The Law-bringers/Chapter 8

by G. B. Lancaster

 

CHAPTER VIII

"ON THE ATHABASKA"

"Who spilt that?" roared Ducane.

He lay on Chipewyan beach, with the red flare from the mosquito-smudges over him, and over half the population of Chipewyan where they celebrated the undoubted fact that the year's permits had come from the South, and that it was the whole duty of man to see that no one drop of them remained upon another by daybreak.

Out of the dark and noisy ring where ribald songs and drunken laughter had gone up these four hours past a face thrust forward. There was moisture on the forehead and the skin by the nostrils glistened. But by the tight lips and the still keen eyes Ducane knew it.

"I spilt that drink of yours," said Dick. "And if you're civil you shall have another. But I won't wait on a man who talks like a drunken cad."

Ducane sat up. He was flushed with conquest because, a few hours earlier, he had forced a promise from Jennifer. She had given it, brief and low, and without emotion, and he was not afraid of Dick Heriot any longer. Jennifer would manage him now. Jennifer would keep him out of the way whilst he and Robison did the work which they had come North to do. He laughed.

"Better than acting like one," he said. "I could tell things of you, Corporal Heriot."

Dick shrugged his shoulders. He had spent unprofitable hours in trying to discover why Ducane and Robison had chartered beforehand the only tug in Chipewyan and what they were going to do with it. He had spent more in trying to decide whether he should arrest Robison now or whether he might gain more by letting him do his work. And finally, he had drunk with the revellers on the beach until his temper was acutely on edge and his restlessness almost beyond restraint.

"Tell them," he said. "I'll guarantee they're no worse than some we have heard from you to-night."

"Keep that you-be-damned nature of yours quiet, Heriot," advised Brodribb; and Ducane laughed again.

"It's the women can tell most, I guess. Maybe my wife——"

"Yes?" Dick's hands shut with a sudden jerk. "Your wife——?"

"She's lucky to have a husband who knows enough to look after her," sneered Ducane.

With a sharp curse Dick sprang up, and Lowndes caught at his leg.

"Steady, Heriot; the man's drunk," he cried.

"I'm not going to touch him; " Dick kicked himself free. "I have neither gloves nor boots on."

He swung down the beach into the dark, and Ducane looked after him in tipsy triumph. He had made Jennifer's task easier for her, and he had satisfied his own evil temper in the doing of it. He rolled over with a grunt, and thrust out his granite cup.

"Give me another drink, somebody," he said.

Dick went down the beach with face white and bitten lips. Insults to himself never troubled him, but this insult to Jennifer cut deep. And the truth of it stung.

Where the beach lay up to the forehead of the dark wood the factor's house showed, low and pale, palely, and there was something white beyond it which took the shape of a woman as Dick came near. He knew it at once. Jennifer had found the night too hot for sleep, and she had come out to look, like Beatrice, over the hedge of her innocence at those Dante-fires along the distance. Dick had kept himself apart from her since that night on the steamer deck, fifty hours ago. He had hurt her enough for the present, and her white face and strained eyes told it. By and by he would speak, and she would listen. But all that was good in him repented that he had done this when there was no escape for her from either Ducane or himself, and he trod past her now with head a little away and down, and a silent, suddenly-awkward salute. And at that moment he was near to the kingdom of heaven because of the reverence in him.

And then Jennifer laughed; laughed close beside him in the hot dusky night; laughed a little mocking laugh that brought the blood stinging to his face. He stood, dazed as though the laugh had been a blow.

"Weren't you going to speak to me?" she asked.

She stood with hands linked behind her and head cocked in that saucy way which she used to Slicker, and—in those age-old days when friendship was possible—to himself. Now—with the thing that lay between them. Now—when he dared not lift his eyes to her—she could laugh, and she could look at him like that.

"I had thought that you would have preferred——" he began stupidly. But his head was singing. Why did she look at him like that?

"What made you come away from them?" cried Jennifer. "I can only stand a long way off and hear them laughing. We can never have such a good time, you know. I can't go and make offerings to Bacchus."

"He never objects to a Bacchante," said Dick.

He reddened, and would have taken it back, but Jennifer laughed again, rocking on heels and toes. Her whole attitude was daring, sharply vivid. She looked light as a cloud and as free. She was the essence of life, distilled to a burning drop, and Dick was not the man to look on her unknowing it. He caught his breath, coming near with tingling blood. This was not the white lady of his worship. It was not Jennifer. He did not know who it was. He did not know anything, but that he would have his hands on her presently.

She moved a few steps down the beach, looking back at him over her shoulder. And what she saw contented her. She was playing her game, full and fiercely as a woman can play it, and already she had puzzled the man. In one moment she had smashed all his theories and left his slower mind fumbling on the edge of something strange. And before he had grasped that with masculine decision she would be somewhere else. The spirit of illusion, of excitement, of snatching hot coals and dropping them with such swiftness that they would not burn was on her. She saw him follow, and she was glad, for her hate for him was as great as her love. He had flung her heart down from the secret place where she kept it, and he knew it. Now he was going to unknow it, while she discovered him for what he was. It would hurt her to see it, and she desired to be hurt. She desired to trick and baffle and shame him; to win all along the line for Ducane and for her wifehood calm again.

A canoe lay down the beach, nosing the water-ripple. Jennifer slipped in, a little white heap against the dark edge.

"Take me out where it is cool and black," she said. "I want to watch the fires."

Dick ran it out with one push; leapt in, and knelt, grasping the paddle. He shot over the water with long savage strokes until their outline was merged in the distant shore-line. Then he rested the dripping paddle and looked at her with her head among the stars as they floated in the dark between heaven and the red flames on the beach. He did not speak. He did not attempt to adjust the universe which she had cast in broken shards about him. He did not remember the difference between right and wrong. The electricity of the night and of her nearness led him into the trap she set.

"Do you remember Browning's 'Two in a gondola'?" said Jennifer, idly dabbling her hand in the water. "I think a canoe is much nicer than a gondola."

