"Think!" she replied in scorn. "If it were Bill he wouldn't stop to think. He'd just act. You won't go, then?"

"Don't be foolish, Virginia."

Angry words rose in her throat, but she suppressed them. A daring idea had suddenly filled her with wonder. It came full-grown: that she herself should start forth into the snow deserts to find Bill herself.

Virginia had not been trained to self-reliance. Except for her northern adventure, she had never been obliged to face difficulties, to care for and protect herself, to work with her hands and do everyday tasks. To build a fire, to repair a leaking tap, to take responsibility for anything above such schoolday projects as amateur plays an social gatherings would have seemed tasks impossible of achievement. At first it had never occurred to her that she might herself be of aid to Bill. The old processes of her mind still ran true to form; she had gone to ask a man to carry out her wish. At first she had felt wholly helpless at his refusal. But why should she not go herself?

If indeed Bill had reached the Twenty-three Mile cabin, he would be mushing home by now; she would meet him somewhere on his snowshoe trail. No harm would be done. It might even be a pleasant adventure to mush with him in the snow. The snow itself was perfect for travel; and she had learned that her strong young body was capable of long distances in a day. And if he were in trouble she could help him.

It might mean building a fire in the snow and possibly camping out through the day and night to come. It would be a dreadful and dangerous experience, yet she saw no reason why she couldn't endure it. Bill had showed her how to make the best of such a bad situation as this. He had taught her how to build a fire in the snow; her round, slender arms—made muscular in her weeks in the North—could cut fuel to keep it burning. Besides, she would carry the caribou robe—one of the cot coverings that Bill had stored in his cabin and which, though light as down, was practically impervious to cold. Besides, there was no one else to go.

She went swiftly to her cabin, put on her warmest clothing, and, as Bill had showed her, rolled a compact pack for her back. She took a little package of food—nourishing chocolate and dried meat—the whisky flask that had been her salvation the night of the river experience, and a stub of candle for fire-building, tying them firmly in the caribou robe. The entire package weight only about ten pounds. She fastened it on her shoulders, hung a camp ax at her belt; and as she waited for the dawn, ate a hearty but cold breakfast. Then, with never a backward look, she started away, down the dim, wind-blown, snowshoe trail.



XXV

Now that the fight was done, Bill lay quite calm and peaceful in the drifts. The pain of the cold and the wrack of exhausted muscles were quite gone.

He was face to face with the flaming truth, and he knew his fate. The North, defied so long, had conquered him a last. It had been waiting for him, lurking, watching its chance; and with its cruel agents, the bitter cold and the unending snow, it had crushed and beaten him down. He felt no resentment. He was glad that the trial was over. He knew a deep, infinite peace.

Sleep was encroaching upon him now. He felt himself drifting, and the tide would never bring him back. He stirred a little, putting his hands in his armpits, his face resting on his elbow. The wind swept by, sobbing: there in the shadow of death he caught its tones and its messages as never before. He was being swept into space. ...

On the trail that he had made on the out-journey, and which he had tried to vainly to follow back, Virginia came mushing toward him. Never before had her muscles responded so obediently to her will; she sped at a pace that she had never traveled before. It was as if some power above herself was bearing her along, swiftly, easily, with never a wasted motion. She tilted the nose of her snowshoes just the right angle, no more or less, and all her muscles seemed to work in perfect unison.

The bitter cold of the early morning hours only made her blood flow faster and gave her added energy. She scarcely felt the pack on her back. The snowshoe trail, however, was so faint as to be almost invisible.

Because the snow had been firm in this part of Bill's journey, his track was not so deep and the drifting snow had almost completely filled it. In a few places the track was entirely obscured; always there were merely dim indentations. If she had started an hour later she could not have followed the trail at all. For all the day was clear, the wind still whirled flurries of dry snow across her path.

But she didn't permit herself to despair. If need be, she told herself, she would follow him clear to the Twenty-three Mile cabin. The tracks were ever more dim, but surely they would be deeper again where Bill had encountered the soft snow.

It became increasingly probable, however, that the tracks would completely fade away before that time. Soon the difficulty of finding the imprints in the snow began to slacken her gait. To lose them completely meant failure: she could not find her way in these snowy stretches unguided. As morning reached its full, the white wastes seemed to stretch unbroken.

Was the wind-blown snow going to defeat her purpose, after all? A great weight of fear and disappointment began to assail her. The truth of the matter was she had come to an exposed slope, and the trail had faded out under the snow dust.

At first there seemed nothing to do but turn back. It might be possible, however, to cross the ridge in front: the valley beyond was more sheltered by the wind and she might pick up the trail again. At least she could follow her own tracks back, if she failed. She sped swiftly on.

She had guessed right. Standing on the ridge top she could see, far off through one of the treeless glades that are found so often in the spruce forest, the long path of a snowshoe trail. Instinctively she followed it with her eyes.

Clear where the trail entered the spruce thicket, her keen eyes made out a curious, black shadow against the snow. For a single second she eyed it calmly, wondering what manner of wild creature it might be. Its outline grew more distinct under her intense gaze, and she cried out. It was only a little sound, half a gasp and half a sob, but it expressed the depths of terror and distress never known to her before.

It seemed to her that she could not move at first. She could only stand and gaze. The heart in her breast turned to ice, her blood seemed to go still in her veins. She recognized this figure now. It was Bill, lying still in the frozen drifts.

For endless hours, it seemed to her, she stood impotent with horror. In reality, the time was not an appreciable fraction of a breath. Then, sobbing, she mushed frantically down toward him. She fairly raced,—with never a misstep. For all the ghastly sickness that swept over her, she held her body in perfect discipline. She had no doubt but that this man was dead. Likely he had lain there for hours, and really only a very short time of such cold as this was needed to take life. Already, she thought, the life had gone from his dark, gentle eyes; the brave heart was still; the brave heart was still; the mighty muscles lifeless clay.

No moment of her life had ever been fraught with such overwhelming bitterness as this. She had never known such fear, even in the grip of the wild waters or during the grizzly's charge. This was something that went deeper than mere life: it touched realms of her spirit undreamed of, and the blow seemed more cruel and more dreadful than any that the world could deal direct to her. If she had paused for one second of self-analysis, heaven knows what light might have burst upon her spirit—what deep and wondrous realizations of her attitude toward Bill might have come to her; but she did not pause. She only knew that she must reach his side. Her only thought was that Bill was dead, gone from her life as a flame goes from an extinguished candle.

She knelt beside him, and with no knowledge of effort turned him over and lifted his head and shoulders into her arms. His eyes were closed, his face expressionless, his arms dropped limply to his side. At first she dared not dream but that the cold had already taken away his life. The dread Spirit of the North had lain in ambush for him a long time, but it had conquered him at last.

They made an unearthly picture,—these two so silent in the drifts. Endless about them lay the snow; the winter forest was deep in its eternal silence, the little spruce trees stood patient and inert and queer, under their heavy loads of snow. Never a voice in all the wastes, never a tear of pity or a stretching hand of mercy,—only the cold, only the silence, only the dread solitude of a land untamed,—the unconquerable wild. Yet her sorrow, her ineffable despair left no room for resentment against this dreadful land. It was only a lost fight in an eternal war; only a little incident in the vast and inscrutable schemes of a remorseless Nature.

She knew life now, this girl of cities. She knew that in her past life she had never really lived: she had only moved in a gentle dream that an artificial civilization had made possible. The gayeties, the culture, the luxuries and the fashions that had seemed so real and so essential before were revealed in their true light, only as dreams that would pass: deep in them she had never heard the crash of armor in the battlefields without her bower. But she knew now. She saw life as it was, stark and cruel, remorseless, pitiless to the weak, treacherous to the strong, ever waging war against all creatures that dwelt upon the earth.

Yet so easily could it have been redeemed! If this man were standing strong beside her, life would be nothing to fear, nothing to appall her spirit. All the ancient persecutions of the elements, all the pitfalls of life and the exigencies of fortune could never bow their heads. Instead they would know high adventure and the exhilaration of battle; even if at the day's end they should go down into death, it would be with unbroken spirits and brave hearts.

But she couldn't stand alone! She needed the touch of his hand, his shoulder against hers, the communion of his spirit and his strength. Life was an appalling thing to face alone! There was no joy now in the punishing cold and the wastes of forest; only sadness and fear and despair. Sitting in the snow, his head and shoulders in her arms, she knew a fear and a loneliness undreamed of before, a loss that could never be atoned for or redeemed.

