he also knew that Niska, hisgoddess, was looking upon her own world again after a long time away. 

Her world--and his. Different from all the other worlds God had evermade; different, even, from the world only a few miles behind them atthe Landing. For here was no sound or whisper of destroying human life. They were in the embrace of the Great North, and it was drawing themcloser, and with each minute nearer to the mighty, pulsing heart of it. 

The forests hung heavy and green and glistening with the wet of storm;out of them came the tremulous breath of life and the glory of living;they hugged the shores like watchful hosts guarding the river fromcivilization--and suddenly the girl held out her arms, and Kent heardthe low, thrilling cry that came to her lips. 

She had forgotten him. She had forgotten everything but the river, theforests, and the untrod worlds beyond them, and he was glad. For thisworld that she was welcoming, that her soul was crying out to, was hisworld, for ever and ever. It held his dreams, his hopes, all thedesires that he had in life. And when at last Marette turned toward himslowly, his arms were reaching out to her, and in his face she saw thatsame glory which filled her own. 

"I'm glad--glad, " she cried softly. "Oh, Jeems--I'm glad!"

She came into his arms without hesitation; her hands stroked his face;and then she stood with her head against his shoulder, looking ahead, breathing deeply now of the sweet, clear air filled with the elixir ofthe hovering forests. She did not speak, or move, and Kent remainedquiet. The scow drifted around a bend. Shoreward a great moose splashedup out of the water, and they could hear him afterward, crashingthrough the forest. Her body tensed, but she did not speak. After alittle he heard her whisper, "It has been a long time, Jeems. I have been away four years. "

"And now we are going home, little Gray Goose. You will not be lonely?"

"No. I was lonely down there. There were so many people, and so manythings, that I was homesick for the woods and mountains. I believe Iwould have died soon. There were only two things I loved, Jeems--"

"What?" he asked. 

"Pretty dresses--and shoes. "

His arms closed about her a little more tightly. "I--I understand, " helaughed softly. "That is why you came, that first time, with prettyhigh-heeled pumps. "

He bowed his head, and she turned her face to him. On her upturnedmouth he kissed her. 

"More than any other man ever loved a woman I love you, Niska, littlegoddess, " he cried. 

The minutes and the hours of that day stood out ever afterward inKent's life as unforgettable memories. There were times when theyseemed illusory and unreal, as though he lived and breathed in aninsubstantial world made up of gossamer things which must be the fabricof dream. These were moments when the black shadow of the tragedy fromwhich they were fleeing pressed upon him, when the thought came to himthat they were criminals racing with the law; that they were not onenchanted ground, but in deadly peril; that it was all a fools'paradise from which some terrible shock would shortly awaken him. Butthese periods of apprehension were, in themselves, mere shadows thrownfor a moment upon his happiness. Again and again the subconscious forcewithin him pounded home to his physical brain the great truth, that itwas all extraordinarily real. 

It was Marette who made him doubt himself at times. He could not, quiteyet, comprehend the fulness of that love which she had given him. Morethan ever, in the glory of this love that had come to them she was likea child to him. It seemed to him in the first hours of the morning thatshe had forgotten yesterday, and the day before, and ill the daysbefore that. She was going home. She whispered that to him so oftenthat it became a little song in his brain. Yet she told him nothing ofthat home, and he waited, knowing that the fulfilment of her promisewas not far away. And there was no embarrassment in the manner of hersurrender when he held her in his arms, and she held her face up, sothat he could kiss her mouth and look into her glowing, lovely eyes. What he saw was the flush of a great happiness, the almost childishconfession of it along with the woman's joy of possession. And hethought of Kedsty, and of the Law that was rousing itself into lifeback at Athabasca Landing. 

And then she ran her fingers through his own and told him to wait, andran into the cabin and came out a moment later with her brush; andafter that she seated herself at the fulcrum of the big sweep and beganto brush out her hair in the sun. 

"I'm glad you love it, Jeems, " she said. 

She unbound the thick braid and let the silken strands of it runcaressingly between her fingers. She smoothed it out, brushed it untilit was more beautiful than he had ever seen it, in that glow of thesun. She held it up so that it rippled out in shimmering cascades abouther--and then, suddenly, Kent saw the short tress from which had beenclipped the rope of hair that he had taken from Kedsty's neck. And ashis lips tightened, crushing fiercely the exclamation of his horror, there came a trembling happiness from Marette's lips, scarcely morethan the whisper of a song, the low, thrilling melody of Le Chaudiere. 

Her arms reached up, and she drew his head down to her, so that for atime his visions were blinded in that sweet smother of her hair. 

The intimacy of that day was in itself like a dream. Hour after hourthey drifted deeper into the great North. The sun shone. Theforest-walled shores of the river grew mightier in their stillness andtheir grandeur, and the vast silence of unpeopled places brooded overthe world. To Kent it was as if they were drifting through Paradise. Occasionally he found it necessary to work the big sweep, for stillwater was gradually giving way to a swifter current. 

Beyond that there was no labor for him to perform. It seemed to himthat with each of these wonderful hours danger was being left fartherand still farther behind them. Watching the shores, looking ahead, listening for sound that might come from behind--at times possessed ofthe exquisite thrills of children in their happiness--Kent and Marettefound the gulf of strangeness passing swiftly away from between them. 

They did not speak of Kedsty, or the tragedy, or again of the death ofJohn Barkley. But Kent told of his days in the North, of his aloneness, of the wild, weird love in his soul for the deepest wildernesses. Andfrom that he went away back into dim and distant yesterdays, alive withmellowed memories of boyhood days spent on a farm. To all these thingsMarette listened with glowing eyes, with low laughter, or with breaththat rose or fell with his own emotions. 

She told of her own days down at school and of their appallingloneliness; of childhood spent in the forests; of the desire to livethere always. But she did not speak intimately of herself or her lifein its more vital aspects; she said nothing of the home in the Valleyof Silent Men, nothing of father or mother, sisters or brothers. Therewas no embarrassment in her omissions. And Kent did not question. Heknew that those were among the things she would tell him when thatpromised hour came, the hour when he would tell her they were safe. 

There began to possess him now a growing eagerness for this hour, whenthey should leave the river and take to the forests. He explained toMarette why they could not float on indefinitely. The river was the onegreat artery through which ran the blood of all traffic to the farNorth. It was patrolled. Sooner or later they would be discovered. Inthe forests, with a thousand untrod trails to choose, they would besafe. He had only one reason for keeping to the river until they passedthrough the Death Chute. It would carry them beyond a great swampyregion to the westward through which it would be impossible for them tomake their way at this season of the year. Otherwise he would have goneashore now. He loved the river, had faith in it, but he knew that notuntil the deep forests swallowed them, as a vast ocean swallows a ship, would they be beyond the peril that threatened them from the Landing. 

Three or four times between sunrise and noon they saw life ashore andon the stream; once a scow tied to a tree, then an Indian camp, andtwice trappers' shacks built in the edge of little clearings. With thebeginning of afternoon Kent felt growing within him something that wasnot altogether eagerness. It was, at times, a disturbing emotion, aforeshadowing of evil, a warning for him to be on his guard. He usedthe sweep more, to help their progress in the current, and he began tomeasure time and distance with painstaking care. He recognized manylandmarks. 

By four o'clock, or five at the latest, they would strike the head ofthe Chute. Ten minutes of its thrilling passage and he would work thescow into the concealment he had in mind ashore, and no longer would hefear the arm of the law that reached out from the Landing. As heplanned, he listened. From noon on he never ceased to listen for thatdistant putt, putt, putt, that would give them a mile's warning of theapproach of the patrol launch. 

He did not keep his plans to himself. Marette sensed his growinguneasiness, and he made her a partner of his thoughts. 

"If we hear the patrol before we reach the Chute, we'll still have timeto run ashore, " he assured her. "And they won't catch us. We'll beharder to find than two needles in a haystack. But it's best to beprepared. "

So he brought out his pack and Marette's smaller bundle, and laid hisrifle and pistol holster across them. 

