Donald smiled pleasantly, and inquired after the injured shoulder, a question that turned the old man's sarcasm into fury, for he had scarcely slept the night before, what with the pain of his wound, and the nervous shock of the day.

"Well," he snarled to the others, "what brings him here now?"

A spokesman told what had already occurred outside, and Fitzpatrick listened intently. With a few rapid questions, he made certain that Indian Tom could not have perpetrated the deed himself, either purposely or accidentally. Then, he turned to the accused.

"Just where were you when you heard the shot, as you claim?" he inquired, curtly.

Donald declared he had been at the edge of the camp, naming a certain spot, and the man who had found the body identified the place as well within gun-shot of the scene of the tragedy.

"Do you believe," Fitzpatrick asked the hunter, "that a shot from the tree where McTavish was could have reached and killed Indian Tom?

"There's no doubt of it, sir."

"Now, Captain McTavish, do you admit having had a personal encounter with this Indian not long since?

"I do." And Donald detailed the incident, ending with this remark: "It would seem to me only ordinary common sense that Tom should go gunning for me, and not I for him."

"Yes, but a great many people, when they know an Indian is on their trail, prefer to end matters themselves, rather than live in constant suspense and fear."

"I have yet to live in suspense or fear of any man," returned Donald significantly.

"Now, Captain McTavish," the factor said, "will you please state what took you to the edge of the camp last night during a storm of such fierceness?"

"It was a private matter, solely, and I do not care to divulge it," was the unsatisfactory reply.

"More may depend upon this than you think," warned the factor, pawing at his beard with the old, familiar gesture. "I advise you to tell."

"I refuse to do so, but give you my word of honor that I had no thought of Tom in mind. In fact, I had forgotten all about him. But I did hear the shot. It was not very distant, and I was not sure what the noise was. I waited for another, but none came."

For another half-hour, the factor grilled his victim for further information. But in vain. Then, furious at his failure, he ordered McTavish placed under guard without parole, and in the next breath commanded a second log cabin to be built as a jail wherein to confine the prisoner.

"You have defied me long enough, McTavish," he snarled, his eyes gleaming with an ugly light, "and, by the eternal, you shall pay for this. I'll make an example of you that the North country will not forget in years. Already, you deserve punishment for breaking out of Fort Severn; this is the last straw. We'll see whether the Company can be set at naught by every underling in its employ."

"What do you intend to do?" Donald asked.

"I shall try you on this charge of murder."

"How can you try me on such a charge when you are here avowedly at war? Tom, being the half-brother of Charley Seguis, naturally is an enemy. Men at war can't be tried for murder, if they kill an enemy."

"Indian Tom wasn't killed in battle; he was far beyond our sentry lines. Your technicality has no weight," retorted the factor, grimly. "I am resolved that this crime shall not go unpunished, just as I am resolved that Charley Seguis shall pay the penalty for the death of Cree Johnny, if I can ever lay hands on him. You shall have a fair trial, as is your due; but justice shall run its course."

"How soon will this travesty take place?" asked McTavish bitterly.

The factor restrained his temper with difficulty.

"As soon as possible," he declared savagely. Then, turning to the others present, he ordered: "Take him away."

Already, outside, Donald could hear men attacking dead trees with their axes for material to build the little cabin that was to be his prison. His heart sank, for he felt instinctively that the shanty would be his last earthly habitation. At length, the factor had found what he wanted—an opportunity of legalizing the murder for which his heart lusted.

Donald's morbid fancy could see the skeleton of the gibbet and the hollow square of witnesses. He could feel the rope scratching his neck. He could both see and feel, most hideous of all, the piercing triumph in that dread hour of Fitzpatrick's gimlet eyes.



CHAPTER XIX

A FORCED MARCH

Charley Seguis entered the council chamber of the huge log house in the free-trader's camp at the lower end of Sturgeon Lake, and looked about him with satisfaction. Now, the square, bare-floored room could scarcely hold the men when he called them into meeting because of the bales of fur that were piled everywhere.

It had indeed been a successful winter for the free-traders, notwithstanding opposition; and, as is the case in so many new enterprises, there had been an enthusiasm and devotion to the cause that had given speed to snowshoes and accuracy to the aim of rifles. The catch was extraordinary.

Passing out into the open again, he met one of his men.

"The Frenchies ought to be here with their supplies pretty soon, chief," the latter remarked; "we're running mighty low on flour and tea and tobacco."

"I expect them any day," was the reply. "Can we hold out a week longer?"

"No more than that, and, even so, we'll have to go on short rations."

Although the situation was as yet not grave, it gave Seguis some concern. The negotiations with the French company that had bargained for the free-traders' furs were, this first winter, carried on under difficulties, for the company had not as yet been able to build a post for regular trading.

Arrangements had been made, however, to send a great dog-train of ten sledges north, loaded with supplies, that the hunters might replenish their failing stores. Because of the unsatisfactory trading arrangements, the men had not ventured far afield; and, now, because of the shortness of staple food, they had gathered at the settlement to restock before circling out on the hunt again. The opportunities for game at this time were the worst in the winter. Moose had "yarded up"—that is, gone into winter seclusion in some snowy corral farther north—and bears were enjoying their five or six months' nap beneath cozy tree-roots and five or six feet of snow. Caribou, always hard hunting, unless "mired" in deep snow, were few and far between.

The only real source of fresh food was the lake, where a number of men were constantly employed fishing through the ice. And even this was unsatisfactory, because a considerable amount was needed to keep so many men and dogs supplied. There was, however, an air of contentment and satisfaction in the camp, and the men waited patiently, though hungrily, for the arrival of the trains from the south.

When the commissary had left him, Charley Seguis's brow clouded with annoyance as he saw a bent, wizened female figure approaching him. The only woman In the camp, old Maria, had not fallen into obscurity for a moment. She always wanted something, and haggled and nagged until she got it. Seguis, the sterling white blood ascendant in him, could not always find the pride for her in his heart that a mother might wish of her son. Now, she fawned upon him and whined.

"Are you a man or a stick," she complained, "that you let the blood of your brother go unavenged? It's nearly three weeks since some coward shot him, and you haven't made a move to find the guilty man."

"Nor will I, until the business here is settled," Seguis retorted, in a tone of finality. "Do you expect me to leave this camp when the traders are expected, and go on some wild-goose chase out of personal revenge? For my part, I think Tom would have been sorrowed over a little more if he hadn't been such a fool. Why he went gunning for McTavish out of pure spite, I don't see. We need every man we can get in this camp."

Seguis was a remarkably fine-looking half-breed. He had the proud carriage and graceful movements of the Indian, combined with the bright eyes and more attractively shaped head of a Caucasian. His hair was smooth and black, but lacked the coarseness of his mother's race, while his brain and method of thinking were wholly that of his father. With this endowment there had come to him, early in life, an aspiration to rise above his own sort, a desire to be a thorough white man. And in this he had always been supported by his mother, who, knowing her past, carried in her heart bitterness fully the equal of Angus Fitzpatrick's. It was only when her elder son had reached manhood, and bore easily, as by right, the manners of the superior race that the idea of carrying him upward ruthlessly had come to her.

Catherine de' Medici placed three successive sons on the throne of France. Old Maria was less ambitious, but none the less unscrupulous, and her methods revealed an uncanny natural knowledge of diplomacy and statecraft. Her whole life was bound up in the achievements of Charley Seguis, and she rarely, if ever, considered the question of personal perquisites should her schemes result successfully. She was content to be the background of his operations; and the background of a picture, although it be subordinate to the main object, rarely goes absolutely unnoticed.

The strangest part of her plan lay in the fact that as yet Seguis was totally unaware of his parentage. In the cunning scheme she had evolved, it was her intention to remove Donald McTavish completely, though unostentatiously; then could come the great revelation and the noise of conquest. Reasoning thus, she had taken her story to Angus Fitzpatrick, anxious, hesitant, and fearful. But in him, to her great joy, she had found an arrogant and eager, ally. This had been during the summer. It was now the first of March, and time was flying. The work must be completed before the spring thaws. The loss of Tom was not the grief to her that she made pretense it was. Her references to it this morning had a deeper purpose. She continued the conversation, despite Seguis's tone of annoyance.

"Tom may have been a fool," she croaked, "but you're hardly the person to say so. Perhaps you'd have changed your song, if he'd put that dog, McTavish, out of the way—curse his charmed life!"

Seguis laughed harshly.

"You did your best, and Tom did his; I suppose it is up to me next. But why do you imagine I would be so glad if the captain was disposed of? I've nothing against him."

"No? What's the matter with you? You're as soft as a rotten tree! What were you hanging around Fort Severn for all last summer, without a look for the Indian girls? Why were you singing love-songs under the trees of nights? Why did you cease to eat, and carry around a face as long as a sick fox's, eh? Ah, you are angry, and you shift! And, yet, you ask me what you have against this McTavish! With him out of the way, there's no reason why you shouldn't—"

"Hush, hush, mother! There are men coming. Don't talk so loud!" Seguis moved uncomfortably. "Leave me, now. There's some truth in what you say. I'll think it over."

