"I can understand that," he answered, turning from his bitterness. "The wilderness gets into one's blood."
"Particularly if it is a little wild to start with," she replied cheerfully, "as I really believe mine is."
"There are men who have lived up here for years, enduring hunger and every kind of hardship, hazarding life almost daily, who having stumbled suddenly upon a fortune, have hurried southward to enjoy their luck. They have been away a year, two years, and then have drifted back to the bleak life and hazard of the North."
"It is not difficult to believe that," answered Helen. "The life itself is the attraction up here."
Stane permitted himself to smile at her enthusiasm and then spoke. "But if you had to live it day by day, year in and year out, Miss Yardely, then--"
"Oh then," she interrupted lightly, "it might be different. But--" She broke off suddenly and a sparkle of interest came in her eyes. Pointing to the pile of wood in the corner she cried: "Mr. Stane, I am sure there is something hidden under that wood."
Stane started and stared at the stacked-up logs, a slight look of apprehension on his face. The girl laughed as she caught the look. "It is nothing to be alarmed at; but those logs are misleading I am sure, for at one place I can see something gleaming. What it is I don't know, but I am going to find out."
Rising quickly, she began to throw down the logs and presently uncovered a large square tin that at some time or another had contained biscuits. Pursuing her investigations she uncovered two similar tins and for a moment stood regarding them with curious eyes. Then she lifted one.
"It is heavy," she exclaimed. "What do you think it is-gold?"
Stane laughed. "Judging by the ease with which you lift it, I should say not."
"I'm going to learn," she replied, and promptly began to operate on a close-fitting lid. It took her a little time, but at last, with the aid of Stane's knife, she managed to remove it. Then she gave an exclamation of disappointment.
"What is it?" asked Stane.
"I don't know. It looks like-wait a minute!" she took a small pinch of the contents and lifting it to her mouth, tasted it. "Flour!"
"Flour! You don't say?"
There was a joyous exalting note in the man's voice that made the girl swing round and look at him in surprise.
"You seem delighted!" she said wonderingly.
"I am," he replied.
"But-well I don't exactly see why! If it were gold, I could understand. One always finds gold in these deserted cabins, according to the story-books. And we find flour-and you rejoice!"
"I do," answered Stane joyfully. "Miss Yardely, that flour is a godsend. We were very short, as you told me, only a pound or two left, and I was afraid that we might have to live on meat and fish alone, and you don't know what that means. I do! I lived for three weeks on moose-meat last winter and I haven't forgotten it yet. For Heaven's sake open the other tins."
The girl obeyed him, and presently the remaining tins revealed their contents. One held about nine pounds of rice and the other was three parts filled with beans.
"We're in luck, great luck!" cried Stane. "Just the things we need. Any time during the last fortnight I would have given a thousand pounds for those stores."
"I expect the owner, if he returns, will be glad to sell them you for a good deal less," she retorted with mock petulance. "It was treasure trove I was hoping for."
"You can't live on gold," laughed Stane, "and you can on the contents of these tins. We must annex them. If the owner has deserted the cabin it won't matter; and if he returns he will bring fresh stores with him, those being but the surplus of his last winter's stock. Nothing could have been more fortunate."
"But flour, and rice and beans!" protested Helen in simulated disgust. "They are so unromantic! It will sound so poor if ever I tell the story in a drawing-room!"
Stane laughed again. "There's nothing romantic about straight meat without change. Those cereals are the best of treasure trove for us."
"Well," conceded the girl laughing with him. "You ought to know, and if you are satisfied I must be. If these stores will carry us through the time until we start for civilization I won't grumble."
To Stane the discovery of the stores was a great relief, far greater than the girl knew. Of starvation he had had no fear, for they were in a good game country, but he knew the danger of a meat diet alone, and now that for the time being that danger was eliminated, he was correspondingly relieved; the more so when, two mornings later, the door of the hut being opened they beheld a thin powdering of shot-like snow.
"Winter is here!" said Helen, a little sobered at the sight of the white pall.
"Yes," he answered. "You found this hut just in time."
No more snow fell for over a fortnight, and during that time, despite the cold, Stane spent many hours practising walking without crutches. The fracture had quite knit together, and though his muscles were still weak, he gained strength rapidly, and as far as possible relieved the girl of heavier tasks. He chopped a great deal of wood, in preparation for the bitter cold that was bound to come and stored much of it in the hut itself. He was indefatigable in setting snares, and one day, limping in the wood with a rifle, he surprised a young moose-bull and killed it, and cached the meat where neither the wolves nor the lynxes could reach it. Then at the close of a dull, dark day the wind began to blow across the lake, whistling and howling in the trees behind, and the cold it brought with it penetrated the cabin, driving them closer to the stove. All night it blew, and once, waking behind the tent canvas with which the bunk where she slept was screened, the girl caught a rattle on the wooden walls of the cabin, that sounded as if it were being peppered with innumerable pellets. In the morning the wind had fallen, but the cabin was unusually dark, and investigation revealed that in a single night the snow had drifted to the height of the parchment window. The cold was intense, and there was no stirring abroad; indeed, there was no reason for it, since all the wild life of the forest that they might have hunted, was hidden and still. Seated by the stove after breakfast, Helen was startled by a brace of cracks like those of a pistol. She started up.
