"I love you, Bill," she told him earnestly, then laughed softly at his disbelief. She kissed him again and again, softly as moonlight falls upon meadows. The man's heart leaped and flooded, but no more words would come to his lips. He could only sit with his strong arms ever holding her closer to his breast, kissing the lips that responded so tenderly and lingeringly, swept with a rapture undreamed of before. Ever her soft, warm arm held his lips to hers, as if she could not let him go.

The seconds, thrilled with a wonder ineffable, passed into minutes. Virginia had no sensation of pain from her wound. The fear of death oppressed her no more. She knew that she had come to her appointed place at last, a haven and shelter no less than that to which the white ship comes in from the tempestuous sea. This was her fate,—happiness and peace at last in her woodsman's arms.

* * * * *

They were no different from other lovers such as cling and kiss in the glory of a summer moon, in gardens far away. Their vows were the same, the mystery and the wonder no less. The savage realm into which they were cast could not oppress them now. They forgot the drifts unending, the winter forests stretching interminably from range to range about them, the pitiless cold, ever waiting just without the cabin door. Even impending death itself, in the glory of this night, could cast no shadow upon their spirit.

In the moment of their victory the North had defeated them, but in the instant of defeat they had found infinite and eternal victory. No blow that life could deal, no weapon that this North should wield against them, could crush them now. They were borne high above the reach of these. They had discovered the great Secret, the eternal Talisman against which no curse can blast or no disaster break the spirit.

They had their secret, whispered exultations, like all lovers the length and breadth of the world. Virginia told him that in her own heart she had loved him almost from the first day but how she had not realized it, in all its completeness, until now. Bill told her of the wakening of his own love, and how he had confessed it to himself the night they had played "Souvenir" in the complaint of the wind.

He tried to explain to her his doubts and fears,—how he had looked at her as a being from another world. "I could imagine my loving you, from the first," he told her, "but never you giving your love to me."

"And who is more worthy of it—of anybody's love—than you?" she replied, utilizing a sweetheart's way, much more effective than words, to stop his lips. Then she told him of his bravery, his tenderness and steadfastness; how there was no feeling of descent in giving her love to him. She told him that in fact his education was as good as hers if not superior, that his natural breeding and gentleness were the equal of that of any man that moved in her own circle. She could find protection and shelter in his strong arms, and in these months in the North she had learned that this was the most important thing of all. He could provide for her, too, with the wealth of his mine,—a point not to be forgotten. Her standards were true and sensible, she was down to the simple, primitive basis of things, and she did not forget that provision for his wife was man's first responsibility and the first duty of love.

Only once did Bill leave her,—to cover the crack of the door and build up the fire. When he returned, her warm little flood of kisses was as if he had been absent for weary hours.

But her thoughts had been busy, even in this moment. All at once she drew his ear close to her lips.

"Bill, will you listen to me a minute?" she asked.

"Listen! I'll listen to every word——"

"Some way—I've taken fresh heart since we—since we found out we loved each other. It seems to me that this love wasn't given to us, only to have us die in a few days—from this awful wound and you from hunger. We're only three days' journey—and there must be some way out."

"God knows I wish you could find one. But I can't see—and you don't know the way—and we have no food."

"But listen—this wound isn't very bad. I know I can't walk—it will start bleeding if I do—but if I can get any attention at all soon, I know it won't be serious. Bill, have you found out—you can trust me, in a pinch?"

Remembering that instant when the match had flared and her pistol had shot so remorselessly and so true, he didn't hesitate over his answer. "Sweetheart, I'd trust you to the last second."

"Then trust me now. Listen to every word I say and do what I tell you. I think I know the way—at least a fighting chance—to life and safety."



XXXIII

Whispering eagerly, Virginia told Bill the plan that would give them their fighting chance. His mind, working clear and true, absorbed every detail. "It depends first," she said, "whether or not you can crawl through the little window of the cabin."

Bill remembered his experience in the smoke-filled hut and he kissed her, smiling. "I've got into smaller places than that, in my time," he told her. "I can take the little window right out. I put it in myself."

They were not so awed by their dilemma that they couldn't have gay words. "You got into my heart, too, Bill—a great dealer smaller place than the window," she whispered. "The next thing—are Harold's snowshoes in this room?"