Old Maria, bent and shriveled, hobbled off, croaking, to hide the expression of malignant triumph on her leathery face. Her words had bitten deeper than Seguis cared to admit, even to himself. The short summer months, the hunter's love- and play-time, had been a season of misery for him, because of Jean Fitzpatrick's pure and beautiful face. Subconsciously, he knew that in mind and spirit he was her equal; the white strain in him, which now governed all his thoughts and actions, felt the call of its own blood. Hence, it had been with sad, rather than bitter, feelings that he witnessed Donald's courtship of the girl. More fiercely than ever, he realized the limitations of his kind. The bar sinister was a veritable millstone around his neck which dragged him down to a level he abhorred.

It was with a kind of gnawing hopelessness that he had gone away from the fort in the fall, and endeavored to forget his misery in the thousand activities of the free-traders' brotherhood. For McTavish personally, he had always retained a strong feeling of friendship, as was shown on the occasion of sending the Hudson Bay man forth on the Death Trail. But, now, the old hunger returned strong upon him at his mother's words, and he resolved to give himself every opportunity for contemplation of the dangerous theme.

Night came without the appearance of the looked-for French supply-trains, and, as usual, the camp retired early. As many of the men as possible used the small rooms in the great log house, which occupied two-thirds of its length. It was in one of these that Donald had been confined during his stay among the free-traders.

A high wind was blowing, and it was intensely cold. Suddenly, during the most terrible hours of the night, a frightened cry rang through the camp. Men, with heads and faces buried under mountainous blankets or in sleeping-bags, did not hear, and the shivering wretch who had tried to give the alarm ran frantically from room to room, rousing the sleepers. Those who were sheltered by shed-tents awoke to see a rosy light spreading across the snow where they lay—a light that was not the aurora. Then, upon the rushing wind sounded an ominous roar and a mighty crackling. The great log house was afire, and the wind exulted in the flames, tossing them back and forth and upward with fiendish glee. Shouting hoarsely, the trappers leaped, wet and steaming, out of their covers, and ran to the conflagration.

How the blaze had started was no mystery, for, in the little rooms the men occupied, each was permitted his tiny fire for cooking. Perhaps, the uneasy foot of a sleeper, perhaps a gust of wind between the chinks, had sent an ember underneath the inflammable logging of the walls.

Charley Seguis, although heavy with slumber, was among the first to run out of the building. In an instant, he took in the situation. With a lake like rock, and but one or two buckets, it was utterly impossible to check the flames with water; one or two men were making a desperate attempt to throw snow on the fire; but the wind whirled this away as fast as it was shot into the air. The building was doomed.

"Save the furs! Save the furs!" Seguis commanded at the top of his voice, and set an example by plunging into the council chamber, to reappear in a moment with two small bales of pelts. Instantly, the others followed his example.

Fortunately, the fire had started at the opposite end, so there was a fighting chance to save the valuable skins, although the flames were leaping along the beams with lightning rapidity. Presently, it was seen that the crowding of men endeavoring to pass in and out at the same time would be fatal to the contents of the wareroom, and Seguis, with a few rapid commands, formed a chain from the interior to a point well beyond the danger zone. He himself took the post of hazard in the midst of the piled pelts, and with quick thrusts of his arms kept a steady stream of bales flowing.

Such men as could not get on the pelt-brigade, he soon had rescuing bedding, traps, and other valuables from the little rooms, some of which were already seething infernos.

Urged by the high wind, the flames licked hungrily at the dry logs, and presently such a terrific heat radiated from the fire that the snow fled away in tiny rivulets, and the iron ground was laid bare. Fast as they worked, the men could not outspeed the devouring element. Flying embers clattered upon the tindery roof, and in a moment the whole top of the long structure was ablaze.

Charley Seguis, grabbing bales and passing them with both hands, suddenly brushed a six-inch ember from the pack of otter in front of him with a curse, and looked up. Here and there spots of fire dropped among the furs. He said nothing, but redoubled his efforts. In fifteen minutes, three-quarters of the work was done, and the drops of fire from above had become a steady rain.

"Get the chief out of there!" yelled someone. "The walls will fall on him!"

The man who was standing next the entrance shouted to Seguis, but all he got was a round cursing and a command to stay where he was. The half-breed was fighting now for more than a few bales of furs; he was fighting for the very existence of the free-traders. For, should their skins be lost, their value as an organization would be gone; and gone, too, all the labor of months, with its accompanying intrinsic worth.

Now, there were but twenty bales left; now, but fifteen. Seguis's hands were raw from burns, his fur cap smoldered in half-a-dozen places. But the man at the door was brave, and Seguis kept on. Ten—five! Could he hold out? Three—two! One! ... Swearing horribly with agony, drenched with perspiration, Seguis burst out of the narrow doorway just as the walls collapsed inward from both sides.

Quick hands wrapped blankets about him, and beat out the fire in his cap. Still holding the last bale in his hand, he stood grimly, watching the destruction of the only free warehouse within five hundred miles. Higher and higher the flames mounted; the circle of men was driven slowly backward by the fearful heat; the surrounding snow was eaten away for fifty yards on every side.

Some activity was necessary lest the flying brands do damage to the shed-tents and the priceless bedding, but the work required only a few hands.

"Well, thank heaven, we saved the furs!" exclaimed the chief, at last.

"You saved 'em rather," said a voice admiringly. Seguis interrupted, roughly.

"Tell the cook to make a couple of buckets of tea, and serve it around as soon as possible."

"Pardon!" said the functionary referred to; "but there's no tea, or any other kind of provision in the camp. What little stock remained was stored in the far end of the building where the fire took hold first. I tried to get to it, but it was no use. There's no food."

This was a serious state of affairs, for without his eternal hot tea the woodsman is almost as wretched as though tobacco had ceased to grow. And, now, it was almost a matter of life and death, for the men were mostly without shelter, and worn out with their long struggle. Charley Seguis walked up and down briskly for a while, thinking. The fire tumbled in upon itself with a great roar and geyser of sparks, throwing distant trees and forest aisles into quick relief. The first indications of dawn, almost obliterated by the brilliance of the blaze, now made themselves definitely evident. A few of the men, with rough fishing-tackle and axes, had already started toward the edge of the lake for the morning's catch.

Seguis watched them with somber eyes, pausing for a moment in his walk. Fish, fish, fish; nothing between starvation and life for forty men except that staple of fish. And suppose the French traders did not get through! Suppose something had gone wrong in that five hundred-odd miles to civilization!

Where, then? Where in this wilderness could he turn for abundant supplies easily secured—except one place. A grim smile set his face into hard lines. ... Yes, he would go there. His mother's words of the day before returned to him. Perhaps he would see her! He called a man to him.

"Tell the boys to get ready to march. I'll leave five here to guard the furs. The rest of us are going up to the Hudson Bay camp, and get food. If we don't, we'll starve to death, or get scurvy, or something. Tell everybody to be ready at ten o'clock."



CHAPTER XX

AWAITING THE HANGMAN

Stretched on a rough bed of blanket-covered branches, in a low, squat log cabin, a man lay smoking his pipe, and conversing in snatches with two other men who sat by the door, also smoking pipes.

The man on the bed was not yet thirty years old, but his face was furrowed with lines of care—not only lines of care, but of character. The hair about his temples was sprinkled with gray, a fact that added to the dignity of his countenance. In his whole attitude, as he lay, there was a certain masterful repose and self-confidence, an air of peace and understanding that sat well upon him.

The men at the door, on the other hand, were nervous and miserable, and shifted their positions uneasily now and again. A small fire burned in the middle of the room.

"What time is it, boys?" asked the man on the bunk.

"Three o'clock, Mac," replied Timmins, pulling on his watch with fingers that shook, and straining his eyes in the dim light.

"Four or five hours more. That's what I hate, this waiting. I'll be mighty glad when I hear the steps outside."

"Don't, Mac, for heaven's sake!" muttered Buxton hoarsely, his languid drawl gone for once. Then, he burst out: "McTavish, I can't stand this—this thing that's going to happen. It's murder, that's what it is! Why don't you tell all the circumstances of that night Indian Tom was killed?

"It wouldn't get me off, if I did. Can't you see that Fitzpatrick is going to get me, even if he has to do it with his own hands? I did tell about going to Peter Rainy in the woods, and it only strengthened the circumstantial evidence. If I told of the other person I was with when the shot came, it would only draw out a flood of revelations, and not in the slightest change the verdict. Besides, it would bring at least half-a-dozen people to their graves in shame and sorrow. No, Buxton, even if I could get myself off, I haven't any right to do it."

Donald lighted his pipe again and fell into a somber reverie. For two weeks now, he had been in his cabin, awaiting the end. The men that sentenced him to death had ordained a fortnight in which he might change his mind, and save himself, if he would. Now, this was the finish. He sighed with relief. Then, a tender light came into his eyes. Only the day before, Jean Fitzpatrick, white and still with pain, had come to him, and had begged him, on her knees, to save himself at her expense.

