And as she read, she mused.

A tramp steamer dashed upon the saw-tooth rocks off Sarawak. Thirty perish—seven saved—no names. "Where is Sarawak? Is it possible that he——?"

Four sailors killed in the rescue of a girl from a dive in Singapore. Investigation ordered—no names. "He would have done that."

The rum-sodden body of a man, presumably a derelict American, picked up on the bund at Papiete; no marks of identification save the tightly clutched photograph of a well-dressed young woman. "Had he given up the fight? And was this the end?"

Eight revolutionist prisoners taken by General Orotho in yesterday's battle were shot at sunrise this morning before the prison wall of Managua.

One, an American, faced the firing squad with a laugh, and the next instant pitched forward, his body riddled with bullets. "He would have laughed! Would have played gladly the game with death and, losing—laughed!"

Each day she read the little lines of the doings of men; unnamed adventurers whose deeds were virile deeds; rough men, from whose contaminating touch society gathers up her silken skirts and passes by upon the other side; unlovely men, rolled-sleeved and open-throated, deep-seamed of face, and richly weather-tanned of arm, who tread roughshod the laws of little right and wrong; who drink red liquor and swear lurid oaths and loud; but who, shoulder to shoulder, redden the gutters of Singapore with their hearts' blood in the snatching of a young girl from danger.

And in the reading there grew up in her heart a mighty respect for these men, for, in the analysis of their deeds, the beam swayed strongly against the measure of the world in its balance of good and harm.

Many times her feet carried her into strange streets among strange people, where the reek of shipping became incense to her nostrils, and hairy-chested men of many ports stared boldly into her face and, reading her aright, made room with deference.

Upon an evening just before the annual surcease of frivolity, Gregory St. Ledger called at the Manton home and, finding Ethel alone in the library, asked her to be his wife.

Because it was an evening of her blackest mood she neither refused nor accepted him, but put him off for a year on the ground that she did not know her mind.

In vain he protested, arguing the power and prestige of the St. Ledger millions, and in the end departed to seek out an acquaintance who had to do with a blatant Sunday newspaper.

During the interview that followed, in the course of which the reporter ordered and St. Ledger paid for many tall drinks of intricate concoction, the gilded youth made no statement of fact, but the impression he managed to convey furnished the theme for the news story whose headlines seared into Bill Carmody's soul to the crashing of his tenets and gods.

In the library the girl sat far into the night and thought of the man who had won her heart and of the toy man who would buy her hand.



CHAPTER XXVII

JEANNE

Bill Carmody opened his eyes. A weird darkness surrounded him through which dancing half-lights played upon a close-thrown screen. Dully he watched the grotesque flickering of lights and shadows. He was not surprised—not even curious. Nothing mattered—nothing save the terrible pain in his head and the racking ache of the muscles of his body. His skin felt hot and drawn and he gasped for air. A great weight seemed pressing upon him, and when he tried to fill his bursting lungs instead of great drafts of cooling air, hot, stabbing pains shot through his chest and he groaned aloud at the hurt of it.

He turned his aching body, wincing at the movement, and stared dully through a low aperture in the encircling screen. Beyond, in another world, it seemed, a tiny fire flickered under a suspended iron kettle.

Near the fire a blanketed form sat motionless with knees tight-hugged against shrunken breast. Upon the blanket-covered knees rested the angular chin of a dark-skinned, leathern face, upon which the firelight played fitfully, and beneath a tangled mop of graying hair two eyes flashed and dulled like black opals.

He glanced upward and realized that the close-thrown screen, upon which danced the lights and shadows, was the smoke-blackened canvas of a tepee, loosely stretched upon its slanting lodge-poles.

Again he attempted to fill his congested lungs with cool, sweet air, and again the attempt ended in a groan and he relaxed, gasping, while upon his forehead the cold sweat stood in clammy beads.

Yet his head was burning hot, and the blankets which covered him were blankets of fire. Suddenly it dawned upon him that this was a hideous nightmare.

The blackened lodge with its terrifying shadow-pictures that flickered and faded and flickered again; the old crone by the fire; the pain in his head, and the hot aches of his body, were horrid brain fancies.

With a mighty effort he would break the spell, and from the bunk below the rich brogue of Fallon would "bawl him out" for his restlessness—good old Fallon!

Vainly he attempted to marshal his scattered wits, and break the spell of the torturing brain picture. The shadows above him took on weird shapes; grinning faces with tangled gray locks; long snakelike bodies, and tails of red and yellow light twined and writhed sinuously about the beautiful face of a girl.

How real—how distinct in the half-light, was the face beneath the mass of gleaming black hair. And eyes! Dark, serious eyes, into which one might gaze far into mysterious depths—soft, restful eyes, thought the man as he stared upward into the phantom face.

From the curve of the parted red lips the perfect teeth flashed whitely, and from the delicately turned chin the soft full-throated neck swept beneath the open throat of the loose-fitting buckskin hunting shirt whose deep fringed trimmings only half-concealed the rich lines of a rounded bosom.

The man remained motionless, fearing to move lest the vision fade and the harsh voice of Fallon blare out from below. "Damn Fallon!" he muttered, and then the pictured lips moved and in his ears was the soft, sweet sound of a voice.

The writhing snakes with the shining tails resolved into flickering wall-shadows which danced lightly among the slanting lodge-poles. But the dream-face did not fade, the dream-eyes gazed softly into his, the dream-lips moved, and the low sound of the dream-voice was music to his ears.

"You are sick," the voice said; "you are in pain." Bill's throat was dry with a burning thirst.

"Water!" he gasped, and the word rasped harsh.

The girl reached into the shadows and a tiny white-brown hand appeared holding a dripping tin cup. She bent closer and the next instant the man's burning cheek was pillowed against the soft coolness of her bared arm and his head was raised from the blanket while the tiny white-brown hand held the tin cup to his lips.

With the life-giving draft the man's brain cleared and he smiled into the eyes of his dream-girl. Her lips returned the smile and there was a movement of the rounded arm that pillowed his head.

"No! No!" he whispered, and pressed his cheek closer against the soft, bare flesh. The arm was not withdrawn, the liquid eyes gazed for a moment into his and were veiled by the swift downsweep of the long, dark lashes.

In the silence, a little white-brown hand strayed over his face and rested with delicious coolness upon the fevered brow. Bill's eyes closed and for blissful eons he lay, while in all the world was no such thing as pain—only the sweet, restful peace of Dreamland.

Unconsciously his lips pressed close against the softness of her arm, and at their touch the arm trembled, and from far away came the quick, sibilant gasp of an indrawn breath.

The arm pressed closer, the tapering fingers of the little hand strayed caressingly through the tangled curls of his hair, and Bill Carmody slipped silently into the quiet of oblivion.

The fire under the iron kettle died down, and the shadows faded from the walls of the tepee. Inside, the girl sat far into the night, and the mystery of the dark eyes deepened as they gazed into the bearded face close pillowed against her arm.

By the dying fire the old crone drew her blanket more closely about her and glowered into the red embers as her beady, black eyes shot keen glances toward the motionless forms in the blackness beyond the open flap of the tepee.

On Blood River the logs floated steadily millward, the bateau followed the drive, and the men of the logs passed noisily out of the North.



CHAPTER XXVIII

A PROPHECY

In the gray of the morning Jacques Lacombie returned to his lodge to find Wa-ha-ta-na-ta seated in front of the tepee staring into the dead ashes of the fire.

In answer to his rough questioning she arose stiffly, stalked to the open flap of the lodge and, standing aside, pointed mutely to the silent figures within.

Both slept. The fever-flushed face of the man pillowed upon the bare arm of the girl, whose body had settled wearily forward until her head, with its mass of black tresses, rested upon his breast, where it rose and fell to the heave of his labored breathing.

Long the half-breed looked, uttering no word, while the old squaw searched his face which remained as expressionless as a face of stone.

"Make a fire," he commanded gruffly, and slung his pack upon the ground. She obeyed, muttering the while, and Jacques watched her as he filled and lighted his pipe.

"The man is M's'u' Bill," he observed, apparently talking to himself, "The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."

The old woman shot him a keen glance as she hovered over the tiny flame that licked at the twigs of dry larchwood. "All men die," she muttered dully. "Did not Lacombie die?"

"At midnight I passed through the deserted camp of Moncrossen," the man continued, paying no heed to her remark. "Creed did not go out with the drive, but stayed behind to guard the camp, and he told me of the death of this man; how he himself saw him sink beneath the waters of the river and saw the logs of the jam rush over him.

"As we talked, and because he had been drinking much whisky, he told me that it was he who locked this man in the shack last winter and then set fire to the shack. He told me also Moncrossen desired this man's death above any other thing, and had ordered the breaking of the jam at a moment when he knew the chechako could not escape, so that he was hurled into the water and killed."