"It's not," said Dick, who remembered over-well. "You can't move in a canoe."

"Why should you want to move?" said Jennifer innocently.

Dick bit his lip. He could be subtle in some ways, but he did not begin to know how subtle a woman can be when she has an end to gain.

"You know better than to ask that, don't you?" he said.

Jennifer laughed a very little. He was going to be just what she had expected him to be. He was going to kill that unlawful love with his own hand, just as Ducane had killed the lawful love.

"Perhaps I am glad that you know better than to tell it," she said.

Dick drove the canoe further out. From the shore the delirium of the bagpipes and the smell of smoke came faintly. The hot night beat on his skin, making it hotter.

"How many women are you?" he said suddenly and thickly.

"Are you just beginning to find out that I am more than one?"

He was at a disadvantage already.

"I am beginning to find out that you are not the woman I thought you."

"Are you sure now that I am the woman you think me?"

Dick flung the paddle down.

"Let me come nearer and I'll tell you——"

"Wait!" She leaned forward and her voice was changed. "I want to ask you something. Would you do—for me—a thing that you did not want to do?"

The sweet true ring was back in her voice again. Dick paddled in silence. Then he said huskily:

"You can remember two nights ago and ask me that?"

The thrust made Jennifer wince. She had not expected it—not in that tone. Then she rallied.

"But how was I to know that you had remembered?" she asked.

"I—I had thought that was the only thing——" Dick stopped, and swift, bitter derision of himself swept over him. Had he been insanely careful of a thing which was not there? Had he been scourging himself for his cruelty to her while she had been laughing at his silence?

"Was it?" she asked.

"I suppose you realise that your question gives the answer to that," he said. "Sit still, for I am coming up to your end to talk to you."

She saw him move, and she sprang up instantly. Dick crouched, motionless, with his mouth dry. "Sit down," he said. "For God's sake, sit down! I couldn't swim in with you from here."

A moment longer she stood, feeling in a sudden wildness that death was best—death was easier than life. Then she dropped back, controlled by her knowledge of God's "shalt nots." But her head was giddy. She had set herself to test Dick's real nature, and already she believed that she hated it. It was as necessary for her to prove the worthlessness of the man she loved as it was for her to hide the worthlessness of the man whom she did not love. It was as necessary for her to save Ducane as it was for Dick to destroy him, and for precisely the same reason. And she was going to win. But the knowledge of it burnt her like hot irons.

"Shall I tell you what it was I wanted you to do?" she asked.

"I'll do anything you tell me, you witch, so long as you don't try to drown yourself again. What is it, Jennifer?"

She leaned forward. There was only the worn-down butt of an old moon up in the sky, but its light was full on her face; that daring, mocking face which was not Jennifer's.

"You've promised," she said. "Now tell me. You came because Harry and Robison were coming."

His face changed. His natural suspicion awoke.

"What reason could there be for my coming after them?" he countered.

She shook her head, and the come-and-go smile on the crooked mouth excited him.

"Oh, you men," she said. "You can promise so gallantly; but when it comes to doing—why, where are you then?"

"If you would tell me why you want to know——"

"Are you bargaining with me—Dick?"

"No. No. I'll tell you. I have come to watch them. You must make up to me for this, you know, for I have practically put all I have in your hands by saying so."

"Then why did you say it?"

"You appeared to want it as a proof of my affection. Have you forgotten that already?"

His voice kept the thin edge of a sneer for all its ardour. She shut her nails close into her palm. Just now she hated him as she would never hate her husband. For she had never loved Ducane.

"But you can't watch then unless you know where they are going," she said. "I am not bargaining with you, Dick. I'll tell you. They are taking the tug up to Lobstick Island very early in the morning—before anyone is awake."

She felt the canoe swerve at Dick's start, and she saw his eyes stare.

"Good God!" he said. Then, "Do you realise what you are saying?"

Jennifer had not told the first deliberate lie of her life without realising it.

"How much do you expect me to bear?" she cried in sudden passion. "If you want him take him. Take him, and let me be free—free of him and of you and of everyone. Oh, I'm tired of it all. I'm tired."

There was enough truth in this to put the real ring in her voice. Dick looked at her with his eyes hard and sombre. Then he turned his head with a slight shrug of his shoulders and looked out over the dark water. He was utterly stunned; utterly disgusted. This was Jennifer! This was the woman for whose sake he had so deeply regretted his past life! The bitter humour of his nature woke again. It was only the old game which life always played him. Always there was a worm within the apple; and always he had to bite to find it out; and always the mouthful sickened him. But never as now. Never as now; because he loved her and he had reverenced her. He looked at her again. She was leaning forward with her eyes lit and eager and her lips half-drawn back from the little sharp teeth.

"Thank you," he said. "I see that I have given myself a great deal of extra trouble. I might as well have come to you for the whole affair long ago. My knowledge of—women has been at fault again."

"But I wouldn't have told you until I knew that you cared for me," said Jennifer softly.

Her words turned him suddenly cold in the hot night. He picked up the paddle and drove the canoe homeward in a complete silence until the prow grounded in the squishy sand, and he sprang out into the little protesting ripples and reached his hand to her. He held it, looking down at her with the mocking contempt in face and voice.

"You deserve a kiss for that information," he said. "But you're not going to get it. You have probably sold your husband to me to-night, Mrs. Ducane, and if I buy that ends the transaction. I am not asking any commission. Good-night."

He turned on his heel and left her, walking straight up the beach to the barracks. Jennifer stood still, watching him; half-giddy yet with relief and thankfulness.

The lights were pulsing brightly on the shore, and the bagpipe skirl and the laughter came up fitfully. They had been less than an hour away, but to Jennifer it had been many ages. She had won out for Ducane, because Dick would most certainly start for Lobstick Island at once. And she had lost for herself; lost for always, because she could never feel contempt for the man who had flung his contempt at her so unequivocally. She went back, and through the verandah-door to her own room, dropping wearily on the bed. For the fire that had charged her actions was spent, and the grey ash of it lay chill on her heart.

