This time he helped a little, and she raised him higher and pillowed his head against her breast. He sipped the broth hungrily, but very slowly, pausing a long time between sips.

Ethel's body thrilled at the touch of him, the little hand that held the cup trembled, and the man, close-pressed against her soft breast, heard the wild pounding of her heart.

Suddenly he looked up into her eyes. Her face flushed crimson, and the swift down-sweep of the long lashes hid the soft, blue eyes from the intense, burning gaze of the hard grey ones. In confusion she averted her face.

There was a swift movement beside her, and the next instant strong arms were about her, and she heard, as from afar, the heavy thud as the porcelain cup struck the floor.

Vainly she struggled in a sudden frenzy of panic to free herself from the embrace of the encircling arms, and her heart was filled with a great, passionate gladness at the futility of her tiny efforts as she felt herself drawn closer and ever closer against the mighty chest of the big man whom, in spite of herself, and of his own shortcomings and weaknesses, she loved with the savage abandon that is the wonder-love of woman. She knew, too, that the deep music in her ears was the sound of his voice which came in short, stabbing, half-sentences.

"Ethel! Ethel! Little girl—you are mine, mine, mine! You do love me! Darling, better than life itself, I love you. I have always loved you! Tell me, dear, it was all a lie—about St. Ledger. Tell me you love me, dearest!"

The bearded lips found hers, and for answer, her struggles ceased, her body relaxed against his body, her soft arms stole timidly about his neck, and there was a wild singing in her heart.

"And there has never been another?" she whispered a few minutes later as she sat close beside him and watched him sip hot broth from the thick cup. The grey eyes twinkled.

"Don't you know, sweetheart, that there has never been another? Why, you have known me all my life!" But the blue eyes were serious.

"I mean, since—since you went away?" For answer the man raised his arm and pointed toward the opposite wall.

"Hand me that mackinaw," he said. Ethel gasped and stared at him wide eyed. "The mackinaw—that old striped coat next to the slicker," he smiled.

"But——" she stifled the protest, and the man wondered at the sudden pallor of her face.

"Hand it here," he repeated, "there is something I want to show you."

Without a word the girl crossed the room and, removing the mackinaw from its peg, laid it upon the blanket within reach of his hand. He drew it to him, and the girl watched in silence while he ran his fingers over the lining.

He plunged his arm to the elbow into the ragged hole and explored to the very corners the space between the lining and the cloth. With a blank expression of disappointment he looked up at her.

"They are gone," he said in a low voice. "My letters and my picture. Your letters, dear—and your picture——"

"Letters!" the girl gasped, leaning forward and staring into his eyes.

"Why, yes, darling. There were only a few. You wrote them when I was in Europe. They were all I had—those few little letters, and the photograph. You remember—the one you gave me——"

"But—I don't understand——"

"I always kept it on my desk at home," he continued, ignoring the interruption. "And your letters, too—all sealed in a big envelope. And the morning I went away I bound the picture to the envelope and put it in my pocket, and I have always kept it with me.

"A thousand times, dear, I have looked at the picture. It has been my fetish—the little amulet that keeps a man from harm. And whether or not it has succeeded, dear heart, you must judge for yourself."

"But, the letters—you never took them out—never read them?" The man was surprised at the intense eagerness of her tone.

"No," he answered, "I never read them. You see, it got to be a sort of game with me. It was a big game that I played against myself, and when I was sure I had won I was going to open the letters."

He paused and looked into the girl's eyes. "And then, one day I happened to read in an old newspaper the account of your engagement to St. Ledger. I almost lost the game, then—but I didn't. And—after that—the letters never were the same, and I—I just played the game to win."

There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she clutched at his hand.

"But the bonds?" she cried. The man regarded her with a puzzled look.

"Bonds—bonds—what bonds?"

"Why, the bonds you were to have delivered to Strang, Liebhardt & Co. Securities, or something."

Bill stared uncomprehendingly, then suddenly he laughed.

"Oh! Those! Why, I handed them over to father. You see, Dad handed it to me pretty straight that morning. In fact, he—er—fired me. So I gave him the bonds and——"

The sentence was never finished. With a glad cry the girl flung herself upon him, and to his unutterable wonder sobbed and sobbed.



CHAPTER XLV

SNOW-BOUND

Late in the following afternoon Ethel awoke and lay for a long time revelling in her new-found happiness, and thinking of the big man who had come once more into her life, this time bringing her only gladness and the joy of an infinite love.

Her heart glowed with pride as she thought of the strength and the fine courage of him, and she flushed as she wondered how, even with the bonds in her hands, she could have doubted his innocence. Ah, well, she would never doubt him again.

She smiled fondly, but the smile slowly faded, for in her mind at that moment was a doubt—a vague, elusive doubt, that rested upon the slender fabric of a half-breed's fireside tale.

Somewhere in the wild country was another girl—a girl who was beautiful and who loved this man—her man.

In the small hours of the morning as they talked he had not mentioned this girl, and Ethel forbore to question him, hoping that he would tell her of his own accord. But whether or not he purposely avoided the subject she did not know.

She believed in him—believed in his great love for her, in his absolute honesty and the new-found strength in him. Yet, hovering like a specter, intangible, elusive, menacing—the one disturbing element in her otherwise perfect happiness—was the other girl.

Who was she? What was she? What had she been to him? What had been their relations? And why had she accompanied him on his journey out of the woods? The phantom girl took on a sinister form as the question tantalized her brain.

This wild woman had helped to draw him from the river, had nursed him through a long sickness. He was under obligations to her, and—was that the only obligation?

The girl flushed hotly, and with an impatient movement flung the blankets from her, and proceeded to dress.

"I will never, never ask him," she decided, as she sat upon the thick bearskin in front of the stove and drew on her stockings. "He loves me and I love him.

"If he tells me it will be of his own free will; he shall not know that I ever heard of this girl. What is past, is past. There are sealed chapters in the lives of most men—why should I care?

"He is mine—mine!" she cried aloud, "and I love him!"

But deep down in her heart she knew that she did care—and that she would always care. And the knowledge hurt.

Her toilet completed, the girl passed into the other room, where Appleton and Sheridan were engaged in a lively discussion with the ladies.

"How is he?" She addressed her uncle, who answered with twinkling eyes.

"Bill? Oh, he's all right. Feeling fit as a fiddle. Wanted to get out on the job, but I wouldn't let him. He was going anyhow, and the only way I could make him stay in was to threaten to wake you up to give him his orders straight from headquarters."

Ethel blushed furiously as the smiles of the others were directed toward her. "Yup, he wouldn't stand for that," went on Appleton. "Said he'd rather lie in bed for a week than have you puttering around."

With a disdainful toss of her head the girl seated herself at the table.

"Now, Hubert Appleton, you stop teasing that poor girl!" Aunt Margaret rallied in her defence. "Don't pay any attention to him, honey. Bill is doing nicely, and we're all crazy to congratulate you. We think he is just grand!"

Dinner had been kept piping hot, and Ethel hid her confusion behind an appetizing array of steaming dishes.

"And what do you think?" continued her aunt, who hovered about the table with fussy little pats and arrangement of dishes, "we have to stay here all winter!"

"What?" cried the girl in dismay.

"That is just what we both said—Mary and I. But there is no help for it. The tote-road is drifted twenty feet deep. Hubert and Mr. Sheridan are going to make the trip on snowshoes; they must get back to business. The supplies will have to be brought in on dog-sleds, and we have got to stay."

"I'll bet Ethel could think of a worse predicament," grinned Appleton. "She'll be a regular sourdough before spring; won't want to come out."

"But I have nothing to wear!"

"Nothing to wear!" scoffed her uncle. "Tell me, please, what in time you women have got packed in those half a dozen trunks, then? It's not grub. I'll bet there's clothes enough in those trunks to last three women fourteen years! Still, if you really get cold, you might ask Bill to lend you a pair of his——"

"Hubert Appleton!" The lumberman glanced at his wife in surprise. "A pair of his moccasins—they'll keep your toes warm."

The girl finished her belated dinner, and throwing a coat over her shoulders stepped out into the clear, crisp air. Immediately in front of the building the wind had swept the ground almost bare of snow, but Ethel gasped with surprise as her eyes sought the other buildings of the camp.

The blacksmith's shop was entirely buried under a huge drift; only one half of the cook-shack roof was visible, and the bunk-house was buried to the eaves. A twenty-foot drift cut off the view of the stables, and the whole crew was busy digging paths and breaking out skidways.

The storm had ceased as suddenly as it had come, and the sun shone with dazzling whiteness upon the mystic, snow-buried world.

