"I ought to treat you like a mad dog, but I can't do it while your hands are up. I'm going to fight for John Gale, however, and you can't take him."

"I'll have his carcass hung to my ridge-pole before daylight."

"No."

"I say yes!" Stark turned to go, but paused at the door. "And you think you'll marry Necia, do you?"

"I know it."

"Like hell you will! Suppose you find her first."

"What do you mean? Wait—"

But his visitor was gone, leaving behind him a lover already sorely vexed, and now harassed by a new and sudden apprehension. What venom the man distilled! Could it be that he had sent Necia away? Burrell scouted the idea. She wasn't the kind to go at Stark's mere behest; and as for his forcing her, why, this was not an age of abductions! He might aim to take her, but it would require some time to establish his rights, and even then there were Gale and himself to be reckoned with. Still, this was no time for idling, and he might as well make certain, so the young man put on his coat hurriedly, knowing there was work to do There was no telling what this night would bring forth, but first he must warn his friend, after which they would fight this thing together, not as soldier and civilian, but as man and man, not for the law, but against it. He smiled as he realized the situation. Well, he was through with the army, anyhow; his path was strange and new from this time henceforth, and led him away from all he had known, taking him among other peoples; but he did not flinch, for it led to her. Behind him was that former life; to-night he began anew.

Stark traced his way back to his cabin in a ten times fiercer mood than he had come, reviling, cursing, hating; back past the dark trading-post he went, pausing to shake his clenched fist and grind out an oath between his teeth; past the door of his own saloon, which was a-light, and whence came the sound of revelry, through the scattered houses, where he went more by feel than by sight, up to the door of his own shack. He fitted his key in the lock, but the door swung open without his aid, at which he remembered that he had only pulled it after him when he came away with Necia. He closed it behind him now, and locked it, for he had some thinking to do; then felt through his pockets for a match, and, striking it, bent over his lamp to adjust the wick. It flared up steady and strong at last, flooding the narrow place with its illumination; then he straightened up and turned towards the bed to throw off his coat, when suddenly every muscle of his body leaped with an uncontrollable spasm, as if he had uncovered a deadly serpent coiled and ready to spring. In spite of himself his lungs contracted as if with the grip of giant hands, and his breath came forth in a startled cry.

John Gale was sitting at his table, barely an arm's-length away, his gray-blue eyes fixed upon him, and the deep seams of his heavy face set as if graven in stone. His huge, knotted hands were upon the table, and between them lay a naked knife.



CHAPTER XVI

JOHN GALE'S HOUR

It was a heathenish time of night to arouse the girl, thought Burrell, as he left the barracks, but he must allay these fears that were besetting him, he must see Necia at once. The low, drifting clouds obscured what star-glow there was in the heavens, and he stepped back to light a lantern. By its light he looked at his watch and exclaimed, then held it to his ear. Five hours had passed since he left Gale's house. Well, the call was urgent, and Necia would understand his anxiety.

A few moments later he stood above the squaw, who crouched on the trader's doorstep, wailing her death song into the night. He could not check her; she paid no heed to him, but only rocked and moaned and chanted that strange, weird song which somehow gave strength to his fears.

"What's wrong; where is Necia? Where is she?" he demanded, and at last seized her roughly, facing her to the light, but Alluna only blinked owlishly at his lantern and shook her head.

"Gone away," she finally informed him, and began to weave again in her despair, but he held her fiercely.

"Where has she gone? When did she go?" He shook her to quicken her reply.

"I don' know. I don' know. Long time she's gone now." She trailed off into Indian words he could not comprehend, so he pushed past her into the house to see for himself, and without knocking flung Necia's door open and stepped into her chamber. Before he had swept the unfamiliar room with his eyes he knew that she had indeed gone, and gone hurriedly, for the signs of disorder betrayed a reckless haste. Hanging across the back of a chair was what had once been the wondrous dress, Poleon's gift, now a damp and draggled ruin, and on the floor were two sodden satin slippers and a pair of wet silk stockings. He picked up the lace gown and saw that it was torn from shoulder to waist. What insanity had possessed the girl to rip her garment thus?

"She take her 'nother dress; the one I make las' summer," said Alluna, who had followed him in and stood staring as he stared.

"When did she go, Alluna? For God's sake, what does this mean?"

"I don' know! She come and she go, and I don' see her; mebbe three, four hour ago."

"Where's Gale? He'll know. He's gone after her, eh?"

The upward glow of the lantern heightened the young man's pallor, and again the squaw broke into her sad lament.

"John Gale—he's gone away with the knife of my father. I am afraid—I am afraid."

Burrell forced himself to speak calmly; this was no time to let his wits stampede.

"How long ago?"

"Long time."

"Did he come back here just now?"

"No; he went to the jail-house, and he would not let me follow. He don' come back no more."

This was confusing, and Meade cried, angrily:

"Why didn't you give the alarm? Why didn't you come to me instead of yelling your lungs out around the house?"

"He told me to wait," she said, simply.

"Go find Poleon, quick."

"He told me to wait," she repeated, stoically, and Burrell knew he was powerless to move her. He saw the image of a great terror in the woman's face. The night suddenly became heavy with the hint of unspeakable things, and he grew fearful, suspecting now that Gale had told him but a part of his story, that all the time he knew Stark's identity, and that his quarry was at hand, ready for the kill; or, if not, he had learned enough while standing behind that partition. Where was he now? Where was Necia? What part did she play in this? Stark's parting words struck Burrell again like a blow. This life-long feud was drawing swiftly to some tragic culmination, and somewhere out in the darkness those two strong, hate-filled men were settling their scores. All at once a fear for the trader's life came upon the young man, and he realized that a great bond held them together. He could not think clearly, because of the dread thing that gripped him at thought of Necia. Was he to lose her, after all? He gave up trying to think, and fled for Stark's saloon, reasoning that where one was the other must be near, and there would surely be some word of Necia. He burst through the door; a quick glance over the place showed it empty of those he sought, but, spying Poleon Doret, he dragged him outside, inquiring breathlessly:

"Have you seen Gale?"

"Have you seen Stark? Has he been about?"

"Yes, wan hour, mebbe two hour ago. W'y? Wat for you ask?"

"There's the devil to pay. Those two have come together, and Necia is gone."

"Necia gone?" the Canadian jerked out. "Wat you mean by dat? Were she's gone to?"

"I don't know—nobody knows. God! I'm shaking like a leaf."

"Bah! She's feel purty bad! She's go out by herse'f. Dat's all right."

"I tell you something has happened to her; there's hell to pay. I found her clothes at the house torn to ribbons and all muddy and wet."

Poleon cried out at this.

"We've got to find her and Gale, and we haven't a minute to lose. I'm afraid we're too late as it is. I wish it was daylight. Damn the darkness, anyhow! It makes it ten times harder."

His incoherence alarmed his listener more than his words.

"Were have you look?"

"I've been to the house, but Alluna is crazy, and says Gale has gone to kill Stark, as near as I can make out. Both of them were at my quarters to-night, and I'm afraid the squaw is right."

"But w'ere is Necia?"

"We don't know; maybe Stark has got her."

The Frenchman cursed horribly. "Have you try hees cabane?"

"No."

Without answer the Frenchman darted away, and the Lieutenant sped after him through the deserted rows of log-houses.

"Ha! Dere's light," snarled Doret, over his shoulder, as they neared their goal.

"Be careful," panted Burrell. "Wait! Don't knock." He forced Poleon to pause. "Let's find out who's inside. Remember, we're working blind."

He gripped his companion's arm with fingers of steel, and together they crept up to the door, but even before they had gained it they heard a voice within. It was Stark's. The walls of the house were of moss-chinked logs that deadened every sound, but the door itself was of thin, whip-sawed pine boards with ample cracks at top and bottom, and, the room being of small dimensions, they heard plainly. The Lieutenant leaned forward, then with difficulty smothered an exclamation, for he heard another voice now—the voice of John Gale. The words came to him muffled but distinct, and he raised his hand to knock, when, suddenly arrested, he seized Poleon and forced him to his knees, hissing into his ear:

"Listen! Listen! For God's sake, listen!"

For the first time in his tempestuous life Ben Stark lost the iron composure that had made his name a by-word in the West, and at sight of his bitterest enemy seated in the dark of his own house waiting for him he became an ordinary, nervous, frightened man faced by a great peril. It was the utter unexpectedness of the thing that shook him, and before he could regain his balance Gale spoke:

"I've come to settle, Bennett."

"What are you doing here?" the gambler stammered.

"I was up at the soldier's place just now and heard you. I didn't want any interruptions, so I came here where we can be alone." He paused, and, when Stark made no answer, continued, "Well, let's get at it." But still the other made no move. "You've had all the best of it for twenty years," Gale went on, in his level voice, "but to-night I get even. By God! I've lived for this."

"That shot in Lee's cabin?" recalled Stark, with the light of a new understanding. "You knew me then?"

"Yes."

Stark took a deep breath. "What a damned fool I've been!"

"Your devil's magic saved you that time, but it won't stop this." The trader rose slowly with the knife in his hand.

"You'll hang for this!" said the gambler, unsteadily, at which Gale's face blazed.

"Ha!" exclaimed the trader, exultingly; "you can feel it in your guts already, eh?"

With an effort Stark began to assemble his wits as the trader continued:

"You saddled your dirty work on me, Ben Stark, and I've carried it for fifteen years; but to-night I put you out the way you put her out. An eye for an eye!"

"I didn't kill her," said the man.

"Don't lie. This isn't a grand jury. We're all alone."

"I didn't kill her."

"So? The yellow is showing up at last. I knew you were a coward, but I didn't think you'd be afraid to own it to yourself. That thing must have lived with you."

"Look here," said Stark, curiously, "do you really think I killed Merridy?"

"I know it. A man who would strike a woman would kill her—if he had the nerve."

Stark had now mastered himself, and smiled.

"My hate worked better than I thought. Well, well, that made it hard for you, didn't it?" he chuckled. "I supposed, of course, you knew—"

"Knew?" Gale's face showed emotion for the first time. "Knew what—?" His hands were quivering slightly.

"She killed herself."