It was three o'clock when the character of the river began to change, and Kent smiled happily. They were entering upon swifter waters. Therewere places where the channel narrowed, and they sped through rapids. Only where unbroken straight waters stretched out ahead of them didKent give his arms a rest at the sweep. And through most of thestraight water he added to the speed of the scow. Marette helped him. In him the exquisite thrill of watching her slender, glorious body asit worked with his own never grew old. She laughed at him over the bigoar between them. The wind and sun played riot in her hair. Her partedlips were rose-red, her cheeks flushed, her eyes like sun-warmed rockviolets. More than once, in the thrill of that afternoon flight, as helooked at the marvelous beauty of her, he asked himself if it could beanything but a dream. And more than once he laughed joyously, andpaused in his swinging of the sweep, and proved that it was real andtrue. And Kent thanked God, and worked harder. 

Once, a long time ago, Marette told him, she had been through theChute. It had horrified her then. She remembered it as a sort of deathmonster, roaring for its victims. As they drew nearer to it, Kent toldher more about it. Only now and then was a life lost there now, hesaid. At the mouth of the Chute there was a great, knife-like rock, like a dragon's tooth, that cut the Chute into two roaring channels. Ifa scow kept to the left-hand channel it was safe. There would be amighty roaring and thundering as it swept on its passage, but thatroaring of the Chute, he told her, was like the barking of a harmlessdog. 

Only when a scow became unmanageable, or hit the Dragon's Tooth, ormade the right-hand channel instead of the left, was there tragedy. There was that delightful little note of laughter in Marette's throatwhen Kent told her that. 

"You mean, Jeems, that if one of three possible things doesn't happen, we'll get through safely?"

"None of them is possible--with us, " he corrected himself quickly. "We've a tight little scow, we're not going to hit the rock, and we'llmake the left-hand channel so smoothly you won't know when it happens. "He smiled at her with splendid confidence. "I've been through it ahundred times, " he said. 

He listened. Then, suddenly, he drew out his watch. It was a quarter offour. Marette's ears caught what he heard. In the air was a low, trembling murmur. It was growing slowly but steadily. He nodded whenshe looked at him, the question in her eyes. 

"The rapids at the head of the Chute!" he cried, his voice vibrant withjoy. "We've beat them out. WE'RE SAFE!"

They swung around a bend, and the white spume of the rapids lay half amile ahead of them. The current began to race with them now. Kent puthis whole weight on the sweep to keep the scow in mid-channel. 

"We're safe, " he repeated. "Do you understand, Marette? WE'RE SAFE!"

He was speaking the words for which she had waited, was telling herthat at last the hour had come when she could keep her promise to him. The words, as he gave them voice, thrilled him. He felt like shoutingthem. And then all at once he saw the change that had come into herface. Her wide, startled eyes were not looking at him, but beyond. Shewas looking back in the direction from which they had come, and even ashe stared her face grew white. 

"LISTEN!"

She was tense, rigid. He turned his head. And in that moment it came tohim above the growing murmur of the river--the PUTT, PUTT, PUTT of thePolice patrol boat from Athabasca Landing!

A deep breath came from between his lips. When Marette took her eyesfrom the river and looked at him, his face was like carven rock. He wasstaring dead ahead. 

"We can't make the Chute, " he said, his voice sounding hard and unrealto her. "If we do, they'll be up with us before we can land at theother end. We must let this current drive us ashore--NOW. "

As he made his decision, he put the strength of his body into action. He knew there was not the hundredth part of a second to lose. Theoutreaching suction of the rapids was already gripping the scow, andwith mighty strokes he fought to work the head of his craft toward thewestward shore. With swift understanding Marette saw the pricelessvalue of a few seconds of time. If they were caught in the strongerswirl of the rapids before the shore was reached, they would be forcedto run the Chute, and in that event the launch would be upon thembefore they could make a landing farther on. She sprang to Kent's sideand added her own strength in the working of the sweep. Foot by footand yard by yard the scow made precious westing, and Kent's facelighted up with triumph as he nodded ahead to a timbered point thatthrust itself out like a stubby thumb into the river. Beyond that pointthe rapids were frothing white, and they could see the first blackwalls of rock that marked the beginning of the Chute. 

"We'll make it, " he smiled confidently. "We'll hit that timbered pointclose inshore. I don't see where the launch can make a landing anywherewithin a mile of the Chute. And once ashore we'll make trail about fivetimes as fast they can follow it. " Marette's face was no longer pale, but flushed with excitement. He caught the white gleam of teeth betweenher parted lips. Her eyes shone gloriously, and he laughed. 

"You beautiful little fighter, " he cried exultantly. "You--you--"

His words were cut short by a snap that was like the report of a pistolclose to his ears. He pitched forward and crashed to the bottom of thescow, Marette's slim body clutched in his arms as he fell. In a flashthey were up, and mutely they stared where the sweep had been. Theblade of it was gone. Kent was conscious of hearing a little cry fromthe girl at his side, and then her fingers were gripping tightly againabout his thumb. No longer possessed of the power of guidance, the scowswung sideways. It swept past the wooded point. The white maelstrom ofthe lower rapids seized upon it. And Kent, looking ahead to the blackmaw of the death-trap that was waiting for them, drew Marette close inhis arms and held her tight. 

CHAPTER XXII

For a brief space after the breaking of the scow-sweep Kent did notmove. He felt Marette's arms closing tighter and tighter around hisneck. He caught a flash of her upturned face, the flush of a fewmoments before replaced by a deathly pallor, and he knew that withoutexplanation on his part she understood the almost hopeless situationthey were in. He was glad of that. It gave him a sense of relief toknow that she would not go into a panic, no matter what happened. Hebowed his face to hers, so that he felt the velvety smoothness of hercheek. She turned her mouth to him, and they kissed. His embrace wascrushing for a moment, fierce with his love for her, desperate with hisdetermination to keep her from harm. 

His brain was working swiftly. There was possibly one chance in tenthat the scow--rudderless and without human guidance--would sweepsafely between the black walls and jagged teeth of the Chute. Even ifthe scow made this passage, they would be in the power of the Police, unless some splendid whimsicality of Fate sent it ashore before thelaunch came through. 

On the other hand, if it was carried far enough through the lowerrapids, they might swim. And--there was the rifle laying across thepack. That, after all, was his greatest hope--if the scow made thepassage of the Chute. The bulwarks of the scow would give them greaterprotection than the thinner walls of the launch would give to theirpursuers. In his heart there raged suddenly a hatred for that Law ofwhich he had been a part. It was running them to destruction, and hewould fight. There would not be more than three men in the launch, andhe would kill them, if killing became a necessity. 

They were speeding like an unbridled race-horse through the boilingrapids now. The clumsy craft under their feet twisted and turned. Thedripping tops of great rocks shot past a little out of their channel. And Marette, with one arm still about his neck, was facing the perilahead with him. They could see the Dragon's Tooth, black and grim, waiting squarely in their path. In another hundred and twenty secondsthey would be upon it--or past it. There was no time for Kent toexplain. He sprang to his pack, whipped a knife from his pocket, andcut the stout babiche rope that reenforced its straps. In anotherinstant he was back at Marette's side, fastening the babiche about herwaist. The other end he gave to her, and she tied it about his wrist. She smiled as she finished the knot. It was a strange, tense littlesmile, but it told him that she was not afraid, that she had greatfaith in him, and knew what the babiche meant. 

"I can swim, Jeems, " she cried. "If we strike the rock. "

She did not finish because of the sudden cry that came to his lips. Hehad almost forgotten the most vital of all things. There was not timeto unlace his boots. With his knife he cut the laces in a singledownward thrust. Swiftly he freed his own feet, and Marette's. Even inthis hour of their peril it thrilled him to see how quickly Maretteresponded to the thoughts that moved him. She tore at her outergarments and slipped them off as he wriggled out of his heavy shirt. Aslim, white-underskirted little thing, her glorious hair flying in thewind that came through the Chute, her throat and arms bare, her eyesshining at Kent, she came again close within his arms, and her lipsframed softly his name. And a moment later she turned her face up, andcried quickly, "Kiss me, Jeems--kiss me--"

Her warm lips clung to his, and her bare arms encircled his neck withthe choking grip of a child's. He looked ahead and braced himself onhis feet, and after that he buried one of his hands in the soft mass ofher hair and pressed her face against his naked breast. 