"If you don't confess that I was with you that night, I'll do it myself," she had cried, beside Herself.

And he had answered:

"Princess, if you do, I'll deny it."

But even that had not convinced her, and she had risen with a firm purpose in her mind. Then, in the supreme renunciation of his life, he had told her everything; that he was a nobody, according to law; that her father was merely working out to a triumphal conclusion the revenge he had plotted so many years, and that there was but one way of cleaning the slate, which bore the writing of so many lives.

"When your father has done away with me I think he will be satisfied, for my father's heart will be broken and all the ambitions that have carried him to where he is will fall to ashes. I have a mother and a sister—ah, they would love you, my mother and sister!—and think what these revelations would mean to them. Disgrace and dishonor!

"Donald, what about me?" she had cried, weeping. "You haven't thought about me. You speak of your father and your mother and sister, but you haven't even mentioned me. Am I nothing to you? Oh, forgive me! I don't mean that! But, Donald, if I lose you, I shall die, too. Don't you see I can't live without you? You found me a girl innocent and ignorant of life, and of men. You were a good man, and you gave me a good love. And I gave you my love, the love of a grown woman, suddenly on fire with things I had never suspected before. Love can't come to me again. Oh, can't you think of me? And yourself! Haven't you the desire to live life to its greatest fulfilment? Can you give me up this way?"

Utterly selfish was her grief. But it was the innocent, instinctive selfishness of the wild thing robbed of its due. Hers was a nature as strong in its renunciation as in its seeking, but she had not come to renunciation yet... She stroked his head, pushing back the fur cap that he wore.

"Oh, my lover, my boy, your hair is streaked with gray! Oh, my poor darling!"

He smiled wanly.

"That," he said faintly, "came after I had thought of you—and given you up!"

Then, the greater woman awakened in her, the woman that has drawn man's head upon her breast to comfort him since the world began; the woman that has borne the sons and daughters of the earth amid pain and fear and ingratitude; the woman that has ever stood aside, alike in right and wrong, that the man may achieve his destiny.

So, then, stood Jean Fitzpatrick in sight of the trimmed tree-limb that was soon to bear the body of him whom she knew to be hers. Her weeping was stilled, and the eyes that looked into the eyes of Donald McTavish bore alike the pain and the glory of woman's eternal sacrifice. And to them both came the sense of peace that follows a bitter struggle won. They talked a while of intimate, tender things, and then she left him.

"Look at him, Timmins," whispered Buxton in an awed whisper. "Did you ever see a face with such glory in it all your life? He's seen something that you and I will never see, here or hereafter!"

Timmins looked... The light gradually died out before his eyes.

"What time is it, boys?" asked Donald.

"Four o'clock, Mac," answered Timmins, glancing with difficulty at the watch that shook in his fingers.

"Let me have my pencil and note-book, will you? I want to write a letter or two." The men hesitated, and the condemned man smiled. "Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll try any funny business at this late date. I give you my word, and that's still good, isn't it?

"It sure is, Mac," said Buxton, and he brought him the articles required.

When the prisoner had begun to write awkwardly by the flickering light, the men engaged in a whispered conversation.

"Say, Mac—" Timmins began hesitatingly, and paused. Then, abruptly, he continued boldly: "I've got a proposition to make you."

"What is it?"

"Buxton and me have agreed it's the only fair thing to do. You take my revolver, and bang us both over the head with it, and make your get-away. We'll frame up a good story of a desperate struggle, and all that, to tell 'em when we come to. Then, nobody'll suffer, and we won't all have murder on our souls. But give us time to fix the story up beforehand," he concluded, whimsically. "You see, we mightn't be able to think alike afterward."

Donald actually laughed.

"It's no go, boys," he said gratefully; "but I'll always remember your—" He halted blankly, and Buxton cleared his throat viciously, and spat into the fire. The fact that "always" consisted for him of perhaps four hours, at most, occurred to the man about to die with something of surprise for a moment. Then, he went on writing.

He had just sealed a letter, and given it to Timmins, when he thought he detected a noise outside the cabin. Whether it was a step or a gruff whisper, he could not say. He listened curiously. Who should be about at this hour? Surely, it was too early for the—

"I wonder, do they keep their grub in this shack?" came the whisper of a man, speaking to a companion.

Where Donald lay, with his ear almost against the logs, the voices were distinct through the chinks, but did not reach the two guards at the door. He remained silent. There was a sound of breathing, and then stealthy steps, as the men pursued their investigations along the walls. What should he do? Who were they? If he spoke, he might precipitate some calamity of which he had no inkling. Thinking hard, he could reason out no situation in the camp that would call for men to be slinking about looking for food. Besides, every one knew that the little cabin was not a storehouse.

Knowing their man and sure of their own ability to cope with any situation that might arise, Timmins and Buxton had not been over-careful in making the door of the cabin fast. At best, the bar was only a piece of wood that turned on a peg, and its main use was to keep the door tightly closed on account of the cold draft that entered every crack. McTavish had been under guard since the morning of his arrest, and the watchers were grown careless. Now, the piece of wood was not turned full across the edge of the entrance—in fact, it just managed to keep it shut. A good stiff pull would—

There was a jerk at the outside handle, a cracking and scraping of wood, an icy blast set the little fire roaring. An instant later, a long gun, with a muffled face behind it, appeared and covered the three men.

"Here, you in the corner, get up, and let's see who you are?" said the man with the gun, and Donald, before that uncompromising barrel, stood.

"Well, by the great Lucifer," came the soft oath, "if it isn't McTavish!"

"What do you want?" demanded Donald; "and who are you?" He resented this intrusion. The time for letters was growing less and less.

"What, don't you recognize me?" The man thrust his head forward, and worked his face out of the capote that covered the features. It was Seguis.

"Well, this is luck," the half-breed was saying to himself. "All I have to do now is to take him out of here, and the coast is clear for my own operations."

He said a few words in Ojibway, and a couple of men appeared behind him in the doorway, as he stepped inside.

"Take off your snowshoes," he ordered Timmins, and the under-storekeeper obeyed with real joy. Had Seguis known it, the two men in front of him were much farther from resistance than was their prisoner.

Under command, McTavish donned the rackets, and followed his new captor out of doors. He was entirely prepared for traveling, even to gauntlets, for the temperature of the cabin had been but a few degrees higher than that of outdoors.

Seguis, with a few words to a couple of followers, gave Donald into their charge, bidding him accompany them. Timmins and Buxton, chuckling together, said nothing of the event that Seguis had interrupted, and even McTavish, in his exalted nervous state, was not fool enough to remark: "Don't take me away!—for I'm due to be hanged in the morning."

Seguis and his free-traders had found the approaches to the camp ridiculously easy. In fact, for the last few days sentries had been withdrawn, Fitzpatrick resting assured that the free-traders would not make an aggressive move. He had learned in a parley that all Seguis and his men asked was peace, and a chance to follow their own path. The factor was waiting for reinforcements from Fort Severn, which he had asked Braithwaite to secure, if possible, among the friendly trappers; and, until they should arrive, and the present matter of discipline be off his hands, he had no desire to make an attack. Consequently, Seguis's party had crept stealthily closer and closer to the camp, undetected. It was the time when sleep in the North country is almost a coma, and the quiet approach aroused no one. In the light of the aurora and the stars, two log cabins stood forth conspicuously. Knowing Fitzpatrick's love of ceremony and distinction, Seguis gathered that the larger and better one was his. If so, the other probably contained provisions.

During the time that he talked to McTavish and his guards, he had not realized the strange situation in which he found them. As he came nearer and nearer to Jean Fitzpatrick, his mind had grown more and more intense against McTavish. What had happened to the unfortunate Hudson Bay man, he only knew imperfectly. But that the former should be in constant communication with the girl was a spur to his jealous imagination. If he could but get his rival out of the way, for a while at least, things would be so much easier. The bird had fallen unexpectedly into his hand, and for a time he did nothing but congratulate himself. McTavish was now on his way to Sturgeon Lake temporarily, and was safely off the board... But, after a while, the strangeness of the situation in the cabin struck him, and he turned to Timmins.

"What was going on in this place when I came in?" he asked.

"We were guarding McTavish."

"What for?"

"He was to be hanged to-morrow for the murder of Indian Tom."

Seguis's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged.

"Damnation, you idiot!" he said at last, wrathfully. "Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have interfered for the world."



CHAPTER XXI

A NOTE AND ITS ANSWER

Ten minutes later, a man approached Seguis.

"We've found the provisions under a tent near the other cabin," he said.

"Quick, then!" the half-breed snapped. "Get them out as soon as you can. If we can get away without being seen, so much the better."

