← catalogue

The Long Patrol: A Tale of the Mounted Police

by H. A. Cody · English · Gutenberg #45245 · 436,063 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Long Patrol: A Tale of the Mounted Police
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Long Patrol: A Tale of the Mounted Police

Author: H. A. Cody


        
Release date: March 28, 2014 [eBook #45245]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45245

Credits: Produced by sp1nd, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONG PATROL: A TALE OF THE MOUNTED POLICE ***

_THE LONG PATROL_

_A Tale of the Mounted Police_

BY

H. A. CODY

AUTHOR OF "THE FRONTIERSMAN,"
"THE FOURTH WATCH," ETC.

[Illustration: Logo]

HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


Copyright, 1912,
By George H. Doran Company


     TO THAT NOBLE BODY OF MEN, THE ROYAL NORTH WEST MOUNTED POLICE,
     THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY ONE, WHO FOR SEVERAL YEARS
     LIVED AMONG THEM AND SHARED THEIR HOSPITALITY IN THE FAR-FLUNG
     CANADIAN NORTHLAND.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                             PAGE
     I UNLEASHED                       1

    II THE TERROR OF THE MOUNTAINS    10

   III A CHILD IN THE MIDST           19

    IV THE SHADOWING HORSEMAN         30

     V THE FUR TRADER'S STORE         42

    VI THE DEN OF PLOTTERS            49

   VII BUCKSKIN DAN                   59

  VIII THE INTRUDER                   68

    IX UNDERCURRENTS                  77

     X SUBTLE WAYS                    86

    XI THE CAPTURE                    95

   XII LINKS OF STEEL                107

  XIII THE TRAILING SERPENT          116

   XIV IN THE DEEP OF THE NIGHT      126

    XV A CRY ACROSS THE WATER        135

   XVI THE SIGNAL FIRE               143

  XVII IN PURSUIT                    153

 XVIII THE CRUEL TRAIL               162

   XIX THE VENOM OF HATRED           169

    XX OUT OF THE DEPTHS             177

   XXI STRATEGY                      188

  XXII AT BAY                        199

 XXIII THE HAVEN                     210

  XXIV THE MEDIATOR                  222

   XXV THE HEART OF A WOMAN          232

  XXVI WITHIN THE DEEP SHADOW        245

 XXVII THE COST                      255

XXVIII THE LIFTED VEIL               263

  XXIX STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS       275

   XXX UPHOLDING THE LAW             286

  XXXI OLD TRAILS AND NEW            300




THE LONG PATROL




CHAPTER I

UNLEASHED


"Is Grey--Norman Grey--here?"

The Orderly paused on the threshold and looked around the room.

"Over there," replied a constable, jerking his thumb to the left, "in
the corner."

At once the Orderly strode forward to the side of a young man leaning
against the Canteen bar.

"Say, Grey, the O. C. wants you."

At these words the man addressed straightened himself up to his full
height of six feet with a sudden jerk, while his dark piercing eyes
flashed questioningly from beneath the broad brim of his Stetson hat. A
deep silence now pervaded the room; the poker chips ceased their rattle;
the rustling of the newspapers stopped; the man behind the bar stayed
his hand in the act of pouring a glass of ginger beer, and even pipes
were allowed to go out.

It was the quiet after supper hour in the Big Glen Barracks of the "X"
Division of the North West Mounted Police, in the far-flung Northern
Yukon Territory, and the work of the day was done. The few prisoners
had been marched silently back to their lonely cells in the stout log
guard room; the flag had fluttered slowly down from its tall staff in
the centre of the big Square; the bugle had rent the air with its
quivering notes, and the guards had been changed. Everything had been
done speedily and systematically. It was the daily routine. Each man
knew his duty, and did it.

The Canteen was the regular place of meeting, and here a score of
constables and corporals, tested guardians of a lone land, were
gathered, to drink the customary glass of ale or beer, read the
newspapers, discuss the affairs of the day, and play a few friendly
games of cards. The click of billiard balls in the adjoining room could
be distinctly heard, whilst from the open door of the Sergeants' Mess
came the sweet strains of a violin.

"Where's the O. C. now? In the office?" It was Grey's voice which broke
the silence as he looked hard at the Orderly.

"No, he's in his house. You had better hustle."

Grey glanced down at his clothes. He was dressed as he had come off
guard of the prisoners. A belt filled with cartridges encircled his
waist, and his revolver sheathed in its leathern holster hung at his
hip. His appearance at that moment was sufficient to win both respect
and admiration from the most indifferent. Of this his companions were
not thinking, but of that summons to meet the Commanding Officer. Well
did they know the startling news which was agitating this northern town,
causing strong men's eyes to moisten, and mothers to clasp their
children closer in their arms. Had not prominent citizens hurried in and
out of the O. C.'s office all the afternoon, and did not the air hang
heavy with expectancy as to what move would be made and who would be
chosen for the difficult undertaking? Now it was no longer uncertain.
Grey was the first to be called, and all realised that the choice had
been a good one.

"Grey's got a difficult job ahead of him," remarked a tall, slim
constable after the former had left the room.

"He's the man for it, though," replied another, deliberately sipping his
beer.

"He'll do the job if anyone can, for he fears neither man nor devil.
Don't you remember how he stood up before 'Twisty' Parker and his gang
in Big Gulch Road House, cowed the whole bunch, and got his man?"

"Indeed I do, but that was nothing to the way he ran down "One-eyed"
Henry, the Swede, who murdered his partner at Five Fingers. He walked
right up to the revolver's point when it was spitting fire like hell,
knocked the Swede down and took him alive. The murderer afterwards
acknowledged that it was Grey's coolness, and the terrible gleam of
determination in his eyes which unnerved him and made his hand shake as
if he had the palsy."

Grey in the meantime had crossed the Barracks Square, and was admitted
by a quiet, passionless-eyed Jap into the presence of his Commanding
Officer. Giving the customary salute he stood at attention, and awaited
orders.

Major Sterling was sitting at his desk when Grey entered, with his eyes
fixed upon a map lying before him. Pacing up and down the room was a
small, middle-aged man whose agony of face and excited manner plainly
bespoke the agitated state of his mind.

"Major, find my boy," he was saying. "Spare no pains or money in your
efforts to run those villains down. They hate me, and have sworn to have
revenge. They demand twenty thousand dollars. Think of it, twenty
thousand dollars! They threaten the life of my child if it's not paid!
Oh, God, help me! I can't pay it, and I won't. But I want my boy, my
only child, Donnie. Major, for the sake of a heart-broken father and
mother; for the honour of this town, and for the welfare of humanity,
capture those scoundrels and save my boy."

In reply to this passionate appeal the Major swung around in his chair
and faced the troubled man.

"Mr. Farwell," he began, "the best answer I can give you stands there in
the person of Constable Grey. Leave the matter to us. We will do the
best we can."

"Thank you, sir; oh, thank you," cried Mr. Farwell, seizing the Major's
hand and wringing it vehemently. "I know you will do what you can. I
shall go now, but you will keep me informed, will you not?"

"Yes," replied the Major, rising and opening the door. "You shall be
kept acquainted with every move. Remember, Mr. Farwell, I am a father as
well as an officer, and what more can I say?"

When the door had closed behind his visitor the Major returned to his
desk, and remained for a while lost in thought. He was a stern man
outwardly, and ruled with a firm hand. Unbending in the line of duty he
combined rigid discipline with discriminating justice. Neither position,
money, nor threats availed in the slightest degree to swerve him one
hair's breadth from a purpose he knew to be right. Major Sterling was an
autocrat on this ragged edge of civilisation, and yet an autocrat whose
every heart beat was for the honour of his country and for the welfare
of the people committed to his charge. Relentless as a sleuth hound in
crushing down crime and tyranny he was feared and respected by both
whites and Indians alike.

"Grey," he at length remarked, turning toward the constable and
motioning him to a chair, "sit down; we've important business on
to-night."

The Major's voice had lost much of its old-time sternness, and Grey was
more than astonished at this unexpected order. Never before had he taken
a seat in the presence of his Superior Officer. To do so was a severe
breach of discipline. He advanced a step, and hesitated.

"This chair, Grey," and a slight smile illumined the Major's face as he
noted his subordinate's embarrassment. "There, that's better," he
continued, turning his attention once again to the map lying on his
desk. With a pencil in his hand he traced a course from Big Glen out
over the land away eastward toward the Rocky Mountains. At times he
paused, and his brow knitted in perplexity. At length, however, the
pencil rested upon a spot where a crooked stream was marked upon the
map. Everything else was a complete blank, no name of town or village
appearing. Here the Major made a small circle, and wrote over it the one
word "Hishu."

"See, Grey," and he held up the map, "I want you to go there."

The constable started at these words, and glanced keenly at the pencil
mark. His interest now was thoroughly aroused. For years that region had
a strange fascination for his daring spirit. Indians had related
marvellous tales of what the place contained: rivers foaming, rushing,
and plunging into dark mysterious depths; monsters living in the
mountains, their roars shaking the earth, and belching fire and rocks
from their terrible mouths. There were tribes, too, so they said,
horrible and bloodthirsty, with hair, filled with knives, hanging to
their waists. At times the Indians about Big Glen had come trembling to
the Police for protection. Those tribes from their mountain fastnesses,
so they believed, were about to sweep down and wipe them out of
existence. The Police had always succeeded, however, in allaying their
fears, and upon investigation found the trouble generally started in the
fervid brain of the useless Medicine Man.

So the Major was to send him there. Grey could hardly believe his ears.
Into that region shrouded in mystery, like the shadow of death! What was
the use of it?

"How soon can you get ready, Grey?" The Major was speaking as if certain
of his line of action. There was no sign of doubt in his words.

"I can start at once, sir," the constable replied. "That is, as soon as
I make ready. But do you think, sir, they would flee to a place like
that?"

"Not if they knew how much I know," and the Major gave a peculiar little
laugh.

"But why should they go there, sir? They must have heard about that
place, and what a--"

"Look here, Grey," interrupted the Major, "I've had my eyes and ears
open to that region for some time now. I've heard all those Indian
stories, and believe them to be so many fairy tales, all purely
imagination. I have lately received information, which I think is
reliable, that certain men have crossed the mountains from the East, and
are now prospecting up Hishu Creek. They have a small settlement at its
mouth near the river. A notorious character, Siwash Bill by name, has a
trading store there, and I believe him to be the ringleader of the gang
who kidnapped that child. Prospectors on the Mackenzie River side of the
mountains carried this news to Edmonton, which was forwarded to me only
last week. I intended to send a man there shortly to investigate, but
this unexpected occurrence demands immediate action."

Thus for an hour officer and subordinate sat and talked in the deepening
twilight. When at length the latter rose to go, the Major reached
forward and drew from a pigeon hole in the desk a small slip of paper.

"Wait a minute, Grey," he commanded. "I find that your time will be up
two weeks from to-day."

"Yes, sir."

"And you intend to leave the Force then?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you don't mind being sent out on this business at the end of your
time?"

"No, sir."

"Well said. I'll remember that. Good night, Grey, and God be with you."

Slowly the constable walked back across the Square toward the Canteen.
His Commanding Officer's parting words touched him. He realised on this
night as never before what a sympathetic heart beat beneath the Major's
cold exterior. He was human after all, and cared for his men. What a
change, too, he thought, to be out of the Force--to be free! And yet,
why should he leave? Why should he not "take on again"? What was there
for him in life? Where should he go? What was there to do? He could go
home, but what was home without her? He paused, and bared his head. The
evening breeze cooled his hot brow, and played with his wealth of dark
hair. Above him shone the stars--their glory dimmed by the long northern
twilight. There was the pole star steady as of yore. He remembered the
night they had last looked at it together by the garden gate among the
flowers. How beautiful she was then in all her virgin purity! That was
six years ago--and where was she now? Six years, and not a trace of her
since!

"Star of heaven," he murmured, "where is she to-night? Where is my long
lost darling? Guide me, oh, lead me, to her side!"

The bugle sounded "Lights out," and soon all was in silence in the Big
Glen Barracks. Major Sterling still sat at his desk, studying the map
before him, and occasionally glancing at several closely-written papers
lying near. From the stable at one corner of the Square Norman Grey led
forth a jet-black horse, and stood for a minute stroking her glossy
neck. There was no one to bid him farewell, no one to grip his hand and
speed him on his way. A slight sarcastic laugh escaped his lips as he
sprang lightly into the saddle and headed Blackbird for the open road.
He was going out alone, unnoticed. But he would return--and what then?
Again he smiled, settled himself firmly in the saddle, and gave one word
to Blackbird. Then the ring of steel-shod hoofs sounded along the
gravelled way as horse and rider sped through the night, out of the
Barracks Square, out of the little straggling town, and out upon a great
lone trail stretching dim and uncertain beyond the farthest bounds of
civilization.




CHAPTER II

THE TERROR OF THE MOUNTAINS


The long trail wound and twisted far ahead, shimmering faintly in the
light of the westering sun. Miles and miles of wild bunch grass, sage
brush, and desolate sand met the eye, flanked on either side by high
mountain ranges.

"Good Lord, what a trail!" muttered Norman Grey, regaining his seat with
difficulty as Blackbird plunged her right foot into a concealed gopher
hole. "Will this cursed valley never end? It's getting worse all the
time."

Almost a week had now passed since he had swung away from Big Glen.
Almost a week, and yet how much that brief period of six days contained.
What desolate regions he had traversed, what streams forded, and what
lonely nights he had spent upon the cold hard ground beneath the starry
canopy of heaven. Thrice had he met Indians encamped along the way.
Friendly were they, and had provided him with a liberal supply of tender
moose meat. A mighty leveller is the northern trail. Here rank, title,
creed and race fade into absurd insignificance. Here all useless
appendages are swept aside. Here each stands for what he is, and his
sole worth lies in himself. And here, too, in a region so vast, where
the loneliness mocks and appals, the sight of a human face, though dark
and uncouth, thrills the heart with a sweet gladness.

These children of the wandering foot looked with admiration upon the
pale-faced stranger. They conversed with him in broken English, and
slowly shook their heads when Grey pointed away to the left and
mentioned the word "Hishu." As he started to leave the camp an Indian
woman, old and scrawny, had laid her long, slim fingers upon the pommel
of the saddle and looked up anxiously into his face.

"No, no, Hishu!" she cried, waving her left hand to and fro. "Bad, bad,
ugh!"

So impressed was Grey by her earnestness and vehement manner that a
foreboding chill smote his heart, and the reins dropped from his hand
upon Blackbird's neck.

"Me no savvey. What you mean?" he demanded.

More emphatic now than ever did the unkempt creature become. She tried
to explain herself, but her knowledge of the English language was
slight, and her words developed into a torrent of unintelligible jargon.
Seeing she was making but little impression upon the rider she suddenly
seized the bridle with both hands, wheeled Blackbird sharply about, and
headed her down the trail toward Big Glen.

"Go, go dat way," she cried. "No come back! No, no, Hishu!"

A slight smile of pity flitted across Grey's face at this woman's
peculiar action. The momentary feeling of awe had vanished. He
remembered how the Indians in the vicinity of Big Glen feared and
shunned the Hishu region. No doubt these were of the same tribe, and
believed the wild tales.

Two days had passed since then, and try as he might he could not banish
that incident from his mind. It came to him now late this afternoon as
Blackbird carefully picked her way among the innumerable gopher holes.
The whole region was conducive to deep reflection. Sombre stood the
rock-ribbed mountains. Silent throbbed the moistless air. Iron-grey
stretched the sunburnt valley. To the lone rider crouched in his saddle
the very atmosphere seemed to pulse with undercurrents of mystic
forebodings. Hundreds of miles was he from civilisation, thousands of
miles from home, a mere speck crawling over an execrable trail. What did
it all amount to anyway? he asked himself time and time again. What had
he gained during those five years of service in the Force? He was no
nearer to her now than ever. What hopes had thrilled his heart when
first he had entered upon his world-wide quest. He would find her, oh,
yes. The world was large, he knew, but love would make it small. And
this was the end--oblivion--merely for the sake of a child.

Presently Blackbird paused with a sharp jerk, causing Grey to look
quickly up. The cause was at once apparent, for rammed across the trail
was a long ragged ditch about three feet wide and four deep. With
widely-extended nostrils and flashing eyes Blackbird had planted her
forefeet close to the edge, and stood looking anxiously down into the
excavation. On every side and far ahead stretched a chaotic maze of
trenches. Some were short and narrow, while others were deep, and rods
in length. This Grey knew to be the work of hungry bears in search of
fat and toothsome gophers.

"Heavens, what a mess!" he exclaimed, as his eyes scanned the scene.
"Grizzlies, I believe! There must be an army of them in this place. I
only hope they've had their supper by this time, and will leave us
alone. But if they do come they will receive a warm welcome," and he
laid his hand upon the smooth dark barrel of his comforting rifle. "They
will be flesh and blood, anyway, things I can see, and not those
horrible unseen devils which have been torturing me the whole afternoon.
Come on, you swine of the mountains!" he cried. "I fear you not. I'll
send more fiery demons into your tough hides than the Master did long
ago into the whole Gadarean herd." Grey was himself once more. The
presence of danger affected him like a tonic. He even laughed at his
morbid fears as he reined Blackbird to the left, and soothed her
restless mettle with words of encouragement.

Slowly, very slowly the noble animal picked her way between the
innumerable pitfalls. She was calm now. The spirit of the master was
hers, and all fear was banished. For over an hour they moved steadily
forward, and at length gained firmer ground where the earth was not
disturbed. The sun was sinking behind a mountain peak as they left the
valley and entered upon a deep ravine. The ascent was gradual, and at
times the trail hung over high wooded banks. Up and up they moved
through dark battalions of pine, spruce and fir. It was a weird place,
and Grey breathed a sigh of relief when at length the summit was
attained. Here he dismounted, tied Blackbird, and climbed far up into a
large tree, towering high above its fellows. From this lofty position he
was enabled to obtain an excellent view of the surrounding country. Back
to the right he saw the valley over which they had lately painfully
travelled, while ahead, and somewhat to the left, a river was to be seen
lying like a long silver thread athwart the dusky landscape.

"It must be the Hishu," Grey muttered, as his eyes followed it away
northward. "The place I'm bound for is, no doubt, somewhere over there.
Should reach it to-morrow, and what then? Oh, well, I'm not going to
worry about that now. It will soon be dark, and I must find a good
camping spot. Down by the river is a likely place where those trees rise
like millions of pointed spears. There should be grass for Blackbird
down there on the level."

Leaving his lofty perch he descended the tree, unfastened Blackbird, and
sprang into the saddle. Down the hill they slowly moved, the trail--if
it could be called a trail--becoming more difficult all the time. At
length they reached a hollow through which a little brook gurgled on its
way to the river. Grey looked anxiously up and down, hoping to find a
reach of wild meadow grass for the horse.

"Guess we'll have to go farther, lady," he remarked. "We must get you
some supper, and there's nothing here."

Beyond the brook the trail wound up a steep incline, and curved sharply
to the left around a large and almost perpendicular rock. Blackbird
ascended the slope with an eager pace, for the tang of the wild meadows
down by the river had drifted to her sensitive nostrils. She had just
reached the flinty wall when with a terrified snort she threw high her
head and reeled back upon her haunches. Instinctively Grey clutched the
mane with his right hand to keep from falling and peered keenly forward.
The cause of the disturbance was immediately evident, for coming slowly
around the bend was a huge grizzly bear. The sudden appearance of the
intruders into its domain startled the brute. Its upper lip curled, its
teeth gleamed white, and an angry growl sawed the air. Blackbird was
nearly frantic now. She quivered with excitement. The froth flew from
her champing mouth, and her steel-shod fore hoofs beat sledge hammer
blows upon the ground. With the greatest difficulty Grey managed to hold
her in check with the left hand, while with the right he unslung his
rifle. The bear was nearer now, coming steadily onward, still growling,
and causing Blackbird to back farther and farther down the hill. It was
not Grey's nature to retreat. He had never done so before the face of
man, and he was determined that the first time should not be from a
lumbering bear. The creature's insolence nettled him. It made him angry
to be checked when he was anxious to reach the river. If it was fight
the bear was looking for, it had sought the right spot. Quickly Grey
brought the rifle to his shoulder, took aim and fired. The ball struck
the bear a glancing blow upon the head. For an instant only the brute
paused, and then with a terrific roar hurled itself forward like an
avalanche. No longer could human hand control Blackbird's pent-up
terror. She reared on high, and swung about with such a sudden jerk that
Grey was hurled from the saddle and tossed like a ball among the
underbrush. Of his scratches and bruises he thought nothing, for sterner
work demanded his immediate attention. He had no time to regain his
feet, for the bear was coming, and every instant was precious. Kneeling
on the ground he seized the rifle, which had luckily fallen by his side,
threw out the empty shell and drove a loaded one into its place. And
none too soon, for the bear was almost upon him. Its rage was terrible
to behold. Its eyes glowed like living coals, and the hot hissing breath
poured from its gaping mouth like hell fire. With lightning rapidity
Grey thrust the muzzle of his rifle between those gleaming teeth and
fired. A deafening report ensued, and man and beast rolled over in one
confused heap. Grey fully expected to feel the slashing rip of
lance-like claws, and the sickening crunch of closing teeth. He
stretched out his hand for his sheath knife; he would fight to the last;
he would leave marks which would be remembered. But the keen blade was
not needed; the terror of the mountains had made its final charge, had
fought its last fight, and lay there upon the ground a quivering, inert
mass--dead. Slowly and with difficulty Grey extricated himself and
regained his feet. For a moment he stood and looked upon the fallen
brute.

