"You promise?" she asked. "I wouldn't miss one bit of anything that is happening-not for worlds."
"I promise," he answered with a smile.
"Though I devoutly hope there will be no need for me to keep the promise."
"I'm not at all sure I do," laughed Helen, and obediently retired to her screened bunk.
Stane lit his pipe, and seated himself near the stove. He had, as he had previously told the girl, little fear of any attack developing that night, and this anticipation proved to be the correct one. The still, dead hours passed in quietness, and when the grey day broke, he cautiously opened the cabin-door and looked out. Nothing stirred anywhere, either in the forest or lakewards. He turned and looked at his companion who had just emerged from her sleeping place.
"I think we have our little world to ourselves again."
"Whoever made the attack may be lurking in the woods!" said Helen.
"That of course is more than possible, but I do not think it is likely. It is extremely cold and a night in the open would be anything but desirable. The attacker or attackers, if from the Indian encampment, probably returned there. They must know that we can't leave here, and they will probably try to lull us into a feeling of security, and then attempt a surprise. Anyway after breakfast we'll beat the neighbouring coverts, I don't fancy being kept indoors by an enemy who may prove to be very contemptible."
When breakfast was finished and the necessary morning tasks finished, Stane, who had been in and out of the hut frequently and had kept a careful watch on the wood and lake, looked at Helen.
"Do you feel equal to facing the possible danger, Miss Yardely?"
"I am not afraid," answered Helen quickly, "and if I were I wouldn't own it-or show it, I hope."
"I don't believe you would," replied Stane with a smile. "We will go out, first on the lake where we can survey the shore; and then along the path in the woods where we saw that man yesterday."
"About that man," said Helen slowly. "There was something that I meant to tell you yesterday, but I forgot it again in the excitement of Mr. Anderton's arrival."
"What was that?" asked Stane pausing in the act of slipping on his fur parka.
"Well, I had an odd fancy that he was not an Indian."
"You thought he was a white man?"
"Yes," answered Helen, "that idea occurred to me when you spoke of Indians. The man may have been a native, but in the fleeting glimpse I had of him he did not give me that impression. Of course I may be utterly mistaken."
"But what white man would run away from us?" asked Stane, thoughtfully. "What could possibly be his reason for avoiding us?"
"I don't know," answered Helen, with a quick laugh. "And as it may be no more than my fancy, the question of the man's racial identity is not worth worrying over. I merely thought I would tell you what my impression was."
Stane nodded. "Anyway, white or red he is not going to keep us from our walk. Are you ready?"
"Quite," she answered, and going outside they slipped on their snow-shoes, and then made a bee-line out on the lake.
They walked forward for perhaps half-a-mile and halted at a point whence they got a wide view of the shore. Stane looked up and down the lake. Its smooth white surface was absolutely without life but for his companion and himself. Then he scrutinized the shore, point by point, creek by creek, and Helen also looked carefully.
"No sign of any one," he commented at last. "No camp or fire, we might be alone in the world. If there is any one he is hidden in the deep woods, and for the present invisible. I think instead of going back to the cabin we will make a detour to the point where we surprised the stranger yesterday."
Stane leading, to break the track in the untrodden snow, they made their way shorewards and struck it well to the north of the cabin, then began to work through the woods, keeping a sharp look out as they went. They saw nothing, however, and when they reached the bushes behind which the stranger had slipped the previous day, there were no fresh tracks to awaken alarm. They stood there looking down between the serried lines of trees. Nothing save the trees was visible, and there was no sound of movement anywhere. The silence was the silence of primeval places, and somehow, possibly because of the tenseness of nerve induced by the circumstances of the walk, the girl was more conscious of it than ever she had been before.
"There is something inimical in the silence up here," she said in a whisper, as she gave a little shudder. "One has a feeling as if all the world of nature were lying in wait to ambush one."
