THE SNOWSHOE TRAIL

by

EDISON MARSHALL

 Author of "The Strength of the Pines, " "The Voice of the Pack, " etc. 

With Frontispiece by Marshall Frantz

A. L. Burt Company Publishers, New YorkPublished by arrangement with Little, Brown and Company. 

Copyright 1921, By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved

To Agnes, of the South--this story of the North

The Snowshoe Trail

I

It was not the first time that people of the forest had paused on thehill at twilight to look down on Bradleyburg. The sight always seemedto intrigue and mystify the wild folk, --the shadowed street, the spireof the moldering church ghostly in the half-light, the long row ofunpainted shacks, and the dim, pale gleam of an occasional lightedwindow. The old bull moose, in rutting days, was wont to pause andcall, listen an instant for such answer as the twilight city might givehim, then push on through the spruce forests; and often the coyotesgathered in a ring and wailed out their cries over the rooftops. Morethan once the wolf pack had halted here for a fleeting instant; but theywere never people to linger in the vicinity of men. 

But to-night it was not one of these four-footed wild folk--this tallform--that emerged from the dark fringe of the spruce forest to gazedown at the town. But he was none the less of the forest. Its mark wasupon him; in the silence of his tread, the sinuous strength of hismotions; perhaps it lay even in a certain dimness and obscurity ofoutline, framed by the thickets as he was, that was particularlycharacteristic of the wild denizens of the woods. But even in theheavy shadows his identity was clear at once. He was simply awoodsman, --and he held his horse by the bridle rein. 

The long file of pack horses behind him halted, waiting for their masterto go on. He stood musing, held by the darkened scene below him. Hardto read, in the deepening shadows, was the expression on his bronzedface. It revealed relief, of course, simple and heartfelt joy at thesight of his destination. Men do not wander over the blazed trails ofthe North Woods and not feel relief at the journey's end. There was ahint of fatigue in his posture, the horses' heads were low; and theshacks below meant food and rest. But there was also a pensiveness, adreamy quietude in his dark eyes that revealed the greater sweep of histhoughts. 

He had looked down on Bradleyburg on many previous occasions, but thescene had never impressed him in quite this way before. Already theshadows had crept out from the dark forests that enclosed the littlecity and had enfolded it in gloom: the buildings were obscured and thestreet was lost, and there was little left to tell that here was theabode of men. A dim light, faint as the glowing eyes of the wildcreatures in the darkness, burned here and there from the window of ahouse: except for this the wilderness would have seemed unbroken. 

"It's getting you down, " the man muttered. "It's closing you in andsmothering you--just as it has me. "

Perhaps, had his words carried far enough in the silence, thetownspeople in the houses below wouldn't have understood. His horses, sniffing at his knees, did not seem to hear. But the woodsman could nothave made himself any clearer. Words never come easy to those thatdwell in the silences of the North. To him it seemed that the twilightwas symbolic of the wilderness, --stealing forth with slowencroachments until all of the little town was enfolded within itself. It was a twilight city, the little cluster of frame shacks below him. It could be brave and gay enough in the daylight, a few children couldplay in its streets and women could call from door to door, but thefalling darkness revealed it as it was, --simply a fragment that thedark forests were about to claim. The day was done in Bradleyburg; asin the case of many of the gold camps of the North the wilderness wasabout to take back its own. 

It had had a glorious past, this little city lost in the northernreaches of the Selkirks. In the man's own boyhood it had been one ofthe flourishing gold camps of the North; and miners had come from allover the continent to wash the gravel of its streams. In all directionsup the hillside the tents and shacks had stretched, dance halls weregay, freighters plied along the winding road to the south. The man'smother had been one of the first women in the camp; and one of the lastto go. The mines were fabulously rich; tens of thousands in dust wereoften taken in a single day by a lone miner, fortunes were made and lostat the gambling tables, and even the terrible winters could not triumphover the gold seekers. But in a little while the mines gave out, oneterrible winter night the whole town was destroyed by fire, and now thatthe miners were drifting to other camps, few of the shacks were rebuilt. Of the six thousand that had been, scarcely threescore remained. A fewtrappers ran their lines out from the town, a few men had placer claimsin the old diggings, two or three woodsmen made precarious livings asguides for such wealthy men as came to hunt moose and caribou, andBradleyburg's course was run. The winter cold had triumphed at last, and its curse was over the city from October till June. The spruceforest, cleared away to make room for the cabins, had sprung up againand was steadily marching toward the main street of the town. 

But the man on the hilltop felt no regret. Except for a few memories ofhis young days he had no particular fondness for the little cluster ofshacks. Long ago the wilderness had claimed him for its own; his homewas the dark forest from which even now he was emerging. Bradleyburgwas simply his source of supplies and his post office, the market forhis furs. He had reached back and stroked the warm nose of his horse. 

"Another half mile, old fellow, " he said gently. "Then oats--rice andmeat for me at Johnson's--and oats--honest-to-goodness oats--foryou. What you think about that, eh, Mulvaney? Then show a little speedthis last half-mile. "

The man swung on his horse, and even the cattlemen of the plains wouldhave found something to admire in the ease and grace with which his bodyslipped down into the saddle. The horse moved forward, the pack animalspushed on behind him. A few minutes later they had swung down into thestill street of the town. Tired as he was, his hands were swift andstrong as he unpacked the animals and tied them in the bar back ofJohnson's, --the little frontier inn. As always, after the supperhour, a group of the townsmen were gathered about the hotel stove; andall of them spoke to him as he entered. He stood among them an instant, warming his hands. 

They had few words at first. The lesson of silence is taught deeply andsure in the North. The hostess went to her kitchen to order the man'ssupper, the townsmen drew at their pipes. 

"Well, Bill, " one of them asked at last, "how's everything with you?"

It was not the usual how-d'ye-do of greeting. The words were spoken inactual question, as if they had special significance. 

The man straightened, turning sober eyes. "Nothing startling yet, " hereplied. 

"In after supplies?"

"Yes--and my mail. "

There was a long pause. The conversation was apparently ended. Billturned to go. A stranger spoke from the other side of the fire. 

"How's Grizzly River?" he asked. Bill turned to him with a smile. 

"Getting higher and higher. All the streams are up. You know thatbald-faced bay of Fargo's?"

Fargo was the Bradleyburg merchant, and the stranger knew thehorse, --one of the little band that, after the frontier custom, Fargo kept to rent. "Yes, I remember him. "

"Well, I've got him this fall. You know he's a yellow cuss. "

The stranger nodded. In this little community the dumb brutes werealmost as well known as the human inhabitants. The meaning was whollyplain to him too, and the term did not apply to the horse's color. Yellow, on the frontier, means just one thing: the most damning andunforgivable thing of all. When one is yellow he gives up easily, hedares not lift his arms to fight, and the wilderness claims him quickly. "There's a little creek with a bad mudhole just this side of the ford, "Bill went on. "All the horses got through but Baldy, and he could havemade it easy if he'd tried. But what did he do but just sit back on hishaunches in the mud, like an old man in a chair, his head up and hisfront legs in his lap, and just give up? Quite a sight--that horsesitting in the mud. I had to snag him out. "

The others smiled, but none of them with the brilliance of thestory-teller himself. The wilderness picture--with the cowardly horsesitting in the mud--was again before his eyes; and none of thehardship of the journey could cost him his joy in it. Bill Bronson wasno longer just a dim form on the twilight hilltop. The lamplight showedhim plain. In this circle of townspeople he was a man to notice twice. 

The forests had done well by him. Like the spruce themselves he hadgrown straight and tall, but his form was sturdy too. There was a lithestrength about him that suggested the larger felines; the hard trailsof the forest had left not a spare ounce of flesh on his powerfulframe. His mold, except for a vague and indistinct refinementin his long-fingered and strong hands, was simply that of awoodsman, --sturdy, muscular, untiring. His speech was not greatlydifferent from that of others: the woodspeople, spending many of thelong winter days in reading, are usually careless in speech but rarelyungrammatical. His clothes were homely and worn. He wore a bluemackinaw over a flannel shirt, dark trousers and rubber boots: garmentsthat were suited to his life. 

But it was true that men looked twice into Bill Bronson's face. Hisfeatures were rugged, now his mouth and jowls were dark with beard, yetwritten all over his sunburned face was a kindliness and gentleness thatcould not be denied. There was strength and good humor in plenty; andit was hard to reconcile these qualities with an unquestionedwistfulness and boyishness in his eyes. They were dark eyes, the eyesof a man of action who could also dream, kindly, thoughtful eyes whicheven the deep shadows of the forest had not blinded to beauty. 

As he waited for his meal he crossed the dark road to the littlefrontier post office, there to be given his two months' accumulation ofletters. He looked them over with significant anxiety. There were theusual forders from fur buyers, a few advertisements and circulars, and asmall batch of business mail. The smile died from his eyes as he readone of these communications after another. Their context was usuallythe same, --that his proposition did not look good, and no investmentwould be made in a plan as vague as his. The correspondents understoodthat he had been grubstaked before without result. They remained, however, his respectfully, --and Bill's great hand crumpled each inturn. 

Only one letter remained, written in an unknown hand from a far-offcity; and it dropped, for the moment, unnoticed into his lap. His eyeswere brooding and lifeless as he stared out the hotel window into thedarkened street. There was no use of appealing again to the businessfolk of the provincial towns; the tone of their letters was all toodecisive. The great plans he had made would come to nothing after all. His proposition simply did not hold water. 

He had been seeking a "grubstake, "--some one to finance anotherexpedition into the virgin Clearwater for half of such gains as heshould make. In a few weeks more the winter would close down; thehorses, essential to such a trip as this, had to be driven down to thegate of the Outside, --three hundred miles to the bank of a greatriver. He had time for one more dash for the rainbow's end, and no onecould stake him for it. He had some food supplies, but the horse-rentwas an unsolved problem. He could see no ray of hope as he picked up, half-heartedly, the last letter of the pile. 

But at once his interest returned. It had been mailed in a far distantcity in the United States, and the fine, clear handwriting was obviouslyfeminine. He didn't have to rub the paper between his thumb andforefinger to mark its rich, heavy quality and its beauty, --thestationery of an aristocrat. The message was singularly terse:

My Dear Mr. Bronson:

I am informed, by the head of your provincial game commission, thatyou can be employed to guide for hunting parties wishing to hunt in theClearwater, north of Bradleyburg. I do not wish to hunt game, but I dowish to penetrate that country in search of my fiance, Mr. HaroldLounsbury, of whom doubtless you have heard, and who disappeared in theClearwater district six years ago. I will be accompanied by Mr. Lounsbury's uncle, Kenly Lounsbury, and I wish you to secure the outfitand a man to cook at once. You will be paid the usual outfitter's ratesfor thirty days. We will arrive in Bradleyburg September twentieth bystage. Yours sincerely, Virginia Tremont. 

Bill finished the note, pocketed it carefully, and a boyish light was inhis eyes as he shook fragrant tobacco into his pipe. "The way out, " hetold himself. "She won't care if I do my prospecting the same time. "

His thought swung back to a scene of many Septembers before, of a camphe had made beside a distant stream and of a wayfarer who had eaten ofhis bread and journeyed on, --never to pass that way again. There hadbeen one curious circumstance connected with the meeting, otherwise itmight not have lingered so clearly in Bill's memory. It had seemed tohim, at the time, that he had encountered the stranger on some previousoccasion. There was a haunting familiarity in his face, a fleetingmemory that he could not trace or identify. Yet nothing in thestranger's past life had offered an explanation. He was a newcomer, hesaid, --on his first trip north. Bill, on the other hand, had nevergone south. It had been but a trick of the imagination, after all. AndBill did not doubt that he was the man for whom the girl sought. 

The little lines seemed to draw and deepen about the man's eyes. "Sixyears--but six years is too long, for Clearwater, " he murmured. "Meneither come out by then, or it gets 'em. I'm afraid she'll never findher lover. "

* * * * *

He went to make arrangements with Fargo, the merchant, about supplies. At midnight he sat alone in the little lobby of the inn; all the othertownsmen had gone. The fire was nearly out; a single lamp threw adoubtful glow on the woodsman's face. His thoughts had been tirelessto-night. He couldn't have told why. Evidently some little event ofthe evening, some word that he had not consciously noticed had been theimpulse for a flood of memories. They haunted him and held him, and hecouldn't escape from them. 

His thought moved in great circles, always returning to the samestarting point, --the tragedy and mystery of his own boyhood. He knewperfectly that there was neither pleasure nor profit in dwelling uponthis subject. In the years that he had had his full manhood he hadtried to force the matter from his thoughts, and mostly he hadsucceeded. Self-mastery was his first law, the code by which he lived;and mostly the blue devils had lifted their curse from him. But theywere shrieking from the gloom at him to-night. In the late years someof the great tranquility of the forest had reposed in him and the bitterhours of brooding came ever at longer intervals. But to-night they heldhim in bondage. 

It was twenty-five years past and he had been only a child when thething had happened. He had been but seven years old, --more of a babythan a child. He smiled grimly as the thought went home to him thatchildhood, in its true sense, was one stage of life that he had missed. He had been cheated of it by a remorseless destiny; he had been a baby, and then he had been a man. There were no joyous gradations between. The sober little boy had sensed at once that the responsibilities ofmanhood had been thrust upon him, and he must make good. After all, that was the code of his life, --to take what destiny gave and stand upunder it. 

If the event had occurred anywhere but in the North, the outcome mighthave been wholly different. Life was easy and gentle in the riverbottoms of the United States. Women could make a brave fight unaided;even fatherless boys were not entirely cheated of their youth. Besides, in these desolate wastes the code of life is a personal code, primitiveemotions have full sway, and men to not change their dreams from day today. Constancy and steadfastness are the first impulses of their lives;neither Bill nor his mother had been able to forget or to forgive. Herewas an undying ignominy and hatred; besides--for the North is afar-famed keeper of secrets--the mystery and the dreadful uncertainty, haunting like a ghost. As a little boy he had tried to comfort hismother with his high plans for revenge; and she had whispered to him, and cried over him, and pressed him hard against her; and he hadpromised, over and over again, that when manhood came to him he wouldright her wrongs and his own. He remembered his pathetic efforts tocomfort her, and it had never occurred to him that he had been in needof comforting himself. He had been a sober, wistful-eyed little boy, bearing bravely the whole tragic weight upon his own small shoulders. 

The story was very simple and short, --nothing particularly unusual inthe North. His father had come early to the gold fields of Bradleyburg, and he had been one of few that was accompanied by his wife, --a tendercreature, scarcely molded for life in the northern gold camps. Thenthere had been Rutheford, his father's partner, a man whom neither Billnor his mother liked or trusted, but to whom the elder Bronson gave fulltrust. Somewhere beyond far Grizzly River, in the Clearwater, Bronsonhad made a wonderful strike, --a fabulous mine where the gravel wassimply laden with the yellow dust; and because they had prospectedtogether in times past, Bronson gave his partner a share in it. 

They had worked for months at their mine, in secret, and then Ruthefordhad come with pack horses into Bradleyburg, ostensibly for supplies. Hehad been a guest at the Bronson cabin and had reported that all was wellwith his generous partner. And the next night he had disappeared. 

Weeks were to pass before the truth was known. Rutheford did not returnto the mine at all; he was traced clear to the shipping point, threehundred miles below Bradleyburg. And he did not go empty-handed. Thepack horses had not carried empty saddlebags. They had been simplyladen with gold. And Bronson never returned to his family inBradleyburg. 

There was only one possible explanation. The gold had representedthe season's washings--an amount that went into the hundreds ofthousands--and Rutheford had murdered his benefactor and absconded withthe entire amount. No living human being except Rutheford himself knewwhere the mine lay; there was no way for Bronson's family either toreclaim the body or to continue to work on the mine. Search parties hadsought it in vain, and the lost mine of the Bronsons became a legend, amystery that had grown constantly more dim in the passing years. 

"When I am gone, " little Bill would whisper to his mother, as she kneltcrying at his feet, "I will go out and find my papa's mine. Also I willchase down Rutheford, and track him all over the world until I find him, and make him suffer for all he has done!"

This was a northern child, and his baby eyes would gleam and hisfeatures draw, and then his mother, half-frightened, would try to quiethim in her arms. This was the North, the land of primitive emotions, take and give, receive and pay, simple justice and remorselessvengeance; and when the storm swept over the cabin and the snow deepenedat the doorway, those terrible, whispered promises seemed wholly fittingand true. 

"I'll follow him till I die, and he and his wife and his son will payfor what he has done to us. "

But the years had come and passed, and Rutheford had not been brought tojustice nor the mine found. It was true that in a past summer Bill hadtraced his father's murderer as far as the shipping point, but there alltrace of him was irremediably lost. Bill had made many excursions intothe Clearwater in search of the lost mine, all without success. He hadhad but one guide, --a hastily scrawled map that Bronson had once drawnfor his wife, to show her the approximate position of the claim. Therehad been no hope of avenging the murder, but with each recurring springBill had felt certain of clearing up the mystery, at least of findingthe mine and its wealth and the bones of his father. But the last daysof his mother, gone at last to her old home in the United States, couldbe made easier; but his own future would be assured. But now, atthirty-two, the recovery of the mine seemed as far distant as ever. Devoting his life to the pursuit of it, he had not prepared himself forany other occupation; he had only a rather unusual general education, procured from the Bradleyburg schools and his winter reading, and now hewas face to face with economic problems, too. 

He would try once more. If he did not win, the dream of his youth wouldhave to be given over. He had devoted his days to it; such a force aswas about to send Virginia Tremont into the wilderness in search of herlover had never come up in his life. He sat dreaming, the ashes cold inis pipe. 

He was called to himself by a distinct feeling of cold. The fire wasout, the chill of the early midnight hours had crept into the room. Theman rose wearily, then strode to the door for a moment's survey of thesky. 

For a breath he stood watching. His was the only lamp still glowing:only the starlight, wan and pale, lay over the town. The night windcame stealing, an icy ghost, up the dark street; and it chilled hisuncovered throat. The moon rose over the spruce forest, ringed withwhite. Already the frost was growing on the roofs. 

The ring around the moon, the nip in the air, the little wind thatcame so gently, yet with such sinister stealth, all portended onething, --that the great northern winter was lurking just beyond themountains, ready to swoop forth. Of course there would be likely timein plenty for a dash into Clearwater; yet the little breath of fallwas almost gone. Far away, rising and falling faint as a cobweb inthe air, a coyote sang to the rising moon, --a strange, sobbing song ofpain and sadness and fear that only the woodsman, to whom the Northhad sent home its lessons, could understand. 

II

Bill Bronson found that he had the usual number of difficulties tocontend with, when arranging for the journey. He had to procure morehorses for the larger outfit, and he was obliged to comb the town ofthem before he had enough. This was not an agricultural land, this wildrealm of the Selkirks, and all of the animals were originally Indianstock, --the usual type of mountain cayuses with which most big-gamehunters are acquainted. Some of them were faithful and trustworthyanimals, but many were half-broken, many cowardly and vicious. On thosehe rented he took the risk; he would be charged on the books for allthose that were not returned to their owners at Bradleyburg by Octobertwentieth. 

Bill knew perfectly that he would play in good fortune if the loss inhorseflesh did not cost him most of the gains of the undertaking. Eventhe sturdy mustangs were not bred for traversing the trails ofClearwater. There were steep hills where a single misstep meant death, there were narrow trails and dangerous fords, and here and there wereinoffensive-looking pools where the body of a horse may sink out ofsight in less time than it takes to tell it. These were not theimmense-chested moose or the strong-limbed caribou, natives of the placeand monarchs of its trails. Besides, if the winter caught them on thehigher levels, they would never eat oats in Johnson's barn again. Thesix feet of snow covers all horse feed, and the alternatives that remainare simply a merciful bullet from the wrangler's pistol or death of slowstarvation. 

Bill had certain stores in his cabins, --the long line of log hutsfrom which he operated in the trapping season, --yet further supplieswere needed for the trip. He bought sugar, flour, great sacks ofrice--that nutritious and delightful grain that all outdoor men learnto love--coffee and canned goods past all description. Savory bacon, a great cured ham of a caribou, dehydrated vegetables and cans ofmarmalade and jam: all these went into the big saddle-bags for thejourney. He was fully aware that the punishing days' ride could neverbe endured on half-rations. Camp equipment, rifles, shells and alinen tent made up the outfit. 

He encountered real difficulty when he tried to hire a man to act ascook. Evidently the Bradleyburg citizens had no love for the mountainrealms in the last days of fall. For the double wage that he promisedhe was only able to secure a half-rate man, --Vosper by name, ashifty-eyed youth from one of the placer mines, farther down toward thesettlements. 

Up to the time that he heard the far-off sound of their automobilestruggling up the long hill, he had made no mental picture of hisemployers. He rather hoped that Mr. Kenly Lounsbury--uncle of themissing man--would represent the usual type of middle-aged Americanwith whom he had previously dealt, --cold-nerved, likeable business menthat came for recreation on the caribou trails. Virginia Tremont wouldof course be a new type, but he felt no especial interest in her. Butas he waited at the door of the hotel he began to be aware of a curiousexcitement, a sense of grave and portentous developments. He did notfeel the least self-conscious. But he did know a suddenly awakenedinterest in this girl who would come clear to these northern realms tofind her lover. 

The car was in evident difficulties. It was the end of the road: infact, the old highway for the last three miles of its length was simplytwo ruts on the hillside. As soon as it came in sight Bill recognizedthe driver, --a man who operated a line of auto-stages, during thesummer months, on the long river-road below. The next instant the cardrew up beside the hotel. 

To a man of cities there would have been nothing particularly unusual inthis sight of a well-groomed man and girl in the tonneau of anautomobile. The man was a familiar type, of medium size, precise, hisouting clothes just a trifle garish; the girl trim and sweet-faced, andstylish from the top of her head to the soles of her expensive littleboots. But no moment of Bill's life had ever been fraught with agreater wonder. None had ever such a quality of the miraculous. Nonehad ever gone so deep. 