She too knew the lesson that Bill had learned in his hour of bitterness,—that one moment of heaven may atone for a whole life of struggle and sorrow. One clasp of arms, one whispered message, one mighty impulse of the soul in which eternity is seized and the stars are gathered might glorify the whole bitter struggle of existence. One little kiss might pay for it all. Yet for all that Harold still lived and waited for her in the cabin, she felt that this one little instant of resurrection was irrevocably lost.

It seemed so strange to her that he should be lying here, impotent in her arms. Always he had been so strong, he had stood so straight,—always coming to her aid in a second of need, always strengthening her with his smile and his eyes. She could hardly believe that this was he,—never to cheer her again in their hard tramps, to lend her his mighty strength in a moment of crisis, to laugh with her at some little tragedy. She sobbed softly, and her tears lay on his face. "Bill, oh, Bill, won't you wake up and speak to me?" she cried. She pleaded softly, but he didn't seem to hear.

"Come back to me, Bill—I need you," she told him. He had always been so quick to come when she needed him before now. "Are you dead?— Oh, you couldn't be dead! It's so cold—and I'm afraid. Oh, please open your eyes——"

She kissed him over and over—on the lips, on his closed eyes. She pressed his head against her soft breast, as if her fluttering heart would give some of its life to him.

Dead? Was that it? All at once she set to work to win back her self-control. It might not yet be too late to help. She gripped herself, dispelling at once all hysteria, all her vagrant thoughts. He would have been hard at work long since. His face was still warm—perhaps life had not yet passed.

She put her head to his breast. His heart was beating—slowly, but steadily and strong.



XXVI

Bill had not been lying long inert in the snow. Otherwise Virginia would not have heard his heart thumping so steadily in his breast. In fact, she was almost on the top of the ridge when he had given up. He had just drifted off to sleep when she reached his side.

And now he thought he was in the midst of some wonderful, glorious dream. Death was being merciful, after all: in the moment of its descent it was giving him the image of his fondest dream. It seemed to him that soft, warm arms were about him, that his head was pillowed against a tenderness, a holiness passing understanding. He didn't want the dream to end. It would in a moment, the darkness would drop over him; but even for the breath that it endured it almost atoned for the full travail of his life.

There were kisses, too. They came so softly, so warm, just as he had dreamed. "Virginia," he whispered. "Is it you, Virginia—come to me——?"

Then, so clearly that he could no longer retain the delusion of dream, he heard his answer. "Yes—and I've come to save you."

It was true. Her arms were about him; he was nestled against her breast. Yet the kisses must have been only a dream that was worth death to gain. She was at work on him now. He felt her swift motions; now she was putting a flask to his lips. A burning liquid poured into his throat.

There ensued a moment of indescribable peace, and then the flask was put to his lips again. The inner forces of his body, fighting still for his life even after he had given up, seized quickly upon the warming liquor, forced it into his blood, and drove away the frost that was beginning to congeal his life fluids. Already he felt a new stir in his veins. He struggled to speak.

"No yet," the girl whispered. "Don't make any effort yet."

She gave him more of the liquor. He felt strength returning to his muscles. He tried to open his eyes. The sharp pain was a swift reminder of his blindness. "I'm blind——" he told her.

"No matter, I'll save you." Even his blindness would not put a barrier between them. One glance at the inflamed lids, however, told her that in all probability it was just a temporary blindness from some great irritation, soon to be dispelled. "Can you eat?" she asked.

The man nodded.

"It's better to, if you can. The whisky is only a stimulant, and it won't keep you alive." She thrust a fragment of sweet chocolate into his mouth, permitting it to melt. "You'd better get to your feet as soon as you can—and try to get the flood flowing right again. We're only a few miles from the cabin—if you'll just fight we can make it in."

He shook his head. "I can't—I can't go any farther. I can't see the way."

"But I'll lead you." By her intuition she guessed his despair; and she comforted him, his head against her breast. "Don't you know I'll lead you?" she cried, a world of pleading in her tone. "Oh, Bill—you can't give up. You must try. If you die, I'll die too—here beside you. Oh, Bill—don't you know I need you?"

The words stirred and wakened him more than all her first aid. She needed him; she was pleading to him to get up and go on. Could he refuse that appeal? Could any wish of hers, as long as he lived and was able to strive for her, go ungranted? The blood mounted through his veins, awakened. A mysterious strength flowed back into his thews.

There could be no further question of giving up. He struggled with himself, and his voice was almost his own when he spoke. "Give me more food—and more whisky," he commanded. "Take some yourself too—you'll have to help me a lot going home. And give me your hands."

He struggled to his feet. He reeled, nearly fell; but her arms held him up. She gave him more chocolate and a swallow of the burning liquid.

"It's a race against time," she told him. "If I can get you into the cabin before the reaction comes, I can save you. Try with every muscle you've got, Bill—for me!"

She need make no other appeal. She took his hand, and they started mushing over the drifts.

* * * * *

The moose that stands at bay against the wolf pack, the ferocious little ermine in the grasp of the climbing marten never made a harder, more valiant fight than these two waged on the way to the cabin. There was no mercy for them in the biting cold. Bill was frightfully worn and spent from his experience of the day and the previous night, and Virginia had lent her own young strength to him. Often he reeled and faltered, and at such times her arm in his kept him up. The miles seemed innumerable and long.

A might that has its seat higher and beyond the mere energy-giving chemistry of their bodies came to their aid. Virginia had never dreamed that she possessed such power of endurance and unfaltering muscles: a spirit born of an unconquerable will rose within her and bore her on. She was aware of no physical pain; the magnificent exertion of her muscles was almost unconscious. Just as women fight for the lives of their babes she fought for him, as if it were the deepest instinct of her being. The thought of giving up was intolerable, and such spirit is the soul of victory!

They won at last. Without the stimulant and the nutritious food defeat would have been certain. But all these factors would have been unavailing except for the fighting spirit that her appeal to him had awakened and which she had found, full-grown, in her own soul.

They mused up to the cabin, and Harold stared at them like a lifeless thing as Bill reeled through the doorway. Virginia led him to her own cot, then drew the blankets over him. And she was not so exhausted but that she could continue the fight for his recovery.

"Build up the fire, and do it quickly," she ordered Harold. Her tone was terse, commanding, and curiously he leaped to obey her. She removed Bill's snow-covered garments, and as Harold went out to procure more fuel she put water on the stove to heat. Then, procuring snow, she began to rub Bill's right hand, the hand that had been frozen in his effort to grope for the trail. Quick and hard work was needed to save it.

Harold came to her aid, but she put him to other work. She wanted to do this task herself. Then she aroused the woodsman from his half-sleep to give him coffee, cup after cup of it that used up the last of their meager supply.

It is one of the peculiar faculties of the human body to recover quickly from the effects of severe cold. Even coupled with exhaustion his hardships had wrought no lasting organic injury, and the magnificent recuperative powers of Bill's tough body came quickly to his aid. About midnight he wakened from a long sleep, wholly clear-headed and free from pain. Wet bandages were over his eyes.

He groped and in a moment found Virginia's hands. But an instant he held them only; it was enough to know that she was near. He realized that he was out of danger now: such tenderness as she had given him must be forgotten. She was still sitting beside his bed, wrapped in a blanket.

He started to get up so that she could have her own cot; but she wakened at his motions. Gently she pushed him down.

"But I'm all right now," he told her. "I'm sleepy—and sore—but I'm strong as ever. Let me go to my bed, and get some sleep."

"No. I'm not sleepy yet."

But the dull tones of her voice—even thought Bill could not see the white fatigue in her face—belied her words. Bill laughed, the same gay laugh that had cheered her so many times, and swung his feet to the floor. "It's my turn to be nurse—now," he told her. "Get in quick."

"But I've had Harold bring some blankets here and spread them on the floor," she objected. "I can go to sleep there, when—I'm—tired."

"And I can go to sleep there right now."

With his strong arms he half-lifted her and laid her in his warm place. She yielded to his strength, sleepily and gratefully, and he drew the blankets about her shoulders. The touch of his hand was in some way wonderful,—so strong, so comforting. Then, reeling only a little, he groped his way to the bed she had made upon the floor.