"So help you God?"

"So help me God!"

There was a long pause.

"Why?"

"Say, it's kind of funny our standing here talking about that thing, isn't it? Well, if you want to know, I came home early that night—I guess you hadn't been gone two hours—and the surprise did it, more than anything else, I suppose—she hadn't prepared a story. I got suspicious, named you at random, and hit the nail on the head. She broke down, thought I knew more than I did, and—and then there was hell to pay."

"Go on."

"I suppose I talked bad and made threats—I was crazy over you—till she must have thought I meant to kill her, but I didn't. No. I never was quite that bad. Anyhow, she did it herself."

Gale's face was like chalk, and his voice sounded thin and dry as he said:

"You beat her, that's why she did it."

Stark made no answer.

"The papers said the room showed a struggle."

When the other still kept silent, Gale insisted:

"Didn't you?"

At this Stark flamed up defiantly.

"Well, I guess I had cause enough. No woman except her was ever untrue to me—wife or sweetheart."

"You didn't really think—?"

"Think hell! I thought so then, and I think so now. She denied it, but—"

"And you knew her so well, too. I guess you've had some bad nights yourself, Bennett, with that always on your mind—"

"I swore I'd have you—"

"—and so you put her blood on my head, and made me an outlaw." After an instant: "Why did you tell me this, anyhow?"

"It's our last talk, and I wanted you to know how well my hate worked."

"Well, I guess that's all," said Gale. So far they had watched each other with unwavering, unblinking eyes, straining at the leash and taut in every nerve. Now, however, the trader's fingers tightened on the knife-handle, and his knuckles whitened with the grip, at which Stark's right hand swept to his waist, and simultaneously Gale lunged across the table. His blade nickered in the light, and a gun spoke, once—twice—again and again. A cry arose outside the cabin, then some heavy thing crashed in through the door, bringing light with it, for with his first leap Gale had carried the lamp and the table with him, and the two had clenched in the dark.

Burrell had waited an instant too long, for the men's voices had held so steady, their words had been so vital, that the finish found him unprepared, but, thrusting the lantern into Poleon's hand, he had backed off a pace and hurled himself at the door. He had learned the knack of bunching his weight in football days, and the barrier burst and splintered before him. He fell to his knees inside, and an instant later found himself wrestling for his life between two raging beasts. The Lieutenant knew Doret must have entered too, though he could not see him, for the lantern shed a sickly gloom over the chaos. He was locked desperately with John Gale, who flung him about and handled him like a child, fighting like an old gray wolf, hoary with years and terrible in his rage. Burrell had never been so battered and harried and torn; only for the lantern's light Gale would doubtless have sheathed his weapon in his new assailant, but the more fiercely the trader struggled, the more tenaciously the soldier clung. As it was, Gale carried the Lieutenant with him and struck over his head at Stark.

Poleon had leaped into the room at Burrell's heels, to receive the impact of a heavy body hurled backward into his arms as if by some irresistible force. He seized it and tore it away from the thing that pressed after and bore down upon it with the ferocity of a wild beast. He saw Gale reach over the Lieutenant's head and swing his arm, saw the knife-blade bury itself in what he held, then saw it rip away, and felt a hot stream spurt into his face. So closely was the Canadian entangled with Stark that he fancied for an instant the weapon had wounded both of them for the trader had aimed at his enemy's neck where it joined the shoulder, but, hampered by the soldier, his blow went astray about four inches. Doret glimpsed Burrell rising from his knees, his arms about the trader's waist, and the next instant the combatants were dragged apart.

The Lieutenant wrenched the dripping blade from Gale's hand; it no longer gleamed, but was warm and slippery in his fingers. Poleon held Stark's gun, which was empty and smoking.

The fight had not lasted a minute, and yet what terrible havoc had been wrought! The gambler was drenched with his own blood, which gushed from him, black in the yellow flicker, and so plentifully that the Frenchman was befouled with it, while Gale, too, was horribly stained, but whether from his own or his enemy's veins it was hard to tell. The trader paid no heed to himself nor to the intruders, allowing Burrell to push him back against the wall, the breath wheezing in and out of his lungs, his eyes fastened on Stark.

"I got you, Bennett!" he cried, hoarsely. "Your magic is no good." His teeth showed through his grizzled muzzle like the fangs of some wild animal.

Bennett, or Stark, as the others knew him, lunged about with his captor, trying to get at his enemy, and crying curses on them all, but he was like a child in Poleon's arms. Gradually he weakened, and suddenly resistance died out of him.

"Come away from here," the Lieutenant ordered Gale.

But the old man did not hear, and gathered himself as if to resume the battle with his bare hands, whereupon the soldier, finding himself shaking like a frightened child, and growing physically weak at what he saw, doubted his ability to prevent the encounter, and repeated his command.

"Come away!" he shouted, but the words sounded foolishly flat and inane.

Then Stark spoke intelligibly for the first time.

"Arrest him! You've got to believe what I told you now, Burrell." He poured forth a stream of unspeakable profanity, smitten by the bitter knowledge of his first and only defeat. "You'll hang, Gaylord! I'll see your neck stretched, damn your heart!" To Poleon he panted, excitedly: "I followed him for fifteen years, Doret. He killed my wife."

"Dat's damn lie!" said the Frenchman.

"No, it isn't. He's under indictment for it back in California. He shot her down in cold blood, then ran off with my kid. That's her he calls Necia. She's mine. Ain't I right, Lieutenant?"

At this final desperate effort to fix the crime upon his rival, Burrell turned on him with loathing.

"It's no use, Stark. We heard you say she killed herself. We were standing outside the door, both of us, and got it from your own lips."

Until this moment the man had stood on his own feet, but now he began to sag, seeing which, Poleon supported him to the bed, where he sank weakly, collapsing in every joint and muscle.

"It's a job," he snarled. "You put this up, you three, and came here to gang me." An unnatural shudder convulsed him as his wounds bit at him, and then he flared up viciously. "But I'll beat you all. I've got the girl! I've got her!"

"Necia!" cried Burrell, suddenly remembering, for this affray had driven all else from his mind.

Stark crouched on the edge of his bunk—a ghastly, gray, grinning thing! One weapon still remained to him, and he used it.

"Yes, I've got my daughter!"

"Where is she?" demanded the trader, hoarsely. "Where's my girl?"

The gambler chuckled; an agony seized him till he hiccoughed and strangled; then, as the spell passed, he laughed again.

"She's got you in her head, like the mother had, but I'll drive it out; I'll treat her like I did her—"

Gale uttered a terrible cry and moved upon him, but Burrell shouldered the trader aside, himself possessed by a cold fury that intensified his strength tenfold.

"Stop it, Gale! Let me attend to this. I'll make him tell!"

"Oh, will you?" mocked the girl's father.

"Where is she?"

"None of your damned business." Again he was seized with a paroxysm that left him shivering and his lips colorless. The blankets were soaked and soggy with blood, and his feet rested in a red pool.

"Ben Stark," said the tortured lover, "you're a sick man, and you'll be gone in half an hour at this rate. Won't you do one decent thing before you die?"

"Bah! I'm all right."

"I'll get you a doctor if you'll tell us where she is. If you don't—I'll—let you die. For God's sake, man, speak up!"

The wounded man strove to rise, but could not, then considered for a moment before he said:

"I sent her away."

"Where?"

"Up-river, on that freighter that left last night. She'll go out by Skagway, and I'll join her later, where I can have her to myself. She's forty miles up-river now, and getting farther every minute—oh, you can't catch her!"

The three men stared at one another blankly.

"Why did she go?" said Gale, dully.

"Because I told her who she was, and who you are; because she thinks you killed her mother; because she was glad to get away." Now that he was grown too weak to inflict violent pain, the man lied malevolently, gloating over what he saw in the trader's face.

"Never mind, old man, I'll bring her back," said Burrell, and laid a comforting hand on Gale's shoulder, for the fact that she was safe, the fact of knowing something relieved him immensely; but Stark's next words plunged him into even blacker horror than the trader felt.

"You won't want her if you catch her. Runnion will see to that."

"Runnion!"

"Yes, I sent him with her."

The lover cried out in anguish, and hid his face in his hands.

"He's wanted her for a long time, so I told him to go ahead—"

None of them noticed Poleon Doret, who, upon this unnatural confession, alone seemed to retain sufficient control to doubt and to reason. He was thinking hard, straightening out certain facts, and trying to square this horrible statement with things he had seen and heard to-night. All of a sudden he uttered a great cry, and bolted out into the darkness unheeded by Gale and Burrell, who stood dazed and distraught with a fear greater than that which was growing in Stark at sight of his wounds.

The gambler looked down at his injuries, opened and closed the fingers of his hand as if to see whether he still maintained control of them, then cried out at the two helpless men:

"Well, are you going to let me bleed to death?"

It brought the soldier out of his trance.

"Why—no, no! We'll get a doctor."

But Gale touched him on the shoulder and said:

"He's too weak to get out. Lock him in, and let him die in the dark."

Stark cursed affrightedly, for it is a terrible thing to bleed to death in the dark, and in spite of himself the Lieutenant wavered.

"I can't do that. I promised."

"He told that lie to my girl. He gave her to that hound," said the trader, but Burrell shoved him through the door.

"No! I can't do that." And then to the wounded man he said, "I'll get a doctor, but God have mercy on your soul." He could not trust himself to talk further with this creature, nor be near him any longer, for though he had a slight knowledge of surgery, he would sooner have touched a loathsome serpent than the flesh of this monstrous man.

He pushed Gale ahead of him, and the old man went like a driven beast, for his violence had wasted itself, and he was like a person under the spell of a strong drug. At the doctor's door Burrell stopped.

"I never thought to ask you," he said, wearily; "but you must be hurt? He must have wounded you?"