He had not known many women, this dark man of the forests. He had seenIndian squaws in plenty, stolid and fat, he had known a few of the wivesof the Bradleyburg men, --women pretty enough, good housekeepers, neatly clad and perhaps a little saddened and crushed by the veryremorselessness of this land in which they lived. But there had been nogirls in Bradleyburg to grow up with, no schoolday sweethearts. He hadknown the dark and desolate forests, never a sweetheart's kiss. Hismother was now but a memory: tenderness, loveliness, personal beauty tohold the eyes had been wholly without his bourne. And he gazed atVirginia Tremont as a man might look at a celestial light. 

If the girl could have seen the swift flood of worship that flowed intohis face, she would have felt no scorn. She was of the cities, castehad hardened her as far as it could harden one of her nature, she was athoroughbred to the last inch, used to flattery and the attentions ofmen of her own class; yet she would have held no contempt for this tall, bronzed man that looked at her with such awe and wonder. The surge offeeling was real in him; and reality is one thing, over the broad earth, that no human being dares to scorn. If she could have read deeper shewould have found in herself an unlooked-for answer, in a small measureat least, to a lifelong dream, an ideal come true, and even she--inher high place--would have known a little whisper of awe. 

All his life, it seemed to him, Bill had dreamed dreams--dreams thathe would not admit into his conscious thought and which he constantlytried to disavow because he considered their substance did not exist inreality and thus they were out of accord with the realism with which heregarded life. On the long winter nights, when the snow lay endless anddeep over the wilderness, and the terrible cold locked the land tight, he would sit in his trapping cabins, gazing into the smoke clouds fromhis pipe, and a tender enchantment would steal over him. He would haveadmitted to no human being those wistful and beautiful hours that hespent alone. He was known as a man among men, one who could battle thesnows and meet the grizzly in his lair, and he would have been ashamedto reveal this dreamy, romantic side of his nature, these longings thatswept him to the depths. He would go to his bed and lie for long, tingling, wakeful hours stirred by dreams that through no earthly chancecould he conceive as coming true. Arms about him, lips near, beauty andtenderness and hallowed wakenings, --he had imagined them all in hissecret hours. 

In the deep realms of his spirit, it seemed to him, he had always knownthis girl, --this straight, graceful, lovely being with eyes of anangel and smile of a happy child. He had denied her existence, and hereshe was before him. Dark hair, waving and just a little untidy in thebrisk wind, oval face and determined little chin, shadowing lashes andthe exquisite contrasts of brunette beauty, a glimpse of soft, whiteflesh at the throat through her dark furs, smart tailored suit anddainty hands, --they were all known to him of old. For all theindifference and distance with which she looked at him and at the othertownspeople, there was a world of girlish sweetness in her face. Forall her caste, there was spiritual beauty and gracious charm in everyfacial line. 

Curiously, Bill had no tinge of the resentment he might have expectedthat his dream should come half-true only to be shattered like thebubble it was. Because he had no delusions. He knew that he was onlyan employee, that a girl of her caste would ever regard him as the greatregard those that serve them--kindly but impersonally--but for nowhe asked for nothing more. To him she was a creature past belief, abeing from another world, and he was content to serve her humbly. Heknew that he was of the forest and she of the cities of men, and soonthey would take separate trails. His only comfort, heretofore, hadbeen that his dream could not possibly come true, that the stuff ofwhich it was made could never exist in the barren, dreadful, accursedplace that was his home; but his nature was too big and true for anybitterness--to hate her because she was of a sphere so infinitely apartfrom his. But he wouldn't give her his love, he told himself, only hisadoration. He wasn't going to be foolish enough to fall in love with astar! Yet he was swept with joy, for did not a whole month intervenebefore she would go back to her kind? Would she not be in his ownkeeping for a while, before she left him to his forests and his snows?Could he not see her across the fire, exult in her beauty, even aid herin finding her lost lover? His eye kindled and his face flushed, andhe leaped to help her from the tonneau. 

"I suppose you are Mr. Bronson?" she asked. 

It was the same friendly but impersonal tone that he had expected, buthe felt no resentment. His spirits had rallied promptly; and he wasalready partly adjusted to the fact that his joy in the journey wouldconsist of the mere, unembellished fact of her presence. 

"Yes. Of course this is Miss Tremont and Mr. Lounsbury. And just assoon as I pack the horses we'll be ready to start. "

"I don't see why you haven't got 'em already packed, " Lounsburg brokein. "If I ran my business in this shiftless way----"

Bill turned quickly toward him. He saw at once that other elementsbeside pleasure were to enter into this journey. The man spokequerulously, in a tone to which Bill was neither accustomed norreconciled. If the girl had chosen to abuse him, he would have taken itmeekly as his due; but it hadn't been his training to accept too manyrude words from a fellow man. Yet, he remembered, he was the uncle ofthe girl's fiance, and that meant he was a privileged person. Besides, his temper had likely been severely strained by the rough road. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Uncle, " the girl reproved her. "How did he knowexactly when we were going to arrive?" She tuned back to Bill. "Nowtell us where we can get lunch. I'm starved. "

"This country does--stimulate the appetite, " Bill responded gravely. Then he showed them into the hotel. 

He did a queer and sprightly little dance as he hurried toward the barnto get his horse. 

III

Mr. Kenly Lounsbury, addressed affectionately as Uncle by his nephew'sfiancee, was in ill humor as he devoured his lunch. In the first placehe hadn't been getting the attention that he had expected. He was usedto being treated with a certain deference, an abject humility was asfitting to a man of wealth and position. These northern people, however, didn't seem to know how to fawn. They were courteous enough, gave good service, but were inclined to speak to him as man toman, --an inference of equality that he regarded with great displeasure. His nephew's penniless fiancee, instead of himself, received all theattentions. Even the burly ruffian who was to guide them looked at heras if she were an angel. 

The girl's voice rang over the table. "What's worrying you now, Uncle?"she asked. 

Lounsbury looked up angrily. "What's worrying me now is--that I wassuch a fool as to come up into this country at the approach of winter. I don't like the place, and I don't like the people, and I abominate theservice! Fancy eating on these great, thick plates for a month! Idon't trust that big outlaw who is going to take us into the woods, either. Virginia, I have a distinct premonition of disaster. "

"I rather think--that we'll be glad enough to have any china plates atall before we get back. And Mr. Bronson----"

"By the way, don't call him _Mr. _ Bronson. You must learn to teachthese beggars their places. Call him just Bronson. You'll get twicethe service. "

"Yes, Uncle. I was just going to say that he seemed very trustworthy. And it's hardly--well, the sporting thing to become discouraged sosoon. "

All through the journey so far this had been Lounsbury's onesatisfaction--that he was doing the sporting thing. He knew perfectlythat many of his business associates, many of his city's great whomhe would have been flattered to know, came up into these gloomyforests every year in pursuit of big game; and he had heard ofenduring hardships in a "sporting" way. But the term was alreadythreadbare, --and the journey only commenced. The reason went back tothe simple fact that Lounsbury was not a sportsman and never could be, that the red corpuscle content in his blood was wholly within the law. 

Yes, Virginia felt at a disadvantage. This man's money had financed thetrip; the fortune her own father had left had been almost depleted fromreverses resulting from the war, and only the most meager sort of anincome--according to her standards--was left. An orphan, she hadalways looked up to her fiance's uncle as her guardian and adviser; tosee signs of discouragement in him now was a serious blow to her. 

She had been somewhat surprised, in the first place, at his willingnessto undertake the journey. He usually did not care to go so far from theWhite Way of his native city. The years had taught her to look forselfish motives behind his every action; certainly, she told herself, hewas not of the unselfish mold of his nephew, Harold Lounsbury, thesweetheart of her youth, but in this particular case the expeditionseemed entirely altruistic. She wondered now whether, after all herdreams, she would be forced to turn back before her purpose wasaccomplished. 

They pushed back their chairs and started to leave the dining room. Butit was not written that Kenly Lounsbury should reach the door withoutfurther annoyance. The waiter came shouting after them. 

"Excuse me, Mister, " he said kindly, holding out a quarter, "you leftsome money on the table. "

Virginia laughed with delight and pocketed the coin herself, butLounsbury's face became purple. These northern fools did not even knowthe meaning of a tip. 

A few minutes later the pack train emerged through the little alley atthe side of the hotel and halted in front. Bill Bronson led his ownbay, Mulvaney, and the pack horses were tailed, --the halter rope ofeach tied to the tail of the horse in front, like elephants on parade. The idea was simply to keep them in formation till they were launchedforth upon the trail. Vosper, the cook, led three horses with ridingsaddles at the end of the line. 

Virginia had changed to outing clothes when she emerged into the street, leaving her tailored suit in charge of the innkeeper. Bill beamed ather appearance. "Miss Tremont, " he began, doing the honors, "this isMr. Vosper, who will cook the beans. "

Both nodded, the girl smiling rather impersonally, and Bill noticed ahorrifying omission. Vosper actually lacked the intelligence to removehis hat! The first instinct of the woodsman was to march toward him andinflict physical violence for such an insult to his queen, but he caughthimself in time. Vosper, damaged in the encounter, would likely refuseto make the trip, upsetting all their plans. 

But at that instant Bill forgot all about it. He suddenly noticed hisemployers' clothes. And he gazed in open-mouthed astonishment. 

Both Virginia and Lounsbury were well gotten up according to their ideaof proper garb for outdoor people. The man wore knickerbockers withgold stockings, riding habit and stock, the girl a beautifully tailored, fine-textured lady's riding habit. Both were immediately conscious ofthe guide's stare, and Virginia was aware of a distinct embarrassment. Something, somewhere, had evidently gone wrong. Lounsbury took refugein hauteur. 

"Well?" he demanded icily. 

"Excuse me, " Bill replied. "But those aren't--are those the clothesyou're going to wear on the trip?"

"We're not parading for any one's benefit, I hope, " was the sarcasticanswer. "These are our rough clothes. Have you any objections to 'em?"

The guide's eyes puckered about the corners. "No, sir--not anyobjections--and they'd be all right for a day or two--until badweather. But they are hardly the togs for the North. What you want isa good pair of slicker pants, both of you, and plenty of wool inside. Also a rubber coat of some kind, over sheepskin. In the first good snowthose clothes would just melt away. If you'll come with me, I'll helpyou lay in some--and I'll pack 'em right on one of the horses for thetime of need. There's a store adjoining the hotel----"

Virginia's confusion had departed, giving way to mirth, but Lounsburywas swollen and purple with wrath. "You--you----" he began. His facegrew crafty. "I suppose you get a commission on every garment yousell. "

Bill turned rather quiet eyes on the man; and for one little instant thecraven that dwelt under Lounsbury's skin told him he had said onesentence too many; but he took heart when Bill looked away. "I'll keepwhat I've got on, " he announced. "I'm not used to being told what kindof clothes to wear. Virginia, we'll start on. "

"Wait just a minute, Uncle, " the girl replied coolly. She turned toBill. "You say these won't do at all?"

"They'll be torn off of you in the brush, Miss Tremont. And they won'tturn the cold and the snow, either. This is the North, you know. "

"Then I, for one, am going to take your advice. Please help me pick outthe things, Bronson. "

They left Lounsbury fuming in the road, and they had a rather enjoyableten minutes searching through Fargo's stock for suitable garb. Heselected a pair of slicker pants to wear over riding trousers, a coatlined with sheepskin, boy's size, and an awkwardly made but effectiverubber coat for outside wear when the snow lay on the branches. It wasnot, Virginia decided, quite like choosing gowns at her modiste's; yetshe was bright-eyed and laughing at the end. 

Bill unhitched a pack, inserted the bundle of clothes, then bracing hisboots against the horse's side pulled and tugged until the pack wasright again. "You'll be glad you've got these things before the trip isdone, " he prophesied. He pointed to the North, an unlooked for sobrietyupon his face. 

Far against the horizon the clouds were beginning to spread, dark andgray and strange, over the northern hills. These were not the clouds ofsummer rains. They were the first banners of an enemy--a grim anddreadful foe who had his ramparts in the wilds, and his ambush laid forsuch feeble creatures as would dare to brave his fastness. 

* * * * *

Bill Bronson gave his last directions, tightened the last cinch, andslipped his rifle into the saddle scabbard. "There's just one thingmore--the choice of horses, " he said. "Miss Tremont, of course youcan take your pick. " His tone was trustful. "Of course that will beall right with the other gentlemen--for you to have the best andsafest horse. "

Strangely, neither of the two men seemed to greet this suggestion withespecial enthusiasm. "I want a good and a safe horse, " Lounsbury saidevenly. "Of course you must provide Miss Tremont with the same. "

The woodsman sighed, ever so softly. He returned to Vosper, but if thelatter had any suggestions to offer, the hard eyes of the guide causedhim to think better of them. "I'm sorry to say that good horses--andsafe horses--aren't to be found in the same animal up here, " Billexplained. "If you have a good horse--one that'll take the mud andswim the river and stand up under the day's march--he'll likely havetoo much sense and spirit to be safe. He'll more than likely prancearound when you get on and buck you off if he thinks he can get awaywith it. If you've got a safe horse, one that's scared to death of you, he won't be a good horse--a yellow cuss that has to be dragged throughevery mud-puddle. These are all Indian ponies, the best that can be gotup here, but they're not old ladies' driving mares. Miss Tremont, thebest horse in this bunch is my bay, Mulvaney--but nobody can ride himbut me. I'd love to let you ride him if you could, and after a day ortwo I'd be willing for you to try it. But he doesn't know what fear is, and he doesn't know when to give up. "

The man spoke soberly. It was wholly plain that Mulvaney was very dearto his heart. Men do not ride over the caribou trails withoutengendering strong feelings toward their mounts. Sometimes it is love. And not unusually it is detestation. 

"That little black there--Buster, we call him--is the next best bet. It's an important choice you're making, and I'll tell you about him. Hethrew a man off once, and when I got him he was supposed to be the mostvicious animal in the Northwest. The truth is, he hasn't got a vicioushair on his head. But he will try to get away, and he will dance a bitwhen you first get on and wheel in circles, and he's hard to catch inthe morning. But he's sure-footed and courageous and strong; he'll takeyou up hills where the others can't go. The other two horses--Coltand Scotty--maybe seem safer, but they haven't got the life Busterhas, nor the sense. "

Bill reached to pet the black Buster, and the animal shied nervously. Virginia walked up to him and seized his bridle rein. In an instant shehad vaulted into the saddle. 

He wheeled and plunged at first, but soon she quieted him. In none toogood humor, Lounsbury made his selection, and Vosper took what was left. Bill led his animal to Virginia's side. 

"And are there any special instructions--before we start?" he asked. 

"I can give you some special instructions, " Lounsbury interrupted. "Ididn't come up here to risk my life on a wild mustang in the mountains. I want you to pick easy trails--you can if you've just got energyenough to try. "

A half-smile lingered a moment at the woodsman's lips. There was nochoice of trails into Clearwater. He might have told Lounsbury thatonce they were out of sight of the roofs of the town they were venturinginto the Unknown, a land where the caribou and the moose made trailsthrough the forest but where men came not, a land of beasts rather thanmen, of primeval grandeur but savage might. "Have you any orders togive?" he asked the girl again. 

"None. All I can do is tell you what I have already done--and thenlet you do the best you can. As you know, he left six years ago. "

"I know. I saw him when he came through. "

His eyes were fast upon her, and he saw her start. Her face seemed toflame. Stranger as he was to the hearts of women, Bill couldunderstand. It was word of her lover, a message from the dead, and itmoved her to the depths. But he couldn't understand the curious weightof depression that descended upon him. 

"You did?" she answered quickly. "Was he all right--then?"

"All right, but that was just after he came to the North. I was campingon this side of Grizzly River, and he stayed to eat with me. He saidhis name was Lounsbury. I've never heard of him since. "

The surface lights died in her eyes. "Then that doesn't help us much, except to know that he got that far, at least, " she went on. "I'll tellyou the whole thing, simply; maybe it will help you in deciding where tolook for him. He was twenty-seven then--and he'd spent the fortunehis father left him. He had to have more, and he came up here--tolook for gold. 

"Like many other men--before him, " Bill interrupted gravely. 

"He had some sort of definite plan--a vacation place to go--but henever told me what it was. He told me he was going into Clearwater. Hehad to have money--he was in debt and besides, he was engaged to marryme. The last word I ever heard of him was a note he wrote fromBradleyburg. I was just a girl then--and I've waited ever since. His friends, his aunt, sometimes even his uncle thought that he wasdead. I've always felt, just as sure as I am here, that he was stillalive--and in some trouble--and he couldn't come back. Mr. Lounsburyhas hired detectives, but none of them have ever made a real search. He's financing this trip now--I've been able to persuade him at last tomake one great try to find him. What's what we've hired you to do. "

"It's a big order, " Bill spoke softly. "There's just one thing we cando--to look into the country where he's gone and try to trace him. Every man who goes through Clearwater leaves his mark--there's not somany of them that their trails get crossed. My plan would be to watchfor the camps he made--there'd be some sign of 'em yet--the trees hecut and the trails he blazed--and trace him clear to the Valley of theYuga. "

"And what is there?"

Bill's ears, trained to the silences of the woodland, caught the almostimperceptible tremor in her voice. "There are a few Indians who havetheir tents there--trappers and fishers--and I know how to getthings out of 'em. If he's passed that way, they'd know about it. Ifhe hasn't--something has happened to him--somewhere between here andthere. He couldn't have remained out of sight so long. "

"I want you to make every try. I can't bear--to give up. "

Even this woodsman, knowing men to the heart but stranger to the worldof women, knew that she meant what she said. She wasn't of the moldthat gives up quickly. For all her cool exterior, her impersonal voice, the grace and breeding that went clear to her finger tips, he had somemeasure of understanding of an ardor and an intensity that might havebeen native to his own wilderness. Not often has girlhood love stoodsuch a test as this, --six years of silence. He could not doubt itsreality; no small or half-felt emotion could have propelled her forthinto these desolate wastes. Her love had gone deep and it lived. 

He answered very gravely and humbly, perhaps a even a little sadly:"I'll do everything I can to find him for you, Miss. I'll get yoursweetheart for you if it can be done. "

To Vosper and Lounsbury the two little sentences were just theassurances of a hired employee, half-felt and forgotten soon. ButVirginia heard more clearly. She had a vague feeling that she was awitness to a vow. It seemed to her that there was the fire of a zealotin his dark eyes, and by token of some mystery she did not understand, this strong man had seen fit to give her his oath. She only knew thathe spoke true, that by a secret law that only strong men know he wouldbe as faithful to this promise as if he had given bond. 

IV

It was one of the decrees of the forest gods that no human being shallride for five miles through the spruce forests of the Selkirks and failto glean at least some slight degree of wilderness knowledge. BothVirginia and Lounsbury had been on horseback before. Virginia hadridden in the parks of her native city: long ago and far away abarefoot, ragged boy--much to be preferred to the smug and petulantman who now tried to hard to forget those humble days--had bestrode anold plow horse nightly on the way to a watering trough. But this ridinghad qualities all its own. There was no open road winding before them. Nor was there any trail, --in general or particular. 

It was true that the moose had passed that way, leaving their greatfootprints in the dying grass. They had chosen the easiest pathway overthe hills, and Bill was enough of a woodsman to follow where they led. Traversing the Clearwater was simply a matter of knowing the country andgoing in a general direction. Almost at once the evergreen thicketsclosed around them. 

Virginia found that safety depended upon constant watchfulness. Theevergreen branches struck cruel blows at her face, the spruce needlescut like knives. Sometimes the horse in front would bend down a youngtree, permitting it to whip back with a deadly blow; she had to watchher knees in the narrow passages between the trunks; and the vinesreached and caught at her. Sometimes the long-hanging limbs of theyoung trees made an impassable barrier, and more than once she wasnearly dragged from the saddle. Shortly they came to the first fallenlog. 

Mulvaney, Bill's horse, took it lightly; and the man turned to watch thegirl. Her horse stepped gingerly, making it without trouble. Then theguide saw fit to give her a little good advice. 

"Kick Buster in the ribs just before you come to a log, " he said. "He'll jump 'em then. It's a whole lot safer--if he tries to stepover 'em he's apt to get his foot caught and give you a bad fall. "

Virginia looked up coldly. She wasn't accustomed to being spoken to inquite this tone of voice, particularly by an employee. But she saw hissober eyes and immediately forgot her resentment. And she found anactual delight in bounding over the next obstruction. 

"And there's one more thing, " the guide went on. "I've ridden plenty ofhorses, and I've found there's only one way to handle 'em. I'm going totry a new way to-day, because there's a lady in the party. But if I'mtried too heavy----"

"Go ahead, " the girl replied, smiling. "I suppose you mean--toswear. "

"Not just to swear. Call names. These horses won't think we're presentif we don't swear at 'em. And the only name they know refers to them isone that casts slurs upon their ancestry, but I'll try to avoid itto-day. I suppose I can make a roaring sound that sounds enough like itto fool the horses. "

Virginia was naturally alert and quick-witted, and she needed both ofthese traits now. The guide helped her all he could, warning her ofapproaching thickets; yet the first hour was a grim initiation to thewoods. Lounsbury was having even a more difficult time. He was afraidof his horse, to start with--and this is never an auspiciousbeginning. A frightened rider means a nervous, excited animal--andnervousness and excitement are unhealthy qualities in the Selkirks. Neither put trust in the other, and Lounsbury's cruel, lashing blowswith the long bridle ends only made matters worse. The horse leaped andplunged, slipped badly on the hills, progressed awkwardly over thefallen logs, and flew into wild panic when he came to the quagmires. The man's temper fell far below the danger point in the first hour, andhe was savage and desperate before half of the afternoon's ride wasdone. 

The thickets were merciless. They knew him, those silent evergreens:they gave no welcome to his breed; and it seemed to him they found ahundred ways to plague him. Their needles scratched his face, theirbranches whipped into his eyes, the limbs dealt cruel blows at his sideand the tree trunks wrenched at his knees. Worse still, they soon cameto a hill that Bill advised they take on foot. 