Dick went into the barracks and found Forsyth, the sergeant, preparing for bed. And he stood in the door and delivered his desires without circumlocution.

"I'll want you," he said. "And I want a boat that will sail. I'm starting up the lake for Lobstick in ten minutes."

The jar in walk and tone enlightened Forsyth. He knew of Dick as a man absolutely invaluable in his own class of work and utterly dangerous to thwart.

"Sure," he said placidly, and proceeded to get into his boots again.

He limped as he moved, quite perceptibly, for the tendons of his left leg were stiffened by an ice-cut won on a midwinter Yukon patrol. He had spliced and sewn up the wound and gone his way of two hundred miles and over. But he would never walk like other men again. Dick took belt and revolver from the bed-foot and buckled them on. He had left them there earlier in the evening.

"What's doing on the beach?" he said.

Forsyth was Dick's superior in the Force, but he had the wit to recognise the younger man's superiority in everything else.

"Why—they're mostly goin' home. Amazin' peaceable they are, too. Ducane was gittin' nasty, but Robison hauled him off some place. I guess he's watchin' out for Ducane these days."

"They're going to Lobstick," said Dick. "We're wanting to be there first. You must come yourself."

Forsyth swore liberally.

"Pshaw! I guess they'd be apt to hit the trail some twelve hours before we could raise it. D'you know how far it aims to be up to Lobstick?"

"I imagine it is as many miles for them as for us. And there's a breeze making right now. Are you ready?"

"Why it is going to take us two days—likely three."

"I intend that it shall be less than that. Who has a dinghy? Who? Very well. Meet me on the beach, for it's important that you come too."

Forsyth was there within twenty minutes. He had a smart young constable with him, and he poured directions out at every step. Dick, superintending the stowing of water and provisions, turned to add his word also.

"Watch what time those two get off," he said. "And if they ask for me say I am drunk, or sleeping in. Take note of anything unusual you may see. And—Hinds, the 'Northern Light' won't go out till mid-day. Let no one know where we have gone. Say Forsyth is on patrol and I am drunk or sick—anything."

The night was blowing up dark and suggestive of thunder. Scattered white-caps showed here and there down the distance. It was a cross-wind, blowing in nasty, choppy puffs, and the powerful breed who helped Dick run the sail up predicted trouble very shortly.

"If it comes it comes," said Dick, and crouched down in the stern-sheets. " Don't be afraid to let her have all she can take, Honoré."

Honoré knew all that there was to know about a dinghy, and about a wind that bellied the sail and slapped it flat and endeavoured to unstep the mast all at once and the same moment. And they ran out into the swift-coming storm, with the combing of the wind about their ears and the growling of the thunder sending sullen echoes down the lake.

Dick had no conversation to give Forsyth as the boat tacked and swung and drove on her beam until the upper strakes foamed with white lips. He was planning what he would do with clear-minded decision. He would watch those two at the work which they were doing, and if that gave him no hold he would arrest them both on the face-value of that photograph which he carried. In all probability he could frighten the whole affair out of Ducane. And if he could not; if he failed, and broke and spoiled it all, what did that matter? There were more things spoiled in this world than a man's work. But Ducane would turn King's evidence and sell every soul of them all to ransom his coward's skin. Concerning Jennifer's part in this his beliefs were unshipped and astray, and a heavier wrath held him than the dark wild wrath of the sea. For it was the impotent anger of a strong soul struck in the dark and blindly struggling to hit back again. Since he had cleared himself of the old truths he had forsworn his God with light lips and trampled the great threat of the afterward under a reckless heel. Jennifer had stripped that sheltering harness off him and left him naked to the doctrine of Retribution; not in words, but in the knowledge that he had lost the power to do the good thing so far as he could see it. Under her pure eyes he had tried—sometimes—to crawl up to the good. And now she had taken that which she gave and made a hideous thing of it, thrusting his unbelief out into belief savage and more bitter still. He had banished the gods of his youth; but out of the storm they mocked at him, gibbering in the lightning and chuckling in the wind.

From the black cloud-breasts the lightning jetted in great, ragged handfuls, and once Forsyth saw Dick's face clear in the yellow gleam of it. He sucked in his breath as he looked, and for a moment he forgot the lesser death which reached long arms at him over the gunwale and whistled shrill derision in his ears. For the man who knelt gripping the sheets and staring into the night with the water streaming off him was surely testing a greater death. That face would be merciless to the utter need of woman or man. And it would be worse than merciless; it would laugh.

Out of the south-west the storm smote fully. It struck the little boat sheer on the quarter, heeling her over until the cant jerked a curse of terror out of Forsyth. The water was running ankle-deep along the bilge, and Honoré sprang to slack the sail-ropes. But Dick was before him.

"Let her have it," he shouted, and the words came thin and weak upon the gale. "She can stand up to it. Let her have it. By ——, we've got to drive her."

"You'll drive her under in less'n no time," yelled Forsyth, bailing on his knees.

Dick gave no answer. He was battling with Honoré to secure the foresheets. From his expression Honoré was evidently objecting. But the words were blown out of his mouth, leaving him with distended cheeks and eyes where the round white showed. The men were flung this way and that as the stout little boat fought for its life, and the high waves slapped over them and through the wet shrillness of the wind came the boom-boom of thunder-guns. For three hours they hung on the edge of eternity, stiffened and bruised and beaten. But the knots of the black lake flew by beneath the counter, and when the saffron dawn caught the sky Honoré cleared his eyes.

"By damn," he said. "I t'ink we come très queek, moi. I vas s'pose we be to Lobstick in four, seex heures."

"Trappin' lynx isn't a circumstance to boatin' wi' you, Heriot," said Forsyth, straightening his cramped limbs cautiously as the great waves took the red of the sun on their crests and sank under it. "There's no waitin' for reinforcements when you go into action."