"Close call that," he commented. "Nearly put me out of business, hey,
old chap? Good Lord, what claws and teeth! But for that lucky shot
they'd've had me torn to ribbons by this time. I'd like to show them to
the Major; he's a great eye for such things."

Blackbird was nowhere to be seen; the wilderness had swallowed her up.
Suddenly Grey realised his position. Night was shutting down, horse
gone, and the region alive with bears. He had settled the account of
one, but there were hundreds more, and they might appear at any moment.
He could not go back over the trail after the horse; that would be
folly. He must reach the river. Picking up his rifle he wiped away the
froth and moisture from the barrel and carefully reloaded it.

He was about to leave the place when he paused and looked at the bear
lying before him.

"Ah, old chap," he exclaimed. "You've made me lose my grub by
frightening Blackbird out of her senses. She's taken my small supply
with her, and what shall I do for supper? You look fat and well liking,
so I think a piece of your carcass will have to serve instead."

Drawing forth his sheath knife he deftly removed a portion of the skin
and cut off a fair sized piece of meat from a part he considered the
choicest. Next he sharpened a small stick, and thrust it through the
flesh. This done, he threw it over his shoulder, seized the rifle and
headed for the river.




CHAPTER III

A CHILD IN THE MIDST


The river Hishu was swift. It raced and swirled between its clay banks.
The water was cold--icy cold--for countless small streams from
snow-capped mountains contributed to its volume. It was a fascinating
monster, sinuous, terrible, beautiful. The most dangerous spot on the
whole river was the Klikhausia Rapids. Here the current struck hidden
rocks, which swirled, eddied and boiled down through a flinty channel,
to leap at last foaming and spuming into the steady stream below.
Skilled canoe men could bring their crafts safely through this turbulent
piece of water, but woe speedily overtook the voyager who made the
venture without a thorough knowledge of the place.

Norman Grey sat upon the bank a short distance below the rapids, with
his eyes fixed upon the flowing stream. It held him spellbound by its
mystic music and the clearness of its liquid depths. There beneath the
surface, down among those polished stones, was peace--a peace and rest
for which he ardently yearned. He might have been a stump for all the
movement he made. A few birds twittered in the jack pines, and a noisy
squirrel scolded from the branch of a nearby tree. But Grey heeded them
not. His rifle was thrown carelessly on the ground by his side. His
buckskin jacket and trousers were covered with dirt, and stained here
and there with fresh blood. Grey was sore and weary. The long ride, the
excitement of the day and the heavy fall from his horse were having
their effect. His whole body ached, and through his left shoulder surged
a numbing pain caused by the contact with the ground. The piece of bear
meat was lying by his side. He had matches, and could soon build a fire
and broil a slice of steak. But his energy had deserted him. He longed
to lie down and rest--rest forever. His one blanket had gone with
Blackbird. But what did it matter? He was accustomed to the open, and
his buckskin jacket would do instead. Yes, he would sleep, and forget
everything--bears and all.

Slowly he rose to his feet and began to climb the bank. Scarcely had he
reached the level above ere he gave a start and looked quickly
up-stream. What was that? A shout, a cry of terror, which winged its way
to his ears. He straightened himself up, shaded his eyes with his hand,
and scanned the river. The sun had been down for some time, but the long
northern twilight was still struggling with night, and it was not hard
to discern objects some distance away. As Grey's eyes rested upon the
rapids he beheld a boat--a frail craft--go to pieces upon a sunken rock
right in the centre of that swirling death. Then out from the midst of
the roaring mass of tumultuous billows darted a dark object. Rapidly it
was borne down the stream, and as it approached nearer Grey observed a
man clinging frantically with one hand to a fragment of the boat, while
with the other he was clutching the limp form of a little child. Grey
was all alert now. His weariness and pain were gone. His tall gaunt
figure was drawn to its full height, forming a dark silhouette against
the evening sky. The clinging man looked toward the shore. His face was
filled with agony, and twitched convulsively.

"Help! help!" he cried. "This icy water's killing me! I can't hold on
any longer!--oh--God!" and with a wild piercing yell he threw up his
hands and sank beneath the surface.

Quicker than words Grey tore off his buckskin jacket, and throwing
discretion to the wind hurled himself into the racing stream. Though a
powerful swimmer he was but a gnat in that terrible current. It seemed
the maddest of folly to attempt a rescue in such a place. The waters
were icy, and his soggy clothes impeded his progress. Why give up his
own life for a vague uncertainty? Why risk all in a hazardous throw? But
a little face--oh, so white--gleamed before him, and a curly head of
gold appeared. The sight nerved him almost to superhuman effort. With
lusty sinews and mighty strokes he clove the water like a Titan. He
reached the child, he clutched it, held its head above the surface, and
turned toward the shore. Fortunately the piece of broken boat floated
near. This he grasped with one hand, and the child with the other. No
longer now did he try to stem the stream, but simply allowed himself to
drift. On and on they sped, Grey becoming more numbed all the time.
Often he felt he could endure no longer, that he must give up and sink.
But the sight of that little child, lying so still in his arm, caused
him to grip the wreck more firmly. Only a short time before he had
cherished the idea of rest and peace beneath those same cold waters. Now
all was changed, and, instead of death, life was uppermost in his mind.
Not life for himself alone, but for that helpless form pressed close to
his breast. Oh, for a friendly voice from the shore, and a strong hand
stretched out to lift them from the icy depths. Ere long his brain began
to whirl. He seemed to be battling in the midst of thousands of hideous
serpents. They were coiling about his legs, arms and body. They were
leaping up, trying to tear away the child from his breast, and to loosen
his hold upon the boards. How much longer would they torture him? Would
they soon gain complete possession and bear him down never to rise
again? No, he would fight them. He would conquer. He would beat them
back. They were worse than the grizzly, but he would win. And even as he
made another great determined struggle his feet struck something which
sent a thrill of hope through his heart. Was it merely a delusion? Was
it only a fond fancy of his reeling brain? No, it was true. His feet had
struck a sand-bar, which put out from the shore like a long finger
hidden beneath the surface. Relaxing his grip of the raft, and with the
child in his arms Grey feebly and with much difficulty made his way
through the swirling water. So numb was his body that his legs seemed
like two lifeless sticks as he staggered forward. It was all he could do
to reach the shore and climb the bank. Then his strength deserted him.
He trembled and sank upon the hard ground. It was only for a few
seconds, however, for the child lying there needed immediate attention.
Kneeling by his side he peered into the little white face, noticed the
wan, pinched features, the luxuriant curly hair dripping with water, and
the soaked clothes clinging like cerements to his body. "What was such a
lad doing there?" he wondered. That not more than three summers had
passed over his head was quite evident. He was no poor man's child, for
the garments betokened a home of means and loving care above the
ordinary. At his throat a small safety pin was fastened, and as Grey
peered down through the faint and uncertain light he saw engraved there
the one word "Donnie." An exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips.
His eyes were suddenly opened, and he beheld before him Silas Farwell's
little stolen child.

"Fool--more than fool," he muttered. "To think that I didn't realise it
before. And here I've been cursing my fate ever since that grizzly
unhorsed me, and it was all for a purpose. I begin to see now that
another Hand is having much to do with this affair."

At that instant a shiver shook the child's body. He looked up, began to
cry and to call for his mother.

"Hush, hush, dear," soothed Grey, bending over him. "You shall have your
mother."

Then the helplessness of his position swept upon him. In a vast
wilderness, leagues from any settlement, and night shutting down. Not a
shred of dry clothing did he have in which to enwrap the child, and not
even a fire. He was numb and chill himself. That he could stand, but not
this delicate lad. "What am I to do?" he groaned. "Is this sweet child
to die here slowly after all? Better to have left him to perish in the
river; it would have been quicker."

Rising to his feet he peered through the gloom, but no sign of human
life could he behold, nothing but the scrubby forest, silent and grim.
He lifted up his voice and called, once, twice, three times, but only a
far-off echo, ghost-like and hollow, sent back its mocking response.
Again he knelt by the side of the child.

"Are you cold, dear?" he asked.

"Ya, cold, cold," and the lad shivered. "I wants my mother. Why doesn't
she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"

Grey looked at his own clothes. They were very wet; not a dry stitch
upon him. Then he thought of the buckskin jacket he had thrown off ere
he leaped into the river. He believed there were several dry matches in
one of the pockets. Suppose they had fallen out during his tussle with
the bear! They were his only hope now. The liberal supply he had brought
with him, rolled up in his blanket, had gone with Blackbird. Never
before had he realised the value of a few tiny matches. Now they meant
life or death. He must have them if they were there, and at once.

"Are you afraid to stay here alone, little one?" he asked. "It will be
only for a short time, and I shall soon come back."

A startled look came into Donnie's face, as reaching out a small hand he
clutched the arm of his rescuer.

"No, no, don't go!" he cried, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Take me home. I wants my mother."

"I won't leave you, then," was the reassuring response. "You shall go
along, too."

Stooping down, he lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned his
face up-stream. Could he make the journey? That was the question. Had he
the strength after his two fearful ordeals to struggle through that
dusky tangled underbrush, where no trail marked the way, and with his
feet stumbling at almost every step? Suppose he should fall and not be
able to rise again? He banished the thought. It was too horrible to be
entertained even for an instant. No, he must not fail. What would the
Major, who had entrusted him with such a sacred commission think? And
how would the Force regard it? "Constable N. Grey, Regiment No. ----
lost; supposed to have died on the trail, somewhere between Big Glen and
the river Hishu, while in search of a stolen child." How would words
such as these sound in the laconic Police Report when it appeared the
following year? Would their bones, bleached and white, at last be found
amid those tangled bushes? And the mother, what of her? Would she ever
know of the struggle he had made to save her darling child? There came
to him now her white, drawn face. Did not every man in the Barracks know
Mrs. Farwell? She was beautiful, cultured, and a general favourite in
the little social circle of Big Glen. But she was kind to all, and
greeted each constable she met with a pleasant smile. She had spoken to
him once, and congratulated him upon the capture of "One-eyed" Henry,
the Swede. He had never forgotten that, and her sparkling eyes and sunny
face had haunted him for months. For her sake now, at least, he must not
fail. He would save her child. He had taken but a few steps forward when
he stopped short in his tracks. A dark form had suddenly loomed up out
of the night right in front of him. It was an Indian tall and silent,
leaning upon his grounded rifle. For the space of ten heart throbs
neither spoke. Then,

"Who are you," Grey demanded, "and what do you want?"

"You call?" came the calm reply.

"Yes, indeed, I did call. Look you. This child is wet, cold, freezing.
Got in river. See? You savvey cabin--fire, eh?"

At once the Indian took a step nearer, and peered keenly into the white
man's face.

"Ah, ah," he remarked. "Me savvey. Come."

Turning abruptly he plunged into the thicket of jack pines and cotton
wood trees. He had not gone far, however, ere he paused and looked back.

"Me take bah-bee," he said; "you cally gun, eh?"

But when he reached out his hands Donnie shrank back with a little
sobbing cry, and threw his arms tightly around his preserver's neck.

"Don't want to leave me, little man?" Grey asked, while his heart
thrilled with a new-found joy at the child's confiding action.

"Ya, me tay," whimpered the boy. "You carry baby."

"All right, dear, you shall stay with me as long as I have any strength
left," and he motioned the Indian to advance.

Silently they threaded their way through the chilly night, Grey using
every exertion to keep up with his dusky guide. Donnie was a
considerable weight to him in his weakened condition. Once he felt he
should be forced to relinquish his burden to the Indian, no matter how
badly the child might feel. But the pressure of that little body and the
hand laid so trustingly against his shoulder nerved him to greater
action, and painfully he stumbled forward. After what seemed to Grey to
be an interminable distance, although in reality it was not far, a
bright light suddenly pierced the darkness. It came from a camp fire
directly ahead, around which he observed someone moving. In another
minute the place was reached, and gladly he laid the child down in front
of the cheerful blaze.

It was only a temporary brush camp erected there in the wilderness, but
to Grey no place had ever seemed half so welcome. Seated on a blanket
spread over some fir boughs was an Indian woman with hair, jet black and
straight, falling over not unshapely shoulders. Nearby stood a girl of
fifteen years, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity as she turned them
upon the stranger and the little form at his feet. One glance at the
sympathetic faces before him told Grey that he was in the midst of
friends. A few brief words in the rhythmical native tongue passed
between the Indian man and woman, and immediately the rude camp was
converted into a hive of industry. The child was stripped of his wet
clothes, his cold body thoroughly rubbed and then enwrapped in a soft
grey blanket which the girl had brought forth from a mysterious corner
of the camp.

Donnie had no fear of the woman, but sat contentedly on her lap,
alternately watching the blazing fire and the animated face of the young
maiden kneeling by his side. Then, after he had taken some of the
savoury ptarmigan soup which the girl had dipped from a kettle near the
fire, he laid his tired little head against the Indian woman and was
soon fast asleep.

All this Grey noted with much satisfaction as he lay close to the fire
trying to dry his own wet garments. How his heart warmed toward these
dusky waifs as he watched their care of the child. He saw the little
head droop, the eyes close, and observed how gently the Indian woman
laid him down upon the brush bed, and tenderly placed over him a thick
warm blanket. The thoughtfulness and dignity of these people surprised
him. Formerly he had very little use for the natives, and considered
them with a certain degree of pity, mingled with contempt. Most of the
Indians he had seen in this northern land were weak, inferior
creatures, fond of hanging about towns and mining camps, and trying to
imitate the ways of the whites. But these were different, and he fell
asleep there on the hard ground wondering if all the Indians in the
Hishu region were of this same superior class.

A cry fell upon his ears, and he awoke with a start. He sat quickly up,
and looked around in a dazed manner. He glanced toward Donnie, and
instantly realised the nature of the trouble. The icy water had done its
work, and he saw the poor little form racked with a terrible cough. The
Indian woman had the boy on her lap, and was rubbing his chest with oil
which was warming near the fire. But still the child cried, stopping
only as the painful, wheezing cough swept upon him.




CHAPTER IV

THE SHADOWING HORSEMAN


Grey was completely surprised at himself as he leaped to his feet and
hurried to Donnie's side. He could not account for the anxiety which now
filled his heart. Had anyone suggested such a thing a week before he
would have laughed him to scorn. Had the Major sent him in quest of a
horse it would have stirred him about as much as going forth to find a
stolen child. With him sentiment had no place in the undertaking. It was
stern, iron duty, and nothing more. But this sudden interest was
something for which he had not planned. The child sitting there before
him was more than a mere pawn in this game he was playing. It appealed
to his nature by its very helplessness and confiding manner. The
pinched, drawn features, the frail cough-racked body and those large
blue eyes looking so beseechingly up into his rough bearded face sent a
peculiar thrill through his heart.

"What's wrong, old man?" he asked, placing his hand upon the little hot
forehead. "Too much water, eh?"

At once Donnie stretched out his hands, and slipped from the Indian
woman's lap.

"I wants my mother," he wailed. "Take me to my--" His words were cut
short by another fit of coughing, and he stood trembling there, a
pitiable figure of distress. At once Grey reached down, caught the child
in his strong arms, and held him close to his breast.

"Can't you do anything for the boy?" he demanded, turning to the Indian
woman standing near.

The latter slowly shook her head, and spoke a few quick words to her
husband who was stirring the fire. Deliberately straightening himself up
he confronted the constable.

"Can't you do something?" Grey repeated. "Baby sick. You savvey Injun
medicine? You make him well?"

"Me no savvey," was the slow reply. "Me no ketch 'um root. Me notting
here."

"But the child will die! See how he coughs."

"Me no savvey," was all the Indian would say, and Grey realised that no
help could be expected from these natives.

What was he to do? Could he permit the child to die without an effort to
save his life? He had suffered for him already, and would all that he
had done amount to nothing? He thought of Big Glen. Oh, to have him
there, in his mother's tender keeping. But that was out of the question.
Next he thought of the Hishu village. Would he find assistance there?
Would anyone know what to do in such a place? It was not likely, and yet
it was worth trying. He turned to the Indian.

"You savvey white man over there?" and he pointed away to the left.

"Ah, ah, me savvey 'um," was the reply.

"How far?" Grey demanded.

"White man cabin over dere. Wan sleep? No."

"What, can I get there to-night?"

"Ah, ah. Sun heem come up dere, sun heem go down dere. White man cabin.
You go, eh?"

"Yes, yes, I must," and Grey looked intently at the coughing child.

"You cally bah-bee, eh?"

"Certainly. What else can I do?"

"Bah-bee velly seek. Bah-bee beeg. White man no strong. Bime by stop.
Soon all sam bah-bee."

Too well did Grey realise the force of these quaint words. He was
feeling the effect of his experience in the icy water, and his body
ached. The child, too, was large for his age, and to carry him all day
long over a rough trail was utterly impossible. And yet he was willing
to try even the impossible rather than stay there and see the lad die
without an effort to save his life.

The Indian watched him closely, and, noting his determination, an
expression of satisfaction appeared upon his tawny face.

"White man no squaw," he remarked. "White man all sam beeg chief. Me
help white man."

"What, will you go with me?" and Grey looked his astonishment.

"Ah, ah. Hishu Sam help white man cally bah-bee."

The eastern sky was flushed with the radiance of the rising sun as
constable and Indian started forth with the little child. The trail,
worn by numerous moccasined feet, wound and twisted for weary miles
through the vast wilderness. Here it skirted and crossed open plains
covered with wild bunch grass and sage brush. There it dipped into deep
valleys where the trees stood thick and grim. At times it circled around
ragged ledges where the foothold was precarious. The sun rose and swung
clear of the tallest mountain peaks. It rode high in the heavens, and
poured its hot beams upon the hurrying wayfarers.

Often Grey's steps faltered as he staggered up some steep incline, and
his feet were sore from contact with snags and sharp stones. Not so the
Indian. He seemed tireless. Light of heel he sped forward with a
rhythmical springing gait. His slightly stooping form, long and lithe
from hips to shoulders, was the very embodiment of physical endurance.
Such strength and grace of movement filled Grey with profound
admiration. Of what avail now was his own special training? He had
excelled in running, jumping and swimming. He could pull an oar with the
strongest, and on the baseball field could tantalise a crack batsman
with cranky balls. He had prided himself upon his prowess, and ever
struggled to be first. But here was one of nature's own children, an
uncouth native, putting him to the blush.

The Indian insisted upon carrying the boy, and Donnie no longer
objected, but lay quietly in those great strong arms. Instinctively he
felt that the powerful stranger was his friend, and would do him no
harm. Hishu Sam seemed to think nothing of the lad's weight, and when
Grey tried to relieve him of the burden he would always refuse with an
emphatic grunt and a shake of the head. At noon they paused to rest by
the side of a little babbling brook, whereupon the Indian brought forth
a piece of dried salmon, and shared it with his companions. Donnie
hardly touched the food, but Grey ate eagerly, for he was hungry after
the long tramp. He sat on the ground with the boy on his lap, and gently
stroked his curly head. Donnie was feeling somewhat better, and the
cough was not so troublesome. He even smiled, a wan little smile, as
Grey told him a simple story he had heard when a child. The Indian sat
silently near, steadily smoking an old blackened pipe. He, too, was
interested in the lad, and gave a brief grunt of satisfaction as the
child smiled.

"Look here, Sam," said Grey as they were about to resume their journey
and the Indian had risen to his feet, "how much do you want for helping
me out to-day?"

"What you mean?" came the reply. "Me no savvey."

"How much I pay you? How much money you want?"

For a minute the native did not reply. He stood like a statue. Then he
turned his piercing eyes full upon the constable's face.

"Me no tak pay," he almost fiercely rejoined. "No, no, ugh!"

"But why no take pay?" Grey insisted. "You save baby's life. You do much
good."

"No, no, me no tak pay. You savvey Injun bah-bee in camp?"

Grey nodded.

"Wan, two, seex winter mebbe, Injun bah-bee velly seek. Heem no get
well. Me no feex 'um. Me velly seek here," and he placed his hand over
his heart. "Me t'ink bah-bee die. White man, beeg, beeg Chief, heem come
'long. Heem see bah-bee. Heem do all sam dis," and he knelt upon the
ground. "Heem savvey all sam Medicine Man. Heem mak Injun bah-bee well.
Heem no tak monee. Heem good man. No, no, me no tak monee. Me all sam
white man."

"You savvey white man?" the constable asked.

"Ah, ah."

Grey was about to question further when the Indian gave a sudden start,
and pointed to the left. Following the direction of the finger the
constable noticed a man astride a cayuse on the high bank of the river
about two hundred yards away. Whether a white man or an Indian Grey
could not tell, but he appeared to be watching them very closely. This
incident, trifling as it seemed, aroused in Grey a feeling of
apprehension. So intent had he been upon the child that he had almost
forgotten his fears concerning the Hishu region and the characters he
knew had their abode there. Perhaps this was one of them. Anyway it was
as well to hurry forward out of that desolate place before night shut
down.