"Not me, " Lounsbury shrilled. "I'll swear I won't walk any hills. You've provided a vicious horse for me, and I'm going to ride himup if it kills him. I didn't come out here to break my wind onmountains--and this horse needs the devil taken out of him, anyway. "

It was in Virginia's mind that none of the emphatic but genial oathsthat Bill had let slip from time to time grated on her half so much asthis frenzied complaint of her companion, but she kept her thoughts toherself. But Bill turned with something dangerously like a smile. 

"Suit yourself, of course, " he replied. "I'm not asking you to walk upto spare your horse. Only, from time to time a horse makes a misstep onthis hill--just one little slip--and spins down in backwardsomersets a thousand feet. If you want to try it, of course it's allright with me. "

He swung off his horse, took the bridle reins of both his own animal andVirginia's, and started the long climb. And it was to be noticed thatat the first steep pitch Lounsbury found that he was tired of riding andfollowed after meekly, but with wretched spirit. 

They stopped often to rest; and from the heights Virginia got her firstreal glimpse of Clearwater. Her first impression was simply vast andunmeasured amazement at the dimensions of the land. As far as she couldsee lay valley after valley, range upon range, great forests of sprucealternating with open glades, dim unnamed lakes glinting pale blue inthe afternoon sun, whole valleys where the foot of white man had nevertrod. She felt somewhat awed, scarcely knowing why. 

Rivers gleamed, marshes lay yellow and somber in the sun, the darkforests stretched until the eyes tired; but nowhere were there anyhomes, any villages or pastures, not a blaze upon a tree, not the smokeof a camp fire. Bradleyburg was already obliterated and lost in thedepths of the woodland. The silence was incredible, --as vast andinfinite as the wilderness itself. It startled her a little, when theypaused in their climb, to hear the pronounced tick of her wrist watch, even the whisper of her own breath. It was as if she had gone to anenchanted land, a place that lay in a great sleep that began in theworld's young days, and from which the last reaches of time it couldnever waken. 

Bill, standing just above her, pointed to a dash of golden across thecanyon. "That's quivering asp, " he told her, "turned by the frost. Itseems good to see a bit of color in this world of dark woods. It's justlike a flash of sunshine in a storm. "

She listened with some surprise. The same detail had held her gaze, thesame thought--almost the same simile--had come into her mind; butshe had hardly expected to find a love of the beautiful in this bronzedforester. In fact, she found that a number of her preconceived ideaswere being turned topsy-turvy. 

Heretofore, it seemed to her, her thought had always dwelt on thesuperficialities rather than the realities of life. Her income waspitifully small according to her standards, yet she had never had toconsider the question of food and shelter. She had known socialsuccess, love of beauty and of art, gayety and luxury; she had had pettydiscouragements and triumphs, worries and fears, but of the simple andprimitive basis of things she took no cognizance. She had never dealtwith essentials. They had always seemed outside her life. 

Virginia had never lived in the shadow of Fear, --that greatest andmost potent of realities. In truth she didn't know the meaning of theword. She had been afraid in her bed at night, she had beenapprehensive of a block's walk in the twilight, but Fear--in its truesense--was an alien and a stranger. She had never met him in thewaste places, seen him skulking on her trail through the winter snows, listened to his voice in the wind's wail. She didn't know the fear ofwhich the coyotes sang from this hill, the blind and groping dread of animmutable destiny, the ghastly realization of impotence against a crueland omnipotent fate. She hadn't ever learned about it. Living aprotected life she didn't know that it existed. Food and shelter andwarmth and safety had always seemed her birthright; about her housemarched the officers of the law protecting her from evildoers; she livedin sight of great hospitals that would open their doors to the sick andinjured and of charitable institutions that would clothe and feed theneedy: thus the world had kept its bitter truths from her. But she wasbeginning to learn them now. She was having her first glimpse of life, life stripped of all delusion, stark and naked, the relentless realitythat it was. 

Fear was no stranger to these forests. Its presence, in every turn ofthe trail, filled her with awe. A single misstep, a little instant ofhesitation in a crisis, might precipitate her a thousand feet down thecanyon to her death. Dead trees swayed, threatening to fall; snowslides roared and rumbled on the far steeps; the quagmire sucked withgreedy lips, the trail wandered dimly, --as if it were trying to decoyher away into the fastnesses where the wilderness might claim her. Noone had to tell her how easy it would be to lose the trail, never tofind it again. The forests were endless; there were none to hear awanderer's cry for help. Wet matches, an accident to the food supplies, a few nights without shelter in the dismal forest, --any of these mightspell complete and irrevocable disaster. 

What had she known of Death? It was a thing to claim old people, sometimes to take even her young friends from their games among theflowers, but never had it been an acquaintance to hers. It was aswholly apart from her as the beings of another planet. But here she hadcome to the home of Death, --cold and fearful obliteration dwelling inevery thicket. She found herself wondering about it, now, and dreadingit with a new dread that she had never dreamed of before. The only realemotions she had ever known were her love for Harold Lounsbury and hergrief at his absence: in these autumn woods she might easily learn allthe others. She had never known true loneliness; here, except for herfiance's uncle with whom she had never felt on common ground and twopaid employees--the latter, she told herself, did not count--she wasas much alone as if she had been cast upon an uninhabited sphere. Already she knew something of the great malevolence that is the eternaltone of the wilderness, the lurking peril that is the North. 

This new view influenced her attitude toward Bill. At first she hadfelt no interest in him whatever. Of a class that does not enter into abasis of equality with personal employees, to her he had seemed in thesame category with a new house servant or chauffeur. He had been hiredto do her service; he was either a bad servant or a good one, and fromher he would receive kindness and patronage, but never real feeling orfriendship, never more than an impersonal interest. But now that sheknew something of the real nature of this expedition, affairs had takena new turn. She suddenly realized that her whole happiness, hercomfort, perhaps even life itself depended upon him. He was theirprotector, their source of supplies, their refuge and their strength aswell. 

The change did not mean that she was willing to enter upon a basis ofcomradeship with him--yet. But she did find a singular satisfactionin the mere fact of his presence. Here was one who could build a firein the snow if need be, whose strong arms could cut fuel, who couldmanage the horses and bring them safe to the journey's end. His rifleswung in his saddle scabbard, his pistol belt encircled his waist; heknew how to adjust the packs, to peg the tent fast in a storm, to findbread and meat in the wilderness. She began to notice his lithe, strongfigure as he sat in his saddle, the ease with which he controlled hishorse and avoided the pitfalls in the trail. When the moose tracks weretoo dim for her eyes to see, he followed them with ease. When thehorses bolted from some unfamiliar smell in the thicket, he was quick toround them up. The animals were swift in obedience when he spoke tothem, but they were only terrified by Lounsbury's shrill shouts. He wascool of nerve, self-possessed, wholly self-reliant. She listened withan eager gladness to his soft whistling: simple classics that sheherself loved but which came strangely from the lips of this son of theforest. 

His eyes were bright and music was in his heart, --in spite of the darkmenace of these northern woodlands. He was not afraid: rather he seemedto be getting a keen enjoyment out of the afternoon's ride. And thegreat truth suddenly came to her that in his strength lay hers, that shehad entrusted her welfare to him and for the present, at least, it wassecure. And she put her own cares away. 

She would not have admitted that she had simply followed the example ofthe uncounted millions of women that had preceded her through the longreaches of the centuries that had found strength and peace in theshelter of a strong man's arm. She only knew that her mind no longerdwelt on danger, but it had marvelously opened to receive the image ofthe grim but ineffable beauty of this wild land through which she rode. She felt secure, and she began to have an intangible but ever-increasingdelight in the wonderland about her. 

* * * * *

Her first impression of the wilderness was that of a far-stretchingdesert, forgotten and desolate and unpeopled as the fiery stars. Likewise this was Lounsbury's view, as in the case of every tenderfootwho had preceded him, but Lounsbury would likely grow old and perishwithout discovering his mistake. Clear eyes are needed to read thesecrets of the wild: the dark glass through which he gazed at the worldhad never cleared. Vosper had lived months and years in the North, buthe had only hatred in his heart of these waste places and thus receivedno glory from them. But Virginia soon found out the truth. 

"There's an old bull been along here not twenty minutes ago, " Bill toldher after they reached the hilltop. "The mud hasn't begun to dry in histracks. "

"An old bull?" she repeated. "Do cattle run here----?"

"Good Lord, there isn't a cow this side of the shipping point. I mean abull moose. And he's a lunker, too. Maybe we'll catch a glimpse ofhim. "

In her time she had talked enough to big-game hunters to haveconsiderable respect for the moose, the largest of all deer tribe, andshe thrilled a little at the thought that she was in his own range. Shedidn't get a sight of the great creature, but she began to pay moreattention to the trail. Seeing her interest the guide began to read toher the message in the tracks, --how here a pair of otters had racedalong in the dawn, stopping at intervals to slide; how a cow caribou andcalf had preceded them at midday; how a coyote had come skulking theprevious night. Beside a marsh he showed her the grim evidence of awilderness tragedy, --the skeleton and feathers of a goose that astalking wolf had taken by surprise. And once he showed her a greattear in the bark of a tree, nearly as high as she could reach onhorseback. 

"What is it?" she inquired. 

"That's the sign that the lord of the manor has been along. MissTremont, did you ever hear of an animal called the grizzly bear?"

"Good heavens! A bear couldn't reach that high----"

"Couldn't? Some of these bears could scoop the man out of the moon!"

He showed her gray, crinkling hairs that had caught in the bark, explaining that mysterious wilderness custom of the grizzly of measuringhis length on the tree trunks and leaving a mark, as high as he canbite, for all to see. According to many naturalists any bear thatcannot bite an equal height immediately seeks a new range, leaving thedistrict to the larger bear. But Bill confessed that he took the legendwith a grain of salt. "I've seen too many bear families running aroundthe woods together, " he explained. "Pa bears, ma bears, and baby bears, all different sizes. "

Virginia noticed that he spoke with great respect for that huge forestking, the grizzly; but she needn't have wondered. The great creaturewas worthy of it. 

Perhaps the most intelligent wild animal that roams the Americancontinent--on the same intellectual plane with the dog andelephant--he was also the most terrible. The truth has been almostestablished among the big-game hunters that wild animals, with fewexceptions, even when wounded practically never charge or attack thehunter. But his imperial majesty, the grizzly, was first on the listof exceptions. He couldn't be entirely trusted. His terrible strength, his ferocity, most of all his courage won him a wide berth through thismountain land. 

She began to catch glimpses of bird life, --saucy jays andglorious-colored magpies and grossbeaks. She cried out in delight whena pine squirrel scampered up a little tree just over her head, pausingto look down at these strange forms that had disturbed the cathedralsilence of the tree aisles. And all at once Bill drew up his horses. 

"Miss Tremont, do you like chicken?" he asked. 

She was somewhat startled by the abrupt question, and her horse nosedMulvaney's flanks before she drew him to a halt. It occurred to herthat such a query scarcely came under the title of small talk, and shefound some difficulty in shaping her answer. "Why yes, " she agreed. "I'm very fond of chicken. "

"It's pretty good, boiled with rice, " the man went on gravely. "We'llhave some for supper. "

Virginia stared at him in blank amazement as he slipped down from thesaddle and drew his automatic, small-calibered pistol from the holster. He stole forward into the flaking shadows of late afternoon, and at oncethe brush obscured him. Then he shot, --four times in succession. 

She was wholly unable to guess what manner of target he had. Chickenswere one thing that she found it hard to believe ranged in thesenorthern woods. She felt certain that he had missed the first threeshots, but she waited with considerable interest the result of thefourth. And soon he pushed through the thickets to her side. 

In his hand he held a queer, gray, shapeless bundle that at first shecould not recognize. Then she saw that they were gray grouse, almostthe color of a Plymouth Rock hen, and there was not one, but four! Hestarted to stuff them into his saddlebag. "Pretty lucky that time, " heexplained. "Got 'em through the neck. That leaves the meat clean----"

He seemed wholly matter-of-fact about the incident, but Virginiacontinued to stare at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "Four of them?"she cried. 

"One apiece. There was five in the flock, but the other looked like atough old hen. But don't look so amazed, Miss Tremont. They are foolhens--Franklin's grouse--and that means that they'll set all day andlet you pepper at 'em. And with a little practice it's easy to get themin the neck pretty near every time. "

He swung into the saddle, and they started forth upon the last hour oftheir day's journey. And Vosper made the only remark worth recording. 

"When I was in Saskatchewan last year, " he began in a thin, far-carryingvoice, "I must 'a shot a thousand grouse and didn't miss one. "

Virginia felt that she'd like to go back and shake him. 

V

Now that they were upon the last hour of the day's ride Virginia beganto be aware of the full measure of her fatigue. She was strained andtired from the saddle, her knees ached, her face burned from the scratchof the spruce needles. Ever she found it more difficult to dodge thestinging blows of the boughs, she was less careful in the control of herhorse. From sheer exhaustion Lounsbury had stopped his complaints. 

The first grayness of twilight had come, like mist, over the distanthills; but the peaks were still bathed in the sunset's glow. She beganto have a real and overwhelming longing for camp and rest. And in themidst of her dejection the dark man in front threw her a smile. 

"It goes hard at first, " he told her gently. "But we'll soon be incamp--with a good fire. You'll feel better right away. "

It had not been Virginia's way--or the way of Virginia's class--todepend upon their menials for encouragement; but, strangely, the girlfelt only grateful. 

She was hungry, chilled through by the icy breath of the falling night, half-sick with fatigue. The last mile seemed endless. And she wasalmost too tired to drag herself off the horse when they came to camp. 

Back among the dark spruce, by the edge of a fast-flowing trout stream, Bill had built a cabin, --one of the camps of his trap line. It wasonly a hut, perhaps ten feet long by eight wide; it had no floor and butslabs for a roof, no window and no paneled interior; only the greatlogs, lifted one upon another; yet no luxurious hotel that had been herlodging for the night on previous journeys had ever seemed to her such ahaven; none had ever been such a comfort to her tired spirit. Her heartflooded with joy at the sight of it. Bill smiled and held the door openwide. 

"Sit down on that busted old chair, " he advised. "I'll have a fire foryou in a minute. "

A rusted camp stove had been erected in the cabin and she watched, fascinated, his quick actions as he built a fire. With astonishinglyfew strokes he cut down a pitch-laden spruce, trimmed the branches, andsoon came staggering into camp with a four-foot length of the trunkacross his brawny back, grunting like a buffalo the while. This hesplit and cut into lengths suitable for the stove. With his huntingknife he cut curling shavings, and in a moment a delicious warmth beganto flood the cabin. The girl's body welcomed it, it stole into hertissues and buoyed up her spirits. She opened her hands to it as to abeloved friend. 

It was only warmth, --the exhalation from a rusted stove in a crudelyconstructed cabin. Yet to Virginia it was dear beyond all naming. Inone little day on that dreadful trail she had, in some measure at least, got down to essentials; the ancient love of the fire, implanted deeplyin the germ plasm, was wakened and recalled. It was not a love that shehad to learn. The warp and woof of her being was impregnated with it;only in her years of ease she had forgotten what an ancient friend andcomfort it was. 

In her past life Virginia had never known the real meaning of hunger. Her meals were inadvertent; she had them more from a matter of habitthan a realization of bodily craving. But curiously, for the last hourher thought had dwelt on food, --the simple, material substance with noadornment. The dainty salads and ices and relishes that had been hergreatest delight in her city home hadn't even come into her mind, butshe did remember, with unlooked-for fondness, potatoes and meat. Andnow she watched Vosper's supper preparations with an eagerness neverknown before. 

Although Vosper had been hired for cook, Virginia noticed that Bill kepta watchful eye over the preparation of the food; and she felt distinctlygrateful. She saw the grouse in the process of cleaning, and the redstains on Vosper's hands did not repel her at all. She beheld thesmooth cascade of the rice as Bill poured it into the boiling water, herown hand opened a can of dehydrated vegetables that was to give flavorto the dish. She gave no particular thought to the fact that the hourwas revealing her not as an exquisite creature of a higher plane, butsimply a human animal with an empty stomach. If the thought did come toher she didn't care. She only knew she was hungry, --hungry as she hadnever dreamed she could be in all her days. 

The white flesh of the grouse was put with the rice, one bird afteranother, until it seemed impossible that four human beings could consumethem all. In went the seasoning, spaghetti and the vegetables, and noteven Lounsbury railed at the little handful of ashes that floated on topthe mixture. And Virginia exulted from head to toes when Bill passedthe tin plates. 

It was well for Virginia's peace of mind that no one told her how muchshe ate. In her particular set it wasn't a mark of breeding to eat tooheartily; and an entire grouse, at least two cups of the stew andseveral inch-thick slices of bread with marmalade would have beenconsidered a generous meal even for a harvest-hand. 

As soon as the meal was done she felt ready for bed. Bill ventured intothe darkness with an ax over his shoulder, but not until his return didshe understand his mission. His arms were heaped with fragrant spruceboughs. These he laid on the cot in the cabin, spreading the blanketshe had provided for her over them. He placed the pillow and turned downthe blanket corners. 

"Any time you like, " he told her gently. "Vosper is putting up thelinen tent for we three men, and I'll build a fire in front of it tokeep us warm while we smoke. You must be tired. "

She smiled wanly. "I am tired, Bronson, " she confessed. "And thankyou, very much. "

She didn't notice the wave of color that flowed into his bronzed cheeksand the strange, jubilant light in his eyes. She only knew that she waswarm and full-fed, and the wind would bluster and threaten around hercabin walls in vain. 

For a long hour after Virginia was asleep Bill sat by the firesidealone, his pipe glowing at his lips. Lounsbury had gone to hisblankets, Vosper was splitting wood for the morning's fire. Asoften, late at night, he was held and intrigued by the mystery abouthim, --the little, rustling, whispered sounds of living things in thethicket, the silence and the darkness and the savagery. 

He knew perfectly the tone and spirit of these waste places: theirmight, their malevolence, their sadness, their eternal beauty. He hatedthem and yet he loved them, too. He had felt their hospitality, yet heknew that often they rose in the still night and slew their guests. They crushed the weak, but they lent their own strength to the strong. And Bill felt that he was face to face with them as never before. 

He was going to plumb their secret places, --not only for the missingman, but for the lost mine he had sought so long. He must not onlyfight his own battles, but he had in his charge a helpless, tender thingof whom his body must be a shield. Never, it seemed to him, had he metthe wilderness night in just this mood, --threatening, vaguelysinister, tremulous and throbbing with impending drama. 

"You've got something planned for me, haven't you?" he asked his forestgods. "You've got your trap all set, and you're going to test me asnever before. And Heaven give me strength to meet that test!"

At that instant he started and looked up. The stars were obscured, thefirelight died swiftly in unfathomable darkness, the tops of the sprucewere lost in gloom. A flake of wet snow had fallen and struck his hand. 

* * * * *

All night long the storm raged over the spruce forest; lashing rain thatbeat and roared on the cabin roof, then the unutterable silence offalling snow. The camp fire hissed and went out, the tent sagged withthe load, the horses were wet and miserable in the glade below. Virginia slept fitfully, waking often to listen to the clamor of thestorm, then falling into troubled dreams. Bill lay at the tent mouthfor long hours, staring into the darkness. 

In the morning the face of the wilderness was changed. Every bough, every spruce needle, every little grass blade had its load of snow. Thestreams were higher, a cold and terrible beauty dwelt in the forest. The sky was still full of snow, dark flakes against the gray sky, andthe clouds were sullen and heavy. Bill rose before daylight to buildthe fire at the tent mouth. 

This was no work for tenderfeet, striking a blaze in the snow-coveredgrass. But Bill knew the exact course to pursue. He knew just how tolay his kindling, to protect the blaze from the wind, to thrust afragment of burning candle under the shavings. Soon the blaze wasdancing feebly in the darkness. He piled on fuel, and with Vosper's aidstarted breakfast preparations. 

When the meal was nearly ready he knocked at the cabin door. "Yes?"Virginia called. 

Bill hesitated and stammered. He didn't exactly know whether or not hewas stepping outside the bounds of propriety. "Would you like to haveme come in and build a fire for you to dress by?" he asked. 

Virginia considered. Few were the eyes, in her short days, that hadbeheld her in bed; but to save her she could not think of a reason whythis kind offer should not be accepted. She was down to the realities;besides, the room was disagreeably chilly. She snuggled down and drewthe blankets about her throat. 

"Come ahead, " she invited. 

With scarcely a glance at her he entered and built a fire, and a fewminutes later he brought in her steaming breakfast. The door was openthen, and she saw the snow without. 

Her face was a little pale and her voice was strained when she spokeagain. "What does it mean?" she asked. 

"What? The snow?"

"Yes. Does it mean that winter has come?"

"No. When winter does come, there never is any question about it--andit really isn't due for another month. If I thought it was real winterI'd advise going back. But I think it's just an early snowfall--tomelt away the first warm day. "

"But isn't there danger--that by going farther we'd be snowed in?"

