CHAPTER VI
James Kent, among his other qualities good and bad, possessed amerciless opinion of his own shortcomings, but never, in that opinion,had he fallen so low as in the interval which immediately followed theclosing of his door behind the mysterious girl who had told him thather name was Marette Radisson. No sooner was she gone than theoverwhelming superiority of her childlike cleverness smote him until,ashamed of himself, he burned red in his aloneness.
He, Sergeant Kent, the coolest man on the force next to InspectorKedsty, the most dreaded of catechists when questioning criminals, theman who had won the reputation of facing quietly and with deadlysureness the most menacing of dangers, had been beaten--horriblybeaten--by a girl! And yet, in defeat, an irrepressible and at timesdistorted sense of humor made him give credit to the victor. The shameof the thing was his acknowledgment that a bit of feminine beauty haddone the trick. He had made fun of O'Connor when the big staff-sergeanthad described the effect of the girl's eyes on Inspector Kedsty. And,now, if O'Connor could know of what had happened here--
And then, like a rubber ball, that saving sense of humor bounced up outof the mess, and Kent found himself chuckling as his face grew cooler.His visitor had come, and she had gone, and he knew no more about herthan when she had entered his room, except that her very pretty namewas Marette Radisson. He was just beginning to think of the questionshe had wanted to ask, a dozen, half a hundred of them--more definitelywho she was; how and why she had come to Athabasca Landing; herinterest in Sandy McTrigger; the mysterious relationship that mustsurely exist between her and Inspector Kedsty; and, chiefly, her realmotive in coming to him when she knew that he was dying. He comfortedhimself by the assurance that he would have learned these things hadshe not left him so suddenly. He had not expected that.
The question which seated itself most insistently in his mind was, whyhad she come? Was it, after all, merely a matter of curiosity? Was herrelationship to Sandy McTrigger such that inquisitiveness alone hadbrought her to see the man who had saved him? Surely she had not beenurged by a sense of gratitude, for in no way had she given expressionto that. On his death-bed she had almost made fun of him. And she couldnot have come as a messenger from McTrigger, or she would have left hermessage. For the first time he began to doubt that she knew the man atall, in spite of the strange thing that had happened under O'Connor'seyes. But she must know Kedsty. She had made no answer to hishalf-accusation that she was hiding up at the Inspector's bungalow. Hehad used that word--"hiding." It should have had an effect. And she wasas beautifully unconscious of it as though she had not heard him, andhe knew that she had heard him very distinctly. It was then that shehad given him that splendid view of her amazingly long lashes and hadcountered softly,
"What if you shouldn't die?"
Kent felt himself suddenly aglow with an irresistible appreciation ofthe genius of her subtlety, and with that appreciation came a thrill ofdeeper understanding. He believed that he knew why she had left him sosuddenly. It was because she had seen herself close to the danger-line.There were things which she did not want him to know or question herabout, and his daring intimation that she was hiding in Kedsty'sbungalow had warned her. Was it possible that Kedsty himself had senther for some reason which he could not even guess at? Positively it wasnot because of McTrigger, the man he had saved. At least she would havethanked him in some way. She would not have appeared quite so adorablycold-blooded, quite so sweetly unconscious of the fact that he wasdying. If McTrigger's freedom had meant anything to her, she could nothave done less than reveal to him a bit of sympathy. And her greatestcompliment, if he excepted the kiss, was that she had called him asplendid liar!
Kent grimaced and drew in a deep breath because of the tightness in hischest. Why was it that every one seemed to disbelieve him? Why was itthat even this mysterious girl, whom he had never seen before in hislife, politely called him a liar when he insisted that he had killedJohn Barkley? Was the fact of murder necessarily branded in one's face?If so, he had never observed it. Some of the hardest criminals he hadbrought in from the down-river country were likable-looking men. Therewas Horrigan, for instance, who for seven long weeks kept him in goodhumor with his drollery, though he was bringing him in to be hanged.And there were McTab, and _le Bete Noir_--the Black Beast--a lovablevagabond in spite of his record, and Le Beau, the gentlemanly robber ofthe wilderness mail, and half a dozen others he could recall withoutany effort at all. No one called them liars when, like real men, theyconfessed their crimes when they saw their game was up. To a man theyhad given up the ghost with their boots on, and Kent respected theirmemory because of it. And he was dying--and even this stranger girlcalled him a liar? And no case had ever been more complete than hisown. He had gone mercilessly into the condemning detail of it all. Itwas down in black and white. He had signed it. And still he wasdisbelieved. It was funny, deuced funny, thought Kent.