"Nature red in tooth and claw," Stane quoted lightly, "only up here her teeth are white, and her claws also. And when she bares them a man has little chance. But I understand your feeling, one has the sense of a besetting menace. I felt it often last winter when I was new to the country, and it is a very nasty feeling-as if malign gods were at work to destroy one, or as if fate were about to snip with her scissors."
"Yes," answered the girl, still whisperingly, then she smiled. "I have never felt quite like this before. I suppose it rises out of the real menace that may be hidden in the woods, the menace of some one watching and waiting to strike."
"Very possible," answered Stane, flashing a quick look at her. He was looking for the sign of fear, but found none, and a second later he said abruptly: "Miss Yardely, I think you are very brave."
"Oh," laughed the girl in some confusion, "I don't know that, but I hope I am not below the general average of my sex."
"You are above it," he said with emphasis. "And I know that this, even for the bravest of women, must be rather a nerve-breaking walk."
"I won't deny that I find it so," was the reply. "But I am sustained by an ideal."
"Indeed?" he asked inquiringly.
"Yes! Years ago I read about some English women in India who were at a military station when the Mutiny broke out. The regiments in the neighbourhood were suspected of disloyalty and any sign of fear or panic would have precipitated a catastrophe. If the women had left, the Sepoys would have known that they were suspected, so they remained where they were, attending to their households, paying their ordinary calls, riding about the district as if the volcano were not bubbling under their feet, and they even got up a ball in defiance of the danger. Some people would call the latter mere bravado, but I am sure it was just a picturesque kind of courage, and in any case it impressed the Sepoys. Those particular regiments remained loyal-and it was the behaviour of the white women which saved the situation. And their courage is my ideal. I have always felt that if I were placed in a similar situation I would at least try to live up to it."
"You are doing so," answered Stane with conviction. "This situation is not quite the same, but--" He broke off and looked round the silent woods, which might well be the hiding-place of implacable enemies, then added: "Well, it is a test of character and courage!"
"Oh," laughed the girl a little nervously, "you do not know how I am quaking inwardly."
"I am not to blame for that," he answered laughingly, "you conceal the fact so well."
In due time they reached the cabin without mishap. They had found no sign of the enemy of the previous night. If he still lurked in the wood he kept himself hidden and Stane hoped that he had withdrawn for good. But he determined to take no chances, and busied himself in the next few hours with cutting a good store of wood which he stacked in the cabin. He also chopped a considerable amount of ice which he stored as far away from the stove as possible. Some cached moose-meat, which was frozen solid as a board, he hung on the rafters of the cabin, which themselves were white with frost.
The short day had almost ended when he had completed these tasks, and he was about to enter the cabin, when through the dusk he caught sight of a figure, standing among the trees openly watching him. The garb proclaimed the figure to be that of a woman, and for a moment he was utterly startled. Then, acting on impulse, he started to walk towards the watcher, his unmittened hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip.
* * *
Th
e watching woman made no attempt to escape, but somewhat to Stane's surprise, awaited his coming. As he drew nearer he was again startled to find that it was the girl whom he had talked with at Fort Malsun.
"Miskodeed," he cried in surprise. "You! What are you doing here?"
"I come to warn thee," said the girl in her own dialect. "Once before I did that, and I was too late. But now I am in time."
"To warn me?" he echoed, still too surprised to say more.
"Yes," answered Miskodeed. "There are those who will seek to kill thee tonight."
"Tonight! But why?"
"I do not know, fully. The thing is hidden from me, but there is some one who means to slay."
"Who is it?" asked Stane in sudden curiosity.
"It is the son of Chief George's sister-the man for whom the officer came to the encampment yesterday."
"Then he is at the camp, after all?"
"He was there when the officer came. The story which Chief George told about his departure to the Great Barrens was a lie."
"But why should he seek to kill me?"
"Have I not said I do not know fully? But he promises big things if thou are slain: rifles and the water that burns and makes men sing, and tea and molasses, and blankets for the women."