"Even if winter should close down, and we find the snow deepening to thedanger point, it wouldn't be too late to turn back then. Of coursewe've got to keep watch. A week or so of steady snow might make thesemountains wholly impassable--the soft, wet snow of the Selkirks can'teven be manipulated with snowshoes to any advantage. We'd simply haveto wait till the snow packed--which might not be for months. But wecan go on a few days, at least, and ride safely back through two feet ofsnow or more. Of course--it depends on how badly you want to go on. "

"I want to go--more than anything in the world. "

"Then we will go on. I've already sent Vosper to get the horses. "

He turned to his work. Lounsbury, his mood still unassuaged, calledfrom his bed. "Bring me my breakfast here, Bronson, " he commanded. "Lord, I've had a rotten night. This bed was like stones. I can'tcompliment you on your accommodations. "

Bill brought him his breakfast, quietly and gravely. "They're not myaccommodations, " Bill replied. "They're God Almighty's. And I made itjust as comfortable for you as I can. "

"I think you could have provided folding cots, anyway. I've a greatmind to turn back. " He looked into the snow-filled sky. "By George, Iwill turn back. There's no sense in going any farther in this wildgoose chase. It's a death trip, that's all it is--going out in thissnow. Tell Miss Tremont that we're starting back. "

Bill stood straight and tall. "I've already talked that over with MissTremont, " he answered quietly. "She has given the order to go on. "

The fleshy sacks under Lounsbury's eyes swelled with wrath. "She has, has she? I think she's already told you that I'm financing this trip, not her, and I've told you so too. I'm doing the hiring and giving theorders. "

"In that case, it's your privilege to order me to turn back, and ofcourse I will obey. You will owe me, however, for the full thirtydays. "

For a moment a spectator would have eyed Lounsbury with apprehension; toall appearances he had swollen past the danger mark and was about toexplode. "You'd hold me up, would you--you--you--I'd like to seeyou get it. "

Bill eyed him long and grimly. There was a miniature flake of fire ineach of his dark eyes and a curious little quiver, vaguely ominous, inhis muscles. There was also a grim determination in the set of hisfeatures. "I'd get it all right, " he assured him. Then his voicechanged, friendly and soft again. "But you'd better talk it over withMiss Tremont, Mr. Lounsbury. The snow is likely only temporary. I'llsee that you turn back before it gets too deep for safety. "

They folded the tent and packed the horses, and shortly after eight Billled the way deeper into the forest. The snow-swept trees, the whiteglades between, the long line of pack horses following in the wake ofthe impassive form of Bill made a picture that Virginia could neverforget. And ever the snow sifted down upon them, ever heavier on thebranches, ever deeper on the trail. 

If the record of the wild things had been clear in yesterday's mud itwas an open book to-day. Everywhere the trail was criss-crossed withtracks. In that first mile she saw signs of almost every kind of livingcreature that dwelt in this northern realm. Besides those of the largermammals, such as bear and moose and caribou, she saw the tracks of thosetwo savage hunters, the wolverine and lynx. The latter is nothing morenor less than an overgrown tomcat, except for a decorative tuft at hisears, and like all his brethren soft as flower petals in his step; butbecause he mews unpleasantly on the trail he has a worse reputation thanhe deserves. But not so with the wolverine. Many unkind remarks havebeen addressed to him, but no words have ever been invented--even themarvelous combinations of expletives known to the trapper--properly todescribe him. The little people of the forest--the birds in theshrubbery and the squirrels in the trees and the little digging rodentsin the ground--fear him and hate him for his stealth and his cunning. Even the cow caribou, remembering his way of leaping suddenly fromambush upon her calf, dreads him for his ferocity and his strength; andthe trapper, finding his bait stolen from every trap on his line, callsdown curses upon his head. But for all this unpopularity he continuesto prosper and increase. 

Virginia saw where a marten and a squirrel had come to death grips inthe snow: the tracks and an ominous red stain told the story plainly. The squirrel had attempted to seek safety in flight, but the marten waseven swifter in the tree limbs than the squirrel himself. The littleanimal had made a flying leap to the ground, --a small part of a secondtoo late. The marten, Bill explained, were no longer numerous. Furbuyers all over the world were paying many times their weight in goldfor the glossy skins. 

"Marten can catch squirrel, but fisher can catch marten, " is an oldsaying among the trappers; and as they rode Bill told her some of hisadventures with these latter, beautiful fur bearers. The fisher, itseemed, hunted every kind of living creature that he could master exceptfish. When the names of the animals were passed around, Bill said, theotter and the fisher got their slips mixed, and the misnomer hadfollowed them through the centuries. He showed her the tracks of theermine and, now that they were reaching the high altitudes, the trail ofthe ptarmigan in the snow. Mink, fox, and coyote had hunted each othergayly through the drifts, and all three had hunted the snowshoe rabbitand field mouse; a half-blind gopher had emerged from his den to viewthe morning and had ducked quickly back at the sight of the snow; an owlhad snatched a Canada jay from her perch and had left a few clottedfeathers when the daylight had driven him from his feast. 

The rigors of the day's travel were constantly increasing. The wet snowsteaming on their sides sapped the vitality of the horses; to keep themat a fair pace required a constant stream of nervous energy on the partof their riders. Virginia found it almost impossible to dodge thesnow-laden branches. They would slap snow into her face, down her neckand into her sleeves: it sifted into her eyes and hair and chilled herhands until they ached. The waterproof garments that she wore werepriceless after the first mile. 

Lounsbury had an even more trying time. His clothes soaked through atonce, and the piercing, biting cold of the northern fall went into him. He was drenched, shivering, incoherent with wrath when they stopped fornoon. He was not enough of a sportsman to take the consequences of hisarrogance in good spirit. He didn't know the meaning of that ancientlaw, --that men must take the responsibility of their own deeds andwith good spirit pay for their mistakes. He didn't know how to smile atthe difficulties that confronted him. That ancient code ofself-mastery, of taking the bitter medicine of life without complaintclear to the instant of death was far beyond his grasp. "You've madeeverything just as hard for us as you could, " he stormed at Bill. "If Iever get back alive I'll get your guide's license snatched away from youif I never do another thing. You don't know how to guide or pick atrail. You brought us out here to bleed us. And you'll pay for it whenI get back. "

Bill scarcely seemed to hear. He went on with his work, but when thesimple meal was over and the packing half done, he made his answer. Hedrew a cloth sack from one of the packs, swung it on his shoulder, andstepped over to Lounsbury's side. 

"There's a couple of things I want to tell you, " he began. He spoke ina quiet voice, so that Virginia could not hear. 

Lounsbury looked up with a scowl. "I don't know that I want to hearthem. "

"I know you don't want to hear 'em, but you are going to hear 'em justthe same. I want to tell you that first I'm doing everything any humanbeing can to make you more comfortable. You can't take Morris chairsalong on a pack train. You can't take electric stoves, and you can'tboss the weather. It's your own fault you didn't provide yourself withproper clothes. And I'm tired of hearing you yelp. "

Lounsbury tried to find some crushing remark in reply. He onlysputtered. 

"I can only stand so much, and then it makes me nervous, " the guide wenton, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't care what you do when you getback to town. I just don't want you pestering me any more with yourcomplaints. I've stood a lot for Miss Tremont's sake--she probablywouldn't like to see anything happen to you. But just a few more littleremarks like you made before lunch, and you're apt to find yourselfstanding in mud up to your knees in one of these mud holes--wrong endup! And that wouldn't be becoming at all for an American millionaire. "

Lounsbury opened his mouth several times. The same number of times heshut it again. "I see, " he said at last, clearly. 

"Good. And here's some clothes of mine. They're not handsome, andthey'll not fit, but they'll keep you dry. "

He dumped the larger portion of his own waterproofs on the ground atLounsbury's feet. 

VI

In the two days that followed, the pack train crossed the divide intoClearwater. From now on the little rivers, gathering headway as theycoursed down into the ravines, flowed into the Grizzly and from thenceinto the great Yuga, far below. The party had crossed ridge on ridge, hill on hill that were a bewilderment to Virginia; they had gained thehigh places where the marmots whistled shrill and clear at the mouth oftheir rocky burrows and the caribou paced, white manes gleaming, in thesnow; they had seen a grizzly on the far-away slide rock; they had losttheir way and found it again; walked abrupt hillsides where the horsescould scarcely carry their packs, descended into mysterious, stillgullies, forded creeks and picked their way through treacherous marshes;and made their noon camp on the very summit of a high ridge. The snowwas deeper here--nearly eighteen inches--but the gray clouds werebreaking apart in the sky. Apparently the storm was over, for the timebeing at least. 

They had trouble with slipping packs on the steep pitches of themorning's march and made slow progress. Bill glanced at his watch withdispleasure. He rushed through the noon meal and cut their usual restshort by a full half-hour. 

"We're behind schedule, " he explained, "and we've got a bad half-daybefore us. I was counting on making Gray Lake cabin to-night, and we'vegot to hurry to do it. "

"That is beyond Grizzly River, " Lounsbury remarked. 

Bill turned in some wonder. He hadn't know that Lounsbury was so wellacquainted with the topography of the region. Stranger still, the manstarted at his glance, flushing nervously. "I heard some one say thatGray Lake was beyond Grizzly River, " he explained lamely. "By all meansmake it if we can. "

There was no possible deduction to make from the incident, so Billturned his thought to other matters. "It's almost necessary--that wemake it, " he said. "There's no horse feed nor decent camp site betweenhere and there. Besides, I don't like to put Miss Tremont up in a tentto-night. The best cabin in my whole string is at Gray Lake--a reallysnug little place, with a floor and a stove. Keep most of my trappingsupplies there. If we can make the ford by dark, we'll run in thereeasy, it's only a mile or so over a well-run moose trail. "

"And you think we're entirely safe in going on?" the girl asked. 

"As far as I can see. I'm a little bit worried about GrizzlyRiver--I'm afraid it's up pretty high--but I'll try it first and see ifit's safe to ford. The snow-storm has quit--I think we'll have niceweather in a few days. If it should begin again we could turn back andmake it through before the drifts got too deep to cross--that is, ifwe didn't delay. And besides, when we get across Grizzly River we're infavorable country for your search. We can put up at the cabin a fewdays and make a thorough hunt for any sign of the missing man. If theweather will permit--and I believe it will--we can follow down theriver to the Yuga and make inquiries of the Indians. "

His words heartened the party. Even Lounsbury had begun to show someeagerness; Vosper, flinching before the hard work of the trail, wasjubilant at the thought of a few days' rest. They pushed on into thesnow-swept waste. 

The clouds knit again overhead, but as yet the air was clear of snow. The temperature, however, seemed steadily falling. The breath of thehorses was a steam cloud; the potholes in the marsh were gray andlifeless with ice. And it seemed to Virginia that the wild things thatthey passed were curiously restless and uneasy; the jays flew from treeto tree with raucous cries, the waterfowl circled endlessly over thegray lakes. 

This impression grew more vivid as the hours passed; and there was anelusive but sinister significance about it that engrossed her, but whichshe couldn't name or understand. She didn't mention the matter to Bill. She couldn't have told why, for the plain reason that in her simplicityshe was not aware of her own virtues. A sportswoman to the last hair, she simply did not wish to depress him with her fears. There was asuspense, a strange hush and breathlessness in the air that depressedher. 

The same restlessness that she observed in the wild creatures began tobe noticeable in the horses. Time after time they bolted from thetrail, and the efforts of all the party were needed to round them upagain. Their morale--a high degree of which is as essential in a packtrain as in an army--was breaking before her eyes. They seemed tohave no spirit to leap the logs and battle the quagmire. They would tryto encircle the hills rather than attempt to climb them. 

She wondered if the animals had a sixth sense. She was a wide-awake, observing girl, and throughout the trip she had noticed instances of aforewarning instinct that she herself did not possess. On each occasionwhere the horses were more or less unmanageable she found, onprogressing farther, some dangerous obstacle to their progress, --asteep hill or a treacherous marsh. Could it be that they wereforewarned now?

Fatigue came quickly this afternoon, and by four o'clock she was longingfor food and rest. She was cold, the snow had wet the sleeves andthroat of her undergarments, the control of her horse had cost her muchnervous strength. The next hour dragged interminably. 

But they were descending now, a steep grade to the river. Twilight, like some gray-draped ghost of a shepherdess whom Apollo had wronged andwho still shadowed his steps, gathered swiftly about them. 

Bill urged his horse to a faster walk; tired as the animal was heresponded nobly. Because Virginia's horse was likewise courageous hekept pace, and the distance widened between the two of them and theremainder of the pack train. Lounsbury's shrill complaints and Vosper'sshouts could not urge their tired mounts to a faster gait. The shadowsdeepened in the tree aisles; the trail dimmed; the tree trunks faded inthe growing gloom. 

"We won't be able to see our way at all in five minutes more, " Virginiatold herself. 

Yet five minutes passed, and then, and still the twilight lingered. Thesimple explanation was that her eyes gradually adjusted themselves tothe soft light. And all at once the thickets divided and revealed theriver. 

She didn't know why her breath suddenly caught in awe. Some way thescene before her eyes scarcely seemed real. The thickets hid the streamto the right and left, and all she could see was the stretch of graywater immediately in front. It was wide and fretful, and in thehalf-light someway vague and ominous. It had reached up about thetrunks of some of the young spruces on the river bank, and the littletrees trembled and bent, stirred by the waters; and they seemed likedrowning things dumbly signaling for help. Because the farther bank wasalmost lost in the dusk the breadth of the stream appeared interminable. In reality it was a full ninety yards at the shallower head of therapids where the moose trail led down to the water. 

The roar of the river had come so gradually to her ear that now she washardly aware of it; indeed the wilderness seemed weighted with silence. But it was true that she heard a terrifying roar farther down thestream. Yet just beyond, perhaps a mile from the opposite bank, laycamp and rest, --a comfortable cabin, warmth and food. She hoped theywould hurry and make the crossing. 

But Bill halted at the water's edge, and she rode up beside him. Heseemed to be studying the currents. The pack train caught up, andLounsbury's horse nudged at the flank of her own animal. "Well?"Lounsbury questioned. "What's the delay? We're in a hurry to get tocamp. "

"It's pretty high, " Bill replied softly. "I've never tried to crosswhen it was so high as this. " It was true. The rains and the snow hadmade the stream a torrent. 

"But, man, we can't camp here. No horse feed--no cabin. We've got togo on. "

"Wait just a minute. Time is precious, but we've got to think thisthing out. We can put up a tent here, and cold as it is, make throughthe night someway. I'm not so sure that we hadn't ought to do it. The river looks high, and it may be higher than it looks--it's hardto tell in the twilight. Ordinarily I cross at the head of therapids--water less than three feet deep. But it isn't the depth thatcounts--it's the swiftness. If the river is much over three feet, ahorse simply can't keep his feet--and Death Canyon is just below. Tobe carried down into that torrent below means to die--two or threeparties, trying to ship furs down to the Yuga, have already lost theirlives in that very place. The shallows jump right off into ten feet ofwater. It'll be tough to sleep out in this snow, but it's safer. Butif you say the word we'll make the try. At least I can ride in and seehow it goes--whether it's safe for you to come. "

Lounsbury didn't halt to ask him by what justice he should take thisrisk--why he should put his own life up as a pawn for their comfortand safety. Nor did Bill ask himself. Such a thought did not even cometo him. He was their guide, they were in his charge, and he followedhis own law. 

"Try it, anyway, " Lounsbury urged. 

Bill spoke to his horse. The animal still stood with lowered head. Forone of the few times in his life Bill had to speak twice, --notsharply, if anything more quietly than at first. The the brave Mulvaneyheaded into the stream. 

As Bill rode into those gray and terrible waters, Virginia's firstinstinct was to call him back. The word was in her throat, her lipsparted, but for a single second she hesitated. It was part of the creedand teachings of the circle in which she moved to put small trust ininstinct. By a false doctrine she had been taught that the deepestimpulses of her heart and soul were to be set aside before the mandatesof convention and society; that she must act a part rather than beherself. She remembered just in time that this man was not only anemployee, a lowly guide to whom she must not plead in personal appeal. She had been taught to stifle her natural impulses, and she watched insilence the water rise about the horse's knees. 

But only for a second the silence endured. The the reaction swept herin a great flood. The generous, kindly warmth of her heart surgedthrough her in one pulse of the blood; and all those frozen enemies ofher being--caste and pride of place and indifference--were scatteredin an instant. "Oh, come back!" she cried. "Bronson--Bill--comeback. Oh, why did I ever let you go!"

For Bill did not look around. Already the sound of the waters hadobscured the voices on the shore. Again she called, unheard. Then shelashed her horse with the bridle rein. 

The animal strode down into the water. Vosper, his craven soulwhimpering within him, had fallen to the last place in the line, butLounsbury tried to seize her saddle as she pushed forward. 

"Where are you going, you little fool?" he cried. "Come back. "

The girl turned her head. Her face was white. "You told him to go in, "she replied. "Now--it's the sporting thing--to follow him. "

The water splashed about her horse's knees. Lounsbury called again, commandingly, but she didn't seem to hear. She lifted her feet from thestirrups as Bill had done before her, and the angry waters surgedhigher. 

Already she knew the strength of the river. She felt its sweeping forceagainst the animal's frame: the brave Buster struggling hard to keep hisfeet. Ahead of her, a dim ghost in the half-light, Bill still rode ontoward the opposite shore. And now--full halfway across--he was inthe full force of the current. 

It was all too plain that his horse was battling for its life. Thestream had risen higher than Bill had dreamed, and the waters beathalfway at the animal's side. He knew what fate awaited him if heshould lose his foothold. Snorting, he threw all of his magnificentstrength against the current. 

It was such a test as the animal had never been obliged to endurebefore. He gave all that he had of might and courage. He crept forwardinch by inch, feeling his way, bracing against the current, nose closeto the water. In animals, just the same as in men, there are those thatflinch and those that stand straight, the courageous and the cowardly, the steadfast and the false, --and Mulvaney was of the true breed. Besides, perhaps some of his rider's strength went into his thews andsustained him. Slowly the water dropped lower. He was almost tosafety. 

At that instant Bill glanced around, intending to warn his party not toattempt the crossing. He saw the dim shape of Virginia close behindhim, riding into the full strength of the current. 

All color swept in an instant from his face, leaving it gray and ashenas the twilight itself. Icy horror, groping and ghastly, flooded hisveins as he saw that he was powerless to aid her. Yet his mind workedclear and sure, fast as lightning itself. Even yet it was safer for herto turn back than attempt to make the crossing. He knew that Buster'sstrength was not that of Mulvaney, and he couldn't live in the deepest, swiftest part of the river that lay before her. 

"Turn back, " he said. "Turn your horse, Virginia--easy as you can. "

At the same instant he turned his own horse back into the full fury ofthe torrent. It had been his plan to camp alone on the other side ofthe river, returning to the party in the better light of the morning;but there was not an instant's hesitation in turning to battle it again. His brave horse, obedient yet to his will, ventured once more into thattorrent of peril. Virginia, cool and alert, pressed the bridle reinagainst her horse's neck to turn him. 

On the bank Lounsbury and Vosper gazed in fascinated terror. Busterwheeled, struggling to keep his feet. Mulvaney pushed on, clear to thedeepest, wildest portion of the stream. And then Virginia's horsepitched forward into the wild waters. 

Perhaps the animal had simply made a misstep, possibly an irregularityin the river bottom had upset his balance. The waters seemed to pouncewith merciless fury, and struck with all their power. 

In the half-light it was impossible even for Bill to follow thelightning events of the next second. He saw the horse struggle, flounder, then roll on his back from the force of the current. It swepthim down as the wind sweeps a straw. And he saw Virginia shake loosefrom the saddle. 

He had but an instant's glimpse of a white face in the gray water, ofhair that streamed; an instant's realization of a faint cry that thewaters obscured. And then he sprang to her aid. 

He could do nothing else. When the soul of the man was made it wasgiven a certain strength, and certain basic laws were laid down by whichhis life was to be governed. That strength sustained him now, thoselaws held him in bondage. He could be false to neither. 

He knew the terror of that gray whirlpool below. He had every reason tobelieve that by no possible effort of his could he save the girl; hewould only throw away his own life too. The waters were icy cold:swiftly would they draw the life-giving heat from their bodies. Soakedthrough, the cold of the night and the forest would be swift to claimthem if by any miracle they were able to struggle out of the river. Yetthere was not an instant's delay. The full sweep of his thoughts waslike a flash of lightning in the sky; he was out of the saddle almostthe instant that the waters engulfed her. He sprang with his fullstrength into the stream. 

On the bank the two men saw it as in a dream: the horse's fall, theupheaval of the water as the animal struggled, a flash of the girl'sface, and then Bill's leap. They called out in their impotence, andthey gazed with horror-widened eyes. But almost at once the drama washidden from them. The twilight dropped its gray curtains between;besides, the waters had swept their struggling figures down the streamand out of their sight. 

Already the river looked just the same. Mulvaney, riderless, wasbattling toward them through the torrent, but the stress and struggle ofthe second before had been instantly cut short. There was no spreadingripples, no break in the gray surface of the stream to show where thetwo had fallen. The stream swept on, infinite, passionless for all itstumult, unconquerable, --like the River of Death that takes within itsdepths the souls of men, never to yield them, never to show whence theyhave gone. 

The storm recommenced, the wind wailed in the spruce tops, and the snowsifted down into the gray waters. 

VII

Bill Bronson had no realization of the full might of the stream until hefelt it around his body. The waters were fed from the snowfields on thedark peaks, and every nerve in his system seemed to snap and break inthe first shock of immersion. But he quickly rallied, battling thestream with mighty strokes. 

He knew that if the rescue were accomplished, it would have to be soon. The torrent grew ever wilder as it sped down the canyon: no human beingcould live in the great, black whirlpool at its mouth. Besides, thecold would claim him soon. Just a few little instants of struggle, andthen exhaustion, if indeed the icy waters did not paralyze his muscles. 

He swam with his eyes open, full in the current, and with a reallyincredible speed. And by the mercy of the forest gods almost at once hecaught a glimpse of Virginia's dark tresses in the water. 

She was ten feet to one side, toward the Gray Lake shore of the river, and several feet in front. The man seemed simply to leap through thewater. And in an instant more his arm went about her. 

"Give yourself to the current, " he shouted. "And hang on to me. "

He knew this river. They were just entering upon a stretch of waterdreaded of old by the rivermen that had sometimes plied down the streamin their fur-laden canoes, --a place of jagged rocks and crags andbowlders that were all but submerged by the waters. To be hurledagainst their sharp edges meant death, certain and speedily. He knewthat his mortal strength couldn't avail against them. But by yieldingto the current he thought that he might swing between them into the openwaters below. His arm tightened about the girl's form. 