Hour after hour they plodded steadily forward, their eyes and ears
keenly sensitive to any sound or sight of the strange horseman. Once
only did he reappear. They had paused for a brief rest in a valley, and
to drink of a stream whose water ran icy cold from the mountains, when
he had suddenly darted out from a hill above and peered down upon them.
The Indian had laid his hand upon his rifle, and whispered, "Me feex
'um." But Grey shook his head, and the native had desisted. Although he
felt that the rider was following them for some sinister purpose, it
would not do to enter Hishu as blood-stained travellers. And, besides,
there was the strict command instilled into every new recruit not to
shoot first. "Get your man," was the brief stern order. "If you don't
get him, it means three months' hard, and if you shoot him it is all the
same, with perhaps dismissal tacked on." No, Grey was not going to run
counter to such orders. Anyway, what good would it do? Perhaps after all
this was a harmless horseman, watching them out of mere curiosity.

He thought of these things through that long afternoon. Would the trail
never end? It seemed like a week since they had left the camp. The child
slept much of the time in those tireless dusky arms. Occasionally he
awoke with a cry of fright, and the annoying cough would sweep upon
him. He was becoming weaker, Grey could see that, and his heart ached as
he watched the limp, pathetic figure, and the face all too white. "What
must be a mother's love?" he asked himself over and over again. "If this
little lad I have known such a short time appeals to me so strongly, how
must she feel who suffered for his sake, and watched over him for three
years?" At such times his hands would grip hard the rifle, and a scowl
would furrow his brow as he inwardly cursed the villains who had torn
away this sweet, innocent child from his mother's tender keeping.

The sun was swinging low in the heavens as slowly and wearily they at
length toiled up a steep incline and reached the brow of a high hill.
Here the Indian paused, and pointed to the opposite side of the valley
lying snugly below. Grey, following the direction of the outstretched
arm beheld several log buildings, nestling among the trees on the
farther hillside. To the left flowed the Hishu River, glimpses of which
could be easily observed from their high vantage ground.

"Hishu," the Indian quietly remarked. "Ketch 'um bime by."

Grey's heart thrilled as he shaded his eyes and scanned the little
settlement. And this was Hishu, the spot toward which his face had been
turned for weary days. He smiled as he thought of the wild
blood-curdling Indian tales he had heard. What of the savage Indians and
the monsters of the mountains? How tame and commonplace everything
seemed, and Hishu was only that straggling cluster of houses over there
in the distance. It was simply a mining camp, and no doubt all of the
rascals who had kidnapped the child had gone down in the Klikhausia
Rapids. His heart was lighter than it had been for days, and he
descended the hill with a new springing gait. He began to see the end of
his venture, the quiet return to Big Glen, and the child safely restored
to his mother.

The trail was becoming easier now, for numerous feet had worn it smooth.
On both sides of the way signs of woodsmen's axes were visible in the
many stumps dotting the land. Ere long the first house burst upon their
view as they emerged from the forest. It was only a rude log cabin, but
how good it looked to Grey after that long desolate trail. The building
was standing by itself, no other cabin being visible. Of its isolation
he thought nothing then, but only of the shelter and relief he might
find for the child. The door was open, though no one was to be seen.
With the customary freedom of the frontier he gave a loud rap, and
entered, the Indian following with Donnie in his arms. The room was not
large, but clean, while a few rude benches, a couch and one table
adorned the place. In a far corner were several shelves on which stood a
number of black bottles. All this Grey observed at a glance, for
scarcely had they entered ere a curtain was drawn quickly aside, and a
woman stood before them. Grey started back in amazement, and gave vent
to an ejaculation of surprise. Men he had expected to find in Hishu, but
not women. His astonishment was succeeded by a feeling of joy. How
fortunate, he thought, that she is here, whoever she might be. She will
be able to help the boy better than men.

The woman was neatly dressed, of medium height, and at the first glance
fair to look upon, although her face was somewhat pale. Her eyes were
what fascinated the constable. They were cold steel grey, piercing in
their intensity. They were cruel eyes, devoid of the softening grace of
pity. To them tears of sorrow or sympathy seemed unknown. A faint
semblance of a smile flitted across her face as she observed Grey's
unaffected stare. She took a step forward, and then,

"Who are you," she demanded, "and what did you bring that brat here
for?"

If Grey was surprised before he was completely dumbfounded now. He did
not expect this. Presently an idea flashed through his brain. He glanced
again at the bottles, and from them to the woman's face, and then he
understood.

A coarse laugh greeted his embarrassment. She had divined his thoughts,
and it pleased her.

"Don't like the place, greeny, eh?" she sneered. "You needn't stay;
there's the door. But I guess you'll soon get used to it. All the men
here have except one d-- fish, and I'll have Buckskin Dan yet."

At this Grey found his tongue. He knew now what kind of a character he
had to deal with. Her rough talk and heartlessness nettled him.

"I don't want to stay here," he replied, "but you might do something
for this sick child. He'll die, otherwise."

"Let him die, then," came the cruel response; "he'll be better off."

"And you won't care for him?" Grey questioned.

"Oh, I'll not turn the brat out. Throw it on the couch there. What's
wrong with him anyway?"

Briefly Grey related the story of the wreck in the rapids, the rescue
from the icy water, and the effect upon the child.

A sudden change passed over the woman's face as she listened to the
tale.

"And you say the men were drowned?" she cried when Grey had finished.

"Yes."

"My God! What will Bill say?"

"Bill who?"

"Siwash Bill. Don't you know him?"

Grey was about to reply in the negative, when he suddenly started, and
stood as if transfixed. The sound of someone singing had reached his
ears. It was a woman's voice, full of unutterable pathos. It sounded
nearer now, and he caught the refrain:


     "Somewhere, somewhere, beautiful isle of somewhere,
     Land of the true where we live anew,
     Beautiful isle of somewhere."


The singer by this time had reached the door, and the song ceased. She
was a young woman, slight and beautiful, who crossed the threshold,
carrying a sunbonnet in one hand and a bunch of wild flowers in the
other. Her eyes glanced for an instant at the bearded stranger standing
in the centre of the room. Then they rested upon the child lying on the
couch and with a cry of surprise and delight she darted forward and
knelt down by his side. Later when she looked inquiringly around Grey
was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared, and only the woman with the
hard eyes was standing before her.




CHAPTER V

THE FUR TRADER'S STORE


Grey stumbled rather than walked out of the log cabin. He looked about
for the Indian, but he was nowhere to be seen. The evening breeze fanned
and cooled his flushed face. He wished to get away somewhere. His throat
was dry; he felt he would choke. His brain reeled as he staggered
forward. A trail to the left caught his eye, and along this he tottered.
Madeline there! Madeline in such a den as that! What did it all mean?
Was it only a horrible dream, or was he going mad? Had he been mistaken?
Perhaps it was someone else. No, it was all too real. It was she without
any doubt! Could he ever forget that face, those eyes, that wealth of
dark-brown hair, and the slight girlish figure? It was Madeline, his
long-lost Madeline. He had expected to find her some day, somewhere, but
not here.

He had reached the forest now, and sat down on a log by the side of the
trail. He wished to think, to solve the mystery. Madeline there! Was it
possible? Then thoughts, terrible spectres, surged through his brain.
Why was she there? How could he associate the pure-souled woman as he
had known her with such a life as that? That song, full of intense
pathos, that face, that cry of surprise and joy; they came to him again.
Madeline was there--only a few rods away, beneath that roof! A great
longing filled his heart. Oh, to go to her, to look into those eyes and
listen to her voice! He rose from the log, and took a step forward. He
would go. He would know the worst at once. But he hesitated. His hand
sought his brow in perplexity. He tried to think, to reason. No, not
to-night. He would rest first, and in the morning, perhaps, it would be
better to go to her.

The bark of a dog aroused him. It made him realise that night was upon
him, and he must have food and shelter. Following the direction of the
sound, ere long he reached a clearing of several acres in extent. All
around he beheld log cabins and frames of numerous tents. Through the
midst of these the trail wound, and along this he moved, watching for
some sign of life. At length he reached a building larger than the rest,
where stood a lean Indian dog which sidled angrily away as Grey
approached. In answer to his knock a gruff voice commanded him to enter.
Pushing open the door he beheld two men seated before a rough deal
table, playing cards. In a corner nearby sat a powerfully-built man,
with a long beard, and wavy hair well streaked with grey. He was calmly
smoking, and watching the game with much interest.

Across one side of the room ran a rough counter, formed of whipsawn
boards, which evidently knew nothing of soap and water. Behind this and
arranged along the wall were all sorts of articles from cheap prints to
tea, tobacco, beads and candy.

The opposite side of the room was lined with goods, useful in bartering
with Indians. Rifles and shot-guns were lying on stands. Sacks of flour,
rice and beans were piled in one corner, while slabs of bacon hung from
the huge ridge-pole overhead. All this Grey intuitively observed as he
stood for an instant near the door.

The players paused in their game, and stared hard at the new-comer,
while the man in the corner forgot to take three regular and deliberate
puffs of his blackened pipe. A visitor was evidently a curiosity at
Hishu.

"Chair, stranger?" remarked one of the players, shoving forward a
three-legged stool with his foot.

"Do you own this cabin?" Grey asked as he accepted the proffered seat.

"Reckon so," was the reply. "Paid, and d--high, too, for everything
here. Anything I can do for ye, stranger?"

"Yes. I'm dead beat, and almost starved. So if you'll give me a snack of
food and a shake-down for the night it will make a new man of me."

"Sure thing," was the response. "You're welcome to the grub, such as
'tis, but can't say about a shake-down. We're mighty cramped for room
just now. Anyway, we'll see later how things pan out, and maybe we can
do something for ye."

Saying which he turned toward a door at the back of the room, and gave
a short, sharp command in the native tongue.

What he said Grey did not know, but almost immediately an Indian woman
appeared in the doorway. It was not her sudden appearance which arrested
Grey's attention, so much as her strange attitude. Her eyes glowed with
defiance, mingled with fear, while a surly expression shrouded her face,
which exhibited marks of much natural beauty. A glance was sufficient to
show Grey that this was no ordinary, submissive Indian woman standing
before him. Combined with her defiance and fear was a haughtiness which
could not be concealed. Although partially cowed and curbed, she had
evidently known the exhilarating joy of unrestrained freedom. And that
same spirit still animated her heaving breast, but in a more terrible
form. It was pent up, and liable at any moment to break forth in the
wildest fury like a checked mountain stream or the boiling lava of some
hidden volcano. But now she listened attentively to the words of command
hurled forth, and at once disappeared within the back room.

"Fine squaw, that," remarked the other player, gazing with admiration
upon the retreating form. "How in h-- do you manage to curb such a
spirit? Your deal, Bill," and he shoved the cards across the table.

Mechanically his partner shuffled and dealt the cards. But his thoughts
were elsewhere, and as the game proceeded he shot an occasional furtive
glance at the stranger sitting near.

An uncomfortable feeling stole into Grey's heart as he felt those
piercing eyes fixed upon him. Once he looked full into their cold
depths, and involuntarily recoiled at the sinister expression he beheld
lurking there. The player noticed the start, and an oath escaped his
lips as he flung his last card down upon the table. Then swinging on his
stool he hurled a torrent of Indian words across the room.

In a moment or two the woman reappeared with a rough wooden tray
containing some beans, thick bread and a cup of black tea.

"Put it here," demanded her imperious lord, shoving forward the small
table. "We're done with our game for the present."

Grey was hungry, and he did good justice to the food set before him. But
his mind was not easy. Why had that man given him those keen lightning
glances? Did he surmise who he was and the purpose of the visit? Then
his thoughts drifted away to that lone house down the trail, to the
child and to Madeline. He forgot for a time his surroundings and the
sinister-eyed man. He was with her, sitting by her side, looking into
her face, and listening to her words of love.

At length he roused from his reverie and looked quickly about the room.
The two card players were nowhere to be seen. Only the man in the
buckskin jacket was sitting in the corner, pulling away at his old pipe.
Their eyes met, and instinctively Grey felt that here was one to be
trusted.

"Do you live in this place?" he asked, pushing back the table a little,
and turning around on his stool.

Instead of replying the man took the pipe from his mouth, knocked it
against the bench on which he was sitting, and examined it carefully.
Then from a deep capacious pocket he drew forth a large clasp-knife and
a plug of tobacco, and began deliberately to whittle away at the latter.

Grey was surprised at this action, and believed that his question had
not been heard. Perhaps the man was somewhat deaf, and it was necessary
to speak louder. He was about to repeat his words, when the man suddenly
paused, looked carefully around the room, and jerked his bench closer to
Grey's side.

"Young man, what are ye adoin' here?" he asked.

So low and full of meaning was the voice that Grey's eyes opened wide
with astonishment.

"Just travelling," he replied.

"H'm," ejaculated the questioner, as he carefully rolled the tobacco
between his hands. "Prospectin' or trappin'?"

"Oh, anything that turns up. I'm not particular."

Creak, creak. It was the back door, which moved as if shaken by the
wind. The buckskinned man gave a slight start and glanced to the left.

"Doin' anything that turns up, eh?" he remarked. "Isn't it rather
unsartin bizness? How d'ye expect to live?"

Creak, creak, went the door again. The creaking of a door generally
disturbs one's nerves. There seems to be something uncanny about it, as
if unseen evil spirits were outside trying to force an entrance. But
when one suspects that men are standing there, with ears close to the
crack, listening with sinister intent to every word which falls from the
lips of those in the room, the tension becomes almost unbearable. Grey
was all alert now. The whole place was conducive to suspicion. The
sudden disappearance of the two card players, the low warning voice of
the quiet smoker, and that creaking door. There was no breeze to cause
it to move, for the evening was still, with not a leaf aquiver.

"An' whar will ye stay to-night?"

The question was kindly asked, and the eyes which looked straight into
Grey's spoke of trust.

"Don't know," was the reply. "Under the trees maybe, unless the owner of
this cabin will give me a shake-down here."

"No, that won't do," came the response. "I've a snug cabin over yon, so
if ye'll put up with the accommodation ye're welcome to it, sich as
'tis."

Grey at once rose to his feet, and followed his companion, who was
already starting toward the door. They had advanced but a few rods from
the cabin when the clatter of hoofs sounded along the trail. In a few
moments a horseman appeared, astride a raw lanky cayuse, and drew up
before the store. Grey had paused, and was looking back, but his
companion clutched him fiercely by the arm, and hurried him along.

"Come, lad," he whispered, "it's no time fer starin' now. Let's git
under shelter."




CHAPTER VI

THE DEN OF PLOTTERS


The horseman quickly made the cayuse fast to a post. He then turned and
watched the retreating forms of Grey and Buckskin Dan. He stood there
for several minutes after the two had disappeared within a small log
cabin up the trail. He was a lean, lank, Cassius-type of man, with
furtive, restless eyes, which had won for him the sobriquet of "Shifty"
Nick. An old, dirty, weather-beaten slouch hat had been drawn over his
low receding forehead until the broad brim was on a dead level with his
piercing eyes. Presently his lips curled in an angry snarl, and a row of
white teeth showed for an instant beneath a heavy dark moustache.
Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets he moved toward the store,
gave the dog lying by the door a savage kick, and entered the building.
Seeing no one there he strode swiftly forward to the door at the rear of
the room. Here he paused and listened. Hearing voices within he gave the
door a push, and entered. Seated on stools were the two card players,
Siwash Bill and Windy Pete, while sitting on the floor in one corner was
the Indian woman. Her fingers were busy stringing beads for a buckskin
jacket lying near. She seemed to be engrossed solely with her work, and
her head was bent low. But not a sound in that room escaped her acute
ears. Occasionally she lifted her eyes and gave a lightning glance
toward the two men. Then in that brief instant her dusky face revealed a
world of meaning. A passion deep and intense was consuming that quiet
form. Love, fear and hate were raging there, contending with one another
in fierce conflict.

Shifty Nick looked contemptuously at the two men before him.

"So this is how yer spendin' yer time," he snarled. "Great lot you are.
Are yez scart of somethin'? What's happened to the d-- place? Scarce a
soul around, an' you hidin' here with the squaw."

"What's wrong, Shifty?" returned Bill. "Ye seem to be outer sorts.
What's the news? Where's the gang an' the kid?"

Deigning no reply Nick flung himself upon a stool, and eyed the two. His
bronze face was paler than usual, and his face twitched in an agitated
manner.

"Where did that cub come from?" he at length demanded.

"What cub?"

"Oh, you know. That young cuss with old Dan. What's he doin' here?"

"How in h-- do I know," replied Bill, somewhat nettled at the other's
surly manner.

"But ye ought to know. It's yer bizness to know. Here I've been out in
the blazin' sun all day watchin' the trail, while you've been skulkin'
here in this hole."

"Well, suppose we have, ye needn't git so tarnal ugly. We've been doin'
nothin', 'bout same as you. There was nothin' fer us to do but wait."

Nick tapped the floor with his boots for a minute or two lost in
thought.

"Boys," he at length began. "I'm sore upset to-night. I've brought yez
bad news--the gang's gone down in the Rapids."

The effect of this message was most startling. With a muttered oath
Siwash Bill leaped to his feet and confronted the horseman. Pete sat on
the stool like a statue. His lower jaw dropped and his eyes bulged big
with astonishment. Even the Indian woman paused in her work and looked
up. Her eyes glowed with a strange light, whether of sorrow or fierce
joy she alone knew.

"Speak, speak, man, fer God's sake!" shouted Pete, "an' tell us what ye
mean."

"Haven't I told ye?"

"Yes, yes. But don't stop there. Tell us all. When did it happen, an'
where's the kid?"

"Damn if I know where the brat is. I thought you knew. Why didn't ye ask
that stranger?"

"The stranger. What has he to do with the kid? What are ye drivin' at?"

"Nuthin' much, 'cept he had 'im."

"Had 'im?"

"Sure thing."

"Not when he was here."

"No, so I understand."

"But when? What's wrong with ye? Why don't ye spit it out?"

"I will if ye'll sit down an' give me time. There, that's better," he
continued, as Bill with a growl dropped back upon his stool. "Now I kin
spin it off. Well, fer two days I watched yon trail an' river, not
knowin' by which the gang 'ud come. I knew it 'ud be by one or t'other
unless they got pinched. Early this mornin' as I happened by chance
along a high bluff this side of the rapids I spotted two men hikin'
along the trail headin' fer Hishu. At first I thought they were the
gang, but watchin' closer I saw that one was an Injun carry in'
somethin' large in his arms."

"The devil!" ejaculated Pete, and the Indian woman again looked suddenly
up.

"They didn't see me, though," continued Shifty, "fer I smelled a rat,
an' scuttled. Then I did some tall thinkin', an' made up my mind to see
what was behind, fer I knew they hadn't come fer at that time of the
day. Hittin' the trail some distance up, an' follow-in' it fer a piece I
found a huge grizzly lyin' dead at the foot of a little knoll. There
were signs of a lively skirmish, an' the man wot pumped lead into that
critter ain't to be fooled with, let me tell ye that."

"Good Lord, no!" gasped Pete; "guess not."

"Continuin' my way I reached the river, an' there jist at the ford I
found some things which set me thinkin' some more."

"What?" was the excited question.

"A rifle an' a buckskin jacket."

"Whew, ye don't tell!"

"Yes, there they were, thrown down upon the bank. Lookin' up an' down
the river my eyes caught sight of a piece of a canoe floatin' in a
little eddy along the shore. Examinin' it closely I found it was the one
Shorty kep' above the rapids. Goin' down-stream a bit I found another
big chunk on a sand-bar, which made me sartin that somethin' had
happened to the gang. Comin' back I struck an Injun camp, where there
was an old squaw an' a young 'un. They told me the hull yarn an' a d--
sight more, too. That afternoon I skirted the river an' caught up with
the travellers. Twice they spotted me, which made 'em hike like h--"

"But what did they do with the kid?" questioned Pete.

"Took it to Old Meg's, so the squaw told me. Guess it's there yit."

"Good," exclaimed Bill, "we'll not lose it. If Meg's got it, we're all
right."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Shifty. "What about that young cub
with Buckskin Dan?"

"An' ye say that he had the kid?"

"Sartin. Didn't I tell ye?"

"But how in h-- did he git hold of it?"

"Jumped in the river an' saved its life, so the squaw said."

"The devil! Ye don't say so! But how did he happen to be there jist in
the nick of time?"

"Bah," and Shifty spat contemptuously upon the floor. "How did he
happen to be there! How does he happen to be here? How does he happen to
be everywhere? Don't ye know he's one of them d--Yellow-legs from Big
Glen?"

His companions started at these words, and glanced anxiously toward the
door. Shifty gave a sarcastic laugh, drew a pipe from his pocket and
stuck it between his teeth.

"Scart are ye?" he asked. "I thought y'd scent 'im five miles off."

"To tell ye the truth," Pete replied, "we didn't like the looks of 'im
from the first, so we came back here to talk it over. Thought mebbe he'd
tell Old Dan if left alone. So we listened."

"An' what did ye learn?"

"Nuthin', only we concluded he wasn't a Yellow-leg."

"How's that?"

"Why if he was after the ones wot pinched the kid he couldn't git here
so soon, an' anyway he wouldn't come alone."

"An' so that's yer conclusion, was it? I thought yez had more sense than
that. 'Couldn't git here so soon,' an' 'wouldn't come alone,'" he
mocked. "Don't ye know that them Mounted Devils are everywhere? Ye may
think there isn't one within two hundred miles. But let somethin' happen
an' he's at yer heels like greased lightnin'. As fer comin' alone he
doesn't mind that. He's used to it. He'll stroll into a gang of
cutthroats as cool as ye please, pick his man, snap on the irons, an'
walk out. Why haven't I seen it done time an time ag'in?"

"It takes nerve to do that," suggested Pete.