"Good night," he called, when he had pulled his blankets up. Guided by a hope that flooded his heart with tremulous anticipations, he held out his hand in the darkness toward her.

As if by a miracle, her own hand came stealing into his. No man could tell by what unity of longing they had acted: but neither seemed surprised to find the other's, waiting in the darkness. It was simply the Mystery that all men see and no man understands.

He held the little hand in his for just a breath, as a man might hold a holy thing that a prophet had blessed. Then he let it go.

"Good night, Bill," she told him sleepily.

In the hours of refreshing slumber that lasted full into the next morning there was but one curious circumstance. In the full light of morning it seemed to him that he heard the faint prick of a rifle, far away. The truth was that for all his heavy sleep, some of his guardian senses were awake to receive impressions, and the sound was a reality. It was curiously woven into the fabric of his dreams.

There were four shots, one swiftly upon another. Four,—and the figure four had a puzzling, yet sinister significance to his mind. He didn't know what it was: he had a confused sense of some sort of an inner warning, an impression of impending danger and treachery. Who was it that had held up four fingers somewhere in his experience, and what manner of signal had it been? But Bill didn't fully waken. His dreams ran on, confused and troubled.



XXVII

The same rifle shots that brought bad dreams to Bill had a much more lucid meaning for Joe Robinson and Pete the Breed, the two Indians that were occupying Harold's cabin. The wind bore toward them from Harold's new abode, the rifle was of heavy caliber, and the sound came clear and unmistakable through the stillness. They looked from one to the other.

"Four shots," Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal."

Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick," he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga—after supplies."

"Yes—but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfish character of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. There was a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face.

"That means—big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go."

Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Some of these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmen of the region,—for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of their weapons. The red race—at least such representatives of it as lived in Clearwater—was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. It was noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, and Pete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt. Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.

There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place,—a spring a half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. The look on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would, it seemed, be big doings, and very soon.

A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk. Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his features were drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands, however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette.

For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessons Harold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear too eager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference, gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold was seared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black and bitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a long time in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame.

There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatred was an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Bill from the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stood for—so opposite to Harold in everything—but also for that first mortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him for rescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, and Bill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factor in his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further cause for hatred, till now it stung and burned him like strong drink, like live hot steam in his brain. In his inner soul he knew that Bill had endured tests in which he had failed, and he hated him the worse for it. He had sensed Bill's contempt for him, and the absolute fairness with which the woodsman had always treated him brought no remorse. Bill had found the mine for which he sought, to which, by the degenerate code by which he lived, he felt he had an ancestral right.

Ever since he had gone down into that darkened treasure house he had known in his own soul, late or soon, his future course. The gold alone was worth the crime he planned. And as a crowning touch came the events of the day and night just passed.

He had had no desire for Bill to return to the cabin alive. It would have been a simple way out of his difficulties for the woodsman to fall and die in the snow wastes of Clearwater. For him to lie so still and impotent in the drifts would compensate for many things, and in such a case he would never have opportunity to record the finding of his mine. The only imperfection, in this event, was that it deprived Harold of his personal vengeance, and magnanimously he was willing to forgo that. It wouldn't be his pleasure to see the final agony, the last shudder of the frame,—but yet at least he might see much remnants as would be left when the snow had melted in spring.

Every event of the day had pointed to a successful trip, from Harold's point of view. He had known that Bill couldn't make it through to his Twenty-three Mile cabin after the Chinook wind had softened the snow. The bitter night that followed would have likely claimed quickly any one that tried to sleep, without blankets, unsheltered in the snow fields. And when Virginia had gone out to save him and had brought back the blind and reeling man, his first impulse had been to leap upon him, in his helplessness, and drive his hunting knife through his heart!

It wouldn't, however, had been a wise course to pursue. He didn't want to lose Virginia. He flattered himself that he had been cunning and self-mastered. He had watched Virginia's tender services to the woodsman, and once he had seen a luster in her eyes that had seemed to shatter his reason. And he knew that the time had come to strike.

He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks with which civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father's son.

This was a land of savage and primitive passions, and he felt no self-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhuman crime. He had learned certain lessons of cruelty from the wilderness; the savage breeds with whom he had mingled had had their influence too. Bill, born and living in a land of beasts, had kept the glory of manhood; Harold, coming from a land of men, had fallen to the beasts' own level. And even the savage wolf does not slay the pack-brother that frees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was prompting his every step.

He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of his two confederates. The breeds waited patiently for him to speak. "Where's Sindy?" he asked at last.

They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lines on their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's—just where you said," Joe replied.

"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'm going to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now—and soon I'm going out with her—to the Outside. But there's things to do first. Bill has found the mine."

The others nodded gravely. They expected some such development.

"And Bill is as blind as a mole—got caught in a cabin full of green-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So I sent for you right away."

The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete's eyes had begun to gleam,—such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in the eyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow.

"The mine's worth millions—more money than you can dream of. Each of you get a sixth—one third divided between you. You'll never get more money for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live a hundred winters. But you agree first to these terms—or you won't know where the mine is."

"Me—I want a fourth," Joe answered sullenly.

"All right. Turn around and go home. I don't want you."

It was a bluff, but it worked. Joe came to terms at once. Treacherous himself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn't divulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work was done.

"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claim notices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record the claim," Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. No one'll make any trouble."

Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a very pertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"

Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his own woman. "Didn't you hear me say she was my squaw? I'll tend to her. Besides—the way I've got it planned, she won't know—at least she won't understand. Now listen, you two, and don't make any mistake. I've got to go back to the cabin now—try to be there before they wake up. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday—and, as I told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher.

"Both of you are to come to the cabin, just about dark. You'll tell me you have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yuga village. Bring along a quart of booze—firewater—and maybe two quarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring along something in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in a better mood. And now—you see what you've got to do?"

Neither of them answered. They could guess—but they didn't conceive of the real brilliancy of the plan.

"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"—and Harold's face drew into an unlovely snarl—"sometime in the early evening give Bill what's coming to him."

"Do him off——?" Joe asked stolidly.

"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breeds leaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmatic now. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savage faces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even as his; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones.

"Make it look like a fight," Harold went on. "Insult him—better still, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him before he knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go back to my cabin and hide out."

"No food in cabin," Joe objected. "Get some from you?"

For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunate circumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up the supplies, eh? Got any booze——?"

"Still two bottles firewater——"

"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either—not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supper to-night, or as much of it as you need—and after you're through with Bill go back to your cabin and get what you have left——"

"There won't be none left——"

"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill's Twenty-three Mile cabin is?"

Pete nodded. Joe made no response.

"Then you can find it, Pete. I haven't any idea where it is myself. It's only a day's march, and he's got it packed with grub. You hide out there, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough to take us down there too—the woman and I—we'll follow your snowshoes tracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if we have to, we can go over to a grizzly carcass I know of and cut off a few pounds of meat—but we won't have to. We'll join you at the Twenty-three Mile cabin to-morrow night."

Pete the breed looked doubtful. "Bear over—east?" he asked.

"Somewhere over there," Harold replied.

"Don't guess any bear meat left. Heard coyotes—hundred of 'em—over east. Pack of wolves came through too—sang song over there."

Harold could agree with him. If indeed the wolves and the coyotes had gathered—starving gray skulkers of the forest—the great skeleton would have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicate his own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin with the morsel of food they had left—he and Virginia could follow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill's cabin.

"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out," Harold went on. "I'll go down to the recorder's office with the woman. Don't worry about her, I'll tell 'em that you were two Indians from the East Selkirks, give 'em a couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple as day and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through your heads, I'm going back to the cabin."

They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, was exceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete had one more question—one that was wholly characteristic of his weasel soul.

"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thin blade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"

Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a lust, a desire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark and evil ways. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't much matter——" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguely exciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to stand listening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if he were scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from the past was speaking through his lips. The words came with no conscious effort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester in his soul. His father's blood was in the full ascendancy at last.

"There's an old pick on the table—Bill had it prospecting." he said.



XXVIII

Bill's eyes were considerably better when he wakened—full in the daylight. The warm wet cloths had taken part of the inflammation out of them, and when he strained to open the lids, he was aware of a little, dim gleam of light. He couldn't make out objects, however, and except for a fleeting shadow he could not discern the hand that he swept before his face. Several days and perhaps weeks would pass before the full strength of his sight returned.