He had not come an instant too soon. Already she had given up. A fairswimmer, she had been powerless in the rapids. She had not dreamed butthat the trail of her life was at an end. She was cold and afraid andalone, and she had been ready to yield. But the sight of the guide'sstrong body beside her had thrilled her with renewed hope. 

Even in the shadow of death she was aware of the strong wrench of hismuscles as he swam, the saving might of his powerful frame. She knewthat he was not afraid for himself, but only for her. Even death, withall its shadow and mystery, had not broken his spirit or bowed his head:he faced it as he faced the wilderness and the whole dreadful battle oflife, --strongly, quietly, with never-faltering courage. And the girlfound herself partaking of his own strength. 

Up to now she had not entered into comradeship with this man. But hadheld herself on a different plane. But he was a comrade now; no matterthe outcome, even if they should find the inhospitable Death at the endof their trial, this relationship could never be destroyed. They foughtthe same fight, in the same shadow. Now she would not have to enter thedark gates of Eternity alone and afraid. Here was a comrade; she knewthe truth at the first touch of his arm. He could buoy up her spiritwith his own. 

"If I let go of you, can you hang on to my shoulder?" he asked her. 

"Yes----"

He tried to look into her face, to see if she spoke the truth. But theshadows were almost impenetrable now, and the air was choked withfalling snow. 

"Then put your hand on my shoulder. I can't make progress the way I'mholding you now. I'll try to work in to the nearest shore. "

She seized his shoulder, but nearly lost her grasp in a channel of swiftwater. Her fingers locked in the cloth of his shirt. And he began, alittle at a time, to cross the sixty feet of wild water between them andthe shore. 

He had never been put to a greater test. Every ounce of his strengthwas needed. The tendency of the stream was to carry him into the centerof the current, he was heavily clothed and shod, and the girl, exhausted, was scarcely able to give aid at all. More than once he felthimself weakening. Once a sharp pain, keen as a knife wound, smote histhigh, and he was shaken with despair at the thought that swimmer'scramps--dreaded by all men who know the water--were about to put anend to the struggle. In the icy depths his bodily heat was flowing fromhim in a frightfully rapid stream. 

Closer and closer he swam, and at last only thirty feet of fast, deepwater stretched between. But it seemed wholly impossible to make thislast stretch. The sharp pain stabbed him again, and it seemed to himthat his right leg only half responded to the command of his nerves. Ina moment more they would be flung again into the cascades. 

"I'm afraid I can't make it, " he said, too softly for Virginia to hear. He wrenched once more toward the shore. 

But the river gods were merciful, after all. A jack pine had fallen onthe shore, struck down by a dead tree that had fallen beyond, and itsgreen spire, still clothed with needles, lay half-submerged, forty feetout into the stream. Bill's arm encountered it, then snatched at it ina final, spasmodic impulse of his muscles. And his grip held fast. 

For an instant they were tossed like straws in the water, but graduallyhe strengthened his grip. He caught a branch with his free hand, thenslowly pulled up on it. "Hang on, " he breathed. "Only a moment more. "

He drew himself and the girl up on the slender trunk, then crawled alongit toward the shore. Now they were half out of the water. And in amoment later they both felt the river bottom against their knees. 

He drew her to the bank, staggered and fell, and for a moment both ofthem lay lifeless to the soft caress of the snow. But Bill did not darelose consciousness. He was fully aware that the fight was only halfwon. And despair swept the girl when her clear thought returned to tellher they had emerged upon the opposite shore from the party, and thatthey were drenched through and lost in the night and storm, --endless, weary paces from warmth and shelter. 

Before the thought had gone fully home she saw that Bill was on hisfeet. The twilight had all but yielded to the darkness, yet she sawthat he still stood straight and strong. It was not that he had alreadyrecovered from the desperate battle in the river. Strong as he was, forhimself he had only one desire--to lie still and rest and let theterrible cold take its toll. But he was the guide, the forester, andthe girl's life was in his care. 

"Get off your clothes, " he commanded. "All of them--the darknesshides you--and I'll wring 'em out. If I don't you can't live to getto the cabin. Your stockings first. "

The thought of disobedience did not even come to her. He was fightingfor her life; no other issue remained. 

"Rub your skin all over with your hands, " he went on, "and keep moving. Above all things keep the blood going in your veins. Rub as hard as youcan--I can't make a fire here--with no ax--in the snow. "

Already she had tossed him her drenched stockings, and he was wringingthem in his strong hands. She rubbed her legs dry with her palms, andput the stockings back on. Then she drew off her coats and outing suit, and he wrung them as dry as he could. Then quickly she dressed again. 

"Now--fast as you can walk toward the cabin. "

He was not sure that he could find it in the darkness. He hoped toencounter the moose trail where it left the ford; beyond that he had torely on his woodsman's instincts. He was soaked through and exhaustedand he knew from the strange numbness of his body that he was slowlybeing chilled to death. It was a test of his own might and enduranceagainst the cruel elements and a power beyond mere physical strengthcame to his aid. 

They forced their way through the evergreen thickets of the river bank, walking up the stream toward the ford. He broke through the brushybarriers with the might of his body; he made a trail for her in thesnow. The darkness deepened around them. The snow fell ever heavier, and the winds soughed in the tree tops. 

After the first half-mile all consciousness of effort was gone from thegirl. She seemed to move from a will beyond her own, one step afteranother over that terrible trail. She lost all sense of time, almost ofidentity. Strange figures, only for such eyes as might see in thedarkness, they fought their way on through the drifts. 

But they conquered at last. Partly by the feel of the snow under hisfeet, partly by his woodsman's instincts, but mostly because the forestgods were merciful, Bill kept to the moose trail that led from the fordto the cabin. And the man was swaying, drunkenly, when he reached thedoor. 

His cold hands could scarcely draw out the rusted file that acted as abrace for the chain. Yet his voice was quiet and steady when he spoke. 

"There are blankets in there, plenty of 'em, " he told her. "It'smy main supply cabin. Spread some of them out and take off yourclothes--all of 'em--and get between them. I'll build a fire as fastas I can. "

She turned to obey. She heard him take down an ax that had been lefthanging on the cabin walls and heard his step in the snow as he began tocut into kindling some of the pieces of cordwood that were heapedoutside the door. She undressed quickly, then lay shivering between thewarm, heavy blankets. 

In a moment the man faltered in, his arms heavy with wood. She heardhim fumbling back of the little stove, then a match gleamed in thegloom. She had never seen such a face as this before her now. Itslines were deep and incredibly dark: utter fatigue was inscribed uponthe drawn features and in the dark, dull eyes. She was suddenly shakenwith horror at the thought that perhaps she was looking upon the firstshadow of death itself. 

He had cut the kindling with his knife, inserted the candle end, and alittle blaze danced up. She watched him feed the fire with strange, heavy motions. He took a pan down from the wall, then went out into thedarkness. 

Haunted by fears, it seemed to her she waited endless hours for him toreturn again. When he came the pan was filled with water from a littlestream that flowed behind the cabin. He put it on the stove to heat. 

She dozed off, then wakened to find him sitting on the edge of her bed, holding a cup of some steaming liquid. Vaguely she noticed that he hadtaken off his wet clothes and had put on a worn overcoat that had beenhanging back of the stove, wrapping two thick blankets over this. Heput his left arm behind her and lifted her up, then fed her spoonfuls ofthe hot liquid. She didn't know what it was, other than it containedwhisky. 

"Take some of it yourself, " she told him at last. 

He shook his head and smiled, --a wistful yet manly smile that almostbrought tears to her eyes. That smile was the last thing that sheremembered. The warm, kindly liquor stole through her veins, and shedropped into heavy slumber. 

* * * * *

In the stress of that first hour after the disaster of the river, Lounsbury and Vosper had a chance to test the steel of which they weremade. This was the time for inner strength, and courage, and beyond allthings else, for self-discipline. But only the forest creatures, suchlittle folk as watch with beady eyes from the coverts all the drama ofthe wilderness, beheld how they stood that test. 

For the first few seconds Lounsbury sat upon his horse and simply staredin mute horror. Then he half-climbed, half-fell from the saddle, andfollowed by Vosper, started running down the river bank. Immediately helost sight of Virginia and Bill. Almost at once thereafter the cold andthe darkness got into his spirit and appalled him. 

"They're lost, they're lost, " he cried. "There's not a chance on earthto get 'em out. "

The branches tripped him and he fell sprawling in the snow. He got upand hastened on. Vosper, his thews turning to mushroom stalks withinhim, could only follow, swearing hoarsely. At each break of the treesthey would clamber down to the water's edge and look over the tumultuouswastes, and each time the twilight was deeper, the snow flurriesheavier. And soon they came to a steep bank which they could notdescend. 

"It's a death trip. I knew it was a death trip, " Lounsbury moaned. "And what's the use of going farther. They haven't a chance on earth. "

They did, however, push on a short distance down the river. Lounsburywas of the opinion it was very far indeed. In reality it was not twohundred yards in all. And they halted once more to stare withfrightened eyes at the stream. 

"It ain't the first this river's taken, " Vosper told him. "And theynever even found their bodies. "

"And we won't find these, now, " Lounsbury replied. They waited a littlewhile in silence, trying to pierce the shadows. "What do you supposewe'd better do?" he questioned. 

"I don't know. What can we do?"

"There's no chance of saving them. They're gone already. No swimmercould live in that stream. Why did we ever come--it was a wild-goosechase at best. If they did get out they'd be lost--and couldn't findtheir way. It seems to me the wisest thing for us to do is to goback--and build a big fire--so they can find their way in if they didget out. "

It was a worthy suggestion! The voice of cowardice that had beenspeaking in Lounsbury's craven soul had found expression in words atlast. He was frightened by the storm and the darkness, and he was coldand tired, and a beacon light for the two wanderers in the storm wasonly a subterfuge whereby he might justify their return to camp. Theunderstrapper understood, but he didn't disagree. They were two of akind. 

It was not that they did not know their rightful course. Both werefully aware that such a fire as they could build could only gleam a fewyards through the heavy spruce thicket. They knew that braver men wouldkeep watch over that dreadful river for half the night at least, callingand searching, ready to give aid in the feeble hope that the twoexhausted swimmers might come ashore. 

"Sure thing, " Vosper agreed. "It'll be hard to make a good fire in thesnow, and we can't build one at all if them pack horses has got away bynow. "

"You mean--we'd die?" Lounsbury's eyes protruded. 

"The ax is in the pack. We wouldn't have a chance. "

Lounsbury turned abruptly, scarcely able to refrain from running. Thepack horses, however, hadn't left their tracks. And now the braveMulvaney had gained the shore and was standing motionless, gazing outover the troubled waters. No man might guess the substance of histhoughts. He scarcely glanced at the two men. 

They unpacked the animals, and by scraping off the snow and by the aidof the keen ax and a candle-stub soon lighted a fire. To satisfy thefeeble voice of his conscience Lounsbury himself cut wood to make itblaze high. They made their coffee and cooked an abundant meal. 

They stretched the tent in the evergreen thicket, and after supper theysat in its mouth in the glow of the fire. Its crackle drowned out thevoices of the wilderness about them, --such accusations as the Red Godspour out upon the unworthy. And for all their shelter they werewretched and terrified, crushed by the might of the wilderness aboutthem, --futile things that were the scorn of even the beasts. 

"Of course we'll never find the bodies, " Lounsbury suggested at last. 

"No chance, that I can see. The winter's come to stay. We won't beable to get any men from Bradleyburg to help us look for 'em. Theycouldn't get through the snow. "

"You think--" Lounsbury's voice wavered, "you think--we can get backall right ourselves?"

"Sure. That is, if we start first thing to-morrow. There's a cleartrail through the snow most of the way--our own trail, comin' out. But it will be hard goin' and not safe to wait. "

"Then I suppose--the horses will be sent down below, because of thesnow. That's another reason why they can't even search for the bodies. "

"Yes. Of course they may float down to the Yuga and be seen somewhereby the Indians. But not much chance. "

They lighted their pipes, and the horror of the tragedy began slowly topass from them. The blinding snow and the cold and their own discomfortoccupied all their thoughts. There was only one ray of light, --thatin the morning they could turn back out of the terrible wilderness, downtoward the cities of men. 

They didn't try to sleep. The snow and the cold and the shrieking windmade rest an impossibility. They did doze, however, between times thatthey rose to cut more fuel for the fire. The hours seemed endless. 

Darkness still lay over the river when they went again to their toil. Lounsbury, himself offered to cook breakfast and tried to convincehimself the act entitled him to praise. In reality, he was onlyimpatient to hasten their departure. Vosper packed the hungry horses, slyly depositing portions of their supplies and equipment in theevergreen thickets to lighten his own work. He further lightened thepacks by putting a load on Mulvaney. And they climbed down to thewater's edge to glance once more at the turbulent stream. 

"No use of waiting any more, " Lounsbury said at last. 

"Of course not. Get on your horse. " Then they rode away, thesetwo worthy men, back toward the settlements. Some of the packhorses--particularly the yellow Baldy and his kind--moved eagerly whenthey saw that their masters had changed directions. But Vosper had tourge Mulvaney on with oaths and blows. 

VIII

In Virginia's first moment of wakening she could not distinguishrealities from dreams. All the experiences of the night before seemedfor the moment only the adventures of a nightmare. But disillusionmentcame quickly. She opened her eyes to view the cabin walls, and the fulldreadfulness of her situation swept her in an instant. 

Her tears came first. She couldn't restrain them, and they were simplythe natural expression of her fear and her loneliness and her distress. For long moments she sobbed bitterly, yet softly as she could. ButVirginia was of good metal, and in the past few days she had acquired acertain measure of self-discipline. She began to struggle with hertears. They would waken Bill, she thought--and she had not forgottenhis bravery and his toil of the night before. She conquered them atlast, and, miserable and sick of heart, tried to go back to sleep. 

Her muscles pained her, her throat was raw from the water, and when shetried to make herself comfortable her limbs were stiff and aching. Butshe knew she had to look her position in the face. She turned, painsshooting through her frame, and gazed about her. 

The cabin, she could see, was rather larger than any of those in whichthey had camped on their journey. It was well-chinked and sturdy, andeven had the luxury of a window. For the moment she didn't see Bill atall. She wondered if he had gone out. Then, moving nearer to the edgeof her cot, she looked over intending to locate the clothes she hadtaken off the night before. Then she saw him, stretched on the floor inthe farthest corner of the room. 

He gave the impression of having dropped with exhaustion and fallen tosleep where he lay. She could see that he still wore the tatteredovercoat he had found hanging on the wall, and the two blankets werestill wrapped about him. He was paying for his magnificent efforts ofthe night before. Morning was vivid and full at the window, but hestill lay in heavy slumber. 

She resolved not to call him; and in spite of her own misery, her lipscurled in a half-smile. She was vaguely touched; someway the sight ofthis strong forester, lying so helpless and exhausted in sleep, wentstraight to some buried instinct within her and found a tenderness, asweet graciousness that had not in her past life manifested itself toooften. 

But the tenderness was supplanted by a wave of icy terror. She was awoman, and the thought suddenly came to her that she was wholly in thisman's power, naked except for the blankets around her, unarmed andhelpless and lost in the forest depths. What did she know of him? Hehad been the soul of respect heretofore, but now--with her uncle onthe other side of the river--; but she checked herself with a revulsionof feeling. The strength that had saved her life would save him againsthimself. They would find a way to get out to-day; and she thought thatthis, at least, she need not fear. 

He had been busy before he slept. His clothes and hers were hung onnails back of the little stove to dry. He had cut fresh wood, piling itbehind the stove. She guessed that he had intended to keep the fireburning the whole night, but sleep had claimed him and disarranged hisplans. 

His next thought was of supplies. The simple matter of food and warmthis the first issue in the wilderness; already she had learned thislesson. Her eyes glanced about the walls. There were two or threesacks, perhaps filled with provisions, hanging from the ceiling, safelyout of the reach of the omnivorous pack-rats that often wreak such havocin unoccupied cabins. But further than this the place seemed bare offood. 

Blankets were in plenty; there were a few kitchen utensils hanging backof the stove, and some sort of an ancient rifle lay across a pair ofdeer horns. Whether or not there were any cartridges for this latterarticle she could not say. Strangest of all, a small and batteredphonograph, evidently packed with difficulty into the hills, and a smallstack of records sat on the crude, wooden table. Evidently a real andfervent love of music had not been omitted from Bill's make-up. 

Then Bill stirred in his sleep. She lay still, watching. She saw hiseyes open. And his first glance was toward her. 

He flashed her a smile, and she tried pitifully to answer it. "How areyou?" he asked. 

"Awfully lame and sore and tired. Maybe I'll be better soon. Andyou----?"

"A little stiff, not much. I'm hard to damage, Miss Tremont. I've seentoo much of hardship. But I've overslept--and there isn't anothersecond to be lost. I've got to dress and go and locate Vosper andLounsbury. "

"I suppose you'd better--right away. They'll be terriblydistressed--thinking we're drowned. " She turned her back to him, without nonsense or embarrassment, and he started to dress. Shedidn't see the slow smile, half-sardonic, that was on his lips. 

"I'm not worrying about their distress, " he told her. "I only want tobe sure and catch them before they give us up for lost--and turn back. I can never forgive myself for failing to waken. It was just that I wasso tired----"

"I won't let you blame yourself for that, " the girl replied, slowly butearnestly. "Besides, Uncle Kenly won't go away for two or three days atleast. He's been my guardian--I'm his ward--and I'm sure he'll makeevery effort to learn what happened to us. "

"I suppose you're right. You know whether or not you can trustLounsbury. I only know--that I can't trust Vosper. "

"They'll be waiting for us, don't fear for that, " the girl went on. Shetried to put all the assurance she could into her tone. "But how can weget across?"

"That remains to be seen. If they're there to help, with the horses, wemight find a way. " The man finished dressing, then turned to go. "I'msorry I can't even take time to light your fire. You must stay in bed, anyway--all day. "

He left hurriedly, and as the door opened the wind blew a handful ofsnow in upon her. The snow had deepened during the night, and fall washeavier than ever. Shivering with cold and aching in every muscle, shegot up and put on her underclothing. It was almost dry already. Then, wholly miserable and dejected, she lay down again between her blankets, waiting for Bill's return. And his step was heavy and slow on thethreshold when he came. 

She couldn't interpret the expression on his face when she saw him inthe doorway. He was curiously sober and intent, perhaps even a littlepale. "Go to sleep, Miss Tremont, " he advised. "I'll make a fire forbreakfast. "

He bent to prepare kindling. The girl swallowed painfully, but shakenwith dread shaped her question at last. "What--what did you findout?"

He looked squarely into her eyes. "Nothing that you'll want to hear, Miss Tremont, " he told her soberly. "I went to the river bank andlooked across. They--they----"

"They are gone?" the girl cried. 

"They've pulled freight. I could see the smoke of their fire--it wasjust about out. Not a horse in sight, or a man. There's no chance fora mistake, I'm afraid. I called and called, but no one answered. "

The tears rushed to the girl's eyes, but she fought them back. Therewas an instant of strained silence. "And what does it mean?"

"I don't know. We'll get out someway----"

"Tell me the truth, Bill, " the girl suddenly urged. "I can stand it. Iwill stand it--don't be afraid to tell me. "

The man looked down at her in infinite compassion. "Poor little girl, "he said. "What do you want to know?"

She didn't resent the words. She only felt speechlessly grateful andsomeway comforted, --as a baby girl might feel in her father's arms. 

"Does it mean--that we've lost, after all?"

"Our lives? Not at all. " She read in his face that this, at least, wasthe truth. "I'll tell you, Miss Tremont, just what I think it means. If we were on the other side of the river, and we had horses, we couldpush through and get out--easy enough. But we haven't got horses--evenBuster is drowned--and it would be a hard fight to carry suppliesand blankets on our backs, for the long hike down into Bradleyburg. Itwould likely be too much for you. Besides, the river lays between. In time we might go down to quieter waters and build a raft--out oflogs--but the snow's coming thicker all the time. Before we could getit done and get across, we couldn't mush out--for the snows have cometo stay and we haven't got snowshoes. We could rig up some kind ofsnowshoes, I suppose, but until the snow packs we couldn't make it intotown. It's too long a way and too cold. In soft snow even a strong mancan only go a little way--you sink a foot and have to lift a load ofsnow with every step. Every way we look there's a block. We're likebirds, caught in a cage. "

"But won't men--come to look for us?"

"I've been thinking about that. Miss Tremont, they won't come tillspring, and then they'll likely only half look for us. I know thisnorthern country. Death is too common a thing to cause much stir. Lounsbury will tell them we are drowned--no one will believe we couldhave gotten out of the canyon, dressed like we were and on a night likelast night. If they thought we were alive and suffering, the whole malepopulation would take a search party and come to our aid. Instead theyknow--or rather, they think they know--that we're dead. There won'tbe any horses, it will be a fool's errand, and mushing through thosefeet of soft snow is a job they won't undertake. "

"But the river will freeze soon. "

"Yes. Even this cataract freezes, but it likely won't be safe to crossfor some weeks--maybe clear into January or February. That depends onthe weather. You see, Miss Tremont, we don't have the awful lowtemperatures early in the winter they get further east and north. We'reon the wet side of the mountains. But we do get the snow, week afterweek of it when you simply can't travel, and plenty of thirty and forty, sometimes more, below zero. But the river will freeze if we give ittime. And the snow will pack and crust late in the winter. And then, in those clear, cold days, we can make a sled and mush out. "

"And it means--we're tied up here for weeks--and maybe months?"

"That's it. Just as sure as if we had iron chains around our ankles. "

Then the girl's tears flowed again, unchecked. Bill stood beside her, his shoulders drooping, but in no situation of his life had he ever feltmore helpless, more incapable of aid. "Don't cry, " he pleaded. "Don'tcry, Miss Tremont. I'll take care of you. Don't you know I will?"

Her grief rent him to the depths, but there was nothing he could say ordo. He drew the blankets higher about her. 