Dick said nothing. He was looking forward with keen eyes to the moment when he should get his hands on Ducane. And then he would go back and take his reward from Jennifer. For he had been a besotted fool last night.

Through the day they ran on with a strong clear wind behind them. To the left little islands gathered, separated, and slid by, rough with scrub-pine and soft with young blooming willows. The sky toned to hottest hazy blue that stooped to meet a hazy sea. And nowhere down the distance could the keen, searching eyes pick up the smoke-trail that would be the Hudson Bay tug coming up from Chipewyan. The sun was yet high, though seven hours had gone by since noon, when the dinghy slid between Lobstick Island and the jutting mainland and Dick went ashore, seeking information. He found reindeer moss and willows and pines bent with the wind. He found a dead beaver, and white ash where a camp had been. Then he came back.

"Best cache the boat and stay ashore," he said. "Someone's bound to turn up before long."

Forsyth looked round with dubious eyes. The very air of the place smelt of something given over to the grey gull and the musk-rat.

"What would you suppose they want to come here for?" he asked.

"How should I know? Fond du Lac Indians in it, likely."

Forsyth made doubtful noises in his throat and flung himself down in the soft warm moss. "I guess——" he began, and slept with the words in his mouth yet.

Honoré was already sleeping, unrestrained and peaceful. But Dick had never been more fully awake in all his life. He was strung up to tension that would give him no rest until this business was put through, and he smoked two pipes scarce knowing it, clenched grimly in his thoughts. With the third he began to grow restless. For in all that wide far sweep of blue there lay no smudge of smoke; in all the green silence behind there came no sound of life; no straggling camp of Indians to set their tepees up and to make their fires, even as Honoré had done, against the mosquito army. He walked and watched, but he did not doubt, and it was Forsyth who flung the first bomb over the supper at a later hour.

"Where did you get your information?" he demanded suddenly of Dick.

"From a reliable source," said Dick curtly.

"You can bank on that?"

"Certainly."

Forsyth wrinkled his eyes up, drawing under lee of the smoke.

"They say you've never been caught," he remarked. "Otherwise I'd go bail as this were a put-up job. 'Taint the first time I've experienced such things. Robison's about up to all the tricks there are."

"The information did not come through Robison."

Dick's tone invited no more speculation; but when the long, sunlit evening drew to ten o'clock Forsyth came seeking the younger man where he stood with feet lipped by the lake-waters.

"What are you goin to do?" he demanded. "Don't you reckon the fellow who told you is liable to be makin' a mistake?"

Dick wet his dry lips.

"I don't think so."

"I do. I reckon they've been goosing you, Heriot. They've likely gone across to Manawi or Claire, an' when we git back we'll find the whole thing put through an' swallered an' Ducane lickin' his lips like a cat that's just polished off the canary."

Dick looked at him with the tired eyes which had lost the power even to smile at himself.

"I don't think so," he repeated, and walked away.

But at daybreak he awoke the two who slept, and suggested a return.

"You reckon you have been tricked then?" demanded Forsyth, sitting up.

"Yes," said Dick very quietly. "I reckon I have been tricked."

Forsyth followed down to the boat. He was a mild man himself, and Dick's face made him uneasy.

"My word," he said. "I wouldn't like to be the joker who served him that sauce."

It was on the evening of the fourth day that a little dinghy beached on the red Chipewyan sands where the big-shouldered dogs and the children seeking scraps of dried fish in the heeled-over boats gave welcome.

Forsyth limped more than usual as they climbed the slope to the barracks, but Dick burst in on Hinds before the constable could rise up from his supper and stare. Dick's clothes had been wetted and dried on him twice; his skin was rain and wind-beaten and lined, and the beard-growth was black on his face. But his manner showed neither agitation nor weakness.

"Where is Ducane?" he asked, and over his shoulder Forsyth gave a mild echo.

"Why, that's the devil of it, don't you know," said Hinds. "We've got Robison, but Ducane has disappeared."

The sudden exclamation was in Forsyth's voice. Dick walked to a chair in silence; dropped down, and pulled out a notebook.

"Tell me what you know," he said.

Forsyth looked at the cooling supper, sat down and filled a plate. Hinds said:

"Why, you know, I couldn't have touched Ducane in any case. But you told me to watch out, so I did the best I could. They must have got off in that storm sometime; but we didn't know they hadn't gone up the Lake until the tug came back from Rocky Island two days ago with only Robison and Mrs. Ducane aboard."

"Mrs. Ducane?" said Forsyth, glancing up.

"Exactly. A hand on the tug told me there'd been some sort of pow-wow with Indians in Quatre Fourches Channel, and it seems probable that Ducane slipped off there. Likely he has got them to take him up it to join the Peace, and he means to get out that way. Or he could get down the Slave to the Arctic."

"What about Robison?" interrupted Dick.

"I've made sure of him," said Hinds in broad content. "Arrested him on the Ogilvie business, and he didn't kick worth a cent. But I can't get a word about Ducane out of him—or out of Mrs. Ducane either." He paused a moment. "Ripping good luck I nailed Robison, wasn't it?" he said.

"Sure! It could only have been better if you hadn't."

"Why——" Hinds went red. "What the deuce do you mean?" he said.

"We won't get information from Robison any more." Dick stood up. "He can't save himself from the gallows by betraying Ducane, and so he'll hold his tongue to spite us all. Can I go to your room and clean up, Forsyth?"

"You sure can. Where is Mrs. Ducane, Hinds?"

"At Lowndes', of course. I guess Robison was meaning to get back south on his own, but I don't know what she expected to happen to her. A very peculiar business altogether."

"Why——" began Forsyth, and then, over the broken meats Hinds told him several things which presently sent him hastily in to Dick.

"There's quite a good deal of talk about this goin' around," he said.

"Ah!" Dick was shaving with stretched jaws, and he did not appear interested. Forsyth sat heavily down on the cot.