"What was that? Some one fired--"
"No!" answered Stane quickly. "Just a couple of trees whose hearts have burst with the cold. There will be no one abroad this weather."
But in that, as events proved, he was mistaken. For when, in the early afternoon, wrapped in the fur garments which the girl had manufactured at their old camp, they ventured forth, not twenty yards away from the hut Stane came suddenly upon a broad snow-shoe trail. At the sight of it he stopped dead.
"What is it?" asked the girl quickly.
"Some one has been here," he said, in a curious voice. Without saying anything further he began to follow the trail, and within a few minutes realized that whoever had made it had come down the lake and had been so interested in the cabin as to walk all around it. The tracks of the great webbed-shoes spoke for themselves and even Helen could read the signs plainly.
"Whoever is it?" she asked in a hushed voice, looking first at the sombre woods and then out on the frozen snow-wreathed lake.
Stane shook his head. "I haven't the slightest notion, but whoever it was watched the cabin for a little time. He stood there on the edge of the wood, as the deeper impression in the snow shows."
"Perhaps the owner whose palace we have usurped has returned."
Stane again shook his head. "No! He would have made himself known, and besides he would most certainly have had a team of dogs with him. Whoever the visitor was he came down the lake and he went back that way."
"It is very mysterious," said Helen, looking up the frozen waste of the lake.
"Yes," answered Stane, "but rather reassuring. We are not quite alone in this wilderness. There must be a camp somewhere in the neighbourhood, but whether of white men or of Indians one can only guess."
"And which do you guess?" asked Helen quickly.
"Indians, I should say, for a white man wou
ld have given us a call."
"And if Indians, they may be friendly or otherwise?"
"Yes."
"Then," she said, with a little laugh, "we shall have to keep our eyes lifting and bolt the door o' nights!"
"It will be as well," agreed Stane, as he began to circle round the cabin again. "Indians are not always law-abiding, particularly in the North here. In any case we must try and find out where this one comes from, for if he is friendly we may be able to get dogs, and with dogs our journey to civilization will be easy."
He spoke lightly, but there was a grave look on his face, and as she watched him following the snow-shoe tracks to the edge of the ice-bound lake, Helen Yardely knew that he was much disturbed by the mysterious visit of the unknown man.
* * *
The short Northland day was drawing to a close, when Stane and Helen came in sight of the cabin again. For the first time since he had known it, the man felt that the place had a desolate look; and the feeling was accentuated by the sombre woods that formed the background of the cabin. Whilst yet a hundred yards from it he gave expression to his feeling.
"The cabin has a most forlorn look," he said, half-pausing to view it.
Helen, who was very tired, replied, "It certainly looks cheerless in the darkness, but that is because there is no light. A few sticks in the stove and the glare of the fire shining through the parchment window would make it seem cheerful and homey enough."
"But--" he broke off suddenly. "Hark. What was that?"
"I heard nothing," answered Helen.
"Listen," he said.
For perhaps twenty seconds they stood perfectly still, then somewhere in the wood some unseen creature barked. Stane laughed at himself.
"A fox! I believe I am getting nervous," he said, beginning to move forward. Helen moved with him, and they entered the cabin together. Striking a match and lighting a slush lamp which he had devised, Stane looked round. Things were just as they had left them on their departure, and he drew a little breath of relief. Why he should do so he could not have explained, any more than he could have explained the feeling of apprehension which had overtaken him. A few minutes passed, and soon the stove was roaring, filling the cabin with a cheerful glow. Then whilst the girl busied herself with preparations for supper, he went outside to bring in more wood. On the return journey, as he kicked open the cabin-door, for a second his slightly stooping form was outlined against the light and in that second he caught sounds which caused him to drop the logs and to jump forward, suddenly. He threw the door to hurriedly and as hurriedly dropped the bar in place. Helen looked round in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"There is some one about," he answered. "I heard the twang of a bowstring and the swish of an arrow over my head. Some one aimed-Ah, there it is!"
He pointed to the wall of the cabin, where an arrow had struck, and still quivered. Going to the wall he dragged it out, and looked at it. It was ivory tipped, and must have been sent with great force. The girl looked at it with eyes that betrayed no alarm, though her face had grown pale.
"An Indian!" she said.
"Yes," he answered. "And more than one I should fancy. That fox-bark was a signal. No doubt it gave notice of our return."
"What shall we do?" asked Helen quietly.
"Do!" he answered with a short laugh. "We will have our supper and wait developments. We can do nothing else. We shall have to wait until daylight-then we may learn something."
Helen nodded. "Yes, I suppose there is nothing else to do; and a hostile force outside is no reason why we should die of hunger within."
Calmly, as if hostile Indians were part of the daily program, she continued the preparations for supper, whilst Stane fixed a blanket over the parchment window, which was the one vulnerable point in the cabin. This he wedged with the top of a packing case, which the owner of the cabin had improvised for a shelf, and by the time he had finished, supper was almost ready. As they seated themselves at the table, the girl laughed suddenly.