Ten seconds later the crash came. Squarely amidships the scow struckthe Dragon's Tooth. Kent was prepared for the shock, but his attempt tohold his feet, with Marette in his arms, was futile. The bulwark savedthem from crashing against the slippery face of the rock itself. Amidthe roar of water that filled his ears he was conscious of the rendingof timbers. The scow bulged up with the mighty force beneath, and for asecond or two it seemed as though that force was going to overturn andsubmerge it. Then slowly it began to slip off the nose of the rock. 

Holding to the rail with one hand and clinging to Marette with hisother arm, Kent was gripped in the horror of what was happening. Thescow was slipping INTO THE RIGHT HAND CHANNEL! In that channel therewas no hope--only death. 

Marette was squarely facing the thing ahead. In this hour when eachsecond held a lifetime of suspense Kent saw that she understood. Yetshe did not cry out. Her face was dead white. Her hair and arms andshoulders were dripping with the splash of water. But she was notterrified as he had seen terror. When she turned her eyes to him, hewas amazed by the quiet, calm look that was in them. Her lips trembled. 

His soul expressed itself in a wordless cry that was drowned in anothercrash of timber as a jutting snag of the Tooth crumpled up the littlecabin as if it had been pasteboard. He felt overwhelming him the surgeof a thing mightier than the menace of the Chute. He could not lose! Itwas inconceivable. Impossible! With HER to fight for--this slim, wonderful creature who smiled at him even as she saw death. 

And then, as his arm closed still more tightly about her, the monstersof power and death gave him their answer. The scow swung free of theDragon's Tooth, half-filled with water. Its cracked and broken carcasswas caught in the rock jaws of the eastern channel. It ceased to be afloating thing. It was inundation, dissolution, utter obliterationalmost without shock. And Kent found himself in the thundering rush ofwaters, holding to Marette. 

For a space they were under. Black water and white froth fumed andexploded over them. It seemed an age before fresh air filled Kent'snostrils. He thrust Marette upward and cried out to her. He heard heranswer. 

"I'm all right--Jeems!"

His swimming prowess was of little avail now. He was like a chip. Allhis effort was to make of himself a barrier between Marette's soft bodyand the rocks. It was not the water itself that he feared, but therocks. 

There were scores and hundreds of them, like the teeth of a mightygrinding machine. And the jaw was a quarter of a mile in length. Hefelt the first shock, the second, the third. He was not thinking oftime or distance, but was fighting solely to keep himself betweenMarette and death. The first time he failed, a blind sort of rageburned in his brain. 

He saw her white body strained over a slippery, deluge-worn rock. Herhead was flung back, and he saw the long masses of her hair streamingout in the white froth, and he thought for an instant that her fragilebody had been broken. He fought still more fiercely after that. And sheknew for what he was fighting. Only in an unreal sort of way was heconscious of shock and hurt. It gave him no physical pain. Yet hesensed the growing dizziness in his head, an increasing lack ofstrength in his arms and body. 

They were halfway through the Chute when he shot against a rock withterrific force. The contact tore Marette from him. He plunged for her, missed his grip, and then saw her opposite him, clinging to the samerock. The babiche rope had saved her. Fastened about her waist and tiedto his wrist, it still held them together--with the five feet of rockbetween them. 

Panting, their life half beaten out of them, their eyes met over thatrock. Now that he was out of the water, the blood began streaming fromKent's arms and shoulders and face, but he smiled at her as a fewmoments before she had smiled at him. Her eyes were filled with thepain of his hurts. He nodded back in the direction from which they hadcome. 

"We're out of the worst of it, " he tried to shout. "As soon as we'vegot our wind, I will climb over the rock to you. It won't take uslonger than a couple of minutes, perhaps less, to make the quiet waterat the end of the channel. "

She heard him and nodded her reply. He wanted to give her confidence. And he had no intention of resting, for her position filled him with aterror which he fought to hide. The babiche rope, not half as largearound as his little finger, had swung her to the downstream side ofthe rock. It was the slender thread of buckskin and his own weight thatwere holding her. If the buckskin should break--

He thanked God that it was the tough babiche that had been around hispack. An inch at a time he began to draw himself up on the rock. Theundertow behind the rock had flung a mass of Marette's long hair towardhim, so that it was a foot or two nearer to him than her clinginghands. He worked himself toward that, for he saw that he could reach itmore quickly than he could reach her. At the same time he had to keephis end of the babiche taut. It was, from the beginning, an almostsuperhuman task. The rock was slippery as oil. Twice his eyes shotdown-stream, with the thought that it might be better to cast himselfbodily into the water, and after that draw Marette to him by means ofthe babiche. What he saw convinced him that such action would be fatal. He must have Marette in his arms. If he lost her--even for a fewseconds--the life would be beaten from her body in that rock-strewnmaelstrom below. 

And then, suddenly, the babiche cord about his wrist grew loose. Thereaction almost threw him back. With the loosening of it a cry camefrom Marette. It all happened in an instant, in almost less time thanhis brain could seize upon the significance of it--the slipping of herhands from the rock, the shooting of her white body away from him inthe still whiter spume of the rapids, The rock had cut the babiche, andshe was gone! With a cry that was like the cry of a madman he plungedafter her. The water engulfed him. He twisted himself up, freeinghimself from the undertow. Twenty feet ahead of him--thirty--he caughta glimpse of a white arm and then of Marette's face, before shedisappeared in a wall of froth. 

Into that froth he shot after her. He came out of it blinded, gropingwildly for her, crying out her name. His fingers caught the end of thebabiche that was fastened about his own wrist, and he clutched itsavagely, believing for a moment that he had found her. Thicker andmore deadly the rocks of the lower passage rose in his way. They seemedlike living things, like devils filled with the desire to torture anddestroy. They struck and beat at him. Their laughter was the roar of aNiagara. He no longer cried out. His brain grew heavy, and clubs werebeating him--beating and breaking him into a formless thing. Therock-drifts of spume, lather-white, like the frosting of a monstercake, turned gray and then black. 

He did not know when he ceased fighting. The day went out. Night came. The world was oblivion. And for a space he ceased to live. 

CHAPTER XXIII

An hour later the fighting forces in his body dragged Kent back intoexistence. He opened his eyes. The shock of what had happened did notat once fall upon him. His first sensation was of awakening from asleep that had been filled with pain and horror. 

Then he saw a black rock wall opposite him; he heard the sullen roar ofthe stream; his eyes fell upon a vivid patch of light reflected fromthe setting sun. He dragged himself up until he was on his knees, andall at once a thing that was like an iron hoop--choking hissenses--seemed to break in his head, and he staggered to his feet, crying out Marette's name. Understanding inundated him with its horror, deadening his tongue after that first cry, filling his throat with amoaning, sobbing agony. Marette was gone. She was lost. She was dead. 

Swiftly, as reason came, his eyes took in his environment. For aquarter of a mile above him he could see the white spume between thechasm walls, darkening with the approach of night. He could hear moreclearly the roar of the death-floods. But close to him was smoothwater, and he stood now on a shelving tongue of rock and shale, uponwhich the current had flung him. In front of him was a rock wall. Behind him was another. There was no footing except where he stood. AndMarette was not with him. 

Only the truth could batter at his brain as he stood there. But hisphysical self refused to accept that truth. If he had lived, she mustlive! She was there--somewhere--along the shore--among the rocks--

The moaning in his throat gave way to the voicing of her name. Heshouted, and listened. He swayed back along the tongue of rock to theboulder-strewn edge of the chasm wall. A hundred yards farther on wasthe opening of the Chute. He came out of this, his clothes torn fromhim, his body bleeding, unrecognizable, half a madman, --shouting hername more and more loudly. The glow of the setting sun struck him atlast. He was out from between the chasm walls, and it lighted up thegreen world for him. Ahead of him the river widened and swept on intranquil quiet. 