His greatest hope at present was that he could grope his way about the cabin and build a fire for Virginia. Whether she wished to get up or not to-day, the growing chill in the room must be removed. He got up, fumbled on the floor for such of his outer garments as Virginia had removed, and after a world of difficulty managed to get them on. He was amazingly refreshed by the night's sleep and Virginia's nursing. His eyes throbbed, of course; his muscles were lame and painful, his head ached and his arms and legs seemed to be dismembered, yet he knew that complete recovery was only a matter of hours.

Building the fire, however, was a grievous task. He felt it incumbent upon him to move with utmost caution so that Virginia would not waken. By groping about the walls he encountered the stove. It was pleasantly warm to his hands, and when he opened the door he found that hot coals were still glowing in the ashes. Then he fumbled about the floor for such fuel as Harold had provided.

He found a piece at last, and soon a cheery crackle told him that it had ignited. He grinned with delight at the thought that he, almost stone blind, had been able to build a fire in a room with a sleeping girl and not waken her. But his joy was a trifle premature. At that instant he tripped over a piece of firewood and his hands crashed against the logs.

"Oh, blast my clumsiness!" he whispered; then stood still as death to see what had befallen. Virginia stirred behind her curtain.

"Is that you, Harold?" she asked.

She was wide awake, and further deception was unavailing. "No. It's Bill."

"Well, what are you doing, up? Did Harold—do you mean to say you built the fire yourself?"

"That's me, lady——"

"Then you must have your sight again——" The girl snatched aside the curtain and peered into his face.

"No such luck. Coals were still glowing; all I had to do was put in a piece of firewood. But I'm all well otherwise, as far as I can tell. How about you?"

The girl stretched up her arms. "A little stiff—Bill, I've certainly gained recuperative powers since I came up here. But, Heavens, I've had bad dreams. And now—I want you to tell me just how this blindness of yours—is going to affect our getting out."

It was a serious question, one to which Bill had already given much thought. "I don't see how it can affect us a great deal," he answered at last. "I realize you don't know one step of the way down to Bradleyburg, and I can't see the way; but Harold knows it perfectly. Of course if we had plenty of food the sensible thing to do would be to wait—till I get back my sight. But you know—we haven't scarcely any food at all. The last of the meat is gone, except one little piece of jerky. We've got a cup or two of flour and one or two cans. Of course there isn't enough to get down to the settlements on."

"Then we'll have to use the grizzly—after all?"

"Of course. Thank God we had him to fall back on. But even with him, I don't think we ought to wait till I get back my sight. We might have other delays, and perhaps another softening of the crust. It will be pretty annoying—traveling on grizzly flesh—and pretty awkward to have a blind man in the party, but—I'll be some good, anyway. Maybe I can cut fuel."

The girl was deeply touched. It was so characteristic of this man that even in his blindness he wished to make the difficulties of the journey just as light as possible for her.

"I won't let you do a thing," she told him. "Harold and I can do the work of camp."

"There won't be much to do, unfortunately; our camping will have to be exceedingly simple. We'll take the sled full of blankets and grizzly meat and what other little things we need. I don't see why you can't ride on it, too—most of the way; the going is largely downhill and the crust is perfect. We can skim along. At night we'll have to sleep out—and not get much sleep, either—but by going hard, even on snowshoes, we can make it through in three days—sleeping out just two nights. Harold and I can build raging fires—he starting them and helping me with the the fuel cutting. Oh, I know, Virginia, I won't be much good on this trip—and those two nights will be pretty terrible. We'll have to take turns in watching the fire. But with blankets around our shoulders, acting as reflectors for the heat, we can get some rest."

"But you are sure Harold knows the way? I couldn't even get as far as the river, and you are blind——"

"Harold knows the way as well as I do. I can mush all right, by hanging on the gee-pole. It will be comparatively easy going; the brush is covered with snow. The only thing that remains is to have Harold go over and get a supply of the grizzly meat. Or, better still, since he'll have to take the sled, we can pick it up on the way out. It's frozen hard and won't take harm, and it's only a half mile out of our way."

As if the invocation of his name were a magic summons, Harold opened the door and entered. He carried Bill's loud-mouthed rifle in the hollow of his arm.

"You've been hunting?" Virginia cried. She was pleased that this sweetheart of hers should have risen so early in an attempt to secure fresh meat for their depleted larder. It was wholly the manly thing to do.

"Of course. I figured we needed meat. I carried Bill's rifle because I don't trust the sights of mine. They were a yard off that day I shot at the caribou."

"Did you see any game?"

Harold's eyes met hers an narrowed, ever so slightly. But his answer was apt. "I saw a caribou—about two miles away. There didn't seem a chance in the world to hit it, but considering our scarcity of meat, I took that chance. Of course, I didn't hit within ten feet of him; Bill's gun isn't built for such long ranges. I shot—four times."

Bill did not reply. He was thinking about those same four shots. It was incomprehensible that they should have made such an impression upon him.

"And for all that Bill hasn't got his sight back yet, we're going to start down to-morrow," Virginia went on in a gay voice. She glanced once at Bill, but she did not see the world of despair that came into his face at the delight with which she spoke. "You and I will take turns pulling the sled; Bill will hang on to the gee-pole. And Bill says you know the way. We're going to dash right through—camp out only two nights."

"I know the way all right," Harold answered. "What about food?"

"It's only a half-mile out of the way to Bill's mine. There we're going to load the sled with grizzly meat."

It was in Harold's mind that their journey would be far different—down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin and to the Yuga rather than over Grizzly River. But for certain very good reasons he kept this knowledge to himself. His lips opened to tell them that the wolves and coyotes had already devoured the carcass of the bear; but he caught himself in time. It would be somewhat hard to explain how he had learned that fact, in the first place; and in the second, there was a real danger to his plot if this revelation were made. Likely they would suggest that, to conserve what little food they had, they start at once. The time had not yet come to unfold this knowledge.

He nodded. The day passed like those preceding,—simple meals, a few hours of talk around the fire, such fuel cutting as was necessary to keep the cabin snug and to provide a supply for the night. This was their last day in Clearwater,—and Virginia could hardly accept the truth.

How untrue had been her gayety! In all the white lies of her past, all the little pretenses that are as much a part of life in civilization as buildings and streets, she had never been as false to herself as now. She had never had to act a part more cruel,—that she could feel joy at the prospect of her departure.

She could deceive herself no longer. The events of the previous day had opened her eyes—in a small measure at least—and her thoughts groped in vain for a single anticipation, a single prospect that could lighten the overpowering weight of her sadness. And the one hope that came to her was that strange sister of despair,—that back in her old life, in her own city, full forgetfulness might come to her.

Wasn't it true that she would say good-by to the bitter cold and the snow wastes? Was there no joy in this? Yet these same solitudes had brought her happiness that, though now to be blasted, had been a revelation and a wonder that no words could name or no triumphs of the future could equal. The end of her adventure,—and she felt it might as well be the end of her life. Three little days of bitter hardship, Bill tramping at her side,—and then a long, dark road leading nowhere except to barren old age and death.

Never again would she know the winter forest, the silence and the mystery, and the wolf pack chanting with infinite sadness from the hill. The North Wind, a reality now, would be a forgotten myth: she would forget that she had seen the woodland caribou, quivering with irrepressible vigor against the snowfields. The thrill, the exhilaration of battle, the heat of red blood in her veins would be strangers soon: the whole adventure would seem like some happy, impossible dream. Never to hear a friendly voice wishing her good morning, never a returning step on the threshold, the touch of a strong hand in a moment of fear! She was aghast and crushed at the realization that this man was going out of her life forever. She would leave him to his forests,—their shadows hiding him forever from her gaze.

She found it hard to believe that she could fit into her old niche. Some way, this northern adventure had changed the very fiber of her soul. She could find no joy at the thought of the old gayeties she had once loved, the beauty and the warmth. Was it not true that Harold would go out beside her, the lover of her girlhood? His uncle would start him in business; her course with him would be smooth. But her hands were cold and her heart sick at the thought.

As the hours passed, the realization of her impending departure seemed to grow, like a horror, in her thoughts. She still made her pathetic effort to be gay. It would not do for these men to know the truth, so she laughed often and her words were joyous. She fought back the tears that burned in her eyelids. She could only play the game; there was no way out.