The old woman interrupted him. "I drew him upon the bank, thinking he was Moncrossen, and that I might breathe upon him the curse. Because his heart is bad, being a man of logs, I would have returned him to the river whence he came; but Jeanne prevented." Jacques smiled at the bitter disappointment in her voice.

"It is well," he returned. "See to it that he lives. Moncrossen is great among the white men—and his heart is bad. But the heart of the chechako is good, and one day will come a reckoning, and in that day the curse of the Yaga Tah shall fall from thy lips upon the dead face of Moncrossen."

"All white men are bad," grumbled the squaw. "There is no good white man."

Jacques silenced her with a gesture of impatience. "What is that to you, oh, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, good or bad, if he kills Moncrossen?"

The old woman leaped to her feet and pointed a sharp skinny finger toward the tepee, her eyes flashed, and the cracked voice rang thin with anger.

"The girl!" she cried. "Jeanne, thy sister!"

Her son stepped close to her side and spoke low with the quiet voice of assurance:

"No harm will come to the girl. I have many times talked with this man as he worked in the timber. His heart is good—and his lips do not lie. I, who have looked into his eyes, have spoken. And, that you shall know my words are true, if harm befall the girl at the hand of the white chechako, with this knife shall you kill me as I sleep."

He withdrew a long, keen blade from its sheath and handed it to the squaw, who took it.

"And not only you will I kill, but him also," she answered, testing its edge upon her thumb. "For the moon has spoken, and blood will flow. Last night, in the wet red moon, I saw it—dripping tears of blood—twelve, besides one small one, and they were swallowed up in the mist of the river. I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, who know the signs, have spoken.

"Before the full of the thirteenth moon blood will flow upon the bank of the river. But whose blood I know not, for a great cloud came and covered the face of the moon, and when it was gone the tears of blood were no more and the mist had returned to the river—and the meaning of this I know not."

She ceased speaking abruptly at a sound from the tepee as the girl emerged and stepped quickly to the fire.

"I am glad you have come," said Jeanne hurriedly to her brother. "You, who are skilled in the mending of bones. The man's leg is broken; it is swollen and gives him much pain."

Jacques followed her into the tepee and, after a careful examination, removed the unconscious man.

The setting of the bones required no small amount of labor and ingenuity. Carmody was placed between two trees, to one of which his body was firmly bound at the shoulders.

A portion of the bark was removed from the other tree and the smooth surface rubbed with fat. Around this was passed a stout line, one end of which was made fast to the injured leg at the ankle.

A trimmed sapling served as a capstan bar, against which the two women threw their weight, while Jacques fitted the bone ends neatly together and applied the splints.

The Indians, schooled in the treatment of wounds and broken bones, were helpless as babes before the ravages of the dreaded pneumonia which racked the great body of the sick man.

Bill Carmody's recollection of the following days was confined to a hopeless confusion of distorted brain pictures in which the beautiful face of the girl, the repulsive features of the old crone, and the swart countenance of the half-breed were inextricably blended.

For two weeks he lay, interspersing long periods of unconsciousness with hours of wild, delirious raving. Then the disease wore itself out, and Jeanne Lacombie, entering the tepee one morning, encountered the steady gaze of the sunken eyes.

With a short exclamation of pleasure she crossed the intervening space and knelt at his side. The two regarded each other in silence. At length Bill's lips moved and he started slightly at the weak, toneless sound of his own voice.

"So you are real, after all," he smiled.

The girl returned the smile frankly.

"M's'u' has been very sick," she imparted, speaking slowly, as though selecting her words.

Bill nodded; he felt dizzy and helplessly weak.

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"Since the turning of the moon."

"I'm afraid that is not very definite. You see I didn't even know the moon had been turned. Who turned it? And is it really turned to cheese or just turned around?"

The girl regarded him gravely, a puzzled expression puckering her face. Bill laughed.

"Forgive me," he begged. "I was talking nonsense. Can you tell me how many days I have been here?"

"It is fifteen days since we drew you from the river."

"Who's we?"

Again the girl seemed perplexed.

"I mean, who helped you pull me out of the drink?"

"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She is my mother. She is an Indian, and very old."

"Are you an Indian?" asked the man in such evident surprise that the girl laughed.

"My father was white. I am a breed," she answered; then with a quick lifting of the chin, hastened to add: "But not like the breeds of the rivers! My father was Lacombie, the factor at Crossette, and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, and they were married by a priest at the mission.

"That was very long ago, and now Lacombie is dead and the priest also, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta has a paper; also it is written in the book at the mission that men may read it and know."

Carmody was amused at her eagerness and watched the changing expression of her face as she continued more slowly:

"My father was good. But he is dead and, until you came, there has been no good white man."

Bill smiled at the naive frankness of her.

"Why do you think that I am good?" he inquired.

"In your eyes I have read it. That night, before the wild fever-spirit entered your body, I looked long into your eyes. And has not Jacques told me of how you killed the loup-garou; of how you are hated by Moncrossen, and feared by Creed?

"Do I not know that fire cannot burn you nor water drown? Did you not beat down the greatest of Moncrossen's fighting men? And has not Wabishke told in the woods, to the wonder of all, how you drink no whisky, but pour it upon your feet?"

The girl spoke softly and rapidly, her face flushing.

"Do I not know all your thoughts?" she continued. "I who have sat at your side through the long days of your sickness and listened to the voice of the fever-spirit? At such times the heart cannot lie, and the lips speak the truth."

She leaned closer, and unconsciously a slender, white-brown hand fell upon his, and the soft, tapering fingers closed upon his own. A delicious thrill passed through his body at the touch.

As he looked into the beautiful face so close to his, with the white flash of pearly teeth in the play of the red lips, the eyes luminous, like twin stars, a strange, numbing loneliness overcame him.

She was speaking in a voice that sounded soothing and far away, so that he could not make out the words. Slowly his eyelids closed, blotting out the face—and he slept.



CHAPTER XXIX

A BUCKSKIN HUNTING-SHIRT

The days of his convalescence in the camp of the Lacombies were days fraught with mingled emotions in the heart of Bill Carmody.

Old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta treated him with cold deference, anticipating his needs with a sagacity that was almost uncanny. She appeared hardly to be aware of his presence, yet many times the man felt, without seeing, the deep, burning gaze of the undimmed, black eyes.

Jacques, whom he had known in the logging-camp as Blood River Jack, treated him with open friendliness, and as he became able to move about the camp, taught him much of the lore of the forest, of the building of nets and traps, the smoke-tanning of buckskin, and the taking and drying of salmon.

During the long evenings the two sat close to the smudge of the camp-fire and talked of many things, while the women listened.

But of the three it was the girl who most interested him. She was his almost constant companion, silent and subtle at times, and with the inborn subtlety of women she defied his most skilful attempts to share her thoughts.

At other times her naive frankness and innocent brutality of expression surprised and amused him. Baffling, revealing—she remained at all times an enigma.

By the middle of June Bill was able to make short excursions to the river with the aid of the crutches which Blood River Jack crudely fashioned from young saplings.

With his increased freedom of movement his restlessness increased. Somewhere along the river, he knew, the bird's-eye logs were banked, awaiting the arrival of Moncrossen and Stromberg to raft them to the railway, and he surmised that their coming would not be long delayed.

Over and over in his mind he turned schemes for outwitting the boss. The strength was rapidly returning to his injured leg and he discarded one crutch, using the other only to help him over the rough places.

He was in no condition to undertake a journey to the railway, and in spite of Blood River Jack's expressed hatred of Moncrossen and friendship for himself, he hesitated about taking the half-breed into his confidence.

At length he could stand the suspense no longer. Each day's delay lessened his chance of success. He decided to act—to lay the matter before Blood River Jack and ask his cooeperation, and if he refused, to play the game alone.

He came to this decision one afternoon while seated upon a great log overlooking the rushing rapid. Beside him sat Jeanne, apparently deeply engrossed in the embroidering of a buckskin hunting-shirt.

After a long silence Bill knocked the dead ashes from his pipe, and his jaw squared as he looked out over the foaming white-water. He turned toward the girl and encountered the intense gaze of her dark eyes.

The neglected needlework lay across her knees, the small hands were folded, and the shining needle glinted in the sun where it had been deftly caught into the yellow buckskin at the turning of an unfinished scroll.

"The logs which you seek," she said quietly, "are piled upon the bank of the river, half a mile below the rapids." The man regarded her with a startled glance.

"What do you know about these logs—and of what I was thinking?"

She answered him with a curious, baffling smile, and, ignoring his question, continued:

"You need help. I am but a girl and know naught of logs nor why these logs did not go down the river with the others. But in your face as you pondered from day to day I have read it. Is it not that you would prevent Moncrossen from taking these logs? But you know not how to do it, for the logs must go down the river and Moncrossen must come up the river?"

"You are a wonder!" he exclaimed in admiration. "That's exactly what's been bothering me." She blushed furiously under his gaze and, with lowering eyes, continued:

"I do not know how it can be managed, but Jacques will know. You may trust Jacques as you trust me. For we are your friends, and his hatred of Moncrossen is a real hatred."

