The Strength of Small

by Johnston McCulley

THE STRENGTH OF SMALL
by
JOHNSTON MCCULLEY

Author of “The Thing He Needed.”

 

AGAIN the wind shrieked, and the snow and sleet beat against the crusted windows. Pierre, the old guide, threw another log on the fire. Pearson and Holland did not stop their rollicking college song. Sylvester Small shivered and drew nearer the fire, and again centered his attention on the book he had been reading.

It was a peculiar company. Four men in a commodious cabin, in the heart of the Olympics, in the dead of Winter—and three of them did not belong to the country!

For years old Pierre had acted as guide in the Summer, saving his money until he became the owner of a cabin that approached magnificence, and in which he could care for many persons, yet always bewailing the fact that for the greater part of the year there was no business except the traps and the little money they might bring in.

But this Winter things were different. A Summer guest whom Pierre had guided for years had suggested a Winter camp and had sent him his first customers. So here they were, on a bitter night, kept indoors by a blizzard that had raged throughout a night and a day and was beginning the second night with no signs of abating.

There was Robert Pearson, son of a rich man, an athlete, strong in muscle and proud of it, egotistical at times and at other times a boon companion.

The second man also was wealthy—Henry Holland by name; and he had invaded the Olympics in the dead of Winter for the hunting to be found there. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and could do feats of strength, and he and Pearson soon became fast friends.

Then there was Sylvester Small. His name fitted him. His father had been a giant in strength and courage, but the son had acquired his physical characteristics from his mother. From his father he had taken mental qualities that were good. His shoulders were thin, he tipped the beam at one hundred fifteen, and he wore eye-glasses. His hands and wrists were like a woman's in size, but there was the strength of steel wire in them. And a man could not judge correctly his courage from his size.

Small was a chemist. He had a splendid income from his profession, but was not wealthy. He had decided on a Winter in the Olympics because of the quiet he expected to find there; for he wanted to study, and the mountains appealed to him.

The past week had been a sort of a nightmare for Sylvester Small. Being shut up the greater part of the time in a cabin is not good for men, and real characters were being brought to the surface through the veneer of civilization.

Pearson and Holland openly made fun of Small because of his size, and because he liked the open fire and a book better than a ten-mile chase after a wounded buck. They did it cleverly enough, but none of their attempts escaped the little man who turned the pages of his book and now and then smiled softly at their shafts of sarcasm. He had left them severely alone. His attitude was that of a man who feels a little pity for other men who think they are demonstrating strength when they are but showing their weaknesses.

They taunted Small because he dropped behind on those rare occasions when he went on a tramp with them. They laughed when he was unable to get a buck across his shoulders and carry it to the camp. They made sport of his short stride and his pale, student's countenance, and his eye-glasses; and they hid his books and tried to bother him when he read in the evening. And Small continued to smile softly, since they did not descend to open and intended insult, and to pity them a bit.

They had nothing to say of his marksmanship. Small did not use a rifle, but he could use a revolver. Back in civilization he was the crack shot of a pistol club that had a national reputation. He could drill a bull's-eye in a target as easily as he could point a finger. So they merely related to Pierre, in Small's hearing, that such a little man could not be expected to carry a heavy rifle about; but they said nothing about the way he handled the smaller weapon—either by way of praise or blame.

From his position before the fire, on this night of the blizzard, he glanced around as Holland spoke:

“How much longer, Pierre, is this blamed blizzard going to last? When can we go after that big buck?”

“Two, t'ree day, maybe,” the guide replied. “Heem no good to go now. Heem buck keep in out of storm.”

“Make the time as short as possible, old boy,” Pearson put in. “We came up here to rough it, you know, not to sit before a fire and read a book.”

Small turned away from them and faced the fire again, that soft smile playing over his face. Pierre attempted to divert Pearson and Holland; he didn't want Small baited again this night. Pierre was afraid Sylvester Small would pack up his things after the storm and leave the camp, and Pierre wanted the money Small's presence there meant for him.