She could conceive of no circumstances whereby her fate would be altered. She knew now, as well as she knew the fact of her own life, that she had been trapped and snared and cheated by a sardonic destiny. For the moment she wished she had never fought her way back to the cabin with Bill after yesterday's adventure, but that side by side in the drifts, they had yielded to the Shadow and the cold.

Through the dragging hours of afternoon, Harold seemed restless and uneasy. He smoked impatiently and was nervous and abstracted in the hours of talk. But the afternoon died at last. Once more the shadows lengthened over the snow; the dusk grew; the first, bright stars thrust through the gray canopy above them. Virginia went to the work of cooking supper,—the last supper in this little, unforgettable cabin in the snow.

Both Bill and Virginia started with amazement at the sound of tapping knuckles on the door. Harold's eyes were gleaming.



XXIX

Harold saw fit to answer the door himself. He threw it wide open; Virginia's startled glance could just make out two swarthy faces, singularly dark and unprepossessing, in the candlelight. She experienced a swift flood of fear that she couldn't understand: then forced it away as an absurdity.

"We—we mushin' over to Yuga—been over Bald Peak way," Joe said stumblingly. "Didn't know no one was here. Want a bunk here to-night."

"You've got your own blankets?"

"Yes. We got blankets."

"On your way home, eh? Well, I'll have to ask this lady."

Harold seemed strangely nervous as he turned to Virginia. He wondered if this courteous reference to her was a mistake; could it be that she would object to their staying? It would make, at best, an awkward situation. However, he knew this girl and he felt sure. He half-closed the door.

"A couple of Indians, going home toward the settlement on the Yuga," he explained quickly. "They've come from over toward Bald Peak and were counting on putting up here to-night. That's the woods custom, you know—to stay at anybody's cabin. They didn't know we were here and want to stay, anyway. Do you think we can put 'em up?"

"Good Heavens, we can't send them on, on a night like this. It is awkward, though—about food——"

"They've likely got their own food."

"Of course they can stay. Bill can sleep on the floor in here—you can take the two of them with you into the little cabin. It will be pretty tight work, but we can't do anything else. Bring them in."

Harold turned again to the door, and in a moment the Indians strode, blinking, into the candlelight. The brighter light did not reveal them at greater advantage. Virginia shot them a swift glance and was instinctively repelled: but at once she ascribed the evil savagery of their faces to racial traits. She went back to her work.

Bill, sitting against the cabin wall, tried to make sense out of a confused jumble of thoughts and impressions and memories that flooded in one wave to his mind. His few hours of blindness had seemingly sharpened his other senses: and there was a quality of the half-breed's voice that was distinctly familiar. He had assumed at once that the two breeds were Joe and Pete whom he had encountered when he first found Harold. Why, then, had the latter made no sign of recognition? Why should he repeat a manifest lie,—that they had been over toward Bald Peak and were traveling toward the Yuga, and that they thought the cabin was unoccupied? He remembered that he had given these particular Indians definite orders to stay away from the district. Outwardly he was cool and at ease, his face impassive and grave; in his inner self he was deeply perturbed and suspicious.

Of course, there was a possibility that he was mistaken in the voice. He resolved to know the truth.

"It's Joe and Pete, isn't it?" he asked abruptly in the silence.

There was no reply at first. Virginia did not glance around in time to see the lightning signal of warning from Harold to the Indians; yet she had an inner sense of drama and suspense.

She had never heard quite this tone in Bill's voice before. It was hard, uncompromising, some way menacing. "I say," he repeated slowly, "are you Pete and Joe, or aren't you?"

"Pete—Joe?" Joe answered at last, in a bewildered tune. Harold himself could not have given a better simulation of amazement. "Don't know 'em. I'm Wolfpaw Black—he's Jimmy—Jimmy DuBois."

The names were convincing,—typical breed names, the latter with a touch of French. But Harold's admiration for the resourcefulness of his confederate really was not justified. Joe hadn't originated the two names. He had spoken the first two that had come to his mind,—the names of a pair of worthy breeds from a distant encampment.

Except for a little lingering uneasiness, Bill was satisfied. It would be easy to mistake the voice. He had heard it only a few times in his life. Virginia went on with her supper preparations, and at last the three of them drew chairs around their crude little table. The two breeds took their lunch from their packs and munched it, sitting beside the stove.

The night had fallen now, impenetrably dark, and the Northern Lights were flashing like aerial searchlights in the sky. The five of them were singularly quiet, deep in their own thoughts. Bill heard his watch ticking loudly in his pocket.

All at once Joe grunted in the stillness, and all except Bill whirled to look at him. He went to his pack and fumbled among the blankets. Then, a greedy light in his eyes, he put two dark bottles upon the table.

Bill, unseeing, did not understand. His finer senses, however, told him that the air was suddenly electric, charged with suspense. Virginia was frankly alarmed.

In her past life she had had intimate acquaintance with strong drink. While it was true that she had never partaken of it beyond an occasional cocktail before dinner, it was common enough in the circle in which she had moved. She was used to seeing the men of her acquaintance drink whisky-and-sodas, and many of her intimate girl friends drank enough to harden their eyes and injure their complexions. She herself had always regarded it tolerantly, thinking that much of the hue and cry that had been raised about it was sheer sentimentality and absurdity. She didn't know that evil genii dwelt in the dark waters that could change men into brutes: such mild exhilaration as she had received from an unusually potent cocktail had only seemed harmless and amusing.

But she was not tolerant now. She was suddenly deeply afraid. She looked at Bill, forgetting for the moment that in his blindness he could not see what was occurring and that in his helplessness she could not depend upon him in a crisis. She turned to Harold, hoping that he would refuse this offering at a word. And her fear increased when she saw the craving on his face.

Harold had gone a long time without strong drink. The sight of the dark bottles woke his old passion for it in a flash. His blood leaped, a strange and dreadful eagerness transcended him. Virginia was horrified at the sudden, insane light in his eyes, the drawing of his features.

"Have a drink?" Joe invited.

Bill started then, but he made no response. Harold moved toward the table.

"You're a real life-saver, Wolfpaw," he replied genially. "It's a cold night, and I don't care if I do. Virginia, pass down the cups."

Of course there were not enough cups to go around. There were three of tin, however, counting one that Bill made from an empty can. "You'll drink?" Joe asked Bill.

The woodsman's face was grave. "Wolfpaw, it's against the law of this province to give or receive liquor from Indians," he replied gravely. "I won't drink to-night."

Pete turned with a scowl. His thought had already flashed to the white blade at his belt. "You're damn particular——" he began.

But Joe shook his head, restraining him. The hour to strike had not yet come. They must enjoy their liquor first and engender fresh courage from its fire. He saw fit, however, to glance about the room and locate the weapon of which Harold had spoken,—the deadly miner's pick that leaned against the wall back of the stove.

Curiously, Virginia's thought had flung to the weapons, too. She had taken off her pistol when she had been nursing Bill and hadn't put it on since. Quietly, so as not to attract attention, she glanced about to locate it. It was hanging on a nail at the opposite end of the table,—and Joe stood just beside it. She had no desire to waken his suspicions of her fear. She knew she must put up a bold front, at least. Nevertheless her fingers longed for the comforting feel of its butt. She resolved to watch for a chance to procure it.

"Have a drink?" Joe asked Virginia.

She didn't like the tone of his voice. He was speaking with entire familiarity, and again she expected interference from Harold. Her fiance, however, was fingering the bottle. She saw Bill straighten, ever so little, and beheld the first signs of rising anger in the set of his lips. But she didn't know the full fierceness of his inward struggle,—an almost resistless desire to spring at once and smite those impertinent tones from the breed's lips. But he knew that he must take care—for Virginia's sake—and avoid a fight as long as it was humanly possible to do so.

"No," the girl responded coldly.

"Then there's enough cups after all," Harold observed. "I was going to take the pitcher, if either Virginia or this conscientious teetotaler cared for a shot." He chuckled unpleasantly. "I thought I could get more that way."

They poured themselves mighty drinks,—staggering portions that more than half-emptied the first of the quarts. Then they threw back their heads and drained the cups.

The liquor was cheap and new, such as reaches the Indian encampments after passing through many hands. It burned like fire in their throats, and almost at once it began to distill its poison into their veins.

Harold and Pete immediately resumed their chairs; Joe still stood at the table end. He, too, had seen the little pistol of blue steel hanging on the nail. At first the three men were sullen and silent, enjoying the first warmth of the liquor. Then the barriers of self-restraint began to break down.