She raised her eyes to his.

"Do you know why Jacques hates Moncrossen, and why Wa-ha-ta-na-ta hates all white men?" she asked. Bill shook his head and listened as the girl, with blazing eyes, told him of the death of Pierre, and then, of the horror of that night on Broken Knee.

At her words Bill Carmody's face darkened, and his great fists clenched until the nails bit deep into his palms. The steel-gray eyes narrowed to slits and, as the girl finished, he arose and gently lifted one of the little hands between his own.

"I, too, could kill Moncrossen for that," he said, and the tone of his voice was low, and soft, with a tense, even softness that sounded in the ears of the girl more terrible than a thousand loud hurled threats.

She looked up quickly into the face of the glinting eyes, her tiny hand trembled in his, and a sudden flush deepened the warm color of her neck.

"For me?" she faltered. "Me?" And, with a half-smothered, frightened gasp, tore her hand free and fled swiftly into the forest.

Bill stared a long time at the place where she disappeared, and, smiling, stooped and picked up her needlework where it had fallen at his feet.

He examined it idly for a moment and then more closely as a puzzled look crept into his eyes. The garment he held in his hand was never designed for a covering for the girl's own lithe body, nor was it small enough even for Jacques.

"She's worked on it every day for a month," he murmured, as he glanced from the intricate embroidered design to his own shirt of ragged flannel, and again he smiled—bitterly.

"She's a queer kid," he said softly, as he recovered his crutch; "and a mighty good kid, too."



CHAPTER XXX

CREED

That night the four sat late about the campfire.

Old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, silent and forbidding, as usual, but with a sharp ear for all that was said, listened as they laid their plans.

At their conclusion the others sought their blankets, while Jacques took the trail for the camp of old Wabishke whose help was needed in the undertaking which was to involve no small amount of labor.

As the two women finished the preparation of breakfast the following morning, the half-breed appeared, followed closely by the old Indian trapper whose scarred lips broke into a hideous grin at the sight of Bill.

"This is Wabishke, of whom I spoke," said Jacques, indicating the Indian. Bill laughingly extended his hand, which the other took.

"Well! If it isn't my friend, the Yankee!" he exclaimed. "Wabishke and I are old friends. He is the first man I met in the woods." The Indian nodded, grunted, and pointed to his feet which were encased in a very serviceable pair of boots.

"Oh, I remember, perfectly," laughed Bill. "Have you still got my matches?" Wabishke grinned.

"You keel loup-garou with knife?" he asked, as if seeking corroboration for an unbelievable story.

"I sure did," Bill answered. "The old gal tried to bite me."

The Indian regarded him with grave approval and, stepping to his side, favored him with another greasy hand-shake, after which ceremony he squatted by the fire and removing a half-dozen pieces of bacon from the frying-pan proceeded to devour them with evident relish.

Breakfast over, the three men accompanied by Jeanne set out for the river, leaving to old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta the work of the camp. Sliding a canoe into the water, they took their places, Jacques and Wabishke at the paddles, with Jeanne and Bill seated on the bottom amidships.

Close to the opposite bank the canoe was headed down-stream and, under the swift, strong strokes of the paddles, glided noiselessly in the shadows. A few minutes later, at a sign from Jacques who was in the bow, Wabishke, with a deft twist of his paddle, slanted the canoe bankward.

With a soft, rustling sound the light craft parted the low hanging branches of killikinick and diamond willow, and buried its nose in the soft mud.

Peering through the tangle of underbrush the occupants of the canoe made out, some fifty yards below their position, a small clearing in the center of which, just above the high-water mark of the river, was a small pyramid of logs.

Seated beside the pile, with his back resting against the ends of the logs, sat a man holding a rifle across his knees.

Bill Carmody's fighting spirit thrilled at the sight. Here at last was action. Here were the stolen logs of bird's-eye, and guarding them was Creed!

While the others steadied the canoe he stepped noiselessly onto the bank, where he sank to his ankles in the mud, and, seizing hold of the bow shot the canoe out into the current.

Creed had been left in the woods by Moncrossen, ostensibly to guard the Blood River camp against pilfering Indians and chance forest fires, but his real mission was to keep watch on the bird's-eye until it could be safely rafted to the railway.

Moncrossen promised to return about the middle of June, and ten mornings Creed had skulked the three miles from the lumber camp to the logs, and ten evenings he had skulked fearfully back again, muttering futile curses at the boss's delay.

Creed was uneasy. Not since the evening the greener had walked into Hod Burrage's store at the very moment when he, Creed, was recounting to the interested listeners the circumstances attending his demise, had he been entirely free from a haunting, nameless fear.

True, as he told Blood River Jack, he had afterward seen with his own eyes, the greener go down under the rushing jam where no man could possibly go down and live.

But, nevertheless, deep in his heart was the terror—nameless, unreasoning, haunting,—that clung to him night and day. So that a hundred times a day, alone in the timber, he would start and cast quick, jerky glances over his shoulder and jump, white-faced and trembling, at the snapping of a twig.

As the days went by the nameless terror grew, dogging his footsteps, phantomlike by day, and haunting him at night, as he lay shaking in his bunk in the double-locked little office.

With the single exception of Blood River Jack, he had seen no human being since the drive, and his frenzied desire for companionship would have been pitiful, had it been less craven.

He slept fitfully with his rifle loaded and often cocked in his bunk beside him, while during the day it was never out of reach of his hand.

In his daily excursions to the bird's-eye rollway he never took the same route twice, but skulked, peering fearfully about in the underbrush, avoiding even the game trails.

And always he detoured widely the place where he had seen the greener disappear beneath the muddy, log-ridden waters.

And so it was that upon this particular morning Creed sat close against the pyramid of logs—waiting.

At a sound from the river he jerked his rifle into readiness for immediate action and sat nervously alert, his thumb twitching on the hammer. Approaching down-stream came a canoe.

Creed leaped to his feet with a maudlin grin of relief as he recognized the three occupants. Apparently they had not seen him, and he stepped to the bank fearful lest they pass.

"Hey! You, Jack!" he called, waving his cap.

The bow-man ceased paddling and gazed shoreward in evident surprise; the man on the bank was motioning them in with wide sweeps of the arm. The half-breed called a few hasty words over his shoulder and the canoe shot toward shore.

"Where y' goin'?" asked Creed, as the three stepped onto the bank. Blood River Jack replied with an indefinite sweep of his arm to the southward.

"Well, y' ain't in no hurry. Never seen a Injun yet cudn't stop long 'nough to take a drink o' licker. Har, har, har!"

He laughed foolishly, with an exaggerated wink toward the old Indian.

"How 'bout it, Wabishke; leetle fire-water make yer belt fit better? 'Tain't a goin' to cost y' nawthin'."

The Indian grinned and grunted acquiescence, and Creed inserted his arm between two logs and withdrew a squat, black bottle.

"Here's some reg'lar ol' 'rig'nal red-eye. An' here's lookin' at ye," he said, as he removed the cork and sucked greedily at the contents. "Jest tuk a taste fust, 'cause I don't like to give vis'tors whisky I wudn't drink m'self, har, har, har! Anyways, the way I figger, it's white men fust, then half white, then Injuns." He passed the bottle to Jacques.

"'Fraid's little too strong fer ladies," he smirked, at Jeanne, and, reaching out quickly, jerked the upturned bottle from Wabishke's lips.

"Hey, y' ol' pirate! Y' don't need fer to empty it all to wunst. Set roun' a while, an' bimeby we'll have 'nother. 'S all on me to-day; this here's my party."

They seated themselves on the ground and engaged in conversation, in which Creed did most of the talking.

"Trade rifles?" asked Blood River Jack, idly picking up Creed's gun and examining it minutely.

"Beats all how a Injun allus wants to be a tradin'," grinned Creed. "Don't know but what I mought, though, at that. What's yourn?"

"Winchester, 30-40," replied Jacques, handing it over for inspection.

"Mine, too," said Creed; "only mine's newer. What'll y' give to boot?" Jacques did not hurry his answer, being engaged in removing the cartridges for the better inspection of magazine and chamber.

"Mine's better kep'," he opined after a careful squinting down the muzzle.

"Kep' nawthin'! 'S all nicked up. An', besides, it pulls hard."

Jacques was deliberately refilling the magazine, but so intent was Creed in picking out fancied defects in the other's weapon that he failed to notice that the cartridges which were being placed in his own rifle had had their bullets carefully drawn, while his original cartridges reposed snugly in the pocket of the half-breed's mackinaw.

"Tell y' what I'll do," said Creed, speaking in a tone of the utmost generosity. "Give me ten dollars to boot, an' we'll call it a trade."

Jacques laughed loudly and, handing the other his rifle, picked up his own.

"We must be goin'," he observed, and rose to his feet.

