The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  “They are not fools, M’sieur. Such a thing would be easy—if they sent a messenger with the papers. But they have guarded against that. Le M’sieur is to be invited to Thoreau’s. The letter will be given to him there.”

  Philip began pacing back and forth, his head bowed in thought, his hands deep in his pockets.

  “They have planned it well—like very devils!” he exclaimed. “And yet—even now I see a flaw. Is Lang’s threat merely a threat? Would he, after all, actually have the letter given to Adare? If these letters are his trump cards, why did he try to have him killed? Would not Adare’s death rob him of his greatest power?”

  “In a way, M’sieur. And yet with Le M’sieur gone, both Josephine and Miriam would be still more hopelessly in his clutches. For I know that he had planned to kill me after the master. My brother had not guessed that. And then the women would be alone. Holy Heaven, I cannot see the end of crime that might come of that! Even though they escaped him to go back to civilization, they would be still more in his power there.”

  Philip’s face was upturned to the stars. He laughed, but there was no mirth in the laugh. And then he faced Jean again, and his eyes were filled with the merciless gleam that came into those of the wolf-beasts back in the pit.

  “It is the big fight then, Jean. But, before that, just one question more. All of this trouble might have been saved if Josephine had married Lang. Why didn’t she?”

  For an instant every muscle in Jean’s body became as taut as a bowstring. He hunched a little forward, as if about to leap upon the other, and strike him down. And then, all at once, he relaxed. His hands unclenched. And he answered calmly:

  “That is the one story that will never be told, M’sieur. Come! They will wonder about us at Adare House. Let us return.”

  Philip fell in behind him. Not until they were close to the door of the house did Jean speak again.

  “You are with me, M’sieur—to the death, if it must be?”

  “Yes, to the death,” replied Philip.

  “Then let no sleep come to your eyes so long as Josephine is awake,” went on Jean quickly. “I am going to leave Adare House to-night, M’sieur, with team and sledge. The master must believe I have gone over to see my sick friend on the Pipestone. I am going there—and farther!” His voice became a low, tense whisper. “You understand, M’sieur? We are preparing.”

  The two clasped hands.

  “I will return late to-morrow, or to-morrow night,” resumed Jean. “It may even be the next day. But I shall travel fast—without rest. And during that time you are on guard. In my room you will find an extra rifle and cartridges. Carry it when you go about. And spend as much of your time as you can with the master of Adare. Watch Josephine. I will not see her again to-night. Warn her for me. She must not go alone in the forests—not even to the dog pit.”

  “I understand,” said Philip.

  They entered the house. Twenty minutes later, from the window of his room, Philip saw a dark figure walking swiftly back toward the forest. Still later he heard the distant wail of a husky coming from the direction of the pit, and he knew that the first gun in the big fight had been fired—that Jean Jacques Croisset was off on his thrilling mission into the depths of the forests. What that mission was he had not asked him. But he had guessed. And his blood ran warm with a strange excitement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Again there filled Philip the desire to be with Jean in the forest. The husky’s wail told him that the half-breed had begun his journey. Between this hour and to-morrow night he would be threading his way swiftly over the wilderness trails on his strange mission. Philip envied him the action, the exhaustion that would follow. He envied even the dogs running in the traces. He was a living dynamo, overcharged, with every nerve in him drawn to the point that demanded the reaction of physical exertion. He knew that he could not sleep. The night would be one long and tedious wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to sleep as long as Josephine was awake!

  Was he to take that literally? Did Jean mean that he was to watch her? He wondered if she was in bed now. At least the half-breed’s admonition offered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If there was a light he would knock, and ask her if she would join him in the piano-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Probably she had retired.

  He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the end room. There was no light—and he heard no sound. He was standing close to it, concealed in the shadows, when his heart gave a sudden jump. Advancing toward him down the hall was a figure clad in a flowing white night-robe.

  At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And then, as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that it was Miriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the room where she had left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose, and fell in lustrous masses to her hips. She was listening. And in that moment Philip heard a low, passionate sob. She turned her face toward him again, and he could see it drawn with agony. In the lamp-glow her hands were clasped at her partly bared breast. She was barefoot, and made no sound as she advanced. Philip drew himself back closer against the wall. He was sure she had not seen him. A moment later Miriam turned into the corridor that led into Adare’s big room.

  Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam’s face he had seen something that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to the corridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of Adare’s room. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden in the gloom he listened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big chairs, and from her movement, and the sound of her sobbing, he knew that she had buried her head in her arms on the table. He listened for minutes to the grief that seemed racking her soul. Then there was silence. A moment later he heard her, and she was so close to the door that he dared not move. She passed him, and turned into the main hall. He followed again.