In the office she found Bill fully dressed, propped against his pillows, a villainous black pipe between his lips, reading. He laid aside his book and pipe and stretched his arms toward her.

She crossed, blushing, to his side, and for a long time sat with her head resting upon his shoulder, while his great arms held her close against his beating heart.

And under the spell of his presence and his gently murmured words of love, the disquieting fear vanished, and she knew that he was all hers. And she laughed at her fear, and drove it from her in the foolish belief that it could never return.

"Dear," she said later when their conversation assumed an intelligible form, "you must send those bonds back by Uncle Appleton. Just think—your father thinks you stole them!"

The man smiled:

"Yes, poor old dad. It must be kind of rough on him to think his son is a thief. He was sore that morning, and so was I, and we didn't part the best of friends. But I would rather return the bonds myself. Darling, we will take them to him, you and I, next summer, when we go back to the old town."

"Go back!" exclaimed the girl.

"Sure. When we go back on our honeymoon. Now that I have you I am never, never going to let you go, and when next you see the big burg, you will be Mrs. Bill Carmody."

He kissed the serious blue eyes that looked up into his.

"But, dear, we are coming back here?"

"Back here!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You! Back here! In the woods!"

The girl nodded.

"I love the woods; I will always love them. It was in the woods that you found yourself and your place among men. And it was in the woods that I found you—the real you—the you I have always loved!"

"But, dear heart, it is a rough life up here. It is new to you now, and you are enchanted; but there is so much you would miss. I have to come back, of course—will have to for several years to come. We could have a house in Minneapolis, and Charlie could go to school."

"What! And only have you for five or six months in the year? No, sir! Charlie could live with Uncle and Aunt Margaret and go to school, but you and I are coming into the woods.

"Aunt Margaret lived in camps for years when she was first married, and they were as poor as church mice. She told me all about it. Of course, there is hard work; but it is all so big, and grand, and free, and there is lots of fun, too, and you will have to teach me to shoot and walk on snowshoes and fish through holes cut in the ice.

"I can cook and sew, and we will have a victrola, and lots of books and things—anyway, that is the way it is going to be, so there is no use arguing about it." And the boss smiled as he realized what Appleton meant when he said: "Orders straight from headquarters."

The two lumbermen took their departure the following morning amid the hearty farewells of the snow-bound camp. They were accompanied by Blood River Jack, who reluctantly agreed to see the dog-team tote service established before returning to his lodge at the foot of the rapid.

"We'll come up for you in the spring," called Appleton, "and we'll follow the drive in a bateau. You got a bigger taste of the old life than you bargained for, little girl," he smiled at his wife; "but the tote-road is ruined for this winter and you'll have to make the best of it."

"H. D. and I will sure think of you girls while we're sitting in the baldheaded pews at the Gaiety this winter gloating over the grand opera we're missing!" called Sheridan, rolling his cigar juicily between his grinning lips.

"Men of your age——" began Mrs. Sheridan.

"Hubert Appleton! If I hear——" But the protests of the "girls" fell upon deaf ears as the men disappeared in the wake of the guide, slapping each other upon the back in high glee.

The question of grand opera was a joke of long standing between them, and up to the present had been on the husbands, who, despite their protests, had manfully endured their annual week of martyrdom.

"Cheer up, ladies," smiled Bill, "the graphophone is a very good one, and in the office is a whole box of records of my own selection. If we are snow-bound we will not have to entirely forego even grand opera."



CHAPTER XLVI

AN ANNOUNCEMENT

Despite the handicap of the deep snow, results in the new camp were highly satisfactory to Bill Carmody.

Not a man in the crew but swore by the boss, and each day threw himself into the work with a will that made for success. And each night, as he rolled into his bunk, not a man but knew that the boss himself had that day worked harder than he.

"Niver wuz such a crew in th' woods, miss," boasted Daddy Dunnigan one afternoon as Ethel stood in the door of the cook-shack and watched the old man's preparation of the gigantic supper.

"Oi've logged a bit, here an' there, an' always Oi've be'n where min wuz—but niver Oi've seed 'em buckle down an' tear out th' bone, wan day wid another, save in th' so'gerin' days av Captain Fronte McKim.

"Th' same wuz th' boss's uncle, an' he's a McKim fr' th' sole av his feet to th' peak av his head, barrin' th' licker, an' th' min'll go t'rough hell an' hoigh wather fer um, beggin' ye're pardon—an' he ain't no dommed angel, nayther, beggin' ut ag'in, miss.

"Ye sh'd see th' hand av poker he plays, an' th' beautiful swearin' av um, phwin things goes wrong! An' ye sh'd see um foight wanst! An' now he's gone an' poshted a foive per cint bonus av they bate Moncrossen's cut, an' uts loike handin' ut to 'em, 'cause he knows th' b'ys is already doin' their dommedest, beggin' ye're pardon, miss.

"Oi'll bet me winther's wages, come shpr-ring, we'll have Moncrossen shnowed undher dayper thin' yon smithy, an' they had to tunnel to foind ut."

The girl laughed happily and passed on with a great love in her heart for Daddy Dunnigan and the big, rough men out in the timber who were "tearing out the bone" that her man might make good.

Day by day the black pyramids of the rollways lengthened, and the skidways were pushed farther and farther into the timber. And, of all the men in the crew, none worked harder nor to better purpose than Stromberg, the big hulking Swede, whom Fallon had warned Bill was the brains of Moncrossen's bird's-eye gang.

Neither Bill nor the big swamper had ever alluded to that affair in the bunk-house upon the night of their first meeting, and it was with a feeling of surprise that the foreman looked up one evening as he sat alone in the little office to see Stromberg enter and cross to his side.

The man lost no time in coming to the point.

"Bill," he began, "I went up with Buck Moncrossen this summer to bring down the bird's-eye. We found a pile of ashes where the logs should have been. Moncrossen thinks Creed burned them—or let someone do it.

"It was a crooked game, and I was in it as deep as any one. I ain't trying to beg off—but, I'd rather be square than crooked—and that's the truth. I ain't spent most of my life in the woods not to be able to tell hardwood ashes from soft-wood, and I know you slipped one over on us.

"You're going to make good in the woods. You'll be the big boss, some day. I expect to do time for my part in the bird's-eye game, and I'll take all that's coming to me. And I won't snitch on the rest to get a lighter sentence, either.

"I know Appleton, and I know we'll get ours in the spring, but what I want to know is: when I get out, can I come to you for a job?"

Bill rose from his chair and thrust a big hand toward the other.

"Stromberg," he said, "you are no more a crook than I am. You threw in with a bad bunch—that's all. Suppose we just forget the bird's-eye business. You and Fallon are the two best men I've got.

"We are going to beat Moncrossen this year, and every man in the crew has got to help do it—and next winter—well, Mr. Appleton will have an eye peeled for a man to take Moncrossen's job—see?"

The two big men shook hands, and as he made his way to the bunk-house, Stromberg wondered at the peculiar smile on the boss's lips as he said:

"There are a hell of a lot of good men wasted because of a bad start. So-long."

The weeks slipped rapidly by. The weather settled, keen and cold, with the crew keyed to the highest pitch of efficiency.

"Beat Buck Moncrossen!" became the slogan of the camp, and with the lengthening days it became apparent that a record cut was being banked on the rollways.

It was a wonderful winter for Ethel Manton. The spirit of the big country entered her blood. More and more she loved the woods, and learned to respect and admire the rough loyalty of the big men of the logs.

She had come to call most of them by name, as with a smile and a nod, or a wave of the hand, she passed them in the timber on her daily excursions in search of rabbits and ptarmigan. And not a man in the crew but would gladly have fought to the last breath for "the boss's girl."

And now the feel of spring was in the air. Each day the sun climbed higher and higher, and the wind lost its sting. The surface of the snow softened by day, and high-piled white drifts settled slowly into soggy masses of saturated, gray slush.

Bill figured that he had nearly fifteen million feet down when he called off his sawyers and ordered the clean-up. The nights remained cold, freezing the surface of the sodden snow into a crust of excellent footing, so that the day's work began at midnight and continued until the crust softened under the rays of the morning sun.

The men laughed and sang and talked of the drive, and of the waterfront dives of cities, whose calk-pocked floors spoke the shame of the men of the logs.

But most of all they talked of the wedding. For as they sat at the supper-table on the day the last tree fell, the boss entered, accompanied by the girl.

In a few brief words he told them that he was proud of every man jack of them; that they were the best crew that ever came into the woods, and that they had more than earned the bonus.