"I reckon he did—I don't know." Then the man's listless voice throbbed out achingly, as he cried in despair: "She believed him, boy! She believed his lies! That's what hurts." Something like a sob caught in his throat, and he staggered away under the weight of his great bereavement.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LOVE OF POLEON DORET

To the girl crouching at the stern of Runnion's boat it seemed as if this day and night would never end. It seemed as if the procession of natural events must have ceased, that there was no longer any time, for she had been suffering steadily for hours and hours without end, and began to wonder dreamily whether she had not skipped a day in her reckoning between the time when she first heard of the strike on her claim and this present moment. It occurred to her that she was a rich girl now in her own right, and she smiled her crooked smile, as she reflected that the thing she had longed for without hope of attainment had come with confusing swiftness, and had left her unhappier than ever....

Would the day never come? She pulled the rugs up closer about her as the morning chill made her shiver. She found herself keeping mechanical count with the sound of the sweeps—they must be making good speed, she thought, and the camp must be miles behind now. Had it been earlier in the season, when the river ran full of drift, they never could have gone thus in the dark, but the water was low and the chances of collision so remote as to render blind travel safe. Even yet she could not distinguish her oarsman, except as a black bulk, for it had been a lowering night and the approaching dawn failed to break through the blanket of cloud that hung above the great valley. He was a good boatman, however, as she gathered from the tireless regularity of his strokes. He was a silent man, too, and she was grateful for that. She snuggled down into her blanket and tried to sleep, but she only dozed for a minute, it seemed, to find her eyes fly wide open again. So, restless and tired of her lonely vigil, she gave a premonitory cough, and said to her companion:

"You must be tired rowing so steadily?"

"Oh, I don't mind it," he replied.

At the sound of his voice she sat bolt upright. It couldn't be—if this were Runnion he would have spoken before! She ventured again, tremulously:

"Have you any idea what time it is?"

"About three o'clock. I fancy."

"Who are you?" The question came like a shot.

"Don't you know?"

"What are YOU doing here, Mr. Runnion?"

"I'm rowing," he answered, carelessly.

"Why didn't you speak?" A vague feeling of uneasiness came over her, a suspicion that all was not right, so she waited for him to explain, and when he did not, she repeated her question. "What made you keep still so long? You knew who I was?"

"Well, it's the first time I ever took you on a midnight row, and I wanted to enjoy it."

The mockery in his voice quickened her apprehension. Of a sudden the fear of being misjudged impelled her to end this flight that had become so distasteful in a moment, preferring to face the people at the post rather than continue her journey with this man.

"I've changed my mind, Mr. Runnion," she said. "I don't want to go down to the Mission. I want you to take me back."

"Can't do it," he said; "the current is too swift."

"Then set me ashore and I'll walk back. It can't be far to town."

"Twenty-five miles. We've been out about three hours." He kept on rowing steadily, and although the distance they had gone frightened her, she summoned her courage to say:

"We can make that easily enough. Come, run in to the bank."

He ceased rowing and let the boat drift with dragging sweeps, filled his pipe and lighted it, then took up his oars again and resumed his labors.

"Please do as I ask you, Mr. Runnion. I've decided I don't want to go any farther." He laughed, and the sound aroused her. "Put me ashore this minute!" she cried, indignantly. "What do you mean?"

"You've got a fierce temper, haven't you?"

"Will you do it or not?"

When he made no answer, except to continue the maddening monotony of his movements, she was seized with a rash resolve to wrench the oars out of his hands, and made a quick motion towards him, at which he shouted:

"Sit down! Do you want to upset us?"

The unstable craft lurched and dipped dangerously, and, realizing the futility of her mad impulse, she sank back on her knees.

"Put me ashore!"

"No," he said, "not till I'm ready. Now, keep your seat or we'll both drown; this ain't a ferry-boat." After a few strokes, he added, "We'll never get along together unless you tame that temper."

"We're not going to get along together, Mr. Runnion—only as far as the Mission. I dare say you can tolerate me until then, can you not?" She said this bitingly.

"Stark told me to board the first boat for St. Michael's," he said, disregarding her sarcasm, "but I've made a few plans of my own the last hour or so."

"St. Michael's! Mr. Stark told you—why, that's impossible! You misunderstood him. He told you to row me to the Mission. I'm going to Father Barnum's house."

"No, you're not, and I didn't misunderstand him. He wants to get you outside, all right, but I reckon you'd rather go as Mrs. Runnion than as the sweetheart of Ben Stark."

"Are you crazy?" the girl cried. "Mr. Stark kindly offered to help me reach the Father at his Mission. I'm nothing to him, and I'm certainly not going to be anything to you. If I'd known you were going to row the boat, I should have stayed at home, because I detest you."

"You'll get over that."

"I'm not in the humor for jokes."

He rested again on his oars, and said, with deliberation:

"Stark 'kindly offered' did he? Well, whenever Ben Stark 'kindly' offers anything, I'm in on the play. He's had his eye on you for the last three months, and he wants you, but he slipped a cog when he gave me the oars. You needn't be afraid, though, I'm going to do the square thing by you. We'll stop in at the Mission and be married, and then we'll see whether we want to go to St. Michael's or not, though personally I'm for going back to Flambeau."

During the hours while he had waited for Necia to discover his identity, the man's mind had not been idle; he had determined to take what fortune tossed into his lap. Had she been the unknown, unnoticed half-breed of a month or two before, he would not have wasted thought upon priests or vows, but now that a strange fate had worked a change in her before the world, he accepted it.

The girl's beauty, her indifference, the mistaken attitude of Stark urged him, and, strongest of all, he was drawn by his cupidity, for she would be very rich, so the knowing ones said. Doubtless that was why Stark wanted her, and, being a man who acknowledged no fidelity to his kind or his Creator, Runnion determined to outwit his principal, Doret, Burrell, and all the rest. It was a chance to win much at the risk of nothing, and he was too good a gambler to let it pass.

With his brusque declaration Necia realized her position—that she was a weak, lonely girl, just come into womanhood, so cursed by good looks that men wanted her, so stained by birth that they would not take her honestly; realized that she was alone with a dissolute creature and beyond help, and for the first time in her life she felt the meaning of fear.

She saw what a frail and helpless thing she was; nothing about her was great save her soul, and that was immeasurably vexed and worried. She had just lived through a grief that had made her generous, and now she gained her first knowledge of the man-animal's gross selfishness.

"You are absolutely daft," she said. "You can't force me to marry you."

"I ain't going to force you; you'll do it willingly."

"I'll die first. I'll call the first man we see—I'll tell Father Barnum, and he'll have you run out of the country—it would only take a word from me."

"If you haven't changed your mind when we get to his place, I'll run through without stopping; but there isn't another priest between there and St. Mike's, and by the time we get to the mouth of the river, I guess you'll say yes to most anything. However, I'd rather marry you at Holy Cross if you'll consent, and I'm pretty sure you will—when you think it over."

"We won't discuss it."

"You don't understand yet," he continued, slowly. "What will people say when they know you ran away with me."

"I'll tell them the truth."

"Huh! I'm too well known. No man on the river would ever have you after that."

"You—you—" Her voice was a-quiver with indignation and loathing, but her lips could not frame an epithet fit for him. He continued rowing for some time, then said:

"Will you marry me?"

"No! If this thing is ever known, Poleon will kill you—or father."

For a third time he rested on his oars.

"Now that we've come to threats, let me talk. I offered to marry you and do the square thing, but if you don't want to, I'll pass up the formality and take you for my squaw, the same as your father took Alluna. I guess you're no better than your mother, so your old man can't say much under the circumstances, and if he don't object, Poleon can't. Just remember, you're alone with me in the heart of a wilderness, and you've got to make a choice quick, because I'm going ashore and make some breakfast as soon as it's light enough to choose a landing-place. If you agree to come quietly and go through with this thing like a sensible girl, I'll do what's right, but if you don't—then I'll do what's wrong, and maybe you won't be so damned anxious to tell your friends about this trip, or spread your story up and down the river. Make up your mind before I land."

The water gurgled at the bow again, and the row-locks squeaked. Another hour and then another passed in silence before the girl noted that she no longer seemed to float through abysmal darkness, but that the river showed in muddy grayness just over the gunwale. She saw Runnion more clearly, too, and made out his hateful outlines, though for all else she beheld they might have been miles out upon a placid sea, and so imperceptible was the laggard day's approach that she could not measure the growing light. It was a desolate dawn, and showed no glorious gleams of color. There was no rose-pink glow, no merging of a thousand tints, no final burst of gleaming gold; the night merely faded away, changing to a sickly pallor that grew to ashen gray, and then dissolved the low-hung, distorted shadows a quarter of a mile inland on either hand into a forbidding row of unbroken forest backed by plain, morass, and distant hills untipped by slanting rays. Overhead a bleak ruin of clouds drifted; underneath the river ran, a bilious yellow. The whole country so far as the eye could range was unmarred by the hand of man, untracked save by the feet of the crafty forest people.

She saw Runnion gazing over his shoulder in search of a shelving beach or bar, his profile showing more debased and mean than she had ever noticed it before. They rounded a bend where the left bank crumbled before the untiring teeth of the river, forming a bristling chevaux-de-frise of leaning, fallen firs awash in the current. The short side of the curve, the one nearest them, protected a gravel bar that made down-stream to a dagger-like point, and towards this Runnion propelled the skiff. The girl's heart sank and she felt her limbs grow cold.

The mind of Poleon Doret worked in straight lines. Moreover, his memory was good. Stark's statement, which so upset Gale and the Lieutenant, had a somewhat different effect upon the Frenchman, for certain facts had been impressed upon his subconsciousness which did not entirely gibe with the gambler's remarks, and yet they were too dimly engraved to afford foundation for a definite theory. What he did know was this, that he doubted. Why? Because certain scraps of a disjointed conversation recurred to him, a few words which he had overheard in Stark's saloon, something about a Peterborough canoe and a woman. He knew every skiff that lay along the waterfront, and of a sudden he decided to see if this one was where it had been at dusk; for there were but two modes of egress from Flambeau, and there was but one canoe of this type. If Necia had gone up-river on the freighter, pursuit was hopeless, for no boatman could make headway against the current; but if, on the other hand, that cedar craft was gone—He ran out of Stark's house and down to the river-bank, then leaped to the shingle beneath. It was just one chance, and if he was wrong, no matter; the others would leave on the next up-river steamer; whereas, if his suspicion proved a certainty, if Stark had lied to throw them off the track, and Runnion had taken her down-stream—well, Poleon wished no one to hinder him, for he would travel light.