"Who's to say those two didn't put an end to Ducane out there? Robison would likely make his pile out of the transactions they've been through together, and Mrs. D. must have hated the brute. And—there's more than one one had a fancy for somone you know. I guess you understand how news travels on the Rivers, Heriot."

"Ah! What an innocent and friendly old world this is. I am going to see Mrs. Ducane now, Forsyth; and I think I can promise that she will tell me all I want to know. Yes; I think I can promise that."

"Did she send you up to Lobstick, Heriot?"

"No."

"I believe that's a damned lie, you know. She did. You'd best be careful, or you'll be in the soup yourself presently. Can't you guess what fellows are saying about this business?"

Dick looked at him with half-shut eyes and a slow smile.

"No," he said. "I can't guess. How could you expect me to?"

All the world swam in a warm yellow haze of evening when Dick came on to the wide verandah where Lowndes sat smoking with his wife beside him. The children ran to him, and he lifted one wild-haired little imp and kissed her.

"Well, Jack," he said. Then he looked over her head and smiled at Mrs. Lowndes.

"I am afraid I must be uncivil enough to say that I didn't come to call," he said. "I came to see Mrs. Ducane. Would you tell me where I can find her?"

Mrs. Lowndes stood up nervously. Her heart was bobbing in her throat.

"Certainly. She is in the side room; fourth down the passage. She—she has had a trying time, Mr. Heriot. I—I hope you will remember that."

"Most assuredly, Mrs. Lowndes. And I will only keep her a short while. No; please don't trouble to come with me. I can find my way quite easily."

He walked down the dusky passage, and presently Mrs. Lowndes heard a door shut crisply. She looked at her husband with a little shiver.

"I'm afraid of that man, Gregory," she said. "He looks so—so cruel."

"Well, what can you expect? You know what people are saying—and so does he, if she doesn't. If he's innocent he's got to get all she can tell out of her—and sharp, too. Emmett doesn't care about having a disappearance off his tug, and he's lodged complaints with Forsyth already in order to clear himself. It's a case of suspected murder, anyway."

"But why can't they be content with asking the men——"

"They have asked the men. Hinds has done nothing else these two days. And he has had Jackson patrolling Quatre Fourches Channel for information, too. It's impossible that Mrs. Ducane can't know——"

"If you dare to believe she had a hand in it——"

"I reckon I can believe anything," said Lowndes philosophically. "Or nothing. It's not our business, Amy. I fancy Heriot will sort all he wants out of this mess, anyway. He has all his senses, that fellow."

In the side room Jennifer sat by the window looking out on the silver lake streaked with dark shadows. She had the last Lowndes baby in her arms, and her grasp tightened round it instinctively when she looked up and saw Dick at the door. He came to her in silence, walking lightly, and his face showed something of the strain which he had been through.

"Please allow me," he said quietly, and stooped, drawing the sleeping child from her with the manner of one clearing decks before action. He laid it in the seat of a big chair and came back to her, with a very faint smile on his lips. But it was not the smile which she had seen there last. {{}} "I have come to pay my debts," he said pleasantly, and pulled a chair up, sitting opposite to her, and leaning forward. "You have won quite a good deal from me, Mrs. Ducane. I suppose you understand that?"

She did not lift her eyes from the wrist-muscles of the shut hand across his knee. But she felt her own hands and feet getting cold. There was nothing familiar in this man, and there was nothing in her which knew how to answer him.

"Of course we both know how you managed it," said Dick. "You knew where I was weak, and you took advantage. I don't reproach you, for I know that women like to work that way. But you will not find me weak any more, Mrs. Ducane."

Jennifer did not speak. She was trying to remember the Dick she had known: the courteous, kindly friend who had helped her over so many hard places. There was nothing left but the courtesy, and that was congealed almost into threat.

"You know what I came here for?" said Dick softly. "I came for you to tell me what you have done with your husband."

"I can't," she said sharply, and a shudder ran through her.

"I assure you that he cannot escape if he is living. You have not the least idea of our power and organisation. He cannot get out of Canada from here, and he cannot stay in it long without our knowledge. You can do no good by holding your tongue. But you can do much harm."

"To whom?"

"To yourself." He would not add his own name. "You know that people are saying that he has been made away with? The captain of the tug has already lodged an accusation against you. It is unsupported. I believe it to be unsupportable. But you can only prove that by telling the truth now."

There was no mercy in his voice. She knew that he was in a white heat of anger at the check to his plans and the blow to his pride. And she knew how the knowledge that she had taken advantage of his love to make him betray his duty would cut very deep. She had scarcely resented what that duty was leading him to do. Her own recognition of the word explained the matter for her, and she did not think of the ways in which he had come by his knowledge.

"I cannot tell you," she said. "I promised."

"You will break that promise. I came here to see that you do. Cannot you understand that it is necessary for your safety that you should?"

Jennifer leaned back and her lips closed. Dick looked at her with his eyes darkening. There might be trouble for himself later, but there was trouble for Jennifer now. She was so little and white, and his love for her was as great as his anger against her. It would be greater in a little while, when he had time to be thankful for the interpretation of the Jennifer of the canoe. But through the long hours in the dinghy his terror had been lest Robison had escaped; lest Andree had sent him word in some way. Fear of that disgrace had half-maddened him, and he could not easily forgive the cause.

Then he leaned forward, keeping his eyes on her; and he questioned her over and over in various ways; steadily, mercilessly. His voice seemed a great hammer beating on her brain; on her heart. A cry broke from her at last.

"Don't. Oh, don't. I can't bear it," she cried.

"Where is he?" said Dick, and put his hand on her arm when she would have risen.

"I can't 1 can't tell you——"

"Where is he?"

"O——stop——"

"Where is he?"

Then the tears came, and she flung herself sideways, hiding her face in the arm of the chair. Dick sprang up, stooping over her.