Until young Mercer opened the door and came in with his late breakfast,he had forgotten that he had really been hungry when he awakened withCardigan's stethoscope at his chest. Mercer had amused him from thefirst. The pink-faced young Englishman, fresh from the old country,could not conceal in his face and attitude the fact that he was walkingin the presence of the gallows whenever he entered the room. He was, ashe had confided in Cardigan, "beastly hit up" over the thing. To feedand wash a man who would undoubtedly die, but who would be hanged bythe neck until he was dead if he lived, filled him with peculiar and attimes conspicuous emotions. It was like attending to a living corpse,if such a thing could be conceived. And Mercer had conceived it. Kenthad come to regard him as more or less of a barometer giving awayCardigan's secrets. He had not told Cardigan, but had kept thediscovery for his own amusement.
This morning Mercer's face was less pink, and his pale eyes were paler,Kent thought. Also he started to sprinkle sugar on his eggs in place ofsalt.
Kent laughed and stopped his hand. "You may sugar my eggs when I'mdead, Mercer," he said, "but while I'm alive I want salt on 'em! Do youknow, old man, you look bad this morning. Is it because this is my lastbreakfast?"
"I hope not, sir, I hope not," replied Mercer quickly. "Indeed, I hopeyou are going to live, sir."
"Thanks!" said Kent dryly. "Where is Cardigan?"
"The Inspector sent a messenger for him, sir. I think he has gone tosee him. Are your eggs properly done, sir?"
"Mercer, if you ever worked in a butler's pantry, for the love ofheaven forget it now!" exploded Kent, "I want you to tell me somethingstraight out. How long have I got?"
Mercer fidgeted for a moment, and a shade or two more of the red wentout of his face. "I can't say, sir. Doctor Cardigan hasn't told me. ButI think not very long, sir. Doctor Cardigan is cut up all in rags thismorning. And Father Layonne is coming to see you at any moment."
"Much obliged," nodded Kent, calmly beginning his second egg. "And, bythe way, what did you think of the young lady?"
"Ripping, positively ripping!" exclaimed Mercer.
"That's the word," agreed Kent. "Ripping. It sounds like the calicocounter in a dry-goods store, but means a lot. Don't happen to knowwhere she is staying or why she is at the Landing, do you?"
He knew that he was asking a foolish question and scarcely expected ananswer from Mercer. He was astonished when the other said:
"I heard Doctor Cardigan ask her if we might expect her to honor uswith another visit, and she told him it would be impossible, becauseshe was leaving on a down-river scow tonight. Fort Simpson, I think shesaid she was going to, sir."
"The deuce you say!" cried Kent, spilling a bit of his coffee in thethrill of the moment. "Why, that's where Staff-Sergeant O'Connor isbound for!"
"So I heard Doctor Cardigan tell her. But she didn't reply to that. Shejust--went. If you don't mind a little joke in your present condition,sir, I might say that Doctor Cardigan was considerably flayed up overher. A deuced pretty girl, sir, deuced pretty! And I think he was shotthrough!"
"Now you're human, Mercer. Sh
e was pretty, wasn't she?"
"Er--yes--stunningly so, Mr. Kent," agreed Mercer, reddening suddenlyto the roots of his pasty, blond hair. "I don't mind confessing that inthis unusual place her appearance was quite upsetting."
"I agree with you, friend Mercer," nodded Kent. "She upset me. And--seehere, old man!--will you do a dying man the biggest favor he ever askedin his life?"
"I should be most happy, sir, most happy."
"It's this," said Kent. "I want to know if that girl actually leaves onthe down-river scow tonight. If I'm alive tomorrow morning, will youtell me?"
"I shall do my best, sir."
"Good. It's simply the silly whim of a dying man, Mercer. But I want tobe humored in it. And I'm sensitive--like yourself. I don't wantCardigan to know. There's an old Indian named Mooie, who lives in ashack just beyond the sawmill. Give him ten dollars and tell him thereis another ten in it if he sees the business through, and reportsproperly to you, and keeps his mouth shut afterward. Here--the money isunder my pillow."
Kent pulled out a wallet and put fifty dollars in Mercer's hands.
"Buy cigars with the rest of it, old man. It's of no more use to me.And this little trick you are going to pull off is worth it. It's mylast fling on earth, you might say."
"Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you."
Mercer belonged to a class of wandering Englishmen typical of theCanadian West, the sort that sometimes made real Canadians wonder why abig and glorious country like their own should cling to the mothercountry. Ingratiating and obsequiously polite at all times, he gave onethe impression of having had splendid training as a servant, yet hadthis intimation been made to him, he would have become highlyindignant. Kent had learned their ways pretty well. He had met them inall sorts of places, for one of their inexplicable characteristics wasthe recklessness and apparent lack of judgment with which they locatedthemselves. Mercer, for instance, should have held a petty clerical jobof some kind in a city, and here he was acting as nurse in the heart ofa wilderness!