"Better have 'nother drink 'fore y' go," said Creed, tendering the bottle. They drank around and Creed returned the bottle to its cache, while the others took their places in the canoe.

"Make it five, then," Creed extended the rifle as though giving it away.

Jacques shook his head, and pushed the canoe out into the stream.

The man on shore eyed the widening strip of water between the bank and the canoe.

"I'll make it three, seein' ye're so hell-bent on a trade," he called. But his only answer was a loud laugh as the canoe disappeared around a sharp bend of the river.

Creed resumed his position with his back against the ends of the logs.

At a point some fifty feet up-stream from the diminutive rollway, and about the same distance from the shore, a blackened snag thrust its ugly head above the surface of the water, and against this snag brushwood and drift had collected and was held by the push of the stream which gurgled merrily among its interstices.

Creed's gaze, resting momentarily upon this miniature island, failed entirely to note that it concealed a man who stood immersed in the river from his neck down, and eyed him keenly through narrowed gray eyes; and that also this man was doing a most peculiar thing.

Reaching into the pocket of his water-soaked shirt he withdrew several long, steel-jacketed bullets and, holding them in the palm of his hand, grinned broadly.

Then, one by one, he placed them in his mouth, drew a long breath, and dived. The water at this point was about four feet in depth and the man swam rapidly, close to the bottom.

Creed's glance, roving idly over the river, was arrested by a quick commotion upon the surface of the water almost directly in front of him.

He seized his rifle and leaped to his feet, hoping for a shot at a stray otter. The next instant the rifle slipped from his nerveless fingers and struck upon the ground with a muffled thud.

Instead of an otter he was looking directly into the face of a man.

"God A'mi'ty," he gurgled, "it's the greener!" He leaned heavily against the logs, plucking foolishly at the bark. His scalp tingled from fright.

His mouth sagged open and the lolling, flabby tongue drooled thickly. His face became a dull, bloodless gray, glistening glaireously with clammy sweat, and his eyes dilated until they seemed bulging from their sockets.

It seemed ages he stood there, staring in horrible fascination at the man in the river—and then the man moved!

He was advancing slowly shoreward, with a curious limp, as he had entered Burrage's store. Creed's ashen lips moved stiffly, and his tongue seemed to fill his mouth.

"I've got 'em! I've got 'em," he maundered. "'S the booze, an' I'm seein' things!"

His groping brain grasped at the idea, and it gave him strength—better the "snakes" than that! But he must do something, the man was coming toward him—only hip-deep now—

"Go 'way! Go 'way!" he shrieked in a sudden frenzy of action. "Damn you! Y're dead! D'ye hear me! Go 'way from here!"

Suddenly his weakening knees stiffened under him, and he reached swiftly for the rifle on the ground at his feet.

Slowly and deliberately he raised it, cocked it, rested it across a log, and took deliberate aim at the center of the man's face—twenty paces away.

"Bang!" The crack of the rifle sounded loud and sharp in the tense stillness.

The apparition, at the water's edge, raised its hand slowly to its lips, and from between its teeth took a small object which it tossed toward the other. The object struck lightly against Creed's breast and dropped to the ground.

He looked, downward—it was a 30-40 bullet—his own! He stared dumbly at the thing on the ground. Then, automatically, he fired again, taking careful aim.

Again the ghost's hand moved slowly toward its mouth, and again the light tap upon his chest—and two bullets lay upon the ground at his feet.

His head felt strange and large, and inside his skull things were moving—long, gray maggots that twisted, and writhed, and squirmed, like fishing worms in a can.

He laughed flatly, a senile, cackling laugh. He did not want to laugh, but laughed again and, stooping, reached for the bullets. He stared at his fingers, bewildered; they groped helplessly at a spot a foot from the place where lay the two bullets with their shining steel jackets.

He must move his fingers to the right—this way. Again he stared—puzzled; they were moving farther and farther toward the left—away from the bullets. Again the dry, cackling laugh. He would fool his fingers. He would move them away from the bullets.

He tried, and the next instant the groping fingers closed unerringly upon the little cylinders. The laugh became an inarticulate babble of satisfaction, his knees collapsed, and he pitched forward and lay still with wide, staring eyes, while upon the corners of his mouth appeared little flecks of white foam.

A shadow fell across his face—he was staring straight into the eyes of the greener, who stood, dripping wet with the water of the river into which he had fallen more than two months before.

The man leaped from the ground in a sudden frenzy of terror, and fled screaming into the forest, crashing, wallowing, tearing through the underbrush, he plunged, shrieking like a demon.

The greener stood alone in the clearing and listened to the diminishing sounds.

At length they ceased and, in the silence, the greener turned toward the sparkling river, and as he looked there came to his ear faint and far, one last, thin scream.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE ROBE OF DIABLESSE

It required three days of hard labor to remove the fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs to a position of safety. Jacques made a trip to the log camp, returning with a stout rope and an armload of baling wire which he collected from the vicinity of the stables.

The fact that bird's-eye maple logs, when green, will sink in water, rendered necessary the use of two large pine logs as floats. These were connected at the ends and in the middle with rope sufficiently long to permit four of the heavier logs to rest upon the ropes between the floats.

The raft thus formed was laboriously towed up-stream to the eddy where the bird's-eye logs were wired together, weighted with stones, and allowed to sink.

During the whole time Jeanne worked tirelessly by the side of the men, and when the last log rested safely upon the bottom of the river, and the scars were carefully removed from the bank, Bill surveyed the result with satisfaction.

"I think that will keep Moncrossen guessing," he laughed. "He won't know whether Creed ate the logs or an air-ship made away with them."

"But, he will know they are somewhere," said Jeanne gravely, "and he will search for them far and wide."

"He will not find them," Jacques interrupted. "No man would search up-stream for logs, even though he believed them to be upon the bottom of the river."

"But, in the searching, he may come upon the lodge, and in his rage, who can tell what he would do?" Bill's eyes narrowed, and he answered the girl with a smile.

"I will remain, and if Moncrossen comes——"

The girl laid a small hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes.

"I am but a girl and know nothing of logs, but, is it not better that he return down the river without searching?"

Carmody smiled into the serious dark eyes. "Go on, Jeanne," he said, "tell us what you would do."

"It is simple—only to build a big fire upon the spot where the logs were piled, and when Moncrossen finds the ashes he will seek no farther for his logs."

"Great!" cried Bill, in undisguised admiration and, with the help of the others, proceeded to carry the plan into effect. All night they piled fuel upon the fire, and in the morning their efforts were rewarded by a pile of ashes that would easily be mistaken for the ruins of the bird's-eye rollway.

With the passing of the long, hot days of summer, Bill Carmody regained his strength, and yet he lingered in the camp of the Lacombies.

Creed was seen no more upon Blood River, and Bill assumed the responsibility of guarding the log camp, making for the purpose almost daily excursions with Jeanne or Jacques.

August mellowed into smoky September—September gave place to the red and gold of October, and the blood of the forest folk quickened to the tang of the North.

At the conclusion of one of these tours of inspection, Bill came suddenly upon the girl standing in awe before the skin of Diablesse, which remained where he and Fallon had nailed it on the wall of the bunk-house. Bill carefully removed the nails and laid the dry pelt at the feet of the girl.

"See," he said, "the skin of the werwolf—it is yours."

"Mine!" she cried, with shining eyes. "You would give me this!"

Bill smiled. "Yes, that is all I have, here in the woods. But when I return I will bring you many things from the land of the white men."

"The robe of Diablesse!" she breathed softly, as she gazed down upon the peculiar silvery sheen of the great white wolfskin. "I had rather you gave me this than anything else in the world."

She stopped in sudden confusion.

"And why?" questioned Bill, pleased at her evident delight.

"It is," she hesitated, and a slender hand clutched at her breast. "It is as you spoke of the hunting shirt—that you would always keep it because it is the work of my hands. Only the robe means much more, for, among men but one man could have slain the loup-garou, and in all the North there is none like it—the robe of Diablesse! and it shall bring us luck—and—and happiness?" she added, the rich voice melting to softness.

At the words the man glanced quickly into the face of the girl and encountered the shy, questioning gaze of the mysterious dark eyes. The gaze did not falter, and the deep, lustrous eyes held the man enthralled in their liquid depths. She advanced a step, and stood her lithe young body almost touching his own, holding him fascinated in the compelling gaze of the limpid eyes.

"And happiness?" The words were a whispered breath; the bronzed face of the man paled and, with an effort, he turned swiftly away.

"Luck! Happiness!" he repeated dully, with bowed head. "For me there can be no happiness."

With a low cry the girl was at his side and two tiny, white-brown hands clutched at the fringed arm of his buckskin shirt. The beautiful face was flushed, the bosom heaved, and from between the red lips poured a torrent of words:

"You shall find happiness! You, who are great and strong and brave above all men! You, who are good, and whom the Great Spirit sent to me from the waters of the river!