“Thees blizzard,” he said, “es no fun, although et seem lak et to some. Et es no time for a man to be out. A strong man slip an' fall on ze ice an' no get up. There heem die. Et es no fun!”

There was partial silence for a time then. Small read his book. Pierre poked at the fire. Pearson and Holland talked in low tones of victories on athletic fields, of football and baseball and polo.

The wind shook the cabin walls. The sleet beat against the windows. The storm shrieked and howled like a gigantic wolf-pack on a hunger trail.

Pearson sprang from his chair.

“Listen!” he commanded.

Complete silence then, save for the roar of the storm. Then there came a wail, a sort of cry, lashed on its traveling by the whims of the wind until they could not tell whether it was a cry of human or beast.

“Wolf!” snorted Holland. “As I was saying——”

“Wait!” Pierre exclaimed.

Again the cry, nearer now; then something beat against the door.

“A man—in this storm!” Small gasped, getting up from his chair, and shivering at the mere thought of a human being out in such a blizzard.

Pierre sprang to the door, with Pearson and Holland close behind him. The big bolt was shot back, the door swung open by the force of the storm, and a blinding flash of snow and sleet came in, sweeping half way across the big room; and with it an ice-incrusted figure that slipped and fell full length upon the floor.

Pierre threw his weight against the door, closed and bolted it, then whirled around. Pearson and Holland were lifting the wayfarer from the floor.

“It's a woman—a woman!” Sylvester Small was crying.

II

PEARSON and Holland got her into a chair and began taking off the heavy muffler she had wrapped around her head. They took off her mittens, too, and Holland examined her hands.

“Brandy, Pierre!” Pearson cried. “She's half frozen! Great Scott! A woman out in a storm like this——”

Pierre stood in the center of the room, and for an instant did not move. He was looking at the girl's face, which was uncovered now, a face beautiful in its way—and on Pierre's countenance there was a peculiar look.

“The brandy, Pierre, you idiot!” Holland cried.

“Et es zere on ze shelf——”

“Get it, you fool! What's the matter with you?”

Sylvester Small hurried to the shelf and got the flask of brandy and a glass. He handed them to Holland.

But the girl waved it away, struggled from them, and stood up, holding out her arms to the old guide.

“Pierre—” she began.

“Well?”

“My—my father——”

Pierre's eyes glittered as he turned toward her.

“An' what of your fathaire, Mary Rancour?”

“You must come—at once—come to our cabin! He—he has been hurt—badly.”

“An' why come to me, Mary Rancour?”

“The storm—and you were the nearest—you were the only one——”

“You come to me because zere es no one else, zen? Ver' good!”

“Pierre, for the love of Heaven! He is unconscious—he may be dying. I got him into the cabin, into his bunk. Then I hurried here—five miles through the storm, He—he may die. You must come!”

Pierre looked at her for a moment, then turned away toward the fire.

“No, I not come!” he said. “Let heem die!”

“Oh!” The girl's cry cut to the hearts of those who heard, even into the heart of Pierre, but he gave no sign.

“What the devil does this mean?” demanded Pearson. “What is the trouble, Miss Rancour? Your father——”

“He was at the edge of the clearing, cutting wood,” the girl answered swiftly, sobbing as she spoke. “He slipped on the ice and fell. He—he struck his head, I think. I saw him from the window. I started to run out to him, and then he got up. But he was bewildered, I think. He walked in the wrong direction—toward a precipice; and before I could reach him he fell. I got him back to the cabin——”

“You? You got him back?”

“Yes—I had to. He was unconscious. I took my hand-sled and went down into the cañon—almost a mile. I couldn't bring him back to consciousness though. And so I came—here!”

She looked at Pierre again, but he kept his back turned toward her.

“Great Heaven! Pierre, we must do something,” Holland said. “If this young woman could make it through the storm, surely we men can. Let's get started.”

“No!” said the guide. “You may go, m'sieu, an' your friends. I stay here!”

“Afraid of the storm, you coward?” demanded Pearson.

Pierre's laugh was horrible as he whirled around and faced them.