And now it was no longer fear that possessed him. It was the horrible, overwhelming certainty of the thing. The years fell from him, and hesobbed--sobbed like a boy stricken by some great childish grief, as hesearched along the edge of the shore. Over and over again he cried andwhispered Marette's name. 

But he did not shout it again, for he knew that she was dead. She wasgone from him forever. Yet he did not cease to search. The last of thesun went out. Twilight came, and then darkness. Even in that darknesshe continued to search for a mile below the Chute, calling her namemore loudly now, and listening always for the answer which he knewwould never come. The moon came out after a time, and hour after hourhe kept up his hopeless quest. He did not know how badly the rocks hadbattered and hurt him, and he scarcely knew when it was that exhaustiondropped him like a dead man in his tracks. When dawn came, it found himwandering away from the river, and toward noon of that day, he wasfound by Andre Boileau, the old white-haired half-breed who trapped onBurntwood Creek. Andre was shocked at the sight of his wounds and halfdragged and half carried him to his shack hidden away in the forest. 

For six days thereafter Kent remained at old Andre's place, simplybecause he had neither the strength nor the reason to move. Andrewondered that there were no broken bones in him. But his head wasterribly hurt, and it was that hurt that for three days and threenights made Kent hover with nerve-racking indecision between life anddeath. The fourth day reason came back to him, and Boileau fed himvenison broth. The fifth day he stood up. The sixth he thanked Andre, and said that he was ready to go. 

Andre outfitted him with old clothes, gave him a supply of food andGod's blessing. And Kent returned to the Chute, giving Andre tounderstand that his destination was Athabasca Landing. 

Kent knew that it was not wise for him to return to the river. He knewthat it would have been better for him both in mind and body had hegone in the opposite direction. But he no longer had in him the desireto fight, even for himself. He followed the lines of least resistance, and these led him back to the scene of the tragedy. His grief, when hereturned, was no longer the heartbreaking agony of that first night. Itwas a deep-seated, consuming fire that had already burned him out, heart and soul. Even caution was dead in him. He feared nothing, avoided nothing. Had the police boat been at the Chute, he would haverevealed himself without any thought of self-preservation. A ray ofhope would have been precious medicine to him. But there was no hope. Marette was dead. Her tender body was destroyed. And he was alone, unfathomably and hopelessly alone. 

And now, after he had reached the river again, something held himthere. From the head of the Chute to a bend in the river two milesbelow, his feet wore a beaten trail. Three or four times a day he wouldmake the trip, and along the path he set a few snares in which hecaught rabbits for food. Each night he made his bed in a crevice amongthe rocks at the foot of the Chute. At the end of a week the old JimKent was dead. Even O'Connor would not have recognized him with hisshaggy growth of beard, his hollow eyes, and the sunken cheeks whichthe beard failed to hide. 

And the fighting spirit in him also was dead. Once or twice thereleaped up in him a sudden passion demanding vengeance upon the accursedLaw that was accountable for the death of Marette, but even this flamesnuffed itself out quickly. 

And then, on the eighth day, he saw the edge of a thing that was almosthidden under an overhanging bank. He fished it out. It was Marette'slittle pack, and for many minutes before he opened it Kent crushed thesodden treasure to his breast, staring with half-mad eyes down where hehad found it, as if Marette must be there, too. Then he ran with it toan open space, where the sun fell warmly on a great, flat rock that waslevel with the ground, and with sobbing breath he opened it. It wasfilled with the things she had picked up quickly in her room the nightof their flight from Kedsty's bungalow, and as he drew them out one byone and placed them in the sun on the rock, a new and sudden rush oflife swept through his veins, and he sprang to his feet and faced theriver again, as if at last a hope had come to him. Then he looked downagain upon what she had treasured, and reaching out his arms to them, he whispered, "Marette--my little goddess--"

Even in his grief the overwhelming mastery of his love for the one whowas dead brought a smile to his haggard and bearded face. For Marette, in filling her little pack on that night of hurried flight, had chosenstrange things. On the sunlit rock, where he had placed them, were apair of the little pumps which he had fallen on his knees to worship inher room, and with these she had crowded into the pack one of thebillowing, sweet-smelling dresses which had made his heart stand stillfor a moment when he first looked into their hiding-place. It was nolonger soft and cobwebby as it had been then, like down flutteringagainst his cheeks, but sodden and discolored, as it lay on the rockwith little rivulets of water running from it. 

With the shoes and the dress were the intimate necessities whichMarette had taken with her. But it was one of the pumps that Kentpicked up and crushed close to his ragged breast--one of the two shehad worn that first wonderful day she had come to see him at Cardigan'splace. 

This hour was the beginning of another change in Kent. It seemed to himthat a message had come to him from Marette herself, that the spirit ofher had returned to him and was with him now, stirring strange thingsin his soul and warming his blood with a new heat. She was goneforever, and yet she had come back to him, and the truth grew upon himthat this spirit of her would never leave him again as long as helived. He felt her nearness. Unconsciously he reached out his arms, anda strange happiness entered Into him to battle with grief andloneliness. His eyes shone with a new glow as they looked at her littlebelongings on the sunlit rock. It was as if they were flesh and bloodof her, a part of her heart and soul. They were the voice of her faithin him, her promise that she would be with him always. For the firsttime in many days Kent felt a new force within him, and he knew thatshe was not quite gone, that he had something of her left to fight for. 

That night he made his bed for a last time in the crevice between therocks, and his treasure was gathered within the protecting circle ofhis arms as he slept. 

The next day he struck out north and east. On the fifth day after heleft the country of Andre Boileau he traded his watch to a half-breedfor a cheap gun, ammunition, a blanket, flour, and a cooking outfit. After that he had no hesitation in burying himself still deeper intothe forests. 

A month later no one would have recognized Kent as the one-time crackman of N Division. Bearded, ragged, long-haired, he wandered with noother purpose than to be alone and to get still farther away from theriver. Occasionally he talked with an Indian or a half-breed. Eachnight, though the weather was very warm, he made himself a smallcamp-fire, for it was always in these hours, with the fire-light abouthim, that he felt Marette was very near. It was then that he took outone by one the precious things that were in Marette's little pack. Heworshipped these things. The dress and each of the little shoes he hadwrapped in the velvety inner bark of the birch tree. He protected themfrom wet and storm. Had emergency called for it, he would have foughtfor them. They became, after a time, more precious than his own life, and in a vague sort of way at first he began to thank God that theriver had not robbed him of everything. 

Kent's inclination was not to fight himself into forgetfulness. Hewanted to remember every act, every word, every treasured caress thatchained him for all time to the love he had lost. Marette became more apart of him every day. Dead in the flesh, she was always at his side, nestling close in the shelter of his arms at night, walking with herhand in his during the day. And in this belief his grief was softenedby the sweet and merciful comfort of a possession of which neither mannor fate could rob him--a beloved Presence always with him. 

It was this Presence that rebuilt Kent. It urged him to throw up hishead again, to square his shoulders, to look life once more straight inthe face. It was both inspiration and courage to him and grew nearerand dearer to him as time passed. Early Autumn found him in the Fond duLac country, two hundred miles east of Fort Chippewyan. That Winter hejoined a Frenchman, and until February they trapped along the edges ofthe lower fingers of the Barrens. 

He came to think a great deal of Picard, his comrade. But he revealednothing of his secret to him, or of the new desire that was growing inhim. And as the Winter lengthened this desire became a deep and abidingyearning. It was with him night and day. He dreamed of it when heslept, and it was never out of his thoughts when awake. He wanted to goHOME. And when he thought of home, it was not of the Landing, and notof the country south. For him home meant only one place in the worldnow--the place where Marette had lived. Somewhere, hidden in themountains far north and west, was that mysterious Valley of Silent Menwhere they had been going when her body died. And the spirit of herwanted him to go to it now. It was like a voice pleading with him, urging him to go, to live there always where she had lived. He began toplan, and in this planning he found new joy and new life. He would findher home, her people, the valley that was to have been their paradise. So late in February, with his share of the Winter catch in his pack, hesaid good-by to Picard and faced the River again. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Kent had not forgotten that he was an outlaw, but he was not afraid. Now that he had something new and thrilling to fight for, he fell backagain upon what he called "the finesse of the game. " He approachedChippewyan cautiously, although he was sure that even his old friendsat the Landing would fail to recognize him now. His beard was four orfive inches long, and his hair was shaggy and uncut. Picard had madehim a coat, that winter, of young caribou skin, and it was fringed likean Indian's. Kent chose his time and entered Chippewyan just beforedusk. 