But in this, Seguis had counted without Buxton. Because of the passive actions of the two men upon his appearance the half-breed considered them cowards, and, after disarming them, had kept a careless watch over their movements, though always holding them in sight. In relieving them of rifles and revolvers, he thought he had silenced them, but Buxton was provided against just such an emergency. Beneath his outer garments, he wore a second belt, which permitted the suspension of a revolver in such a position that it could be neither seen nor felt in a hasty examination. Now, when the opportunity offered, he secured this weapon, and fired rapidly a number of times into the air.

Almost immediately tent doors were opened, and men, carrying weapons, burst out, bewildered, but aware of danger from the signal. By previous arrangement, they gathered around the factor's cabin, where Buxton had already taken his stand. In a moment, he had told them what had happened, and then the factor himself appeared. In the three weeks that had elapsed, he had recovered sufficiently to leave his bed, and his shoulder was almost healed. Now, he took command. In the meantime, Seguis's men, having secured a goodly supply of provisions, were making all speed into the forest. Fitzpatrick, dazed at the audacity of the free-traders, gave vent to an explosion of fury.

"Fire!" he commanded gratingly. "Kill every one of 'em. Fire!" And the leveled rifles of almost fifty men spoke with unerring aim. Three of those last to leave the camp fell, but the others, now in the protection of the forest, fled away on their snow-shoes at top speed.

"After 'em!" snarled Fitzpatrick. "Don't let one of 'em get away. We'll end this matter here."

Instantly there was a rush for tents and belongings, for none of the men had had the opportunity to slip on snowshoes. Fifteen minutes later, the pursuers struck out, led by the aged factor, whose rage seemed to lend him almost superhuman strength. In vain, Jean had besought him to stay in camp, saying that the others would do just as well without him. At last, he had promised reluctantly to return in an hour. Two men who had been wounded previously were ordered to remain, and to put the storehouse in order.

When Charley Seguis heard the pistol of Buxton give warning, his first impulse was to turn upon the man, and shoot him dead. But his second—and Seguis usually listened to the second—was to get away peaceably with all the provisions possible. Consequently, his order rang out short and sharp, and was obeyed, for it was the principle of the free-traders to strike no blow except in defense. In his mind's eye, the intelligent half-breed reviewed the scene that must shortly ensue. After that first volley, he could picture the pursuers in their rush for equipment, the hasty start, and the deserted camp. Seguis had come hither for two purposes—to secure food, and to see Jean Fitzpatrick. He had accomplished the first; now to accomplish the second. Putting one of his trusted men in charge of the party, with directions to head for Sturgeon Lake, and explaining he was going to reconnoiter a little, Seguis struck sharply to the right, and began a long, circular detour. Half an hour brought him to a spot behind the Hudson Bay camp, where a considerable hill, with a few scattered trees, sheltered it from the northern storm blasts. Cautiously, and without a sound, Seguis climbed this hill, dodging from tree to tree. At last, he reached the summit, and, lying down on his stomach, peered over... His heart stood still. Not twenty yards away from him, slightly down the declivity, stood Jean Fitzpatrick. Her back was to him, and her eyes were glued to a pair of field-glasses. Evidently, she was trying to discern signs of the pursuit in a clear space several miles away.

Seguis looked beyond her interestedly. There was not a sign of life in the camp. The men who had stayed behind to right the storehouse were now in the woods, picking up any supplies that might have been dropped. Fortune had again favored him. Very cautiously, he stood upright, then slowly advanced. So intent was the girl upon the pursuit that she did not hear the delicate crunching of the snow-shoes. When ten feet away, he drew himself to his full height, and spoke her name, softly:

"Miss Jean."

She whirled upon him swiftly, and shrank back Into herself, as though he had aimed a blow at her. He, on his part, could hardly believe his eyes when he looked into her face. This was not the happy, care-free, girlish Jean Fitzpatrick, who had laughed her way through the brief summer months. He saw, now, the face of a woman, who had learned much and suffered much. There were gravity in the eyes and a seriousness across the brow that served as the badges of this new realization; but there was no fear. After the first shrinking of surprise, she looked him coldly up and down.

"What do you want?" she said.

"To speak with you."

"Did you come for that purpose especially?"

"Yes." Seguis smiled a little, with satisfaction. In searching Timmins, he had found a letter addressed to Jean, in McTavish's handwriting. He might have to use it, and he might not.

"Keep your distance, sir," the girl commanded, haughtily, "and we will talk. If you make a step nearer to me than you are now, I'll scream, and those men in the woods will hear me. And, if they hear me, and learn the trouble, it will go hard with you. Now, what do you want?"

Seguis had expected to find a fluttering, fearful youngling, somewhat impressed with his graces and courage. This businesslike disposal of his case caused his active mind to change its tack, as soon as it sensed the veer of the wind.

"I am here," he said, "to present my compliments to you, along with those of a certain other man."

"Whom do you mean?" Jean's voice was now a little tremulous, despite her discipline of it.

"Captain McTavish."

"Oh!" she said, and she was silent for a moment, collecting herself. "But why do you, of all people, come with this message?" she added.

"No reason at all, except that I saved his life this morning, and thought you might want to learn the facts, and perhaps an inkling of his whereabouts."

"Was that really your reason?" she asked, more kindly.

"It was one of them," he answered, significantly.

It was now Jean's turn to look at her companion with some interest. He spoke with a certain dignity and reserve that she had never noticed in him before. His eyes were firm and steady when they met hers; his bearing was courteous. With a sort of horrible pleasure, she recognized that this was Donald's half-brother, and looked for a family resemblance. She found a very strong one, in the eyes and general stature. Mercifully for her feelings, the shape of the head was hidden in the swathed capote and fur cap. She wondered vaguely if he knew of the relationship.

"Where is—Captain McTavish?" she asked, finally.

"On his way to Sturgeon Lake."

"Did he leave any message for me?"

"A letter that I have in my pocket."

"May I see it?" she asked eagerly, involuntarily stretching forth her hand.

"How can I hand it to you, if I have to keep this distance?" Seguis asked, quizzically, and met her stare with humorous eyes.

"I'll come and get it," she announced, "when you have it in your hand, ready for me to take."

"You haven't thanked me yet for saving his life," the half-breed reminded her. "If it hadn't been for me, he would now be—"

"Don't!" she cried sharply, going pale of a sudden. "Don't ever make any reference to that!" She paused, then added: "I can't thank you enough though, Seguis, for the fact that you saved his life. Why did you do it?"

"I'll tell you later," was the non-committal reply. "In the meantime, here is your letter." He reached inside his shirt, and drew forth a dirty envelope, on which the girl's name was inscribed in pencil. He held it toward her without a word, and the girl clutched at it eagerly.

"Just a moment," he said, withholding it. "You must read it here and now. I want to take it away with me. I must ask your promise in this matter."

"Why?"

"You will learn that later, too. Will you promise?"

For a minute, the girl struggled, and then love won. Better to read the bitter parting message and lose it than not see it at all.

"Yes, I promise," she said, quietly; and he immediately put the envelope in her hands.

Her trembling fingers picked at the flap as she turned away.

"You will pardon me?" she announced rather than asked, turning her back upon him. No living being must see her expression as these last words met her eye.

"Certainly."

With seeming nonchalance, Seguis filled his pipe from a skin tobacco-pouch, and began to smoke. The men gathering up scattered stores at the edge of the woods below moved slowly and painfully because of their wounds, he noticed. A snow-bunting chirped from a drift near by, and faintly to his ears from the deeper woods came the chattering scold of a whiskey-jack, or jay. He noticed these things during the first few whiffs. Then, he looked once again at Jean. Her back was still turned, but presently she faced him slowly, her cheeks flushed, and her blue eyes starry bright, though wet. He appeared unconscious of her emotion, a thing for which she mentally thanked him. In fact, she found him less offensive every moment. He was different from any half-breed she had ever known, but he was only less offensive than others. He could never be anything better.

"Now, tell me why you want this letter back?" she asked, clinging to it desperately, as though it were her lover's hand.

"I want to take it to Captain McTavish, but I want you to write something on it first. You will pardon me if I ask if that was not a letter of farewell?"

"It was."

"Have you a pencil with you?"

"Not here, but there is one in the cabin, among my father's journals. Shall I get it?" Then she bit her lip with vexation. Instead of dominating this interview, as she had intended, she was submitting herself to the plans of the half-breed.

"I must ask for the letter while you are gone."

After a moment's thought Jean handed it to him, with a promise to return without warning the men at the edge of the woods. A certain curiosity to see this mysterious happening to its conclusion stirred within her. Now that Donald had escaped the shadow of death that had been hovering over him, her spirits rose buoyantly, and she was anxious to further anything that concerned him. She returned presently with the pencil, and asked Seguis what he wished her to do.

"Write him a note of farewell," came the stolid command. "It will be the last message he will ever receive from you."

Instantly her color fled; fear filled her eyes.

"What do you mean? You're not going to kill him?" she burst out.

"No. He is going to leave the country forever."

"Did he tell you so?" she asked.