"You, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die, shall turn from your own kind, and shall find your happiness beside the rivers, and in the forests of my people! Together we will journey to some far place, and in our lodge will dwell love and great happiness.

"And you shall become a mighty hunter, and in all the North you shall be feared and loved."

The girl paused and gazed wildly into the eyes of the man. His face was drawn and pale, and in his eyes she read deep pain. Gently his hand closed over the slender fingers that gripped his sleeve, and at the touch the girl trembled and leaned closer, until her warm body rested lightly against his arm. Bill's lips moved and the words of his toneless voice fell upon her ears like the dry rustle of dead husks.

"Jeanne—little girl—you do not understand. These things cannot be. Only unhappiness would come to us. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you.

"To you I owe my life—to you and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. But, love cannot be ordered. It is written—and, far away, in the great city of the white men, is a girl—a woman of my own people——"

The girl sprang from his side and faced him with blazing eyes.

"A woman of your people!" she almost hissed. "In your sleep you talked of her, while the fever-spirit was upon you. I hate her—this Ethel! She does not love you, for she will marry another! Ah, in the darkness I have listened, and listening, have learned to hate! She sent you away from her—for, in your eyes she could not read the goodness of your heart!"

Bill raised his hand.

"You do not understand," he repeated, patiently. "I was not good—I was a bad man!"

"Who, then, among white men is good? The men of the logs, who drink whisky, and fight among themselves, and kill one another? Is it these men that are good in the sight of your woman? And are you, who scorn these things—are you bad?"

"I, too, drank whisky—and for that reason she sent me away."

"But, you cannot return to her! She is the wife of another! Over and over again you said it, in the voice of the fever-spirit."

"No," replied the man softly. "To her I cannot return. But, listen; I start to-morrow for the white man's country. To find the man for whom I work, and tell him of the bird's-eye.

"Soon I shall come again into the woods. I cannot marry you, for only evil would come of it. I will bring you many presents, and always we shall be friends—and more than friends, for you shall be to me a sister and I shall be your brother, and shall keep you from harm.

"To-morrow I go, and you shall promise me that whenever you are in trouble of whatsoever kind you will send for me—and I shall come to you—be it far or near, in the night-time or in the daytime, I will come—Jeanne, look into my eyes—will you promise?"

The girl looked up, and a ray of hope lightened the pain in her eyes.

"You will surely return into the North?"

"I will surely return."

"I will promise," she whispered, and, side by side, in the silence of the twilight, they left the clearing.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE ONE GOOD WHITE MAN

The following morning Bill parted from his friends. As he was about to step into the canoe Jeanne appeared at the water's edge bearing the mackinaw which he had worn when they drew him from the river.

Without meeting his glance she extended it toward him, speaking in a low, tense voice.

"In the lining I have sewed them—the papers that fell dripping from your pocket—and the picture. Many times I have looked upon the face of this woman, who has caused you pain. And I have hated! Oh, how I have hated! So that I could have torn her in pieces.

"And many times I would have burned them, that you might forget. But, instead, I sewed them from sight in the lining of the coat—and here is the coat."

Bill tossed the mackinaw into the bottom of the canoe.

"Thank you, Jeanne," he said. "And until we meet again, good-by!"

With a push of the paddle he shot the light canoe far out into the current of the stream.

Bill paddled leisurely, camping early and sitting late over his camp-fire smoking many pipefuls of tobacco. And, as he smoked, his thoughts drifted over the events of the past year, and the people who comprised his little world.

Appleton, who had offered him the chance to make good; whole-hearted Fallon; devoted old Daddy Dunnigan; Stromberg, in whom was much to admire; Creed, the craven tool of Moncrossen; the boss himself, crooked, brutal, vicious; Blood River Jack, his friend; Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the sinister old squaw, who believed all white men to be bad; and Jeanne, the beautiful, half-wild girl, within whose breast a great soul fluttered against the restraint of her environment.

To this girl he owed his life, and he had repaid the debt by trampling roughshod upon her heart. Bitterly he reproached himself for not seeing how things were going. For not until the day she told him in the clearing had he guessed that she loved him.

And yet now as he looked backward he could remember a hundred little things that ought to have warned him—a word here, a look, a touch of the hand—little things, insignificant in themselves, but in the light of his present understanding, looming large as the danger signals of a well-ordered block system—signals he had blindly disregarded, to the wrecking of a heart. Well, he would make all amends in his power; would look after her as best he could, and in time she would forget.

"They all forget," he muttered aloud with a short, bitter laugh, as the memory of certain staring head-lines flashed through his brain. "I wish to God I could forget—her!"

But the old wound would not heal, and far into the night he sat staring into the fire.

"It's a man's game," he murmured as he spread his blankets, "and I will win out; but why?"

Beyond the fire came the sound of a snapping twig. The man started, staring into the gloom, when suddenly into the soft light of the dying embers stepped Jeanne Lacombie. He stared at her speechless.

There, in the uncertain glow, she stood, a Diana of flesh and blood, whose open hunting-shirt fell away from her rounded throat in soft, fringed folds. Her short skirt of heavy drilling came only to her knees; she wore no stockings, and her tiny feet were incased in heavily beaded moccasins.

And so she stood there in the midnight, smiling down upon the man who gazed speechless from his blanket upon the opposite side of the dying fire; and then she spoke:

"I have come," she said simply.

"Jeanne!" cried the man, "why have you done this thing?"

"I love you, and I will go with you."

"But, girl, don't you realize what it means? This is the third night since I left the camp of Jacques——" The girl interrupted him with a laugh:

"And I, too, have been gone three nights; have struck straight through the forest, and because the river makes a great bend of many miles I came to this place before you, and have waited for you here a night and a day.

"And now I'm hungry. I will eat first, and then we will sleep, and to-morrow we will start together for the land of the white men."

The man's mind worked rapidly as he watched in silence while the girl removed some bacon and bannock from his pack-sack and set the coffee-pot upon the coals. When she had finished her meal he spoke, slowly but firmly.

"Jeanne, you have waited here a night and a day; you are rested, you have eaten. I will now make up the pack, and we will take the trail."

"To-night?"

"Yes, to-night—now. The back trail for the lodge of Jacques." The girl regarded him in amazement, and then smiled sadly, as a mother smiles on an erring child.

"We cannot return," she said, speaking softly. "Wa-ha-ta-na-ta would kill me. She thinks we came away together. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was married; we are not married; we cannot go back." The man rolled the blankets and buckled the straps of his pack-sack. He was about to swing it to his shoulders when the girl grasped his arm.

"I love you," she repeated, "and I will go with you."

"But, Jeanne," the man cried, "this cannot be. I cannot marry you. In my life I have loved but one woman——"

"And she is the wife of another!" cried the girl.

Bill winced as from a blow, and she continued, speaking rapidly:

"I do not ask that you marry me—not even that you love me. It is enough that I am at your side. You will treat me kindly, for you are good. Marriage is nothing—empty words—if the heart loves; nothing else matters, and some day you will love me."

The man slowly shook his head:

"No, Jeanne, it is impossible. Come, we will return to the lodge of Jacques. I myself will tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta that no harm has befallen you, and——"

"Do you think she will believe you? Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, who hates all white men and, next to Moncrossen, you most of all, for she has seen that I love you. We have been gone three nights. She will not believe you. If you will not take me I will go alone to the land of the white men; I have no place else to go."

The man's jaw squared, his eyes narrowed, and the low, level tones of his voice cut upon the silence in words of cold authority:

"We are going back to-night. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will believe me. She is very old and very wise; and she will know that I speak the truth."

The words ceased abruptly, and the two drew closer together, their eyes fixed upon the blanketed form which, silent as a shadow, glided from the bushes and stood motionless before them.

Within an arm's reach, in the dull, red glow, the somber figure stood contemplating the pair through beady, black eyes, that glowed ominously in the half-light.

Slowly, deliberately, a clawlike hand was withdrawn from a fold of the blanket, and the feeble rays of the fire glinted weakly upon the cold, gray steel of a polished blade.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE PROMISE

The silent, shadowy figure swayed toward Bill Carmody, who met the stabbing glare of the black eyes with the steady gaze of his gray ones. For long, tense moments their eyes held, while the girl watched breathlessly.

Raising the blade high above her head, the old squaw brought it crashing upon a rock at Carmody's feet. There was the sharp ring of tempered steel, and upon the pine-needles lay the broken blade, and beyond the rock the hilt, with a scant inch of blade protruding at the guard.

Stooping, the old woman picked up the two pieces of the broken sheath-knife, and, handing the hilt gravely to the astonished man carefully returned the blade to her blanket. She pointed a long, skinny finger at Bill, and the withered lips moved.

"You are the one good white man," she said. "I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, have spoken. I—who, since the death of Lacombie, have said 'there is no good white man'—was wrong, and the words were a lie in my mouth. In your eyes I have read it. You have the good eye—the eye of Lacombie, who is dead.