"So it depends on Harold, does it? I believe his snowshoes are here. Harold left rather hurriedly—and I don't think he took them."

"What everything depends on—is getting out. Getting out quickly. The longer we stay here, without food, the more certain death is. I know I can't walk and you can't see. We have no food—except enough for one meal, perhaps—but we've got to take a chance on that. Bill, Harold is waiting, right now—probably in the little cabin where he sleeps—for a chance to get those shoes. He's helpless without them. When he gets them, he can go to the Yuga—enlist more of his breed friends—and wait in ambush for us, just as he said. He's hoping we've forgotten about them. I am sure he didn't take the shoes. They were behind the stove last night."

To make sure, Bill groped his way across the cabin and found not only Harold's shoes, but his own and Virginia's, bringing them all back to her side.

"What's now, Little Corporal?" he asked.

"As soon as it gets light enough for him to see, I want you to go out the cabin door. Turn at once into the brush at your right, so he can't shoot you with the rifle. Then come around to the side of the cabin and re-enter through the window. You can feel your way, and I can guide you by my voice, but you mustn't go more than a few feet or you'll get bewildered. The moment he thinks you are gone, he'll come—not only to get his snowshoes but to gloat over me. I know him now! I can't understand why I didn't know him before. And then—we've got to take him by surprise."

"And then——?"

Quickly, with few words, she told him the rest of her plot. It was wholly simple, and at least it held a fighting chance. He was not blind to the deadly three-day battle that they would have to wage against starvation and cold, in case this immediate part of their plot was a success. But the slightest chance when death was the only alternative was worth the trial.

Very carefully and softly Bill went to work to loosen the window so that he could take it out. It was secured by nails, but with such tools as he had in the cabin, he soon had it free. Then he lifted out the window, putting it back loosely so that he could remove it in a second's time. There was no wisdom in leaving it open until morning. The bitter cold without was waiting for just that chance.

He secured certain thongs of rawhide—left over from the moose skin that he had used for snowshoe webs—and put them in his coat pocket. Then he made a little bed for the girl, on the floor and against the wall, exactly in front and opposite the doorway. It was noticeable, too, that he restored her pistol to her hand.

"I don't think you'll need it," he told her, "but I want you to have it anyway—in case of an emergency."

There was nothing to do thereafter but to build up the fire and wait for dawn.

In reality, Virginia had guessed the situation just right. In the adjoining cabin, scarcely one hundred yards away, Harold waited and watched his chance to recover his snowshoes. He was wise enough to care to wait for daylight. He wanted no further meeting with Bill in the darkness. But in the light he would have every advantage; he could see to shoot and his blind foe could not return his fire.

After all, he had only to be patient. Vengeance would be swift and sure. When the morning broke he would come into his own again, with never a chance for failure. One little glance along his rifle sights, one quarter-ounce of pressure on the trigger,—and then he could journey down to the Yuga and his squaw in happiness and safety. It would be a hard march, but once there he could get supplies and return to jump Bill's claim. Everything would turn out right for him after all.

The fact that his confederates were slain mattered not one way or another. Pete had gone out with a bullet through his lungs; Virginia had dealt him that. Joe's neck had been broken when Bill had hurled him against the cabin wall. But in a way, these things were an advantage. There was sufficient food in the cabin for one meal for the three of them, and that meant it was three meals for one. A day's rations, carefully spent, would carry him the two day's march to the Yuga. Besides, the breeds would not be present to claim their third of the mine. He wondered why he hadn't handled the whole matter himself, in the first place. He would have been fully capable, he thought. As to Virginia,—he hadn't decided about Virginia yet. He didn't know of her wound, or his security would have seemed all the more complete. Virginia might yet listen to reason and accompany him down to the Yuga. He had only to wait till dawn.

But Harold's thought was not entirely clear. The fury in his brain and the madness in his blood distorted it,—just a little. Otherwise he might have conceived of some error in his plans. He would have been a little more careful, a little less sure. His insane and devastating longing for vengeance, as well as his late drunkenness, cost him the fine but essential edge of his self-mastery.