“Afraid—me?” he exclaimed. “I will start now, an' walk to ze town—twenty mile—if you t'ink me afraid. But I do not go to ze cabin of Jacques Rancour!”

“But why, man, why?” gasped Pearson. “If he's in danger—liable to die?”

“Let heem die!”

The girl darted toward him across the room.

“I am a proud girl, Pierre,” she said, “but I am begging and pleading now—of you! My father would curse me, perhaps, if he knew I came here. He would rather die than take assistance from you. But I came because I love my father, and because I need him. What is to become of me, Pierre, if he dies? You—you loved my mother ”

Evidently it was an unfortunate remark, for he whirled upon her again with anger surging into his face.

“Yes, I loved your mothaire,” he said, trying to speak in softer tones. Then his voice changed, and the anger came out. “An' so did Jacques Rancour! We were frien's when we were boys, zat fathaire of yours an' mesel'. We both love her. We are rivals, eh? An' did he fight fair?”

“He fought you for her—and you lost. She loved my father more than she did you. And it was twenty years ago.”

“Et es not zat your mothaire love heem better zan me—zat she married heem instead of me,” the guide said. “You say we fought, eh? But he did not fight fair, ma'm'zelle, zat you know. He beat me after I am down. He leave me to die. An' I surely do die haf not a hunter find me an' take me to ze cabin. Today I limp as I walk—your fathaire! Today I haf scar across one cheek—your fathaire!”

The girl stepped nearer and touched his shoulder with her hand.

“You loved my mother,” she said softly, “and I am now very like she was then, folks say.”

“Et es so!” he replied.

“Then do it for my sake, Pierre—for my sake. What is to become of me if my father dies?”

“I will take care of you——”

She stepped away from him.

“You want him to die!” she cried. “Maybe you can save him now, but you'll not try. You'd murder him by not helping him, then give his daughter a home——”

She ran swiftly to the chair, snatched up the long muffler, and began winding it about her head. The tears were flowing down her cheeks.

“Then I'll go back through the storm!” she cried. “I'll go back and watch—until the end. For I can do nothing but watch—I am not strong enough, and I do not know how. I can not even tell where and how he is hurt.” She stopped for a moment to sob. “And all the mountains shall know the story,” she added, looking at him defiantly, “and know how to judge you. Perhaps it is best. Perhaps my father would curse me for coming to you and asking help.”

She turned toward the door.

“Hold on, there!” cried Pearson. “Nothing like this, whatever! You came for help, and you're going to get it, young woman. I'll go back with you—perhaps I can do something.”

“Thank you—oh, thank you! But the storm—”

“I guess I can make it, if you can.”

“I'll go, too,” said Holland. “Where are my coat and gloves? What'll we need, Miss Rancour?”

“I—I don't know,” she said.

Sylvester Small walked toward them.

“I'll go, too,” he said. “I know something of medicine——”

“You couldn't make it fifty feet from the door, Small,” Pearson said. “You'd be picked up and blown away by the wind. We'll have all we can do to get there ourselves, without helping a chap like you.”

“But perhaps I could give some aid,” he persisted, reaching for his coat. “I'll take the medicine-case I brought with me——”

“You couldn't make it, Small,” said Holland.

Small's eyes flamed; that soft smile did not come into his face now.

“And what can you and Pearson do when you get there?” he asked. “What can you do to help an unconscious man that probably has a lot of broken bones? With your permission, Miss Rancour——”

But the girl already had unbolted the door and thrown it open. Again the wind, and the swirl of snow and sleet came in, and Small, unconsciously, half turned away from it.

“You see?” said Pearson, laughing. “You couldn't make it in a million years!”

He followed the girl out, Holland at his heels, and Pierre closed the door.

III

SYLVESTER SMALL turned back toward the fire, holding the heavy coat in his hands. Pierre had walked to the table and taken a drink of brandy. He sat down before the fire, bowed his head in his hands.

“If I knew the way—” whispered Small, half to himself.

“Let 'em go,” said Pierre. “Zis Jacques Rancour—he es my enemy zis twenty year. Efery time we meet, we fight, until four year ago, when ze sheriff come out an' tell us we go to jail ef we fight more. So now we nefer look when we meet in ze town or in ze woods. An' why should I go help heem, eh?”