The boat WAS gone! He searched the line backward, but it was not there, and his excitement grew now, likewise his haste. Still on the run, he stumbled up to the trading-post and around to the rear, where, bottom up, lay his own craft, the one he guarded jealously, a birch canoe, frail and treacherous for any but a man schooled in the ways of swift water and Indian tricks. He was very glad now that he had not told the others of his suspicions; they might have claimed the right to go, and of that he would not be cheated. He swung the shell over his shoulders, then hurried to the bank and down the steep trail like some great, misshapen turtle. He laid it carefully in the whispering current, then stripped himself with feverish haste, for the driving call of a hot pursuit was on him, and although it was the cold, raw hours of late night, he whipped off his garments until he was bare to the middle. He seized his paddle, stepped in, then knelt amidships and pushed away. The birch-bark answered him like a living thing, leaping and dancing beneath the strokes which sprung the spruce blade and boiled the water to a foam, while rippling, rising ridges stood out upon his back and arms as they rose and fell, stretched and bent and straightened.

A half-luminous, opaque glow was over the waters, but the banks quickly dropped away, until there was nothing to guide him but the suck of the current and the sight of the dim-set stars. His haste now became something crying that lashed him fiercely, for he seemed to be standing still, and so began to mutter at the crawling stream and to complain of his thews, which did not drive him fast enough, only the sound he made was more like the whine of a hound in leash or a wolf that runs with hot nostrils close to the earth.

Runnion drove his Peterborough towards the shore with powerful strokes, and ran its nose up on the gravel, rose, stretched himself, and dragged it farther out, then looked down at Necia.

"Well, what is it, yes or no? Do you want me for a husband or for a master?" She cowered in the stern, a pale, fearful creature, finally murmuring:

"You—you must give me time."

"Not another hour. Here's where you declare yourself; and remember, I don't care which you choose, only you'd better be sensible."

She cast her despairing eyes up and down the river, then at the wilderness on either shore; but it was as silent and unpeopled as if it had been created that morning. She must have time; she would temporize, pretending to yield, and then betray him to the first comer; a promise exacted under duress would not be binding.

"I'll go quietly," she said, in a faint voice.

"I knew you'd see that I'm acting square. Come! Get the cramp out of yourself while I make a pot of coffee." He held out his hand to assist her, and she accepted it, but stumbled as she rose, for she had been crouched in one position for several hours, and her limbs were stiff. He caught her and swung her ashore; then, instead of putting her feet to the ground, he pressed her to himself roughly and kissed her. She gave a stifled cry and fought him off, but he laughed and held her the closer.

"Ain't I good for one kiss? Say, this is the deuce of an engagement. Come, now—"

"No, no, no!" she gasped, writhing like a wild thing; but he crushed his lips to hers again and then let her go, whereupon she drew away from him panting, dishevelled, her eyes wide and filled with horror. She scrubbed her lips with the back of her hand, as if to erase his mark, while he reached into the canoe and brought forth an axe, a bundle of food, and a coffee-pot; then, still chuckling, he gathered a few sticks of driftwood and built a fire. She had a blind instinct to flee, and sought for a means of escape, but they were well out upon the bar that stretched a distance of three hundred feet to the wooded bank; on one side of the narrow spit was the scarcely moving, half-stagnant water of a tiny bay or eddy, on the other, the swift, gliding current tugging at the beached canoe, while the outer end of the gravelled ridge dwindled down to nothing and disappeared into the river. At sight of the canoe a thought struck her, but her face must have shown some sign of it, for the man chanced to look at the moment, and, seeing her expression, straightened himself, then gazed about searchingly. Without a word he stepped to the boat, and, seizing it, dragged it entirely out upon the bar, where her strength would not be equal to shoving it off quickly, and, not content with this, he made the painter fast, then went back to his fire. The eagerness died out of her face, but an instant later, when he turned to the clearer water of the eddy to fill the coffee-pot, she seized her chance and sped up the bar towards the bank. The shingle under foot and her noisy skirts betrayed her, and with an oath he followed. It was an unequal race, and he handled her with rough, strong hands when he overtook her.

"So! You lied to me! Well, I'm through with this foolishness. If you'll go back on your word like this you'll 'bawl me out' before the priest, so I'll forget my promise, too, and you'll be glad of the chance to marry me."

"Let me go!" she panted. "I'll marry you. Yes, yes, I'll do it, only don't touch me now!"

He led her back to the fire, which had begun to crackle. She was so weak now that she sank upon the stones shivering.

"That's right! Sit down and behave while I make you something hot to drink. You're all in." After a time he continued, as he busied himself about his task: "Say, you ought to be glad to get me; I've got a lot of money, or I will have, and once you're Mrs. Runnion, nobody'll ever know about this or think of you as a squaw." He talked to her while he waited for the water to boil, his assurance robbing her of hope, for she saw he was stubborn and reckless, determined to override her will as well as to conquer her body, while under his creed, the creed of his kind, a woman was made from the rib of man and for his service. He conveyed it to her plainly. He ruled horses with a hard hand, he drove his dog teams with a biting lash, and he mastered women with a similar lack of feeling or consideration.

He was still talking when the girl sprang to her feet and sent a shrill cry out over the river, but instantly he was up and upon her, his hand over her mouth, while she tore at it, screaming the name of Poleon Doret. He silenced her to a smothered, sobbing mumble, and turned to see, far out on the bosom of the great soiled river, a man in a bark canoe. The craft had just swung past the bend above, and was still a long way off—so far away, in fact, that Necia's signal had not reached it, for its occupant held unwaveringly to the swiftest channel, his body rising and falling in the smooth, unending rhythm of a master-boatman tinder great haste, his arms up-flung now and then, as the paddle glinted and flashed across to the opposite side.

Runnion glanced about hurriedly, then cursed as he saw no place of concealment. The Peterborough stood out upon the bar conspicuously, as did he and the girl; but the chance remained that this man, whoever he was, would pass by, for his speed was great, the river a mile in width, and the bend sharp. Necia had cried Poleon's name, but her companion saw no resemblance to the Frenchman in this strange-looking voyager; in fact, he could not quite make out what was peculiar about the man—perhaps his eyes were not as sharp as hers—and then he saw that the boatman was naked to the waist. By now he was drawing opposite them with the speed of a hound. The girl, gagged and held by her captor's hands, struggled and moaned despairingly, and, crouching back of the boat, they might have escaped discovery in the gray morning light had it not been for the telltale fire—a tiny, crackling blaze no larger than a man's hat. It betrayed them. The dancing craft upon which their eyes were fixed whipped about, almost leaping from the water at one stroke, then came towards them, now nothing but a narrow thing, half again the width of a man's body. The current carried it down abreast of them, then past, and Runnion rose, releasing the girl, who cried out with all her might to the boatman. He made no sound in reply, but drove his canoe shoreward with quicker strokes. It was evident he would effect his landing near the lower end of the spit, for now he was within hearing distance, and driving closer every instant.

Necia heard the gambler call:

"Sheer off, Doret! You can't land here!"

She saw a gun in Runnion's hand, and a terrible, sickening fear swept over her, for he was slowly walking down the spit, keeping abreast of the canoe as it drifted. She could see exactly what would happen: no man could disembark against the will of an armed marksman, and if Poleon slackened his stroke, or stopped it to exchange his paddle for a weapon, the current would carry him past; in addition, he would have to fire from a rocking paper shell harried by a boiling current, whereas the other man stood flat upon his feet.

"Keep away or I'll fire!" threatened Runnion again; and she screamed, "Don't try it, Poleon, he'll kill you!"

At her words Runnion raised his weapon and fired. She heard the woods behind reverberate with the echoes like a sounding-board, saw the white spurt of smoke and the skitter of the bullet as it went wide. It was a long shot, and had been fired as a final warning; but Doret made no outcry, nor did he cease coming; instead, his paddle clove the water with the same steady strokes that took every ounce of effort in his body. Runnion threw open his gun and replaced the spent shell. On came the careening, crazy craft in a sidewise drift, and with it the girl saw coming a terrible tragedy. She started to run down the gravelled ridge behind her enemy, not realizing the value or moment of her action, nor knowing clearly what she would do; but as she drew near she saw Runnion raise his gun again, and, without thought of her own safety, threw herself upon him Again his shot went wide as he strove to hurl her off, but his former taste of her strength was nothing to this, now that she fought for Poleon's life. Runnion snarled angrily and thrust her away, for he had waited till the canoe was close.

"Let me go, you devil!" he cried, and aimed again; but again she ran at him. This time, however, she did not pit her strength against his, but paused, and as he undertook to fire she thrust at his elbow, then dodged out of his way. Her blow was crafty and well-timed, and his shot went wild. Again he took aim, and again she destroyed it with a touch and danced out of his reach. She was nimble and light, and quickened now by a cold calculation of all that depended upon her.

Three times in all she thwarted Runnion, while the canoe drove closer every instant. On the fourth, as she dashed at him, he struck to be rid of her, cursing wickedly—struck as he would have struck at a man. Silently she crumpled up and fell, a pitiful, draggled, awkward little figure sprawled upon the rocks; but the delay proved fatal to him, for, though the canoe was close against the bank, and the huge man in it seemed to offer a mark too plain to be missed, he was too close to permit careful aim. Runnion heard him giving utterance to a strange, feral, whining sound, as if he were crying like a fighting boy; then, as the gambler raised his arm, the Canadian lifted himself up on the bottom of the canoe until he stood stretched to his full height, and leaped. As Runnion fired he sprang out and was into the water to his knees, his backward kick whirling the craft from underneath him out into the current, where the river seized it. He had risen and jumped all in one moment, launching himself at the shore like a panther. The gun roared again, but Poleon came up and on with the rush of the great, brown grizzly that no missile can stop. Runnion's weapon blazed in his face, but he neither felt nor heeded it, for his bare hands were upon his quarry, the impact of his body hurling the other from his feet, and neither of them knew whether any or all of the last bullets had taken effect. Poleon had come like an arrow, straight for his mark the instant he glimpsed it, an insensate, unreasoning, raging thing that no weight of lead nor length of blade could stop. In his haste he had left Flambeau without weapon of any kind, for in his mind such things were superfluous, and he had never fought with any but those God gave him, nor found any living thing that his hands could not master. Therefore, he had rushed headlong against this armed and waiting man, reaching for him ever closer and closer till the burning powder stung his eyes. They grappled and fought, alone and unseen, and yet it was no fight, for Runnion, though a vigorous, heavy-muscled man, was beaten down, smothered, and crushed beneath the onslaught of this great naked fellow, who all the time sobbed and whined and mewed in a panting fury.