"No. But I want you to tell him so, in your own handwriting. It is the only thing that will save him. He'll obey you. I'll see that he gets a safe-conduct to the edge of the district. If you don't do this, I can't answer for what'll happen to him."

"Then you will kill him!" she flashed. "I knew it. Look here, Seguis! What's your object in this? You have a motive, and I demand to know what it is."

For an instant, the passion of the man leaped to his lips, and trembled there in hot words. But he crushed it down resolutely. He was too wise to ruin his plans now. Later, in a year, in two years, five years perhaps, when the memory of McTavish had dimmed, he would speak. But, now, he must not betray himself.

"I sha'n't kill him," he returned, calmly. "Nothing is further from my mind. But I won't be responsible for what happens to him. There's only one way of saving his life—to send him out of the country. If he stays, he'll eventually be captured, and what nearly happened to-day will happen then. You wish him to live, don't you?

"Yes, yes," she muttered, between dry lips. "Whatever happens to me, he must live."

"Then, write as I suggest. Make it a command, not an entreaty. He'll obey you, and his life will be saved."

For a few moments, Jean paused, irresolute, and then, with difficulty, started the message on the back of the pages McTavish had sent to her. There was no struggle now against the inevitable; that had been endured before. This was merely writing a different final chapter to their romance, and she felt glad of the opportunity to give him life, although life without her and without honor were an empty thing to him. Strong in the feeling that upon her words his very existence depended, she made them eager and hopeful, but imperative, appealing to those instincts in him that could not resist her desire. For perhaps ten minutes, she wrote, and then handed the paper to Seguis.

"I must read it," he said, and, at her nod of acquiescence, puzzled out the words that emotion and her awkward position had made unsteady and misshapen. Then, he nodded his head with satisfaction, and tucked the letter away.

"Seguis," said the girl, when he prepared to go, "what is your motive in doing this? You haven't answered my question."

"My motive and my desire in this matter," he replied feelingly, "is to secure your own happiness; nothing else." With that, he turned away, and coasted swiftly down the hill to the edge of the forest whence he had come.

"My own happiness!" repeated the girl to herself, as she saw him disappear. "How strange a thing for him to say! And, yet, if only Donald is alive and safe I shall be happy—in knowing that he can still think of me."

Five minutes later, a wind-driven snow-storm that had threatened all the morning broke with terrible fury, and, scarcely able to stand against the blast, she made her way down to the deserted cabin, just as the returning factor appeared at the edge of the woods.



CHAPTER XXII

SECRETED EVIDENCE

It was an hour before sunset, but so uniform had been the darkness all day that neither Donald nor his two companions realized that night was close upon them. Hour after hour they had struggled onward through the blinding, bewildering storm, shelterless and without food, straining forward to the only place where these things might be obtained—Sturgeon Lake. Now, when the blanketing night was almost fallen, they sighted the charred ruins that had once been the warehouse of the free-traders, with a sigh of relief. A shout from one of Donald's companions brought the five men who had been left out of their tents. A shriveled female form joined them, and with a clutch at his heart the prisoner recognized old Maria.

Fortune, whose plaything he had been all this day, was indeed kind to him at last, he thought. He remembered certain trite observations concerning opportunity knocking at a man's door, and the obvious duty of a man to seize such opportunity, and bend it to his own use. If this were opportunity, he said to himself, he would make the most of it.

During that all-day struggle with the storm, Donald McTavish had come into his own again. The passive acceptance of fate that had buoyed him even to the shadow of the gallows, had gone from him now. He was all energy and aggressiveness. He resolved to bring matters to a head within the next few days, or know the reason why. What motive had moved Charley Seguis to send him to Sturgeon Lake, he did not know, nor did he care. He only remembered that he was at liberty once again, in a certain sense of the word, and that he had a fighting chance. The sight of old Maria recalled to his mind the words of Angus Fitzpatrick in regard to the marriage certificate that existed as proof of his father's youthful indiscretion. On the instant, he vowed that the hag should give up the truth of the matter before she was many hours older.

As the little party entered the camp, the men who had remained there plied them with questions as to the success of the foraging party. When the meager story had been told, they shook their heads dolefully at the lack of information, and set about the work of preparing the evening meal of fish.

McTavish, as he joined the circle with a ravenous appetite, could scarcely credit the desolation he saw on all sides of him. Now that the main loghouse was down, the settlement presented a dreary and hopeless aspect. The one redeeming feature was the huge pile of rescued fur-bales. The quantity and quality of these impressed him strongly. One of the men, observing his interest in them, remarked:

"If you fellows would get down to business, instead of wasting all winter fussing about us, you might have something like that brought into the fort when spring comes, yourselves."

"Well, you see," returned Donald good-humoredly, "our idea is to have those brought in when spring comes. That's all we're fighting for."

"Deuce of a chance you've got of getting those furs!" retorted the other, contemptuously. "We're sick of the H. B.'s starvation trading, and we've quit for good and all."

"The Hudson Bay may give starvation trading, but I'd like to know where else you'll get as much."

Donald was leading the man on, for here was very valuable information, and this babbler evidently did not know the worth of a tight mouth.

"As much!" the trapper snorted. "Why, these Frenchies'll give us half again as much for a 'beaver' as you chaps ever thought of giving. And there's no use you fellows trying to keep them out, either. This is free territory, you know, even if old Fitz' doesn't think so. I've told Seguis often enough that, if he'd wipe old Fitz' off the map, he'd do the brotherhood more good than any other hundred men."

"I know, my good friend. But when do you suppose these Frenchies will ever connect with you? Maybe never and—"

The other burst into derisive laughter.

"Why, you poor fool!" he cried. "If it hadn't been for this blizzard to-day, we'd have been bargaining with 'em here to-night. Ten big trains of supplies are within thirty miles of us—and you ask me if they'll ever connect! That's good!" And he roared with laughter.

McTavish bridled, but kept his temper, for it was evident who was the fool. He continued pressing the subject for some little time further, but elicited no more really valuable information. Judging his man, he came to the conclusion that the fellow knew nothing more.

Being ignorant of the events that had occurred in the Hudson Bay camp after his departure, Donald was unaware of the desperate pursuit that was going on through the howling storm, but it was no surprise that none of Seguis's party returned to the camp.

"Can't travel in this weather," said one man, dolefully. "If this keeps up long, we won't see 'em till it's over. Honest, after this winter, I'll be surprised if I don't sprout fins, I've eaten so much fish."

The camp was about to turn in early when a faint cry sounded outside the circle of tents. Immediately, every one turned out, hoping it was the foragers back. Rushing in the direction of the sound, the men returned, accompanying a bedraggled old man with a gray beard, after whom limped a train of spiritless, wolfish dogs attached to a battered sledge.

"Thought I was done for in that storm, boys," said the aged voyageur wagging his head, "but I remembered this cove around the headland, and made for it. Got anything to eat?"

According to the unwritten law of Northern hospitality, Bill Thompson, for so he gave his name, was taken in, and given what the camp afforded. He seemed to be a harmless old vagrant, whose point of departure and intended point of arrival on this journey were difficult to ascertain. He talked unceasingly of nothing in particular, and delivered endless narratives of adventures that had befallen him in his lurid and distant youth.

All that night, the storm continued unabated, and the next morning when the camp aroused itself, Bill Thompson gave out the dictum that it would continue for two days more at least. McTavish and his companions congratulated themselves that they had made the camp the night before, for in such weather traveling was almost an impossibility.

At the meager breakfast Donald realized for the first time that Maria had not appeared since the night before, when he had seen her upon their arrival. When he had pulled up his belt a notch, and lighted his pipe, the trapper's substitute for a full meal, he wandered back to the tent where he had slept. He was allowed perfect liberty among these men, first, because the weather made it impossible for him to attempt escape, and, second, because they had received no orders to keep him under strict guard. Despite his wretched situation, this morning the spirit of happiness and determination that had seized him the night before was strong upon him, and he settled himself to formulating his plans. Suddenly, right beside him at the tent door, he discovered the bent form of old Maria. How she had got there he did not know, for she seemed to have risen directly out of the earth. Her presence both startled him, and filled him with a quick hatred.

This was the creature who held in her filthy, withered hand the happiness of so many persons; this was the creature that his father had lov—No! Not that, for he could only have loved the beautiful girl he had married in Montreal.

Donald looked at the old woman with a kind of pitying loathing. What a terrible thing it was that such a worthless bit of humanity should hold so much power! She was within reach of his hands. A quick clutch, a stifled squawk, a brief struggle, and she would be dead. And how much that was to come might be averted! He laughed a little at such a method of cutting the Gordian knot.

"Laugh while you can, young McTavish," Maria croaked, suddenly. "It won't be for long."

"Why not, old raven?" he asked, regarding her interestedly.

The certificate! That was it. She had the certificate, and he must get it.

"The right man is coming," she replied. "The pride of his father's heart! Ha, ha! Yes, the pride of his father's heart! He'll be rich, and have the honors heaped high. You'd better go, young McTavish—go while there's yet time."