“That isn't the idea!” snapped Small. “He's a plain, ordinary human being that's been smashed up. I know doctors who'd nurse back to health a man they'd like to shoot like a cur. I know one who operated on a man and saved him, then fought a duel and killed the man he had saved. It's the idea of letting a human being die without trying to help save him.”

“Maybe so, m'sieu; I do not t'ink so.”

Small paced back and forth across the room.

“I'm a mighty little man,” he burst out, stopping in the center. “I couldn't make much of a hit at polo or football, but maybe I'm of some use in the world. I took part of a course in medicine when I was studying chemistry—came near being a sawbones—and I could help that man, perhaps, if he isn't past help. Pearson and Holland are strong enough to get through the storm, I suppose, but what the deuce will they do when they get there? They can only keep the girl company until her father dies—keep her from being alone with her sorrow. And you and I could do things, Pierre.”

“Maybe so.”

“You know a bit about broken bones?”

“I haf seen many,” the guide answered. “Up here in ze mountains we haf no doctaire and et es necessary zat all of us know somet'ings about broken bones.”

“That's what I was thinking. Now, Pierre, suppose we go over to the Rancour cabin. You know the way, and I do not. We'll help out this chap that's gone and got himself smashed, and after that you can go right ahead as you were before—ignoring him. If it is revenge you're after, you couldn't have a better one—making him realize that he owes his life to you.”

Pierre pondered for a moment, his head still upon his hands, and Sylvester Small waited hopefully. Finally the guide stood up and walked to the table for more brandy.

“No!” he answered.

Small followed him to the table and took a neat drink of the brandy himself. That was something unusual for Small. Then he picked up his heavy coat and put it on.

“You freeze,” said Pierre, glancing at him. “You not know ze way.”

“I was over there once,” said Small.

“In ze daytime, by following ze shore of ze lake—yes. But not in ze dark night an' a blizzard. You get lost and freeze. I not let you go.”

“Be a man, then, and go with me—show me the way. Take me there and then come back, if you're not man enough to stay. You're a guide, aren't you? Then guide me to Rancour's cabin—I'll pay you extra!”

“Anyt'ing but zat. To ze town ef you are fool enough to try et, but not to ze Rancour cabin.”

Small wrapped a heavy muffler around his head and face, and went across the room for his gloves and medicine-case.

“An' I not let you go alone,” added Pierre, walking toward the door. “I am responsible—me. Et would be suicide. Be sensible, Mistaire Small!”

Without answering, Small opened his medicine-case and inspected its contents. The storm carried to their ears a cry—the second to come that night from the depths of the blizzard. Small looked up; Pierre whirled toward the door. Some one beat upon it and the guide threw it open.

Pearson and Holland staggered in through the swirling sleet and snow. Between them they carried Mary Rancour.

“She fell—hurt her ankle—can't walk,” Pearson gasped. “We hadn't gone two hundred yards.”

The girl was groaning. They took off her cloak and muffler and mittens and put her in one of the bunks.

“My father! My father!” she was sobbing.

“Great Scott! What can we do?” Pearson asked. “I never saw such a storm. A human being can't live through it. I don't know how the girl ever got over here in the first place!”

Sylvester Small suddenly assumed the center of the stage.

“We'll care for her first,” he said. “Get some hot water, Pierre. Holland, get that roll of bandage cloth!”

Pearson was throwing off his coat. Holland hurried across the room to get the cloth and Pierre went for the hot water. They accepted Small's generalship for the time being without question, perhaps because there was now a new quality in his voice and determination in the lines of his face. He talked and acted like a man who knows what he is doing.

Without removing his heavy coat or muffler, Small took off the girl's heavy shoe and cut away her thick stocking. He examined the ankle, bathed it, bandaged it, dropped a pill in a glass of water to dissolve it, and made her drink the mixture.

“She'll be asleep in a moment,” he whispered to the three men. “That ankle isn't bad, but she's exhausted.”