Slowly the stars faded, the first ghostly light came stealing from the east. The blood began to leap once more in his veins. Already it was almost light enough to shoot. Then his straining eyes saw Bill emerge from the cabin.

Every nerve in his body seemed to jerk and thrill with renewed excitement. Yet there wasn't a chance to shoot. The light was dim; the shadows of the spruce trees hid the woodsman's figure swiftly. He was gone; the cabin was left unoccupied except for Virginia. And for all that she had shot so straight to save Bill's life, there was nothing to fear from her. Her fury was passed by now; he thought he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't shoot him in cold blood. And perhaps some of her love for him yet lingered.

He did not try to guess the mission on which Bill had gone. If his thought had been more clear and his fury less, he would have paused and wondered about it; perhaps he would have been somewhat suspicious. Bill was blind; except to procure fuel there was no conceivable reason for an excursion into the snow. But Harold only shivered with hatred and rage, drunk with the realization that his chance had come.

He would go quickly to the cabin, procure his snowshoes, and be ready to meet Bill with loaded rifle when he returned. There was no chance for failure. He plunged and fought his way, floundering in the deep snow, toward Bill's cabin.

He found to his great delight that the door was open,—nothing to do but walk through. At first he was a little amazed at the sight of Virginia lying so still against the opposite wall; it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps she had been wounded in the fight. If so, it made his work all the safer. Yet she opened her eyes and gazed at him as he neared the threshold. He could see her but dimly; mostly the cabin was still dusky with shadows.

"I'm coming for my snowshoes, Virginia," he told her. "Then I'm going to go away." He tried to draw his battered, bloody lips into a smile.

"Come in and get them," she replied. Her voice was low and lifeless. Harold stepped through the door. And then she uttered a curious cry.

"Now!" she called sharply. There was no time for Harold to dart back, even to be alarmed. A mighty force descended upon his body.

Even in that first instant Harold knew only too well what had occurred. Instead of lying in wait himself he had been lured into ambush. Bill had re-entered the window and had stood waiting in the shadow, just beside the open door. Virginia had given him the signal when to leap down.

He leaped with crushing force,—as the grizzly leaps, or the cougar pounces from a tree. There was nothing of human limitations about that attack. Harold tried to struggle, but his attempt was futile as that of a sparrow in the jaws of the little ermine. Only too well he knew the strength of these pitiless arms that clasped him now. He had learned it the night before, and his lust for vengeance gave way to ghastly and blood-curdling terror. What would these two avengers do to him; what justice would they wreak on him, now that they had him in their power? The resistless shoulders hurled him to the floor. Virginia left her bed and came creeping to be of such aid as was needed.

She wholly disregarded her own injury. Her own countrymen, in wars agone, had fought all day with wounds much worse. She crept with her pistol ready in her hands.

Bill's strong fingers were at Harold's throat by now; the man's resistance was swiftly crushed out of him. With his knee Bill held down one of Harold's arms; with his free arm he struck blow after blow into his face. Then as unconsciousness descended upon him, Harold felt his wrists being drawn back and tied.

He struggled for consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw their sardonic faces. The worst terror of his life descended upon him.

"My god, what are you going to do to me?" he asked.

"Why, Harold, you are going to be our little truck horse," Virginia replied gayly, as she handed Bill more thongs. "You are going to pull the sled and show the way down into Bradleyburg."



XXXIV

When the dawn came full and bright over Clearwater, Bill and his party were ready to start. When Harold had been thoroughly cowed and his full instructions were given him, the thongs had been put about his ankles and removed from his wrists, and he was permitted to do the packing. That procedure was exceedingly simple; all available blankets were piled on the sled and made into a bed for Virginia, and the ax, candles, and such cooking utensils as were needed were packed in front. And then they had a short but decisive interview with Harold.

"I won't go—I'll die first," he cried to Virginia. "Besides, you don't dare to use force on me; you don't know the way and Bill can't see. You know if you kill me you'll die yourself."