  She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which she and her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely believing his eyes Philip saw her open the door that led out into the night!

  She was full in the glow of the lamp that hung over the door now, and Philip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her hair. He saw her bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white gleam of a naked shoulder. Before he could speak—before he could call her name, she had darted out into the night!

  With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were deep in the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from her lips. He picked her up in his arms as if she had been a child, and ran back into the hall with her, closing the door after them. Panting, shivering with the cold, she stared at him without speaking.

  “Why were you going out there?” he whispered. “Why—like that?”

  For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and quivering lips would burst forth the strange excitement which she was fighting back. Something told him that Adare must not discover them in the hall. He caught her hands. They were cold as ice.

  “Go to your room,” he whispered gently. “You must not let him know you were out there in the snow—like this. You—were partly asleep.”

  Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation. The sobbing breath came to her lips again.

  “I guess—it must have been—that,” she said, drawing her hands from him. “I was going out—to—the baby. Thank you, Philip. I—I will go to my room now.”

  She left him, and not until her door had closed behind her did he move. Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments been temporarily irresponsible because of grieving over the baby’s death? Some inner consciousness answered him in the negative. It was not that. And yet—what more could there be? He remembered. Jean’s words, his insistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward Josephine’s room, and knocked softly upon her door. H
e was surprised at the promptness with which her voice answered. When he spoke his name, and told her it was important for him to see her, she opened the door. She had unbound her hair. But she was still dressed, and Philip knew that she had been sitting alone in the darkness of her room.

  She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip as if she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which she feared that he was bringing her.

  “May I come in?” he whispered. “Or would you prefer to go into the other room?”

  “You may come in, Philip,” she replied, letting him take her hand. “I am still dressed. I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night that I haven’t thought of going to bed. And the moon is so beautiful through my window. It has been company.” Then she asked: “What have you to tell me, Philip?”

  She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window. It transformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her eyes it put the warm glow of the stars. He made a movement, as if to put his arms about her, but he caught himself, and a little joyous breath came to Josephine’s lips. It was her room, where she slept—and he had come at a strange hour. She understood the movement, his desire to take her in his arms, and his big, clean thoughts of her as he drew a step back. It sent a flush of pleasure and still deeper trust into her cheeks.

  “You have something to tell me?” she asked.

  “Yes—about your mother.”

  Her hand had touched his arm, and he felt her start. Briefly he told what had happened. Josephine’s face was so white that it startled him when he had finished.

  “She said—she was going to the baby!” she breathed, as if whispering the words to herself. “And she was in her bare feet, with her hair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind! Oh my God!”

  “Perhaps she was in her sleep,” hurried Philip. “It might have been that, Josephine.”

  “No, she wasn’t in her sleep,” replied Josephine, meeting his eyes. “You know that, Philip. She was awake. And you have come to tell me so that I may watch her. I understand.”

  “She might rest easier with you—if you can arrange it,” he agreed. “Your father worries over her now. It will not do to let him know this.”

  She nodded.

  “I will bring her to my room, Philip. I will tell my father that I am nervous and cannot sleep. And I will say nothing to her of what has happened. I will go as soon as you have returned to your room.”

  He went to the door, and there for a moment she stood close to him, gazing up into his face. Still he did not put his hands to her. To-night—in her own room—it seemed to him something like sacrilege to touch her. And then, suddenly, she raised her two arms up through her shimmering hair to his shoulders, and held her lips to him.

  “Good-night, Philip!”

  He caught her to him. Her arms tightened about his shoulders. For a moment he felt the thrill of her warm lips. Then she drew back, whispering again:

  “Good-night, Philip!”

  The door closed softly, and he returned to his room. Again the song of life, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end filled his soul to overflowing. A little later and he knew that Adare’s wife had gone with Josephine to her room. He went to bed. And sleep came to him now, filled with dreams in which he lived with Josephine always at his side, laughing and singing with him, and giving him her lips to kiss in their joyous paradise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly and persistently become a part of his mental consciousness. It was a tap, tap, tap at his window. At last he sat up and listened. It was in the gray gloom of dawn. Again the sound was repeated: tap, tap, tap on the pane of glass.

  He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under his pillow. He had slept with the window partly open. Covering it with his pistol, he called:

  “Who is there?”

  “A runner from Jean Croisset,” came back a cautious voice. “I have a written message for you, M’sieur.”

  He saw an arm thrust through the window, in the hand a bit of paper. He advanced cautiously until he could see the face that was peering in. It was a thin, dark, fur-hooded face, with eyes black and narrow like Jean’s, a half-breed. He seized the paper, and, still watching the face and arm, lighted a lamp. Not until he had read the note did his suspicion leave him.