“It's tough on her father,” said Pearson. “But we can't get to him now, without the girl to guide us.”

Small went back to the table and closed his medicine-case and drew on his gloves. They gave him scant attention, for they were watching the girl. Her moaning had ceased, and she was falling asleep. They turned only when Small spoke.

“If you did get there, you couldn't do anything,” he said. “Pearson, you and Holland are strong men, but strong men can not mend broken bones unless they know how. I know how. Pierre, get on your things!”

“You can not go,” said the guide, “an' I will not!”

Small's eyes glittered as he looked at the three of them standing foolishly in a row before him. Suddenly his hand went into a pocket, and when it came out he held his revolver in it.

“Get into your things!” he commanded. “I'll give you just one minute—and if you aren't ready then, I'll shoot. There isn't a jury in the world wouldn't acquit me. Pearson, you and Holland go over by the fire and sit down. Read a book or something!”

“See here, old man—” Pearson began.

That “old man” was a mistake.

“As I say!” cried Small, and swung the revolver upon him.

“You'll be sorry for this foolishness, let me tell you that!”

“No talk just now! Ah——”

The revolver spoke; a flash of flame shot through the room; a puff of smoke went ceilingward. Pierre had tried a rush, and the bullet had sped by his head to bury itself in the wall behind.

“I mean business!” said Small. “You'll get it in the breast the next time, Pierre. Into your things!”

Pierre crossed the room and picked up his coat. Sylvester Small backed to the door and stood against it, watching the men in front of him.

“You're going to guide me to the Rancour cabin, Pierre,” he said. “You're going to walk in front of me all the way, and if you leave the trail, or don't make good time, you're going to be shot. Pearson, you'll remain here with Holland. When Miss Rancour awakes, give her one of those powders I left on the table. Hurry, Pierre! We'll see if a man can be left alone to die like a dog when there is help five miles away!”

Sylvester Small had them cowed. They had seen him shoot, and they didn't like the flash that was in his eyes now, nor the ring in his voice. Pearson and Holland, sitting before the fire, watched him in wonder. Pierre struggled into his coat and wrapped a muffler about his head. Then he walked toward the door.

“No tricks, remember,” Small warned. “Holland, come over here and close the door as we go out.”

Pierre threw it open. A gust of sleet struck Small in the face. This time he did not flinch at the storm. The door was slammed shut behind them. By the tiny bit of light that came through the snow-encrusted window, Small could see Pierre draw the muffler closer around his face.

“Straight ahead to the Rancour cabin, and no tricks,” said Small. “I'm right behind you, remember, ready to shoot!”

Pierre cursed by way of answer. Then he started off through the darkness, Sylvester Small half a dozen feet behind him, unable to see him well, but guiding himself by the sound of the other's boots breaking through the crusted snow.

IV

PIERRE was no coward, but his slow wit did not allow him to comprehend the change in Sylvester Small, and he decided to take no chances by disobeying the man behind who held a revolver and knew how to use it.

So the guide led the way faithfully across the clearing and to the trail that ran through the forest. It was so dark he could see no more than two feet before him, and the blizzard was driving the fine sleet into his face, but he knew every inch of the trail and had no trouble keeping to it.

Small, his eyes closed tightly at times, trying hard not to let the wind “catch his breath,” stumbled along behind, reaching out now and then to touch the man before him, guiding himself half by instinct.

They reached the shore of the lake and walked out upon the thick ice, across which the snow swirled before the wind. It was colder here than in the woods, but walking was better and faster time could be made; and so Pierre decided on it. Now that he was on the trail his pride in his ability to guide came to him, and he led the way carefully.

After the first two miles, Small walked in a sort of stupor, making his way onward mechanically. His hands were numb—he began to doubt whether he'd be able to shoot if Pierre turned upon him. His face felt frozen despite the thick muffler. His back ached and his legs. But he set his teeth tightly and staggered on, not trying to speak, shielding himself from the blizzard behind the guide's giant form.

“Walk—fas'—!” Pierre warned repeatedly.