"I have followed upon the trail of my daughter, thinking it was in your heart to meet her here and carry her to her ruin in the land of the white man. With this blade I would have killed you—for all men die—would have followed and killed you in the land of your people. But now I know that your heart is good. I have broken the knife.

"You will keep the hilt, and when you are in trouble, in need, in want of a friend, you will send me this hilt, and I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, will come to you."

Her eyes rolled upward as though seeking among the tiny, far-winking stars the words of some half-forgotten ritual, and her voice rose in a weird, hesitating chant:

"Through the snows of Winter, Through the heat of Summer, Across high Mountains, Over broad Waters, Braving lean Want, Scorning fat Plenty, Nor turning aside From the fang of Wolf, From the forked arrows of Lightning, From the mighty voice of Thunder, From the hot breath of Fire, From the rush of Waters, From the sting of Frost. Nor lingering to the call of Love, Nor heeding the words of Hate. In the face of Sickness, In defiance of Death Will I come That you may know I am your Friend. Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World, And sit upon the High Places of the Great World, This is my Vow! Should my feet lag upon the Trail, Should my heart turn to Water, Should I forget— So that in the time of my friend's need I answer not his call; Then, upon my head—upon the heads of my children—and their children Shall descend the Curse—the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah! The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"

The quavering chant ceased, and the undimmed old eyes looked again into the face of the man.

"And because you are good," she went on, "and because you have heard the vow, when this broken blade comes to your hand you will know that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, in the last extremity of her need, is calling you.

"And because you are strong and brave and have the good eye—you will come. And no people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent you. I have spoken."

Bill Carmody listened in awed silence until the old woman finished.

"I, whom you choose to regard as the one good white man," he replied with a dignity matching her own, "will one day prove my friendship. Upon sight of the fragment of blade I will come.

"No people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent me—and one day you will know that my words are true."

He raised his hand and, gazing upward, repeated the words of the strange chant. At their conclusion he gazed steadily into the face of the old squaw.

"This is the promise," he said gravely. "I have spoken."



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE NEW BOSS

The twilight of late autumn darkened the landscape as Bill Carmody found himself once again at the edge of the tiny clearing surrounding the cabin of Daddy Dunnigan.

Through the window, in the yellow lamplight of the interior, he could see the form of the old man as he hobbled back and forth between the stove and the table.

Remembering Creed, Bill feared the effect upon the old man should he present himself suddenly at the door. Advancing into the clearing, he whistled. Daddy Dunnigan paused, frying-pan in hand, and peered futilely out of the window. Again Bill whistled and watched as the other returned the pan to the stove and opened the door.

"Come on in out av that, ye shpalpeen!" called Dunnigan. "Ut's toime ye be comin' back to let th' owld man know how ye're farin'!"

Bill grasped the extended hand and peered into the twinkling eyes of the old Irishman.

"Well, Daddy, you don't seem much surprised."

"Oi know'd ye'd be along wan av these days, but ye tuk yer own toime about ut."

"How did you know I wasn't drowned in the river?"

"Sur-re, Oi know'd ye wuz—didn't Oi see ye go undher th' logs wid me own eyes? An' didn't th' jam go rippin' an' tearin' into th' rapids? An' c'd on-ny man live t'rough th' loike av that? Oi know'd ye wuz dead—till Oi seed Creed. Thin Oi know'd ye wuzn't. But Moncrossen don't know ut—nor on-ny wan ilse, ondly me. Oi'd 'a' gone to hunt ye, ondly Oi know'd phwin th' toime suited ye ye'd come here; so Oi waited.

"Set by now er th' grub'll be cowld. They'll be toime fer palaverin' afther."

When the dishes had been washed and returned to their shelves the two seated themselves and lighted their pipes.

"You say Creed returned to Hilarity and told of having seen me?" asked Bill.

"Well, he did—an' he didn't," replied the old man slowly. "Ut's loike this: Along in July, ut wuz, Moncrossen an' his gang av bur-rd's-eye pirates come roarin' out av th' woods huntin' fer Creed. They'd wint in be th' river, but come out be th' tote-road, an' mad clean t'rough to th' gizzard. No wan hadn't seed um, an' they clum aboord th' thrain, cursin' an' swearin' vingince on Creed phwin they caught um.

"Thin, maybe it's two wakes afther, we wuz settin' in Burrage's phwin th' dure bust open, an' in come Rad Cranston loike th' divil wuz afther um.

"'They's a woild man,' he yells, 'come out av th' woods, an' he's tearin' things up in Creed's cabin!'

"Hod picks up a cleaver an' makes fer th' dure, wid us follyin' um, afther providin' oursilves wid what utinsils wuz layin' handy—a scythe here an' an axe there, an' some wan ilse wid a pitchfork. Rad brung up lasht wid a sixteen-pound posht-maul, bein' in no hurry at all fer another luk.

"Trut' is, none av us wuz in no great hurry—Creed's woman havin' cashed his pay-check an' skipped out—but at lasht we come to phwere we c'd see th' place, an' sure enough th' dure shtood open an' insoide come a racket av shmashin' furniture an' yellin' 'tw'd done proud to camp-meetin' salvation.

"Thin come a foine loud rattle av glass, an' out t'rough a windie come th' half av a chair, follyed be a len'th av shtovepoipe an' a grane glass wather-pitcher.

"Fer me own part, Oi'd seed such loike brick-a-brack befoor, an' besides Oi remimbered a dhrink Oi hadn't tuk earlier in th' evenin', so Oi shtarted workin' me way to th' back av th' crowd, th' bether some wan ilse c'd see.

"Oi'd no more thin tur-rned around phwin wid a whoop, 'tw'd wake th' dead, out t'rough th' windie come th' domnedest-lukin' cryther this side av Borneo, a wavin' over his head wan av th' owld lady Creed's rid cotton table-cloths—an' niver another stitch to his name but a leather belt wid about six inches av pants a hangin' onto ut, an' a pair av corked boots.

"Phwin Oi shtar-rted from Burrage's Oi laid holt av a man's-size crowbar, but at that minit th' thing Oi helt in me hand luked about th' heft av a tinpinny nail. Be that toime all th' others wuz av loike moind to me. They wuz considerable crowdin', an', bein' crippled, Oi dhropped me crowbar an' laid a good holt on th' tail av Hod's coat.

"Th' shtore wuz clost by, an' we had a good shtart; but th' thing that wuz afther us wuz thravelin' loight an' in foorty-fut leps.

"'Twuz a good race, an' wan Oi wanted to win; but, owin' to th' unyversal willin'ness av th' crowd to get into th' shtore, we plugged up th' dureway, an' befoor we c'd get unstuck th' thing wuz onto us, gibberin' an' jabberin' an' screamin' an' laughin' all to wunst.

"Ut tuk eight av us to howld um whilst Burrage toied um hand an' fut, an' phwin we'd dhrug um into th' shtore we seed 'twuz Creed hissilf. Twuz two days befoor th' sheriff come fer um, an' in th' mane toime he'd gabble an' yell about th' greener comin' afther um, an' how he come out av th' wather, an' so on.

"Th' rist think ut's th' shtayin' alone made um loony, but Oi put two an' two togither—here's Moncrossen losht his bur-rd's-eye an' Creed scairt witless be th' soight av th' greener—phwat's th' answer?

"Phy, th' b'y ain't dead at all. Some ways he got out av th' river, scairt th' dayloights out av Creed, an' made off wid th' bur-rd's-eye. Am Oi roight?"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Bill.

"Oi know'd ut! Ye've th' luck av Captain Fronte's own silf! That come out av ivery shcrape wid his loife, save th' lasht wan, an' he w'd thin av a domned nayger shell hadn't bust ag'in' his ribs—but that's toimes gone."

"I wonder where Moncrossen is now?"

"Right here in Hilarity; him an' his crew unloaded yisterday fer to shtar-rt fer th' camp in th' marnin'."

"I think I'll just let the boss believe I'm still in the river until after I have had a talk with Appleton. By the way, Daddy, how are you fixed for money?"

"Sure, Oi got more money thin a man ought to have—money in th' bank an' money in me pocket—take ut an' welcome"—he tossed a thick wallet onto the table—"ondly ye won't have to go to Minneapolis.

"Owld man Appleton's over to Creighton, eighty moiles wesht av here, sooperintindin' a new camp on Blood River, wan hundred an' tin moiles above Moncrossen's. Fallon's wid um, an' Shtromberg, an' a lot more av th' good min that's toired av worrkin' undher Moncrossen."

"He is not bossing the camp himself!" exclaimed Bill.

"No, but he's got to kape an eye on't. Fallon'll be a kind av shtraw boss an' luk afther th' wor-rk, but th' owld man'll have to figger th' toime an' th' scale—Fallon ain't got no aggicatin'.

"'Tis roight glad Oi'm thinkin' th' owld man'll be to lay eyes on ye. They say he wuz all bruk up phwin he heerd ye wuz dhr-rounded."