"Perhaps you can get some more sleep, " he urged. "Your body's torn topieces, of course. "

Fearful and lonely and miserable, the girl cried herself to sleep. Billsat beside her a long time, and the snow sifted down in the forest andthe silence lay over the land. He left her at last, and for a while wasbusy among the supplies that he found on a shelf behind the stove. Andshe wakened to find him bending over her. 

His face was anxious and his eyes gentle as a woman's. "Do you thinkyou can eat?" he asked. "I've warmed up soup--and I've got coffee, too. "

He had put the liquids in cups and had drawn the little table beside herbed. She shook her head, but she softened at the swift look ofdisappointment in his face. "I'll take some coffee, " she told him. 

He held the cup for her, and she drank a little of the bracing liquid. Then she pushed the cup away. 

He waited beside a moment, curiously anxious. "Give me your hand, " hesaid. 

"Why?"

Cold was her voice, and cold the expression on her face. It seemed toher that the lines of Bill's face deepened, and his dark eyes grewstern. But in a moment the expression passed, and she knew she hadwounded him. "Why do you think? I want to test your pulse. "

He had seen that she was flushed, and he was in deadly fear that theplunge into the cold waters had worked an organic injury. He took hersoft, slender wrist in his hand, and she felt the pressure of his littlefinger against her pulsing arteries. Then she saw the dark featureslight up. 

"You haven't any fever, " he told her joyfully. "You're just used upfrom the experience. And God knows I can't blame you. Go to sleepagain if you like. "

She dozed off again, and for a little while he was busy outside thecabin, cutting fuel for the night's blaze. He stole in once to look ather and then turned again down the moose trail to the river. He hadbeen certain before that the others had gone; now he only wanted to makesure. 

The long afternoon was at an end when he returned. He had gazed acrossthe gray waters and called again and again, but except for the echo ofhis shout, the wilderness silence had been inviolate. Virginia wasawake, but still miserable and dejected in her blankets. They talked alittle, softly and quietly, about their chances, but he saw that she wasnot yet in a frame of mind to look the situation squarely in the face. Then he cooked the last meal of the day. 

"I don't want anything, " she told him, when again he proffered food. "Ionly want to die. I wish I had died--in the river last night. Monthsand months--in these awful woods and this awful cabin--and nothingbut death in the end. "

He did not condemn her for the utterance, even in his thoughts. He wasimaginative enough to understand her despair and sympathize with it. Heremembered the sheltered life she had always lived. Besides, she washis goddess; he could only humble himself before her. 

"But I won't let you die, Miss Tremont. I'll care for you. You won'teven have to lift your hand, if you don't want to. You'll be happier, though, if you do; it would break some of the monotony. There's alittle old phonograph on the stand, and some old magazines under yourcot. The weeks will pass someway. And I promise this. " He paused, andhis face was gray as ashes. "I won't impose--any more of my companyupon you--than you wish. "

The response was instantaneous. The girl's heart warmed; then sheflashed him a smile of sympathy and understanding. "Forgive me, " shesaid. "I'll try to be brave. I'll try to stiffen up. I know you'll doeverything you can to get me out. You're so good to me--so kind. Andnow--I only want to go to sleep. "

He watched her, standing by her bed. After all, sleep was the bestthing for her--to knit her torn nerves and mend her tired body. Besides, the wilderness night was falling. He could see it already, gray against the window pane. The first day of their exile was gone. 

"I'll be all right in the morning, " she told him sleepily. "And maybeit's for the best--after all. At least--it gives you a betterchance to find Harold--and bring him back to me. "

Bill nodded, but he didn't trust himself to speak. 

IX

There is a certain capacity in young and sturdy human beings foraccepting the inevitable. When Virginia wakened the next morning, herphysical distress was largely past and she was in a much better frame ofmind. She pulled herself together, stiffened her young spine, andprepared to make the best of a deplorable situation. She had come uphere to find her lost beloved, and she wasn't defeated yet. This verydevelopment might bring success. 

She realized that the fact that she had thus found a measure ofcompensation for the disaster would have been largely unintelligible tomost of the girls of her class, --the girls she knew in the circle inwhich she had moved. It was not the accustomed thing to remain faithfulto a fiance who had been silent an missing for six years, or to seek himin the dreary spaces of the North. The matter got down to the simplefact that these girls were of a different breed. Culture andsophistication and caste had never destroyed an intensity and depths ofelemental passion that might have been native to these very wildernessesin which she was imprisoned. Cool an self-restrained to the fingertips, she knew the full meaning of fidelity. Orphaned almost inbabyhood, she had lived a lonely life: this girlhood love affair of hershad been her single, great adventure. She had been sure that her loverstill lived when all her friends had judged him dead. Months and yearsshe had dreamed of finding him, of sheltering again in his arms, andproving to all the world that her faith was justified. 

Bill was already up, and the room warmed from the fire. The noise ofhis ax blows had wakened her. And she took advantage of his absence todress. 

"You up?" he cried in delight when she entered. His arms were heapedwith wood. "I'm not sure that you hadn't ought to rest another day. How do you feel?"

"As good as ever, as far as I can tell. And pretty well ashamed ofbeing such a baby yesterday. "

But his smile told her that he held no resentment. "I trust you'll beable to eat to-day?"

"Eat? Bill, I am famished. But first"--and her face grew instantlysober--"I want to know just how we stand, and what our chances are. Iremember what you told me yesterday about getting out. But we can'tlive here on nothing. What about supplies?"

"That's what we've got to see about right now. It's an importantmatter, true enough. For a certain very good reason I couldn't make areal investigation till you got up. You'll see why in a minute. Well, we have a gun at least; you can see it behind the stove. It's an oldthing, but it will still shoot. And we've got at least one box ofshells for it--and not one of them must be wasted. They mean our meatsupply. I'm still wearing my pistol, and I've got two boxes of shellsfor it in my pocket--it's a small caliber, and there's fifty in eachbox. There are plenty of blankets and cooking utensils, magazines foridle hours and, Heaven bless us, an old and battered phonograph on thetable. Don't scorn it--anything that has to be packed on a horse thisfar mustn't be scorned. We can have music with our meals, if we like. "He stopped and smiled. 

"There's a cake of soap on the shelf, " he went on, after the gorgeousfact of the phonograph had time to sink home, "and another among thesupplies--but I'm afraid cold cream and toilet water are lacking. Idon't even know how you'll comb your hair. "

The girl smiled--really with happiness now--and fished in thepockets of a great slicker coat she had worn the night of the disaster. She produced a little white roll, and with the high glee opened it forhim to see. Wrapped in a miniature face towel was her comb, a smallbrush, and a toothbrush!

They laughed with delight over the find. "But no mirror?" the man saidsolemnly. 

"No. I won't be able to see how I look for weeks--and that'sterrible. But where are your food supplies? I see those sacks hangingfrom the ceiling--but they certainly haven't enough to keep us alive. And there's nothing else that I can see. "

"We'd have a hard time, if we had to depend on the contents of thosesacks. Miss Tremont, can you cook?"

"Cook? Good Heavens--I never have. But I can learn, I suppose. "

"You'd better learn. It will help pass away the time. I'll be busygetting meat and keeping the fires high, among other things. "

"But what is there to cook?"

He walked, with some triumph, to the bunk on which she had slept thenight before, and lifting it up, revealed a great box beneath. Sheunderstood, now, why he had not been able to make a previousinvestigation. They danced with joy at its contents, --bags of riceand beans, dried apples, marmalade and canned goods, enough for someweeks at least. Best of all, from Bill's point of view, there were afew aged and ripened plugs of tobacco, for cutting up for his pipe. 

"The one thing we haven't got is meat, " Bill told her, "except a littlejerky; but there's plenty of that in the woods if we can just find it. And I don't intend to delay about that. If the snow gets much deeper, we'd have to have snowshoes to hunt at all. "

"You mean--to go hunting to-day?"

"As soon as we can stir up a meal. How would pancakes taste?"

"Glorious! I'll cook breakfast myself. "

"Not breakfast--lunch, " he corrected. "It's already about noon. Butit would be very nice if you'd do the cooking while I cut the night'sfuel. You know how--dilute a little canned milk, and a little bakingpowder, stir in your flour--and it's wheat mixed with rye, and bullyflour for flapjacks--and fry 'em thick. Set water to boil and we'llhave coffee, too. "

They went to their respective tasks. And the pancakes and coffee, whenat last they were steaming on the little, crude board-table, were reallya very creditable effort. They were thick and rich as befits wildernessflapjacks, but covered with syrup they slid easily down the throat. Bill consumed three of them, full skillet size, and smacked his lipsover the coffee. Virginia managed two herself. 

He helped her wash the scanty dishes, then prepared for the hunt. "Doyou want to come?" he asked. "It's a cool, raw day. You'll be morecomfortable here. "

"Do you think I'd stay here?" she demanded. 

She didn't attempt to analyze her feelings. She only knew that thiscabin, lost in the winter forest, would be a bleak and unhappy place toendure alone. The storm and the snow-swept marshes, with Bill besideher, were infinitely preferable to the haunting fear and loneliness ofsolitude. The change in her attitude toward him had been complete. 

Dressing warmly, they ventured out into the snowy wastes. The storm hadneither heightened nor decreased. The snow still sifted down steadily, with a relentlessness that was someway dreadful to the spirit. Thedrifts were about their knees by now; and the mere effort of walking wasa serious business. The winter silence lay deep over the wilderness. 

It was a curious thing not to hear the rustle of a branch, the crack ofa twig; only the muffled sound of their footsteps in the snow. Billwalked in front, breaking trail. He carried the ancient rifle ready inhis hands. 

The truth was that Bill did not wish to overlook any possible chance forgame. Each hour traveling was more difficult, the snow encroachedhigher, and soon he could not hunt at all without snowshoes. It was notgood for their spirits or their bodies to try to live without meat inthe long snowshoe-making process. This was no realm for vegetarians. The readily assimilated animal flesh was essential to keep their tissuesstrong. 

Fortune had not been particularly kind so far on this trip--at leastfrom Virginia's point of view--but he did earnestly hope that theymight run into game at once. Later the moose would go to their winterfeeding grounds, far down the heights. Every day they hunted, theirchance of procuring meat was less. 

He led her over the ridge to the marshy shores of Gray Lake, --a dismalbody of water over which the waterfowl circled endlessly and the loonsshrieked their maniacal cries. He noticed, with some apprehension, thatmany sea birds had taken to the lake for refuge, --gulls and theirfellows. This fact meant to the woodsman that great storms were ragingat sea, and they themselves would soon feel the lash of them. Theywaited in the shadow of the spruce. 

"Don't make any needless motions, " he cautioned, "and don't speak aloud. They've got eyes and ears like hawks. "

It was not easy to stand still, in the snow and the cold, waiting forgame to appear. Virginia was uncomfortable within half an hour, shivering and tired. In an hour the cold had gripped her; her handswere lifeless, her toes ached. Yet she stood motionless, uncomplaining. 

It was a long wait that they had beside the lake. The short, snow-darkened afternoon had not much longer to last. Bill began to bediscouraged; he knew that for the girl's sake he must leave his watch. He waited a few minutes more. 

Then the girl felt his hand on her arm. "Be still, " he whispered. "Here he comes. "

They were both staring in the same directions, but at first Virginiacould not see the game. Her eyes were not yet trained to these wintryforests. It was a strange fact, however, that the announcement was likea hot stimulant in her blood. The sense of cold and fatigue left her inan instant. And soon she made out a black form on the far side of thelake. 

"He's coming toward us, " the man whispered. 

Although she had never seen such an animal before, at once sherecognized its kind. The spreading horns, the great frame, the long, grotesque nose belonged only to the moose, --the greatest of Americanwild animals. Her blood began to race through her veins. 

The animal was still out of range, but the distance between them rapidlyshortened. He was following the lake shore, tossing his horns inarrogance. Once he paused and gazed a long time straight toward them, legs braced and head lifted; but evidently reassured he ventured on. Now he was within three hundred yards. 

"Why don't you shoot?" the girl whispered. 

"I'm afraid to trust this old gun at that range. I could get him withmy thirty-five. Now don't make a motion--or a sound. "

Now the creature was near enough so that she could receive some idea ofhis size and power. She knew something of the quagmires such as lay onthe lake shore. She had passed some of them on the journey. But thebull moose took them with an ease and a composure that was thrilling tosee. Where a strong horse would have floundered at the first step, hestretched out his hind quarters, and, striking with his long, powerfulfront legs, pulled through. Then she was aware that Bill was aiming. 

At the roar of the rifle she cried out in excitement. The old bull hadtraversed the marches for the last time: he had fought the last fightwith his fellow bulls in the rutting season. He rocked down easily, andBill's racing fingers ejected the shell and threw another into thebarrel, ready to fire again if need be. But no second bullet wasrequired. The man's aim had been straight and true, and the bullet hadpierced his heart. 

The two of them danced and shouted in the snow. And Virginia did notstop to think that the stress of the moment had swept her back athousand--thousand years, and that her joy was simply the rapture ofthe cave woman, mad with blood lust, beside her mate. 

X

The shoulder of a bull moose was never a load for a weak back. Thepiece of meat weighed nearly one hundred pounds and was of awkward shapeto carry. Bill, secure in his strength, would never have attempted itexcept for the fact that after one small ridge was climbed, the way wasdownhill clear to the cabin. 

He skinned out the quarter with great care; then, stooping, worked it onhis back. Virginia took his gun and led the way back over their snowtrail. 

By resting often, they soon made the hilltop. From thence on theydragged the meat in the immaculate snow. Twilight had fallen again whenthey made the cabin. 

Already Virginia thought of it as home. She returned to it with athrill in her veins and a joy in her heart. She was tired out and cold;this humble log hut meant shelter from the storm and warmth and food. Bill hung the meat; then with his knife cut off thick steaks for theirsupper. In a few moments their fire was cracking. 

Bill showed her how to broil the steak in its own fat, and he cooked hotbiscuits and macaroni to go with it. No meal of her life had ever givenher greater pleasure. They made their plans for the morrow; first toconstruct a crude sled and then to bring in the remainder of the meat. "If the wolves don't claim it to-night, " Bill added, as he lighted hispipe. 

"It's strange that I don't want to smoke myself, " the girl told him. 

"You? Why should you?"

"I smoke at home. I mean I did. It's getting to be the thing to doamong the girls I know. Someway, the thought of it doesn't seeminteresting any more. "

"Did you--really enjoy it then? If you did, I'll split my store withyou. You've got as much right to it as I. " The man spoke ratherheavily. 

"I didn't think I did enjoy it. I did it--I suppose because it seemedsporting. It never made me feel peaceful--only nervous. I don'tbelieve tobacco is a temperamental need with women as it is with somemen--otherwise it wouldn't have taken so many centuries to establishthe custom. It would only--seem silly, up here. "

He had an impression that she was speaking very softly. The quality ofabsolute and omnipresent silence had passed from the wilderness. Therewas a low stir, a faint murmur that at first was so far off and vaguethat neither of them could name it. 

But slowly the sound grew. The tree tops, silent before with snow, gaveutterance; the thickets cracked, stirred, and moved as if some dreadspirit were coming to life within them. The candle flickered. A lowmoan reached them from the chimney. Bill strode to the door and threwit wide. 

He did not have to peer out into that unfathomable darkness to know theenemy that was at his gates. It spoke in a sudden fury, and the snowflurries swept past, like strange and wandering spirits, in the dimcandle light. No longer the flakes drifted easily and silently down. They seemed to be coming from all directions, whirling, eddying, borneswiftly through the night and hurled into drifts. And a dread voicespoke across the snow. 

"The north wind, " Bill said simply. 

Virginia's eyes grew wide. She sensed the awe and the dread in histones; even she, fresh from cities, knew that this foe was not to bedespised. She felt the sharp pinch of the cold as the heat escapedthrough the open door. The temperature was falling steadily; already itwas far below freezing. Bill shut the door and walked back to her. 

"What does it mean?" she asked breathlessly. 

"Winter. The northern winter. I've seen it break too many times. Perhaps we can drown out the sound of it--with music. "

He walked toward the battered instrument. Her heart was cold withinher, and she nodded eagerly. "Yes--a little ragtime. It will befrightfully loud in the cabin, but it's better than the sound of thestorm. "

She didn't dream that this wilderness man would choose any other kind ofmusic than ragtime. She was but new to the North, otherwise she wouldhave made no such mistake. Superficiality was no part of these northernmen. They knew life in the raw, the travail of existence, the pinch ofcold and the fury of the storm; and the music that they felt in theirhearts was never the light-hearted dance music of the South. Music isthe articulation of the soul, and the souls of these men were darkenedand sad. It could not be otherwise, sons of the wilderness as theywere. 

The pack song, on the hilltop in the winter moon, was never a melody oflaughter. Rather it was the song of life itself, life in the raw, andthe sadness and pain and the hopeless war of existence find their echoin the wailing notes. None of the wilderness voices were joyous. WhenBill had chosen his records he took those that answered his own mood andexpressed his own being. 

Not all of them were sad music, in the strictest sense. But they wereall intense, poignant and tremulous with the deepest longings of thehuman soul. 

"I haven't any ragtime, " the man explained humbly. "I could only bringup a few records, and so I took just the ones I liked best. They'resimple things--I'm sorry I haven't any more. "

She looked at this man with growing wonder. Of course he would like thesimple things. No man of her acquaintance had ever possessed truerstandards: no sophistication or cultural growth such as she herself hadknow could have given him a truer gentility. What was this thing thatmen could learn in the woods and in the North that gave them such poise, such standards, and brought out such qualities of manhood? Yet she knewthat the forests did not treat all men alike. Those of intrinsic virtuewere made better, their strength was supplemented by the strength of thewilderness itself, but the weaklings perished quickly. This was not aland for soft men, for the weak and the cowardly and the vicious. Thewild soon found them out, harried them by storms and broke their heartsand their spirits, and kept from them its gracious secrets. Perhaps inthis latter thing lay the explanation. It seemed to her that Bill wasalways straining, listening for the faintest, whispered voices of theforest about him. He was always watching, always studying--his souland his heart open--and Nature poured forth upon him her incalculablerewards. 

He put on a record, closed the doors of the instrument tight to mufflethe sound, and set the needle. She recognized the melody at once. Itwas Drdla's "Souvenir"--and the first notes seemed to sweep her intoinfinity. 

It was a beautiful, haunting thing, sweet as love, warm as a maiden'sheart, tender as motherhood; and all at once Virginia was aware of aheart-stirring and incredible contrast. The melody did not drown outthe sound of the storm. It rose above it, infinitely sweet andentreating, and all the time the wild strains of the storm outside madea strange and dreadful background. Yet the two songs mingled with suchharmony as only old masters, devotees to music, can sometimes hear intheir inmost souls but never express in notes. 

She felt the tears start in her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. Her heartraced and thrilled. For all the exquisite beauty of the song, a vaguedread and an incomprehensible fear seemed to come upon her. For all thestir and impulse of the melody, a strange but exquisite sadness engulfedher spirit. In that single instant the North drew aside its curtains ofmystery and showed her its secret altar. For a breath at least she knewits soul, --its travail, its dreadful beauty, its infinite sadness, itsmerciless strength. 

In her time Virginia had now and then known the fear of Death. Twonights previous, as the waters had engulfed her, she had known it verywell. But never before had she known fear of life. That's what itwas--fear of _life_--life that could only cost and could not pay, thatcould take and could not give, that could pain but could not heal. Sheknew now the dreadful persecution of the elements, cold and storm andthe snow fields stretching ever from range to range. She knew the fearof hunger, of struggle to break the spirit and rend the body, ofdisaster that could not be turned aside, of cruel and immutable destiny. She knew now why the waterfowl had circled all day so restlessly: theytoo had known the age-old fear of the northern winter. They had sensed, in secret ways, the swift approach of the storm. 

Winter was at hand. It would lock the streams and sweep the land withsnow, the sun would grow feeble in the sky, and the spirit of Cold woulddescend with its age-old terrors. And the creepy fear, the hauntingterror known to all northern creatures, man or beast, crept into herlike a subtle poison. 

It was a moment of enchantment. The music rose high, fell in soaringleaps, trembled in infinite appeal, and slowly died away. Outside thestorm increased in fury. The wind sobbed over the cabin roof, the treescomplained, the snow beat against the window pane. And still the spelllingered. Her lustrous eyes gazed out through the darkened pane, buther thoughts carried far beyond it. 

And it was well for her peace of mind that she did not glance at Bill. The music had moved him too: besides the fear of the North he had beentorn by even a deeper emotion, and for the instant it was written all toclearly upon his rugged features. He was watching the girl's face, hiseyes yearning and wistful as no human being had ever seen them. 

The soaring notes, with the dreadful accompaniment of the storm, hadbrought home a truth to him that for days on the trail he had tried todeny. "I love you, Virginia, " cried the inaudible voice of his soul. "Oh, Virginia--I love you, I love you. "

XI

It was one of Bill Bronson's basic creeds to look his situationssquarely in the face. It was part of the training of the wilderness, and up till now he had always abided by it. But for the past few dayshe had found himself trying to look aside. He had tried to avoid anddeny a truth that ever grew clearer and more manifest, --his love forVirginia. 

He had told himself he wouldn't give his love to her. He would holdback, at least. He had reminded himself of the bridgeless gap thatseparated them, that they were of different spheres and that it onlymeant tragedy, stark and deep, for him to let himself go. He had foughtwith himself, had tried to shut his eyes to her beauty and his heart toher appeal. But there was no use of trying further. In the stress andpassion of the melody he had found out the truth. 

And this was no moment's passion, --the love that he had for her. Billwas not given to fluency of emotion. He was a northern man, intense asfire but slow to emotional response. He had known the great disciplineof the forest; he was not one to lose himself in infatuation orsentimentality. He only knew that he loved her, and no event of lifecould make him change. 