They turned to the land to cut across a tiny promontory, but soon were out on the lake again. Pierre took Small by the arm now, and urged him onward. They struck a smooth piece of ice, where little snow had drifted, and ran, bending forward against the strength of the wind.

Small's head began to pain, and he found himself wondering if they'd ever reach their destination. Once or twice Pierre shook him. Once he lost consciousness for a moment, and regained it to find that Pierre was holding a flask to his lips, pouring brandy down his throat.

They staggered on, and after a time left the lake and struck into the forest again. They stumbled over rocks and logs half buried in the snow, sometimes to fall. And finally they reached a tiny clearing, across which they could see a point of light.

Pierre gave a cry of thankfulness.

Small aroused himself, felt in his pocket, where he had put his revolver while they were out on the lake, and found that the weapon was safe. He bit at his lips, shook his head, beat his hands against his body. Pierre led him to the door of the cabin and threw it open, and they staggered in.

Small saw a man in a bunk—a man who moaned and tossed as if in delirium. He saw a lamp burning on the table, saw a fire that needed more wood; then the room seemed to spin around him, and he started to fall. Pierre caught him.

He regained consciousness to find that Pierre had stripped off his coat, gloves and muffler, his boots, and even his socks. He was before the fire, on the floor, and the logs Pierre had hurled on the coals were blazing merrily. The guide had mixed brandy with hot water, and was giving it to him.

“Be ze man!” Pierre was whispering “You do ver' well on trip here. You make me come to ze house of my enemy. Now brace up; do your work!”

He helped Small to his feet.

“Keep the fire hot,” the little man gasped.

He staggered to the fire and stood before it for a moment, then, working rapidly, he stripped off the remainder of his wet clothes, spreading them on the floor before the fire, and telling Pierre to do the same. He opened the medicine-case, looked at the contents, took out a roll of bandage cloth and a vial or two. Then he went to the bunk where Jacques Rancour was tossing and moaning.

“Help me get his clothes off, Pierre,” he ordered.

“I do not'ing, m'sieu. I haf guide you here because you make me. Zis es no place for me. I stay here until you are done, an' I guide you back. But I do not'ing else to help.”

“Very well, you brute!”

Small stopped for a moment to brush his hand over his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and began his work.

V

AFTERWARD, Sylvester Small could not tell how he did it. But he managed to get the clothes off Jacques Rancour and make an examination. The man's body was a mass of bruises. One leg was broken and one arm, and there was a fractured rib. Also, there had been a bad blow on the head.

Pierre sat before the fire drying himself and turning Small's clothes over now and then and spreading them out anew. Small went into the tiny rear room of the cabin and found a cracker box. He made splints of it. Then he gave Rancour an injection of morphine.

At times Small could scarcely keep from falling. He felt weak, felt that he wanted to throw himself in a bunk and go to sleep. But always he nerved himself to go on with his work.

He was very slow, however, and Pierre would not help. Small set the leg and arm and bound the splints on them. He took several stitches in a cut on Rancour's cheek. He bathed the bruises and dressed them as well as he could, and tried to make his patient comfortable in the hunk.

There was no more he could do, then. So he went back to the fire and faced Pierre.

“Can't you cook something?” he asked.

“Not in thees cabin, m'sieu.”

“I want it—something hot. I'm—I'm almost all in.”

“I can touch not'ing here, m'sieu.”

“I'm out of patience with you, Pierre. I don't like the way you've acted this night. I'll not stand much more of it. We came here through the storm, risked our lives, to help this man. I've done all I can, and now it is my privilege to attend to myself—and to you. I've got to have something hot to eat—some soup, broth, even beans and bacon will do. And you've got to have something!”

“I do not eat zis man's food!”

“He'll not care, after what we've done for him.”

“Et es not zat. I would not eat a mouthful, m'sieu, if he offer et on hees bended knee.”

“You'll be a mighty sick man if you don't, Pierre.”

“I haf drink brandy while you work on heem. I am all right.”

Small stepped nearer.

“But I'm not,” he said, “and you're going to cook me something.”