They swung half across the spit to the farther side, where they fell in a fantastic convulsion, slipping and sliding and rolling among the rocks that smote and gouged and bruised them. The gambler fought for his life against the naked flesh of the other, against the distorted face that snapped and bit like the muzzle of a wolf, while all the time he heard that fearful, inarticulate note of blood-hunger at his ear. The Canadian's clenched hands crushed whatever they fell upon as if mailed with metal; the fingers were like tearing tongs that could not be loosed. It was a frightful combat, hideous from its inequality, like the battle of a man against a maddened beast whose teeth tore and whose claws ripped, whose every move was irresistible. And so it was over shortly.

Poleon rose and ran to the fallen girl, leaving behind him a huddled and twisted likeness of a man. He picked her up tenderly, moaning and crooning; but as her limp head lolled back, throwing her pale, blind features up to the heavens, he began to cry, this time like a woman. Tears fell from his eyes, burning tears, the agony of which seared his soul. He laid her carefully beside the water's edge, and, holding her head and shoulders in the crook of his left arm, he wet his right hand and bathed her face, crouching over her, half nude, dripping with the sweat of his great labors, a tender, palpitating figure of bronzed muscle and sinew, with all his fury and hate replaced by apprehension and pity. The short moments that he worked with her were ages to him, but she revived beneath his ministrations, and her first frightened look of consciousness was changed to a melting smile.

"W-what happened, Poleon?" she said. "I was afraid!"

He stood up to his full height, shaking, and weak as the water that dripped from him, the very bones in him dissolved. For the first time he uttered words.

"T'ank God, ba gosh!" and ran his hand up over his wet face.

"Where is he?" She started to her knees affrightedly; then, seeing the twisted, sprawling figure beyond, began to shudder. "He—he's dead?"

"I don' know," said Poleon, carelessly. "You feel it purty good now, eh, w'at?"

"Yes—I—he struck me!" The remembrance of what had occurred surged over her, and she buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Poleon! Poleon! He was a dreadful man."

"He don' trouble you no more."

"He tried—he—Ugh! I—I'm glad you did it!" She broke down, trembling at her escape, until her selfishness smote her, and she was up and beside him on the instant. "Are you hurt? Oh, I never thought of that. You must be wounded!"

The Frenchman felt himself over, and looked down at his limbs for the first time, "No! I guess not," he said, at which Necia noticed his meagre attire, and simultaneously he became conscious of it. He fell away a pace, casting his eyes over the river for his canoe, which was now a speck in the distance.

"Ba gosh! I'm hell of a t'ing for lookin' at," he said. "I'm paddle hard—dat's w'y. Sacre! how I sweat!" He hitched nervously at the band of his overalls, while Necia answered:

"That's all right, Poleon." Then, without warning, her face froze with mingled repulsion and wonder. "Look! Look!" she whispered, pointing past him.

Runnion was moving slowly, crawling painfully into a sitting posture, uplifting a terribly mutilated face, dazed and half conscious, groping for possession of his wits. He saw them, and grimaced frightfully, cowering and cringing.

Poleon felt the girl's hand upon his arm, and heard her crying in a hard, sharp voice:

"He needs killing! Put him away!"

He stared down at his gentle Necia, and saw the loathing in her face and the look of strange ferocity as she met his eyes boldly.

"You don't know what he—what he did," she said, through her shut teeth. "He—" But the man waited to hear no more.

Runnion saw him coming, and scrambled frantically to all-fours, then got on his feet and staggered down the bar. As Poleon overtook him, he cried out piteously, a shrill scream of terror, and, falling to his knees, grovelled and debased himself like a foul cripple at fear of the lash. His agony dispelled the savage taint of Alluna's aboriginal training in Necia, and the pure white blood of her ancestors cried out:

"Poleon, Poleon! Not that!" She hurried after him to where he paused above the wretch waiting for her. "You mustn't!" she said. "That would be murder, and—and—it's all over now."

The Frenchman looked at her wonderingly, not comprehending this sudden leniency.

"Let him alone; you've nearly killed him; that's enough." Whereat Runnion, broken in body and spirit, began to beg for his life.

"Wat's dat you say jus' now?" Doret asked the girl. "Was dat de truth for sure w'at you speak?"

"Yes, but you've done your work. Don't touch him again."

He hesitated, and Runnion, quick to observe it, added his entreaty to hers.

"I'm beaten, Doret. You broke me to pieces. I need help—I—I'm hurt."

"W'at you 'spec' I do wit' 'im?" the Canadian asked, and she answered:

"I suppose we'll have to take him where he can get assistance."

"Dat skiff ain' carry all free of us."

"I'll stay here," groaned the frightened man. "I'll wait for a steamer to pick me up, but for God's sake don't touch me again!"

Poleon looked him over carefully, and made up his mind that the man was more injured in spirit than in body, for, outside of his battered muscles, he showed no fatal symptoms. Although the voyageur was slower to anger than a child, a grudge never died in him, and his simple, self-taught creed knew no forgiveness for such men as Runnion, cherished no mercy for preying men or beasts. He glanced towards the wooded shores a stone's-throw above, then back at the coward he had beaten and whose life was forfeit under the code. There was a queer light in his eyes.

"Leave him here, Poleon. We'll go away, you and I, in the canoe, and the first boat will pick him up. Come." Necia tugged at his wrist for fear she might not prevail; but he was bent on brushing away a handful of hungry mosquitoes which, warmed by the growing day, had ventured out on the river. His face became wrinkled and set.

"Bien!" he grunted. "We lef 'im here, biccause dere ain't 'nough room in de batteau, eh? All right! Dat's good t'ing; but he's seeck man, so mebbe I feex it him nice place for stop till dem boats come."

"Yes, yes! Leave me here. I'll make it through all right," begged Runnion.

"Better you camp yonder on de point, w'ere you can see dose steamboat w'en she comes 'roun' de ben'. Dis is bad place." He indicated the thicket, a quarter of a mile above which ran out almost to the cut bank. "Come! I help you get feex."

Runnion shrank from his proffered assistance half fearfully, but, reassured, allowed the Frenchman to help him towards the shore.

"We tell it de first boat 'bout you, an' dey pick you up. You wait here, Necia."

The girl watched her rescuer guide Runnion up to the level of the woods, then disappear with him in the firs, and was relieved to see the two emerge upon the river-bank again farther on, for she had feared for an instant that Poleon might forget. There seemed to be no danger, however, for he was crashing through the brush in advance of the other, who followed laboriously. Once Runnion gained the high point, he would be able to command a view of both reaches of the river, and could make signals to attract the first steamboat that chanced to come along. Without doubt a craft of some sort would pass from one direction or the other by to-morrow at latest, or, if not, she and Poleon could send back succor to him from the first habitation they encountered. The two men disappeared again, and her fears had begun to prey on her a second time when she beheld the big Canadian returning. He was hurrying a bit, apparently to be rid of the mosquitoes that swarmed about him; and she marked that, in addition to whipping himself with a handful of blueberry bushes, he wore Runnion's coat to protect his shoulders.

"Woof! Dose skeeter bug is hongry," he cried. "Let's we pass on de river queeck."

"You didn't touch him again?"

"No, no. I'm t'rough wit' 'im."

She was only too eager to be away from the spot, and an instant later they were afloat in the Peterborough.

"Dis nice batteau," Poleon remarked, critically. "I mak' it go fas'," and began to row swiftly, seeking the breeze of the open river in which to shake off the horde of stinging pests that had risen with the sun. "I come 'way queeck wit'out t'inkin' 'bout gun or skeeter net or not'in'. Runnion she's len' me dis coat, so mebbe I don' look so worse lak' I do jus' now, eh?"

"How did you leave him? Is he badly injured?"

"No, I bus' it up on de face an' de rib, but she's feelin' good now. Yes. I'm leave 'im nice place for stop an' wait on de steamboat—plaintee spruce bough for set on."

She began to shudder again, and, sensitive to her every motion, he asked, solicitously, if she were sick, but she shook her head.

"I—I—was thinking what—supposing you hadn't come? Oh, Poleon! you don't know what you saved me from." She leaned forward and laid a tiny, grateful hand on the huge brown paw that rested on his oar. "I wonder if I can ever forget?"

She noted that they were running with the current, and inquired:

"Where are we going?"

"Wal, I can't pull dis boat 'gainst dat current, so I guess we pass on till I fin' my shirt, den bimebye we pick it up some steamboat an' go home."

Five miles below his quick eye detected his half-submerged "bark" lodged beneath some overhanging firs which, from the water's action, had fallen forward into the stream, and by rare good-fortune it was still upright, although awash. He towed it to the next sand-bar, where he wrung out and donned his shirt, then tipped the water from the smaller craft, and, making it fast astern of the Peterborough, set out again. Towards noon they came in sight of a little stern-wheeled craft that puffed and pattered manfully against the sweeping current, hiding behind the points and bars and following the slackest water.

"It's the Mission, boat!" cried Necia. "It's the Mission boat! Father Barnum will be aboard."

She waved her arms madly and mingled her voice with Poleon's until a black-robed figure appeared beside the pilot-house.

"Father Barnum!" she screamed, and, recognizing her, he signalled back.

Soon they were alongside, and a pair of Siwash deckhands lifted Necia aboard, Doret following after, the painter of the Peterborough in his teeth. He dragged both canoes out of the boiling tide, and laid them bottom up on the forward deck, then climbed the narrow little stairs to find Necia in the arms of a benignant, white-haired priest, the best-beloved man on the Yukon, who broke away from the girl to greet the Frenchman, his kind face alight with astonishment.