"But," protested Stane, "I have but one rifle and little spirit and tea. I am not worth plundering, and Chief George must know that the law will take account of his doings, and that the grip of the law reaches right up to the Frozen Sea."
"He knows," answered the girl quietly, "but Chigmok-that is his sister's son-has filled him with a lying tale that the law will take no account of thee, and he believes, as Chigmok himself believes."
"But--" began Stane, and broke off as the girl lifted her hand.
"Chief George has seen the rifles, and the burning water, the box of tea and the bale of blankets, and his soul is hungry for them. He would kill more than thee to win them."
"And the-the man who is with me?"
A little flash came in the girl's dark eyes. "That man--" she said in a voice that had an edge like a knife, "tell me, is she thy squaw?"
"Then you know, Miskodeed?" he said, with a quick feeling of shame.
"I know that man is the bright-faced woman who came to Fort Malsun. Tell me, is she thy squaw?"
"No?" he answered sharply. "No!"
"Then what does she in thy lodge?"
"That is due to an accident. She drifted down to the great river, and I saved her from the water, and started to take her back to Fort Malsun. Our canoe was stolen in the night, and when we took the land-trail my leg was broken and we were delayed, and by the time I was fit for travel, winter was upon us, so we sought the cabin to wait for help. That is the explanation, and now tell me, Miskodeed, is the woman to die?"
"The bright-faced one is to be saved alive."
"Ah! That is an order?"
"It is necessary for the winning of the rifles, and the tea and the blankets."
Stane pursed his lips to whistle at the news. There was more behind it than appeared; and he knew that Chigmok the murderous half-breed was not the framer of the plot, however, he might be the instrument for its execution. He looked at the girl thoughtfully for a moment, and as he did so a soft look came in the wild, dark eyes that were regarding him intently.
"Canst thou not leave the bright-faced woman, and I will show thee a way through the woods. We will go together--"
"It is impossible! Quite impossible, Miskodeed," cried Stane almost violently.
He did not know that other ears than those to which they were addressed caught those words of repudiation. Helen Yardely, missing his presence about the cabin, had stepped out to look for him, and catching a murmur of voices in the still air, had stood listening. The words, coupled with the girl's name, reached her quite clearly, and struck her like a blow. She did not wait to hear more, but retreated to the cabin, her cheeks burning with shame, her grey eyes bright with fierce scorn. She did not know to what the words referred, but, in her haste and jealousy she utterly misinterpreted the situation, and her scorn was as much for herself as for Stane as she thought how she had grown to love a man who--
The thought was an intolerable one. She could not endure it, and she began fiercely to do a totally unnecessary task in the hope of driving it from her. That was impossible, and after a minute or two she seated herself in front of the stove and stared into its glow with eyes that flashed with mingled anger and pain, the while she awaited Stane's return.
Meanwhile, the interview which had kindled such fires within her had already come to an abrupt conclusion. For as Stane declined her suggestion Miskodeed lifted a warning finger.
"Hark!" she whispered.
Stane listened, as did the girl. Whatever sound had made her speak the word was hushed, and after a few seconds she spoke again. "Then thou wilt die for this bright-faced woman?"
"A thousand times!" he answered with quiet vehemence. "Understand, Miskodeed--"
He got no further. In the recesses of the wood a fox barked sharply, and a second later the sound was repeated in two different directions.
"Ah," cried the Indian girl, "They come. Thou art too late. Thou wilt die for thy bright-faced woman now-once."
A second later she turned away, and began to walk rapidly between the trees. Stane did not stand to watch her go. Without an instant's delay he made for the cabin at a run, and as he entered it, breathing rather heavily, he flung to the door and dropped the wooden bar in place. Then without a word he walked to the window and barricaded it as he had done on the previous night. Helen still seated by the stove looked at him in some wonder, and he offered what to him appeared a sufficient explanation.
"Last night when we returned a fox barked in the wood, and a little after some one shot an arrow to kill me. Just now three foxes barked in quick succession in different directions, and as I have not seen a fox since we came here, I think it is as well to take precautions."