"Why should I go? What are you talking about, anyway, old woman?

"You lie!" she yelled at him suddenly, being close. "I see it in your eyes. You know all. You know why you should go. And I warn you to go."

"Warn me? What about?"

"If there should be blood, it would do no hurt," she muttered, vaguely. "Then, he would come into his own, the rightful heir, my son."

Donald glanced at the beldam with a certain uneasiness now. He felt a veiled threat, although, he told himself, she was mad. And, yet if she felt that Seguis must be recognized, what would keep her from doing incalculable harm?

"You talk a lot, but you say little," he retorted, with a sneer. "You make plenty of moves, but you accomplish nothing. That's a squaw every time."

The little eyes blazed upon him red, and her withered face shook with fury.

"Accomplish nothing, eh, young McTavish? We shall see. Ha! You'll wish you'd never been born—you and your father and mother, and all!"

"More talk!" he gibed. "I want proofs. If you can show me proofs of what you claim, I'll do all I can to help your son to his rightful place."

"My son!" she taunted, in turn. "Your brother? Your brother, young McTavish! Call him brother, next time you see him." Her shrieking mirth mingled fittingly with the anguish of the wind among the trees. But suddenly, she stopped short, and looked at him with questioning eyes.

"You'll help him, you say, if I can give the proof that I was McTavish's wife?"

"Yes."

Donald lied heartily: the occasion demanded it. Long since, he had decided for himself that truth was not a garment to be worn on all occasions. To those he loved, he would tell the truth if it killed him, but others must depend upon the circumstances of the case. Now, he knew that, if he could get documentary proof within arm's reach, he would destroy it, though it earned him a knife between the ribs. He watched her like a hawk, although apparently totally indifferent to the conversation.

"You promise you'll help him—my son?

"Yes."

Donald's vision suddenly became riveted upon the clawlike right hand of the hag. An involuntary muscle, following the half-ordained bidding of the brain, had moved perhaps three inches toward her breast. There, it stopped, and slipped down again.

"Look in my eyes," the witch commanded, bending down and putting her face close.

He removed his pipe, and turned to meet her gaze. Then, he realized that never in his life had he looked into human eyes that in cruelty, keenness, and suspicion equaled these. That glare went through the retina, into the brain, and down, down to the hidden and undiscoverable recess of the soul, plumbing, searching, proving. He began to feel as though he were looking at a dazzling light... Suddenly, the light was turned off, and he heard a snarl.

"Liar! I can see the treachery in your heart! Fool, to try to deceive me! I might have put trust in your words once; but now I know!" In her fury, she seemed saner than he had ever known her hitherto, and it was then, for the first time, that he got an idea of Maria's abnormal powers of analysis. Any person who could rivet one with a gaze like that, he thought, was worth watching. For fully ten minutes, she raved, scattering words with prodigal recklessness. McTavish did not listen to the abuse. He was thinking of other things. Presently, she flung herself out of the tent, with a final shriek, and the man acted at once.

He fastened on his snowshoes and crawled awkwardly out on all-fours after her. In the driving, blinding snow, he could just see her small figure, dimly. He followed it. The involuntary motion of Maria's hand to her bosom was the one thing that he had needed. He had been afraid that some split tree, or hollow beneath a rock, might contain the thing he wanted; now, he was certain that she carried it upon her person.

On he went, away from the camp, of which the circle of tents was almost buried. Donald, veering from the path, since it might lead to an embarrassing encounter, kept his quarry always in sight, and followed. Was the woman crazy, he wondered, that she should wander aimlessly out into a death-dealing storm? But, at last, when he was on the point of turning back for fear of losing his location entirely, Maria came to the foot of an unusually large tree, and halted. The pursuer dropped behind a little drift he had just started to mount, and waited. If this were her destination, he knew she would peer about. A moment later, his suspicions were verified. But, In the quick glance of her keen eyes, she passed over the practically invisible snow-covered form that lay so near her. When the man raised his head again, she had turned her attention to the tree, and had pulled open a little, low door that allowed her to crawl into the very heart of the trunk. A moment later, the door swung to, and Maria apparently was no more.

McTavish did not wonder now why he had seen her so seldom in the camp. No doubt, she had her own supply of food safe inside, and did not come out until hunger or her inclination prompted. He looked at the tree to mark it in his mind, and observed that it was tall and bare, with practically no needles or foliage of any sort. Huge bumps and broken limbs made it one in a thousand. On the leeward side of the tree, he thought he noticed a glow of light. He brushed the snow from his eyes, and looked again. This time, he was sure. He guessed that this was an air-hole bored through the wall of the trunk, and that Maria was building a fire inside. For a moment, he envied her coziness. Then, he crawled stealthily forward, until within ten feet of the big hollow pine. The air-holes, he noticed now, were not made on the north and west sides of the tree. Evidently, she counted on the suction of the wind to draw out the smoke and foul air.

The noise of the storm easily drowned any sounds the observer might make, and he moved with considerable freedom, now that the woman could not see him. Plainly, the air-holes had been made by other hands than hers, for they were higher than her head; in fact Donald himself would have to stretch to look down. He selected a hole about three inches in diameter, and peered in. The smoke filled his eye, but he saw enough to know that the old squaw was seated on the floor of her habitation, nursing her little fire. He could not quite see all her actions, so he moved to a larger hole. Presently, the fire burned brightly, and Maria began to rock back and forth, and sing to herself. Suddenly, she burst out into a weird laugh, and cried:

"Ha! The fool! The fool! If he only knew I almost showed him!" Chuckling and muttering incoherently, she put a stealthy hand into her bosom, and drew forth a little bag of muskrat skin. Donald, cursing softly the smoke that filled his eyes, did his best to stand on tiptoe.

The bag was suspended around Maria's neck by a leathern thong, and was operated by pull-strings. Still rocking back and forth, the crone loosened the strings, and opened the bag. Then, she drew forth a paper, old and dirty and yellow. It was so worn in the creases that it almost fell apart, but over it ran fine writing, in a good hand. Donald, strain his eyes as he might, could not make out a single word of it.

Now came the impulse to rush inside, seize the paper, jerk loose the bag, and make away with both. Donald had indeed slipped off his snowshoes preparatory to entrance when a great yelling and hallooing in the forest near by caused him to change his plan of action. Slipping on his rackets again, he sped swiftly back toward the camp. He had hardly disappeared, when the old squaw pushed aside the home-made doorway of her strange dwelling, and looked curiously in the direction of the noises.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE BROTHERS

One by one, exhausted, but joyful, the trappers of the Free-Traders' Brotherhood straggled into their long-sought camp. Nearly all had small packs on their backs, as though the provisions secured had been distributed around evenly. In the lead, as usual, was Charley Seguis. At the end of the procession came two or three wounded trappers, supported by their comrades.

One of the first to greet the arrivals was Donald McTavish. His wonder at the skill and stamina that carried the men through that awful storm expressed itself in eagerness to assist in relieving men of their packs. The gaunt, half-starved five that had been left at Sturgeon Lake pounced upon the food, and, without more ado, started to brew pails of tea, and to thaw out meat. In the midst of his work, Donald suddenly found himself side by side with Bill Thompson, the voyageur who had arrived the night before. At a moment when they were unobserved, the old man spoke into the young man's ear.

"I want to see you alone at the earliest opportunity," he said.

Donald looked at his companion in amazement, and saw something in the other's face that drew instant assent.

The story of Seguis's party was soon told. The men had been traveling hardly an hour when the storm overtook them. From an eminence, they had seen the pursuit of the Hudson Bay men, and, though they had run at top speed, the packs of provisions had retarded them to such an extent that their pursuers were gaining steadily. When the storm broke, however, these very provisions saved their lives, for the Hudson Bay men, being without means of shelter or sustenance, had given up the chase, rather than lose their lives in a pursuit of which the favorable outcome was so problematical. Seguis, striking into the usual trail to the camp, had overtaken his men that night, while they were still struggling on, and had ordered a halt. Confident of their safety, they had camped, and then resumed their march at daybreak, finding their bearings, and keeping them, by the skill known to woodcraft.

It was now noon, and there was still no abatement in the storm. After a good meal, Donald sought out Bill Thompson, while the other men huddled in their tents, and recounted the experiences of the hazardous march.

"Didn't I hear somebody call you McTavish?" asked the old trapper, suddenly dropping the garrulousness that had characterized him so far, and looking at the young man out of keen gray eyes.

"Yes." Donald's perplexity at this strange interview increased.

"Son of the commissioner, are you?"

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"I used to know your father, many years ago; but things went differently for us after a while, and I lost track of him. I haven't seen him in twenty years. Fine man, he is, though."

"You're a Hudson Bay man, then?" Donald inquired.

"Oh, my, yes! Been one all my life, and my boys are trapping for the Company now, down on the English River district. That's where I came from."

"Well, you hadn't better stay here any longer than you can help, or you'll never get away. These fellows are free-traders, you know."