"Sartin. That's what made the Force what it is to-day. Only the man with
nerves like steel is picked to do an ugly job, an' he knows that the
hull damn Force is back of 'im, an' back of that the British Empire,
Army an' Navy combined. Touch 'im an' ye touch the hull consarn. So ye
may be sure it's no weak-kneed, wobbly-spine chap wot's been sent here,
let me tell ye that."

"But how are ye so sure that he _is_ a Yellow-leg?" questioned Siwash
Bill.

"Know?" retorted Shifty. "Who else would be hikin' about Hishu without
any object? Besides what about that Police rifle out there on that
measly cayuse, an' the buckskin jacket? There's not a shadow of a doubt
about it, so ye needn't worry over that. He's here fer bizness, an' the
sooner we git a move on, the better."

"Oh, if he's as ye say," replied Bill, rising and stretching himself,
"we kin soon fix 'im. He hasn't struck a bunch of kids an' babies here
in Hishu."

"What's yer plan?" asked Shifty.

Bill glanced significantly at a revolver at his hip.

"Now, look here, Bill. Don't make a fool of yerself. D'ye want to bring
down the hull Force upon us? We've done enough already. But lay hands
upon yon chap, an' they'll be about us like hornets."

"What else kin we do, then?"

Shifty sat for some time in silence, while his face twitched more than
ever, as it always did when his mind was working keenly. At length he
brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding whack.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "Ho, ho. It'll be all right. _We_ won't
touch 'im. But what about that pious-tongued hypocrite, Dan? Mebbe he'll
have a finger in this little affair which he didn't expect. Ho, ho, me
an' Pete'll help the Police to find the villain; oh, yes."

"How?" questioned Bill.

"How? Never ye mind that. We'll tend to the tail if you'll look after
the head, an' that's the kid over yon. You keep an eye on it, and we'll
look after the spyin' cub. Is it a go?"

"Sure," Bill assented somewhat dubiously, "but I'll be alone in my game,
though."

"What about that gal with old Meg?" and Shifty tipped a wink to Pete.
"She's a shy 'un, an' hasn't been broken in yit, but I guess you kin do
it. I'd like to try meself, but haven't a ghost of a chance with you.
She'll help ye if ye work her right."

"Think so?"

"Sartin. That kid's got to be moved. It's no place fer it here. So
you've got yer job cut out. Git the kid, an' don't fergit the gal. She's
a trim one that, an' I can't see how old Meg cinched her. She's the
pardner fer ye. None better. If ye had her here she'd bambozzle every
miner an' Injun wot comes to Hishu. They'd crowd in jist to see her,
an' ye'd sell yer stuff like hot cakes."

"But they kin see her over there," replied Bill.

"No. Didn't I tell ye she's too d-- shy? I can't savvey it nohow. An' ye
better git a hustle on, too, fer in a short time the Injuns'll be pilin'
in here like mad."

"Why, what d'ye mean, man? They won't be back fer two months yit."

"Won't they, hey? Jist you wait. I learned somethin' to-day which makes
me say they will."

"Wot's that?"

"The Big Lake Injuns are on the warpath. The Hishus have trespassed on
their ancestral huntin' grounds, an' won't take back water. The
trouble's been brewin' fer years, an' has at last come to a head. It'll
be either a big potlatch or war. But I fear the latter."

"Good Lord, man!" exclaimed Bill, "how did ye learn all this? Surely yer
only foolin'."

"Not a bit of it. That old squaw I met on the trail let the cat out of
the bag, an' the big Injun wot toted the kid is her husband, Hishu Sam.
So ye know wot that means."

During the latter part of this conversation the Indian woman's eyes
glowed with an intense light. She kept them fixed full upon Siwash
Bill's face. Jealousy mingled with a deep hatred was expressed there.
Occasionally her right hand slipped into a bundle by her side until it
rested upon the haft of a keen sheath knife. But when Shifty told about
the threatened war between the Indians, and mentioned the name of Hishu
Sam, jealousy and hatred gave place to fear. It was expressed both in
her eyes and in her face. She sat perfectly rigid, however, until the
conversation had ceased and the men had passed out into the other room.




CHAPTER VII

BUCKSKIN DAN


"What are ye doin' here, young man?"

The words startled Grey, and caused him to look quickly around. Twice
had this man asked that same question, and each time there was a
peculiar warning note in his voice.

They had entered a small cabin, and were seated upon rough stools. The
place was clean and neat, a striking contrast to the disorderly room
they had just left. Two narrow bunks, one above the other, stretched
part way across the south end of the room, while on the opposite side,
and near the door, stood a small sheet-iron camping stove. Nearby was a
rough table of whipsawn boards, over which, fastened to the wall, was a
rude cupboard, containing a few iron plates, cups, saucers and knives.
On the floor in the centre of the room a large bearskin was spread,
while the principal adornments of the walls were snowshoes, rifles and
traps, suspended on wooden pegs driven into the logs. Not until the
owner of the cabin had started a fire in the stove, for the evening was
cool, did he blurt forth his question, "What are ye doin' here, young
man?"

"Just travelling," Grey replied.

"Travellin'; jist travellin', are ye? But isn't it rather risky
bizness?"

"In what way? What do you mean?"

"Oh, nuthin' much. It only depends upon what yer travellin' fer that
makes the difference."

"I don't understand. Will you please explain?"

"Wall, some people travel fer their health, some fer pleasure, an' some
fer bizness. Now you ain't out fer yer health, that's sartin, fer ye've
got more'n yer share, it seems to me. As fer pleasure--wall, folks don't
ginerally come to a place like this. Tharfere ye must be out fer
bizness, an' I reckon it's mighty delicate bizness at that."

"What makes you think so?" questioned Grey, somewhat amused at these
shrewd remarks.

"I dunno exactly," and the old man scratched his head. "But somehow I
feel ye're here in kernection with that gang over yon. If so I say ag'in
that it's mighty delicate bizness."

"What makes you think so?" and Grey looked keenly into the calm eyes
before him.

"Yer one of them Reds from Big Glen, are ye not?" and the old man jerked
his stool a little nearer. "Thar now ye needn't git excited," he
continued, noticing Grey about to interrupt him. "Buckskin Dan hasn't
studied the gentle art of observation all these years fer nuthin'. In
towns, cities an' sich places yer nat'ral senses peter out. Ye don't
have to look much, fer yer streets are nuthin' but grooves, like a hull
bunch of sluice boxes, an' ye jist foller yer nose. Somethin' gits
wrong, too, with yer hearin' gear, fer I've had men tell me that right
down thar in New York on Broadway, they never hear a sound, they're so
used to the noise. As fer the smell, it almost drives me mad, an' yit
folks wot live thar never smell anythin'. Now that ain't nat'ral. The
good Lord when he gave me my senses meant me to use 'em. Fer some time
past I've been seein' an' hearin' things over in yon store which made me
sorter suspicious. Now, when I see a chap like yerself wanderin' about
here in a vague sort of a way I begin t' see more things, an' surmise
that thar's somethin' crooked afloat. I may be wrong, but guess not. So
if ye'll take a word of caution ye'll go keerful, an' if I kin help ye a
leetle, don't be afeered to ax me."

At first Grey was somewhat annoyed at Dan's words, and felt like
rebuking him for his interference. This resentment, however, was quickly
replaced by a very different feeling. It was impossible not to be
impressed by this quiet man. He realised the truth of his words, and
knew how serious was his own position, and how important it was to have
such a sturdy ally in Buckskin Dan.

"You've lived some time in the North, I suppose?" he at length remarked.

"Nigh onto fifteen years," was the reply.

"And you know most of the people here?"

"Sartin. Know 'em all, an' some too well fer convenience."

"Do many miners live here?"

"'Bout fifty. But they're all out in the hills now prospectin'. They're
comin' and goin' most of the time. Mark my word, thar'll be a big strike
made about here one of these days. The gold's thar jist waitin' fer some
lucky chap to find it."

"I suppose you know Siwash Bill and his gang," remarked Grey.

"Y' bet. Remember the fust time they struck this place, an' they've been
raisin' Cain ever since, especially with the Injuns."

"How many are there in the gang?"

"Five, an' they stick together like tarred feathers."

"Are you sure there are five?"

"Sartin. Never more so."

"Well, I think you'll find there are only three now."

"Three! Only three! What d'ye mean?"

"That two of them went down last night in Klikhausia Rapids, when their
canoe struck a sunken rock."

At this Dan sprang to his feet, and laid his hand heavily upon Grey's
shoulder.

"What! What!" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Say that over ag'in.
Mebbe I didn't hear ye aright. D'ye tell me that two of 'em have gone
down?"

"I believe so."

"What! Shorty an' Tim?"

"I don't know their names, but if you sit down I'll tell you all about
it."

And there in that little cabin Grey told about the stolen child, the
fight with the grizzly, the wreck in the rapids, and the rescue of the
boy. To all this Dan listened with wide open eyes, at times
interjecting a word of surprise.

"My God!" he exclaimed, when Grey had finished. "So them poor divils
have gone down! Yes, I'm sartin it's them, fer I savvey things now which
I couldn't afore. It's all clear to me as day. I see through their
game--to steal the poor lad from his mother's arms, an' make the old man
cough up the dough. Oh, them villains! It jist sarved 'em right, fer
they war mean skunks. But I do pity the ones who'll have to look after
'em in t'other world. Parsons an' sich like may talk about goin' to
hell, but Shorty an' Tim have taken their own hell fire along with 'em,
an' don't ye fergit that."

"I wonder if the rest of the gang know about the accident," Grey
remarked, gazing thoughtfully at the little stove, which was sending out
its genial heat.

"Can't tell fer sartin," was the reply. "But they'll savvey about the
lad at Old Meg's over yon, an' that'll be enough fer them."

"Will they try to do anything now, do you think?"

"Do? They'll never stop doin' as long as life's in their nasty bodies.
Ye don't know them varmints. They're after money, an' they're bound to
git it."

"And so you think the child's in danger yet?"

"Think it? I don't think anything about it. I know it."

"And what is to be done?"

"Git that youngster out of this as soon as he's able to be moved."

"But will they let us?"

"Not if they kin help it. But thar are always ways, don't ye fergit
that. Thar are ways. But come, lad, ye're dead beat an' need some rest.
So curl up in yon bunk while I stroll around outside a bit."

Grey was tired, very tired, and the bed soft and comfortable. For some
time, however, he lay there thinking over the events of the day. His
principal thoughts were of Madeline. How strange that after such a long
separation he should find her in such a desolate region--and in that
house! The sight of her had brought back the old memories of happy days,
when they had strolled together, talked, and loved. Thinking thus he
drifted into a restless sleep in which he was besieged by wild dreams.
He was surrounded by the "gang." They were trying to throttle him. Then
he saw Madeline, with face as white as death, struggling in the grasp of
Siwash Bill. Her eyes were full of terror as she reached out to him
appealing hands for help. For an instant he had not the power to assist
her. He was bound by chains which held him fast. With a great cry he
made one mighty effort. The chains snapped and he was free. At once the
scene faded and he awoke. The room was fairly light, for the bright moon
was shining in through the little window. How late it was he could not
tell. Overhead he could hear Buckskin Dan's deep breathing. For some
time he lay quietly in the bunk, hoping that he would soon drop off to
sleep again. But try as he might his eyes would not close. The dream had
been too real, and ever before his mind rose Madeline's tearful face,
while her cry of fear rang incessantly in his ears.

At length he could bear it no longer. The bunk seemed like a prison.
Slipping quietly to the floor, he softly opened the door, and left the
building. It was a glorious night, and the moon, almost full, was
drifting through masses of fleecy clouds. The air was cool and a long,
filmy fog hung over the trees down by the river. Grey stood for a while
outside the door, and looked around. Not a sound broke the intense
stillness of the night. The chill air cooled his flushed face. He looked
toward Old Meg's house, and moved by a sudden impulse started down the
trail. A walk, he thought, would do him no harm; he would sleep the
better after it. He wished to look again upon the cabin which sheltered
Madeline. It did not take him long to reach the little clearing in which
the dwelling stood, and, not wishing to pass out into the open, he
stepped aside from the trail a short distance.

Seating himself upon a fallen tree at the edge of the forest he could
obtain a good view of the house, while he himself was hidden. He was
somewhat surprised to see a light shining in one of the windows facing
him. Then he thought of the child. Perhaps someone was watching by its
side. Was it Madeline? Was she sitting there in that room keeping
faithful ward over the little one? It was just like her, he knew that,
to give up her own comfort for others, especially for children. He
looked carefully around. Not a living thing could he see. Suppose he
stepped across to the house and peered in through the window. It could
do no harm, and he did so long to see her face again.

He was about to step out into the open, when an object arrested his
attention, which caused him to shrink back behind a small fir tree. The
object soon proved to be a man, creeping guardedly toward the house from
the right. Although he kept somewhat in the shade of the trees he was
exposed to full view. Almost breathlessly Grey watched him as he
proceeded slowly by the side of the building until he came to the window
from which the light shone. Here he paused, and looked cautiously into
the room. What he beheld Grey could not tell, but presently he went to
the door and gave a gentle tap. Ere long it was slowly opened, and
someone appeared. At that distance he could not hear what was being
said, although several minutes elapsed as Grey stood there straining his
ears in an effort to distinguish the words. Then the sounds grew louder,
and occasionally an intelligent word drifted toward him. It was a
woman's voice he heard, and now there was no doubt about it--it was
Madeline's. What was she doing there at that time of the night? He
recognised the man by his voice. It was Siwash Bill--and what was
Madeline doing there with him? Was it his custom to meet her thus? These
thoughts and others of a similar nature surged through Grey's brain.

"I tell you no! It can never be!"

How decisive were the words which now reached him clear and distinct.
Then they sank lower, and listen as he might he could not distinguish
their meaning.

"Leave me, and never come here again!"

Ah, he could hear these, and they thrilled the heart of the concealed
listener. She did not wish him to come. A weight was lifted from his
mind, and he breathed more freely. It was only for an instant, however,
for at once a cry fell upon his ears--a cry for help--and it was
Madeline's! No longer now did he hesitate. She was in danger, and needed
him. He sprang from his hiding place, and bounded across the open,
straight toward the spot where the two were standing.




CHAPTER VIII

THE INTRUDER


Madeline's joy at beholding the child lying on the couch soon gave place
to surprise. In her first intense delight at seeing the little one with
the white face and curly hair, she had thought of nothing else. The
child was enough, and she had rushed forward and bent over the frail
form. That sight was sufficient to stir within her memories which she
believed had long since been dead. Gradually wonder took possession of
her. Where had the boy come from? What was he doing in such a place as
Hishu, and especially at this house above all others? Then she thought
of the tall silent form she had noticed standing in the centre of the
room. She had given but one fleeting glance, and yet how that figure
stood out in her mind clear and distinct. There was something familiar
about those broad shoulders and the poise of that head which set her
heart beating fast and brought the blood surging to her cheeks. Could it
be possible that it was--? She caught her breath at the mere thought.
No, such an idea was ridiculous. And yet something seemed to whisper it
to her, and tell her that there was no mistake, that it was Norman and
none other. A peace such as she had not known for years filled her
heart. A subtle influence seemed to surround her and pervade the room.
For a brief space of time she kept her face close to the child. How
could she look upon him? What would he say? How would he greet her? She
felt that his eyes were fixed upon her. Were they filled with sorrow or
reproach? Would he scorn her? At length she raised her head and looked
around for one quick glance, but he was gone. Then a sharp revulsion of
feeling swept over her. The crimson left her cheeks, leaving them as
pallid as death. Her bloodless lips were compressed. He was gone, and
she knew why! He had recognised her, had understood, and had fled!

Madeline rose to her feet, and stared straight before her toward the
door, and out into the yard beyond. She saw no one; she heard nothing
but the beating of her own tumultuous heart. She presented a beautiful
pathetic scene standing there. But the woman watching her thought
nothing of this. Her cynical eyes were fixed upon Madeline's face, and
her lips parted in a cold smile.

"Don't worry. He'll come back."

Madeline started at these words.

"Who is he?" and her voice was hoarse as she whispered the question.

"You'll learn in time, so don't be uneasy," replied the woman. "But,
come, you had better look after that brat. I don't want to be bothered
with it, and as you think so much of it you'd better tend to it at once.
You must get the thing fixed up as soon as possible, for I don't want it
kicking about here when the men come back from the hills. You won't
have any time to look after it then, mark my words."

Madeline turned from the cruel creature toward the child. A great weight
pressed upon her heart, and she felt she must cry out. Had Old Meg
spoken such words that morning or the day before she would have thought
little of them. Was she not accustomed to the life--hideous though it
was--and this woman's sharp, pitiless tongue? Madeline imagined that
she, too, was hardened and indifferent herself. But now she realised
that a change had taken place. That subtle influence which surrounded
her and the presence of that sweet-faced boy sleeping there on the couch
made a great difference. The men would come from the hills, they would
crowd into the house, and then hell would be let loose. She shuddered as
she thought of it.

A cough from Donnie brought Madeline quickly to his side. He opened his
eyes, and looked up into her face.

"Mother. I wants my mother," he wailed. "Why don't she tum to her 'ittle
boy-boy?"

Madeline was all alert now. Soothing the child and winning his
confidence she carried him off to her own small room at the side of the
house, and laid him upon her rude cot. Quickly and deftly she undressed
him and tucked the blanket carefully about his little body. Donnie was
restless and feverish, and the rasping cough still shook the delicate
frame. For a while Madeline stood in doubt. She hardly knew what course
to pursue to relieve the suffering. At length a simple remedy came to
her mind. Crossing the room she drew back a curtain and brought down
from a nail a much worn flannel skirt. Only for a moment did she
hesitate as she looked upon it. Then seizing a pair of scissors lying on
a table near by she cut off a large portion from the bottom of the
garment. Telling Donnie not to be afraid, that she would return soon,
she went at once to a small cooking stove at the back of the building,
lighted a fire, and placed the flannel near to warm. Then going to a
corner of the room she poured some coal oil from a tin can into a saucer
and placed it on the stove to heat. When this had been accomplished to
her satisfaction she carried Donnie to the kitchen, placed him on her
lap near the fire, and thoroughly rubbed his little chest with the oil,
and then applied the warm flannel. It was only a simple remedy, she was
well aware, but it was all she knew, and she was willing to do what she
could. This she kept up for some time, and then once more placed the
little fellow back into bed. Soon she had the satisfaction of seeing his
eyes close in a peaceful sleep. But not for a moment did Madeline relax
her watchfulness.

Hour after hour she remained faithfully on guard, keeping the fire in
the stove and the flannels warm upon the chest. How thankful Madeline
was for the presence of the child! Sleep fled her eyes as she sat there
watching. No sound broke the intense stillness which reigned. The house
was unusually quiet, for often sounds of revelry continued throughout
the night. Her mind was greatly agitated. Where had this child come
from, and why was such a delicate lad so far in the wilderness away
from civilisation? Carefully she examined his clothes, studying well
each little garment, the fine quality of the material of which it was
made, and the signs of a loving hand in each tiny stitch. And why should
_he_ have the boy? No longer did she doubt that the man was Norman. But
what was he doing there? Then a question stinging in its intensity
pierced her heart. Was this his child? Had he a wife living somewhere in
the North? Was she beautiful? Did her hands fashion the little garments
lying before her? Was this the reason why Norman had fled so hurriedly
from the house? Had he recognised her, and did not want to speak to her
because he was married? She could not rid her mind of the thought.
Dry-eyed and motionless she sat there, staring straight at the sleeping
lad. She did not blame Norman. How could she expect that he would wait
six long years for her, whom the world believed dead? How strange it was
that she should be watching by the side of his boy! What circumstance,
she wondered, had brought such a thing to pass? Though now a gulf yawned
between them his child was with her, and she could love it for his sake.
Bending suddenly forward she pressed her hot lips to Donnie's cheek. How
soft was the little face, and what a strange new thrill that simple
touch brought to her heart.

A knock upon the door at the side of the house startled her. She drew
back abashed. Was it Norman, and had he been watching her through the
window? It was but natural that he should come to see about his sick
boy. How could she meet him? Rising to her feet she stood irresolute by
the foot of the bed. What should she do? What could she say?

Again the knock sounded, louder than before. Madeline no longer
hesitated. She crossed the room, turned the wooden button, and
cautiously opened the door. As she did so she started back, and a slight
cry of fear escaped her lips. Standing on the step with his left hand
upon the side of the door was Siwash Bill. His swinish eyes leered in
upon her, and a frown wrinkled his brow as he noted how she recoiled
from his presence.

For some time past Madeline had noted how the squaw man had sought her
company. He had come to the house, and often met her as she took her
lonely walk along the trail leading to the river. He followed her like a
shadow, and lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself in her good
will. The more she repulsed him, the more determined he became. Rough,
uncouth men frequented the house when they were in Hishu. Them she could
tolerate, or had to tolerate. But this creature filled her heart with a
loathsome repugnance, like the presence of a slimy, crawling viper.

"Frightened are ye, miss?" Again Bill smiled--the smile of the evil one.
"Didn't know I was sich a monster."

"What do you want?" and Madeline spoke sharply. "Why do you disturb me
at this time of the night?"

"Saw a light in the window, an' thought mebbe ye'd like company," was
the reply.

"No, I prefer to be alone--with the child. So you might have spared
yourself the trouble."

"Now don't git heady, miss. It's partly on account of that little chap
that I've come here to-night. He means a pile of money to me. I've run a
big risk consarnin' him, an' I can't afford to take chances."