"For God's sake quit torturing us both," he said thickly. "Don't you understand that I've got to make you?"

"You can't make me," she sobbed. "You can't. You can't."

He was coming to believe it. Such a resolute will in this small creature had been beyond his understanding. But he was coming to believe it. Then he used his last weapon.

"Laroupe's scows are tracking up to Grey Wolf to-night. I am taking Robison on them. If you won't speak I must take you, too, for Emmett has definitely charged you with Ducane's disappearance. It will be probably a month's journey or even more. You and I will be the only white people, and our names have been coupled together too much already. But I have no choice. That is for you. Will you be good enough to tell me what you decide to do?"

She lifted her head and looked at him. The unconscious reproach in the wistful eyes and lips nearly shook his control.

"I have no choice, either," she said. "You know that well."

"As you will." He shrugged his shoulders. "Then I must ask you to be ready in an hour. The men prefer to track at night during the full moon."

He went out and spoke a few civil words to Mrs. Lowndes. But she saw that his face was set and strange. Then he took Lowndes down to the gate with him.

"Mrs. Ducane won't speak," he said, "and she will have to come back on the scows with me. Will you and Mrs. Lowndes allow Jack to come along too? It is a long journey for a lady to take alone."

Lowndes asked some questions, receiving concise answers. Then he said:

"I'll speak to my wife, but she won't make any difficulty if we can possibly get the kiddie's kit together in the time. Don't thank me. I am glad to do it for you both."

To Jennifer little seemed real through the following hours. In the house was talk and hurry and the excited voices of children. On the tug which took them to meet the scows at the mouth of the Athabaska River there was the smell of cool air on the night-breeze; there were many dark slouching men moving in and out of the lamp-light, and there was Mrs. Lowndes close beside her with Jack on her knee. On the beach at last was red sand where a mosquito-smudge flared; a broad, black breast of forest beyond it, and, all along the lip of the water, the great forty-foot scows, dark and heavy, with willow rickers and tarpaulins rigged over the sterns of a few. All was movement and chuckling laughter and sudden calls and shouts as the trackers got themselves into the harness with light-hearted horse-play; and the wiry, springy strength of the North was in their muscles, even as its keen power was in their eyes. Lowndes spoke at Jennifer's side.

"This leading scow is yours, Mrs. Ducane. Heriot thought you'd like the rickers there as it's such a hot evening. Yes—say good-bye to her, mother. It's time they were off. Let me help you up the plank, Mrs. Ducane. That's right. Drop over. Jack, you young sinner. Wait till I come for you."

With Mrs. Lowndes' warm kiss on her lips Jennifer dropped inside the tall sturgeon-head which was to be her home for so long, and felt her feet on a grey yielding floor of fur-bales. The scow smelt and whispered of strange things; of loneliness, and of the cries of little animals that had died, and of the men who did these cruel things and did not care. Then Jack slid down beside her with a crow of delight, and immediately scrambled up again to shout her good-byes. Lowndes' bearded face showed over the edge.

"Comfortable down there?" he asked cheerily. "That's right. Eusta will make up your beds in five minutes. Who's steering this scow? You, Ooti? Good. Take care of my kiddie. Tell her keyam upe if she climbs around too much."

The big breed showed white teeth as he stepped on the hinder decking and leaned to the sweep, tall and finely poised as a statue. And then the long scow surged forward with a groan and a spewing-up of sand and water; the talk and laughter died; the group of figures on the strip of beach slid behind, and Jack began to sniff ominously. Jennifer stooped to give comfort. And when she looked again the fires from a big Indian camp cast a red glow along the beach, and, black and strong across the face of it, swung the trackers; leaning deeply in the traces; swaying bodies and loose arms; the nine keeping step as one and passing out of the light to give place to the nine of the scow behind. As she looked a man raised the chant. It surged by her; surged back, and burst out in a volley from each mellow throat that knew the voyageur call of the other days.

"Huh! Huh! Huh! We come. We come. Huh! Huh! Huh! We come!"

The naturally dauntless spirit in Jennifer waked. She sat up. And Jack, squirming about her with restless arms and legs, cuddled into her suddenly.

"Oh," she cried. "I guess we're going into the fairy-tale place where the dreams belong."

"You darling," said Jennifer, and laughed with a delicious feeling of excitement. "Perhaps it will be a fairy-tale place, Jack."

Then she too passed on into the dark, and from behind she heard Dick call her name.

"I am in the next scow," he said, and his voice came clear across the gap. "If you want anything call me. Have you all you need?"

"Yes, thank you," called Jennifer, with a new resiliency in her voice. And as she said it she realised that, for the first time in many months, she had all she needed. Freedom from the almost unsupportable life with Ducane; peace, and the soothing of nature in the hush of the night; the unjarring glide of the scow, the dear familiar stars and the scent of the wind's warm breath. Above her came the low creak of the decking where Ooti swung his weight from one noiseless foot to the other, and at her side Jack snuggled, close and soft. The voice across the water had held the old protecting kindliness of other days, and she tried to cling to that, forgetting what had come between.

Day by day the tread of a host passed up the long river reaches; the tread of the brown men to whom the brown earth was the natural heritage. Again they took the trails which their voyageur forefathers opened in hours of fierce adventure and grim horror; trails which shall be closed for ever on that labour when the white men drive their railroads down, far and farther, until the engine-roar drowns out the beat of the moccasins, and big cities rise where the tepees fall and the men of the outer ways go, keen-eyed, keen-eared and silent, before the in-wash of the city men.

But when Jennifer went up the Athabaska it was still the place where the dreams belong, and through all the after years the stray tang of green wood smoke was to bring her a sharp thrill of longing for the North-West rivers again; for the hot, dry smell of the forest, and the short barks from a clearing where a red fox led her young to play in the moonlight; for the flowering vetches round her feet with the golden-rod, and the bird-calls from hidden singers as they passed, and the great cranes that flew against the sunset with long legs rudder-like behind. To Jack the days were sunshine and gladness only; from breakfast in the cook-scow, sitting with granite plate on restless knees among the boxes of tinned foods, to the fresh-cut bed of blue-joint grass or spruce branches in the white tent pitched on some lonely shore where the sandpiper ran and the cliff-swallow called. But for Jennifer, because no older palate can take life without the seasoning, pain was mixed with all the pleasure.