Oil lamps were burning in the Hudson's Bay Company's store when he wentin with his furs. The place was empty, except for the factor's clerk, and for an hour he bartered. He bought a new outfit, a Winchesterrifle, and all the supplies he could carry. He did not forget a razorand a pair of shears, and when he was done he still had the value oftwo silver fox skins in cash. He left Chippewyan that same night, andby the light of a Winter moon made his camp half a dozen milesnorthward toward Smith Landing. 

He was on the Slave River now and for weeks traveled slowly butsteadily northward on snowshoes. He avoided Fort Smith and SmithLanding and struck westward before he came to Fort Resolution. It wasin April that he struck Hay River Post, where the Hay River emptiesinto Great Slave Lake. Until the ice broke up, Kent worked at HayRiver. When it was safe, he started down the Mackenzie in a canoe. Itwas late in June when he turned up the Liard to the South Nahani. 

"You go straight through between the sources of the North and the SouthNahani, " Marette had told him. "It is there you find the SulphurCountry, and beyond the Sulphur Country is the Valley of Silent Men. "

At last he came to the edge of this country. He camped with the stinkof it in his nostrils. The moon rose, and he saw that desolate world asthrough the fumes of a yellow smoke. With dawn he went on. 

He passed through broad, low morasses out of which rose sulphurousfogs. Mile after mile he buried himself deeper in it, and it becamemore and more a dead country, a lost hell. There were berry bushes onwhich there grew no berries. There were forests and swamps, but withouta living creature to inhabit them. 

It was a country of water in which there were no fish, of air in whichthere were no birds, of plants without flowers--a reeking, stinkingcountry still with the stillness of death. He began to turn yellow. Hisclothing, his canoe, his hands, face--everything turned yellow. Hecould not get the filthy taste of sulphur out of his mouth. Yet he kepton, straight west by the compass Gowen had given him at Hay River. Eventhis compass became yellow in his pocket. It was impossible for him toeat. Only twice that day did he drink from his flask of water. 

And Marette had made this journey! He kept telling himself that. It wasthe secret way in and out of their hidden world, a region accursed bydevils, a forbidden country to both Indian and white man. It was hardfor him to believe that she had come this way, that she had drunk inthe air that was filling his own lungs, nauseating him a dozen times tothe point of sickness. He worked desperately. He felt neither fatiguenor the heat of the warm water about him. 

Night came, and the moon rose, lighting up with a sickly glow thediseased world that had swallowed him. He lay in the bottom of hiscanoe, covering his face with his caribou coat, and tried to sleep. Butsleep would not come. Before dawn he struck on, watching his compass bythe light of matches. All that day he made no effort to swallow food. But with the coming of the second night he found the air easier tobreathe. He fought his way on by the light of the moon which wasclearer now. And at last, in a resting spell, he heard far ahead of himthe howl of a wolf. 

In his joy he cried out. A western breeze brought him air that he drankin as a desert-stricken man drinks water. He did not look at hiscompass again, but worked steadily in the face of that fresh air. Anhour later he found that he was paddling again a slow current, and whenhe tasted the water it was only slightly tainted with sulphur. Bymidnight the water was cool and clean. He landed on a shore of sand andpebbles, stripped to the skin, and gave himself such a scouring as hehad never before experienced. He had worn his old trapping shirt andtrousers, and after his bath he changed to the outfit which he had keptclean in his pack. Then he built a fire and ate his first meal in twodays. 

The next morning he climbed a tall spruce and surveyed the countryabout him. Westward there was a broad low country shut in fifteen ortwenty miles away by the foothills. Beyond these foothills rose thesnow-capped peaks of the Rockies. He shaved himself, cut his hair, andwent on. That night he camped only when he could drive his canoe nofarther. The waterway had narrowed to a creek, and he was among thefirst green shoulders of the hills when he stopped. With another dawnhe concealed his canoe in a sheltered place and went on with his pack. 

For a week he picked his way slowly westward. It was a splendid countryinto which he had come, and yet he found no sign of human life. Thefoothills changed to mountains, and he believed he was in the CampbellRange. Also he knew that he had followed the logical trail from thesulphur country. Yet it was the eighth day before he came upon a signwhich told him that another living being had at some time passed thatway. What he found were the charred remnants of an old camp-fire. Ithad been a white man's fire. He knew that by the size of it. It hadbeen an all-night fire of green logs cut with an axe. 

On the tenth day he came to the westward slope of the first range andlooked down upon one of the most wonderful valleys his eyes had everbeheld. It was more than a valley. It was a broad plain. Fifty milesacross it rose the towering majesty of the mightiest of all the Yukonmountains. 

And now, though he saw a paradise about him, his heart began to sinkwithin him. It seemed to him inconceivable that in a country so vast hecould find the spot for which he was seeking. His one hope lay infinding white men or Indians, some one who might guide him. 

He traveled slowly over the fifty-mile plain rich with a verdure ofgreen, covered with flowers, a game paradise. Few hunters had come sofar out of the Yukon mountains, he told himself. And none had come fromout of the sulphur country. It was a new and undiscovered world. On hismap it was a blank space. And there were no signs of people. Ahead ofhim the Yukon mountains rose in an impenetrable wall, peak after peak, crested with snow, towering like mighty watchdogs above the clouds. Heknew what lay beyond them--the great rivers of the Western slope, Dawson City, the gold country and its civilization. But those thingswere on the other side of the mountains. On his side there was only thevast and undisputed silence of a paradise as yet unclaimed by man. 

As he went on into this valley there grew upon him a strange andcomforting peace. Yet with it there was a steadily increasing beliefthat he would not find that for which he had come in search. He did notattempt to analyze this belief. It became a part of him, just as hismental tranquillity had grown upon him. His one hope of success wasthat nearer the mountains he might find white men or Indians. 

He no longer used his compass, but guided himself by a cluster of threegigantic peaks. One of these was taller than the other two. As hejourneyed, his eyes were always returning to it. It fascinated him, impinged itself upon him as the watcher of a million years, guardingthe valley. He began to think of it as the Watcher. Each hour of hisprogress seemed to bring it a little more intimately to his vision. From his first night's camp in the valley he saw the moon sink behindit. Within him a voice that never died kept whispering to him that thismountain, greater than all the others, had been Marette's guardian. Tenthousand times she must have looked at it, as he had looked at it thatday--if her home was anywhere this side of the Campbell Range. Ahundred miles away she could have seen the Watcher on a clear day. 

On the second day the mountain continued to grow upon Kent. Bymid-afternoon it began to take on a new character. The peak of it wasin the form of a mighty castle that changed as he advanced. And the twolesser peaks were forming into definite contours. Before the haze oftwilight dimmed his vision, he knew that what he had seen was not awhimsical invention of his imagination. The Watcher had grown into theshape of a mighty human head facing south. A restless excitementpossessed him, and he traveled on long after dusk. At dawn he was onthe trail again. Westward the sky cleared, and suddenly he stopped, anda cry came from him. 

The Watcher's head was there, as if chiseled by the hands of giants. The two smaller peaks had unveiled their mystery. Startling and weird, their crests had taken on the form of human heads. One of them waslooking north. The other faced the valley. And Kent, his heartpounding, cried to himself, "The Silent Men!"

He did not hear himself, but the thought itself was a tumultuous thingwithin him. It came upon him like an inundation, a sudden and thrillinginspiration backed by the forces of a visual truth. THE VALLEY OFSILENT MEN. He repeated the words, staring at the three colossal headsin the sky. Somewhere near them, under them, --one side or theother--was Marette's hidden valley!