Bill's visit to Hilarity was known to no one except Daddy Dunnigan, and the following evening after Moncrossen's departure for the woods, the two proceeded to the railway by a circuitous route.

Unobserved, he swung aboard the caboose of the local freight-train which stood at the tiny platform, discharging goods.

"He'll be afther makin' ye boss av th' new camp," opined the old man from his position beside a pile of ties. "An' av ye nade a cook just dhrop me a loine an' Oi'll come."

"I haven't got the job yet," laughed Bill.

"But ye will. Owld Appleton'll be glad enough not havin' to come thrapsin' into th' woods ivery month or so durin' th' winther." The old man leaned forward upon his crutch, and with pathetic eagerness scanned the face of the younger man.

"Me b'y," he said, "av yer plans is changed—wor-rd from th' gir-rl, or what not, that'll be takin' ye back to Noo Yor-rk—ye'll take me wid ye?

"Oi may be a bit owld, but Oi'm as good as iver Oi wuz. Oi c'd lear-rn to run yer otymobile er take care av th' harses, er moind th' babies, ut makes no difference; for whilst a McKim lives owld Dunnigan belongs to luk afther um."

"Never fear, Daddy!" cried Bill, as the train jerked into motion. "Now that we've found each other, we'll stick together until the end." And he stood silent upon the steps of the caboose until the figure of the old Irishman blended into the background.

In the front room of the one-story building with its undeceptive two-story front, where Appleton had established his headquarters in the little town of Creighton, the lumber magnate sat talking with Irish Fallon.

The tote-road leading to the new camp had been pushed to completion, and Appleton was giving Fallon some final instructions.

"I must leave for Minneapolis in the morning," he said. "Do the best you can, and I will run up as often as possible."

"Oi'll do ut, sorr," replied Irish. "Oi c'n lay down th' logs all roight; th' throuble'll be wid th' figgers. If ondly me frind, Bill, wuz here—sure, there wuz th' foine lad!"

Appleton pulled at his gray mustache and regarded the other thoughtfully.

"You knew him well—this Bill?" he asked.

"Oi wuz th' fur-rst whoite man he seen in th' woods th' day he stud knee-dape in th' shnow av th' tote-road, lukin' down at th' carcass av D'ablish. An' from that toime on till he wint down undher th' logs we wuz loike two brothers—ondly more so."

"Pretty good man, was he?"

"A-a-h, there wuz a man!" Fallon's big fist banged noisily upon the table, and his blue eyes lighted as he faced his employer. "Misther Appleton, ye losht a man phwin th' greener wint undher. Fearin' nayther God, man, nor th' divil, he come into th' woods, an' in wan sayson lear-rnt more about logs thin th' most av us'll iver know."

"Moncrossen liked him—spoke very highly of him, and that is unusual with Moncrossen." Fallon's breath whistled through his teeth at the words.

"Loiked um, did he? Sure he loiked um—loike a rabbit loikes a wolf!"

He leaned forward in his chair, punctuating his remarks with stabs of a huge forefinger upon the other's knee.

"Misther Appleton, Moncrossen hated um! An' ivery man along th' river that day knows that av ut wuzn't fer Moncrossen, th' greener'd be livin' this minit—ondly we can't pr-roove ut. Th' boss hated um because he wuz a bether man—because he know'd he wuz a clane man, wid a foightin' hear-rt an' two fists an' th' guts to carry um t'rough. He chilled th' har-rt av th' boss th' fur-rst noight he seen um, an' from thin on th' fear wuz upon um fer th' bird's-eye."

"The bird's-eye?" inquired Appleton. "What do you mean?"

Fallon hesitated; his enthusiasm had carried him further than he had intended. He gazed out of the window, wondering how to proceed, when his eyes fastened upon a large, heavily bearded man who approached rapidly down the wooden sidewalk, a folded mackinaw swung carelessly across the fringed arm of his buckskin shirt.

The iron latch rattled; the man entered, closed the door behind him, and, turning, faced the two with a smile. For a long moment the men gazed at the newcomer in silence; then Fallon's chair crashed backward upon the floor as the Irishman leaped to his feet.

"Thim eyes!" he cried, throwing a huge arm across the man's shoulders and shaking him violently in his excitement. "Bill! Bill! Fer th' love av God, tell me 'tis yersilf! Ye damn' shcoundril, ain't ye dhrounded at all, at all? An' phwere ye ben kapin' yersilf?"

Bill laughed aloud and wrung Appleton's hand.

The lumberman had risen to his feet, staring incredulously into the other's face while he repeated over and over again: "My boy! My boy!"

Fallon danced about, waving his arms and shouting: "Th' new camp'll go t'rough hell a whoopin'! Bill'll be boss, an' th' min'll tear out th' bone to bate Moncrossen!"

Order was finally restored, and the three seated themselves while Bill recounted his adventures. Appleton's brow clouded as he learned the details of the bird's-eye plot.

"So that's the way he worked it?" he exclaimed. "I knew that there was some bird's-eye in the timber, and that I was not getting it. But I laid it to outside thieves—never supposed one of my own foremen was double-crossing me.

"That is Moncrossen's finish!" he added grimly. "I need him this winter. Too many contracts to afford to do without him. In the spring, though, there will be an accounting; and mark my words, he will get what is coming to him!"

"What next—for me?" asked Bill.

Appleton smiled.

"I think Fallon has disposed of your case," he replied. "My boy, I want you to take this new camp and get out logs. I won't set any specific amount, I will tell you this: I must have twenty-five million feet out of the Blood River country this winter. You are the first inexperienced man I have ever placed in charge of a camp. I don't know what you can do. I'll take the chance. It's up to you.

"My camps are run without interference from the office. Results count with me—not methods. Feed your crew all they can eat—of the best you can get. Knock a man down first and argue with him afterward. Let them know who is boss, and you will have no trouble. Don't be afraid to spend money, but get out the logs!"

The following morning the new foreman stood upon the platform of the station as the heavy, vestibuled Imperial Limited ground to a stop, under special orders to take on the great lumberman.

"So-long, Bill!" Appleton called. "See you next month. Bringing a party into the woods for a deer-hunt. May put up at your camp for a couple of weeks."

The train pulled out for the East, leaving Bill Carmody gazing, just a shade wistfully, perhaps, at the contented-looking men and women who flashed past upon the rich plush cushions.

But as the last coach passed he squared his shoulders with a jerk and turned quickly away.



CHAPTER XXXV

A HUNTING PARTY

H. D. Appleton, millionaire lumberman, sighed contentedly as he added cream to his after-dinner coffee. He glanced toward his wife, who was smiling at him across the table.

"Oh, you can drink yours black if you want to, little girl," he grinned; "but, remember 'way back when we were first married and I was bossing camps for old Jimmie Ferguson, and we lived in log shacks 'way up in the big woods, I used to say if we ever got where we could have cream for our coffee, I'd have nothing else to ask for?

"Well, to this day, drinking cream in my coffee is my idea of the height of luxury. This is all right, and I enjoy it, too, I suppose." He indicated with a wave of his black cigar the rich furnishings, the heavy plate and cut-glass that adorned the dining-room. "But, somehow, nothing makes me feel successful like pouring real cream into my coffee."

The gray-haired "little girl" laughed happily.

"You never have quite grown up, Hubert," she replied. "Did you have a hard trip, dear? The three weeks you have been away have seemed like three months to me."

"No, no! I had a good trip. It looked rather hopeless at first, trying to establish a new camp, with no one really capable of running it; but just at the last minute—You remember the man I told you about last fall—the young fellow who throttled that scoundrel after the wreck in the Chicago railroad yards, and who refused to tell me his name until after he had made good?"

"Yes—he was drowned last spring, wasn't he? Poor boy, I have often wondered who he was—a gentleman, you said?"

"By gad, he's more than a gentlemen—he's a man! And he wasn't drowned at all. Got rescued somehow by an old squaw and her daughter. His leg was broken, and when he got well he stayed in the woods and looked after the camp all summer; and not only that, he recovered fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs that had been stolen by some of my own men.

"He found me in Creighton, and I made him boss of the new camp. He's a winner, and the men will work for him till they drop."

"Oh, by the way, Hubert," said Mrs. Appleton. "Mr. Sheridan called up a day or two ago and wanted to know when you would return. He said you and he had planned a deer-hunt this fall."

"Yes; we'll go about the first of the month. It's been a good while since Ross Sheridan and I have had a hunt together; not since the old days on the Crow Wing. Remember the time Ross and I got lost, and nearly scared you womenfolks to death?"

"Indeed I do. I never will forget that blizzard, and those three awful days—we had been married only six months, and Mary Sheridan and I were the only women in the camp.

"I remember how good all the men were to us—telling us you were in no danger, and not to worry—and all during the storm they were searching the woods in squads. Oh, it was awful! And yet——" Her voice trailed into silence, and she stared a long time into the open fire that blazed in the huge fireplace.