He had reached his coat before Pierre divined his intention, and had taken out the revolver. The guide had had ample chance to get possession of it, but had not attempted to do so. He had supposed all need for the revolver gone for Small, since he was at Rancour's cabin.

Small took the weapon and sat down at one side of the fire.

“Cook!” he commanded.

“Not in thees house——”

“Cook, curse you! Do you think I'm going to lie down and die because you won't touch this man's supplies? Cook food—and a lot of it!”

Small's eyes were glittering again. Pierre got upon his feet and started toward a cupboard in one corner of the room. Half way there he stopped and looked back, but Small's eyes were upon him and Small held the revolver ready.

So Pierre cooked. He made soup, and cooked beans and a heap of crisp bacon. He placed the food on the table, together with a pot of strong coffee, then turned back to the fire.

Small drew a chair up to the table and began to eat.

“Better drink some coffee, Pierre,” he said. “If you come down with pneumonia or something like it, you can't take Pearson and Holland after that buck, you know. Of course it doesn't make much difference to me—I'm too little and weak to hunt a stag. I ain't worth a cuss! But Pearson and Holland might not like it if they miss their sport.”

“I can not eat in zis house, Mistaire Small.”

“You'll drink coffee, however. Come on, Pierre, or I'll have to get ugly again. I'll pay Rancour for it afterward, if you insist. I'm not asking you to be Rancour's guest—I'm asking you to be mine. Come over here and get busy!”

The stubborn guide glanced up to find that Small had the revolver pointed at him again. And in Small's eyes was that ominous glitter that Pierre was beginning to fear.

He crossed to the table and sat down and gulped at a cup of coffee.

“Some soup, too,” warned Small.

Pierre ate some, while Small scooped the hot food into his mouth with one hand and held the revolver ready in the other.

“This is the first time on record,” he said, “where a man had to force another to eat and drink to save his life. I said man—I'm not talking of suffragettes. Take some more coffee!”

A groan from Rancour. Small left the table and hurried across to the bunk. Rancour had regained consciousness, but his face was twisted with pain.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“My name's Small, Rancour. I'm at a cabin down the lake for the Winter. You were hurt—fell over a precipice. Your daughter came for me, and I've fixed you up.”

“Where is Mary?”

“She's all right. Wouldn't let her come back in the storm. She'll be here after daylight, I expect. The storm is dying down now. You've got a broken leg and arm, and a cracked rib and head. Just take it easy and don't move more than is necessary and you'll come out all right. Wait—I'll get you some brandy.”

“Cabin—down the lake,” muttered Rancour. “At—Pierre's?”

“Yes. There are three of us there for a time. I happened to be something of a doctor.”

“My girl—my Mary—went there—for help?”

“Keep quiet now!”

“She shouldn't!” Rancour groaned. “I'll be—the joke of the mountains. She went to my—enemy for help.”

“That's all right, Rancour. You keep quiet until I get the brandy.”

Small hurried to the table and got the flask and a glass. A cry from the bunk made him turn. Rancour had raised himself on one elbow, despite the pain it caused him, and was looking at Pierre.

“You?” he cried. “You here? Eating my bread?”

“Lie down, sir!” thundered Small, rushing back to the bunk.

Pierre had sprung to his feet, his face purple with rage.

“I eat your bread because zis man make me do et,” he said. “Et es not because I would do so mesel'. He make me come with him through ze storm—hold a gun at my head an' make me. Do not t'ink I do so of my own accord.”

He turned his back and went to the fire. Small forced Rancour to lie flat again, and held the glass of brandy to his lips. For a time Rancour did not speak, but his eyes were always upon Pierre's back.

“PIERRE,” he said finally, “I want to talk to you.”

“You haf' not'ing, Rancour, to say to me.”

“I have, Pierre. Come over here.”

Pierre turned around with a sneer on his lips. And he saw Sylvester Small standing back where Rancour could not see him, holding that revolver in his hand—and his eyes were glittering again.

“Bring a chair and sit beside the bunk,” Small commanded.

Pierre obeyed, his eyes flashing fire at the little man who ordered him about.

“Well?” he asked, sitting near the bunk, but looking across the room instead of at Rancour.