He told them that he realized he was a greener, and thanked them for their loyalty and cooeperation, without which his first season as camp foreman must have been doomed to failure.

Cheer after cheer interrupted his words, and when he took Ethel by the hand and announced that they were soon to be married in that very room and invited all hands to the wedding, their cheers drowned his voice completely.

But when the girl tried to speak to them, choked in confusion, and with her eyes brimming with tears, extended both hands and gasped: "Oh, I—I love you all!" the wild storm of applause threatened to tear the roof from the log walls.

It was Ethel's idea that they should be married in the woods. Her love for the wild country grew deeper with the passing days. She loved it all—the silent snow-bound forest, the virile life of the big camp with its moments of tense excitement, the mighty crash with which tall trees tore through the branches of lesser trees to measure their length on the scarred snow, the thrill of hunting wild things, and the long evenings when the rich tones of the graphophone fell upon her ears amid rough surroundings, like a voice from the past.

But most of all she loved the long walks in the forest, in the deep gloom of moonlit nights with the weird, mysterious shadows all about them as the big man at her side told her of his great love while they planned and dreamed of the future; and then returned to the little office where she listened while he read aloud, pausing now and then to light his black pipe and blow clouds of blue smoke toward the low ceiling.

He had grown very close to her, and very dear, this big, impetuous boy, who had suddenly become a masterful man, and in whom she found each day some new depth of feeling—some entirely unsuspected and unexplored nook of his character.

Her doubts and fears had long since been thrust aside, and even the existence of the Indian girl had been forgotten. And so it was that when Ethel told Bill one evening she wished their wedding to take place in the camp, amid the scenes of their future hardships and happiness, he acquiesced gladly, and to the laughing outrage of her dignity picked her up in his two hands and tossed her high in the air as he would have tossed a baby.

And now the time of the wedding was very near. The clean-up was finished, and day by day they awaited the coming of Appleton and Sheridan, and of Father Lapre, of the Rice Lake Mission.

The men of the crew set about to make the event one long to be remembered in the Northland. Flowers were unobtainable, but a frame in the form of a giant horseshoe was constructed and covered over with pine-cones.

A raid was made upon the oat-bin, and the oats sifted between the scales of the cones and moistened. The structure was placed near the stove in the bunk-house, and when the tiny, green shoots began to appear, woe to him who procrastinated in the closing of the door or neglected to tend fire when it was his turn!

The walls of the grub-shack were completely hidden behind pine-branches, and festoons of brilliant red bakneesh encircled the room and depended from the chains of the big, swinging lamps.

In the bunk-house the men busied themselves in the polishing of buck-horns for the fashioning of a wonderful chair in whose make-up would be found neither nails nor glue, its parts being bound together by means of sinews and untanned buckskin thongs.

The bateaux were set up and waiting at the head of the rollways. The snow of the forest slumped lower and lower, and innumerable icy rills found their way to the river over the surface of whose darkened, honeycombed ice flowed a shallow, slushy stream.

Father Lapre arrived one morning, pink, smiling, and wet to the middle, having blundered onto thin ice in the darkness. The following morning Sheridan and Appleton appeared with mysteriously bulging packs, and weary from their three nights' battle with the slippery, ice-crusted tote-road.



CHAPTER XLVII

MONCROSSEN PAYS A VISIT

In the filthy office of the camp on the Lower Blood River, Buck Moncrossen sat at his desk and glowered over his report sheets. The ill-trimmed lamp smoked luridly, and the light that filtered through its blackened chimney illumined dimly the interior of the little room.

The man pawed over his papers with bearlike clumsiness, pausing now and then to wet a begrimed thumb and to curse his luck, his crew, his employer, and any and everything that had to do with logs and logging.

It had been a bad season for Buck Moncrossen. The spring break-up was at hand, and the best he could figure was a scant nine million feet, where Appleton had expected the heavy end of a twenty-five-million-foot cut.

Many of his best men had gone to the new camp to work, as they supposed, under Fallon. The previous winter's bird's-eye cut was lost; Creed was gone; Stromberg was gone, and he trusted none of his men sufficiently to continue the game. The boss rose with a growl, and spat copiously in the direction of the stove.

"Damn Appleton! And damn the crew! Nine million feet! At that, though, I bet I've laid down half agin as much as the new camp. Fallon never run a crew, an' he had his camp to build to boot."

He resumed his seat, and reaching to the top of the desk drew down a quart bottle, from which he drank in long, deep gurgles. He stared a long time at the bottle, drank again, and stooping, began to unlace his boots.

"I'll start the clean-up in the mornin', an' then I'll find time to pay a little visit I be'n aimin' to pay all winter. Creed said she was somewheres below the foot of the rapids. It's anyways ten days to the break-up; an' I ain't worryin' a damn if I do happen to foul Fallon's drive."

Jacques Lacombie had so arranged his trap-lines that on his longest circle he should be absent only one night from the lodge where old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta kept an ever-vigilant eye upon the comings and goings of Jeanne.

Since his return after the great blizzard the half-breed had made numerous trips to the camp of Moncrossen, carrying fresh venison, and he did not like the shifting glances the boss bent toward him, nor the leering smile with which he inquired after Jeanne.

As the freezing nights hardened the crust upon the surface of the sodden snow, Jacques discarded his rackets and, spending his days in the lodge, attended his traps at night by the light of a lantern.

Daylight found him one morning headed homeward on a course paralleling the river and nearly opposite Moncrossen's camp. Steadily he plodded onward, and a smile came to his lips as he formulated his plans for the summer, which included the removal of Jeanne from her dangerous proximity to Moncrossen.

He would change his hunting-ground, move his lodge up the river, and next season he would supply the camp of M's'u' Bill, whose heart was good, and who would see that no harm came to the girl.

He swung onto the marshy arm of a small lake, whose surface was profusely dotted with conical muskrat houses which reared their brown domes above the broken rice-straw and cattail stalks.

He had nearly reached the center when suddenly he halted, whirled half around, and clutched frantically at the breast of his shirt. It was as though some unseen hand had dealt him a sharp blow, and a dull, scorching pain shot through his chest.

He drew away his hand, red and dripping, glanced wildly about, staggered a few steps, and crashed headlong, with a rustling sound, into the thick growth of dry cattail stalks.

On the bank of the marsh a thin puff of vapory smoke drifted across the face of a blackened stump and dissolved in the crisp air, and the sharp crack of a high-power rifle of small caliber raised scarcely an echo against the wall of the opposite shore.

A man stepped from behind the stump, glanced sharply about him, and grinned as he leisurely pumped another cartridge into the chamber.

He bit the corner from a thick plug of tobacco, and gazed out over the marsh, which showed only the light yellow of the dry stalks and the brown domes of the rat-houses.

"That ain't so bad fer two hundred yards—plugged him square in the middle, too. God! I'd hate to die!" he muttered, and, turning, followed the shore of the lake and struck into the timber in the direction in which the other had been going.

An hour later he slipped silently behind the trunk of a tree at the edge of a tiny clearing in the center of which stood a single, smoke-blackened tepee.

The blue smoke from a small fire in front of the opening floated lazily upward in the still air, and beside the blaze a leathern-faced crone squatted and stirred the contents of a black pot which simmered from a cross-piece supported at the ends by crotched sticks driven into the ground.

The old squaw fitted the lid to the pot, hung the long-handled spoon upon a projection of a forked upright, and, picking up a tin pail, disappeared down the well-worn path to the river. With an evil leer the man stepped boldly into the clearing and crossed to the opening of the tepee.

Stooping, he suddenly looked within, where Jeanne Lacombie knelt upon one knee as she fastened the thongs of her moccasin. The man grinned as he recognized the silvery hairs of the great white wolf skin which the girl had thrown across her shoulders.

"So you swiped the greener's wolf-hide, did you? I seen it was gone offen the end of the bunk-house."

At the sound the girl looked up, and the blood froze in her veins at the sight of the glittering eyes and sneering lips of Moncrossen. He spoke again:

"You thought I was done with you, did you? Thought I'd forgot you, an' the fight the old she-tiger put up that night on Broken Knee? But that was in the dark, or there'd been a different story to tell."

The words came in a horrible nasal snarl, and the little eyes glowed lustfully as they drank in the rich curves of the girl who had sprung to her feet, her muscles tense with terror.

"Come along, now—an' come peaceable. You're my woman now. I'm willin' to let bygones be bygones, an' I'll treat you right long as you don't try none of your tricks. You'll learn who's boss, an' as long as you stay by me you'll get plenty to eat an' white folks clothes to wear—that's a heap better'n livin' like a damned Injun—you'll soon fergit all this."