He had had dreams, this man; but they were never so concrete, so fond asthese dreams that swept him now. In the soft candlelight the girl'sbeauty moved him and glorified him, the very fact of her presencethrilled him to the depths, the wistfulness and appeal in her faceseemed to burn him like fire. This northern land was never the home ofweak or half-felt emotions. The fine shades and subtle gradations offeelings were unknown to the northern people, but they had fullknowledge of the primordial passions. They could hate as the she-wolfhates the foe that menaces her cubs, and they could love to the momentof death. He knew that whatever fate life had in store for him it couldnot change his attitude toward her. She would leave the North and goback to her own people, and still he would be true. 

Even in the first instant he knew enough not to hope. They would havetheir northern adventure together, and then she would leave him to hissnows and his trackless forests. She would go to her own land, a placeof mirth and joy and warmth, to leave him brooding and silent in hiswaste places. He knew that all his days this same dream would be beforehis eyes, this wistful-eyed, tender girl, this lovely flower of theSouth. Nothing could change him. The years would come and go--springand summer flowering in the forest, dancing once and tripping on to asofter, gentler land; fall would touch the shrubs with color, whisk offthe golden leaves of the quivering aspen, and speed way; and winter, drear and cheerless, would shroud the land in snow--and find his loveunswerving. The forest folk would mate in fall, the caribou calveswould open their wondering eyes in spring, the moose would bathe andwallow in the lakes in summer, and in winter the venerable grizzly wouldseek his lair, and still his dreams, in his lonely cabin, would beunchanged. His love would never lessen or increase. He had held noneof it back; no more could be given or taken away. He had given his all. 

But if he couldn't keep this knowledge from himself, at least he couldhold it from the girl. It would only bring her unhappiness. It woulddestroy the feeling of comradeship for him that he had begun to observein her. It would put an insurmountable wall between them. Besides, hedidn't believe that she could understand. Perhaps it would only offendher, --that this son of the forests should give her his love. She hadnever dealt with men of his breed before, and she had no inkling of thesmoldering, devouring fires within the man. He would not invite herpity and her distrust by letting her know. 

Strangest of all, he felt no bitterness or resentment. This developmentwas only a fitting part of the tragedy of his life: first his father'smurder, his dreams that had never come true, his lost boyhood, his exilein the waste places, and now the lonely years that stretched before himwith nothing to atone or redeem. He knew that there could be no otherwoman in his life. It was well enough for the men of cities to give andtake back their love; for them it was only wisdom and good sense, butsuch a course was impossible to such sons of the forest as he. Lifegives but one dream to the forest folk, and they follow it till theydie. He knew that the yearning in his heart and the void in his lifecould never be filled. 

Yet he didn't rail at fate. He had learned what fate could do to him, and he had learned to take its blows with a strange fatalism andcomposure. Besides, would he not have the joy of her presence for manydays to come? Their adventure had just begun: weeks would pass beforeshe could go home. In those days he could serve her, toil for her, devote himself wholly to her happiness. He could see her face and knowher beauty, and it was all worth the price he paid. For life in theNorth is life in its simplest phases; and the northern men have had achance to learn that strangest truth of all, --that he who counts thecost of his hour of pleasure shall be crushed in the jaws of Destiny, and that a day of joy may be worth, in the immutable balance of being, awhole life of sorrow. 

Virginia had no suspicion of his thoughts. She was still enthralled bythe after-image of the music, and her own thoughts were soaring faraway. But soon the noise of the storm began to force itself into herconsciousness. It caused her to consider her own prospects for thenight. 

Vaguely she knew that this night was different from the others. The twoprevious nights she had been ill and half-unconscious: her veryhelplessness appealed to Bill's chivalry. To-night she stood on her ownfeet. Matters were down to a normal basis again, and for the first timeshe began to experience a certain embarrassment in her position. Shewas suddenly face to face with the fact that the night stretched beforeher, --and she in a snowswept cabin in the full power of a strange man. She felt more than a little uneasy. 

Already she was tired and longed to go to sleep, but she was afraid tospeak her wish. As the silence of the cabin deepened, and the noise ofthe storm grew louder--blustering at the roof, shaking the door, andbeating on the window pane--her uneasiness gave way to stark fear. 

But all at once she looked up to find Bill's eyes upon her, full ofsympathy and understanding. "You'll want to turn in now, " he told her. "You take the bunk again, of course--I'll sleep on the floor. I'mcomfortable there--I could sleep on rocks if need be. "

"Can't you get some fir boughs--to-morrow?" The girl spoke nervously. 

"They'd be in the way, but maybe I can arrange it. And now I've got tofix your boidoir. "

He took one of the boxes that served as a chair and stood it up on thefloor, just in front of her bunk. Then, holding one of the blankets inhis arm and a few nails in his hand, he climbed upon the box. Sheunderstood in an instant. He was curtaining off the entire end of thecabin where Virginia slept. 

The girl's relief showed in her face. Her eyes lighted, herapprehension was largely dispelled. She wasn't blind to histhoughtfulness, his quick sympathy; and she felt deeply and speechlesslygrateful. And she was also vaguely touched with wonder. 

"You can go in there now, " he told her. "But there's one thing--Iwant to show you--before you turn in. "

"Yes?"

"I want to show you this little pistol. " He took a light arm of bluesteel from his belt, --the small-calibered and automatic weapon withwhich he had gilled the grouse. "It's only a twenty-two, " Bill went on, "but it shoots a long cartridge, and it shoots ten of 'em, fast as youpull the trigger. You could kill a caribou with it, if you hit himright. "

"Yes?" And she wondered at this curious interlude in their moment ofparting. 

"You see this little catch behind the trigger guard?" The girl nodded. "When you want to fire it, all you have to do is to push up the littlecatch with your thumb and pull the trigger. To-morrow I'm going toteach you how to shoot with it--I mean shoot straight enough to takethe head off a grouse at twenty feet. And so it will bring you luck, Iwant you to sleep with it, --under your pillow. "

Understanding flashed through her, and a slow, grateful smile played ather lips. "I don't want it, Bill, " she told him. 

"You'd feel safer with it, " the man urged. He slipped it under herpillow. "And even before you learn to shoot it well--you could--ifyou had to--shoot and kill a man. "

He smiled again and drew her curtain. 

* * * * *

Bill was true to his promise to teach Virginia to shoot. The next dayhe put up an empty can out from the door of the cabin and they hadtarget practice. 

First he showed her how to hold the weapon and to stand. "See the canjust over the sights and press back gradually, " he urged. 

The first shot went wide of its mark. The second and third were nobetter. But by watching her closely, Bill found out her mistake. 

"You flinch, " he told her. "It's an old mistake among hunters--andthe only way you can avoid it is by deepest concentration. Skill inhunting--as well as in everything else--depends upon throwing thewhole energy of your mind and body into that one little part of aninstant when you pull the trigger. It's all right to be excited before. You're not human if, the game knocked over, you're not excited after. But unless you can hold like iron for that fraction of a second, youcan't shoot and you never can shoot. "

"But I'm not excited now, " she objected. 

"You haven't got full discipline of your nerves, just the same. You're a little afraid of the sound and the explosion, and you flinchback--just a little movement of your hand--when you pull the trigger. If it is only an eighth of an inch here, it's quite a miss by the timethe bullet gets out there. Try again, but convince yourself first thatyou won't flinch. You won't jerk or throw off your aim. "

She lowered the weapon and rested her nerves. Then she quietly liftedthe gun again. And the fourth bullet knocked the can spinning from thelog. 

The man shouted his approval, and her flushed face showed what a realtriumph it was to her. Few of her lifelong accomplishments she hadvalued more. Yet it caused no self-wonder; she only knew that sherespected and prized the good opinion of this stalwart woodsman, and bythis one little act she had proved to him the cool, strong quality ofher nerves. 

And it was no little triumph. She had really learned the basic conceptof good shooting, --to throw the whole force of the nervous system intothe second firing. It was the same precept that makes toward allachievement. The fact that she had grasped it so quickly was a guarantyof her own metal. She felt something of that satisfaction that strongmen feel when they prove, for their own eyes alone, their self-worth. It was the instinct that sends the self-indulgent business man, ridingto his work in a limousine, into the depths of the dreadful wildernessto hunt, and that urges the tenderfoot to climb to the crest of thehighest peaks. 

It did not mean that she was a dead shot already. Months and years ofpractice are necessary to obtain full mastery of pistol or rifle. Shehad simply made a most creditable start. There would be plenty ofmisses thereafter; in fact, the next six shots she missed the can fourtimes. She had to learn sight control, how to gauge distance and windand the speed of moving objects; but she was on the straight road tosuccess. 

While Virginia cooked lunch, Bill cut young spruce trees and made asled: and after the meal pushed out through the whirling snow to beingin the remainder of the moose meat. It was the work of the wholeafternoon to urge the sled up the ridge and then draw it home throughthe drifts. The snow mantle had deepened alarmingly during the night, and he came none too soon. It was only a matter of days, perhaps ofhours, before the snow would be impassable except with snowshoes. Untilat last the snowfall ceased and packed, traveling even with their aidwould be a heart-breaking business. 

Virginia was lonely and depressed all the time Bill was absent, and shehad a moment of self-amazement at the rapidity with which she brightenedup at his return. But it was a natural development: the snow-sweptwilds were dreary indeed for a lonely soul. He was a fellow humanbeing; that alone was relationship enough. 

"You can call me Virginia, if you want to, " she told him. "Last namesare silly out here--Heaven knows we can't keep them up in these weeksto come. I've called you Bill ever since the night we crossed theriver. "

Bill looked his gratitude, and she helped him prepare the meat. Some ofit he hung just outside the cabin door; one of the great hams suspendedin a spruce tree, fifty feet in front of the cabin. The skin wasfleshed and hung up behind the stove to dry. 

"It's going to furnish the web of our snowshoes, " he explained. 

That night their talk took a philosophical trend, and in the candlelighthe told her some of his most secret views. She found that the North, the untamed land that had been his home, had colored all his ideas, yetshe was amazed at his scientific knowledge of some subjects. 

Far from the influence of any church, she was surprised to find that hewas a religious man. In fact, she found that his religion went deeperthan her own. She belonged to one of the Protestant churches ofChristianity, attended church regularly, and the church had given herfine ideals and moral precepts; but religion itself was not a reality toher. It was not a deep urge, an inner and profound passion as it waswith him. She prayed in church, she had always prayed--halfautomatically--at bedtime; but actual, entreating prayer to a literalGod had been outside her born of thought. In her sheltered life she hadnever felt the need of a literal God. The spirit of All Being was notclose to her, as it was to him. 

Bill had found his religion in the wilderness, and it was real. He hadlistened to the voices of the wind and the stir of the waters in thefretful lake; he had caught dim messages, yet profound enough to floodhis heart with passion, in the rustling of the leaves, the utter silenceof the night, the unearthly beauty of the far ranges, stretching oneupon another. His was an austere God, infinitely just and wise, but Hisgreat aims were far beyond the power of men's finite minds to grasp. Most of all, his was a God of strength, of mighty passions and moods, but aloof, watchful, secluded. 

In this night, and the nights that followed, she absorbed--a little ata time--his most harboured ideas of life and nature. He did not speakfreely, but she drew him out with sympathetic interest. But for all heknew life in the raw and the gloom of the spruce forest, his outlook hadnot been darkened. For all his long acquaintance with a stark andremorseless Nature, he remained an optimist. 

None of his views surprised her as much as this. He knew the snows andthe cold, this man; the persecution of the elements and the endlessstruggle and pain of life, yet he held no rancor. "It's all part of thegame, " he explained. "It's some sort of a test, a preparation--andthere's some sort of a scheme, too big for human beings to see, behindit. "

He believed in a hereafter. He thought that the very hardship of lifemade it necessary. Earthly existence could not be an end in itself, hethought: rather the tumult and stress shaped and strengthened the soulfor some stress to come. "And some of us conquer and go on, " he toldher earnestly. "And some of us fall--and stop. "

"But life isn't so hard, " she answered. "I've never known hardship ortrial. I know many men and girls that don't know what it means. "

"So much to their loss. Virginia, those people will go out of life assoft, as unprepared, as when they came in. They will be as helpless aswhen they left their mother's wombs. They haven't been disciplined. They haven't known pain and work and battle--and the strengtheningthey entail. They don't live a natural life. Nature meant for allcreatures to struggle. Because of man's civilization they are having anartificial existence, and they pay for it in the end. Nature's way isone of hardship. "

This man did not know a gentle, kindly Nature. She was no friend ofhis. He knew her as a siren, a murderess and a torturer, yet with greatsecret aims that no man could name or discern. Even the kindly summermoon lighted the way for hunting creatures to find and rend their prey. The snow trapped the deer in the valleys where the wolf pack might findeasy killing; the cold killed the young grouse in the shrubbery; thewind sang a song of death. He pointed out that all the wildernessvoices expressed the pain of living, --the sobbing utterance of thecoyotes, the song of the wolves in the winter snow, the wail of thegeese in their southern migrations. 

In these talks she was surprised to learn how full had been his reading. All through her girlhood she had gone to private schools and had beentutored by high-paid intellectual aristocrats, yet she found this manbetter educated than herself. He had read philosophy and had browsed, at least, among all the literature of the past; he knew history and acertain measure of science, and most of all, the association of areas ofhis brain were highly developed so that he could see into the motivesand hearts of things much more clearly than she. 

In the nights he told her Nature lore, the ways of the living-creaturesthat he observed, and in the daytime he illustrated his points fromlife. They would take little tramps together through the storm andsnow, going slowly because of the depth of the drifts, and under histutelage, the wild life began to reveal to her its most hidden secrets. Sometimes she shot grouse with her pistol; once a great long-pinionedgoose, resting on the shore of frozen Gray Lake, fell to her aim. Shesaw the animals in the marshes, the herds of caribou that are, above allcreatures, natives and habitants of the snow-swept mountains, thelittle, lesser hunters such as marten and mink and otter. One nightthey heard the wolf pack chanting as they ran along the ridge. 

Life was real up here. The superficialities with which she had dealtbefore were revealed in their true light. Of all the past materialrequisites, only three remained, --food and warmth and shelter. Othersthat she did not think she needed--protection, and strength anddiscipline--were shown as vitally necessary. Comradeship was needed, too, the touch of a helping hand in a moment of fear or danger; andlove--the one thing she lacked now--was most necessary of all. It wasnot enough just to give love. For years she had poured her adorationupon Harold, lost it too, reciprocally; and this she might find strengthfor the war of life, even a tremulous joy in meeting and surmountingdifficulties. 

The snow fell almost incessantly and the tree limbs could hold no more. The drifts deepened in the still aisles between trunk and trunk. Whenthe clouds broke through and the stars were like great precious diamondsin the sky, the cold would drop down like a curse and a scourge, and theice began to gather on Grizzly River. 

On such nights the Northern Lights flashed and gleamed and danced in thesky and swept the forest world with mystery. 

XII

Virginia found the days much happier than she had hoped. She took areal interest in caring for their little cabin, cooking the meals, evenmending Bill's torn clothes. She had a natural fine sense of flavors, and out of the simple materials that they had in store she preparedmeals that in Bill's opinion outclassed the finest efforts of a Frenchchef. He would exult over them boyishly, and she found an unlooked-forjoy in pleasing him. She had made delicious puddings out of rice andcanned milk and raisins, she knew just the identical number of minutesit required to broil a moose porterhouse just to his taste, and shecould fry a grouse to surpass the most succulent fried chicken everserved in a southern home. All these things pleased her and occupiedthe barren hours. She learned to sew on buttons, wash her own clothes, and keep the cabin clean and neat as a hospital ward. 

She liked the hours of sober talk in the evenings. Sometimes they wouldplay through the records, and so well had Bill made his selections thatshe never tired of them. His preference tended toward melodies in theminor, wailing things that to him vaguely reflected the voices of thewild things and the plaintive utterances of the forest: she liked thesoul-stirring, emotional melodies. They worked up a rare comradeshipbefore the first week was done. She had never known a human being towhom she opened her thoughts more freely. 

She had her lonesome hours, but not so many as she had expected. Whentime hung heavy on her hands she would take out one of the old magazinesthat Bill had brought up to read on the winter nights, and devour itfrom cover to cover. She had abundant health. The experience seemed tobuild her up, rather than injure her. Her muscles developed, shebreathed deep of the cold, mountain air, and she had more energy thanshe could easily spend. 

She fought away the tendency to grow careless in dress or appearance. She kept her few clothes clean and mended, she dressed her hair ascarefully as in her city house. Her skin was clear and soft, but shedidn't know how the wilderness life was affecting her beauty. What Billobserved he did not tell her. Often the words were at his lips, but herepressed them. In the first place he was afraid of speaking toofeelingly and giving away his heart's secret; in the second he had aridiculous fear that such a personal remark might tend to destroy thefine balance of their relationship. She had no mirror, but soon shebecame used to going without one. But one day, on one of their tramps, she caught a perfect image of herself in a clear spring. 

She had stopped to drink, but for a few seconds she only regardedherself with speechless delight. She had had her share of beautybefore; now perfect health had brought its marvelous and indescribablecharm. Her hair was burnished and shimmering with life, her skin clearand transparent, her throat had filled out, and her eyes were bright andclear as she had never seen them. She felt no further need ofcosmetics. Her lips were red, and Nature had brought a glow to hercheeks that no human skill could equal. 

"Good Heavens, Bill!" she cried. "Why didn't you tell me that I wasgetting prettier every day?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to, " he replied. "But you are. I've beennoticing it a long time. "

"You're a cold, impersonal person!" But at once her talk tripped on toless dangerous subjects. 

Their cabin life was redeemed by their frequent excursions into thewild. The study of Nature was constantly more absorbing to the girl. Although the birds had all gone south--except such hardy fowl as theptarmigan, that seemed to spend most of their time buried in thesnow--there was still mammalian life in plenty in the forest. Thelittle furred creatures still plied, nervous and scurrying as ever, their occupations; and the caribou still wandered now and then throughtheir valley as they moved from ridge to ridge. The moose, however, had mostly pushed down to the lower levels. 

The grizzlies had gone into hibernation, and their tracks were no longerto be seen in the snow; but the wolf pack still ran the ridges. And oneday they had a miniature adventure that concerned the gray band. 

They were climbing a ridge one wintry day, unappalled by the three feetor more of snow, when the girl suddenly touched his arm. 

"First blood on caribou, " she cried. 

His eyes lighted, and he followed her gaze. Lately they had been havinga friendly contest as to who would get the first glimpse of any livingcreature that they encountered in their tramps, and Bill was pleased toadmit that he had been barely holding his own. The girl's eyes werepractically as quick as his and better at long distances, and alwaysthere was high celebration when she saw the game first. But to-day theywere fated for more exciting business. 

The caribou were plunging as fast as they could through the snow. Theycame, in caribou fashion, in a long file, each stepping into the tracksof the other, and it was a good woodsman, coming along behind them, thatcould tell whether there were two or ten in the band. An old bull withsweeping horns led the file. 

When going is at all easy, the caribou can travel at an incredible pace. Even their swinging trot can carry them from range to range in a singleday; but when they choose to run their fastest, they seem to have wings. To-day, however, the soft snow impeded their speed. They seemed to berunning freely enough, in great bounds, but Bill could tell that theywere hard pressed. He would have liked to have taken one of the youngcows to add to his larder, but they were too far to risk a shot. Thenhe seized the girl by the hand. 

"Plow fast as you can up hill, " he urged. "I think we'll see someaction. "

For he had guessed the impulse behind the wild race. They plungedthrough the snow as fast as they could, then sank almost out of sight inthe drifts. And in a moment Bill pointed to a gray, shadowy band thatcame loping toward them out of the haze. 

It was the wolf pack, and they were deep in the hunt. They were great, shaggy creatures, lean and savage, and Virginia felt glad that thisstalwart form was beside her. The wolves of the North, when thestarvation time is on, are not always to be trusted. They lookedghostly and incredibly large through the flurries. 

They came within a hundred yards, then their keen senses whispered awarning. Just for an instant they stood motionless in the snow, headsraised and fierce eyes grazing. 

Bill raised his rifle. He took quick aim at the great leader, and thereport rang far through the silences. But the entire pack sprang awayas one. 

"I can't believe that I missed, " Bill cried. He started to take aimagain. 

But no second shot was needed. Suddenly the pack leader leaped high inthe air and fell almost buried in the snow. His brethren halted, seemingly about to attack the fallen, but Bill's shout frightened themon. The great, gaunt creature would sing no more to the winter stars. 

He was a magnificent specimen of the black wolf, head as large as thatof a black bear, and a pelt already rich and heavy. "We'll add a fewmore from time to time, " Bill told her, "and then you can have a coat. "

In these excursions Virginia learned to use her pistol with remarkableaccuracy. Her strength increased: she could follow wherever Bill led. Sometimes they climbed snowy mountains where the gales shrieked likedemons, sometimes they dipped into still, mysterious glens; they trackedthe little folk in the snow, and they called the moose from the thicketsbeside the lake. 

They did not forget their graver business. Ever Virginia kept watch fora track that was not an animal track, a blaze on a tree that was notmade by the teeth of a porcupine or grizzly, a charred cook rack overthe ashes of a fire. But as yet they had found no sign of humanwayfarers other than themselves. There were no cut trees, no blazedtrails, no sign of a habitation. Yet she didn't despair. She had begunto have some knowledge of the great distances of the region: she knewthere were plenty of valleys yet unsearched. 

Bill never ceased to search for his mine. He looked for blazes too, fora sign of an old camp or a pile of washings beside a stream. When hefound an open stream he would wash the gravel, and it seemed to him hecombed the entire region between the two little tributaries of GrizzlyRiver indicated on his map. But with the deepening snow search was evermore difficult. Unlike Virginia, he was almost ready to give up. 

The spirit of autumn had never shown her face again: winter had come tostay. Every day the snow deepened, the cold in the long nights was moreintense. Travel was no longer possible without snowshoes, but the hidestretched in the cabin was almost dry and ready to cut into thongs forthe webs. The less turbulent stretches of Grizzly River were frozenfast: the actual crossing of the stream was no longer a problem. Beyondit, however, lay only wintry mountains, covered to a depth of five feetor more with soft and impassable snow; and until the snow crusted, thejourney to Bradleyburg was as impossible as if they had been cast awayon another sphere. 