"I gathered as much from that loose-mouthed jay, Baptiste. The reason I spoke to you is that I want to find out where I can lay hold of Angus Fitzpatrick, the Fort Severn factor. Had a little trouble in my section, and I thought I'd just shift up here for a while. I've lost most of the season now, and I've got to get busy."

Donald outlined briefly the position of the factor and the reason that took him away from the fort at this time of the year. Then an idea, full-clothed, leaped into his mind.

"You've seen that pile of furs over there, haven't you?" he asked, indicating the rich haul of the free-traders.

"Yes."

"Well, I want you to investigate them on the sly, and learn about how many there are. I'm the captain of a post on the Dickey River, and I engage you now as my messenger and representative. Give up your idea of trapping for this winter. I've plenty for you to do. No one knows anything about you here, and I think you can get away without being stopped.

"Drive like the devil to the Hudson Bay camp twenty miles up the lake, and tell old Fitzpatrick the best inventory of furs you can secure before you leave. Then, tell him to quit worrying about these free-traders here. Tell him there is a huge train of trading supplies from a French company within thirty miles of this camp somewhere, and say that, if he wants to put an end to this business to capture that train before it arrives.

"These men will starve here in a little while, if they don't lay in a lot of grub, for what they stole the other day can't last very long. Now, if the Frenchies get through with their trains first, Fitzpatrick will have a devil of a time beating these men. They are determined and brainy, at least the leader is, and they have a catch of unusually fine furs—a remarkable catch. Tell him, if he wants to break the back of this trouble, to stop that French train. Last of all, ask him to have ten men with provisions go to the big pine at Muskeg Point, and wait there till I come. It may be several days but I'll come somehow. Tell him, whatever he does, to do this.

"Now, Thompson, the factor and I have had a lot of trouble this winter, and the chances are that we will have a lot more, but I want you to tell him that Donald McTavish sent you with those messages, and that I'm faithful to the Company through everything."

"Well, Mr. McTavish," said the old man, "I'll have to pull my freight in this storm, I guess, and in the middle of the night, too. Possibly, to-morrow morning may be clear, and, if it is, I doubt if I could explain my destination satisfactorily. I'll move to-night."

"And I'll help you," said Donald.

By midnight, there was still no change in the weather. The young man crawled from his shelter and sought out Thompson, who, with his dogs, occupied a tent near the ruins of the old warehouse. A tiny pack of provisions that had been stolen and saved during the day Thompson put upon his rickety sledge.

"Did you get a chance to look over those furs? asked McTavish.

"Sure; I spent an hour with 'em, and I don't think my estimate will be off more than a hundred skins. And, say, they're beauties, too."

"Remember all I told you to tell Fitzpatrick."

"Yes. Now, to get down to the lake! This is a northwest wind, and I'll have to fight it every inch of the way. What's the landmark by the camp?"

Donald told him, and added:

"Thompson, more depends upon you than you have any idea of. Tell the factor to hurry, hurry, hurry, if he's going to get that supply train. Goodby."

The weather-beaten voyageur gripped the outstretched hand, and led the dogs over the new snow to the lake. It would be bitter work, for there were drifts and no crust.

"Look here, McTavish, why don't you make your get-away now?" suddenly demanded Thompson.

"I'm on a hot trail of another sort here," was the curt answer; "and I won't go until I have followed it to the end."

Thompson asked no more questions, but "mushed" the dogs, and a minute later was swallowed up in the swirling flakes.

The following day was a busy one in the free-traders' camp. The storm did not abate until nightfall, and during that time the men were engaged in digging their habitations clear of the snow that almost threatened to bury them. In this work, McTavish cheerfully took a hand, and, by his good-humored banter, won his way to the hearts of his fellow-toilers. Notwithstanding his industry, the Hudson Bay man kept his eye open for glimpses of Maria who, as he expected, was constantly about, now that Charles Seguis had returned. He was surprised that Seguis had nothing to say to him, and wondered anew what had been the motive of his sudden liberation. The idea of connecting Jean and the half-breed never entered his head.

By the following morning the air was clear and prickly with cold, and the sky seemed as though newly polished when the sun rose. The days were becoming longer now, and the daylight hours nearly equaled those of darkness. It was when Donald had given up the idea of Seguis's desiring to see him that the unexpected happened. The half-breed approached shortly after noon, and requested his prisoner to walk a little way into the woods, as he had something to communicate. Puzzled, but prepared for anything, Donald agreed. Subconsciously, he felt that this was to be one of the crises of his life, and he gathered himself to meet it. The same spirit of aggressiveness and determination that had characterized him since his liberation possessed him now. He resolved to take command of the situation if he could; if not, to make his defeat seem a victory. The first wheels of his machinery of reprisal and revenge had been set in motion with Thompson's departure, two nights before. Already, the Hudson Bay men had had thirty-six hours to block the French approach to the free-traders' camp. Perhaps, it was concerning this very thing that Charley Seguis wished to speak to him.

For a quarter of an hour they trudged in silence through the forest. A fallen tree at last projected across their path, and Seguis set an example by sitting down. Donald followed suit.

"As you can imagine," began Seguis evenly, "what I have to say to you is not pleasant. I have a message to deliver."

"Who from?" Donald, reviewing quickly the persons with whom Seguis might have come in contact, could think of no one who would send him a message.

Seguis parried.

"Perhaps, you remember writing a letter that night in the cabin?

"Yes."

"Well, it was delivered."

There was an instant's silence, as the significance of this flashed on Donald.

"H-m, I see," he remarked quietly, "and you bring the answer?"

"Yes, here it is." Seguis handed over the letter, upon the back of which Jean had written.

Donald, with considerable difficulty, read the almost illegible lines, and, when he came to the signature, laughed aloud.

"This is absurd," he said calmly, putting the letter in his pocket. "That is not Miss Fitzpatrick's handwriting."

"I must ask you to believe she wrote that message," rejoined Seguis, coldly.

"Well, I don't believe it, and I won't," was Donald's equally cool retort. "It's a hoax, pure and simple."

"The writing may be a hoax, but the sense is not."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Donald, sharply.

"I mean that what Is contained in that letter goes as it stands. I will give you a safe-conduct out of the country, if you'll accept it. If you won't, I shall restore you to the Hudson Bay officials, with an apology for having interfered with justice." Seguis's tone was level and determined.

McTavish lost color.

"You can't mean that, Seguis," he said, earnestly.

"I do mean it," was the inflexible reply.

Donald reflected for a moment. The situation was getting out of his hands. He must dominate matters at all costs. The plans that he had set in motion must not stop until they had gone on to their inevitable, crushing conclusion. It was evident that the half-breed was equally determined. The battle now lay between them.

"I refuse to go," he said, resolutely.

"Is that final?" asked Seguis.

"Absolutely!"

"Well, then, to-morrow, you start up the lake to the other camp." Seguis rose from his seat, indifferently. "I guess we've nothing left to discuss," he added, and began to walk back toward the camp.

"Seguis, wait!" Donald's face was ghastly with the resolve that had come to him, but he spoke with an even, commanding voice, which arrested the other. "You must not do that. It would be murder."

"How so? You have your opportunity to avoid it."

"Would you murder your own flesh and blood? Tell me, Seguis, would you do that?" The voice was still even, but the eyes that searched those of the half-breed were bright with an intense fire.

"What do you mean by 'my own flesh and blood?' Are you going crazy, McTavish?" demanded the half-breed, feeling, he knew not why, a mysterious fear move within him.

"Crazy! No, indeed, my good Seguis—only too far from it, I sometimes think!" was the spoken reply. But over and over to himself, McTavish was saying: "He doesn't know it! He doesn't know it!"

"Well, what do you mean then?"

"Just what I say; that, if you send me back to the other camp, you'll be murdering your own flesh and blood. Good God! man, don't you know who your father was?

"No—she never told me." Seguis, in a dazed manner, indicated the camp where Maria still prowled about. "Wh—who was he?"

"The—the same as mine! The man who sits in the commissioner's chair to-day—"

"Not McTavish, the McTavish?" cried the half-breed, trembling from head to foot. "No, no, it can't be! Don't say so!"

"But it is, and that's all there is about it," growled Donald, grimly. "Why? What difference does it make to you?"

"Then you—you, Captain McTavish, you are my half-brother?"

"Yes."

"And I was about to kill you, and I have already tried once, and my mother has tried, and Tom—oh, why haven't I known this before? Why didn't she tell me?"

For the moment, Seguis seemed utterly lost in the mazes of his own thoughts and memories. He stood with folded arms, his head hanging upon his breast, while his lips moved in self-communion. Then came the reaction, and disbelief, and it was necessary to go over the ground with him from beginning to end. Concisely and briefly, Donald outlined the whole march of events that had led up to this inevitable revelation.