His promises terrified the girl even more than the angry snarl, and with a loud cry she tried to spring past him, but his arms closed about her and he laughed a hard, brutal laugh of contempt for her puny struggles.

A shadow fell upon them, and the man whirled, dodging quickly as the sharp bit of an axe grazed his shoulder and tore through the wall of the tepee. He released the girl and lunged toward the old squaw, who was reaching for the pot with its scalding contents.

Seizing her by the arm, he threw her heavily to the ground, where she lay while the girl fled to the edge of the clearing and paused, for she knew that in the forest she could easily elude the heavy-footed lumber boss. Moncrossen, too, realized that pursuit would be useless, and in his rage leveled his rifle at the figure upon the ground.

"Come back here!" he cried. "Come back, or by God I'll plug her like I plugged——" He stopped abruptly and glanced along the sights.

The girl hesitated, and the voice of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fell sharply upon her ear:

"No! No! Do not come! He will not shoot! Even now his finger flutters upon the trigger! He is afraid to shoot!" And she glared defiantly into the glittering eyes that squinted above the gun-barrel. Slowly the muzzle lowered and the man laughed—a hard, dry laugh.

"You're right!" he sneered. "I won't shoot. But if she don't come back you'll wish to God I had shot!"

He turned to the girl: "I ain't goin' to chase you. I'm goin' to stand pat. When you git ready you c'n come to me—up to the camp. Meanwhile I'll put the old hag where the dogs won't bite her, an' while you stay away she don't eat—see? She ain't nothin' but a rack o' bones nohow, an' a few days'll fix her clock."

"Go find Jacques!" cried the old woman, fumbling at her blanket.

The man laughed. "Sure, go find him!" he taunted.

A skinny hand was withdrawn from the blanket and the clawlike fingers clutched a fragment of broken knife-blade. She held it before the man and the shrunken lips mumbled unintelligible words; then, with a swift movement, she flung it from her and it rang upon the ice at the feet of the girl, who stooped swiftly and seized it.

"Go!" cried the old woman. "Far up the river to the camp of the One-Good-White-Man!"

Again Moncrossen laughed harshly.

"You can't work none of your damned charms on me!" he sneered. "G'wan up the river. There ain't no one up there but Fallon's camp, an' you might better stick with me. Only don't stay too long. This here old leather image can't live without eatin', an' when you come we'll have heap big potlatch."

The wigwam of old Wabishke, the Indian trapper, was pitched in a dense thicket on the shore of the little muskrat lake. In the early gray of the morning the old Indian was startled by the sound of a shot.

He peered cautiously through the branches and saw a man pitch forward among the rice-stalks. Five minutes later another man carrying a rifle passed within a hundred feet of him and disappeared in the timber in the direction of Blood River Rapids. When he was gone Wabishke ran swiftly to the fallen man and conveyed him to the wigwam, where he plugged the bullet-hole with fat and bound up the wound.

Two hours later the bushes parted and Jeanne Lacombie burst panting into the wigwam. The girl uttered a wild cry at the sight of her brother lying motionless upon the robe and dropped to her knees at his side.

"Moncrossen," grunted the Indian, and watched in silent wonder as the girl leaped to her feet and, seizing an empty pack-sack, began stuffing it with food. Snatching a light blanket from the floor, she swung the pack to her shoulders and without a word dashed again into the forest.



CHAPTER XLVIII

THE WEDDING

The events incident to the wedding of Bill Carmody and Ethel Manton are indelibly stamped upon the memory of every person present. The day was warmer than any preceding one, with a lowering, overcast sky. The dark, soggy snow melted rapidly, and the swollen surface stream gnawed and tore at the honeycombed ice of the river.

In the cook-shack Daddy Dunnigan superintended the labors of half a dozen flunkies in the preparation of the Gargantuan wedding feast which was to follow the ceremony, and each man of the crew worked feverishly in the staging of the great event.

The table, which extended the full length of the grub-shack, was scrubbed until it shone and was moved to one side to make room for the heavy benches arranged transversely, one behind the other.

The wide aisle between the table and the ends of the benches, leading from the door to the improvised altar at the farther end of the room, was carpeted with blankets from the bunk-house, and suspended from the ceiling immediately in front of the altar swung the massive horseshoe, fresh and green with sprouting grain.

During the afternoon a warm drizzle set in and the men completed the preparations amid a muttered cursing of the weather.

An ominous booming and cracking now and then reached their ears from the direction of the river where the sullen, pent-up waters threatened momentarily to break their ice bonds, and the men knew that the logs must go out on the flood though the heavens fell.

The drizzle continued, the gray daylight wore into darkness, and with the darkness came the return of good cheer. For rollways must be broken out in the light of day, and the air rang with loud laughter and the rhythmic swing of roaring chanteys, as the men realized that they were not to be robbed of their gala day with its long night of feasting.

The phonograph, with its high-piled box of records, occupied a conspicuous place upon the dais, and upon the long table was displayed an enormous collection of gifts, chief among which was the ingeniously constructed chair with its broad back of flaring moose antlers.

At seven-thirty the men filed in from the bunk-house and found places upon the benches where they sat awkwardly, conversing in loud whispers.

Father Lapre, book in hand, took his place at the altar, and a few minutes later Bill Carmody entered with Sheridan and strode rapidly up the aisle. At the sight of the boss the crew rose as one man and the room rang with a loud, spontaneous cheer.

The little priest held up his hand for silence. At a signal someone started the graphophone, and to the sweet strains of a march the bride appeared, leaning upon the arm of her uncle.

Slowly, with bowed head, in the midst of a strained silence, she traversed the length of the long room, the cynosure of all eyes. When almost at the altar she raised her eyes to the man who awaited her there.

Her quick, indrawn breath was almost a gasp, and Appleton felt her arm tremble upon his.

He stood waiting for her—this man into whose keeping she was giving her life—exactly as she had seen him at the time of their first meeting in the North country when he stood, big and bearded, in the gathering dusk, framed in the doorway of the little office.

In one swift glance she saw that every detail was the same, from the high-laced boots to the embroidered hunting-shirt open at the throat—only his eyes were different—there was no pain, now, in the gray eyes that blazed eagerly into her own—only happiness, and the burning passion of love.

And then her uncle retired, and she stood alone with the man, facing the priest. She could hear the voice of the little pink priest and of the big man at her side, and as in a dream she found herself repeating the words of the ritual.

She knew that a ring was being placed upon her finger, and she was a wife. And that the priest, in solemn voice, with outstretched hands, was extending them his blessing.

The voice hesitated—stopped.

In the rear of the room the door was thrown violently open and banged loudly against the log wall. There was a confused scuffling of feet and a scraping of heavy benches as the men craned their necks toward the entrance.

Involuntarily Ethel turned, and there, gliding swiftly toward her up the blanket-carpeted aisle, was the most picturesquely beautiful woman she had ever seen.

Wide-eyed she stared at the newcomer. Her face went deathly white, and the heart within her breast turned to ice, for instinctively she knew, by the wild, intense beauty of the woman, that she stood face to face with the Indian girl—the Jeanne of Bill Carmody's whispered words!

Her brain took in the details with incredible rapidity; and the girl was still coming toward her as she noted the dazzling brightness of the great silvery wolf-skin that was flung about her shoulders and caught together at her soft throat; the mass of black hair, upon which the mist-beads sparkled like a million diamonds; the dark, liquid eyes, and the even, white teeth that glistened between the curving red lips.

The girl was at her side now, and with a low cry threw herself upon her knees before the man, and stretched her arms toward him gropingly.

"M's'u' Bill!" she cried, and the voice was sweet and soft; the words uttered with imploring intensity. And then in Ethel's ears was the voice of her husband.

"Jeanne, Jeanne," he said; "why have you come? Speak, girl; why have you come to me?"

At the sound of the name, the thought that at the very altar this woman's name was upon the lips of her husband, the hot blood surged to her face and the tiny fists clenched. She was about to speak, but was forestalled by the half-breed girl who had leaped to her feet and thrown her arms about Bill's neck and was speaking in short, stabbing words:

"Come! Come now—with me! Oh, do not wait! Come—even now it may be too late!"

The low voice quivered with excitement, and the man's hand patted her shoulder soothingly as he endeavored to quiet her. Ethel took a quick step forward, and the hard tone of her voice cut upon the air like the ring of tempered steel.

"Who are you?" she cried. "Speak! What is this man to you?"

The Indian girl turned and faced her, seeming for the first time aware of her presence. The dark, liquid eyes flashed as she drew herself to her full height.