"What is all this I hear? Slowly, Doret, slowly! My little girl is talking too furiously for these poor old wits to follow. I can't understand; I am amazed. What is this tale?"

Together they told him, while his blue eyes now opened wide with wonder, now grew soft with pity, then blazed with indignation. When they had finished he laid his hand upon Doret's shoulder.

"My son, I thank God for your good body and your clean heart. You saved our Necia, and you will be rewarded. As to this—this—man Runnion, we must find him, and he must be sent out of the country; this new, clean land of ours is no place for such as he. You will be our pilot, Poleon, and guide us to the spot."

It required some pressure to persuade the Frenchman, but at last he consented; and as the afternoon drew to a close the little steamboat came squattering and wheezing up to the bar where Runnion had built his fire that morning, and a long, shrill blast summoned him from the point above. When he did not appear the priest took Poleon and his round-faced, silent crew of two and went up the bank, but they found no sign of the crippled man, only a few rags, a trampled patch of brush at the forest's edge, and—that was all. The springy moss showed no trail; the thicket gave no answer to their cries, although they spent an hour in a scattered search and sounded the steamboat's whistle again and again.

"He's try for walk it back to camp," said Doret. "Mebbe he ain' hurt so much, after all."

"You must be right," said Father Barnum. "We will keep the steamer close to this shore, so that he can hail us when we overtake him."

And so they resumed their toilsome trip; but mile after mile fell behind them, and still no voice came from the woods, no figure hailed them. Doret, inscrutable and silent, lounged against the pilot-house smoking innumerable cigarettes, which he rolled from squares of newspaper, his keen eyes apparently scanning every foot of their slow way; but when night fell, at last, and the bank faded from sight, he tossed the last butt overboard, smiled grimly into the darkness, and went below.



CHAPTER XVIII

RUNNION FINDS THE SINGING PEOPLE

"No Creek" Lee came into the trading-post on the following morning, and found Gale attending store as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"Say! What's this about you and Stark? I hear you had a horrible run-in, and that you split him up the back like a quail."

"We had a row," admitted the trader. "It's been a long time working out, and last night it came to a head."

"Lord-ee! And to think of Ben Stark's bein' licked! Why, the whole camp's talkin' about it! They say he emptied two six-shooters at you, but you kept a-comin', and when you did get to him you just carved your initials on him like he was a bass-wood tree. Say, John, he's a goner, sure."

"Do you mean he's—passing out?"

"Oh no! I reckon he'll get well, from what I hear, though he won't let nobody come near him except old Doc; but he's lost a battle, and that ends him. Don't you savvy? Whenever a killer quits second best, it breaks his hoodoo. Why, there's been men laying for him these twenty years, from here to the Rio Grande, and every feller he ever bested will hear of this and begin to grease his holster; then the first shave-tail desperado that meets him will spit in his eye, just to make a name for himself. No, sir! He's a spent shell. He's got to fight all his battles over again, and this time the other feller will open the ball. Oh, I've seen it happen before. You killed him last night, just as sure as if you'd hung up his hide to dry, and he knows it."

"I'm a peaceable man," said Gale, on the defensive. "I had to do it."

"I know! I know! There was witnesses—this dress-maker at the fort seen it, so I hear."

The other acquiesced silently.

"Well! Well! Ben Stark licked! I can't get over that. It must 'a' been somethin' powerful strong to make you do it, John." It was as close to a question as the miner dared come, although he was avid with curiosity, and, like the entire town, was in a fret to know what lay back of this midnight encounter, concerning which the most exaggerated rumors were rife. These stories grew the more grotesque and ridiculous the longer the truth remained hidden, for Stark could not be seen, and neither Gale nor Burrell would speak. All that the people knew was that one lay wounded to death behind the dumb walls of his cabin, and that the other had brought him down. When the old man vouchsafed no more than a nod to his question, the prospector inquired:

"Where's Poleon? I've got news for him from the creek."

"I don't know; he's gone."

"Back soon?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"His laymen have give up. They've cross-cut his ground and the pay ain't there, so they've quit work for good."

"He drew a blank, eh?"

"Worse'n that—three of them. The creek is spotteder than a leopard. Runnion's men, for instance, are into it bigger than a house, while Poleon's people can't raise a color. I call it tough luck—yes, worse'n tough: it's hard-biled and pickled. To them as has shall it be given, and to them as hasn't shall be took even what they 'ain't got, as the poet says. Look at Necia! She'll be richer than a cream puff. Guess I'll step around and see her."

"She's gone," said the trader, wearily, turning his haggard face from the prospector.

"Gone! Where?"

"Up-river with Runnion. They got her away from me last night."

"Sufferin' snakes!" ejaculated Lee. "So that's why!" Then he added, simply, "Let's go and git her, John."

The trader looked at him queerly.

"Maybe I won't—on the first boat! I'm eating my heart out hour by hour waiting—waiting—waiting for some kind of a craft to come, and so is Burrell."

"What's he got to do with it?" said the one-eyed miner, jealously. "Can't you and me bring her back?"

"He'll marry her! God, won't there never be a boat!"

For the hundredth time that morning he went to the door of the post and strained his eyes down-stream.

"Well, well! Them two goin' to be married," said Lee. "Stark licked, and Necia goin' to be married—all at once. I hate to see it, John; he ain't good enough; she could 'a' done a heap better. There's a lot of reg'lar men around here, and she could 'a' had her pick. Of course, always bein' broke like a dog myself, I 'ain't kept up my personal appearance like I'd ought, but I've got some new clothes now, and you wouldn't know me. I bought 'em off a tenderfoot with cold feet, but they're the goods, and you'd see a big improvement in me."

"He's a good man," said Gale. "Better than you or me, and he's all torn up over this. I never saw a man act so. When he learned about it I thought he'd go mad—he's haunted the river-bank ever since, raging about for some means of following her, and if I hadn't fairly held him he'd have set out single-handed."

"I'm still strong in the belief that Necia could have bettered her hand by stayin' out awhile longer," declared Lee, stubbornly; "but if she wants a soldier, why, we'll get one for her, only I'd rather have got her somethin' real good and pronounced in the military line—like an agitant-gen'ral or a walkin' delegate."

While they were talking Burrell came in, and "No Creek" saw that the night had affected the youth even more than it had Gale, or at least he showed the marks more plainly, for his face was drawn, his eyes were sunken as if from hunger, and his whole body seemed to have fallen away till his uniform hung upon him loose, unkempt, and careless. It was as if hope had been a thing of avoirdupois, and when taken away had caused a shrinkage. He had interrogated Stark again after getting the doctor, but the man had only cursed at him, declaring that his daughter was out of reach, where he would take care to keep her, and torturing the lover anew by linking Runnion's name with the girl's till the young man fled from the sound of the monster's voice back to his own quarters. He strove to keep the image of Runnion out of his mind, for his reason could not endure it. At such times he cried aloud, cursing in a way that was utterly strange to a God-fearing man, only to break off and rush to the other extreme, praying blindly, beseechingly, for the girl's safe-keeping. At intervals an unholy impulse almost drove him to Stark's cabin to finish the work Gale had begun, to do it coldly as a matter of justice, for was he not the one who had put Necia into the hands of that ruffian? Greeting Lee mechanically, he said to Gale:

"I can't wait much longer," and sank wearily into a seat. Almost the next instant he was on his feet again, saying to the trader, as he had said it a score of times already: "Runnion comes to me, Gale! You understand he's mine, don't you?"

The old man nodded. "Yes! You can take him."

"Well, who do I git?" asked Lee.

"You can't come along," the trader said. "We may have to follow the hound clean to the States. Think of your mine—"

"To hell with the mine!" exploded the shaggy prospector. "I reckon I'm kind of a daddy to your gal, and I'm goin' to be in at the finish."

Back and forth paced the Lieutenant restlessly, pausing every now and then to peer down the river. Suddenly he uttered a cry, and with a bound Gale was beside him, Lee at his shoulder.

"Look! Over the point! Down yonder! I saw smoke!"

The three stared at the distant forest fringe that masked the bend of the river until their eyes ached, and the dark-green grew black and wavered indistinctly.

"You're tired, my boy," said Gale.

"Wait!"

They obeyed, and finally over the tree-tops saw a faint streamer of black.

"It is! It is!" cried the soldier. "I'm going for my war bag." And before the steamboat had hove into sight he was back with his scanty bundle of baggage, behaving like one daft, talking and laughing and running here and there. Lee watched him closely, then went behind the bar and poured out a stiff glass of whiskey, which he made Burrell drink. To Gale he whispered, a moment later:

"Keep your eye on him, John—he'll go mad at this rate."

They waited, it seemed interminably, until at last a white hull slowly rounded the point, then shaped a course across the current towards the other bank, where the water was less swift. As it came fully into sight, Gale swore aloud in despair:

"It's the Mission boat!"

"Well, what of that?" said Burrell. "We'll hire it—buy it—take it!"

"It's no use; she ain't got but three dog-power to her engines," Lee explained. "She's a down-river boat—has to run with the current to move."

"We can't use her," Gale gave in, reluctantly. "She'd only lose time for us. We've got to wait for one of the A. C. boats."

"Wait!" cried Burrell. "Good God! we've done nothing but wait, WAIT, WAIT! Let's do something!"

"You go back yonder and set down," commanded Lee. "We'll have a boat before long."

The arrival of the tiny Mission steamer was never of sufficient importance to draw a crowd to the riverbank, so the impatient men at the post relaxed interest in her as she came creeping up abreast of the town. It was little Johnny Gale who first saw Necia and Poleon on board, for he had recognized Father Barnum's craft at a distance, and stationed himself at the bank hand-in-hand with Molly to bid the good, kind old man welcome.

The men inside the house did not hear the boy crying Necia's name, for his voice was small, and they had gone to the rear of the store.

"Understand! You leave Runnion to me," Burrell was saying. "No man shall lay hands on him except me—" His voice trailed away; he rose slowly to his feet, a strange light on his face. The others turned to see what sight had drawn his eyes. In the opening, all splendid with the golden sunlight, stood Necia and Poleon Doret, who had her by the hand—and she was smiling!