  This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone. If anything should happen that you need me quickly let him come after me. You may trust him. He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close to the dog pit. We have fought together. L’Ange saved his wife from the smallpox. I am going westward.

  JEAN.

  Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand that still hung over the sill.

  “I’m glad to know you, Pierre! Is there no other word from Jean?”

  “Only the note, Ookimow.”

  “You just came?”

  “Aha. My dogs and sledge are back in the forest.”

  “Listen!” Philip turned toward the door. In the hall he heard footsteps. “Le M’sieur is awake,” he said quickly to Pierre. “I will see you in the forest!”

  Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the half-breed was gone. A moment later Philip knew that it was Adare who had passed his door. He dressed and shaved himself before he left his room. He found Adare in his study. Metoosin already had a fire burning, and Adare was standing before this alone, when Philip entered. Something was lacking in Adare’s greeting this morning. There was an uneasy, searching look in his eyes as he looked at Philip. They shook hands, and his hand was heavy and lifeless. His shoulders seemed to droop a little more, and his voice was unnatural when he spoke.

  “You did not go to bed until quite late last night, Philip?”

  “Yes, it was late, Mon Pere.”

  For a moment Adare was silent, his head bowed, his eyes on the floor. He did not raise his gaze when he spoke again.

  “Did you hear anything—late—about midnight?” he asked. He straightened, and looked steadily into Philip’s eyes. “Did you see Miriam?”

  For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt concealment under the searching scrutiny of the older man’s eyes. Like an inspiration came to him a thought of Josephine.

  “Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you,” he said truthfully. “And she was in her room before eleven o’clock.”

  “It is strange, unaccountable,” mused Adare. “Miriam left her bed last night while I was asleep. It must have been about midnight, for it is then that the moon shines full into our window. In returning she awakened me. And her hair was damp, there was snow on her gown! My God, she had been outdoors, almost naked! She said that she must have walked in her sleep, that she had awakened to find herself in the open door with the wind and snow beating upon her. This is the first time. I never knew her to do it before. It disturbs me.”

  “She is sleeping now?”

  “I don’t know. Josephine came a little later and said that she could not sleep. Miriam went with her.”

  “It must have been the baby,” comforted Philip, placing a hand on Adare’s arm. “We can stand it, Mon Pere. We are men. With them it is different. We must bear up under our grief. It is necessary for us to have strength for them as well as ourselves.”

  “Do you think it is that?” cried Adare with sudden eagerness. “If it is, I am ashamed of myself, Philip! I have been brooding too much over the strange change in Miriam. But I see now. It must have been the baby. It has been a tremendous strain. I have heard her crying when she did not know that I heard. I am ashamed of myself. And the blow has been hardest on you!”

  “And Josephine,” added Philip.

  John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling of rel
ief Philip saw the old light in his eyes.

  “We must cheer them up,” he added quickly. “I will ask Josephine if they will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere.”

  He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went at once to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed. He was agreeably surprised to find that both Miriam and Josephine were up and dressing. With this news he returned to Adare.

  Three quarters of an hour later they met in the breakfast-room. It took only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last heroic fight. She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over her neck and cheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor. Miriam seemed greatly changed from the preceding night. Her eyes were clearer. A careful toilette had taken away the dark circles from under them and had added a touch of colour to her lips and cheeks. She went to Adare when the two men entered, and with a joyous rumble of approval the giant held her off at arm’s length and looked at her.

  “It didn’t do you any harm after all,” Philip heard him say. “Did you tell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?”

  He did not hear Miriam’s reply, for he was looking down into Josephine’s face. Her lips were smiling. She made no effort to conceal the gladness in her eyes as he bent and kissed her.

  “It was a hard night, dear.”

  “Terrible,” she whispered. “Mother told me what happened. She is stronger this morning. We must keep the truth from him.”

  “The truth?”

  He felt her start.

  “Hush!” she breathed. “You know—you understand what I mean. Let us sit down to breakfast now.”

  During the hour that followed Philip was amazed at Miriam. She laughed and talked as she had not done before. The bit of artificial colour she had given to her cheeks and lips faded under the brighter flush that came into her face. He could see that Josephine was nearly as surprised as himself. John Adare was fairly boyish in his delight. The meal was finished and Philip and Adare were about to light their cigars when a commotion outside drew them all to the window that overlooked one side of the clearing. Out of the forest had come two dog-teams, their drivers shouting and cracking their long caribou-gut whips. Philip stared, conscious that Josephine’s hand was clutching his arm. Neither of the shouting men was Jean.