"Run a big risk? What do you mean?"

"Listen," and the squaw man moved closer and whispered something into
Madeline's ear, which caused her to start. "Thar now, ye needn't take
on," Bill continued. "All ye've got to do is to hand over that kid to me
when he gits better, an' part of the chink's yours."

"Never!" Madeline's determined negative rang out distinctly through the
night, and thrilled a silent listener concealed not far away. "I can't
do that, so God help me!"

"Can't? Think ag'in. Money's a god; it works miracles."

Madeline did not reply. How could she answer this villain? What was the
use of speech? She would leave him; close the door in his face. Siwash
Bill mistook her silence for acquiescence. He drew nearer, and she
shrank back.

"Yes," he continued, "money's a god; it'll do anything. An' look you;
there's money in it, twenty thousand dollars! A man with that kin leave
the North, go outside, an' be rich. Miss, I want that chink, an' you in
the bargain. D'ye suppose I've been watchin' ye all these weeks fer
nuthin'? D'ye suppose I'd a taken all yer rebuffs in silence if I
didn't love ye? Not a bit of it. Come, say ye'll have me, an' we'll cut
this d--place ferever. We'll cinch that twenty thousand dollars an' git
out."

Madeline, though pale before, was white as death now. She clutched at
the door post for support. She knew something of the determined nature
of the man standing before her.

"You scoundrel!" she cried. "How dare you say such words! Leave me, and
never show your face here again!"

"An' ye won't have me?"

"No; a thousand times no!"

"Then I won't ask ye. This is the land whar strength rules. If ye won't
be mine one way ye will another."

Saying which the brute took a quick step forward, and placed his arm
suddenly about her waist.

With a cry Madeline strove to wrench herself from his grip. But the more
she strove the firmer he held her fast, and drew her closer to his
breast. A faintness swept over her as she felt his hot breath upon her
face, and she gave one wild piercing cry for help.

And even as she ceased to struggle, and a fearful blackness blinded her
eyes, she heard the sound of rapid steps, and felt the squaw man's arms
suddenly relax. Grey had arrived none too soon, and words of explanation
were unnecessary. One long arm reached out, and tense knuckles caught
Siwash Bill full under the left ear. Unheeding the wretch sprawling on
the ground he caught Madeline in his arms and entered the building. It
took but a minute for him to cross the room and lay her upon the couch.
But in that brief space of time as he clasped her unconscious form to
his breast an overmastering yearning took possession of him. He looked
into that dear white face; his breath fanned her wavy hair, and with the
greatest effort he restrained himself from pressing his lips to those
slightly parted ones so close to his. But no, he must not allow his
feeling to get the better of him. It would be better to wait awhile. He
turned and saw Old Meg standing in the middle of the room, with a
questioning look upon her face.

"What's the matter with her?" she growled. "Why all such yelling and
fuss at this time of the night?"

Grey was about to express himself freely to this woman. With an effort,
however, he restrained himself, knowing that angry words would do no
good.

"Ask Siwash Bill," he replied. "Perhaps he'll tell you, for I don't
know. But look you well after her," and he pointed to Madeline. "She's
somewhat knocked out. Get a basin and some water, quick. You attend to
her; I must see to someone outside."

With one deep longing glance toward Madeline he turned and left the
building, leaving Old Meg staring in profound wonder after his tall
retreating form.




CHAPTER IX

UNDERCURRENTS


For some time after the plotters had left the room Nadu, the Indian
woman, sat quietly in the corner. No longer were her fingers busy, for
the buckskin jacket had been laid aside. Other things occupied her mind.
She could hear the murmur of voices in the adjoining store, and
recognised the men. It was quite dark now, for the moon had not risen.
Presently Nadu thrust her hand beneath her blanket, and clutched the
handle of the sharp knife concealed there. Running her fingers across
the blade she noted with satisfaction the keenness of the edge and the
sharp needle-like point. Drawing the weapon forth she hid it deftly
within the folds of a blanket wrapped about her shoulders. Rising to her
feet she moved softly across the room, quietly opened the door, and
slipped out into the night.

To the right flowed the river, its banks lined with cottonwood trees and
jack pines. Through these she glided like some weird spectre.
Occasionally she stayed her steps to listen, but all was silent. After a
while she paused, and crept to the edge of the clearing. There before
her was the dim form of a house, with a light shining from one of the
windows. For some time Nadu remained crouched upon the ground. The
light seemed to fascinate her, and when once it disappeared she started
to her feet, and crept forward like a tiger ready to spring, but slunk
back again when the light reappeared.

At length her eyes sought the East, where a faint glow was visible in
the sky close to the horizon. It was the first signal of the moon, which
soon would be rising full and bright over the land. This Nadu well knew,
so creeping from her place of concealment she sped across the open, and
moved warily around the log building until she came near to the window
from which the light was streaming. Then standing a little to one side
she peered in through the small panes of glass, until her eyes rested
upon a slight form bending lovingly over a little child lying asleep
upon the bed.

No feeling of tenderness smote Nadu's breast at the scene which met her
gaze. Jealousy and hatred held her in thrall. Before her was the woman
who was making her life a hell; the one who had crossed her path, and
who was alienating the affections of her husband, the squaw man. Had she
not noticed it for days, nay, weeks now? Did not all the pride of her
race rebel at the neglect and ignominy which were bestowed upon her? But
him she blamed not. The woman alone was the cause, and now her eyes
dilated as she looked through the curtainless window. Once Madeline
turned half around as if she intuitively knew of that lowering face.
Then Nadu had shrunk back, fearful lest she should be observed.

During the whole of this time the Indian woman firmly clutched the
knife beneath her blanket. Its touch gave her a degree of satisfaction,
and often her fingers caressed the keen blade as her eyes gloated over
the pale-faced woman in the room.

The moon had now risen, and was flooding the whole landscape with its
silver beams. To the left the trees of the forest threw out their long
trailing shadows. Nadu glanced uneasily in their direction. How sombre
and gruesome they appeared! The whole air seemed to pulsate with strange
forebodings. Nadu was no coward. She belonged to a tribe which knew not
fear. The Big Lake Indians had never retreated from a foe. They could
die with a smile and a song, but knew not how to yield. And Nadu was a
child of the bravest. Had not her mother often related to her the story
of that terrible night when her father had led forth the Big Lake
warriors and had driven back a band of Dog Rib Indians from beyond the
mountains? The fighting had been fierce, and several had been slain, her
father among the number. How Nadu's heart had thrilled as she dreamed of
that scene, until the spirit of her father was hers. But on this night
it was detection she feared. She had a purpose in view, and until that
was accomplished she must be wary.

With one long lingering look through the window she moved away from the
house, and glided across the open to the edge of the forest, until her
form was hidden by the dark shadows. Here she paused, and squatting upon
the ground kept her eyes fixed upon the light pouring from the house.

And not many minutes did she have to wait ere Siwash Bill came creeping
along. She saw him peering in through the window, and approach the door.
Then when she beheld Madeline standing there, and noticed the two
talking together, the fire of rage and jealousy leaped to a white heat.
Formerly she had believed that the pale-faced woman was entirely at
fault. Now she knew that Bill was much to blame. He had come to the
place to see this woman. She had loved the squaw man with all the
affection of her passionate nature. She had waited upon him like a
slave, and his curses she had received without a murmur. All this she
could endure, for he was hers, and her love was deep. But now--She
clutched the knife more firmly, and, waiting no longer, sped through the
shadows, plunged into the forest, and reached the river. A trail, worn
smooth, wound along the bank. This she followed up-stream for the space
of fifty yards. Then she paused and listened. Hearing nothing but the
rapid beating of her own heart she was about to continue on her way,
when a faint sound fell upon her ears. She glanced quickly toward the
river, but only the silver sheen of the ripple-less surface met her
eyes. She believed she had been mistaken, and was about to proceed when
again the sound was heard, much more distinct now. Something was down
there along the shore within the shadows of the trees, she felt sure of
that. At first she thought it might be only a wild duck, or a muskrat
besporting itself in the water. This idea was soon dispelled, however,
for presently she was able to detect the soft rhythmical dip of paddles.
Moving behind a small jack pine, she crouched upon the ground and
waited. Who could it be, she wondered, approaching at such an hour of
the night? Was it friend or foe? It could not be any of the Hishus, for
they had all gone up-stream. Could it be the Big Lake Indians? She
thought of the conversation in the house, and of what Shifty had said
about the trouble between the tribes, and of Hishu Sam's return. Were
the Big Lakes coming in force to attack the settlement, to murder the
inhabitants, seize the supplies in the store, and then sweep on to
surprise the Hishus in their camping grounds! Well did she know the
remorselessness and tiger-like swiftness of the Big Lakes when once
aroused to action.

A sudden impulse seized her to dart forward and give warning of the
invaders. She rose partly to her feet, but immediately sank back again.
Why should she go? The Hishus were nothing to her, and the white
men--ugh! What did she care for them now? Had they not treated her like
a dog, and Bill worst of all? Let him go to the white woman; of what
avail would she be to him if the Big Lakes came?

Such were the thoughts which beat through her brain as she crouched
there with her straining eyes fixed upon the river. The sounds were
becoming more distinct, and ere long she was able to discern the dim
outline of something moving slowly over the water. Nearer and nearer it
approached until the faint shape of a canoe could be discerned, with
two forms seated therein. Stealthily and shadowy it glided forward, and
passed the place where she was crouched.

Nadu arose, and crept silently along the trail. On and on the canoe
moved until it came opposite the store. Here it drew into shore at a
little opening which led to the water's edge. Nadu watched the strangers
while they made the craft fast to an old root. Then they crept warily
through the trees toward the settlement. Her first thought was to follow
after, and ascertain the object of their visit. But the sight of the
canoe brought to her mind a new idea. With Nadu to think was to act, and
when sure that the men were some distance away she moved quickly from
her hiding place, unfastened the canoe, gave it a gentle push, and
sprang in. Seizing one of the paddles lying in the bottom, with a few
vigorous strokes she headed the canoe up-stream, keeping well within the
shadows. When she had gone about one hundred yards she ran into shore in
a sheltered nook, and made the craft fast to a tree. Having accomplished
this she hurried down the trail, and once more took up her position
close to the spot where the Indians had landed.

Here she waited for some time ere the sound of returning steps rewarded
her patience. Swiftly and softly the two strangers sped down the trail.
Reaching the river they looked in surprise at the place where they had
left the canoe. Then a whispered conversation ensued. That they were
much concerned Nadu could easily tell. Closely she watched them as well
as the shadows would permit. One she recognised, and the sight of his
figure brought a thrill to her heart. It brought back memories of
by-gone years. It was Tonda, the sturdy brave, who had sought her love
ere the advent of Siwash Bill, his successful rival. She had given him
up for the white man, and what had she gained? The roving life, the
fascination of forest, river and lake all had been relinquished. And now
she was a slave, confined to a hateful cabin, to wait upon her brutish
lord and master.

The sight of Tonda stirred Nadu more than was her wont. Would he care to
see her? she wondered. Would he have anything to do with her? Would her
people have her back again after years of absence? The old life was
drawing, appealing, calling her by numerous mystic charms.

As the Indians continued to converse, Nadu stepped quickly forward and
stood by their side. Startled by her sudden appearance, the men raised
their rifles. But Nadu lifted her hand, and motioned them not to fear.

"Tonda," she said in a low voice, in the language of the Big Lakes;
"Tonda afraid of a squaw? Why does he tremble? Why does he wish to
shoot? Is Tonda's heart weak?"

"Who speaks?" replied the latter, bending forward to obtain a better
look.

"Has Tonda forgotten? Does he not remember the voice which once was
music to his ears?"

"Nadu! Is it Nadu?" and the man straightened himself up. "What does Nadu
care about Tonda? Nadu has left her people. She has joined the pale
face intruders. She lives now among the Hishu 'dogs.'"

"Ah, ah!" Nadu replied. "Tonda speaks true. The Hishus are dogs, but
they are swift-footed dogs, and do not bark before they bite. Let the
Big Lakes beware, for the Hishu dogs are roused, and their fangs are
long and keen."

"Why does Nadu say all this?" Tonda replied. "Does she not live among
the Hishus, and knows her own people no longer?"

"Nadu is a child of Wabanda. His blood flows in her veins. His spirit is
hers. Nadu has not forgotten her people; she would go back to them. She
would go with Tonda."

"And did Nadu take the canoe?" questioned the latter, as a suspicion of
what had happened to the craft floated into his mind.

"Ah, ah; Nadu knows," was the low reply.

"And will Nadu come to-night?"

Tonda was eager now. This woman was fascinating him as of yore. He
forgot how she had repulsed him for the white man. In her presence he
was as a child.

"Nadu will not go to-night. Two sleeps and Nadu will be ready."

"But why wait so long? Tonda cannot stay."

"Is Tonda afraid of the Hishus? Does he fear their fangs?"

"No, no; Tonda knows not fear. But the Big Lakes are waiting."

"Let them wait," answered the woman. "What does Tonda know about the
Hishus? What has he learned to-night? Nothing. Two sleeps and Nadu will
be here. She knows much."

"And the canoe?" breathed the warrior.

"Let Tonda wait, and he shall have the canoe. He shall have it
to-night."

For a few minutes the two men moved aside and conversed with each other
in low tones. At length Tonda turned toward the woman.

"The Big Lake warriors will trust Nadu," he said. "Let her show them the
canoe, and after two sleeps they will be here."

"Tonda speaks well" was the reply. "Nadu is pleased. She will find the
canoe. Come."




CHAPTER X

SUBTLE WAYS


When Siwash Bill staggered to his feet he was still dazed by the furious
blow which had sent him reeling to the ground. A burning rage filled his
heart, mingled with a sense of fear. Who was this man who had so
suddenly leaped out of the night with that sledge-hammer fist? His face
he had not seen, for there had been no time for that. He looked toward
the door, and saw a dark, tall form bearing the unconscious woman in its
arms. Then the door closed and he was alone. His first impulse was to
rush forward, smash down that wooden barrier and hurl himself upon his
assailant. He advanced a few steps, and then hesitated. No, he would
wait. He would learn more. And besides, the woman did not want him. She
had repelled him. He had made her a liberal offer, and she had scorned
him to his face. Slowly he moved away from the building toward the
store. He reached the edge of the forest, and, stepping aside a few
yards from the trail, sat down upon an old log. He could see the house,
and anyone who came out would be quite visible. His small eyes peered
forth from among the trees as he sat and watched.

He had not long to wait ere Grey emerged from the building and hurried
across the open. The squaw man half rose to his feet as he recognised
the constable. His hand slipped to his hip pocket and rested upon the
butt of a revolver concealed there. Here was his chance. He would get
more than even for the assault which had been made. His face was sore
and swollen where the blow had fallen. That insult would soon be wiped
out. Grey was near now, almost opposite, and Bill held the weapon in his
hand. Another step or two and all would be over. But even as his finger
rested upon the curve of the trigger his arm weakened and his hand
trembled. A vision flashed before his mind.

With his outward eyes he beheld only one lone man striding forward
through the night. He was unaware of danger, and how easy to strike him
down. But the squaw man saw more than this. He knew full well that the
figure before him represented a power which would scour every valley,
hill and region in the whole land to avenge his death. The work of the
Mounted Police was well known to him. Years before he had reason to
dread their marvellous vigilance. Here in the far North, beyond the
bounds of civilisation, he had fondly believed he would be free from
their rule. But no, they were following him still. The awe for this body
of men which had been instilled into his heart years ago gripped him now
as strongly as ever. He thought of the dire consequences should he shoot
this lone constable. The idea unnerved him, and caused his arm to drop
by his side, while Grey strode forward unconscious of the danger which
threatened him among the trees.

A low curse breathed from Siwash Bill's lips as he watched his enemy
until he disappeared from view.

"I'm a d-- fool, an' a coward!" he muttered as he stepped out upon the
trail. "To think that I have let that cur escape! An' yet--" He paused,
and his face wrinkled into an ugly scowl. "By G--, he won't git off
always as he did this time! He's after me, I know. But maybe he'll git
more than he's bargained fer. Oh, yes, my beauty. You got clear to-night
with your whole skin. But there are ways, an' I'll defy the whole d--
Force!"

Thinking thus he reached his own house, pushed open the door and
entered. The place was in darkness. He called for Nadu, but received no
reply.

"Where in h-- are ye?" he shouted. "Why don't ye answer? Are ye asleep?"

But still no reply.

Fumbling in his pocket he produced a match, struck it and lighted a
candle lying near. Holding this in his hand he examined the room. To his
surprise the place was empty. Sticking the candle into a hole in the
table, he sat down upon a bench and began to collect his thoughts. Where
had Nadu gone? It was seldom she left the building at night. He took
good care of that. He did not wish her to be wandering around,
especially when the Indians arrived from their hunting grounds. Why had
she gone during his absence? he wondered. Anyway, she would come back,
there was no doubt of that, and he would wait for her. She would not do
such a thing again.

Throwing himself upon a rude bunk fastened to the wall, he began to
think about the events of the afternoon and night. Ere long he became
drowsy, for it was late. He tried hard for some time to keep awake, but
his efforts were all in vain, for sleep at length gained the mastery. He
did not hear the door open, nor the soft movement of moccasined feet
across the room. Neither did he see a lithe form standing by his side,
while a pair of piercing eyes, full of a triumphant gleam, gazed down
upon his face.

The morning light was stealing in through the little window on the left
when Siwash Bill opened his eyes and looked about the room. Realising
that he had overslept himself he sprang quickly out of the bunk, and
stood over Nadu who was lying on the floor, rolled up in her blanket.

"Get up!" he growled in Indian, at the same time touching her with the
toe of his boot in no gentle manner.

Thus rudely aroused Nadu threw aside the blanket, rose to a squatting
posture, and eyed her imperious master. The look she bestowed upon him
was one of scorn and contempt.

"Where were you last night?" he demanded. "What did you mean by staying
out so late? I waited a d-- long time for you. See that it doesn't
happen again. You don't leave this place at night for a month, so
understand that. If you do I'll break every bone in your black body."

At these words Nadu's lips parted in a sarcastic smile. Her teeth
gleamed like polished ivory, and her eyes bespoke danger. She was no
longer afraid of this man. Her days of slavery were about over.

"Did Bill wait up long?" she queried. "Then Nadu is not happy. But Bill
sleeps well."

"Sleep well! Certainly. It was late enough for anyone to sleep well. I
want to know where you were, and what kept you out so late. Have any of
the Injun bucks come back? If I catch you with any of them, or if you go
to their tents, it won't be well for you."

"And was not Bill afraid to sleep well?" the woman answered in her
sweetest native tones.

"Afraid? Afraid of what?"

"Does not Bill fear the Big Lakes?"

"The Big Lakes? What are you talking about?" and the squaw man's eyes
opened with surprise.

"But does not Bill know that the Big Lakes are all same wolves and
foxes? They come up the river; they paddle soft; they wait till night.
They come to Hishu; they creep along trail; they go among the cabins;
they see much. Is not Bill afraid?"

A slight expression of concern swept across the squaw man's face at
these words. He knew of the trouble which existed between the two Indian
tribes, and realised what a sudden attack of the wily Big Lakes would
mean to his fur-trading business.

"Nadu," he demanded after a minute's thought, "have you seen any of the
Big Lakes near Hishu lately?"

"Ah, ah," was the reply.

"When?"

"They came in the night, when Bill was asleep. They paddle soft up the
river; they creep up the trail; they see the cabins empty; they laugh.
'Hishu is not strong,' they say. 'Hishu is like a gopher, easy to
catch.'"

"And how many of the Big Lakes came?" Bill questioned.

Nadu held up two fingers.

"Bah! Is that all?"

"Ah, ah; all now, but not all by and by."

"And you think more will come later?"

"Ah, ah."

"Did you see the Injuns? Did you speak to them?"

"Ah, ah."

"And are they near Hishu now?"

"Ah, ah."

At any other time Bill would have been furious had Nadu confessed that
she had been talking with two Indians from her own tribe, especially at
night. But now he was thinking of other things. Although the thought of
those Big Lake spies filled him with apprehension, yet they brought to
his mind a new idea. They would go back to their own people. Nadu was
one of them. She knew their ways and dialect. Why should she not take
that boy and go back with the Big Lakes? He had been racking his brain
for some plan to get him out of Hishu, and away from that meddlesome
stranger. Here was an opportunity which must not be missed. And for Nadu
to go, too, would suit his purpose well. She was in his way now. He had
made up his mind to win that white woman, and a repulse or two only made
him the more determined. He had no doubt about the final outcome of it
all, for mingled with Siwash Bill's craftiness and vileness was much
personal vanity. He had won Nadu, the choicest flower of the Big Lake
maidens, against numerous rivals, and who was this white woman living
with Old Meg who could withstand him for any length of time? And when he
had won her Nadu would be in the way. She would not endure a pale face
rival in the same house. No. Nadu must go--and here was the favourable
chance. He need not have her back again, and not likely would she wish
to come.

A smile of satisfaction crossed Bill's face as he thought of this
scheme, and the solution of two difficult questions.

"Where are the Big Lakes now?" he asked, turning toward Nadu.

"Down the river."

"And will they come back again?"

"Ah, ah, maybe so."

"Will you see them?"

"How can Nadu see them?" was the low reply. "Has not Bill spoken? Has he
not said that Nadu must not go out at night?"

"Yes, yes, I know I said that. But I have changed my mind. I want you to
meet those Injuns when they come back, and tell them something."