He went on. A strange joy consumed him. In it, at times, his grief wasobliterated, and it seemed to him in these moments that Marette mustsurely be at the valley to greet him when he came to it. But always thetragedy of the Death Chute came back to him, and with it the thoughtthat the three giant heads were watching--and would always watch--for abeloved lost one who would never return. As the sun went down that day, the face bowed to the valley seemed alive with the fire of a livingquestion sent directly to Kent. 

"Where is she?" it asked. "Where is she? Where is she?"

That night Kent did not sleep. 

The next day there lay ahead of him a low and broken range, the firstof the deeper mountains. He climbed this steadily, and at noon hadreached the crest. And he knew that at last he was looking down intothe Valley of Silent Men. It was not a wide valley, like the other. Onthe far side of it, three or four miles away, rose the huge mountainwhose face was looking down upon the green meadows at its foot. Southward Kent could see for a long distance, and in the vivid sunlighthe saw the shimmer of creeks and little lakes, and the rich glow ofthick patches of cedar and spruce and balsam, scattered like great rugsof velvety luster amid the flowering green of the valley. Northward, three or four miles away the range which he had climbed made a sharptwist to the east, and that part of the valley--following the swing ofthe range--was lost to him. He turned in this direction after he hadrested. It was four o'clock when he came to the elbow in the valley, and could look down into the hidden part of it. 

What he saw at first was a giant cup hollowed out of the surroundingmountains, a cup two miles from brim to brim, the end of the valleyitself. It took him a few moments to focus his vision so that it wouldpick up the smaller and more intimate things half a mile under him, andyet, before he had done this, a sound came up to him that set aquiverevery nerve in his body. It was the far-down, hollow-sounding barkingof a dog. 

The warm, golden haze that precedes sunset in the mountains, wasgathering between him and the valley, but through this he made outafter a time evidences of human habitation almost straight under him. There was a small lake out of which ran a shimmering creek, and closeto this lake, yet equally near to the base of the mountain on which hewas standing, were a number of buildings and a stockade which lookedlike a toy. He could see no animals, no movement of any kind. 

Without seeking for a downward trail he began to descend. Again he didnot question himself. An overwhelming certainty possessed him. Of allplaces in the world this must be the Valley of Silent Men. 

And below him, flooded and half-hidden in the illusive sun-mist, wasMarette's old home. It seemed to him now that it belonged to him, thathe was a part of it, that in going to it he was achieving his lastgreat resting place, his final refuge, his own home. And the thoughtbecame strangely a part of him that a welcome must be waiting for himthere. He hurried until his breath came pantingly between his lips andhe was forced to rest. And at last he found himself where his progresswas made a foot at a time, and again and again he was forced to climbback and detour around treacherous slides and precipitous breaks whichleft sheer falls at his feet. The mist thickened in the valley. The sunsank behind the western peaks, and swiftly after that the gloom oftwilight deepened. It was seven o'clock when he came to the edge of theplain, at least a mile below the elbow which shut out the cup in thevalley. He was exhausted. His hands were bruised and bleeding. Darknessshut him in when he went on. 

When he rounded the elbow of the mountain, he did not try to keep backthe joyous cry that came to his lips. Ahead of him there were lights. Afew of them were scattered, but nearest to him he saw a cluster ofthem, like the glow that comes from a number of illumined windows. Hequickened his pace as he drew nearer to them, and at last he wanted torun. And then something stopped him, and it seemed to him that hisheart had risen into his throat and was choking him until he could notbreathe. 

It was a man's voice he heard, calling through the twilight gloom aname. "Marette--Marette--Marette--"

Kent tried to cry out, but his breath came only in a gasp. He felthimself trembling. He reached out his arms, and a strange madnessrushed like fire into his brain. 

Again the voice called, "Marette--Marette--Marette--"

The cup in the valley echoed the name. It rolled softly up themountainside. The air trembled with it, whispered it, passed it on--andsuddenly the madness in Kent found voice, and he shouted, "Marette--Marette--"

He ran on. His knees felt weak. He shouted the name again, and theother voice was silent. Things loomed up out of the mist ahead of him, between him and the glowing windows. Some one--two people--wereadvancing to meet him, doubtfully, wonderingly. Kent was staggering, but he cried the name again, and this time it was a woman's cry thatanswered, and one of the two came toward him swift as a flash of light. 

Three paces apart they stood, and in that gloom of the after-twilighttheir burning eyes looked at each other, while for a space their bodiesremained stricken in the face of this miracle of a great and mercifulGod. 

The dead had risen. By a mighty effort Kent reached out his arms, andMarette swayed to him. When the other man came up, he found themcrumpled to their knees on the earth, clasped like children in eachother's arms. And as Kent raised his face, he saw that it was SandyMcTrigger who was looking down at him, the man whose life he had savedat Athabasca Landing. 

CHAPTER XXV

How long it was before his brain cleared, Kent never could have told. It might have been a minute or an hour. Every vital force that was inhim had concentrated into a single consciousness--that the dead hadcome to life, that it was Marette Radisson, the flesh and blood andliving warmth of her, he held in his arms. Like the flash of a pictureon a screen he had seen McTrigger's face close to him, and then his ownhead was crushed down again, and if the valley had been filled with theroar of cannon, he would have heard only one sound, a sobbing voicecrying over and over again, "Jeems--Jeems--Jeems--"

It was McTrigger, in the beginning of the starlight, who alone lookedwith clear vision upon the wonder of the thing that was happening. After a little Kent realized that McTrigger was talking, that a handwas on his shoulder, that the voice was both joyous and insistent. Herose to his feet, still holding Marette, her arms clinging to him. Herbreath was sobbing and broken. And it was impossible for Kent to speak. He seemed to stumble over the distance between them and the lights, with McTrigger on the other side of Marette. It was McTrigger whoopened a door, and they came into a glow of lamplight. It was a great, strange-looking room they entered. And over the threshold Marette'shands dropped from Kent, and Kent stepped back, so that in the lightthey faced each other, and in that moment came the marvelousreadjustment from shock and disbelief to a glorious certainty. 

Again Kent's brain was as clear as the day he faced death at the headof the Chute. And swift as a hot barb a fear leaped into him as hiseyes met the eyes of the girl. She was terribly changed. Her face waswhite with a whiteness that startled him. It was thin. Her eyes weregreat, slumbering pools of violet, almost black in the lamp glow, andher hair--piled high on her head as he had seen it that first day atCardigan's--added to the telltale pallor in her cheeks. A hand trembledat her throat, and its thinness frightened him. For a space--a flash ofseconds--she looked at him as if possessed of the subconscious fearthat he was not Jim Kent, and then slowly her arms opened, and shereached them out to him. She did not smile, she did not cry out, shedid not speak his name now; but her arms went round his neck as he tookher to him, and her face dropped on his breast. He looked at McTrigger. A woman was standing beside him, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, andshe had laid a hand on McTrigger's arm, Kent, looking at them, understood. 

The woman came to him. "I had better take her now, m'sieu, " she said. "Malcolm--will tell you. And a little later, --you may see her again. "

Her voice was low and soft. At the sound of it Marette raised her head, and her two hands stole to Kent's cheeks in their old sweet way, andshe whispered, "Kiss me, Jeems--my Jeems--kiss me--"

CHAPTER XXVI

A little later, clasping hands in the lamp glow, Kent and SandyMcTrigger stood alone in the big room. In their handclasp was the warmthrill of strong men met in an immutable brotherhood. Each had faceddeath for the other. Yet this thought, subconsciously and forever apart of them, expressed itself only in the grip of their fingers and inthe understanding that lay deep in their eyes. 

In Kent's face the great question was of Marette. McTrigger saw thefear of it, and slowly he smiled, a glad and yet an anxious smile, ashe looked toward the door through which Marette and the older woman hadgone. 