Gale uttered a great cry and went to meet them, but the soldier could move nothing save his lips, and stood dazed and disbelieving. He saw them dimly coming towards him, and heard Poleon's voice as if at a great distance, saw that the Frenchman's eyes were upon him, and that his words were directed to him.

"I bring her back to you, M'sieu'!"

Doret laid Necia's hand in that of her lover, and Burrell saw her smiling shyly up at him. Something gripped him chokingly, and he could utter no sound. There was nothing to say-she was here, safe, smiling, that was all. And the girl, beholding the glory in his eyes, understood.

Gale caught her away from him then, and buried her in his arms.

A woman came running into the store, and, seeing the group, paused at the door—a shapeless, silent, shawled figure in silhouette against the day. The trader brought the girl to her foster-mother, who began to talk in her own tongue with a rapidity none of them had ever heard before, her voice as tender as some wild bird's song; then the two women went away together around the store into the house. Poleon had told Necia all the amazing story that had come to him that direful night, all that he had overheard, all that he knew, and much that he guessed.

The priest came into the store shortly, and the men fell upon him for information, for nothing was to be gained from Poleon, who seemed strangely fagged and weary, and who had said but little.

"Yes, yes, yes!" laughed Father Barnum. "I'll tell you all I know, of course, but first I must meet Lieutenant Burrell and take him by the hand."

The story did not lose in his telling, particularly when he came to describe the fight on the gravel bar which no man had seen, and of which Poleon had told him little; but the good priest was of a militant turn, and his blue eyes glittered and flashed like an old crusader's.

"It was a wondrous combat," he declared, with all the spirit of a spectator, "for Poleon advanced bare-handed and beat him down even as the man fired into his face. It is due to the goodness and mercy of God that he was spared a single wound from this desperado—a miracle vouchsafed because of his clean heart and his righteous cause."

"But where is Runnion?" broke in Burrell.

"Nursing his injuries at some wood-cutter's camp, no doubt; but God be praised for that double spirit of generosity and forgiveness which prompted our Poleon to spare the wretch. No finer thing have I known in all my life, Doret, even though you have ever been an ungodly fellow."

The Frenchman moved uneasily.

"Wal, I don' know; he ain' fight so dam' hard."

"You couldn't find no trace of him?" said Lee.

"No trace whatever," Father Barnum replied; "but he will surely reach some place of refuge where we can pick him up, for the days are still mild and the woods full of berries, and, as you know, the streams overflow with salmon, which he can kill with a stick. Why, a man might live a fortnight without inconvenience!"

"I'll be on the lookout for him," said the Lieutenant, grimly. "To-night I'll send Thomas and a couple of men down the river."

When the voluble old priest had at last exhausted his narrative he requested of Burrell the privilege of a few words, and drew him apart from the others. His face was shrewdly wrinkled and warm with understanding.

"I had a long conversation with my little girl, for she is like a daughter to me, and I discovered the depth of her love for you. Do you think you are worthy of her?"

"No."

"Do you love her as much as you should?"

"As much as I can. They don't make words or numbers big enough to tell you how dear she is to me."

"Then why delay? To-morrow I leave again, and one never knows what a day may bring forth."

"But Stark?" the young man cried. "He's her father, you know; he's like a madman, and she's still under age."

"I know very little of law outside of the Church," the Father observed, "but, as I understand it, if she marries before he forbids her, the law will hold him powerless. Now, he has never made himself known to her, he has never forbidden her anything; and although my conclusion may not be correct, I believe it is, and you have a chance if you make haste. At your age, my boy, I never needed a spur."

"A spur? Good Lord! I'm from Kentucky."

"Once she is yours before God, your hold will be stronger in the eyes of men. If I am wrong, and he takes her from you—well, may some other priest re-wed you two—I sha'n't!"

"Don't worry," laughed Burrell, ablaze at the thought. "You're the only preacher who'll kiss my bride, for I'm a jealous man, and all the Starks and all the fathers in the world won't get her away from me. Do you think she'll do it?"

"A woman in love will do anything."

Burrell seized the little man by the hand. "If I had known more law you needn't have given me this hint."

"I must go now to this Stark," said the Father; "he may need me. But first I shall talk with Necia. Poor child, she is in a difficult position, standing between the love of John Gale and the loyalty she owes her father. I—I fear I cannot counsel her as well as I ought, for I am very weak and human. You had better come with me; perhaps the plea of a lover may have more weight than the voice of reason." As they started towards the house, he continued, energetically: "Young man, I'm beginning to live once more. Do you know, sometimes I think I was not designed for this vocation, and, just between you and me, there was a day when—" He paused and coughed a trifle, then said, sharply, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Together they went into the trader's house.

Back in the store there was silence after the priest and the soldier went out, which Gale broke at last:

"This forgiveness talk is all right, I suppose—but I WANT RUNNION!"

"We'll git him, too," growled Lee, at which Poleon uttered a curt exclamation:

"No!"

"Why not?" said the miner.

"Wal," the Canadian drawled, slowly, then paused to light the cigarette he had rolled in a bit of wrapping-paper, inhaled the smoke deeply to the bottom of his lungs, held it there a moment, and blew it out through mouth and nostrils before adding, "you'll jus' be wastin' tam'!"

Gale looked up from beneath his thatch of brow, and asked, quietly:

"Why?"

"You 'member—story I tol' you wan day, two, t'ree mont' ago," Poleon remarked, with apparent evasion, "'bout Johnny Platt w'at I ketch on de Porcupine all et up by skeeter-bugs?"

"I do," answered Gale.

"Wal,"—he met their eyes squarely, then drew another long breath from his cigarette—"I'm jus' hopin' nobody don' pick it up dis Runnion feller de same way. Mebbe dey fin' hees han's tie' behin' 'im wit' piece of hees shirt-"

"Good God!" cried the trader, starting to his feet. "You—you—"

"—of course, I'm jus' s'posin'. He was feel purty good w'en I lef'. He was feel so good I tak' hees coat for keepin' off dem bugs from me, biccause I lef it my own shirt on de canoe. He's nice feller dat way; he give up easy. Ba gosh! I never see worse place for skeeters!"

Gale fell silent, and "No Creek" Lee began to swear in little, useless, ineffective oaths, which were but two ways of showing similar emotions. Then the former stepped up and laid a big hand upon Poleon's shoulder.

"That saves us quite a trip," he said, but "No Creek" Lee continued to swear softly.

It seemed that Poleon's wish was to be gratified, for no news of the missing man came through in the days that followed. Only at a fishing village far down the river, where a few native families had staked their nets and weirs for salmon, a hunter told a strange tale to his brothers—a tale of the white man's idiosyncrasies. In sooth, they were a strange people, he observed, surpassing wise in many things, yet ignorant and childish in all others, else why should a half-naked man go wandering idly through the thickets holding a knotted rag behind his back, and that when the glades were dense and the moss-chinks filled with the singing people who lived for blood? The elders of the village nodded their heads sagely, and commended the hunter for holding aloof from the inert body, for the foolishness of this man was past belief, and—well, his people were swift and cruel in their vengeance, and sometimes doubted an Indian's word, wherefore it were best to pay no heed to their ways and say nothing. But they continued to wonder why.

Father Barnum found the three still talking in the store when he had finished an hour's counsel with Necia, so came straight to the point. It was work that delighted his soul, for he loved the girl, and had formed a strong admiration for Burrell. Two of them took his announcement quietly, the other cried out strenuous objections. It was the one-eyed miner.

"Right away! Not on your life! It's too onexpected. You've got to hold 'em apart for an hour, anyhow, till I get dressed." He slid down from his seat upon the counter. "What do you reckon I got all them clothes for?"

"Come as you are," urged the Father, but Lee fought his point desperately.

"I'll bust it up if you don't gimme time. What's an hour or two when they've got a life sentence comin' to 'em. Dammit, you jest ought to see them clothes!" And by very force of his vociferations he succeeded in exacting the promise of a brief stay in the proceedings before he bolted out, the rags of his yellow mackinaw flapping excitedly.

The priest returned to Necia, leaving the trader and Poleon alone.

"I s'pose it's best," said the former.

"Yes!"

"Beats the deuce, though, how things work out, don't it?"

"I'm glad for see dis day," said the Frenchman. "He's good man, an' he ain' never goin' to hurt her none." He paused. "Dere's jus' wan t'ing I want for ask it of you, John—you 'member dat day we stop on de birch grove, an' you spik 'bout her an' tol' me dose story 'bout her moder? Wal, I was dreamin' dat tam', so I'm goin' ask it you now don' never tell her w'at I said."

"Doesn't she know, my boy?"

"No; I ain' never spoke 'bout love. She t'inks I'm broder wit' her, an'—dat's w'at I am, ba Gar!" He could not hold his voice even—it broke with him; but he avoided the old man's gaze. Gale took him by the shoulders.

"There ain't nothing so cruel in the world as a gentle woman," said he; "but she wouldn't hurt you for all the world, Poleon; only the blaze of this other thing has blinded her. She can't see nothing for the light of this new love of hers."

"I know! Dat's w'y—nobody onderstan's but you an' me—"

Gale looked out through the open door, past the sun-lit river which came from a land of mystery and vanished into a valley of forgetfulness, past the forest and the hills, in his deep-set eyes the light of a wondrous love that had lived with him these many weary years, and said:

"Nobody else CAN understand but me—I know how it is. I had even a harder thing to bear, for you'll know she's happy at least, while I—" His voice trembled, but, after a pause, he continued: "They neither of them understand what you've done for them, for it was you that brought her back; but some time they'll learn how great their debt is and thank you. It'll take them years and years, however, and when they do they'll tell their babes of you, Poleon, so that your name will never die. I loved her mother, but I don't think I could have done what you did."

"She's purty hard t'ing, for sure, but I ain' t'ink 'bout Poleon Doret none w'en I'm doin' it. No, I'm t'ink 'bout her all de tarn'. She's li'l' gal, an' I'm beeg, strong feller w'at don' matter much an' w'at ain' know much—'cept singin', an' lovin' her. I'm see for sure now dat I ain' fit for her—I'm beeg, rough, fightin' feller w'at can't read, an' she's de beam of sunlight w'at blin' my eyes."