Harold began to grow talkative, launching forth on an amusing anecdote. But there was no laughter at the end of it. The Indians were never given to mirth in their debauches; both Bill and Virginia were far indeed from a receptive humor.

"What's the matter with this crowd—can't you see a joke?" Harold demanded. "Say, Bill, over there—you who wouldn't take a gentleman's drink—what you sitting there like an old marmot for on a rock pile? Why don't you join in the festivities?"

For all the rudeness of Harold's speech, Bill answered quietly. "Not feeling very festive to-night. And if I were you—I'd go easy on too much of that. You're out of practice, you know."

"Yes—thanks to you. At least, before I came here I lived where I could get a drink when I wanted it, not in a Sunday-school."

Virginia suddenly leaned forward. "Where did you live before you came here, Harold?" she asked.

There was a sudden, unmistakable contempt in her voice.



XXX

Harold caught the note of scorn in Virginia's voice, and he had an instant of sobriety. He looked at her with eager eyes. The poison in his veins had enhanced her beauty to him; his eyes leapt quickly over her slender form. It would pay to be careful, he thought. He didn't want to lose her now. But in an instant his reckless mood returned.

"Where I lived? What do you care, as long as I'm here? I suppose Bill has already told you, the dirty——"

"Don't say it," Virginia cautioned quickly. "I wouldn't answer for the consequences."

But for all her brave words, terror swept her. She remembered that Bill was helpless and blind. "Bill has told me nothing. It wouldn't be like him to tell me things—that might make me unhappy."

"Sing another little song about him, why don't you?" Harold scorned. "I haven't heard you talk anything else for a month. But what do I care?" He tried to steady himself, to control his erring tongue. "But, Virginia—that's all right, if he's one of your friends. He's good enough according to his lights—but you can't expect much from some one who's never been outside these tall woods! No wonder he couldn't see a joke, or take a drink with a gentleman. He hasn't the chances, the environment—that's it, environment—that you and I have had. And speaking of drinks——"

He went to the table again and poured his cup half full. Then with unsteady hand he poured an equal portion for the two Indians. They took their cups with burning eyes, and Harold raised his own drink aloft.

"A little toast—and everybody stand up," he cried. "We're going to drink to Virginia! To my future wife, gentleman—the lady who's promised me her hand! Look at her there, you breeds—the most beautiful woman that ever came to the North! Drink her down!"

The burning poison poured into their throats. Virginia glanced again at her pistol, but Joe still stood, half-covering it with his arm. Her face was no longer merely anxious. All color had swept from it; her eyes were wide and pleading. But there was no one to give aid to-night. Bill sat, helpless and blind, against the wall.

She had not dared to resent aloud the bandying of her name, the insult of their searching eyes upon her beauty. It seemed to her that she heard a half-muttered exclamation from Bill, but his face belied it. And in reality the man's thoughts were as busy as never before.

He opened his eyes, struggling for vision. But he could not make out the forms of the men at all, except when they crossed in front of the candles. The candles themselves were mere points of yellow between his lids. One of the candles was sitting just beside him, on a shelf; the other was on the table. He tried to locate the position of all four of his fellow-occupants of the cabin,—Virginia at one end of the table, Joe at the other, Pete opposite him on the other side of the stove, Harold standing in the middle of the room, babbling in his drunkenness.

But the first exhilaration of the drink was dying now, giving way to a more dangerous mood. Even Harold was less talkative: the tones of his voice had harshened. The two Indians, when they spoke at all, were surly and threatening.

The moments passed. For a breath the cabin was still. Only too well Bill knew that matters were approaching the explosive stage. A single word might invoke murderous passions that would turn the cabin into shambles. The men drank the third time, emptying the first quart and beginning upon the second.

"You're a pretty little witch," Harold addressed Virginia. "You're hard to kiss, but your kisses are worth having. What you think about that, Joe? Aren't I tellin' you the truth?"

Joe! Bill's first impression had been right, after all. His face made no sign, but he shifted in his chair. For all the ease and almost inertness with which he sat, his muscles were wholly ready for such command as his mind might give them,—to spring instantly to their full power for a fight to the death. Virginia heard the name too, and her fears increased.

"Joe?" she repeated. "You know him, then?"

"Of course I know Joe. He's an old friend. He's one that Bill told never to show his face in this part of Clearwater again—but you don't see anything happening to him, do you?"

He waited, hoping Bill would make response. But the latter was holding hard, waiting for the moment of crisis, hoping yet that it might be avoided. There was time enough when Virginia was safe and his sight had returned him to answer such speeches as this.

"You see he hasn't anything to say," Harold gloated. "I asked you a question, Joe—about Virginia. Didn't I tell the truth?"

The girl flinched, then caught herself with a half-sob. She resolved to make one more appeal. "Oh Harold—please—please be careful what you say," she pleaded. "You're drunk now—but don't forget you were a gentleman—once. Don't drink any more. Don't let these Indians drink any more, either."

"A gentleman once, eh? So you don't think I'm one any more. But Bill, there—he's one, ain't he? It seems to me you've been getting kind of bossy around here, lately—and the women of we northern men don't behave that way."

"I'm not your woman, thank God—and I ask you to be careful."

"And I repeat that warning." Bill spoke gravely, quietly from his chair. "You're acting like a rotter, Harold, and you know it. Shut up the bottle and try to hold yourself—and then remember what you've been saying. Remember that I'm still here—and if I'm not able to avenge an insult now, the time is coming when I will. And I've got one weapon now that I won't hesitate to use. I mean—an answer to a question of a while ago. If you want to keep her love, be careful."

The Indians turned to him, the murder-madness darkening their faces. Pete's hand began to steal toward his hip. He had no ancestral precedent for the use of a miner's pick for such work as faced him now. And he held high regard for the thin, cruel blade.

"Do you think I care?" Harold answered. "Tell her if you want to—all about Sindy and everything else. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? I've heard all I want to from you too—and I'll say and drink what I please."

Bill had no answer at first. He had thought that this threat might bring Harold to time; he had supposed that the man valued Virginia's love as much as he, in a similar position, would have valued it. Harold turned to the girl. "So you're not my woman, eh?"

"No, no, no! I never will be!" The girl's eyes were blazing, and she had forgotten her fear in her magnificent wrath. "I suppose—you were a squaw man. These Indians are your own friends."

Harold smiled cruelly. "Yes, a squaw man. And these are my friends. Don't you suppose I've known—for the last week—you were just fooling me along, all the time fondling Bill? Sindy at least was faithful—and her form wouldn't take anything from yours."

Pete, watching Joe, was somewhat amazed at the curious start the man made. His searching gaze had leaped over the girl's form; his dark, smoldering eyes suddenly blazed red. There was no other word than red. They were like two coals of fire.

There ensued a moment of strange and menacing silence. Pete chuckled, already receptive to Joe's thought. Harold turned to stare at him.

Joe put his pipe to his lips, then fumbled at his pocket. He seemed to search in vain. "Will you give me a match, please, lady?" he asked.

The tone was strange, thick and strained, yet Virginia's heart thrilled with hope. The request was a welcome interlude in a quarrel that was already rapidly approaching the fighting stage. Perhaps if these men started to smoke, their blood would cool; she had known of old that tobacco was a wonderful bromide to overstretched nerves. He turned quickly to the shelf above Bill's head and procured half a dozen matches from the box.

As her back was turned she heard Pete laugh again,—one evil syllable that filled her with instinctive horror. Her wide eyes turned to him; he was watching her intently. Then she stepped back to give Joe the matches.

Instinctively her eyes turned to the wall for a reassuring sight of her pistol. It was gone from its place.

For an instant she stared in horrified amazement. The matches dropped idly from her hand. A sob caught in her throat, a sob of hopeless and utter terror, but she fought a brave little fight to suppress it. She knew she must appear to be brave; at least she must do this much. She looked at Joe; his evil, leering face told her only too plainly that his eager hand had seized and secreted her pistol. Pete's face was drawn too; Harold only looked bewildered.

He was her last hope, but in one instant's scrutiny she saw that this had vanished, too. Some terrible thought had sobered and engrossed him. Now he was eyeing her like a witless thing, his features drawn, his eyes burning. The moment was charged with ineffable suspense.

"What is it, Virginia?" Bill asked.