At this Bill looked cautiously around, lowered his voice, and whispered
a few words into her ear.

Nadu started slightly, and looked up keenly into the squaw man's face as
if to read his inmost thoughts.

"Is not Bill afraid to let Nadu go with the Big Lake braves?" she
queried.

"Why should I be afraid?" he parried. "You will be among your own
people, and think of the money you will get. You look after that brat
until I want him, and you will get the chink."

"How soon?"

"Can't tell for certain. Shifty leaves to-day for Big Glen. It may take
a little time."

"Maybe Shifty doesn't get money," suggested the woman.

"No fear of that," was the response. "When that old cuss knows it's
either the money or his child's life he'll cough up the dough quicker
than h--."

"But maybe Shifty get caught," persisted Nadu.

"No fear of that, either. If hands are laid upon Shifty it's all up with
the kid. Old Si knows that. He's had his instructions all in black and
white. He's put that d-- Yellow-leg upon us, but that doesn't matter.
Now will you do as I wish; see those Big Lake spies, pinch the kid and
get out?"

Nadu did not reply at once, but sat very still with her head bent, and
eyes fixed upon the floor. Of what was she thinking? Had she read Siwash
Bill's heart, and the reason which prompted him to send her away with
the child? Did any feeling of jealousy mingle with the joy of escaping
from the life of bondage, and returning to her own people? Whatever were
the emotions contending within her breast she betrayed not a sign as she
lifted up her calm, passive face to the man standing before her.

"Nadu will go," she quietly remarked. "She will meet the Big Lake
braves. She will go to her own people, and the pale face baby will go
with her."

"Good!" responded Bill, and at once he turned to leave the room. "See
that you don't fail, or it won't be well with you."

Nadu waited until the door had closed, and she was sure that Bill was
some distance away. Then the expression on her face underwent a
marvellous change. The softness and the light faded like the beauty of
an evening sky before thick threatening clouds, leaving in their stead
fierceness and strange forebodings. Could the scheming squaw man have
seen her then he would not have felt so confident of the success of his
venture.




CHAPTER XI

THE CAPTURE


When Madeline opened her eyes after Grey had left she imagined it was
all a horrible dream. But the sight of Old Meg standing by her side and
her own great weakness of body told her that it was too terribly true. A
shiver shook her form as she thought of Siwash Bill, his impudence, and
insulting request. She longed to inquire about the man who had rescued
her and carried her into the house. What had become of him? she
wondered. She was tempted to ask Old Meg to tell her what she knew. But
each time she hesitated, and found herself unable to form the words
which were trembling upon her lips.

Meg asked no questions about the occurrence of the night. That something
more than usual had taken place she was well assured. But Madeline's
reserved manner restrained even this woman, noted for her boldness and
curiosity. There was some mystery, she believed, concerning this
stranger who had arrived so unexpectedly in Hishu. Did Madeline know
anything about him? Had she seen him before? These thoughts puzzled and
worried her throughout the day. Often she would pause in the midst of
her work and gaze for some time out of the open door.

Most of the day Madeline spent with Donnie. He had awakened feeling
much better, and the wheezing cough had disappeared. He soon became
quite friendly with the woman sitting by his side, who looked upon him
with such big pathetic eyes. Madeline told him simple childish stories,
at which he would often clap his hands with delight. When night arrived
Donnie was much like his former self. Madeline rejoiced to have the
child near her. She knew that Hishu was no place for a boy like this,
and her heart ached to think that such a delicate lad should be so far
away from his parents' tender care. As the darkness deepened, and Donnie
sat in her lap he asked for his mother.

"Why doesn't she tum to me, Malin?" he said. "Why does she 'tay away so
long?"

Such a question Madeline could not answer. She endeavoured to soothe
him, and gently stroked his curly silken hair. Long after he had fallen
asleep she sat by his side and gazed upon the little face. And so the
boy was stolen away, too, she thought. Why should an innocent child be
made to suffer by reason of cruel, wicked men? She recalled Siwash
Bill's vile proposition, and shuddered. She knew something of his
persistency, and of the length he would go to carry out his base
designs. Money and revenge the man wanted. She was sure of that, and had
torn away the lamb from the fold to further his object. What could she
do to save the boy? She longed to seize him in her arms, and hurry off
into the forest; anywhere would be better than Hishu. But this she
realised would be futile. Her face darkened, and her tense hands
gripped each other in her lap as she thought of her own fruitless
attempts in the past. She could not escape from the Argus-eyed Meg, and
what could she do with a little lad in a dreary wilderness, with Siwash
Bill and his gang in pursuit? She thought of Norman, and a flush mantled
her face. Would not he help her? But why should she go to him? He had
kept clear of her; had not even come to inquire after the lad. And yet
she felt it was Norman and no one else who had saved her from Siwash
Bill. Why did he leave so soon? What was the meaning of his strange
behaviour? Was it because he believed her to be--? The words would not
come to Madeline's lips. Would Norman think such things of her, of
Madeline whom he had known and loved in the happy days of old, which now
seemed so far away?

The next day Donnie was well enough to run about the house. Everything
interested him, and his cheery laugh caused even Old Meg's face to
soften with a new light.

"Donnie," said Madeline that evening, "how would you like to walk to the
river with me? I go there sometimes by myself, but would like to have
you this time to take care of me."

Donnie clapped his hands with delight, and chatted incessantly while
Madeline wrapped a small shawl about his body, and tied a hood, much too
large for him, upon his curly head.

Together they soon set off down the trail, Donnie holding Madeline's
hand, and plying her with all sorts of questions.

"Will ou take me home some day, Malin?" he asked.

"I should like to do so, dear," was the reply. "I know your father and
mother must be anxious about you. But what will Madeline do without her
little boy?"

"Oh, ou will tum, too. Ou _must_ tum, and live right wif me. We have a
big, big house. I will let ou sleep in my room, play wif my horse and
tin soldiers. Wouldn't ou like to tum?"

"Very much, dearie," and tears stood in Madeline's eyes at the child's
innocent prattle.

"Is this your home, Malin?" and the lad looked up inquiringly into her
face.

"Why do you ask that, Donnie? Don't you think this is my home?"

"I don't know. But it seems such a funny home. Is dat woman your mother?
And where is your daddy?"

A lump came into Madeline's throat, and she pressed Donnie's hand more
firmly.

"I haven't any father and mother now, Donnie. But I have a home, far,
far away, oh, so beautiful, which I have not seen for a long time."

"Tell me about it, Malin," and the child perched himself upon an old
fallen log which stretched itself along the trail.

By this time they had drawn very close to the river, where the bank was
steep. All around stood the silent forest of firs and jack pines, with
the cold, dark stream drifting noiselessly by. No sense of fear came
into Madeline's heart as she obeyed Donnie's behest. So often had she
come to this place that it was like an old friend, full of understanding
and sympathy.

Seating herself by the lad's side she told about her old home, the house
among the trees, the garden with the many beautiful flowers, where the
birds sang and the bees hummed.

To all this Donnie listened with wide-eyed pleasure, occasionally
interrupting with a question about the birds and flowers.

So engrossed did Madeline become with her story that she forgot how the
time had flown and how late was the hour. Neither did she notice a dark
form gliding silently toward her through the shadowy forest, nor a trim
canoe which had dropped down-stream and was now lying below the bank not
far away.

"Come, Donnie!" she exclaimed; "it's getting dark, and we must hurry
home."

And even as she spoke and rose to her feet, a powerful Indian leaped
from a thicket of trees a few yards away, and arrested her further
movement. Too startled to cry Madeline gave one lightning glance at the
intruder, and then caught Donnie in her arms. At once the child was torn
from her grasp, and borne swiftly to the river by the native.

Forgetting her own danger, and thinking only of the lad, with a cry
Madeline sprang forward. She leaped down the bank toward the canoe,
which was lying near, held close to the shore by a swarthy Indian. Him
she saw not, neither did she notice a figure crouched in the bow, with a
shawl wrapped about her shoulders, watching everything with cruel,
sparkling eyes. Donnie was in the canoe! He was to be taken away, and
she must save him! That was all she could think about. She saw him
struggling in the arms of his captor, and reaching out appealing hands
to her. She beheld the look of terror blanching his little face, and
heard his piercing cry of "Malin! Malin!" ere he was silenced by a dark
hand placed suddenly and roughly across his mouth.

Throwing discretion to the wind Madeline sprang into the canoe, nearly
capsizing it as she did so, and snatched Donnie out of the Indian's
arms. That the latter relinquished the child so readily was at first
somewhat of a surprise. It was soon explained, however, for, upon
turning to step ashore she found that the craft was several yards from
the bank, and drifting down-stream. The Indians had seized their
paddles, and the canoe was now cleaving the rippling water in its onward
sweep.

Madeline at once realised her desperate situation. What did it all mean?
Why was she being taken away? Had some cruel plot been formed against
her?

She looked at her captors. They were calm and alert, swinging their
paddles with a steady rhythmical motion. She glanced around, and the
figure crouched in the bow arrested her attention. A shiver shook her
form as she noted the fierce malicious gleam of the eyes which met her
own. What did that woman mean by glaring at her in such a manner, and
what did that look signify? What had she done to merit such action, and
what lay ahead of her? That great silent river flowed on down into the
vast unknown wilderness--and what then? The thought was more than she
could endure. She looked wildly toward the shore. She clutched Donnie
close to her breast. She scanned the banks for signs of life, some human
being who would come to their rescue. The helplessness of her position
overwhelmed her. Lifting up her voice she gave several wild, piercing
cries for aid, and then sank to the bottom of the canoe, forced down by
strong, rough hands laid fiercely upon her. This insult sent the blood
surging tumultuously through her veins. But what could she do? What
power had she, a woman, against these uncouth natives? She crouched
there in the bottom of the craft, her hands clinched together, and her
dry, clear eyes staring out over the water through the deepening gloom.

She was presently aroused by a movement near her side, and then a little
soft hand stole timidly into her own. Glancing quickly down she noticed
Donnie nestling close to her, and looking up appealingly into her face.

"Malin, I'm cold," he whimpered, and a slight shiver shook his frame. "I
want my mother. Oh, please take me home."

A throb of compunction smote Madeline's heart as she looked upon the
lad. Thinking of her own trouble she had forgotten him.

Drawing the warm shawl from her shoulders she wrapped it carefully about
the lad's body. Nearer and nearer he nestled until he felt quite
comfortable, and leaned his head against her side.

"Tell me a 'tory, Malin," he requested. "I'm very sleepy."

Tell a story! What story could she tell at a time like this, with so
many thoughts surging madly through her brain? And yet here was this
child lying so trustingly by her side, and looking up to her for
comfort.

"What story do you want, dearie?" she asked after a brief pause.

"Tell me 'bout the baby Moses in the ark of bulwushes," replied Donnie,
as he snuggled up closer than ever.

With an effort Madeline forced herself to the task, and there in that
great wilderness, in the midst of fears and unknown dangers, she told
gently and softly the old, old story, which in all ages has thrilled the
hearts of countless children. And as she talked the little head at her
side drooped lower until it touched her lap. The big blue eyes winked
hard in an effort to remain open. But nature was too strong, and ere
long the lad was wrapped in slumber, far beyond all worldly care. As
Madeline looked down upon the sleeping boy, and watched him lying there,
with one little dimpled hand clutching at her dress, a deep, wonderful
love for the child stole into her heart. In the telling of the story she
had been much strengthened. In ministering to another she herself had
been comforted. She knew that the same loving Father who had shielded
Moses so long ago from his enemies was as able and willing to save now
as then. "Oh, Father in Heaven," she prayed, "guard us to-night. Give me
strength to defend this little child, and to restore him safely to his
parents."

Thus all through the long, lonely hours of darkness she remained
crouched in the bottom of the canoe. At times her cramped position was
almost unbearable. But she must not disturb that child lying so calmly
with his head resting upon her lap. But no sleep came to her own eyes.
Her brain was too active for that. The swish of the water as the canoe
sped forward almost maddened her. Occasionally the natives spoke to one
another in their strange guttural language. But Madeline understood not
what was said, and each word rasped forth only tended to increase her
watchfulness and loneliness.

After hours of steady paddling a sharp word of command rang out.
Immediately the canoe was turned toward the shore, and soon the keel was
grating upon the pebbly beach. It was very early in the morning, what
time Madeline could not guess.

Almost mechanically she watched the natives as they left the canoe and
proceeded to build a small fire upon the bank. This accomplished they
proceeded to cook some moose steak they had brought with them.

No one seemed to take any notice of Madeline, and for a while she
remained in the canoe. At length, arousing Donnie, she attempted to rise
to her feet, but sank down again with a slight cry, so numb was her body
from her cramped position. The boy opened his eyes and looked around in
a startled manner.

"What's the matter, Malin?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

"No, dearie," was the reply. "I shall be better soon. Will you help me
out of the canoe?"

At once the little fellow sprang to his feet, took her hand in his, and
proudly led her ashore, and up the steep bank. With difficulty Madeline
made her way by his side, pretending to lean upon him for support. Ere
long the numbing sensation passed away, and she walked slowly around,
watching the men preparing their breakfast.

The Indian woman took no part in their proceedings, but sat upon a stone
a short distance away. She appeared to be gazing far off into space. But
her sharp eyes noted Madeline's every movement.

The latter was strangely fascinated by that silent figure. At times she
was seized with a nameless fear at the thought of what this woman might
be planning down deep in her heart. Of the men, wild and uncouth though
they were, she had little anxiety. Their faces at any rate were not
crafty or cruel. But this woman with that strange light in her eyes made
her tremble with apprehension.

When the breakfast had been prepared Madeline was offered some meat, and
black tea in an old filthy tin can. The sight of the latter almost
sickened her, and she turned away her head in disgust. The meat she
took, ate some, and gave a little to Donnie, who was hungry, and enjoyed
it thoroughly. It did not take them long to complete their frugal meal,
and soon they were all again in the canoe, moving once more down that
sombre stream.

Before long they entered upon a large, broad lake, and, instead of
skirting the shore, the Indians struck straight away to a point of land
dimly seen in the distance. This body of water, some thirty miles long,
by three to five wide, was dotted here and there with small wooded
islands. It was almost completely surrounded by towering, rock-ribbed
mountains, whose peaks, devoid of life, were covered with snow for the
greater part of the year.

Away to the left appeared a huge draw, well known for the violent gales
it frequently vomited forth. Many were the native legends concerning
this place; of the monster of the mountains who made his abode there,
and who when angry would hurl forth his overwhelming spleen upon unwary
navigators.

Often Tonda and his companions cast furtive glances toward the yawning
draw, and drove their paddles with greater energy than ever. On and on
they sped. They reached the mouth of the gap. They came opposite the
place. They were almost past, and the Indians breathed more freely. The
monster was not angry, or had not noticed them. Perhaps he was asleep at
that time of the morning. But, alas! they were doomed to disappointment.
Without one warning sign a gale ripped down the draw with a wild
concentrated fury, and spreading over the lake lashed the water into a
yeasty foam.

With dismay the Indians beheld the onrushing storm, and headed the
canoe for shore. How they did work, and the craft leaped on her way like
a thing of life.

Nearer and nearer they approached the beach. Would they win? Yes. No,
for the tempest struck them full abeam. It whirled and roared about them
in mad glee. It tossed the canoe like a cork, and dashed the water over
the crouching forms.

Madeline clutched Donnie in her arms, and drew him close to her breast.
His white, scared face looked up appealingly into hers, though he
uttered not a word, nor did a cry escape his lips.

Steadily and calmly the natives plied their paddles, and managed the
canoe with considerable skill. But as they neared the shore the large
ground swells formed a menace to their advance. Into them they ran, for
there was no other course to pursue. From crest to crest they were
hurried, each growing larger as they surged forward. When only a short
distance from land, a wave larger than usual curled angrily right
astern, broke over the canoe, completely submerging everything.
Instantly the craft was caught by another roller, which tossed it
forward, and, retreating, left it stranded upon the beach. At once a
rush ensued. Madeline with Donnie in her arms sped up the bank, with
Nadu in advance. The Indians seized the canoe, dragged it after them
just in time to escape the next breaker which broke, grinning upon the
shore.




CHAPTER XII

LINKS OF STEEL


When Norman Grey flung himself out of Old Meg's house his one burning
idea was to seek the man who had insulted Madeline. He half expected to
find him where he had left him, and was more than disappointed when no
sign of the rascal was to be seen. He hurried along the trail desirous
of reaching the store as quickly as possible, and meeting Siwash Bill
face to face. Although unarmed the thought of fear or of the possible
outcome of a personal affray with such a man never entered his head. But
as he walked swiftly forward and the cool night air fanned his hot brow,
he realised how unwise would be such a line of action at the present
critical condition of affairs. Nothing would be gained, he felt sure,
and much harm might be done by indiscreet hastiness. He would wait for a
while. Too many things were at stake. He knew how the squaw man would be
incensed by the blow he had received, and that he would, no doubt, seek
speedy revenge in some underhanded manner.

Thinking thus he reached the forest, and passed by the spot where
crouched his enemy with his forefinger slightly pressing the nimble
trigger of his revolver. No sense of danger from that quarter came into
Grey's mind, and he strode swiftly onward, unaware of the imminent
peril which had been so narrowly averted.

The moon was now rising full and broad. A few fleecy clouds were
drifting slowly overhead. The land lay silent and sombre. Nature was
hushed in a dreamy, mystic repose. Grey paused and gazed upon the scene.
His mind cleared, while a new strength and quietness entered his heart.
He thought of Madeline. The sight of that slight form and fair face had
awakened the vibrant chords of memory. His face had been close to hers
as she lay in his arms while he bore her into the house. A great desire
had seized him to press his lips firmly to hers, no matter what she
might be. How he longed to seize her and bear her away from such a
place. But, no, he would not do it against her will. What was she doing
here, anyway? Why should she leave a home of comfort for such a desolate
region? "Madeline! Madeline!" he breathed. "What does it all mean? Oh,
to feel that you are as I left you by that garden gate; that you are the
same pure-souled woman as of old!"

He entered the cabin, threw himself into the bunk, and soon fell into a
fitful sleep. He was awakened by the rattle of dishes, and a peculiar
sizzling sound. Opening his eyes he beheld Buckskin Dan standing before
the little sheet-iron stove frying some moose meat. The appetising smell
filled the room, making Grey realise that he was very hungry. For a
while he lay still and watched Dan as he worked. What an ideal life, he
thought, as his eyes roved about the cosy cabin. What did such a man
need with the luxuries of civilisation? Here in the wilderness he is
free to come and go at will. The land teeming with game, and this quiet
abode as a place of retreat. Yet he must be lonely at times, he mused.
Now a pleasant companion, a woman for instance, would prove an
additional charm. She would have to be pretty and genial, or the
situation might not be so fascinating. But, then, such cramped quarters
might not suit her. She would need more rooms, and that would
necessitate extra furniture. And suppose there should not be always two?
That would certainly complicate matters, and affairs at times might not
be so congenial.

A slight laugh unconsciously broke from Grey's lips, which caused Dan to
turn quickly about. A smile spread over his furrowed face as he noticed
that his companion was awake.

"Thought ye was asleep," he remarked, "an' here I've been tiptoein'
around the room like a thief fer the last half hour."

"Oh, I've been quietly musing in this comfortable place for a few
minutes," Grey replied.

"Wall, is that so? Yer musin' must have been very amusin' from the
chuckles ye jist let out."

"It was," Grey replied as he sat up in the bunk. "I was thinking what a
change it would make here if you had a wife. I was wondering if it would
be as agreeable to you as living alone."

To these words Buckskin Dan made no immediate reply. He seemed to be
suddenly interested in the meat that was now becoming temptingly
browned. He laid his few meagre dishes upon the rough table, while Grey
washed his face and hands in a tin basin near the door. The latter noted
the old man's silence, and feared that he had offended him by his
jocular remark. It was only after they had sat down to their breakfast
that Dan awoke from his reverie. He looked across the table and fixed
his faded eyes upon Grey's face.

"Ye hit me to the quick by that question of yours, pardner," he began.
"Ye didn't mean no harm, an' I take yer words kindly. But, young man, ye
little realised how that thrust stung."

"I'm sorry," Grey faltered, for the man's impressive manner was
affecting him more than ordinary.

"That's all right, pardner. Don't ye worry one mite. Ye axed a fair
question. But, my God! how kin I answer? Would I like to have a wife?
Would I be happier? Am I happy now, d'ye think? Am I happy wanderin' out
on the hills all by meself, an' comin' back to this lonely cabin, with
never a face to greet me, an' never a word of welcome? Then, when I'm
under the weather, an' somewhat petered out, to lie all day long in this
shack with never a gentle voice to ax how I am, no one to do fer me, an'
no one to care whether I live or die--d'ye think that is happiness?
Young man, git a home, an' git it as soon as possible. Buckskin Dan's
been over the trail afore ye, an' he knows a thing or two."

"I'm afraid it's too late," Grey sadly replied.

Dan looked keenly at his companion as if trying to read the purport of
his words.

"D'ye mean to tell me," he asked, "that you too have lost?"

"That's about it."

"Dead?"

"No, and yes."

"Ah, livin' yit, then?"

"In a way."

"But she's alive, young man. Remember that's somethin'. Ye've got hope
yit; it ain't altogether crushed. Look at me, pardner. Didn't I love the
sweetest, fairest lass that ever trod God's earth? But she left me!"