"I suppose we are in a state of siege?"
"I don't know, but I should not be surprised. It is very likely."
"I feel quite excited," she said. "Do you think we shall have to fight?"
"It depends what the intentions of our friends outside may be. We shall certainly have to be on the alert."
"You mean we shall have to keep watch."
"That I think will be necessary. They might try to rush the cabin, though I do not think they will. It is pretty solidly built."
"Why should Indians attack us?"
"I do not know. They may think that we are interfering with their hunting-rights."
"Perhaps this hostility explains why the owner of the cabin has not returned."
"That is possible. This is a good fur country; but he may have felt that the furs were not worth the risk."
"Yes!" answered Helen, and after a moment's silence asked: "Do you think those Indians up the lake have anything to do with it?"
"That is more than possible, indeed, it is very likely. I did not like that old chief. There was a very cunning look in his eyes and it is very possible that he designs to get rid of both us and Anderton. The mysterious visitants we have had, and the man in the wood this morning have a rather ominous look."
"But we shall fight them?"
"Of course! If they are going to fight, we shall fight; though for your sake I hope that won't be necessary."
"Oh, you must not mind me," was the reply, given with a little laugh. "The truth is that I think I should rather enjoy a fight."
Stane gave her a quick look of admiration. "I know you will not be afraid," he said, "and if Anderton gets through it may not be long before help arrives. Also it must be remembered that we may be disturbing ourselves unnecessarily. That," he nodded towards the arrow-"may be no more than the malicious freak of some hunter returning home, and meant to scare us."
"But you do not think so?" asked Helen, looking at his grave face.
"Well--" he began, but the girl interrupted him.
"You don't," she cried. "I know you don't. You have already admitted that you think the matter is serious, as I do myself, though I don't pretend to know anything about Indians. In a situation of this sort the truth is the best, and I know, we both know, that there is some occasion for concern. Is not that so?"
"Well," he agreed, "we can't be too careful."
"Then tell me what we must do," she said a little reproachfully, "and don't make me feel that I am a child."
He considered a moment, then he replied: "We must keep watch and watch through the night. Not that I think there will be any attack. These Northern Indians are wonderfully patient. They will play a waiting game, and in the end make a surprise attack. They will know that now we are on the alert, and I should not be surprised if for the present they have withdrawn altogether."
"You really believe that?"
"Honestly and truly!"
"Then for the moment we are safe."
"Yes! I think so; and you can go to rest with a quiet mind."
"Rest!" laughed the girl. "Do you think I can rest with my heart jumping with excitement? I shall keep the first watch, perhaps after that I shall be sufficiently tired-and bored-to go to sleep."
Stane smiled at her words, and admiration of her courage glowed in his eyes, but what she suggested fitted in well enough with his own desires, and he let her have her way, and himself lay down on his couch of spruce-boughs, and after a little time pretended to sleep. But in reality sleep was far from his eyes. From where he lay, he could see the girl's face, as she sat in the glowing light of the stove. There was a thoughtful, musing look upon it, but no sign of fear whatever, and he knew that her courageous demeanour was not an assumed one, but was the true index of the gay courage of her heart.
Helen was thinking of the face of Miskodeed as she had seen it over her shoulder, when they were departing from the encampment up the lake. She had read there a love for the man who was
her own companion, and in the dark, wildly beautiful eyes she had seen the jealousy of an undisciplined nature. And as she sat in the glowing light of the stove, she was conscious of a feeling of antagonism to this rare daughter of the wilds who dared to love the man whom she herself loved. She understood, from the feelings she herself was conscious of, what must be the Indian girl's attitude towards herself, and was inclined to trace the hostility which had suddenly manifested itself to that source. The girl had been in the neighbourhood of the cabin once, she was sure of that, and might have come again, probably by some short path through the woods, her hand, possibly, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow which had awakened their apprehensions. But in that case, she asked herself, why had the arrow been directed against her companion rather than herself?
That she could not understand, and after a time her thoughts passed to the story which Stane had related to the policeman, and the account of the forged bill that the latter had given. The two together seemed absolutely conclusive. What a man had done once on the way of crime, he could do again, and as her conviction of Gerald Ainley's guilt grew, she was quite sure that somehow he was the moving spirit in her companion's deportation from Fort Malsun. He had not expected to see Hubert Stane, and when the latter had demanded an interview he had been afraid, and in his fear had taken steps for his removal. Ainley loved her; but now, if he were the last man left in the world, she would never--
A sound of movement interrupted her reverie, and she half-turned as Stane rose from his spruce-couch.
"You have heard nothing?" he asked.
"Nothing!" she replied.
"I will take the watch now, Miss Yardely, and do you lie down and rest."
"I will lie down," she said with a little laugh, "but I am afraid sleep will be another matter. My mind is in a ferment."
"You can try at any rate," he said. "I will call you if any untoward thing occurs."
A Mating In The Wilds Page 4