"To me, he is everything! I would die for him! I love him!"

The tense tones rang through the long room where a hundred and fifty big men sat silent—hypnotized by the intense drama of the scene.

With a lithe, swift movement the half-breed girl raised her hands to her bosom and tore at the fastenings of her hunting-shirt. There was the sound of popping buttons, the heavily embroidered shirt flew open, and there, gleaming cold and gray in the lamplight, upon the warm ivory of her bared breast lay a naked blade—the broken blade of a sheath knife!

She broke the cord that held it suspended about her neck and extended the blade toward the man, uttering but a single word:

"Come!"

And as Bill's eyes fell upon the bit of metal his form stiffened and his fists clenched.

"I will come—lead on!" he answered For in his mind rang the words of his solemn promise: "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."

The half-breed girl had already turned away when the man's eyes sought the eyes of his wife. She was regarding him with a strange, frightened stare. Her face had turned marble white at his words, and she gasped uncertainly for breath.

Her pallor alarmed Bill, who stepped toward her with outstretched arms; but she shrank from his touch and her blue eyes fixed him with their cold, frightened stare.

"Ethel!" he cried. "Darling—my wife! I must go! It is The Promise!" Unconsciously he repeated the words of the old squaw. "Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, in the last extremity of her need, is calling—and I must go to her.

"Oh, can't you see?" he cried suddenly, as the look of horror deepened upon the face of his wife. "Darling—only long enough to give her aid—then I will return! Surely, surely, dear, you trust me! You will believe in me—just this once! When I return to you I will explain all—I can't wait, now—good-by!"

He turned to follow the Indian girl, but before he could take a step his wife's arms were about his neck and her words came in great choking sobs:

"No! No! No! You are mine! You cannot go! You will not leave me at the altar! Oh, if you loved me—if you loved me, you could not go!"

Bill's arms were about her, and the words rushed from his lips: "Love you! I love you more than life itself—I live for you! But I promised—my word has passed—I must go! In a day—two days—a week—you shall know and understand."

With a low, moaning cry Ethel tore herself from his embrace and reeled, fainting into the arms of the priest, while her husband, white lipped, followed swiftly after the Indian girl who had already gained the end of the aisle.

But a few moments had elapsed since Jeanne Lacombie had burst into the room. Moments so tense—so laden with terrible portent—that, although every person in the room heard each spoken word, brains failed to grasp their significance; and Appleton, from his bench near the door, as he saw Bill Carmody turn from his fainting wife, for the first time doubted his sincerity.

Men were on their feet now, gazing incredulously at the boss, who, looking neither to the left nor to the right, strode rapidly down the aisle.

Scarcely knowing what he did, with the one thought uppermost in his mind, to stop the foreman and bring him to his senses, Appleton leaped the intervening benches and, slamming the heavy door, shot the stout bar.

With a roar of anger Bill seized a heavy split log bench, sending a couple of lumber-jacks tumbling among the feet of their fellows, and whirling it high above his head, drove it crashing through the door.

The bar snapped like a toothpick, the heavy panel split in half and dropped sidewise, and without a moment's hesitation Bill grasped the half-breed girl about the waist and swung her through the splintered aperture.

Turning, he swept the room with a glare of defiance. For a moment men looked into the narrowed eyes; and then, as the eyes of the boss rested for an instant upon the inert form of his wife, they saw the defiant glare melt into a look of compassion and misery such as none had ever seen in human eyes.

Then his shoulders stiffened, his jaw squared, and without a word he stepped through the shattered door and disappeared in the black drizzle.



CHAPTER XLIX

ON THE RIVER

That Blood River Jack's fear for the safety of Jeanne was well founded was borne home to Bill Carmody in the story the girl poured into his ears as they pushed on in the direction of Moncrossen's camp.

The night was jet black, and Bill marveled at the endurance of the girl and the unfailing sagacity with which she led the way.

The honeycombed river ice sagged toward the middle of the stream, and the water from the melting snow followed this depression, leaving the higher edges comparatively dry and free from snow.

The drizzling rain continued as the two stumbled forward, slipping and splashing through deep pools of icy water. Each moment they were in danger of plunging through some hole in the rotting ice; but the girl pushed unhesitatingly onward, and the man followed.

Between them and the camp of Moncrossen lay upward of a hundred miles of precarious river trail, and with no crust on the water-soaked snow of the forest they could not take advantage of the short cuts which would have stricken many miles from their journey.

It was broad daylight when Bill called a halt, and after many unsuccessful attempts succeeded in kindling a sickly blaze in the shelter of a clay-streaked cut-bank.

He unslung the pack which he had taken from the shoulders of the girl, and removed some bacon and sodden bannock. As they toasted the bacon and dried the bannock at the smoky fire the girl hardly removed her gaze from the face of the big, silent man who, during the whole long night, had scarcely spoken a word.

Her eyes flashed as they traveled over the mighty breadth of him and noted the great muscular arms, the tight-clamped jaw, and the steely glint of the narrowed gray eyes.

Her face glowed with the pride of his strength as she recalled the parting scene in the bunk-house when he had hurled the heavy bench, crashing through the door, and defied the men of the logs.

He had done this thing for her, she reflected—for her, and that he might keep his promise to old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She wondered at his silence. Why did he not speak? And why did he sit gazing with tight-pressed lips into the flaring, spitting little fire?

Her breath came faster, and she laid a timid hand upon the man's arm.

"The woman?" she asked abruptly. "Who is this woman with the hair of gold and the eyes of the summer sky?" The slender fingers gripped his arm convulsively. "She is the woman of the picture!" she cried, and her eyes sought his.

Bill Carmody nodded slowly and continued to stare into the fire.

"She is my—my wife," he groaned.

"Your—wife!"

The girl repeated the words dully, as if seeking to grasp their import. Her fingers relaxed, her eyes closed, and she lay heavily back upon the blanket. A long time she remained thus while Bill stared stolidly into the fire.

At length he aroused himself and glanced toward Jeanne, who lay at his side, breathing the long, regular breaths of the deep sleep of utter weariness; and he noted the deep lines of the beautiful face and the hollow circles beneath the closed eyes that told of the terrible trail-strain.

"Sixty straight hours of that!" he exclaimed as his glance traveled over the precarious river trail. Curbing his patience, he waited an hour and then gently awoke the sleeping girl.

"Jeanne," he said as she gazed at him in bewilderment, "you need sleep. I will go alone to the camp of Moncrossen." At the words she sprang to her feet.

"No! No!" she cried; "I have slept. I am not tired. Come—to-day, and to-night—and in the morning we come to the camp."

"We must go then," said Bill, and added more to himself than to Jeanne: "I wonder if he would dare?"

"He would dare anything—that is not good!" the girl answered quickly. "He has the bad heart. But Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will not starve quickly. She is old and tough, and can go for many days without food; as in the time of the famine when she refused to eat that we, her children, might live.

"Even in times of plenty she eats but little, for she lives in the long ago with Lacombie—in the days of her youth and—and happiness. For she loved Lacombie, and—Lacombie—loved—her."

The girl's voice broke throatily, and she turned abruptly toward the river.

The fine, drizzling rain, which had fallen steadily all through the night, changed to a steady downpour that chilled them to the bone.

The stream of shallow water that flowed over the surface of the ice swelled to a torrent, forcing them again and again to abandon the river and slosh knee-deep through the saturated snow of the forest.

Broken ice cakes began to drift past—thick, black cakes which scraped and ground together as they swung heavily in the current.

"The ice is going out!" cried the girl in dismay. "We can no longer keep to the river!"

Bill's teeth clenched. "The breakup!" he groaned. "Moncrossen will go out on the flood, and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta——"

He redoubled his efforts, fairly dragging the girl through the deep slush. The rain was carrying off the snow with a rush. The gullies and ravines were running bankful, and time and again the two were forced to plunge shoulder-deep into the icy waters.

At noon they halted, and in the dripping shelter of a dense thicket wolfed down a quantity of sodden bannock and raw bacon. The river rose hourly, and the crash and grind of the moving ice thundered continuously upon their ears.

Progress was slow and grueling. By the middle of the afternoon they had covered about forty miles. The water from the rising river began to set back into the ravines, forcing them to make long detours before daring to chance a ford.

Darkness came as an added hardship, and as they toiled doggedly around an abrupt bend they saw on a tiny plateau, high above the dark waters of the river, a faint flicker of light.

The girl paused and regarded it curiously; then, hurrying to the point, she peered up and down the river, striving for landmarks in the gathering gloom.