“We have been enemies for twenty years, Pierre, and before that we were firm friends.”

“Yas.”

“I'm not going to say what caused our quarrel, not going to open old wounds——”

Pierre flashed him one look, then turned his face away again.

“It's—it's Mary, Pierre. She has nobody but me. She gets lonesome at times. And I have to live here, to make my living by 'tending to my traps. If you'd only be friends with Mary—and with me——”

“Friends!” Pierre cried, looking toward him. “After what haf happen?”

“We've been fools for twenty years, Pierre. It would be nice to be friends again. And it would be nice for Mary, too. We could sit by the fire at night and talk over old times, and forget our quarrel. We're getting old. And we could both be fathers to Mary. Think, Pierre—her name was Mary, too——”

Pierre groaned and looked away again, then got up and walked to the fire and stood before it, his back to Rancour. Small fingered the revolver and waited. Presently he spoke.

“That's a sensible conclusion,” he said. “Now you two old-timers and fire-eaters, listen to me. You're even as far as I can see. You both loved the same girl twenty years ago, I understand.”

“You—!” cried Pierre, whirling around.

But he saw the revolver again and that glitter in Small's eyes.

“Just keep your shirt on, Pierre, until I'm done. You both loved the same girl and fought for her, and one of you won. Instead of letting that settle it, you went on fighting.”

“I fought fair!” Pierre said.

“All right then—we'll say Rancour didn't. And you went on fighting every chance you got until the sheriff stepped in and made you stop it. You've been trying to hate each other since, but you've been friends all the time and don't know it. Men who have passed through what you have couldn't help but want to be friends. The fact that you both loved the same girl is enough. She's dead—don't soil her memory by keeping up this feud. And she's left a daughter you both can love. Pierre, come over here!”

The guide obeyed, because the revolver and the glitter in Small's eyes commanded it. He sat down beside the bunk again.

“Rancour,” Small went on, “I think Pierre is as willing to be friends as you, only he hates to admit it. When your girl came to the cabin tonight he wouldn't come over and help you. I had to force him to guide me. It was all right after we got started. He could have done for me a dozen times, left me in the forest, told some plausible story, and nobody would have been the wiser. He brought me to you so I could give you medical attention. He was glad to do it, although he wouldn't admit it. Weren't you, Pierre?”

His eyes held Pierre's—those glittering eyes that seemed to say this man would tolerate no mutiny, that seemed to promise a bullet.

“Well?” Small asked.

“Y—yas,” Pierre whispered.

“Give Rancour your hand!”

“No!”

“Give me your hand!”

The words were spoken in a low tone, but they carried a volume of meaning. Slowly Pierre's hand went out, slowly Rancour's went to meet it. But Pierre still was stubborn.

“Et es hees—lef' han',” he said. “Zat not—mean anyt'ing.”

“Of course it is his left hand, you fool. His right arm is broken and in splints.”

“And it means—everything,” said Rancour.

Their hands met, clasped.

“And we'll make things better for Mary now?” Rancour asked. “We can both have this Mary to love and care for.”

“Yas—we make t'ings bettaire—for Mary,” Pierre replied.

Small smiled and slipped the revolver on a shelf near by, and stepped toward the center of the room where Rancour could see him.

“I'm about all in,” he said. “Guess I'll tumble into this other bunk and rest a bit. Pierre, you watch Rancour. Give him one of these powders every hour.”

“I watch heem.”

AN HOUR after daylight Pearson and Holland came, bringing Mary Rancour with them on a sled. They found Pierre sitting beside the bunk, holding the hand of the sleeping Jacques Rancour, and they found Sylvester Small sleeping in the other bunk, a smile upon his face, as if he were conscious of work well done.

“One t'ing,” said Pierre, after explanations. “Zat Mistaire Small ees a ver' beeg man—not a small man at all. An' any man as would be frien' of mine will do well to remember zat t'ing!”

Mary Rancour slipped softly across the room, stooped, and brushed Sylvester Small's forehead with her lips. Small stirred in his sleep—and smiled again.