The trapper paused, and an expression of agony came into his face. Grey
could find no words; he knew not what to say.

"Yes, she left me," the old man continued, "left me in the bright summer
time, forty years ago come next July. She faded like the flowers of the
garden. The roses fled her cheeks, the roundness left her face, an' the
strength desarted her body. But she loved me to the last, an' her
partin' word was to me."

"But surely forty years have healed the wound," Grey responded. "It's
been long since then, and many a man would have forgotten."

"Never, young man, never! I kin see her as plain to-day as of old. Out
on the hills, an' along the trail, my Nan, my lost Nanette, is always
with me."

"And have you lived in the wilderness ever since?" Grey queried.

"Most of the time."

"Don't you often long, though, for civilisation?"

"I uster have a hankerin' that way. But when I saw the young fellers
with their sweethearts it made me feel so lonely that I could hardly
stand it. I like it better out on the hills with my Nanette. But of late
I've been somewhat drawn back to this camp more'n usual. Thar's a lassie
over yon at that house which minds me much of my Nan. I caught a glimpse
of her one day which made me stan' very still. An' since then I have sot
on the edge of the woods an' watched her as she walked along the trail a
leadin' to the river. She's jist like her in form--but my Nan was never
like her."

"Do you mean the young woman at Old Meg's?" Grey demanded.

"Yes; it's her I mean."

"And what do you know about her?"

"Nothin' fer sartin. It's only suspicion. But why should sich a purty
lass be out in a hole like this with a cratur' like Old Meg unless thar
was somethin' wrong? Tell me that."

"But haven't you heard anything? What do the men in camp say? Don't they
go there?"

Grey had now risen to his feet and was standing near the table looking
straight at his companion. His heart was beating fast. He expected to
hear the truth from this old man. Did he know? Could he tell him
anything?

"Yes, the men go thar," Dan replied, noting Grey's excitement. "But I've
never axed 'em. When I see her I see my Nanette, an' I want to think
it's my Nan livin' over thar an' not--"

"Don't say any more!" cried Grey fiercely, bringing his fist down upon
the table with a resounding blow. "You say that you have suffered; that
you lost your Nanette long ago. But she left you, and you know she was
pure and good when she died. But listen to me. What would be the
sufferings of a man who loved a woman whom he believed to be as noble as
your Nanette? Loved her with all the true passion of a man's heart. Then
lost her, and after years of seeking to find her there, living such a
life as that? Could your suffering be compared to his? Far better, don't
you think, that your Nanette should be dead than living such a life as
that?"

"My God! yes," cried the trapper, as the meaning of the constable's
words dawned upon his mind. "But are ye sure she's thar? Mebbe ye've
been mistaken."

"Oh, no, there is no mistake. Wouldn't I recognise my Madeline
anywhere?"

"Sure, that's only nat'ral. An' so ye tell me she was once like my
Nanette? How d'ye account then fer her bein' away up here?"

"I can't. It's a sore puzzle. She was reared in a home of luxury and
loving care. Her mother died when she was quite young. She was her
father's only comfort, and he planned that at his death the whole of his
property, which was large, should go to her. They had relatives in the
United States, and Madeline in charge of a trusted friend left England
to pay them a visit. On that voyage the steamer was wrecked. Several
lives were reported lost, Madeline and her travelling companion among
the number. Something always told me that the report was not true, and
that Madeline had not been drowned. I could not rid my mind of the idea.
It forced itself upon me day and night. That was six years ago, and
since then I have travelled far and wide in the hope of obtaining some
trace of her. And now to find her there! Oh, God, it is too hard!"

Grey sank upon the bench, and buried his face in his hands. Buckskin Dan
watched him compassionately for a while, and thoughtfully stroked his
long beard.

"Seems to me thar's somethin' wrong," he at length remarked. "It ain't
nat'ral fer sich a lassie, brought up as ye say she was, to be in a
place like this. Mebbe if ye had a talk with her she would explain
matters."

"I've thought of it," was the slow reply, "but somehow I can't. The
first time I saw her enter the house I wanted to rush to her at once.
And then last night when she lay unconscious in my arms as I carried her
into the cabin the yearning was stronger than ever."

"Young man, what are ye talkin' about?" Dan demanded. "Did ye say she
was unconscious? What d'ye mean? What are ye sayin'?"

"I know you must be surprised at my words," Grey responded; then he
briefly told the incident of the past night.

Dan said not a word during this recital, but sat bolt upright on his
bench. His clinched hands kept moving to and fro by his side, while a
deep scowl formed upon his brow.

"The d-- skunk!" he ejaculated when Grey ceased. "Oh, if I only had me
hands on his measly carcass! An' so he insulted the lassie did he?"

"I should like to know how she is getting along," Grey continued. "But
how can I go? If I could feel she is my Madeline as of old, then no
power in Hishu could keep me from her side. But I can't go unless I know
she wants me. I would like to hear, too, about the boy."

The trapper sat thoughtfully smoking for some time in deep silence. Then
he reached out a large hand across the table.

"Put it thar, young man," he said. "Yer tale of sorrow has brought ye
very close to me old heart. We're pardners now fer sure. Buckskin Dan
don't make friends easy, but when he does it's with links of steel, an'
don't ye fergit that. But, come, we've sot here long enough. I jist want
to run across to the store fer a little baccy an' ammunition. It'll take
only a few minutes. Thar's important bizness ahead of us, an' we ain't
got no time to lose."




CHAPTER XIII

THE TRAILING SERPENT


Buckskin Dan walked slowly along the trail toward the store. The day was
young, and the sun was just swinging clear of the far eastern horizon.
It was a cool morning, and the mists of night still hung thick over
river and valley. Dan's chest expanded as he drank into his lungs great
draughts of the fresh, keen air. "It's the only tonic I need," he had
often remarked. "Pills an' tablets an' patent trash may suit some, but
give me the medicine the good Lord sends fresh from the hills an'
mountains. Thar's no p'isin in that, an' it doesn't twist yer stummick
into a groanin' hell wuss than some preachers tell us about."

He found Siwash Bill within the store, looking carefully over his supply
of rifles and shot-guns.

"Mornin', Dan," was the curt salutation.

"Mornin'," came the brief reply. "Any baccy?"

"Plenty," and the squaw man crossed the room and handed out a big black
plug. "What else?"

"Some ca'tridges. I'm 'bout cleaned out."

"Goin' out on the hills to-day, Dan?" queried the storekeeper.

"Guess likely. Saw some big sheep thar t'other day, an' I need them
bad, fer my stock of meat's gittin' low."

"Is the stranger goin' with ye?"

"Mebbe so. 'Cordin' how he feels. Wall, so long, I must be off."

Dan did not notice the interested look in Siwash Bill's face when he
learned that the trapper was bound for the hills. Neither did he see the
squaw man and Windy Pete engaged in an eager conversation in the back
room a few minutes later. He strode forward little realising that his
few words were acting like fire to tow in two cunning minds within the
store.

He reached Old Meg's house, and rapped upon the door. The owner herself
appeared, and stood looking curiously out upon the trapper.

"How's the lassie?" Dan blurted forth. He did not like the expression in
the woman's face, and longed to get through with his errand as soon as
possible.

"What business is it of yours how she is?" was the quick retort.

"Now don't git cranky, woman," Dan replied; "it doesn't work with me."

"Indeed," and Meg gave a sarcastic laugh. "Don't try any of your bluff
game here. It doesn't work with me, either."

"I'm not, woman, an' ye'll soon find it out if ye try any foolin'. If
anythin' happens to the lassie wot lives with ye, beware. Buckskin Dan
isn't in the habit of talkin' simply to hear his own eloquence. I want
to know how the gal is feelin' this mornin'. Will ye tell me? Is it yes
or no?"

The defiant look on Old Meg's face changed to one of concern. She was
becoming uneasy before those steady eyes which seemed to be reading her
inmost soul.

"What does the man know?" she mentally asked herself. "What does he mean
by such words?" She knew of Buckskin Dan, and for him to visit her on
such business was sufficient cause for anxiety. She shifted uneasily
from one foot to the other, and tried to evade his look.

"Is it yes or no? I won't ax ag'in."

"Oh, well, if you must know," she flung forth, "she's all right. It
takes a deal to upset her."

"Ah, is that so? An' the kid, how is he gittin' along?"

"Better. Out in a day or two. Now, are you satisfied?"

With that the woman slammed the door, leaving Dan to his own thoughts.
And those same thoughts were of no light nature which beat through his
brain as he wended his way back to his own house. As he had told Grey
the evening before, he had been trained in the wilderness to use his
eyes and ears, and he might have included his brain, too, for that
matter. He used it now right royally as he moved along the trail. His
head was bent forward, and his long beard swept his breast. Every
movement of his body bespoke a man of action, while his giant stature
denoted strength of no ordinary nature. He was a patriarchal giant of
the wild, where endurance and lustihood mean so much.

A slight sigh of relief at length escaped his lips as if some problem
had been suddenly and unexpectedly solved. He entered his cabin, and a
smile illumined his face as he beheld Grey busily engaged in putting the
room in order.

"What!" he cried. "My mornin's work all done, an' the dishes washed,
too! Ye've left nuthin' fer me, pardner."

"Didn't you say," Grey laughingly replied, "that we have important
business on hand, and that there's no time to lose? I'm still in the
dark as to your meaning, but thought it best to straighten things up
here a bit so as to be ready."

"Ye're right, young man, thar is important bizness on hand. But mebbe ye
won't agree to my plan."

"You lead on, Dan," Grey replied. "You're the Commanding Officer to-day,
and I'll follow you to the death."

"Good!" ejaculated the trapper, as he brought forth the plug of tobacco
from his pocket, and began to whittle off several thin slices. "I've
been thinkin' much since hearin' yer story, an' thar's only one course I
see open."

"And what's that?"

"Git out to the hills after the Hishu bunch of miners. If I kin round
'em up afore they come back and git soaked with Bill's and Meg's
p'isined whiskey mebbe I kin do somethin'. Will ye go with me? We might
run across some game on the way. We'll take a blanket along an' some
grub, fer we'll have to spend the night most likely in the open."

"But will it be well to leave Hishu?" Grey queried. "Something might
happen to the boy in the meantime, and then how should I feel?"

"Not likely, not likely, young man. The boy's all right, an' the lassie,
too, fer I've jist been to inquire."

"What! You were over to the house?"

"Yes; strolled over a little while ago."

"And you say Madeline is all right?"

"Yes, chipper as a young bird."

"Thank God!" fervently broke from Grey's lips. "It's a great relief for
me to know that."

"Yes, she'll do fer a while, an' so will the kid. Nuthin' will happen as
fer as I kin see until he gits stronger, an' we'll be back fer sure by
t'-morrow night at the latest."

"I'll go, then, Dan. But you'll have to loan me a rifle. I left mine
over by the rapids."

"Oh, I'll fix ye up all right. Here's a nice light one. She'll spit fire
like a wildcat if the right man's behind her."

Half an hour later they emerged from the house, closed the door, and
struck a trail, leading in a northeasterly direction away from the
river. Dan bore the blanket slung over his shoulder, while Grey carried
their scanty supply of food. Little did they think that their every
movement was observed from a small window in the store, and that soon
after they had headed for the hills the figure of a man stepped lightly
across the open and glided along after them. Could they have seen the
slinking form keeping so warily out of sight and have read the writing
upon the secret chamber of his heart they would not have felt so secure
as they moved steadily onward.

It was a beautiful fall morning. The air was clear and bracing. Not a
breath of wind stirred the tree tops. Around them stood the mountains,
vested to the girdling timber line with snowy robes of dazzling
whiteness. Nature was limning her annual masterpiece. A few delicate
touches here and there were the only signs of the picture to be
completed a few weeks later, with storms raging over the land, streams
stricken dumb, and the rasping frost-laden air biting like the whitest
of hot iron.

Steadily the two wayfarers sped forward with long, swinging strides.
Occasionally a timid rabbit scurried across the trail, and at times the
whirr of a startled grouse could be heard a short distance away. For
these they paused not. They were forth on a larger quest, for nobler
game.

At noon they rested by a small stream, ate their frugal meal, drank of
the cold sparkling water, and once more hastened onward. For hours they
did not slacken their pace. The sun dipped westward, and the numerous
trees were throwing out dark trailing shadows. But darker and more
sombre still was that silent figure ever shadowing them from behind.
Had they looked back at the right moment they might have caught a
fleeting glimpse of his presence as he dodged from tree to tree, from
rock to rock, or skirted the edge of some wild meadow which they had
just crossed.

Dan and Grey talked but little throughout the day, for the trail was
hard and not conducive to much conversation.

"How much farther?" panted Grey, as they toiled painfully up a steep
incline.

"Not fer now," was the reply. "Gittin' tired?"

"Somewhat. My feet are rather sore from the snags and stones."

"They'll soon heal, pardner, that's one comfort. Now the snags an'
stones ye strike out in civilisation hurt fer a long time. But hello!
What's this?"

Grey looked quickly up at this exclamation of surprise, and beheld a man
coming slowly toward them. He was bent forward, and limped painfully. A
small pack was strapped across his shoulders, and in his right hand he
carried a rifle.

"It's 'Crusty' Ike, I do believe!" Dan exclaimed. "He's one of the
crankiest cusses in the hull region. What in the name of goodness is he
doin' here in sich a condition!"

"Hello, Iky," he shouted as they drew near. "What's wrong with ye? Are
ye lost, or bughouse?"

The man addressed lifted his eyes and fixed them upon the trapper's face
in a mute appeal, but made no reply.

"What's wrong with ye? Why don't ye speak?" insisted Dan.

"Sprained ankle--left behind," came the curt rejoinder.

"Is that so? Too bad, old chap. But yer headin' the wrong way. Ye'd
better face about an' hike it into camp."

"No, no!" cried the other most vehemently. "I can't go back! The gold's
over there! Jim Stebbins found it. He brought us word. This confounded
sprain kept me back. But I'll get there. By God! I'll stake my claim
yet! The boys won't get it all."

"But, man alive," replied Dan, "ye're not fit to travel. Ye'll fall on
the trail. Ye'll starve. How fer are the others ahead? When did ye
start?"

"This morning, and the boys are hiking like the devil."

The trapper stroked his long beard meditatively. He knew what a stampede
meant, and the wild excitement which always ensued. No doubt the
stampeders would return in a few days, find "Crusty" and take him back
with them. He must let this man do the work he intended to do himself.

"Iky, set down a bit," he demanded. "'Twill do ye good. Thar's somethin'
I want to tell ye. I won't keep ye long."

Somewhat reluctantly the lame man seated himself by the side of the
trail, unslung his pack, and laid his rifle by his side.

"Fire away, then," he grunted, "and don't be long about it, either."

"Now look here, Iky," Dan began. "I'm mighty glad ye've been knocked out
to-day."

"The devil! Well, that's cool."

"Jist keep yer mouth shet fer a minute an' I'll explain what I mean.
I've known ye fer years, Iky, as a square man, even though ye are cranky
at times. Ye're true to the core, which is more'n I kin say of some I've
run ag'inst. If ye knew of a mean ugly game bein' put up ag'inst some
poor little kid ye would jist explode like a barrel of dynamite,
wouldn't ye?"

"My God! yes. You bet your life I would."

"Wall, then, thar's a poor wee lad at Hishu that's been stole away from
its home by a set of measly skunks."

"Who are they?" demanded Ike, half rising to his feet, while his eyes
blazed with anger. "Tell me the names of the villains, and I'll bring
the boys down to Hishu like greased lightning. D'ye know who they are?"

"Yes, Siwash Bill an' his gang: that's who they are."

"Good Lord! An' did they do that? Let me go. Oh, it's Bill, is it? Steal
a baby from his mother's arms! I had a little lad of my own once, but he
left me long ago. He's always with me in this hell of a land. I can see
his sweet face yet, hear his happy laugh, and feel his small soft hand
in mine. Oh, why was he taken from me when I wanted him so much? If I
had him now I wouldn't be here. I'd be a better man. But for his sake
I'd do anything for someone else's child. Let me go. I'll round up the
boys."

He jumped to his feet, forgetting for the instant his sprained ankle. A
cry escaped his lips and his body writhed with pain.

"I won't go back!" he cried, straightening himself up with an effort.
"Don't delay me any longer."

They watched him as he limped slowly along the trail.

"Poor devil!" exclaimed Dan. "His brain's half turned by that lust of
gold, an' now wot I've told him has made him completely daft. But it
can't be helped. Guess we'd better turn down into that next valley.
Thar's a small stream yonder among some heavy timber, whar we kin spend
the night. In the mornin' we'll go to the high hills fer some sheep, an'
then hike back to Hishu. I've had quite uneasy thoughts all day about
the lassie an' the poor little lad. Let's git on, pardner."




CHAPTER XIV

IN THE DEEP OF THE NIGHT


Grey sat before the genial fire with his back propped against a large
spruce tree. He watched in a dreamy manner the curling flames sending up
countless sparks into the night. Buckskin Dan sat a few feet away,
puffing slowly at his black, short-stemmed pipe.

The place they had chosen for their camp was near a small stream in the
midst of a sturdy growth of soft-wood trees. The moon was rising in the
distance, but its bright beams had not as yet flooded the landscape.

"This is comfort," murmured Grey, as he watched the fire seizing with
avidity upon the dry pine sticks. "After the weariness of the trail what
can be more delightful than a spot such as this? It makes up for much,
does it not, Dan?"

"Ay, ay," was the response. "I've often thought the same thing meself as
I sat alone by me little watch-fire in the gloom."

"But didn't you find it lonely at times? Did you ever have a creepy
feeling that some danger was surrounding you?"

"Can't say that I ever did. But why d'ye ax, pardner?"

"Oh, I don't exactly know. But as I look into the blackness around us an
uncanny feeling comes into my heart. Those great sombre trees fill me
with strange forebodings. There seems to be danger lurking within their
dark depths. I know it is all nonsense, but somehow it depresses me much
to-night."

"Yer tired, young man; that's what's the matter with ye. Ye've had very
little sleep fer several nights now, an' ye've been over hard trails of
late. It's no wonder yer down in the dumps. A good rest will do ye a
world of good. So curl up in yon blanket, an' ye'll soon fergit sich
things."

"But you must share the blanket with me, Dan. I won't touch it,
otherwise."

"Now don't ye bother about that. Sartinly I'll have a piece of it.
Thar's enough fer both of us. We'll need it, too, afore mornin', fer the
night is chilly."

Nothing loath, Grey stretched himself upon the ground near the fire, and
drew the blanket over his body. He listened for a while to the crackling
of the fire, and watched the sparks circling and shooting up into the
air. He even tried to count them ere they tumbled and disappeared
forever. Presently they faded, and in their stead he saw a face--it was
Madeline's--just where those sparks should be. She was looking at him
with fear in her large eyes. An expression of terror was depicted upon
her face. She was trying to come to him, but something seemed to be
holding her back. He tried to go to her, but felt himself bound by some
invisible power. He made an attempt to call to her, but words would not
come. The perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead. He must go, he
would break those bonds. He made one mighty effort, and felt the cords
loosen. Then the vision faded, and he awoke with a start. He looked
around. A few embers were still smouldering near by. Dan was lying at
his side asleep, and breathing heavily. The moon was now riding high in
the heavens, but the camping ground was shrouded by the shadows of the
tall trees.

Grey tried to banish the dream which was still so vivid to his mind. He
lay there looking up into the sky through the delicate tracery of
countless branches. He blamed himself for his childish apprehension.
"What a fool I am," he thought, "to be unnerved by a mere dream! But I
really wonder if anything is wrong with Madeline. There was much meaning
in dreams long ago, and why should it not be the same to-day? Anyway I
shall get back to Hishu to-morrow as quickly as possible. I shall find
out then how things are going. I was wrong to leave on this wild-goose
chase. It was all nonsense."

He closed his eyes, and turned over on his left side. As he did so a
slight noise among the trees arrested his attention. He lifted his head
slightly from the bunch of fir boughs which formed his pillow, and
listened intently. Hearing nothing, he resumed his former posture.
"It's only a rabbit or a fox," he said to himself. "Strange that such a
thing should startle me." Nevertheless, he moved his head and laid it
upon the cool smooth barrel of the rifle lying by his side. The touch
was comforting, and he was thankful that he had placed it there.

He now found it impossible to sleep. His eyes would not close, and he
kept straining his ears for the faintest sound. His gaze wandered out
into the woods among the trees. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the
dimness, and he could see fairly distinctly several yards away. Upon one
object there he riveted his eyes. He thought he saw it move. Perhaps it
was only imagination. It was a stump, no doubt, but it had the
appearance of a human being. Presently it moved, he was sure of that,
and came a step closer. Then another, and then another. No longer now
did Grey doubt that some person was there with malign intent. It was a
living object, and that he could face. Whoever it was he was stealing up
gradually, and but for that pair of keen, watchful eyes could hardly be
detected among the dark tree trunks. Nearer and nearer the form
approached, bending somewhat in a wary attitude. In one place a narrow
shaft of light shot through the trees. It touched for an instant the
slinking figure, and a sudden gleam from polished steel flashed forth.
The effect was as an electric shock to Grey's tense nerves. He seized
the rifle and sprang to his knees. This sudden action startled the
intruder. He paused in his tracks, and then wheeling dashed back among
the trees. Quickly Grey brought the rifle to his shoulder and sent a
leaden missive after the retreating form. Then all was still. Grey was
now thoroughly aroused. A burning rage filled his heart at the thought
of the coward who had attempted such a dastardly trick. Quickly
reloading his rifle he sprang into the forest in an effort to overtake
the assailant. After he had gone some distance he realised the folly of
his action. Among the shadows of the trees it would be quite easy for
the intruder to hide and shoot him down. Reluctantly he returned to the
camping ground, where he found Buckskin Dan standing erect with his
rifle in his hand.