"Vic Chenault's cabin!" she cried. "I missed it coming up. I knew it was somewhere up the river. He is a friend of Jacques, and his father was the good friend of Lacombie."

Drenched and weary, the two pushed toward the light, crossing swift-rushing gullies whose icy waters threatened each moment to sweep them from their feet.

Slipping and stumbling through the muck and slush, crashing through dripping underbrush, they stood at length before the door of the low-roofed log cabin.

Their knock was answered by a tousled-headed man who stood, lamp in hand, and blinked owlishly at them from the shelter of the doorway.

"You are Vic Chenault?" asked the girl, and, without waiting for his grunted assent, continued: "I am Jeanne Lacombie, and this is M's'u' Bill, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."

At the mention of the names the door swung wide and the man smiled a welcome. They entered amid a rabble of sled-dogs and puppies, which rolled about the floor in a seemingly inextricable tangle, with numerous dusky youngsters of various ages and conditions of nudity.

Chenault's Indian wife sat upon the edge of the bunk, a blackened cob-pipe between her teeth, industriously beading a moccasin; and seemed in no wise disturbed by the arrival of visitors, nor by the babel of hubbub that arose from the floor, where dogs and babies howled their protest against the cold draft from the open door and the pools of ice-cold water that drained from the clothing of the strangers.

Chenault pronounced a few guttural syllables, and the stolid squaw reached behind her and, removing a single garment of flaming red calico from a nail, extended it toward Jeanne.

The girl accepted it with thanks, and her eyes roved about the cabin, which, being a one-roomed affair, offered scant privacy. The woman caught the corner of a blanket upon a projecting nail and another corner upon a similar nail in the upright of the bunk, and motioned the girl behind the screen with a short wave of her pipe.

The man offered Bill a pair of faded blue overalls and a much-bepatched shirt of blue flannel, and when Jeanne emerged, clad in the best dress of her hostess, Bill took his turn in the dressing-room.

"Can't be too pedicular in a pinch," he grinned as he wriggled dubiously into the dry garments, and in a few minutes he was seated beside the girl upon a rough bench drawn close to the fire.

Chenault, being a half-breed, was more inclined toward garrulity than his Indian spouse.

"How you come?" he asked with evident interest. Jeanne answered him, speaking rapidly, and at the end of a half-hour the man was in full possession of the details of their plight. He slowly shook his head.

"Moncrossen camp ver' far—feefty—seexty mile," he said. "You no mak'."

Bill looked up suddenly. "Have you a canoe?" he inquired.

The other looked at him in surprise. "Canoe, she no good!" he grunted. "Too mooch ice. Bre'k all to hell in one minute!"

With an exclamation he leaped to his feet. "By gar! De flat boat!" he cried triumphantly.

"She is all build for tak' de fur. De riv', she run ver' swift. In de morning you go—in de evening you come on de camp!"

"I will pay you well for the boat," said Bill eagerly. "I have no money here. Give me a pencil; I will write an order on Monsieur Appleton, the man who owns the woods."

At the words the half-breed shrugged.

"You no got for mak' write," he said. "You tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta you come—by gar! You come! You tell me you pay—you pay. You no got for mak' write."

Bill smiled.

"That is all right, providing I get through. What if the boat gets tipped over or smashed in the ice?"

Chenault shrugged again. "You De-Man-Who-Cannot-Die," he said. "You got de good heart. In de woods all peoples know. You no mak' write. I got no penzil."



CHAPTER L

FACE TO FACE

Before daylight next morning the two men dragged the little flat boat to the water's edge. The river had risen to full flood during the night and out of the darkness came the crash and grind of ice, the dull roar and splash of undermined banks, and the purling rumble of swift moving water.

After breakfast Bill and Jeanne, armed with light spruce poles, took their places; Chenault pushed the boat into the current and it shot downstream, whirling in the grip of the flood.

There was no need for oars. Both Bill and the girl had their work cut out warding off from drifting ice cakes and the thrashing branches of uprooted trees.

Time and again they came within a hair's-breadth of destruction. The eddying, seething surface of the swift rushing river seemed to hurl its debris toward their little craft in fiendish malevolence. Ice cakes crashed together on every hand, water-logged tree-butts snagged them bow and stern, and the low-hanging limbs of "sweepers" clawed and tore at them like the teeth of a giant rake as they swept beneath, lying flat upon the bottom of the boat.

Bill grinned at the thought of a canoe. In the suck and swirl of the current the odds were heavily against even the stout flat boat's winning through.

He estimated their speed to be about eight miles an hour and devoted his whole attention to preventing the boat from fouling the drift. They were riding the "run out," and he knew that Moncrossen would wait for the river to become comparatively free of drift before breaking out his rollways.

The rain ceased, but the sky remained heavily overcast and darkness overtook them while yet some distance above the log camp and skirting the opposite shore.

Eager as he was to meet Moncrossen, Bill decided not to risk crossing the river in the fast gathering darkness. Gradually the boat was worked toward shore and poled into the backwater of submerged beaver meadow.

Landing upon a slope a couple of hundred yards back from the river, they tilted the boat on edge, and, inclining it forward, rested it upon the tops of stakes thrust into the ground. The blanket was spread, and with the roaring fire directly in front the uptilted boat made an excellent shelter.

An awkward constraint, broken only by necessary monosyllables, had settled upon the two. On the river each had been too busy with the workin hand to give the other more than a passing thought, but now, in the intimacy of the campfire, each felt uneasily self-conscious.

Supper over, Bill lighted his pipe and stared moodily into the flames with set face and brooding eye. From her position at his side Jeanne covertly watched the silent man.

Of what was he thinking? Surely not of the girl—his wife! She winced at the word—but the tense, almost fierce expression of his face, the occasional spasmodic clenching of the great fists, could scarcely accompany a man's thoughts of his wife of an hour.

Of Moncrossen? she wondered. Of the shooting of Jacques? Of the attack upon her? Of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta? But, no—the gray eyes were staring into the fire calmly, and in their depths she could see no gleam of hate nor steely glitter of rage.

What was it he said the day she told him of the affair on Broken Knee? "I, too, could kill him for that." The girl gave it up, and fell to wondering what the morrow would bring forth.

At daylight, when they poled the boat into the river, Bill gazed in surprise at the surface of the stream. A few belated ice cakes floated lazily in the current, and many uprooted snags reared their scraggly heads as they rolled sluggishly in the water.

But what riveted his attention were the logs. Hundreds and hundreds of smoothly floating logs dotted the river, and as far as the eye could reach more logs were coming.

He leaped to his feet and stood, shading his eyes with his hand. Far up the stream the surface seemed solid with logs, and here and there he could make out moving figures—tiny and frail they looked, like strange, misshapen insects, as they leaped from log to rolling log—the white-water men of the North.

"It's the drive!" he cried excitedly. "My drive! Come, pole for your life—we've got to work her across!"

A mile farther down they swept around a wide bend, and before them loomed the cleared rollways of Moncrossen's camp, and on top of the slope, for all the world like fortifications commanding the river, were pile after pile of pyramided logs.

The little flat boat was rapidly approaching, and men could be seen swarming about the rollways. One man with a shirt of flaming red rushed among them, gesticulating wildly, and faintly to their ears came the raucous bellowing of his voice. At the sight of him Jeanne paled visibly. The man was Moncrossen.

Even as they looked the first rollway tore loose; the logs, rolling and tumbling down the steep slope, leaped into the river with a roar and a splash that sent a fountain of white spray flying skyward. Bill set his pole and fairly hurled the boat into the bank well above the rollways.

"Good God!" he cried. "Can't he see the drive? They'll jam and my men will be killed!" He leaped ashore and crashed through the intervening underbrush in great bounds, closely followed by the light-footed Jeanne.

They gained the top, and while rushing along the rollways could hear Moncrossen roaring his orders—could catch the words that foamed from his lips amid volleys of crashing oaths.

"Cut them toggles! Let 'em go! Let 'em go! Damn you! Foul that drive! I'll show 'em if they c'n slip a drive through me!"

And then—face to face between two high-piled pyramids—they met. The words died in a horrible, throaty gurgle; and Moncrossen's face, livid with rage, turned chalky as his eyes roved vacantly from Bill Carmody's face to the face of the girl beyond. His jaw wagged weakly, his flabby lips sagged open, exposing the jagged, brown teeth, and he passed his hand uncertainly across his eyes.

"It's the greener," he mumbled thickly. "It's the greener hisself."

Another rollway rumbled into the river, and Bill leaped into the open. "Stop!" he cried. "It's murder! There are men on that drive!"