And yet Dick's endless tact and thoughtfulness made the world very truly a place of happy dreams. Outwardly he seemed just the friend of old, with his flashes of cynicism and hardness for others, but never anything but gentle deference for her. And yet the change was acute, and she knew it. For all his quiet courtesy and his nonsense with Jack she knew well that he was only waiting, tightening the bond between them with skilful, unerring persistence. He was only waiting, and by and by she would need all her powers for the battle that would come. But he made those days so beautiful for her; days of intimate friendly talk, of arguments on all things that were and were not; of song and laughter and silent times over the camp-fires when Jack had gone to bed.

And she knew that he was reading her; better than she could ever read him, and that he was a little amused, perhaps, at her scruples in small things, and at the prayers which she persuaded Jack to say each night, and which Jack once, to Jennifer's embarrassment, decided to say at Dick's knee before she went to bed.

"Land of Liberty!" said Jack, with a shake of her black elf-locks, "Why not? I'd be much gooder if I said them by the fire than if I hurried over them in the tent, for I could take my time here. Couldn't I, Mr. Heriot?"

"Certainly," agreed Dick. "Say all you want to, Jack. Which knee is to be the altar?"

It was the first time Jennifer had heard that tone to Jack, and she bit her lips as Jack chose the knee with care and bowed her shock head. Jack marshalled all her family with determination, even to the guinea-pigs left behind. Dick heard her ask a blessing for Jennifer, and then he started at his own name.

"And please take care of Mr. Heriot and make him a good man amen good-night Mr. Heriot."

The quick, sticky kiss on his lips full-stopped the words. Jack whirled; bestowed a second on Jennifer, and tore headlong up the beach, singing as she ran. Dick gazed after her reflectively.

"Was that her wording or yours?" he asked.

"Oh, hers, of course. You heard her ask to be made a good girl herself."

"I did," he turned to her with amusement. "And I heard her place you in the category with her parents and the guinea-pigs as those who are presumably above improvement."

"I have told her that it is want of respect," said Jennifer in distress. "But you know Jack."

"And she evidently knows me." He laughed at her troubled face, but the laugh hardly rang true. "Please don't apologise. I am flattered at her interest."

But he sat silent for a while after that, and then she heard him singing softly a little French song of Swinburne's which Jack had objected to as "silly" earlier in the evening.

 

"Toi, mon âme
Et ma foi,
Sois ma dame
Et ma loi;
Sois ma mie,
Sois Marie,
Sois ma vie,
Toute à moi!"

 

Jennifer went away, leaving him singing, and Dick smiled more than once before he got up, seeking the tent which he shared with Robison. The natural instincts of the breeds took them up to the forest on the cliff-top, where each rolled in his blanket and slept where he lay. But Dick never let Robison out of his sight for long, although the man had shown no interest in anything since the first conversation which he had had with Dick in the cell at old Chipewyan.

"Who told on me?" he asked then; and Dick, watching with interest, made answer:

"Grange's Andree."

He saw the big breed's chest sink and his shoulders bow down as though he had been struck in the wind, and he knew that this primitive man was torn in the agony of love and hate even as he had been himself. This interested him, but it displeased him. Human nature had not climbed so much higher in the essentials after all. At last Robison glanced up, and in his face was that curious high look which Tempest had once seen there.

"If I plead guilty that ends it up?" he said. "Andree's out of it?"

"It's ended anyway. I fancy you're just about all in, my friend," said Dick. "Of course it will simplify matters if you don't want to fight."

"I don't want to fight," said Robison slowly. "I done up Ogilvie."

Watching him a faint gleam of suspicion came to Dick. Any man with such good red blood in him as Robison fights by nature for his life.

"Why?" he asked suddenly.

"He—he——" The unready stammer quickened Dick's suspicions. "He showed me a picture you made of me."

"Ah! Don't you think you punished the wrong man, then? I might have made some more."

"If Ducane ain't found his missus is responsible, ain't she?"

This let in a flood of light under which Dick staggered. Through that sketch he had quite certainly found out what Robison was like.

"How about yourself?" he said, and his voice was unmoved. "Were you going back to open that cache you made?"

Hinds had found Ducane's camera and several bundles of notes hidden in a bank by the Quatre Fourches Channel, and Dick was taking them up to Grey Wolf with him. There may have been other work done; but this was a piece of sure proof which, nevertheless, was valueless until he and Tempest had gone through Ducane's papers.

"I was fixed all right if that smart young constable hadn't been a bit too smart. I don't mind him. But you," Robison straightened up suddenly. "You're one o' these damned lot what's always interferin' wi' a man. Tempest was after my gal, an' you bin after me. I hate the whole bunch o' you. But you're the pick of 'em." He spat on the floor of the cell. "That's what I think o' you," he said.

"You are welcome. Probably I should think precisely the same in your position, although I might not have the grace to tell it. But since you do think that of me you must not object if I put you out of action so far as I consider fit when we go up the Athabaska."

Robison made no objection. The salt of life seemed to have gone out of him, and he let Dick do as he would. There was no information to be got from him, and Dick, understanding this, began to shape the plan by which he must help Jennifer when the time came. But because this plan was going to require of him something which he did not want to give, his selfishness made him require from Jennifer also something which she did not want to give.