"Fair enough," Virginia replied sweetly. "But take this little word of advice. Bill and I were all reconciled to dying when we thought of you—and we don't mind it now if we're sure you are going along. Don't get any false ideas about that point, Harold. We're not going to spare you on any chance of saving ourselves. We are going to give you a little more foot room, and fix up your hands a little, and then you are going to pull the sled. When we camp at night you're going to cut the wood. Don't think for a minute I'm going to be afraid to shoot if you disobey one order—if you take one step against us. You are at our mercy; we are not at yours. And Bill will tell you I can shoot straight. Perhaps you learned that fact last night."

Yes, Harold had learned. He had learned it very well.

"If I think you're trying to cheat us—to lead us out of the way toward your breed friends—you're going to have a chance to learn it better," she went on, never a quaver in her voice. "I won't wait to make sure—I'll shoot you through the neck as easy and as quick as I'd shoot a grouse. I haven't forgotten what you did last night; I'm just eager for a chance to pay you for it." Her voice grew more sober. "This is a warning—the only one and the last one that you will get. I'm going to watch you every minute and tie you up at night. And the fact that we can't go on without you won't have a jot of influence if you take a step against us. We may die ourselves, but you know that you'll also die."

This was not the sheltered, incapable girl of society that addressed him now. These words were those of the woodswoman; the eyes that gazed into his were unwavering and hard. He knew that she was speaking true. The courage for retaliation oozed out of him as mud oozes into a river.

They lengthened the thong that tied his ankles together, giving him room for a full walking step but not enough to leap or run. They put on his hands a pair of awkward mittens that had been stiffened by mud and water, and lashed them to his wrists. Then they slipped the thong of the sled across his shoulders and under his arms like loops of a kyack. They were ready to go.

The forest was laden with the early-morning silence; the trees stood draped in snow. It was cold, too,—the frost gathered quickly on the mufflers that they wore about their lips. All too well they knew what lay before them. Without food to keep their bodies nourished and warm, they could scarcely hope to make the town; their one chance was that somewhere on the trail they would encounter game. How long a chance it was, this late in winter, they knew all too surely. But for all this knowledge Bill and Virginia were cheerful.

"I haven't much hope," Bill told her when she was tucked into the bed on the sled. "But it's the only chance we have."

She smiled at him. "At least, Bill, we'll have done everything we could. Good-by, little cabin—where I found happiness. Sometime perhaps we'll come back to you!"

The man bent and kissed her, and she gave the word for Harold to start.

Slowly they headed toward the river. The crust was perfect; Harold could hardly feel the weight of the sled. Bill mushed behind, guided by the gee-pole. The white-draped trees they had known so well spoke no word of farewell.

Could they win through? Were they to know the hardship of the journey, starvation and bitter cold, only to find death in some still, enchanted glen of the forest that stretched in front? Was fate still jesting with them, whispering hope only to shatter them with defeat? Were they to know hunger and exhaustion, pain and travail, until finally their bodies dropped down and yielded to the cold? They could not keep up long without the inner fuel of food.

Their chance of finding game seemed hopelessly small, even at first. Before they reached the frozen river it seemed beyond the possibilities of miracle. Even the tracks of the little people—such ferocious hunters as marten and ermine—were gone from the snow. There were no tracks of caribou or moose; the grouse had seemingly buried in the drifts. The only creatures that had not hidden away from the winter cold were the wolves and the coyotes, furtive people that could not be coaxed into the range of Virginia's pistol. For all her outward optimism her heart grew heavy with despair.

They crossed the river, coming out where the old moose trail had gone down the ford. Here they had seen the last of Kenly Lounsbury and Vosper, almost forgotten now. Virginia told Harold to stop an instant as she recalled those vents of months before.

"So much has happened since then," she said, "If only they had left——"

Her words died away in the middle of the sentence, and for a moment she sat gazing with wide and startled eyes. For all that sight was just beginning to return to him, Bill was strangely and unexplainably startled, too, probably sensing the suspense indicated in the girl's tones. Harold turned, staring.

He could not see what Virginia saw, at first. She pointed, unable to speak. In a little thicket of young spruce there was a curiously shaped heap of snow, capped by a done of snow that extended under the sheltering branches of a young tree. Instantly Harold understood. Some long bundle had been left there before the snow came; when it had been thrown down its end had caught in the branches of a young tree where only a small amount of snow could reach it. "See what it is," Virginia ordered.