"One of these men—" she answered brokenly—"has taken my pistol. I want him to give it back——"

The circle laughed then,—a harsh and sinister sound that filled her with inexpressible horror. For a moment she stood motionless in the center of that leering circle, her eyes wide, her face white as death,—a slight figure, trying to hard to stand straight, crushed and defenseless, only her eyes pleading in last appeal. Instinctively her lips whispered a prayer.

Joe spoke then, a single sentence in the vernacular for Harold's ears. With one gesture he indicated Harold, himself, and Pete in turn, then pointed to the girl. His face was hideous with eagerness.

Harold started at the words, but at first made no answer. He had lost her anyway; there was no need of further restraint. The silence, the stress, most of all the burning liquor flung a wild and devastating flame through his veins, a dreadful madness seized his brain. There was no saving grace, no impulse of manhood, no memory of virtue to hold him back.

His degeneracy was complete. He could not go lower. His father's wicked blood pulsed in his veins; the final brutality that the North bestows upon those it conquers was upon him. He answered with a curse.

"Why not?" he said. "The slut's thrown me over. When I'm through you can do what you want. And crack the skull of that mole with the pick and throw him out in the snow."

The two Indians lurched forward at his words. Bill left his chair in a mighty leap.



XXXI

When Bill sprang forward to intercept the attack upon the girl he came with amazing accuracy and power. There was nothing of blindness or misdirection about that leap. It was as if his sight had already returned to him. The real truth was that by means of his acute ear he had located the exact position of every actor in the impending drama.

What was more important, he knew the location of both candles. For all his almost total blindness, he could discern through his watering eyes the faint, yellow gleam of each. The one that burned beside him, on the little shelf, he brushed off with one sweep of his hand as he leaped. He knocked the second from the table; it fell, flickered, filled the room an instant with dancing light, and then went out. The utter darkness dropped down.

The act had been so swift and unexpected that neither Joe, standing nearest to the girl, or Harold across the room could draw their pistols and fire. Seemingly in a flash the darkness was upon them. No more was Bill the blind and helpless mole, to strike down with one careless blow. He was face to face with his enemies in his own dark lair. He had turned the tables; the advantage of vision on which they had presumed had been in an instant removed. They could see no more than he could now. Besides, in the hours since his rescue, he had already learned to find his way around the cabin.

And this was no half-darkness—that which descended as the candles were struck down. It was the infinite, smothering gloom of an underground cave in which no shadow could live, nor the sharpest outline remain visible. Harold cursed in the blackness; as if in a continuation of the leap he had made to upset the candles, Bill seized Virginia in his strong arms. He thrust her to the floor and into the angle between her bunk and the wall, the point that he instinctively realized would be easiest to defend and safest from stray bullets. Then, widening his arms, almost to the width of the little space between the table and the wall, he lunged forward again.

Virginia's pistol was in Joe's hand by now, and he shot in Bill's direction. Two spurts of yellow fire broke for an instant the utter gloom. But there was no time for a third shot. He was the nearest of the three attackers, and Bill's outstretched arms seized him. The woodsman's muscles gave a mighty wrench.

His grasp was about Joe's chest at first, but with a great lurch he slung the man's body out far enough so that he could loop his sinewy arms about the man's knees. Joe was shifted in his arms as workmen are sometimes snatched up by a mighty belt in a machine shop; he seemed simply to snap in the remorseless grasp. Bill himself had no sensation of his enemy's weight. He had him about the knees by now, Joe's body thrust out almost straight from centrifugal force, and with a terrific wrench of his mighty shoulders Bill hurled him against the wall.

It was well for his enemies that none of them were in the road of that human missile. They would have taken no further part in the ensuing battle. Joe's body crushed against the logs with a sound that was strange and horrible in the utter darkness; the pistol spun from his hand and rattled down'; then he fell with a crash to the floor. There was no further movement from him thereafter. His neck had been broken like a match. The odds were but two to one.

Harold had taken out his own revolver now and was shooting blindly in the darkness. Ducking low, Bill leaped for him. In that leap there was none of the gentle mercy with which he had dealt with him first, so long ago in Harold's cabin. But a quick movement by Harold saved him from the full force of the leap; in a moment they were grappling in each other's arms.

Bill wrenched him back and forth, and in an instant would have crushed the life out of him if it hadn't been for the interference of Pete. The latter breed leaped on his back, and Bill had to neglect Harold an instant to stretch up his arms and hurl Pete to the floor. Harold still clung to him, trying to seize his throat, but Bill wrenched him down. He flung his own body down on top of him, then seized him by the throat with the deadly intention of hammering his head on the floor; but before he could accomplish his purpose Pete was upon him again.

It was the end of the preliminaries. In that second the fight began in earnest. They were both powerful men, the breed and Harold; and Bill was like a wild beast—quick as a cougar, resistless as a grizzly—a fighting fury that in the darkness was terrible as death. Mighty muscles, stinging blows, striking fists and grasping arms; the rage and glory of battle was upon him as never before.

It was the death fight—in the darkness—and that meant it was a savage, nightmare thing that called forth those most deep and terrible instincts that in the first days of the earth were stored and implanted in the germ plasm. These were no longer men of the twentieth century. They were simply beasts, fighting to the death in a cave. It was a familiar thing to be warring thus in the darkness: Neither Harold nor Pete missed the light now. They were carried back to no less furious battles, fought in dark caverns under the sea; murder flamed in their hearts and fire ran riot in their blood.

They were no longer conscious of time; already it was as if they had struggled thus through the long roll of the centuries. It was hard to remember what had been the cause of the fight. It didn't matter now, anyway; the only issue left was the life of their adversary. To kill, to tear their enemies' hearts from their warm breasts and their arteries from their throats,—this was all that any of the three could remember now. It was true that Bill kept his adversaries away from Virginia's corner as well as he could, but he did it by instinct rather than by conscious planning. He had not hated Harold in these months past, but had only regarded him with contempt; but hate came to him fast enough in those first moments of battle.

Once, reeling across the cabin, they encountered soft flesh that tried to escape from beneath their feet; at first Bill thought it was Joe, returned to consciousness. But in an instant he knew the truth. "Go back to your corner. Virginia," he commanded.

For some reason that he could not guess, she had seen fit to crawl forth from her shelter; whether or not she returned to it he couldn't tell. There was no chance to warn her again. His foes were upon him.

This was not a silent fight, at first. So that they would not attack each other, Harold and Pete cried out often, to reveal their location and to signal a combined attack against Bill. In the instants that he was free from Bill's arms and he knew that his confederate was out of range, Harold fired blindly with his pistol. Their bodies crashed against the wall, broke the furniture into kindling at their feet; they snarled their hatred and their curses.

Bill fought like a giant, a might of battle upon him never known before. He would hurl away one, then whirl to face the other; his fists would lash out, his mighty shoulders would wrench. More than once their combined attack hurled him to the floor, but always he was able to regain his feet. Once he seized Harold's wrist, and twisting it back forced him to drop the pistol. But Pete's interference prevented him from breaking his arm.

Steadily Harold and Pete were learning to work together. They were used to the darkness now; Pete obeyed the white man's shouts. Two against one was never a fair fight, and they knew that by concerted action they could break him down.

One lucky blow sent Pete spinning to the floor, and Bill's strong arms hurled Harold after him. Just for a fraction of an instant he stood braced and alone in the center of the cabin. For the instant a silence, deep and appalling past all words, fell over the room. But Harold's voice quickly shattered it.

"Up and at him Pete!" he cried, hoarse with fury. They both sprang upon him again.

Both were fortunate in securing good holds, and as they came from opposite sides, Bill found it impossible to hurl them off. Both of his foes recognized their great chance; if they could retain their hold only for a moment they could break him and beat him down. Harold also knew that this was the moment of crisis. All three contestants seemed to sweep to the fray with added fury. Bill was drawing on his reserve strength—the battle could only last a few minutes longer.

They fought in silence now. They did not waste precious breath on shouts or curses. There were no pistol shots, no warnings; only the sound of troubled breathing against the shock of their bodies as they reeled against the walls. Bill was fighting with all his might to keep his feet.

But the tower that was his body fell at last. All three staggered, reeled, then crashed to the floor. Pete had managed to wiggle from underneath and, his hold yet unbroken, struggled at Bill's left side; Harold was on top. But for all that he lay prone, Bill was not conquered yet. With his flailing arms he knocked aside the vicious blows that Harold aimed at his face; he tore Pete's grasp from his throat. He fought with a final, incredible might. And now he was breaking their holds to climb once more upon his feet.