"And yet, what, little girl," asked Appleton, smiling fondly upon her—"what are you thinking about? Come, tell me."

She turned her eyes toward him, and the man detected a wistful look in them.

"I was thinking, dear, of how happy we were those three years we spent 'way up in the timber while you were getting your start. Not that we haven't always been happy," she hastened to add, "because we have. We couldn't have been happier unless—unless—some children had come. But, dear, those days when we were so poor and had to work so hard, and every dollar counted—and we had to do without things we both wanted, and sometimes things we really needed.

"And, oh, Hubert dear, do you remember the organ? And how long it took us to save up the sixty dollars? And how I cried half the night for pure joy when you brought it home on the ox-sled? And how I used to play in the evenings, and the Sheridans were there, and the men would come and listen, and their big voices would join in the singing, and how sometimes a man would draw a rough sleeve across his eyes when he thought no one was looking—do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, yes—of course I remember!" The lumberman's voice was suspiciously gruff. "Seems almost like another world." His wife suddenly stretched her arms towards the open fire:

"Oh, Hubert, I want to go back!"

"What?"

"Yes, dear, just once more." Appleton saw the tears in her eyes. "I want to smell the fragrance of the pine woods—and sit on the thick pine-needles—and cook over an open fire! Bacon and trout and coffee—yes, and no real cream, either!" She smiled at him through her tears. "Canned milk, and maybe some venison steaks.

"I want to borrow your pocket-knife and dig out spruce gum and chew it, with the little bits of bark in it," she went on, "and I won't promise not to 'pry,' with it, either. I hope I do break the blade! Do you remember that day, and how mad you were?

"I want to see the men crowd into the grub-shack, and hear the sound of the axes and saws and the rattle of chains and the crashing of big trees. I want to see the logs on the rollways; and, Hubert, you won't think I'm awful, will you, dear, but I want to—just once more in my life—I want to hear a big man swear!"

H. D. Appleton stared at his wife in blank amazement, and then, throwing back his head, roared with laughter.

"Well, you sure will, little girl, if you try to slip any canned milk into my coffee!"

His wife regarded him gravely.

"I am not joking, Hubert. Oh, can't you see? Just once more I must have a taste of the old, hard, happy days—can't I?"

"Why, Margaret, you don't really mean that you want to go into the woods—seriously?"

"Yes, I do mean just exactly that—seriously!"

Appleton tugged at his mustache and puckered his forehead.

"We might make up a party," he mused. "I'll speak to Ross in the morning."

The little gray-haired woman stepped lightly around the table, and, seating herself on his lap, captured his big fingers in her own.

"How many times must I tell you not to pull your mustache, dear? Now, listen; I have a plan. There will be Mary Sheridan and Ross and Ethel Manton—you know she promised us a visit this fall, and I expect her any day now. A trip into the woods will do her a world of good, poor girl. She has had lots of responsibility thrust upon her since brother Fred died, with young Charlie to look out for, and the care of that big house.

"Mrs. Potter, you know she lives next door to Ethel, writes me that she does not believe the girl is happy—that this St. Ledger, or whatever his name is, that she is reported engaged to, is not the kind of a man for Ethel at all—and, that she hasn't seemed herself for a year—some unhappy love affair—the man was a scamp, or something—so this trip will be just what she needs. Charlie will be with her, of course, and we can invite that young Mr. Holbrooke; you have met him, that nice young man—the VanNesses' nephew.

"We will go away up into the big woods where you men can hunt to your heart's delight; and we women will stay around the camp and do the cooking and smell the woods and chew spruce gum. Oh, Hubert, won't it be just grand?"

Appleton caught something of his wife's enthusiasm.

"It sure will, little girl! But what's he for?"

"What is who for?"

"This Holbrooke person. Where does he come in on this?"

"Why, for Ethel, of course! Goose! Don't you see that if Ethel is not happy—if she is not really in love with this St. Ledger—and she spends two or three weeks in the same camp with a nice young man like Mr. Holbrooke—well, there's no place like the woods for romance, dear; you see, I know. And he has money, too," she added.

Appleton suddenly lifted his wife to her feet and began pacing up and down the room.

"Money!" he exclaimed. "He never earned a cent in his life."

"But he is the VanNess heir!"

"Old VanNess made his money selling corsets and ribbons."

"Why, dear, what difference does that make? I am sure the VanNesses are among——"

"I don't care who they're among, or what they're among!" interrupted her husband. "We don't want any niece of ours marrying ribbons. Hold on a minute, let me think. By gad, I've got a scheme!"

He continued to pace up and down the length of the room, puffing shortly upon his cigar and emitting emphatic grunts of satisfaction.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "If you're bound to marry Ethel off we will give her the chance to marry a man. Go ahead and make up the party, but leave ribbons out of it. We will let Ethel rest up for a few days and then we will start—straight for the new camp. There is a man there."

"But," objected his wife, "you know nothing about him. You don't know even his name."

"What difference does that make? I know a good man when I see one. I know enough about him to know that he is good enough for Ethel or any other woman. And, if he hasn't got a name now, by gad, he is making one—up there in the big country!"

"But he has no money."

"No money! How much did we have when we were married? Why, little girl, you just got through saying that the happiest days we ever spent were up there in the woods when money was so scarce that we knew the date on every dollar we owned—and every scratch and nick on them—and the dimes and pennies too."

The little woman smiled. "That is true, Hubert, but somehow——"

"Somehow nothing! If we did it, these two can do it. They've got a better chance than we had. I'm not going to live forever. I need a partner. I'm getting old enough to begin to take things easier—to step aside and let a younger man shoulder the burden."

He threw his arm lovingly about his wife's shoulders, and drew her close. "We never had a son, sweetheart," he said gravely, "but if we had I'd want him to be just like that boy. He is making good."

Margaret Appleton looked up into her husband's eyes.

"You haven't made many mistakes, dear," she whispered. "I hope he will make good—for your sake and—maybe for Ethel's."



CHAPTER XXXVI

TOLD ON THE TRAIL

It was a merry party that clambered into the big tote-wagon in the little town of Creighton one morning in early November. Upon request of Appleton and Sheridan, two of the road's heaviest lumber shippers, a private car had been coupled to the rear of the Imperial Limited at Winnipeg.

Later the big train hesitated at Hilarity long enough to permit a half-breed guide in full hunting regalia to step proudly aboard, to the envy of the dead little town's assembled inhabitants. And later still the Limited stopped at Creighton and shunted the private car onto a spur.

Appleton promptly impressed one of his own tote-wagons which had been sent to town for supplies; and before noon the four-horse team was swung into the tote-road carrying the hunting party into the woods.

Tents, blankets, and robes had been ranged into more or less comfortable seats for the accommodation of the party, while young Charlie Manton insisted upon climbing onto the high driver's seat, where he wedged himself uncomfortably between the teamster and Blood River Jack, the guide.

From the time the latter had joined the party at Hilarity the boy had stuck close to his side, asking innumerable questions and listening with bated breath to the half-breed's highly colored narratives in which wolves, bears, and Indians played the important parts.

In the evening, when they camped beside the tote-road, and he was permitted to help with the tents and the fire-wood, the youngster fairly bristled with importance, and after supper when the whole party drew about the great camp-fire the boy seated himself close by the side of the guide.

"You never told me your name," he ventured.

"Blood River Jack," the man replied.

"That's a funny kind of a name," puzzled the boy. "Why did they name you that?"

"Jacques—that is my name. Blood River—that is where I live. It is that my lodge is near the bank of the river and in the Blood River country I hunt and lay my trap lines, and in the waters of the river I fish. What is your name?"

"New York Charlie," unhesitatingly replied the boy and flushed deeply at the roar of laughter with which the others of the party greeted his answer. But the long-haired, dark-skinned guide, noting the angry flash of the wide, blue eyes, refrained from laughter.

"That is a good name," he said gravely. "In the land of the white man men are called by the name of their fathers. In the woods it is not often so, except when it be written upon papers. The best man in the North is one of whom men know only his first name. He is M's'u' Bill—The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."

"Why can't he die?" asked the youngster eagerly.

Jacques shook his head.

"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta says 'all men die,'" he replied; "but—did not the chechako come into the North in the time of a great snow, and without rackets mush forty miles in two days? Did he not kill with a knife Diablesse, the werwolf, whom all men feared, and with an axe chop in pieces the wolves of her pack?

"Did he not strike fear to the heart of the great Moncrossen with a look of his eye? And, with three blows of his fist, lay the mighty Stromberg upon the floor like a wet rag? Did he not come without hurt through the fire when Creed locked him in the burning shack? And did he not go down through the terrible Blood River rapids, riding upon a log, and live, when Moncrossen ordered the breaking out of the jam that he might be killed among the pounding logs? These are the things that kill men—yet the chechako lives."