The Hunted Woman

by James Oliver Curwood

  CHAPTER XXV

  Donald MacDonald's startling assertion that Mortimer FitzHugh had been inthe camp, and that Joanne's dream was not a dream, but reality, brought agasp of astonishment and disbelief from Aldous. Before he had recoveredsufficiently from his amazement to speak, MacDonald was answering thequestion in his mind.

  "I woke quicker'n you, Johnny," he said. "She was just coming out of thetepee, an' I heard something running off through the brush. I thought mebbyit was a wolverine, or a bear, an' I didn't move until she cried out yourname an' you jumped up. If she had seen a bear in the fire-glow shewouldn't have thought it was Mortimer FitzHugh, would she? It's possible,but it ain't likely, though I do say it's mighty queer why he should be inthis camp alone. It's up to us to watch pretty close until daylight."

  "He wouldn't be here alone," asserted Aldous. "Let's get out of the light,Mac. If you're right, the whole gang isn't far away!"

  "They ain't in rifle-shot," said MacDonald. "I heard him running a hundredyards out there. That's the queer thing about it! Why didn't they jump onus when they had the chance?"

  "We'll hope that it was a dream," replied Aldous. "If Joanne was dreamingof FitzHugh, and while still half asleep saw something in camp, she mighteasily imagine the rest. But we'll keep watch. Shall I move out there?"

  MacDonald nodded, and the two men separated. For two hours they patrolledthe darkness, waiting and listening. With dawn Aldous returned to camp toarouse Joanne and begin breakfast. He was anxious to see what effect theincident of the night had on her. Her appearance reassured him. When hereferred to the dream, and the manner in which she had come out into thenight, a lovely confusion sent the blushes into her face. He kissed heruntil they grew deeper, and she hid her face on his neck.

  And then she whispered something, with her face still against his shoulder,that drove the hot blood into his own cheeks.

  "You are my husband, John, and I don't suppose I should be ashamed to letyou see me in my bare feet. But, John--you have made me feel that way, andI am--your wife!"

  He held her head close against him so that she could not see his face.

  "I wanted to show you--that I loved you--'that much," he said, scarcelyknowing what words he was speaking. "Joanne, my darling----"

  A soft hand closed his lips.

  "I know, John," she interrupted him softly. "And I love you so for it, andI'm so proud of you--oh, so proud, John!"

  He was glad that MacDonald came crashing through the bush then. Joanneslipped from his arms and ran into the tepee.

  In MacDonald's face was a grim and sullen look.

  "You missed your chance, all right, Johnny," he growled. "I found where ahorse was tied out there. The tracks lead to a big slide of rock that opensa break in the west range. Whoever it was has beat it back into the othervalley. I can't understand, s'elp me God, I can't, Johnny! Why shouldFitzHugh come over into this valley alone? And he _rode_ over! I'd say thedevil couldn't do that!"

  He said nothing more, but went out to lead in the hobbled horses, leavingAldous in half-stunned wonderment to finish the preparation of breakfast.Joanne reappeared a little later, and helped him. It was six o'clock beforebreakfast was over and they were ready to begin their day's journey. Asthey were throwing the hitch over the last pack, MacDonald said in a lowvoice to Aldous:

  "Everything may happen to-day, Johnny. I figger we'll reach the end bysundown. An' what don't happen there may happen along the trail. Keep arifle-shot behind with Joanne. If there's unexpected shooting, we want whatyou might call a reserve force in the rear. I figger I can see danger, ifthere is any, an' I can do it best alone."

  Aldous knew that in these last hours Donald MacDonald's judgment must befinal, and he made no objection to an arrangement which seemed to place theold hunter under a more hazardous risk than his own. And he realized fullythat these were the last hours. For the first time he had seen MacDonaldfill his pockets with the finger-long cartridges for his rifle, and he hadnoted how carefully he had looked at the breech of that rifle. Withoutquestioning, he had followed the mountaineer's example. There were fiftyspare cartridges in his own pockets. His .303 was freshly cleaned andoiled. He had tested the mechanism of his automatic. MacDonald had watchedhim, and both understood what such preparations meant as they set out onthis last day's journey into the North. They had not kept from Joanne thefact that they would reach the end before night, and as they rode theprescribed distance behind the old hunter Aldous wondered how much sheguessed, and what she knew. They had given her to understand that they werebeating out the rival party, but he believed that in spite of all theirefforts there was in Joanne's mind a comprehension which she did not revealin voice or look. To-day she was no different than yesterday, or the daybefore, except that her cheeks were not so deeply flushed, and there was anuneasy questing in her eyes. He believed that she sensed the nearness oftragedy, that she was conscious of what they were now trying to hide fromher, and that she did not speak because she knew that he and MacDonald didnot want her to know. His heart throbbed with pride. Her courage inspiredhim. And he noticed that she rode closer to him--always at his side throughthat day.

  Early in the afternoon MacDonald stopped on the crest of a swell in thevalley and waited for them. When they came up he was facing the north. Hedid not look at them. For a few moments he did not speak. His hat waspulled low, and his beard was twitching.

  They looked ahead. At their feet the valley broadened until it was a milein width. Half a mile away a band of caribou were running for the cover ofa parklike clump of timber. MacDonald did not seem to notice them. He wasstill looking steadily, and he was gazing at a mountain. It was atremendous mountain, a terrible-looking, ugly mountain, perhaps three milesaway. Aldous had never seen another like it. Its two huge shoulders were ofalmost ebon blackness, and glistened in the sunlight as if smeared withoil. Between those two shoulders rose a cathedral-like spire of rock andsnow that seemed to tip the white fleece of the clouds.

  MacDonald did not turn when he spoke. His voice was deep and vibrant withan intense emotion. Yet he was not excited.

  "I've been hunting for that mount'in for forty years, Johnny!"

  "Mac!"

  Aldous leaned over and laid a hand on the old mountaineer's shoulder. StillMacDonald did not look at him.

  "Forty years," he repeated, as if speaking to himself. "I see how I missedit now, just as DeBar said. I hunted from the west, an' on that side themount'in ain't black. We must have crossed this valley an' come in from theeast forty years ago, Johnny----"

  He turned now, and what Joanne and Aldous saw in his face was not grief; itwas not the sorrow of one drawing near to his beloved dead, but a joy thathad transfigured him. The fire and strength of the youth in which he hadfirst looked upon this valley with Jane at his side burned again in thesunken eyes of Donald MacDonald. After forty years he had come into hisown. Somewhere very near was the cavern with the soft white floor of sand,and for a moment Aldous fancied that he could hear the beating ofMacDonald's heart, while from Joanne's tender bosom there rose a deep,sobbing breath of understanding.

  And MacDonald, facing the mountain again, pointed with a long, gaunt arm,and said:

  "We're almost there, Johnny. God ha' mercy on them if they've beat us out!"