"What's the matter, pardner?" he demanded. "What were ye shootin' at?
Was it a b'ar?"

"A bear be fiddlesticks!" Grey replied. "Do you think I'd lose a good
night's sleep for a bear?"

"What was it then? Ye seem mighty excited."

"It was a sneak, a devil with the form of a man, creeping stealthily
upon us with a gleaming knife in his hand. That's what it was."

"Good Lord!" ejaculated the trapper. "A man, d'ye say, with a knife, a
creepin' upon us! Are ye sure ye saw aright? Mebbe it was only a
shadder."

"A pretty lively shadow, then. I never saw a shadow take to its heels in
such a hurry before. A shadow doesn't generally carry a sharp,
glittering knife, does it?"

"Wall, no. But things are most deceivin' in the night. I don't like to
doubt yer word, young man. But it's so mysterious. I can't savvey it
nohow."

"Are there any Indians in this locality, Dan?" Grey inquired.

"Yes, a few scatterin' ones here an' thar, though most of 'em are off in
another direction. But it wasn't an Injun, pardner, ye may set yer mind
to rest on that score."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Bah, the Injuns in these diggin's wouldn't stoop to sich things. When
they're on the warpath it's different. But Buckskin Dan 'ud be the last
man they'd injure. He's been too good a friend to 'em, an' they wouldn't
tech 'im."

"It must be a white man, then," Grey replied, "and if ever I get my
hands on his measly skull he'll need to go on the stocks for repairs.
God! How I'd like to have him here now!"

The trapper looked with admiration upon the sturdy form before him. He
had little doubt of the outcome should Grey meet with the assailant.

"Come, pardner," he commanded, "you lay down now an' git a few winks of
sleep. I've had enough fer an old man, so I'll jist stir up the fire a
bit an' keep watch."

"But should I not stay awake, too? That snake may come back."

"Let 'im come. I'd like to set me eyes on 'im jist fer an instant. Old
Spit-death here knows a thing or two," and Dan fondly stroked the barrel
of his rifle. "Many a foamin', frothin' grizzly she's lulled to sleep.
Oh, no, don't ye worry. Jist curl up thar, an' fergit everythin'."

Grey found it easy to "curl up," but hard to sleep. He was too much
excited, and though at times he did doze off he always awoke with a
start, thinking that gliding form was upon him.

Buckskin Dan sat silently near the fire, his rifle lying by his side. He
was thinking deeply, and occasionally a deep scowl passed over his face.
He was keenly on the alert, nevertheless, and often he peered intently
among the trees. It was only when daylight was breaking over the land
that he rose from his position, and brought forth some food from a small
bag hanging on the limb of a tree.

"Guess we must be movin', young man," he remarked. "Day's dawnin', an' a
long trail lies ahead. Better have a snack afore we start."

"I'm going to have a wash first," Grey replied; "it will freshen me up a
bit."

Seizing his rifle he hurried down to the stream several yards away,
leaving Dan slowly munching his breakfast. Grey had been gone but a
short time when he returned, carrying in his hand an old slouch hat.

"What do you think of that?" he inquired. "Do you think now that my
trouble was only a nightmare?"

"What is it, pardner?" and Dan paused in his eating.

"Don't you see? A hat with a hole through the crown of it. My bullet
didn't go far astray. I just strolled over to where I aimed last night,
thinking I might discover something, and here's the result."

"Ye don't say so! Wall, I declare!" exclaimed Dan, taking the hat in his
hand and examining it carefully. "Gee whiz, that was a close shave! I
bet that skunk's head stung whar the bullet lifted the hat. Hope to
goodness it took a slice of his scalp. Now, let me think whar I've seen
this headgear afore. Seems quite familiar. Yes, no, ah, I have it. I
have it!" and Dan sprang to his feet in the excitement of his discovery.
"It's Windy Pete's, that's whose it is! Haven't I seen him with that old
thing fer years now. Guess he's worn it ever sence he came North. Stupid
of me not to recognise it at fust sight."

"But what would he be doing here?" questioned Grey. "Did we not leave
him at Hishu yesterday morning? Was he not there when we started?"

"He was thar, that's true, young man. But ye don't know them divils.
They are here to-day an' miles away to-morrer."

"But what object would Pete have in coming here, and stealing upon us as
he did last night? And further, how did he know where we were going when
we left Hishu?"

The trapper looked intently into Grey's face, although he saw him not.
His mind had gone back to his visit to the store the previous morning,
and to the information he had imparted to Siwash Bill. He remembered how
interested the latter had been in his movements. It all came to him now
like a flash, throwing light upon several things which hitherto had been
shrouded in darkness.

"Pardner," and his words were slow and impressive, "the hull thing's as
clear to me as a rabbit's eye. It's you they're after an' not me. Yer
the game, that's sartin."

"After me!" exclaimed Grey. "Why would Pete track me all the way to this
place when he could have fixed me in Hishu? You must be mistaken."

"Ye don't know 'em, young man, as well as I do. They were shrewd enough
not to meddle with ye down thar. Oh, no, they wouldn't do that. They
would git us out in the hills together, creep up when ye was asleep, run
ye through, an' skerdaddle. Then it would appear as if we'd had a set-to
an' I stabbed ye."

"My God!" cried Grey, "do you think that was their object? Are they such
devils as that, to commit such a crime, and cast the blame upon an
innocent man?"

"Are they sich divils? Ye don't know 'em yit. Why, man, they'd do
anythin'. Thank God, their hellish plans have missed fire this time. But
we must be very keerful, pardner. We've had a warnin' which we can't
afford to neglect. So let's git out of this uncanny hole, and hit the
trail fer Hishu."




CHAPTER XV

A CRY ACROSS THE WATER


"If we kin, we must reach Hishu afore Windy Pete gits thar."

It was Buckskin Dan who spoke as he and the constable swung on their way
the morning after the night of alarms. They were returning by a
different trail, which would bring them to the river a few miles below
Hishu. Along this route was a high range of hills where mountain sheep
were plentiful. Here they expected to bag a tender lamb to take back
with them to the village.

"Yes," continued Dan, "we must git that fust, an' then find out fer
sartin if Pete was that skunk wot distarbed us last night."

"We'll have to do some hustling, then," Grey replied. "If we stop for
game it will make us late."

"Can't be helped, pardner. Grub's mighty low with me jist now, an' if we
don't git it to-day, it'll mean another trip to-morrer, an' I don't like
to leave Hishu too often jist at present."

Thus for hours they continued on their way, stopping only once by a
small brook to eat their last morsel of food. The afternoon was well
advanced as the long terrace-like range loomed up before them on their
right.

"Should find some sheep over thar," remarked the trapper. "Guess we'd
better leave the trail, and circle yon knoll. Thar's good feedin' ground
on t'other side."

Slowly and cautiously they wound their way over broken and twisted
rocks, keeping a sharp look-out the while. Creeping guardedly about the
side of a hill, with a deep gulch below, they beheld a small flock of
sheep feeding calmly several hundred yards away. To Grey it seemed cruel
to disturb that peaceful scene. He thought of the assailant stealing
upon him in the dead of night, and here he was doing the same to these
harmless creatures. But Buckskin Dan evidently had no such qualms of
conscience. He needed meat, and the sheep were there for man's use, so
that was sufficient. Speedily he advanced, gliding from rock to rock
with such agility that Grey, nimble though he was, found it difficult to
follow. At length they were forced to creep upon all fours, and when at
last they were as close as prudence allowed the trapper took careful aim
at a small-sized sheep and fired. The animal gave one great leap into
the air, and then dropped to the ground. Its companions, terror
stricken, gazed for an instant in the direction from whence the report
had come, and then fled wildly across the open space and disappeared
like magic among the rocks.

"I've snipped that critter fer sure," Dan remarked, "so I'll jist dodge
over an' bring it back."

But this was easier said than done, for they found after they had gone
a short distance that the rocks sloped down to the very edge of the
precipice like one side of the roof of a house, about fifteen feet in
width. Leaving his rifle behind, Dan slowly made his way along the
narrow ledge, holding on carefully to the wall towering above. A sharp
point jutting out partly barred his progress and as he attempted to go
around this his foot lost its hold, and he found himself slipping down
the sloping rock, which had been worn smooth by wind and rain. With a
cry of terror he clutched frantically for something upon which to fasten
his fingers. But not an object could be found. Down and down he moved,
and when it seemed as if in another instant he must be hurled to
immediate death his hand touched a jagged fissure in the surface. How
his tense fingers did dig into the friendly crevice as he hung over that
awful place. Below yawned the gulf; above stretched the merciless rock.

So quickly had all this taken place that Grey had hardly time to think,
much less to act. A numbing horror overspread his whole body as he
watched his companion moving down to apparent destruction. But when he
saw him gripping so desperately to the rent in the rock he quickly
roused to action. He looked about for something to stretch out to his
helpless partner. But not a branch or sapling could he behold--nothing
that would serve his purpose. He looked far down into the valley; he
might get something there. But it would take considerable time to go
and return, and in the meantime what would happen to Dan!

"How long can you hold on?" he called.

"'Bout a minute," came the weak reply. "Me fingers are 'most broke. Fer
God's sake do somethin', an' do it quick!"

Then Grey acted. He tore off the buckskin jacket he was wearing, which
Dan had loaned him, and gave it a most vigorous pull to test its
endurance. Next he unbuckled the cartridge belt which encircled his
waist. Tying one end of this to a sleeve of the jacket he fastened the
other end securely about his ankle. Finding a suitable stone lying near,
with some difficulty he made it fast to the second sleeve of the jacket.
This accomplished he stretched himself carefully down the rocky incline,
and holding on firmly with one hand to the point of a jagged flinty
rift, with the other he let out his improvised rope of salvation. The
weight of the stone bore it steadily toward the clinging trapper. Would
it reach? And if so would it be strong enough? Dan saw it coming, and a
gleam of hope came into his faded eyes. But alas! it was still too far
away.

"Let her out some more," he shouted. "I can't tech it yit."

Then Grey stretched himself out full length, and with both hands gripped
the rock above. It was all that was needed. Dan's tired fingers closed
eagerly upon the sleeve of the jacket. He tested its strength ere
letting go of his old precarious support. Finding that it held firm he
committed himself to its keeping, and slowly and painfully made his way
foot by foot up from that dizzy, frowning ledge. Neither Grey nor Dan
spoke. The silence was intense. Would the connecting link hold? Would it
bear the strain to the end? Grey could feel the weight attached to his
leg, but could not see how his comrade was progressing. He half expected
at any instant to hear the jacket or belt give way. The perspiration
stood in great beads upon his forehead, and he almost held his breath in
the intenseness of the moment. But when he felt Dan's hand laid with a
mighty grip upon his other leg, and knew that the old man was scrambling
quickly up by the side of his body to a place of safety, a great sigh of
relief escaped his lips. It did not take him long to draw himself up
from his own perilous position after the weight had been removed.

"God bless ye, pardner!" Dan cried, reaching out a large horny hand.
"How kin I ever thank ye fer wot ye've done fer me to-day?"

Grey silently grasped the extended member. Words would not come. His
heart was too full for utterance.

The trapper stooped down, and slowly unfastened the buckskin jacket from
the leathern belt. He next held it up in both hands, and examined it
carefully.

"It stood the test well, that's wot it did," he remarked. "Never thought
when I made it that it 'ud be the means of savin' me life."

"And did you make this yourself?" Grey inquired with surprise.

"Sartin, every stitch of it. It's not made with yer measly fancy
thread, either, but with good stout raw hide. But even that wouldn't
have borne the strain if it hadn't been fer somethin' else which made it
strong."

"What was that, Dan?"

"'Twas the good Lord, that's who it was. As I kneeled thar in that awful
place, with only that slender thing to keep me from death, I thought how
I uster kneel at me mother's knees when a little child. It's been sich a
long time sence I said a prayer that I didn't know what to say. But I
remembered the prayer she taught me then, an' as I struggled up that
rock with me hands clingin' to this jacket I said over in me mind,


     Now I lay me down to sleep,
     I pray the Lord me soul to keep.


It wasn't altogether suitable, I own, but it was wonderful comfortin',
an' I think the Lord knew wot I meant jist as well as if it had been a
long one an' fixed up with fine words. But, thar, I've talked 'bout
enough. We must git away from here, an' hike it home as fast as we kin.
It's gittin' late, an' I'm afeered we can't reach Hishu afore dark."

"But what about the sheep?" Grey questioned. "Are we to leave it
behind?"

"Sartin. Not another step do I take after the critter. It nearly cost me
me life, an' I don't venture over yon place ag'in. It's too long a way
round, an' not worth the trouble. So come, let's git."

The sun had disappeared behind a tall mountain peak as they descended
the slope leading to the river. Here they struck upon a well-beaten
trail leading to the village. Along this they sped through the steadily
deepening twilight.

Suddenly across the water came a piercing cry which stayed their steps
and held them spellbound. Again and again it came, and then all was
still. It was a cry for help. There was no doubt about that. Grey's
heart beat tumultuously, and an horrible dread overwhelmed him. It was a
woman's voice, and it sounded like Madeline's! Springing quickly up the
bank at the side of the trail he peered over the tops of the trees, and
there out in the stream he caught one fleeting glimpse of a canoe ere it
swung around a bend in the river and disappeared from view.

"It's the lassie! It's the lassie!" cried Dan, who had sprung to his
side. "Thar's somethin' wrong."

"My God, yes!" Grey replied. "What can we do, oh, what can we do?
There's some villainy in this! Do you think they've taken the boy, too?"

"Can't tell. But we must git into Hishu as fast as our legs'll take us,
an' find out fer sartin."

Grey waited to hear no more. He leaped down the bank and hurried along
the trail. That wild pathetic cry for help still rang in his ears.
Madeline was in trouble, in danger! That was enough. Forgotten now were
his old doubts and fears. He thought of her only as of old. His steps
quickened to a trot as he neared the village, then to a run. Down the
trail he sped like a greyhound, with Dan following pantingly some
distance behind. He flew by the trapper's cabin, the store and the
cluster of deserted shacks. He dashed across the open, reached Old Meg's
house, beat upon the door, pushed it open, and sprang into the room.

"Where is she?" he cried. "What has happened? For God's sake tell me,
quick!"

Little wonder that Meg started back with surprise, mingled with fear, at
this sudden intrusion and the towering form standing before her. Grey's
unshaven face was drawn and haggard, while his eyes glowed with a light
of wild intensity.

"Where is she?" he demanded. "Why don't you speak?"

"W-what do you mean?" the woman replied. She felt there must be some
reason for Grey's excited manner. It disconcerted her, leaving her much
confused.

"I want to know what has become of Miss Normsell, who has been staying
with you, and also the boy? Where are they? Do you know?"

"They went for a stroll to the river some time ago, and should be back
by now. It's getting late."

"To the river? My God!" cried Grey. "Then it was Madeline! She's gone,
and the boy, too! There's some foul plot."

Grey asked no more questions. He stared for an instant at Old Meg, then
turned and left the building, leaving the woman gazing wonderingly after
him.




CHAPTER XVI

THE SIGNAL FIRE


Grey walked rapidly toward Dan's cabin. His mind was wildly agitated,
for his brief interview with Old Meg had given him no satisfaction. In
passing the store he was tempted to enter and seek an explanation from
Siwash Bill. He banished this thought instantly, however. No, he would
see Dan first, and find out what he had learned.

A lighted candle was burning in the cabin, showing that the trapper had
been there, although he was nowhere to be seen. Grey entered, and
seating himself upon a bench tried to collect his thoughts. What was he
to do? Madeline and the boy had been stolen away. What would the Major
say when he heard about it? To think that he, Norman Grey, should so
neglect his duty as to allow that boy to slip from his grasp! And then
there was Madeline. Duty and love were the two forces which stirred his
inmost being. He rose to his feet and paced restlessly up and down the
small room. Why did not Dan return? Why was he away so long? Without the
trapper he felt helpless. A few days before he would have laughed at
anyone who even suggested that he could not manage his own affairs. But
since coming to Hishu and meeting with this old man, he found how
important it was to lean upon him for assistance. Dan knew the people of
the place and the whole surrounding country, of which he himself was
ignorant.

Thus the moments sped by, and the trapper did not appear. Something must
have happened to him. Perhaps he had run across Windy Pete or Siwash
Bill, and had got into trouble. At this thought Grey started for the
door. He would go to the store and make inquiries. But ere he had time
to lay a hand upon the latch the door swung slowly open, and the Indian,
Hishu Sam, glided swiftly and noiselessly into the room.

Grey's face brightened perceptibly as he beheld the native who had done
so much on behalf of the little child but a short time before. Then he
had appeared at the moment when most needed, and now when the darkness
was so deep he had suddenly come from the unknown. Grey at once reached
out his hand to the native.

"Welcome," he said. "I'm glad to see you again. You're a good friend to
the white man."

"Ah, ah," was the reply. "Hishu Sam savvey moche. Bah-bee all sam' lost,
eh?"

"Yes, yes, lost," Grey exclaimed in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Hishu Sam see 'um. Beeg canoe go down reever all sam' wild goose."

"And were you along the river? You see canoe? Was the little boy along,
too?"

"Ah, ah. Me see bah-bee head. Me see white squaw. Me come to Hishu
quick."

"Were they Indians who stole them away?"

"Ah, ah."

"Who?"

"Beeg Lake Injuns."

"What! The Indians who are on the warpath with the Hishus?"

"Ah, ah."

"Look here, Sam; we must get that boy and woman. We must save them
quick. What can we do?"

The Indian looked intently into Grey's face for a few seconds.

"Hishu Sam white man's friend," he at length remarked. "Come."

With that he turned toward the door, opened it and passed out into the
night. There was nothing left for Grey but to follow. The native took it
for granted that he would do so, and did not even once look back.

A short distance from the cabin the Indian turned sharply to the left,
and entered upon a rough trail. In the deepening gloom it was hard for
Norman to pick his steps, and often he stumbled, and several times fell
flat upon the ground. But Hishu Sam walked as easily as in a carpeted
room, and evidently knew every inch of the way. Up and up they moved,
and after a long hard climb reached the top of a large hill. Here the
guide paused and looked slowly around. Then he stretched out a long arm
and pointed away to the right.

"Hishu over dere," he began. "Hishu busy. Bime by Hishu all come back."

Grey understood not the meaning of the words until he saw his companion
go to a large pile of sticks and underbrush and touch a match to a small
piece of bark. Instantly the tiny flame leaped to the inflammable
material above, and soon the whole pile was converted into a wild,
roaring, seething mass. So intense was the heat that Grey and the Indian
were forced to retreat some distance, where the former silently viewed
the magnificent spectacle. The hilltop for rods around was illumined by
the bright flames, which would make it quite easy to see such a light
for miles away.

While Grey stood gazing upon the fire the Indian crouched some distance
off, intently peering forth through the darkness. At length Grey took up
his position by his side, wondering much what it all meant. Once he
questioned the Indian, but receiving no satisfactory reply he was forced
to wait. The interest caused by the fire soon waned, and the old longing
to be up and doing gripped him hard. He would ere this have hurried down
the hillside and have left the Indian alone, but that he believed there
was some definite purpose in the Indian's action. The native's silence
was to him more eloquent than many words.

Silently they crouched together there on the hilltop. Presently the
Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction, and pointed away to the right. At
first Grey could see nothing. But as he looked a small light like the
faintest star caught his eye. It became brighter. It glowed into a
leaping flame, sending blazing cinders high into the air. It was the
reply of fire to fire--the natives' crude method of signalling to one
another when any great danger was afoot. Presently to the left another
light streaked the night from a far-off hilltop, while a little later
and to the right another appeared.

Grey understood now the meaning of it all. He recalled, too, the
remarkable stories he had heard about the early explorers and their
encounters with the natives. Fiery signals from hill to hill had
heralded their approach, and brought about them bands of threatening
Indians wherever they advanced. So now these fires were being used for a
noble purpose. The Hishus would come in a body to his assistance. How
long would it take them to return, and in the meantime what would happen
to Madeline? He turned to his companion, who was watching the distant
fires with much satisfaction.

"Sam," he said, "how long will it take for the Indians to reach Hishu?
Will they come at once?"

"Ah, ah. Sun heem come up dere, sun heem go down dere. Hishu come."

"But are you sure they will come?"

"Ugh," grunted the native. "Injun no white man. Injun savvey moche."

"But will they know what the fire means? What will they think?"

"Injun come. Injun savvey fire. Injun savvey Hishu Sam. See?"

"Oh, they think the Big Lakes are coming. Is that it?"

"Ah, ah."

"And you stayed behind to keep watch, eh?"

"Ah, ah."

"Did you ever do this before? Did you ever call the Hishus in this way?"

The native looked thoughtfully before him for a few seconds ere
replying.

"Ten winters ago," he at length answered, "bad Injun come up reever.
Hishu Sam make beeg fire on hill. Hishu come. Bad Injun run, all sam'
dog. Hishu make beeg potlatch. Moche glad."

The fire was smouldering low as Grey rose to his feet. The old
impatience was upon him. He longed to be doing. To wait all day for the

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/45245