After Mercer had gone with the breakfast things and the money, Kentrecalled a number of his species. And he knew that under their veneerof apparent servility was a thing of courage and daring which neededonly the right kind of incentive to rouse it. And when roused, it waspeculiarly efficient in a secretive, artful-dodger sort of way. Itwould not stand up before a gun. But it would creep under the mouths ofguns on a black night. And Kent was positive his fifty dollars wouldbring him results--if he lived.
Just why he wanted the information he was after, he could not have toldhimself. It was a pet aphorism between O'Connor and him that they hadoften traveled to success on the backs of their hunches. And hisproposition to Mercer was made on the spur of one of those moments whenthe spirit of a hunch possessed him. His morning had been one ofunexpected excitement, and now he leaned back in an effort to review itand to forget, if he could, the distressing thing that was bound tohappen to him within the next few hours. But he could not get away fromthe thickening in his chest. It seemed growing on him. Now and then hewas compelled to make quite an effort to get sufficient air into hislungs.
He found himself wondering if there was a possibility that the girlmight return. For a long time he lay thinking about her, and it struckhim as incongruous and in bad taste that fate should have left thisadventure for his last. If he had met her six months ago--or eventhree--it was probable that she would so have changed the events oflife for him that he would not have got the half-breed's bullet in hischest. He confessed the thing unblushingly. The wilderness had takenthe place of woman for him. It had claimed him, body and soul. He haddesired nothing beyond its wild freedom and its never-ending games ofchance. He had dreamed, as every man dreams, but realities and not thedreams had been the red pulse of his life. And yet, if this girl hadcome sooner--
He revisioned for himself over and over again her hair and eyes, theslimness of her as she had stood at the window, the freedom andstrength of that slender body, the poise of her exquisite head, and hefelt again the thrill of her hand and the still more wonderful thrillof her lips as she had pressed them warmly upon his.
_And she was of the North_! That was the thought that overwhelmed him. Hedid not permit himself to believe that she might have told him anuntruth. He was confident, if he lived until tomorrow, that Mercerwould corroborate his faith in her. He had never heard of a placecalled the Valley of Silent Men, but it was a big country, and FortSimpson with its Hudson Bay Company's post and its half-dozen shackswas a thousand miles away. He was not sure that such a place as thatvalley really existed. It was easier to believe that the girl's homewas at Fort Providence, Fort Simpson, Fort Good Hope, or even at FortMcPherson. It was not difficult for him to picture her as the daughterof one of the factor lords of the North. Yet this, upon closerconsideration, he gave up as unreasonable. The word "Fort" did notstand for population, and there were probably not more than fifty whitepeople at all the posts between the Great Slave and the Arctic. She wasnot one of these, or the fact would have been known at the Landing.
Neither could she be a riverman's daughter, for it was inconceivablethat either a riverman or a trapper would have sent this girl down intocivilization, where this girl had undoubtedly been. It was that pointchiefly which puzzled Kent. She was not only beautiful. She had beentutored in schools that were not taught by wilderness missioners. Inher, it seemed to him, he had seen the beauty and the wild freedom ofthe forests as they had come to him straight out of the heart of anancient aristocracy that was born nearly two hundred years ago in theold cities of Quebec and Montreal.
His mind flashed back at that thought: he remembered the time when hehad sought out every nook and cranny of that ancient town of Quebec,and had stood over graves two centuries old, and deep in his soul hadenvied the dead the lives they had lived. He had always thought ofQuebec as a rare old bit of time-yellowed lace among cities--the heartof the New World as it had once been, still beating, still whisperingof its one-time power, still living in the memory of its mellowedromance, its almost forgotten tragedies--a ghost that lived, that stillbeat back defiantly the destroying modernism that would desecrate itssacred things. And it pleased him to think of Marette Radisson as thespirit of it, wandering north, and still farther north--even as thespirits of the profaned dead had risen from the Landing to go fartheron.
And feeling that the way had at last been made easy for him, Kentsmiled out into the glorious day and whispered softly, as if she werestanding there, listening to him:
"If I had lived--I would have called you--my Quebec. It's pretty, thatname. It stands for a lot. And so do you."
And out in the hall, as Kent whispered those words, stood FatherLayonne, with a face that was whiter than the mere presence of deathhad ever made it before. At his side stood Cardigan, aged ten yearssince he had placed his stethoscope at Kent's chest that morning. Andbehind these two were Kedsty, with a face like gray rock, and youngMercer, in whose staring eyes was the horror of a thing he could notyet quite comprehend. Cardigan made an effort to speak and failed.Kedsty wiped his forehead, as he had wiped it the morning of Kent'sconfession. And Father Layonne, as he went to Kent's door, wasbreathing softly to himself a prayer.
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