Then, as never before, the Hudson Bay man realized how far-reaching and potent are the little things of life, and, after all, how far from free agents we are sometimes. Forty-five years before, perhaps, his father, alone in the wilds, had yielded to the warm, dusky beauty of an Indian princess, and now, when, by all the laws of chance and custom, that germ of evil should have expired, it sprang into life and propagated a harvest of intrigue and death. And he, the son, by no fault of his own, was unwillingly but unavoidably involved in the penalty.

To Seguis the meaning of it all came as a blinding flash. In an instant, he analyzed his heritage of ambition and knew the desires of his mother for what they were. He looked back now upon his life of advancement with discerning eyes, and, suddenly, ahead of him, not far now since this revelation, he saw a shining goal.

"Then, I am the rightful heir of the commissioner?" he asked, in an awed voice.

"Yes," Donald answered, bitterly. "You are everything and, by law, can have everything; I am no one, and, by the same law, can have nothing but what affection or pity dictates. But it is not because of this that I spoke to you," he went on, proudly. "It was to save my life at least for a little while, as I have work to do."

"And so have I—so have I!" muttered Seguis, abstractedly, his eyes burning bright. "It's all right, McTavish; nothing will come of this. You can either stay, or I'll fit you out for the trail if you want to take it," he added. But it was easy to see that his mind was not in his words.

Donald uttered no thanks. He had gained his end; he would not be sent back to the Hudson Bay camp. He looked at his brooding companion, furtively.

"Let him enjoy his hour of triumph and dreaming," he thought, good-humoredly; "it won't last long." And he started back through the woods to the camp.

Seguis, apparently wrapped in pleasurable plans, followed slowly at a distance.



CHAPTER XXIV

NINE POINTS OF THE LAW

For two days, affairs in the camp remained unchanged. Donald, unobtrusively watching events, saw Charley Seguis often in conference with old Maria. The faces of both were lighted with a certain joy, but, at times, that of the half-breed seemed to assume a brooding somberness. McTavish, for his part, was merely waiting. After that stormy day by the blasted pine, and the glimpse he had caught of the coveted certificate, a change had been wrought in him. He temporarily relinquished the idea of obtaining the paper: that had come later. Other things of more vital importance demanded his attention, things that boded no good for these men in whose midst he lived, unmolested, an alien. He had seen opportunity to serve the Company, that inflexible master which had almost crushed his life out more than once, and the inherent loyalty in him had responded. Where before he had been willing to give his life in defense of his own ideals, now he was setting personal desire aside that the Company might be served.

In the free-traders' camp, the situation was once more becoming acute. Supplies were again low, although the week allowed for the arrival of the French pack-trains was not up. The men were loath to leave the camp exposed, to search for the expected arrivals, and they hung on, trusting that the traders would come through.

The third morning after the talk with Seguis, the Hudson Bay man opened another conversation between them.

"I've changed my mind, Seguis, about staying here any longer," he said. "The other day, you promised to fit me out for the trail, if I wanted to go, and I've decided to take advantage of that offer, if it's still open."

"It is still open," replied the other. "What has changed your mind so suddenly?"

"Oh, everything!" was the despondent answer. "I can't see much ahead of me, and I might as well hit the trail. I think I'll head for Labrador. I can make it just about when spring breaks, and I'll start over again."

A light of exultation leaped into Seguis's eyes, but he did not betray his emotion either by voice or gesture.

"As you like," he said. "When do you wish to leave? I can't give you much food."

"To-day, if I can. I'm sick of this whole business. I'll take what you'll give me. And I'll say this, that you've treated me white—under the circumstances."

"Please, don't say anything about it," rejoined Seguis, quickly.

An hour later, Donald stood ready for his departure, the mask of humility and depression hiding the fear and worry in his heart. He must have one stroke of luck, and it had not come! Well, it wasn't absolutely necessary, but it would help.

Suddenly, out of the woods burst a man on snow-shoes, running at top speed toward the camp. Donald's heart leaped within him. Had he guessed right, after all? Had things happened as he hoped? The man glissaded down the hill, and, without any attempt to check his progress, began to yell at the top of his voice:

"Queek! Ze help! We must have him. I am of ze party Francais. We haf been attack' an' captur' by ze Hudson Bay men. Only I haf escap'. By gar! Come! Eet is only five mile, maybe four. I will lead you. Come! Come!"

Instantly, there was uproar in the camp. Everyone shouted questions and answers at once. A dozen men gave orders. Yet, in ten minutes, Seguis's whole force stood in its snowshoes, with cartridge-belts strapped on, and rifles ready. Grim determination and anger were written on every face.

Donald, in the confusion, slipped away swiftly over the hard crust, and took a position behind a breastwork of shrubbery, whence he could watch operations unseen. Five minutes later, the free-traders, with Seguis at the heels of the voluble guide, swung away, leaving a handful of wounded to look after the camp.

Now, it was McTavish's turn to fly. Without looking behind, he sped in the opposite direction, and laid his course for the big pine at Muskeg Point, two miles away. Despite the situation in which he was placed, the prospect of action, even the very exercise as he trotted along, raised a joy in his breast. The time for reprisal had come. Though he should go into exile immediately after, the blow he was about to strike would never be forgotten.

Arrived at the big pine, his heart dropped like a plummet. There were no men there, nor any tracks of men. Could it be that the factor had ignored his directions? No, hardly that, for the French trains had been captured. What, then, was the matter? With his eyes at their keenest, he looked about him.

The eye of the trapper is, under ordinary conditions, as powerful as some field-glasses; moreover, it is trained to see, not merely to look. In a minute, Donald resolved a weather-beaten bump on a nearby tree into the capote-shrouded head of a man who was peering from cover. He waved his hand, and the man stepped out. In a moment more, others came forth, ten in all, and surrounded him, plying him with questions. Timmins was there, and Buxton, and old Bill Thompson. When the greetings had passed, greetings reserved, but full of feeling, McTavish explained the situation at the camp he had just left, and indicated his project. Then, in the lead, he began the stealthy return march.

It was barely eleven o'clock when the party arrived at the edge of the woods near the camp. Of the five men that had been left, two were away fishing, and the others, barely able to struggle about, were seated around a fire smoking. Near them, and in the center of the camp, well protected by old blankets, was the huge pile of furs. This was the object of McTavish's solicitude. The first step in his plan had been to return to the Company the valuable skins that the free-traders had collected. With those gone, the whole organization would fall to the ground; it would have no excuse for being. Perhaps, then, its members would come back into the Company's roll!

Detailing a couple of his men to capture the unsuspecting anglers, Donald gave the word to advance. So quietly was this done that the three about the camp-fire, deep in some argument, did not notice their approach.

"Well, boys, the game's up," cried Donald, fifty yards away, and the three looked into the rifles leveled at them, in utter stupefaction.

It was a bloodless victory. Swift hands disarmed the free-traders, and, presently, the surprised fishermen were marched in from the lake to join their comrades in misfortune. As there was much to be done, Donald disposed of the men in a characteristic manner. He had their blankets moved over to a stump that rose four or five feet above the snow. Then, he tied a foot of each with a long strand of rope, fastening the rope to the stump. A man investigated frequently to see that no one had tampered with the tether.

It was Donald's idea to save the furs without injury, if possible. Therefore, he and his men set about protecting them with a rude breastwork of logs. What solid embers of the burned warehouse still remained were dragged across the snow, and piled on that side from which Seguis and his men were expected to return. The woods sounded with the blows of axes as the skilled woodsmen felled dead trees, or cut branches, to fill the spaces between logs. While this work went on McTavish personally rounded up the supplies of the camp. There was little food, but considerable ammunition. Both of these he deposited behind the breastwork of logs. The wretches at their tether watched him with tragic eyes.

One man made tea, which all hands stopped long enough to drink. Then, the frenzied work went on again. By mid-afternoon, a formidable defense for the men had been erected. Behind it, the blankets and accouterments of the Hudson Bay party were gathered.

Suddenly, a distant shot was heard. Then, there was silence. It was as though there had been a signal given to which there was no reply.

"Mac," said Timmins, "the old man ought to forgive you for this."

"I don't care whether he does, or not. I'm not doing this for him. But, by the way, Timmins, where's the factor now? Did he go with the boys to cut off the Frenchmen?

"No; he's laid up at the old camp. You know that day you were captured, well, he was so mad at Seguis and his men that he lit out in the pursuit. He's ugly when he's mad, but he's too darned old to do them foolish things. When he came back, he was chilled, and what with getting over his wound, and the exposure of the chase, and everything, he came down sick again. So, when Bill Thompson arrived with your orders, he turned 'em over to McLean, and let him do what he liked. McLean hasn't been favored with too much brains, but he knew enough to follow them. Now, it looks like you had a strangle-hold on the whole business. The other bunch got the supply-trains, you say, an' we've got the furs. Don't know as I'd care to be a free-trader about now, or a little later."

"Wait a minute!" cried Donald, who had been trying vainly to interrupt. "Is the factor really sick this time?"

"Yes. Dr. Craven's with him all the time, and he let it out that the old fellow's about ready to tune up his eternal harp."