Then—above the sound of their writhing bodies—Virginia heard Pete exclaim. It was a savage, a murderous sound, and anew degree of terror swept through her. But she didn't cry out. She had her own plans.

"Hold him—just one instant!" Pete cried. The breed had remembered his knife. It was curious that he hadn't thought of it before.

He took it rather carefully from his holster. The two men were threshing on the floor by now, Harold in a desperate effort to keep his enemy down, and there was plenty of time. Pete's hand fumbled in his pocket. In his cunning and his savagery he realized that the supreme opportunity for victory was at hand; but he must take infinite pains.

He didn't want to run the risk of slaying his own confederate. His hand found a match; he raised his knife high. The match cracked, then flamed in the darkness.

But it was not to be that that murderous blow should go home. He had forgotten Bill's lone ally,—the girl that had seemed so crushed and helpless a few minutes before. She had not remained in the safe corner where Bill had thrust her, and she had had good reasons. The price that she paid was high, but it didn't matter now. She had crawled out to find her pistol that Joe's hand had let fall, and just before Pete had lighted his match her hand had encountered it on the floor.

It seemed to leap in her hand as the match flamed. It described a blue arc; then rested, utterly motionless, for a fraction of an instant. For that same little time all her nervous forces rallied to her aid; her eyes were remorseless and true over the sights.

The pistol shot rang in the silence. The knife dropped from Pete's hand. She had shot with amazing accuracy, straight for the little hollow in his back that his raised arm had made. He turned with a look of ghastly surprise.

Then he went on his face, creeping like a legless thing toward the door. With a mighty effort Bill rolled Harold beneath him.

The battle was short thereafter. Harold had never been a match for Bill, unaided. The latter's hard fists lashed into his face, blow after blow with grim reports in the silence. Harold's resistance ceased; his body quivered and lay still. Remembering Virginia Bill leaped to his feet.

But Harold was not quite unconscious. But one impulse was left,—to escape; and dumbly he crawled to the door. Pete had managed to open it; but he crawled past Pete's body, strangely huddled and still, just beyond the threshold. Then he paused in the snow for a last, savage expression of his hate.

But it was just words. No weapon remained in his hands. "I'll get you yet, you devil!" he screamed, almost incoherently. "I'll lay in wait and kill you—you can't get away! The wolves have got your grizzly meat—you can't go without food."

His voice was shrill and terrible in the silence of the winter night. Even in the stress and inward tumult that was the reaction of the battle, Bill could not help but hear. He didn't doubt that the words were true: he realized in an instant what the loss of the grizzly flesh would mean. But his only wish was that he had killed the man when he had him helpless in his hands.

He remembered Joe then, and listened for any sound from him. He heard none, and like a man in a dream he felt his way to the lifeless form beside the wall. He seized the shoulders of the breed's coat, dragged him like a sack of straw, and as easily hurled his body through the doorway into the drifts. Two bodies lay there now. But only the coyotes, seekers of the dead, had interest in them.

He turned, then stood swaying slightly, in the doorway. No wind stirred over the desolate wastes without. The cabin was ominously silent. He could hear his own troubled breathing; but where there was no stir, no murmur from the corner where he had left Virginia. A ghastly terror, unknown in the whole stress of the battle, swept over him.

"Virginia," he called. "Where are you?"

From the dark, far end of the cabin he heard the answer,—a voice low and tremulous such as sometimes heard from the lips of a sick child. "Here I am, Bill," she replied. "I'm hit with a stray shot—and I believe—they've killed me."



XXXII

Was this their destiny,—utter and hopeless defeat in the moment of victory? Was this the way of justice that, after all they had endured, they should yet go down to death? They had fought a mighty fight, they had waged a cruel war against cold and hardship, they had known the full terror and punishment of the snow wastes in their dreadful adventure of the past two days; and had it all come to nothing, after all? Was life no more than this,—a cruel master that tortured his slaves only to give them death? These thoughts brought their full bitterness in the instant that Bill groped his way to Virginia's side.

His hands told him she was lying huddled against the wall, a slight, pathetic figure that broke the heart within the man. "Here I am," she said again, her voice not racked with pain but only soft and tender. He knelt beside her, then groped for a match. But whether the injury was small or great he felt that the issue would be the same.

But before he struck the match he remembered his foe without; he would be quick to fire through the window if a light showed him his target. Even now he might be crouched in the snow, his rifle in his arms, waiting for just this chance. Bill snatched a blanket from the cot, shielded them with it, and lighted the match behind it. "He can't see the light through this," he told her. "If he does—I guess it doesn't much matter."

He groped for the fallen candle, lighted it, and held it close. "You'll have to look and see yourself, Virginia," he told her. "You remember—of course——"

Yes, she remembered his blindness. She looked down at the little stain of red on her left shoulder. "I can't tell," she told him. "It went in right here—give me your hand."

She took his warm hand and rested it against the wound. Someway, it comforted her. "Close to the top of the shoulder, then," he commented. Then he groped till his sensitive fingers told him he had found the egress of the bullet—on her arm just down from her shoulder. "But there's nothing I can do—it's not a wound I can dress. It's cleaner now than anything we've got to clean it with. The only thing is to lie still—so it won't bleed."

"Do you think I'll die?" she asked him quietly. There was no fear—only sorrow—in her tones. "Tell me frankly, Bill."

"I don't think the wound is serious in itself—if we could get you down to a doctor," he told her. "It isn't bleeding much now, because you are lying still, but it has been bleeding pretty freely. It's just a flesh wound, really. But you see——"

Her mind leaped at once to his thought. "You mean—it's the same, either way?" she questioned.

"It doesn't make much difference." The man spoke quietly, just as she might have expected him to speak in such a moment as this. "Oh, Virginia—we've fought so hard—it's bitter to lose now. You see, don't you—you couldn't walk with that wound—you don't know the way, so I could walk and pull you on the sled—and Harold is gone. He won't show us the way or help us now. We haven't any food here—the grizzly has been eaten by wolves. One of us blind and one of us wounded—you see—what chance we've got against the North. If we had the grizzly flesh, we could stay here till my sight returned—and still, perhaps, get you out in time to save you from the injury. If you knew the way to the settlements, I might haul you on the sled—you guiding me—and take a chance of running into some meat on the way down. But none of those things are true."

"Then what"—the girl spoke breathlessly—"does it mean?"

"It means death—that's all it means." There was no sentimentality, no tremor in his voice now. He was looking his fate in the face; he knew he could not spare the girl by keeping the truth from her. "Death as sure as we're here—from hunger and your wound—if Harold or the cold doesn't get us first. We've been cheated, Virginia. We've played with a crooked dealer. I don't care on my own account——"

"Then don't care on mine, either." All at once her hand went up and caressed his face. "Hold me, Bill, won't you?" she asked. "Hold me in your arms."

She asked it simply, like a little child. He shifted his position, then lifted her so that her breast was against his, his arms around her, her soft hair against his shoulder. The candle, dropped from his hand, was extinguished. The cold deepened outside the cabin. The white, icy moon rode in the sky.

The man's arms tightened around her. He lowered his lips close to hers. There in the shadow of death her breast pressed to his, the locks of iron that held his heart's secret were shattered, the veil of his temple was rent. "Virginia," he asked his voice throbbing, "do you want me to tell you something—the truest thing in all my life? I thought I could keep it from you, but I can't. I can't keep it any more——"

Her arm went up and encircled his neck, and she drew his head down to hers. "Yes, Bill," she told him, "I want you to tell me. I think I know what it is."

"I love you. That's it; it never was and it never can be anything else." The words, long pent-up, poured from his lips in a flood. "Virginia, I love you, love you, love you—my little girl, my little, little girl——"

She drew his head down and down until her own lips halted the flow of his words. "And I love you, Bill," she told him. "No one but you."

All the sweetness and tenderness of her glorious and newly wakened love was in the kiss that she gave him. Yet the man could not believe. The human soul, condemned to darkness, can never believe at first when the light breaks through. His heart seemed to halt in his breast in this instant of infinite suspense.

"You do?" he whispered at last, in inexpressible wonder. "Did you say that you loved me—you so beautiful, so glorious—Don't tell me that in pity——"