The two lumber-jacks who stood almost at his side turned at the sound of his voice. For one moment they stared into his face, and then with a wild yell dropped their peavies and fled toward the bunk-house. Other men looked, and from lip to lip flashed the word, "The greener!" Men stared at him dumbly, or turned and dashed for the clearing in a panic of fear.

"He come up out of the river!" shrilled one as he ran. "I seen him! An' I seen him go under a year back! He come hell a rippin' up through the bushes—an' a she one a follerin'!"

Men crowded about—the bolder spirits, the matter of fact, and the unsuperstitious among the crew—and Bill turned again to Moncrossen, who stood rooted in his tracks.

"Where is she?" he asked in a low voice that cut distinctly upon the silence. "The mother of this girl?" Moncrossen started. With a visible effort he strove for control of himself.

"Who are you?" he blurted, and the words rasped hollow and dry.

Bill turned to the men.

"Do you know?" he asked. "An old Indian woman—did he bring her to this camp?"

The men stared blankly from the speaker to Moncrossen and into each other's faces. Suddenly, one stepped forward.

"Look in the storeroom!" he cried. "A little while back—it was at night—I seen 'em drag somethin' in—him an' Larson of the van." At the words, Moncrossen sprang toward the speaker with an inarticulate growl of rage.

"You lie!" he screamed; but before he reached the man, who shrank back into the crowd, Bill stepped in front of him. He raised his arm and pointed toward the clearing.

"To the storehouse," he said in the same low voice. For a fleeting second Moncrossen glared into his eyes, and without a word, turned and led the way, closely followed by Bill and Jeanne, while the crowd of wondering lumber-jacks brought up the rear.

At the storehouse Moncrossen paused. "I'll fetch the key from the office," he leered; but Bill turned to a man who stood leaning upon his axe.

"Smash that door!" he commanded; and a half-dozen men sprang to the task. The next instant the door flew inward, and the men crowded into the building to return a few moments later bearing the old squaw, gagged, bound, and wrapped tightly in a blanket, but with the undimmed black eyes glaring upon them like a hawk's.

The cords were cut and the gag removed by willing hands. Someone held a bottle to her lips, and she drank greedily. Jeanne dropped to her knees by the old woman's side.

"He has come," she whispered. "M's'u' Bill, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die, has come to you." Wa-ha-ta-na-ta nodded her understanding, and her beady black eyes flashed.

"She must have water!" cried the girl; "and food!"

At the words a half-dozen men rushed toward the cook-shack, returning a few minutes later laden as to victual a regiment.



CHAPTER LI

THE PROMISE FULFILLED

Again the interest centered upon the two big men who faced each other on the trodden ground of the clearing. Other men came—the ones who had fled from the rollway, their curiosity conquering their fear at the sight of the dead man.

And now the greener was speaking, and the tone of his voice was gentle in its velvety softness. His lips smiled, and his gray eyes, narrowed to slits, shone cold—with a terrible, steely coldness, so that men looked once, and shuddered as they looked.

"And, now, Moncrossen," he was saying, "we will fight. It is a long score that you and I have to settle. It starts with your dirty schemes that Stromberg wouldn't touch.

"Then, the well-laid plan to have Creed bump me off that night at Melton's No. 9; and the incident of the river, when you broke the jam. You thought you had me, then, Moncrossen. You thought I was done for good and all, when I disappeared under the water.

"There are other things, too—little acts of yours, that we will figure in as we go. The affair on Broken Knee, when you attacked this young girl; the shooting of Blood River Jack, from ambush; the second attack on the girl at the foot of the rapid—and the brutal starving of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.

"Oh, yes; and the little matter of the bird's-eye. I have the logs, Moncrossen, all safely cached—the pile of ashes you found was a blind. Quite a long score, take it first and last, isn't it, Moncrossen?"

The silence, save for the sound of the voice, was almost painful. Men strained to listen, looking from one to the other of the two big men, with white, tense faces.

At the words, the blood rushed to the boss's face. His little, swinish eyes fairly blazed in their sockets. He was speechless with fury. The cords knotted in his neck, and a great blue vein stood out upon his forehead. The breath hissed through his clenched teeth as the goading words fell in the voice of purring softness.

"But it has come to a show-down at last, between you and me," the greener went on as he slowly and methodically turned the sleeves of his shirt back from his mighty forearms. "They tell me you are a fighting man, Moncrossen. They tell me you have licked men—here in the woods—good men, too. And they tell me you have knocked down drunken men, and stamped on their faces with your steel-calked boots.

"Maybe—if you last well—I will save a couple of punches for those poor devils' account. I think you will last, Moncrossen. You are big, and strong, and you are mad enough, in your blind, bull-headed way.

"But I am not going to knock you out. I am going to make you lie down—to make you show your yellow, and quit cold; for this is going to be your last fight. When I am through, Moncrossen, you won't be worth licking—no ten-year-old boy will think it worth his while to step out of his way to slap your dirty face."

With a hoarse bellow, Moncrossen launched himself at the speaker. And just at that moment—swarming over the bank at the rollways—came the men of the upper drive. The leaders paused, and sizing up the situation, came on at a run.

"A fight!" they yelled. "A fight! H-o-o-r-a-y!"

Then came Appleton and Sheridan with their wives, and beside them walked a slender, girlish figure, whose shoulders drooped wearily, and whose face was concealed by a heavy, dark-blue veil.

The two lumbermen guided the ladies hurriedly in the direction of the office, when suddenly the shrill voice of Charlie Manton broke upon their ears.

"Whoo-p-e-e! It's Bill! Go to it, Bill! Swing on him! Give him your left, Bill! Give him your left!"

They halted, and obeying some strange impulse, the girlish figure turned and made straight for the wildly yelling men, who stood in the form of a great circle in the center of which two men weaved and milled about each other in a blur of motion.

Old Daddy Dunnigan was the first to see her hovering uncertainly upon the edge of the crowd. Brandishing his crutch he howled into the ears of those nearest him:

"Give th' lady a chanst! Come on, miss! He's her man, an' God be praised! she wants to see 'um foight!"

The men made a lane, and scarcely knowing what she did, Ethel found herself standing beside the old Irishman, who had wormed his way to the very front rank of the crowding circle. She stared in fascinated terror, throwing back her veil for a clearer view, regardless of the men who stared at her in surprise and wondered at the whiteness of her face.

Bill Carmody met Moncrossen's first rush with a quick, short jab that reached the corner of his eye. With an almost imperceptible movement he leaned to one side, and the flail-like swing of the huge boss's arm passed harmlessly within an inch of his ear.

Moncrossen lost no time. Pivoting, he swung a terrific body blow which glanced lightly against Bill's lowered shoulder, and the greener came back with two stiff raps to the ear.

Again and again Moncrossen rushed his antagonist, lashing out with both fists, but always the blows failed by a barely perceptible margin, and Bill—always smiling, and without appreciable effort—stung him with short, swift punches to the face.

And always he talked. Low and smooth his voice sounded between the thud of blows and the heavy breathing of the big boss.

"Poor business, Moncrossen—poor judgment—for a fighting man. Save your wind—take it easy, and you'll last longer—this is a long fight, Moncrossen—take it slow—slow and steady."

The taunting voice was always in the boss's ears, goading him to blind fury. He paused for breath, with guard uplifted, and in that moment Bill Carmody saw for the first time the figure of his wife. For an instant their eyes met, and then Moncrossen was at him again. But Bill's low, taunting voice did not waver.

"That's better," he said, and moved his head to one side as a vicious blow passed close. "And now, Moncrossen, I'm going to hit you on the nose—I haven't hit you yet—those others were just to feel you out."

With an incredibly swift movement he swung clear from the shoulder. There was the wicked, smashing sound of living flesh hard struck. The big boss staggered backward, pawing the air, and the red blood spurted from his flattened nose.

"That one is for trying to get Stromberg to file a link." Bill ducked a lunging blow without raising his guard. "And now your ear, Moncrossen; I won't knock it off, but it will never be pretty again."

Another long swing landed with a glancing twist that split the ear in half. "That is for the Creed item—and this one is for the river."

The boss's head snapped backward to the impact of a smashing blow; again he staggered, and, turning, spat a mouthful of blood which seeped into the ground, leaving upon the surface several brownish, misshapen nuggets.

"God!" breathed a man, and turned away. "It's his teeth!"

The yelling had ceased and men stared white faced. This was not the fighting they were used to; they understood only the quick, frenzied fighting of fury, where men pummel each other in blind rage, fighting close—as tigers fight—gouging and biting one another as they roll upon the ground locked in each other's grip.