"If I was a fool I'd say you'd forget in time, but I've lived my life in the open, and I know you won't. I didn't."

"I don' want to forget," the brown man cried, hurriedly. "Le bon Dieu would not let me forget—it's all I've got to keep wit' me w'en I'm lookin' for my 'New Countree.'"

"You're not goin' to look for that 'New Country' any more," Gale replied.

"To-day," said the other, quietly.

"No."

"To-day! Dis affernoon! De blood in me is callin' for travel, John. I'm livin' here on dis place five year dis fall, an' dat's long tarn' for voyageur. I'm hongry for hear de axe in de woods an' de moose blow at sundown. I want for see the camp-fire t'rough de brush w'en I come from trap de fox an' dem little wild fellers. I want to smell smoke in de dusk. My work she's finish here, so I'm paddle away to-day, an' I'll fin' dat place dis tam', for sure—she's over dere." He raised his long arm and pointed to the dim mountains that hid the valley of the Koyukuk, the valley that called good men and strong, year after year, and took them to itself, while in his face the trader saw the hunger of his race, the unslaked longing for the wilderness, the driving desire that led them ever North and West, and, seeing it, he knew the man would go.

"Have you heard the news from the creeks?"

"No."

"Your claims are blanks; your men have quit."

The Frenchman shook his head sadly, then smiled—a wistful little smile.

"Wal, it's better I lose dan you—or Necia; I ain' de lucky kin', dat's all; an', affer all, w'at good to me is riche gol'-mine? I ain' got no use for money—any more."

They stood in the doorway together, two rugged, stalwart figures, different in blood and birth and every other thing, yet brothers withal, whom the ebb and flow of the far places had thrown together and now drew apart again. And they were sad, these two, for their love was deeper than comes to other people, and they knew this was farewell; so they remained thus side by side, two dumb, sorrowful men, until they were addressed by a person who hurried from the town.

He came as an apparition bearing the voice of "No Creek" Lee, the mining king, but in no other way showing sign or symbol of their old friend. Its style of face and curious outfit were utterly foreign to the miner, for he had been bearded with the robust, unkempt growth of many years, tanned to a leathery hue, and garbed perennially in the habit of a scarecrow, while this creature was shaved and clipped and curried, and the clothes it stood up in were of many startling hues. Its face was scraped so clean of whiskers as to be a pallid white, but lack of adornment ended at this point and the rest was overladen wondrously, while from the centre of the half-brown, half-white face the long, red nose of Lee ran out. Beside it rolled his lonesome eye, alive with excitement.

He came up with a strut, illumining the landscape, and inquired:

"Well, how do I look?"

"I'm darned if I know," said Gale. "But it's plumb unusual."

"These here shoes leak," said the spectacle, pulling up his baggy trousers to display his tan footgear, "because they was made for dry goin'—that's why they left the tops off; but they've got a nice, healthy color, ain't they? As a whole, it seems to me I'm sort of nifty." He revolved slowly before their admiring gaze, and while to one versed in the manners of the Far East it would have been evident that the original owner of these clothes had come from somewhere beyond the Susquehanna, and had either been a football player or had travelled with a glee club, to these three Northmen it seemed merely that here was the modish echo of a distant civilization.

"Wat's de matter on your face?" said Poleon. "You been fightin'?"

"I ain't shaved in a long time, and this here excitement has kind of shattered my nerves. I didn't have no lookin'-glass, neither, in my shack, so I had to use a lard-can cover. Does it look bad?"

"Not to my way of thinkin'," said Gale, allaying "No Creek's" anxiety. "It's more desp'rate than bad, but it sort of adds expression." At which the miner's pride burst bounds.

"I'll kindly ask you to note the shirt—ten dollars a copy, that's all! I got it from the little Jew down yonder. See them red spear-heads on the boosum? 'Flower dee Lizzies,' which means 'calla lilies' in French. Every one of 'em cost me four bits. On the level—how am I?"

"I never see no harness jus' lak it mese'f!" exclaimed Doret. "You look good 'nough for tin-horn gambler. Say, don' you wear no necktie wit' dem kin' of clothes?"

"No, sir! Not me. I'm a rude, rough miner, and I dress the part. Low-cut, blushin' shoes and straw hats I can stand for, likewise collars—they go hand-in-hand with pay-streaks; but a necktie ain't neither wore for warmth nor protection; it's a pomp and a vanity, and I'm a plain man without conceit. Now, let's proceed with the obsequies."

It was a very simple, unpretentious ceremony that took place inside the long, low house of logs, and yet it was a wonderful thing to the dark, shy maid who hearkened so breathlessly beside the man she had singled out—the clean-cut man in uniform, who stood so straight and tall, making response in a voice that had neither fear nor weakness in it. When they had done he turned and took her reverently in his arms and kissed her before them all; then she went and stood beside Gale and the red wife who was no wife, and said, simply:

"I am very happy."

The old man stooped, and for the first time in her memory pressed his lips to hers, then went out into the sunlight, where he might be alone with himself and the memory of that other Merridy, the woman who, to him, was more than all the women of the world; the woman who, each day and night, came to him, and with whom he had kept faith. The burden she had laid upon him had been heavy, but he had borne it long and uncomplainingly; and now he was very glad, for he had kept his covenant.

The first word of the wedding was borne by Father Barnum, who went alone to the cabin where the girl's father lay, entering with trepidation; for, in spite of the pleas of justice and humanity, this stony-hearted, amply hated man had certain rights which he might choose to enforce; hence, the good priest feared for the peace of his little charge, and approached the stricken man with apprehension. He was there a long time alone with Stark, and when he returned to Gale's house he would answer no questions.

"He is a strange man—a wonderfully strange man: unrepentant and wicked; but I can't tell you what he said. Have a little patience and you will soon know."

The mail boat, which had arrived an hour after the Mission boat, was ready to continue its run when, just as it blew a warning blast, down the street of the camp came a procession so strange for this land that men stopped, eyed it curiously, and whispered among themselves. It was a blanketed man upon a stretcher, carried by a doctor and a priest. The face was muffled so that the idlers could not make it out; and when they inquired, they received no answer from the carriers, who pursued their course impassively down the runway to the water's edge and up the gang-plank to the deck. When the boat had gone, and the last faint cough of its towering stacks had died away, Father Barnum turned to his friends:

"He has gone away, not for a day, but for all time. He is a strange man, and some things he said I could not understand. At first I feared greatly, for when I told him what had occurred—of Necia's return and of her marriage—he became so enraged I thought he would burst open his wounds and die from his very fury; but I talked a long, long time with him, and gradually I came to know somewhat of his queer, disordered soul. He could not bring himself to face defeat in the eyes of men, or to see the knowledge of it in their bearing; therefore, he fled. He told me that he would be a hunted animal all his life; that the news of his whipping would travel ahead of him; and that his enemies would search him out to take advantage of him. This I could not grasp, but it seemed a big thing in his eyes—so big that he wept. He said the only decent thing he could or would do was to leave the daughter he had never known to that happiness he had never experienced, and wished me to tell her that she was very much like her mother, who was the best woman in the world."



CHAPTER XIX

THE CALL OF THE OREADS

There was mingled rejoicing and lamentation in the household of John Gale this afternoon. Molly and Johnny were in the throes of an overwhelming sorrow, the noise of which might be heard from the barracks to the Indian village. They were sparing of tears as a rule, but when they did give way to woe they published it abroad, yelling with utter abandon, their black eyes puckered up, their mouths distended into squares, from which came such a measure of sound as to rack the ears and burden the air heavily with sadness. Poleon was going away! Their own particular Poleon! Something was badly askew in the general scheme of affairs to permit of such a thing, and they manifested their grief so loudly that Burrell, who knew nothing of Doret's intention, sought them out and tried to ascertain the cause of it. They had found the French-Canadian at the river with their father, loading his canoe, and they had asked him whither he fared. When the meaning of his words struck home they looked at each other in dismay, then, bred as they were to mask emotion, they joined hands and trudged silently back up the bank with filling eyes and chins a-quiver until they gained the rear of the house. Here they sat down all forlorn, and began to weep bitterly and in an ascending crescendo.

"What's the matter with you tikes, anyhow?" inquired the Lieutenant. He had always filled them with a speechless awe, and at his unexpected appearance they began the slow and painful process of swallowing their grief. He was a nice man, they had both agreed long ago, and very splendid to the eye, but he was nothing like Poleon, who was one of them, only somewhat bigger.

"Come, now! Tell me all about it," the soldier insisted. "Has something happened to the three-legged puppy?"

Molly denied the occurrence of any such catastrophe.

"Then you've lost the little shiny rifle that shoots with air?" But Johnny dispelled this horrible suspicion by drawing the formidable weapon out of the grass behind him.

"Well, there isn't anything else bad enough to cause all this outlay of anguish. Can't I help you out?"

"Poleon!" they wailed, in unison.

"Exactly! What about him?"

"He's goin' away!" said Johnny.

"He's goin' away!" echoed Molly.

"Now, that's too bad, of course," the young man assented; "but think what nice things he'll bring you when he comes back."

"He ain't comin' back!" announced the heir, with the tone that conveys a sorrow unspeakable.

"He ain't comin' back!" wailed the little girl, and, being a woman, yielded again to her weakness, unashamed.

Burrell tried to extract a more detailed explanation, but this was as far as their knowledge ran. So he sought out the Canadian, and found him with Gale in the store, a scanty pile of food and ammunition on the counter between them.

"Poleon," said he, "you're not going away?"

"Yes," said Doret. "I'm takin' li'l' trip."

"But when are you coming back?"

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Dat's hard t'ing for tellin'. I'm res'less in my heart, so I'm goin' travel some. I ain' never pass on de back trail yet, so I 'spect I keep goin'."

"Oh, but you can't!" cried Burrell. "I—I—" He paused awkwardly, while down the breeze came the lament of the two little Gales. "Well, I feel just as they do." He motioned in the direction of the sound. "I wanted you for a friend, Doret; I hate to lose you."