"Thank God you have come in time!" he said, still holding Kent's hand. "She thought you were dead. And I know, Kent, that it was killing her. We had to watch her at night. Sometimes she would wander out into thevalley. She said she was looking for you. It was that way tonight. "

Kent gulped hard. "I understand now, " he said. "It was the living soulof her that was pulling me here. I--"

He took his pack with its precious contents from his shoulders, listening to McTrigger. They sat down. What McTrigger was saying seemedof trifling consequence beside the fact that Marette was somewherebeyond the other door, alive, and that he would see her again verysoon. He did not see why McTrigger should tell him that the older womanwas his wife. Even the fact that a splendid chance had thrown Maretteupon a log wedged between two rocks in the Chute, and that this log, breaking away, had carried her to the opposite side of the river milesbelow, was trivial with the thought that only a door separated themnow. But he listened. He heard McTrigger tell how Marette had searchedfor him those days when he was lost in fever at Andre Boileau's cabin, how she had given him up for dead, and how in those same days Laselle'sbrigade had floated down, and she had come north with it. Later hewould marvel over these things, but now he listened, and his eyesturned toward the door. It was then that McTrigger drove somethinghome. It was like a shot piercing Kent's brain. McTrigger was speakingquietly of O'Connor. He said:

"But you probably came by way of Fort Simpson, Kent, and O'Connor hastold you all this. It was he who brought Marette back home through theSulphur Country. "

"O'Connor!"

Kent sprang to his feet. It took McTrigger but a moment to read thetruth in his face. 

"Good God, do you mean to tell me you don't know, Kent?" he whisperedtensely, rising in front of the other. "Haven't you seen O'Connor?Haven't you come in touch with the Police anywhere within the lastyear? Don't you know--?"

"I know nothing, " breathed Kent. 

For a space McTrigger stared at him in amazement

"I have been in hiding, " said Kent. "All this time I have been keepingaway from the Police. "

McTrigger drew a deep breath. Again his hands gripped Kent's, and hisvoice was incredulous, filled with a great wonder. "And you have cometo her, to her old home, believing that Marette killed Kedsty! It ishard to believe. And yet--" Into his face came suddenly a look ofgrief, almost of pain, and Kent, following his eyes, saw that he waslooking at a big stone fireplace in the end of the room. 

"It was O'Connor who worked the thing out last Winter, " he said, speaking with, an effort. "I must tell you before you see her again. You must understand everything. It will not do to have her tell you. See--"

Kent followed him to the fireplace. From the shelf over the stoneworkMcTrigger took a picture and gave it to him. It was a snapshot, thepicture of a bare-headed man standing in the open with the sun shiningon him. 

A low cry broke from Kent's lips. It was the great, gray ghost of a manhe had seen in the lightning flare that night from the window of hishiding-place in Kedsty's bungalow. 

"My brother, " said McTrigger chokingly. "I loved him. For forty yearswe were comrades. And Marette belonged to us, half and half. It washe--who killed--John Barkley. " And then, after a moment in whichMcTrigger fought to speak steadily, he added, "And it was he--mybrother--who also killed Inspector Kedsty. "

For a matter of seconds there was a dead silence between them. McTrigger looked into the fireplace instead of at Kent. Then he said:

"He killed those men, but he didn't murder them, Kent. It couldn't becalled that. It was justice, single-man justice, without going to law. If it wasn't for Marette, I wouldn't tell you about it--not thehorrible part of it. I don't like to bring it up in my memory. ... Ithappened years ago. I was not married then, but my brother was tenyears older than I and had a wife. I think that Marette loves you asMarie loved Donald. And Donald's love was more than that. It wasworship. We came into the new mountain country, the three of us, evenbefore the big strikes at Dawson and Bonanza. It was a wild country, asavage country, and there were few women in it, but Marie came withDonald. She was beautiful, with hair and eyes like Marette's. That wasthe tragedy of it. 

"I won't tell you the details. They were terrible. It happened whileDonald and I were out on a hunt. Three men--white men--remember that, Kent; WHITE MEN--came out of the North and stopped at the cabin. Whenwe returned, what we found there drove us mad. Marie died in Donald'sarms. And leaving her there, alone, we set out after the white-skinnedbrutes who had destroyed her. Only a blizzard saved them, Kent. Theirtrail was fresh when the storm came. Had it held off another two hours, I, too, would have killed. 

"From that day Donald and I became man-hunters. We traced the backtrail of the three fiends and discovered who they were. Two years laterDonald found one of the three on the Yukon, and before he killed him hemade him verify the names of the other two. It was a long search afterthat, Kent. It has covered thirty years. Donald grew old faster than I, and I knew, after a time, that he was strangely mad. He would be gonefor months at a time, always searching for the two men. Ten yearspassed, and then, one day, in the deep of Winter, we came on a cabinhome that had been stricken with the plague--the smallpox. It was thehome of Pierre Radisson and his wife Andrea. Both were dead. But therewas a little child still living, almost a babe in arms. We took her, Donald and I. The child was--Marette. "

McTrigger had spoken almost in a monotone. He had not raised his eyesfrom the ash of the fireplace. But now he looked up suddenly at Kent. 

"We worshipped her from the beginning, " he said, his voice a bit husky. "I hoped that love for her would save Donald. It did, in a way. But itdid not cure his madness, his desire for vengeance. We came farthereast. We found this marvelous valley, and gold in the mountains, untouched by other men. We built here, and I hoped even more that theglory of this new world we had discovered would help Donald to forget. I married, and my wife loved Marette. We had a child, and then another, and both died. We loved Marette more than ever after that. Anne, mywife, was the daughter of a missioner and capable of educating Maretteup to a certain point. You will find this place filled with all kindsof books, and reading, and music. But the time came when we thought wemust send Marette to Montreal. It broke her heart. And then--a longtime after--"

McTrigger paused a moment, looking into Kent's eyes. "And then--one dayDonald came in from Dawson City, terrible in his madness, and told usthat he had found his men. One of them was John Barkley, the richtimber man, and the other was Kedsty, Inspector of Police at AthabascaLanding. "

Kent made no effort to speak. His amazement, as McTrigger had gone on, was beyond the expression of words. The night held for him a cumulativeshock--the discovery that Marette was not dead, but alive, and now thediscovery that he, Jim Kent, was no longer a hunted man, and that itwas O'Connor, his old comrade, who had run the truth down. With drylips he simply nodded, urging McTrigger to continue. 

"I knew what would happen if Donald went after Barkley and Kedsty, "said the older man. "And it was impossible to hold him back. He wasmad, clean mad. There was just one thing for me to do. I left herefirst, with the intention of warning the two brutes who had killedDonald's wife. I knew, with the evidence in our hands, they could donothing but make a getaway. No matter how rich or powerful they were, our evidence was complete, and through many years we had kept track ofthe movements of our witnesses. I tried to explain to Donald that wecould send them to prison, but there was but one thought in his poorsick mind--to kill. I was younger and beat him south. And after that Imade my fatal mistake. I thought I was far enough ahead of him to getdown to the line of rail and back before he arrived. You see, I figuredhis love for Marette would take him to Montreal first, and I had madeup my mind to tell her everything so that she might understand thenecessity of holding him if he went to her. I wrote everything to herand told her to remain in Montreal. How she did that, you know. She setout for the North as soon as she received my letter. "

McTrigger's shoulders hunched lower. "Well, you know what happened, Kent. Donald got ahead of me, after all. I came the day after Barkleywas killed. I took it as a kind fate that the day preceding the killingI shot a grouse for my dinner, and as the bird was only wounded when Ipicked it up, I got blood on the sleeves of my coat. I was arrested. Kedsty, every one, was sure they had the real man. And I kept quiet, except to maintain my innocence. I could say nothing that would turnthe law on Donald's trail. 

"After that, things happened quickly. You, my friend, made your falseconfession to save one who had done you a poor service years ago. Almost simultaneously with that, Marette had come. She came quietly, inthe night, and went straight to Kedsty. She told him everything, showedhim the written evidence, telling him this evidence was in the hands ofothers and would be used if anything happened to her. Her power overhim was complete. As the price of her secrecy she demanded my release, and in that black hour your confession gave Kedsty his opportunity. 