Jennifer knew that Dick would require it of her some day. She guessed what his eyes could show when the cynical indifference or bold command went out of them, and she guessed what that dominant temper which submitted so instantly now to her wishes would want to do. But she was not afraid. Through these weeks she had gone over and over this awful and beautiful thing in her heart: moulding it with prayers; softening it with tears, and building up, word by word, all that she would say to Dick when he spoke to her at last. Ducane could have no more love of hers. She knew where all that had gone, and from the first agonised moment of understanding she had known what she must do with it. Never once did she think that this great love could be less wonderful, less sacred, less beautiful to Dick than to herself. It was to be a glorious renunciation, an ennobling for them both, and on the last night before the scows drew in to Grey Wolf she sat alone over the camp-fire in the hush that bore only the wash of the water and the cry of a far-off white owl, and thought of it with a tremulous smile on her mouth.

Dick's tread sounded up the pebbles of the beach. He had been bathing, and she saw the glow on his skin as he came round the fire and sat on the log beside her. She put her hand out in sudden fear.

"Not to-night," she said. "Oh, not to-night."

"I think it has got to be to-night, Jennifer," he said. "I must speak, and you must listen."

She shut her hands together, trying to marshal all those arguments again.

"I want to know if you have any real objection to divorce?" he said.

"N-not in the abstract."

"Never mind the abstract." She heard the amusement in his voice. "I am not making conversation just now. I want to know your personal objections to it, For that is going to come, you know."

"No! No! Oh, never. There is no reason——"

"He has deserted you. And it would be easy to prove that he has ill-treated you. Very many of the States would give a divorce for less. Morally, I do not see any necessity for these things. Marriage is, and always has been, purely a social matter. But on the social side I acknowledge the necessity. I want to make arrangements for putting it in hand at once. We cannot go on so much longer, Jennifer. Don't you know that this month has tried me nearly as far as I can stand?"

There was a depth and a tenderness in his voice which she did not know. She shrank away from it, and from his eyes.

"You have been so good to me. But I must hurt you. I must tell you—there is something in life which is better than having what we want. It is giving what we have."

Her words came in little gasping sentences. Dick looked at the fire. It seemed as though he had expected something of the sort, for the amusement was in his eyes again.

"I—I wouldn't divorce Harry if I could. He needs my help. He may come back for it. And then I must give it. One can't help love. But one can help marriage, and I had no right to marry if I didn't intend to—to mean it for better or for worse. I must keep my oath. I can't break it while he lives."

In the little detached sentences her voice shook and hurried and failed. Still Dick did not speak. She had prayed that he would give her the chance to say what she wanted, and he was giving it, quite fully. But in some strange way this did not help her. His silent personality had its effect beyond her will. She was realising vividly how little she knew of him: how much battle and thought and decision and temptation had gone to his making apart from anything which she could guess at in him. Then she began again; dragging out those carefully-planned sentences which were to convince and comfort him. She spoke of the glory of self-renunciation, the help of prayer, the sacredness of a love which is strong enough to slough off the earth-ties. Still Dick watched the fire, saying nothing. But his eyes were dark and brooding. He was remembering that flame in Tempest's eyes when he spoke of his Norse legends; he was noting the shake in the earnest, girlish voice using the simple sweet words which reflected her heart. And he was looking for the first time on an innocence which barred the door against wrong more effectually than all knowledge can do.

At last she stopped. She had said some of the things which she had meant to say; said them badly, perhaps, but he would understand. He must have understood, for he sat so still with his lips shut, staring into the fire. Why did he sit so still? Had she hurt him too deeply? Had she shown too high a path for him to tread at once? Or had she perhaps said more than was necessary? More than was womanly? Her face flamed suddenly, and her pulses drummed in her ears, and her eyes went blind. Then he spoke. His voice was very gentle; almost pitying.

"You don't know very much about men, Jennifer," he said.

Jennifer felt sharply flung back on herself. She had expected anything but this.

"I—I—perhaps not," she stammered.

He turned on the log and took her hands.

"We are not like that, Jennifer," he said. "When we want a thing we go on trying until we get it. At least, most of us do. I do."

His voice was very quiet, very convincing. It made Jennifer feel more helpless than she had done in all her life. He lifted her hands to his lips; kissed them, and let them go.

"I will do you all the reverence you deserve," he said. "But I will not let you go out of my life. Did you really ever think I would?"

"Oh," she said, feeling the tingling in her hands. "That is all wrong. We have to sacrifice something——"

"I have no objection. I am willing to sacrifice anything—so long as it is not you—or myself."

There was more than a suspicion of raillery about him now. He was humourously humouring her, just as he did Jack. She sprang up, struggling for her self-restraint. For her heart was fighting with Dick against her.

"Oh," she cried. "We must end this now—for altogether. I can't. I never can. I——"

He was on his feet beside her, and his smile hurt her.

"Do you think you can end it?" he asked. "You? I have got to give you pain yet, Jennifer, and I have got to give myself much more. But that will not end it. And when this wretched business is over and you see what I have done you, that will not end it. I know you better, and I know myself."

She felt his eyes on her, but she could not lift her own.

"Poor little girl," he said. "Don't fret any more. We'll talk of this again when I come to your own house."

He took her cold hand gently.

"Good-night," he said. "The matter is in my hands more than yours. Don't grieve yourself about it."

Then he left her, and she watched him go down the white path of moonlight to his own tent. And she felt utterly impotent; utterly weak and inadequate. Quietly and courteously he had put aside all her carefully-prepared arguments as one puts away childish toys—things which the man-mind had outgrown. He was one of those who hear what they themselves say, not what the other person says. But she had not known it until now, and now it was too late. She shivered in the creeping shadows of that treetop army. Was his masculine mind as much stronger than hers as his masculine muscles were stronger? Even the difference between her light, noiseless step and his swinging tread up the beach, crushing the pebbles and spurning them out under his feet, frightened her. She began to realise for the first time where she stood. She might say "I will not," but she had let another factor into the matter now. And she knew too little of it, of its hidden forces and currents and dynamic powers to be able to guard against it. Besides, her heart was on the side of that factor, although her soul was not.

A little while longer she stood, listening to the wash of the river. Then slowly, and with wet eyes, she went up to her tent.