The men gazed in awe, with a strange, unspoken terror creeping into their hearts, upon the vicious battering blows, the coldly gleaming eyes and smiling lips of the man who fought, not in any fume of passion, but deliberately, smoothly, placing his terrific blows at will with a cold, deadly accuracy that smashed and tore.

Moncrossen rushed again.

"And now for the other things," Bill continued; "the attacks upon the defenseless girl—the attempted murder from ambush—and the starving of an old woman."

Blow followed blow, until in the crowd men cried out sharply, and those who had watched a hundred fights turned away white lipped.

Moncrossen fought blindly now. His eyes were closed and his face one solid mass of blood. And still the blows fell. Smash! Smash! Smash! It was horrible—those deliberate, tearing blows, and the lips that smiled in cold, savage cruelty.

No blow landed on the point of the jaw, on the neck, on the heart, or the pit of the stomach—blows that bring the quiet of oblivion; but each landed with a cutting twist that ground into the flesh.

At last, with his face beaten to a crimson pulp, Moncrossen sagged to his knees, tried to rise, and crashed limp and lifeless to the ground. And over him stood Bill Carmody, smiling down at the broken and battered wreck of the bad man of the logs.

Gradually the circle that surrounded the fighters broke into little groups of white-faced, silent men who shot nervous, inquiring glances into each other's faces and swore softly under their breath—the foolish, meaningless oaths of excitement.

Minutes passed as Ethel stood gazing in terrible fascination from the big man to the thing on the ground at his feet. And as she looked, a hideous old squaw, apparently too weak to stand, struggled from her place of vantage among the feet of the men, and crawled to the limp, sprawled form.

Leaning close she peered into the shapeless features, crooning and gurgling, and emitting short, sharp whines of delight. Her beady eyes glittered wickedly, like the eyes of a snake, and the withered lips curled into a horrid grin, exposing the purple snag-toothed gums.

Suddenly the bent form knelt upright, the skeleton arms raised high above the tangle of gray-black hair, the thin, high-pitched voice quavered the words of a weird chant, the clawlike fingers twitched in short, jerky spasms, and the emaciated body swayed and weaved to the wild, barbaric rhythm of the chanted curse.

Terrible, blighting, the words were borne to the ears of the girl. Bearded men looked, listened, and turned away, shuddering. The sun burst suddenly through a rift in the flying clouds, and his golden radiance fell incongruously upon the scene.

Ethel gazed as at some horrid phantasm—the rough men with gaudy shirts of red and blue and multicolored checks, standing in groups with tense, set faces—the other man—her man—standing alone, silent and smiling, by the side of his blood-bathed victim, and the old crone, whose marcid form writhed in the swing of the thin-shrieked chant.

And then before she sensed that he had moved he stood before her. She raised her eyes to his in which the hard, cold gleam had given place to a look of intense longing, of infinite love, and the long-pent yearning of a soul.

He stretched his arms toward her and she saw that the bruised and swollen hands were stained with blood. Suddenly she realized that this man was her husband. A sickening fear overcame her, and she shrank, shuddering, from the touch of the blood-smeared hands.

A look of terror came into her face; she covered her eyes with her hands as if to shut out the horror of it all, and, turning, fled blindly—she knew not where.

As she ran there still sounded in her ears the words of the high, thin chant—the blighting curse of Yaga Tah.



CHAPTER LII

THE BIG MAN

Darkness settled over the North country. The sky had cleared, the wind gone down, and the air was soft and balmy with the feel of spring. A million stars sparkled overhead and above the intense blackness of the pines the moon rose, flooding the timberland with the mystery of her soft radiance.

Ethel tossed uneasily in her cot and glanced across to where her aunt and Mrs. Sheridan slumbered heavily. Then she arose and stood at the window gazing out on the moonlit clearing with its low, silent buildings, and clean-cut, black shadows.

Noiselessly she dressed and stole into the silvery world. Utterly wretched, dispirited, heartsick, she wandered aimlessly, neither knowing nor caring whither her slow, dragging steps carried her.

Somewhere in the distance, sounding faint and far, came the shouts of men. Unconsciously she wandered toward the river. On the edge of a high bluff overlooking the rollways and the rushing waters she paused, leaning wearily against the bole of a giant birch.

Thanks to the quick action of Bill Carmody Moncrossen's scheme of fouling the upper drive had taken no toll of human life. The few rollways that were broken out, however, were sufficient to cause a nasty jam, and far below where the girl stood the men of both crews worked furiously among the high-piled logs.

Weird and unreal it seemed to Ethel as she gazed down upon the flare of huge fires built upon the bank, the tiny flash of lanterns and the flicker of torches, where the men swarmed out upon the uncertain footing.

Rough calls of rough men sounded above the crash and pound of logs and the roar of the rushing waters. Now and then a scrap of rude chantey reached her ears, a hoarse oath, or a loud, clear order in a voice she knew so well.

It was like some eery fantasy, born of an overwrought brain. And yet she knew it was real—intensely real. Down there among the flashing lights men played with death—big, rough men who laughed loud as they played, and swore mighty oaths, and sang wild, full-throated songs.

From the shadow almost at her side came the sound of a half-stifled sob. She started. There was a soft footfall on the leaf-mold, and before her stood Jeanne Lacombie. The soft moonlight touched with silvery sheen the long hairs of the great, white wolf-skin which the girl wore thrown loosely across her shoulders.

As Ethel gazed upon the wild, dark beauty of the Indian girl her tiny fists clenched, and her breath came in short, quick gasps.

Why was she here? Had she followed to taunt her to her face? A mighty rage welled up within her, her shoulders stiffened, and as she faced the girl her blue eyes flashed.

And then the Indian girl spoke, and at the first words of the soft, rich voice, the rage died in her heart. She looked closely, and in the dark, liquid eyes was a look the white girl will never forget.

She listened, and with few words and all the dramatic eloquence of the pure Indian the half-breed girl told of the rescue from the river; of her own love for M's'u' Bill, "The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die"; of his firm rejection of that love; of her pursuit of him when he started for the land of the white man; of the scene at the camp-fire when old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta called him "The One Good White Man"; of the broken knife; of The Promise; of her peril at the hand of Moncrossen, and of the cold-blooded shooting of her brother.

And then she told of Bill's all-absorbing love for her, Ethel. And of how he always loved her, even when he believed she hated and despised him; of his deep hurt and the misery of his soul when he believed that she was to marry another.

Until suddenly there in the moonlight the girl of the city saw for the first time the bigness of the man—her man. She saw him as he was now and as he had been in the making—the man who had been dubbed "Broadway Bill, the sport"; the "souse," who had "soaked a cop" and then "beat it in a taxi."

And then the man who, without name or explanation, had won the regard of such a keen judge of men as Appleton, and who, under the stigma of theft, held that regard without question; the man who beat the booze game after he had lost his heart's desire, and had been sneered at as a coward and a quitter; the man who having gained his heart's desire, in the very bigness of him, had unhesitatingly risked wrecking his whole life's happiness to keep his promise to an old, toothless, savage crone; and who, in brute fashion, bare-fisted, had all but pounded the life from the body of the hulking Moncrossen in defense of a woman's honor.

And this was the man who, eighteen short months before, had turkey-trotted upon the sidewalk in front of a gay resort, and had "pulled it too raw even for Broadway!"

The flood-gates of her soul opened, as is the way of women in all the world. The great sobs came, and with them tears, and in the tree-filtered moonlight the two girls—the tutored white girl and the half-savage Indian—women both—wept in each other's arms.

* * * * *

Up the trail from the river, almost at their feet, wearily climbed a man, dog-tired from physical exertion; and worn out with responsibility and heart-rack he toiled slowly up the steep ascent.

At the top he paused and removed his cap to let the cool air blow against his throbbing temples. At the sight of the two forms he drew back; but at the same moment they saw him.

With one last, long look, and no word of farewell save a dry, choking sob, the Indian girl glided silently into the darkness of the forest, which was her home, and the home of her people.

On the edge of the bluff the other stood silhouetted against the star-flecked sky. She, too, gazed at the man who stood motionless in the moonlight. Then with a lithe, quick movement she opened her arms to him, her lips parted, and in the blue eyes blazed the love of all the ages.

As her body poised to meet his the man sprang toward her. His arms closed about her, their lips met; and for a long, long time they looked deep into each other's eyes.

Then slowly the tiny fingers closed about his, the girl raised them reverently to her lips and covered with kisses the great, bruised, and swollen hands.

THE END