The man drew the sled nearer and with desperate energy began to knock away the snow. His first discovery was a linen tent,—one that would have been familiar indeed to Bill. But digging further he found a heavy bundle, tied with a rope and rattling curiously in his arms.

At Virginia's directions he laid it in the snow and pulled the sled up where she could open it. Bill stood beside her, not daring to guess the truth.

"Oh, my darling!" she cried at last, drawing his head down to hers. She couldn't say more. She could only laugh and sob, alternately, as might one whose dearest prayers had been granted.

The bundle was full of food,—dried meat and canned goods and a small sack of flour. They were some of the supplies that to save himself the work of caring for, the faithless Vosper had discarded when, with Kenly, he had turned back from the river.

* * * * *

At the end of three bitter days, Bill Bronson stood once more on the hill that looked down upon the old mining camp. The twilight was growing in the glen beneath; already it had cast shadows in Virginia's eyes. She sat beside him on the sled.

It had been cruel hardship, the three days' journey, but they had made it without mishap. At night they had built great fires at the mouth of their tent, but they had not escaped the curse of the cold. The days had been arduous and long. But they had conquered; even now they were emerging from the dark fringe of the spruce.

Virginia was on the rapid road toward recovery from her wound. It had not been severe; while she was lying still on the sled it had had every chance to heal. A few stitches by the doctor in Bradleyburg, a thorough cleansing and bandaging, and a few more days in bed would avert all serious consequences. Bill's sight had grown steadily better as the days had passed; already the Spirits of Mercy had permitted him, at close range, to behold Virginia's face.

A half-mile back, just before they approached the first fringe of the spruce forest, they had met a trapper just starting out on his line; and he had gladly consented to take Harold the rest of the way into town. It is one of the duties of citizenship in the North, where the population is so scant and the officers so few, to take an active part in law enforcement,—and this trapper was glad of the opportunity to assist them in the care of the prisoner. He was to be lodged in prison at the little mining camp to face a charge of attempted murder,—a crime that in the northwest provinces is never regarded lightly.

"And you weren't drowned!" the trapper marveled, when he had got his breath. "We've been mournin' you for dead—for months."

"Drowned—not a bit of it," Virginia answered gayly. "And don't mourn any more."

The trapper said he wouldn't and hastened off with his prisoner, delighted indeed to be the first to pass the good word of their deliverance through Bradleyburg. Bill was well known and liked through all that portion of the North, and his supposed death had been a real blow to the townspeople.

Bill felt wholly able to follow the broad snowshoe track the half-mile farther into town. The footsteps of the men had grown faint and died away,—and Virginia and he were left together on the hill.

They had nothing to say at first. They simply watched the slow encroachment of the twilight. Lights sprang up one and one over the town. Bill bent, and the girl raised her lips to his.

"We might as well go on," he said. "You're cold—and tired."

"Yes. I can't believe—I'm saying good-by to the spruce."

"And you're not, Virginia!" The man's voice was vibrant and joyful. "We'll have to come back often, to oversee the running of the mine—half of every year at least—and we can stay at the old cabin just the same. The woods are beautiful in summer."

"They're beautiful now."

And they were. She told the truth. For all their savagery, their fearful strength, their beauty could not be denied.

They saw the church spire, tall and ghostly in the twilight, and Bill's strong arms pressed the girl close. She understood and smiled happily. "Of course, Bill," she told him. "There is no need to wait. In a few days I'll be strong enough to stand beside you—at the altar."

So it was decided. They would be married in the quaint, old town of Bradleyburg, in the shadow of the spruce.

They would return, these two. The North had claimed them—but had not mastered them—and they would come back to see again the caribou feeding in the forest, the whirling snows, and the spruce trees lifting their tall heads to the winter stars. They would know the old exultation, the joy of conflict; but no blustering storm or wilderness voice could appall them now. In the security and harbor of their love, no wind was keen enough to chill them, no darkness appall their spirits.

The Northern Lights were beginning their mysterious display in the twilight sky. Far away a coyote howled disconsolately,—a cry that was the voice of the North itself. And the two kissed once more and pushed on down to Bradleyburg.

THE END