"He knew you were lying. He knew it was Donald who had killed Barkley. Yet he was willing to sacrifice you to save himself. And Maretteremained in his house, waiting and watching for Donald, while Isearched for him on the trails. That is why she secretly lived inKedsty's house. She knew that Donald would come there sooner or later, if I did not find him and get him away. And she was plotting how tosave you. 

"She loved you, Kent--from that first hour she came to you in thehospital. And she tried to exact your freedom also as an added pricefor her secrecy. But Kedsty had become like a cornered tiger. If hefreed you, he saw his whole world crumbling under his feet. He, too, went a little mad, I think. He told Marette that he would not free you, that he would go to the hangman first. Then, Kent, came the night ofyour freedom, and a little later--Donald came to Kedsty's home. It washe whom you saw that night out in the storm. He entered and killedKedsty. 

"Something dragged Marette down to the room that night. She foundKedsty in his chair--dead. Donald was gone. It was then that you foundher there. Kent, she loved you--and you will never know how her heartbled when she let you think she had killed Kedsty. She has told meeverything. It was her fear for Donald, her desire to keep all possiblesuspicion from him until he was safe, that compelled her not to confideeven in you. Later, when she knew that Donald must be safe, she wasgoing to tell you. And then--you were separated at the Chute. "McTrigger paused, and Kent saw him choke back a grief that was stilllike the fresh cut of a knife in his heart. 

"And O'Connor found out all this?"

McTrigger nodded. "Yes. He defied Kedsty's command to go to FortSimpson and was on his way back to Athabasca Landing when he found mybrother. It is strange how all things happened, Kent. But I guess Godmust have meant it that way. Donald was dying. And in dying, for aspace, his old reason returned to him. It was from him, before he died, that O'Connor learned everything. The story is known everywhere now. Itis marvelous that you did not hear--"

There came an interruption, the opening of a door. Anne McTrigger stoodlooking at them where a little time before she had disappeared withMarette. There was a glad smile in her face. Her dark eyes were glowingwith a new happiness. First they rested on McTrigger's face, and thenon Kent's. 

"Marette is much better, " she said in her soft voice. "She is waitingto see you, M'sieu Kent. Will you come now?"

Like one in a dream Kent went toward her. He picked up his pack, forwith its precious contents it had become to him like his own flesh andblood. And as the woman led the way and Kent followed her, McTriggerdid not move from the fireplace. In a little while Anne McTrigger cameback into the room. Her beautiful eyes were aglow. She was smilingsoftly, and putting her arms about the shoulders of the man at thefireplace, she whispered:

"I have looked at the night through the window, Malcolm. I think thatthe stars are bigger and brighter than they have been in a long time. And the Watcher seems like a living god up in the sky. Come, please. "

She took his hand, and Malcolm went with her. Over their heads burned aglory of stars. The wind came gently up the valley, cool with thefreshness of the mountain-tops, sweet with the smell of meadow andflowers. And when the woman pointed through the glow, Malcolm McTriggerlooked up at the Watcher, and for an instant he fancied that he sawwhat she had seen--something that was life instead of death, a glow ofunderstanding and of triumph in the mighty face of stone above the lacemists of the clouds. For a long time they walked on, and deep in theheart of the woman a voice cried out again and again that the Watcherknew, and that it was a living joy she saw up there, for up to thatunmoving and voiceless god of the mountains she had cried and laughedand sung--and even prayed; and with her Marette had also done thesethings, until at last the pulse and beat of women's souls had given aspirit to a form of rock. 

Back in the chateau which Malcolm McTrigger and his brother Donald hadbuilt of logs, in a room whose windows faced the Watcher himself, Marette was unveiling the last of mystery for Jim Kent. And this, too, was her hour of triumph. Her lips were red and warm with the flushbrought there by Kent's love. 

Her face was like the wild roses he had crushed under his feet all thatday. For in this hour the world had come to her, and had prostrateditself at her feet. The sacred contents of the pack were in her lap asshe leaned back in the great blanketed and pillowed chair that had beenher invalid's nest for many days. But it was an invalid's nest nolonger. The floods of life were pounding through her body again, and inthat hour when Malcolm McTrigger and his wife were gone, Kent lookedupon the miracle of its change. And now Marette gave to him a littlepacket, and while Kent opened it she raised both hands to her head andunbound her hair so that it fell about her in shining and gloriousconfusion. 

Kent, unwrapping a last bit of tissue-paper, found in his hands a longtress of hair. 

"See, Jeems, it has grown fast since I cut it that night. "

She leaned a little toward him, parting her hair with slim, whitefingers so that he saw again where the hair had been clipped the nightof Kedsty's death. 

And then she said: "You may keep it always if you want to, Jeems, for Icut it from my head when I left you in the room below, and whenyou--almost--believed I had killed Kedsty. It was this--"

She gave him another packet, and her lips tightened a little as Kentunwrapped it, and another tress of hair shimmered in the lamp glow. 

"That was father Donald's, " she whispered. 

"It--it was all he had left of Marie, his wife. And that night--whenKedsty died--"

"I understand, " cried Kent, stopping her. "He choked Kedsty with ituntil he was dead. And when I found it around Kedsty's neck--you--youlet me think it was yours--to save father Donald!"

She nodded. "Yes, Jeems. If the police had come, they would havethought I was guilty. I planned to let them think so until fatherDonald was safe. But all the time I had here in my breast this othertress, which would prove that I was innocent--when the time came. Andnow, Jeems--"

She smiled at him again and reached out her hands. "Oh, I feel sostrong! And I want to take you out now--and show you myvalley--Jeems--our valley--yours and mine--in the starlight. Nottomorrow, Jeems. But tonight. Now. "

A little later the Watcher looked down on them, even as it had lookeddown on another man and another woman who had preceded them. But thestars were bigger and brighter, and the white cap of snow that restedon the Watcher's head like a crown caught the faint gleam of a far-awaylight; and after that, slowly and wonderfully, other snow-crestedmountain-tops caught that greeting radiance of the moon. But it was theWatcher who stood out like a mighty god among them all, and when theycame to the elbow in the plain, Marette drew Kent down beside her on agreat flat rock and laughed softly as she held his hand tightly in herlap. 

"Always, from a little child, I have sat and played on this rock, withthe Watcher looking, like that, " she said in a low voice. "I have grownto love him, Jeems. And I have always believed that he was gazing offthere, night and day, into the east, watching for something that wascoming to me. Now I know. It was you, Jeems. And, Jeems, when I wasaway--down there in the big city--"

Her fingers gripped his thumb in their old way, and Kent waited. 

"It was the Watcher that made me want to come home most of all, " shewent on, a bit of tremble in her voice. "Oh, I grew lonely for him, andI could see him in my dreams at night, watching, watching, watching, and sometimes even calling me. Jeems, do you see that hump on his leftshoulder, like a great epaulet?"

"Yes, I see, " said Kent. 

"Beyond that, on a straight line from here--hundreds of miles away--areDawson City, the Yukon, the big gold country, men, women, civilization. Father Malcolm and father Donald have never found but one trail to thisside of the mountains, and I have been over it three times--to Dawson. But the Watcher's back is on those things. Sometimes I imagine it washe who built those great ramparts through which few men come. He wantsthis valley alone. And so do I. Alone--with you, and with my people. "

Kent drew her close in his arms. "When you are stronger, " he whispered, "we will go over that hidden trail together, past the Watcher, towardDawson. For it must be that over there--we will find--a missioner--" Hepaused. 

"Please go on, Jeems. "

"And you will be--my wife. "

"Yes, yes, Jeems--forever and ever. But, Jeems"--her arms crept upabout his neck--"very soon it will be the first of August. "

"Yes--?"

"And in that month there come through the mountains, each year, a manand a woman to visit us--mother Anne's father and mother. And motherAnne's father--"

"Yes--?"

"Is a missioner, Jeems. "

And Kent, looking up in this hour of his triumph and joy, believed thatin the Watcher's face he caught for an instant the passing radiance ofa smile. 

THE END