To his surprise Helen offered no comment, but sat there as if waiting for further explanations. He offered none. Being unaware of his companion's knowledge of his interview with Miskodeed he had decided to keep the incident to himself, and not to alarm her more than was necessary. Seating himself, he lit a pipe, and as his companion showed no inclination to talk, fell into thought. There was a rather strained, perplexed look on his face, and as the girl glanced at him once she wondered resentfully what thoughts accounted for it. His silence about the Indian girl told against him in her mind. If there had been nothing to be ashamed of in his relations with Miskodeed why had he not spoken openly of the incident in the wood? Jealousy, it was recorded of old, is as cruel as the grave, and as the hot flame of it grew in her heart, she almost hated the girl who was the occasion of it.
As a matter of sober fact, Stane was thinking little of Miskodeed herself, but much of the information she had brought. Whilst he kept his ears open for any unusual sounds outside the cabin, his mind was trying to probe the mystery behind the attack that, as he was sure, was preparing. Who was the inspirer of it, and why should his death be designed, whilst his companion must be spared? Miskodeed had spoken of the price that was to be paid for the attack-rifles and spirit, tea, molasses and blankets. The nature of the bribe was such as would tempt any tribe in the North and was also such as implied a white man in the background. But who was the white man who so chose his instruments for a deed from which apparently he himself shrank? The question perplexed him, and a deep furrow manifested itself between his eyes as he strove to answer it. Ainley? He dallied with the thought for a little time, and then dismissed it. Ainley was afraid of him and shrank from meeting him, but he would hardly go to such lengths as Miskodeed's statement implied; nor would he involve Helen Yardely's life in the extreme risk incidental to an attack in force on the cabin. It was unthinkable!
His mind sought other explanations. Was there some other man, some white man who had seen Helen and by this means hoped to secure her for himself? The thought was prepo
sterous. Then a new thought leaped up. The reward Sir James was offering for his niece's recovery! Had some man his eye on that-some unscrupulous adventurer, who fearing possibly that he himself might claim a share in it, proposed to get rid of him that there might be no division of the spoil? That seemed barely feasible, and--
His thought suffered a sudden interruption. From outside came the crunch of moccasined feet on the frozen snow. He started to his feet, and took up his rifle, glancing quickly at the girl as he did so. There was a flush of excitement in her face, but the eyes that met his chilled him with their unresponsiveness. He held out his machine pistol.
"You had better have this, for the present, Miss Yardely, for I believe the attack is coming. But don't use it unless I tell you."
She took the pistol without a word, and the austerity of her manner as she did so, even in that moment, set him wondering what was the cause of it. But he had little time to dwell upon the matter for more footsteps were audible, and a voice grunted words that he did not catch. He picked up an ax, put it ready to his hand close to the door and then extinguished the slush-lamp.
The cabin was now full of shadows, though he could still see the girl's face in the glare of the stove, and marked with satisfaction that it bore no sign of fear. The position where she stood, however, was not a safe one, and he was constrained to bid her change it.
"You had better come into the corner here, Miss Yardely. It is out of range of any chance arrow through the window. That barricade of mine cannot last long, and they are sure to try the window."
The girl did not answer, but she changed her position, moving to the corner he had indicated, and just as she did so, two or three blows of an ax (as he guessed) knocked out the parchment of the window, but the barricade stood firm. The attack however, continued, and as the improvised shutter began to yield, Stane raised his rifle.
"There is nothing else for it," he whispered.
The next moment the rifle cracked and the sound was followed by a cry of pain.
"First blood!" he said, a little grimly.
There was a short lull, then something heavy smashed against the shutter and it collapsed in the room. As it did so a gun barrel was thrust in the opening, and a shot was fired apparently at random. The bullet struck the cabin wall a full two yards from where Helen was standing. Stane turned to her quickly.
A Mating In The Wilds Page 5