Even the rapids of the river had begun to freeze. Often the cloudsbroke away at nightfall and let the cold come in, --stabbing, incredible cold that meant death to any human being that was caughtwithout shelter in its grasp. The land locked tight: no more could Billhunt for his mine in the creek beds. The last of the moose went down totheir yarding grounds, and even the far-off glimpse of a caribou was ararity. The marmots had descended into their burros, the snowshoerabbit hopped, a lonely figure in the desolation, through the drifts. Such of the other little people that remained--the weasel and theptarmigan--had turned to the hue of the snow itself. 

But now the snowshoe frames were done, wrought from tough spruce, andthe moose hide cut into thongs and stretched across to make the webs. For a few days Bill and Virginia had been captives in the cabin, andthey held high revels in celebration of their completion. Now theycould go forth into the drifts again. 

It did not mean, however, that the time was ripe for them to take theirsled and mush into Bradleyburg. The snow was still too soft for longjaunts. They had no tent or pack animals, and they simply would have towait for the most favorable circumstances to attempt the journey withany safety whatever. In the soft snow they could only make, at themost, ten miles a day; the sled was hard to drag; and the bitter cold ofthe nights would claim them quickly. It was not merely an alternativeor a convenience with them to wait for the crust. It was simplyunavoidable. Worst of all, the early winter storms were not done; and asevere blizzard on the trail would put a swift end to their journey. 

But once more Virginia could search the snow for traces of her lover. And after the jubilant evening meal--held in celebration of thecompletion of the snowshoes--the girl stood in the cabin doorway, looking a long time into the snow-swept waste. 

It was a clear, icy night, and the Northern Lights were more vivid andbeautiful than she had ever seen them. Bill thought that she waswatching their display; if he had known the real subject of herthoughts, he would not have come and stood in the doorway with her. Hewould have left her to her dreams. 

The whole forest world was wan and ghostly in the mysterious light. Thetrees looked strange and dark, perspective was destroyed, the farmountain gleamed. The streamers seemed to come from all directions, metwith the effect of collision in the sky, and filled the great dome withuncanny light. Sometimes the flood of radiance would spread and flutterin waves, like a great, gorgeous canopy stirred by the wind, andfragments and balls of fire would spatter the breadth of the heavens. As always, in the face of the great phenomena of nature, Bill was deeplyawed. 

"We're not the only ones to see it, " Virginia told him softly. "Somewhere I think--I feel--that Harold is watching it too. Somewhere over this snow. "

Bill did not answer, and the girl turned to him in tremulous appeal. 

"Won't you find him for me, Bill?" she cried. "You are so strong, socapable--you can do anything, anything you try. Won't you find himand bring him back to me?"

The man looked down at her, and his face was ashen. Perhaps it was onlythe effect of the Northern Lights that made his eyes seem so dark andstrange. 

XIII

One clear, icy night a gale sprang up in the east, and Virginia and Billfell to sleep to the sound of its complaint. It swept like a mad thingthrough the forest, shattering down the dead snags, shaking the snowfrom the limbs of the spruce, roaring and soughing in the tree tops, andblustering, like an arrogant foe, around the cabin walls. And when Billwent forth for his morning's woodcutting he found that his snowshoes didnot break through the crust. 

The wind had blown and crusted the drifts during the night. But it didnot mean that he and his companion could start at once down thesettlements. The crust was treacherous and possibly only temporary. The clouds had overspread again, and any moment the snowfall mightrecommence. The fact remained, however, that it was the beginning ofthe end. Probably in a few more weeks, perhaps days, it would be safeto start their journey. Bill was desolated by the thought. 

The morning, however, could not be wasted. It permitted him to make adash over to a certain stream further down toward the Yuga River insearch of any sign of the lost mine. The stream itself was frozen toblue steel, and the snow had covered it to the depth of several feet, but there might be blazes on the trees or the remnants of a broken cabinto indicate the location of the lost claim. He had searched thisparticular stream once before, but it was one of the few remainingplaces that he hadn't literally combed from the springs out of which itflowed to its mouth. He started out immediately after breakfast. 

It was not to be, however, that Bill should make the search that day. When about two miles from the cabin he saw, through a rift in thedistant trees, a distinct trail in the snow. 

It was too far to determine what it was. Likely it was only the trackof a wild animal, --a leaping caribou that cut deep into the drifts, orperhaps a bear, tardy in hibernating. No one could blame him, hethought, if he didn't go to investigate. It was a matter he would noteven have to mention to Virginia. He stood a moment in the drifts, tornby an inner struggle. 

Bill was an extremely sensitive man and his senses were trained even tothe half-psychic, mysterious vibrations of the forest life, and he had adistant premonition of disaster. All of his fondest hopes, his dreams, all of the inner guardians of his own happiness told him to keep to hissearch, to journey on his way and forget he had seen the tracks. Everydesire of Self spoke in warning to him. But Bill Bronson had a higherlaw than self. Long ago, in front of the ramshackle hotel inBradleyburg, he had given a promise; and he had reaffirmed it in thegleam of the Northern Lights not many nights before. There was no oneto hold him to his pledged word. There were none that need know; no oneto whom he must answer but his own soul. Yet even while he stood, seemingly hesitating between the two courses, he already knew what hemust do. 

It was impossible for Bill to be false to himself. He could not disobeythe laws of his own being. He would be steadfast. He turned and wentover to investigate the tracks. 

He was not in the least surprised at their nature. Those that hadordained his destiny had never written that he should know the goodfortune of finding them merely the tracks of animals. The trail wasdistinctly that of snowshoes, and it led away toward the Yuga River. 

Bill glanced once, then turned back toward his cabin. He mushed thedistance quickly. Virginia met him with a look of surprise. 

"I'm planning a longer dash than I had in mind at first, " he told her. "It's important----" he hesitated, and a lie came to his lips. But itwas not such a falsehood as would be marked, in ineffaceable letters, against him on the Book of Judgement. He spoke to save the girl anyfalse hopes. "It's about my mine, " he said, "and I'll not likely beback before to-morrow night. It might take even longer than that. Would you be afraid to stay alone?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of here, " the girl replied. "But it willbe awfully lonesome without you. But if you think you've got a realclew, I wouldn't ask you to stay. "

"It's a real clew. " The man spoke softly, rather painfully. Shewondered why he did not show more jubilation or excitement. "You've gotyour pistol and you can bolt the door. I've got plenty of wood cut. There's kindling too--and you can light a fire in the morning. If youput a big log on to-night you'll have glowing coals in the morning. Itwill be cold getting up, and I wish I could be here to build your fire. But I don't think I can. "

She gave him a smile and was startled sober in the middle of it. All atonce she saw that the man was pale. He had, then, found a clew of realimportance. "Go ahead, of course, " she told him. "We'll fix some lunchfor you right away. "

He took a piece of dried moose meat, a can of beans and another ofmarmalade, and these, with a number of dried biscuits, would comprisehis lunch. "Be careful of yourself, " he told her at parting. "If Idon't get back to-morrow, don't worry. And pray for me. "

She told him she would, but she did not guess the context of the prayerhis own heart asked. His prayer was for failure, rather than success. 

Following his own tracks, he went directly back to the mysterioussnowshoe trail. He followed swiftly down it, anxious to know his fateat the first possible instant. He saw that the trail was fresh, madethat morning; he had every reason to think that he could overtake theman who had made it within a few hours. 

He was not camped on the Yuga, --whoever had come mushing through thesilences that morning. From the river to that point where he had foundthe tracks was too great a distance for any musher to cover in the fewhours since dawn. There was nothing to believe but that the stranger'scamp lay within a few miles of his own. He decided, from his frequentstops, that the man had been hunting; there was nothing to indicatethat he was following a trap line. The frequent tracks in the snow, however, indicated an unusually good tracking country. He wondered ifstrangers--Indians, most likely--had come to poach on his domain. 

He did not catch up with the traveler in the snow. The man had mushedswiftly. But shortly after the noon hour his keen eyes saw a wisp ofsmoke drifting through the trees, and his heart leaped in his breast. He pushed on, emerging all at once upon a human habitation. 

It was a lean-to, rather than a cabin. Some logs had been used in itsconstruction, but mostly its walls were merely frames, thatched heavilywith spruce boughs. A fire smoldered in front. And his heart leapedwith indescribable relief when he saw that neither of the two men thatwere squatted in the lean-to mouth was the stranger that had passed hiscamp six years before. 

Bill had old acquaintance with the type of man that confronted him now. One of them was Joe Robinson, --an Indian who had wintered inBradleyburg a few years before. Bill recognized him at once; he came ofa breed that outwardly, at least, changes little before the march oftime. There was nothing about him to indicate his age. He might bethirty--perhaps ten years older. Bill felt fairly certain, however, that he was not greatly older. In spite of legend to the contrary, aforty-year old Indian is among the patriarchs, and pneumonia or someother evil child of the northern winter, claims him quickly. 

Joe's blood, he remembered, was about three-fourths pure. His motherhad been a full-blooded squaw, his father a breed from the lake regionto the east. He was slovenly as were most of his kind; unclean; and themost distinguished traits about him were not to his credit, --a certainquality of craft and treachery in his lupine face. His yellow eyes weretoo close together; his mouth was brutal. His companion, a half-breedwith a dangerous mixture of French, was a man unknown to Bill, --butthe latter did not desire a closer acquaintance. He was a booncompanion and a mate for Joe. 

Yet both of them possessed something of that strange aloofness anddignity that is a quality of all their people. They showed no surpriseat Bill's appearance. In these mighty forests human beings were as rarea sight as would be an aeroplane to African savages, yet they glanced athim seemingly with little interest. It was true, however, that thesemen knew of his residence in this immediate section of Clearwater. Theloss of his father's mine was a legend known all over that particularpart of the province; they knew that he sought it yearly, clear up tothe trapping season. When the snows were deep, they were well awarethat he ran trap lines down the Grizzly River. Human inhabitants of theNorth are not so many but that they keep good track of one another'sbusiness. 

But they had a better reason still for knowing that he was near. Theprevailing winds blew down toward them from Bill's camp, and sometimes, through the unfathomable silence of the snowy forest, they had heard thefaint report of his loud-mouthed gun. 

It is doubtful that a white man--even a resident of the forest such asBill--could ever have heard as much. He was a woodsman, but he didnot inherit, straight from a thousand woodsman ancestors, perceptionsalmost as keen as those of the animals themselves. As it was, he hadn'thad a chance to guess their presence. The wind always carried the soundof their rifles away from him rather than toward him; besides, theirguns were of smaller caliber and had a less violent report. 

Last of all, they had been careful about shooting. For a certain verygood reason they had no desire for Bill to discover their presence. There are certain laws, among the northern men, as to trapping rights. Nothing can be learned in the provincial statute books concerning theselaws. Mostly they are unwritten; but their influence is felt clearbeyond the Arctic Circle. They state quite clearly that when a man laysdown a line of traps, for a certain distance on each side of him thedistrict is his, and no one shall poach on his preserves. And theseIndians had lately been partners in an undertaking to clear the wholeregion of its furs. 

They had no idea but that Bill had discovered their trap lines and hadcome to make trouble. For all that they sat so still and aloof, Joe'smind had flashed to his rifle in the corner of the lean-to, six feetaway. He rather wished it was nearer. His friend Pete the Breed wasconsiderably reassured by the feel of his long, keen-bladed knifeagainst his thigh. Knives, after all, were very effective at closework. The two of them could really afford to be insolent. 

And they were considerably amazed at Bill's first question. He had leftthe snowshoe trail that evidently passed in front of the shelter and hadcrossed the snow crust to the mouth of the lean-to. "Did one of youmake those tracks out there?" he asked. He felt certain that one ofthem had. He only asked to make sure. 

There was a quality in Bill's voice that usually, even from such gentryas this, won him a quick response. Joe's mind gave over the insolenceit had planned. But for all that Bill's inner triumph was doomed to beshort-lived. 

"No, " Joe grunted. "Our partner made it. Follow it down--pretty soonfind another cabin. "

XIV

Bill only had to turn to see the snowy roof of the cabin, two hundredyards away down the glade. Ordinarily his sharp eyes would havediscerned it long before: perhaps the same inner spirit, encounteredbefore this eventful day, was trying to protect him still. He turnedwithout a word, and no man could have read the expression on hiswind-tanned face. He mushed slowly on to his journey's end. 

It was a new cabin, just erected, and smoke drifted faintly from itschimney. Bill rapped on the door. 

"Come along in, " some one answered gruffly. Bill removed his snowshoes, and the door opened before his hand. 

He did not have to glance twice at the bearded face to know in whosepresence he stood. His inner senses told him all too plainly. Changedas he was, there was no chance in heaven or earth for a mistake. Thiswas Harold Lounsbury, the same man who had passed his camp years before, the same lost lover that Virginia had come to find. 

Even now, Bill thought, it was not too late to withdraw. He couldpretend that he had came to quarrel in regard to his trapping rights. After one glance he knew that, from the standard of good sense, therewas a full reason for withdrawal. In the years he might even reconcilehis own conscience to the act. Harold leaned forward, but he didn't getup to meet him. 

Bill scarcely noticed the man's furtive preparations for self-defense. His rifle lay across his knees, and ostensibly he was in the act ofcleaning it, but in reality he was holding it ready for Bill's firstoffensive move. He had known of Bill of old; in the circle in which hemoved--lost utterly to the sight of the men of Bradleyburg--therewere stories in plenty about this stalwart woodsman. For days--eversince he had come here with his Indians and laid down his trapline--he had dreaded just such a visit. The real reason for Bill'scoming did not even occur to him. 

Bill saw that the man was frightened. His lips were loose, his eyesnervous and bright, his hands did not hold quite steady. But all theseobservations were at once obliterated and forgotten in the face of agreater, more profound discovery. In one scrutinizing glance the truthswept him like a flood. Here was one that the wilderness had crushed inits brutal grasp. As far as Bill's standards were concerned, it hadbroken and destroyed him. 

This did not mean that his health was wasted. His body was strong andtrim: except for a suspicious network of red lines in his cheeks and ayellow tinge to the whites of his eyes, he would have seemed in superbphysical condition. The evidence lay rather in the expression of hisface, and most of all in the surroundings in which he lived. 

He had been, to some extent at least, a man of refinement and culturewhen he had passed through Bill's camp so long ago. He had beenclean-shaven except for a small mustache; courteous, rather patronizingbut still friendly. Now he was like a surly beast. His eyes werenarrow and greedy, --weasel eyes that at once Bill mistrusted anddisliked. A scowl was at his lips, no more were they in a firm, straight line. The light and glory of upright manhood, if indeed he hadever possessed it, had gone from him now. He was a friend and acompanion of Joe and Pete: in a measure at least he was of their ownkind. 

When the white man chooses to descend, even the savages of the forestcannot keep pace with him. Bill knew now why Harold had never writtenhome. The wilderness had seized him body and soul, but not in theembrace of love with which it held Bill. Obviously he had taken theline of least resistance to perdition. He had forgotten the world ofmen; in reality he was no longer of it. Bill read the truth--afamiliar truth in the North--in his crafty, stealthy, yet savage face. 

He was utterly unkempt and slovenly. His coarse beard covered his lips, his matted hair was dull with dirt, his skin was scarcely less dark thanthat of the Indians themselves. The nails on his hands were foul; thefloor of the house was cluttered with rubbish and filth. It was aworthy place, this new-built cabin! Even the desolate wastes outsidewere not comparable with this. 

Yet leering through his degeneracy, his identity could not be mistaken. Here was the man Virginia had pierced the North to seek. 

Harold removed his pipe. "What do you want?" he asked. 

For a moment Bill did not answer. His thoughts were wandering afar. Heremembered, when Harold had passed his camp, there had been somethingvaguely familiar, a haunting resemblance to a face seen long before. The same familiarity recurred to him now. But he pushed it away andbent his mind to the subject in hand. "You're Lounsbury, of course, " hesaid. 

"Sure. " This man had not forgotten his name, in the years that he waslost to men. "I ask you again--what do you want?"

"You've been living on the Yuga. You came up here to trap in myterritory. "

The man's hands stirred, ever so little, and the rifle moved on hisknees. "You don't own this whole country. " Then he seemed totake courage from Bill's impassive face. He remembered his stanchallies--Pete and Joe. "And what if I did?"

"You knew I trapped here. You brought up Joe Robinson and a breed withyou. You meant to clean up this winter--all the furs in the country. "

Harold's face drew in a scowl. "And what are you goin' to do about it?"

"The queer thing is----" and Bill spoke quietly, slowly, "I'm not goingto do anything about it--now. "

Harold's crafty eyes searched his face. He wondered if Bill wasafraid--some way it didn't fit into the stories that he had heard of himthat this woodsman should be afraid. But he might as well go on thatsupposition as any other. "Maybe it's a good thing, " he said. And foran instant, something of his lost suavity of speech came back to him. "Then to what--do I owe the honor of this visit?"

Bill sighed and straightened. The struggle within himself had, aninstant before, waged more furiously than ever. Why should he not leavethis man to his filthy cabin and his degeneracy and never let Virginiaknow of their meeting? He wondered if such had been his secret plan, concealed in the further recesses of his mind, when he had told herto-day's expedition concerned his mine, --so that he could withdraw ifhe wished. In this course most likely lay the girl's ultimatehappiness, certainly his own. He could steal back; no one would everknow the truth. The man had sunk beneath her; even he, Bill, was moreworthy of her than this degenerate son of cities and culture. 

Yet who was he to dare to take into his own hands the question ofVirginia's destiny? He had promised to bring her lost lover back toher; the fact that he was no longer the man she had known could be onlya subterfuge to quiet his own conscience. Besides, the last sentencethat the man had spoken had been singularly portentous. For the instanthe had fallen into his own native speech, and the fact offeredtremendous possibilities. Could it be that the old days were notentirely forgotten, that some of the virtues that Virginia had loved inhim still dwelt in his degenerate hulk, ready to be wakened again? Hehad heard of men being redeemed. And all at once he knew his course. 

So intent was he upon his thoughts that he scarcely heard the sound ofsteps in the snow outside the cabin door, then the noise of some one onthe threshold in the act of removing snowshoes. 

The task that confronted him now was that, no more and no less, to whichhe had consecrated his life, --to bring happiness to the girl he loved. There was work to do with this man. But even yet he might be redeemed;with Bill's aid his manhood might return to him. His own love for thegirl tore at his heart, the image of his life stretched lonely and drearbefore him, yet he could not turn aside. 

"I didn't come to see you about trapping. I came--about VirginiaTremont. "

His eyes were on Harold's face, and he saw the man start. He had notforgotten the name. Just for an instant his face was stark pale anddevoid of expression. "Virginia!" he cried. "My God, what do you knowabout her?"

But he didn't wait the answer. All at once he looked, with an annoyanceand anxiety that at first Bill could not understand, toward the door ofthe cabin. The door knob slightly turned. 

Bill wheeled, with a sense of vast and impending drama. Harold swore, asingle brutal oath, then laughed nervously. An Indian squaw--for allher filth an untidiness a fair representative of her breed--pushedthrough the door and came stolidly inside. She walked to the back ofthe cabin and began upon some household task. 

Bill's face was stern as the gray cliffs of the Selkirks when he turnedagain to Harold. "Is that your woman?" he asked simply. 

Harold did not reply. He had not wished this man, emissary from his oldacquaintances of his native city, to know about Sindy. He retained thatmuch pride, at least. But the answer to Bill's question was tooself-evident for him to attempt denial. He nodded, shrugging hisshoulders. 

Bill waited an instant; and his voice when he spoke again was singularlylow and flat. "Did you marry her?"

Harold shrugged again. "One doesn't marry squaws, " he replied. 

Once more the silence was poignant in the wretched cabin. "I came tofind Harold Lounsbury, a gentleman, " Bill went on in the same strange, flat voice, "and I find--a squaw man. "

* * * * *

Bill realized at once that this new development did not in the leastaffect his own duty. His job had been to find Harold and return him toVirginia's arms. It was not for him to settle the girl's destiny. Forall he had spent his days in the great solitudes of nature he knewenough of life to know that women do not give their love to angels. Rather they love their men as much for their weaknesses as for theirvirtues. This smirch in Harold's life was a question for the two ofthem to settle between them. 

It did, however, complicate the work of regeneration. Bill had knownsquaw men before, and few of them had ever regenerated. Usually theywere men that could not stand the test of existence by their own toil:either from failure or weakness they took this sordid line of leastresistance. From thence on they did not struggle down the trap line inthe bitter winter days. They laid comfortably in their cabins and theirsquaws tended to such small matters. It was true that the squaws woreout quickly; sometimes they needed beating, and at about forty theywithered and died, or else the blizzard caught them unprotected in theforest, --and then it became necessary to select another. This was anannoyance, but not a tragedy. One was usually as faithful and asindustrious as another. 

It was perfectly evident that Sindy had been at work setting out traps. Bill stared at the woman and for the moment he did not see the littlesparks growing to flame in Harold's eyes. 

"What did you say?" he asked, menacing. He had caught a word that hascome to be an epithet in the North. 

But by taking it up Harold made a severe strategical error. Bill hadnever hesitated, by the light of an ancient idiom, to call a spade aspade. Also he always had good reasons before he took back his words. "I said, " he repeated clearly, "that I'd found--a squaw man. "

Harold's muscles set but immediately relaxed again. He shrugged once. "And is it anybody's business but my own?" he asked. 

"It hadn't ought to be, but it is, " was the answer. "It's my business, and somebody else's too. " he turned to the woman. "Listen, Sindy, andgive me a polite answer. You're Joe Robinson's sister, aren't you?"

The Indian looked up, nodded, then went back to her work. 

"Then you left Buckshot Dan--to come here and live with this whiteman?"

Harold turned to her with a snarl. "Don't answer him, Sindy. It's noneof his business. " Then his smoldering eyes met Bill's. "Now we'vetalked enough. You can go. "

"Wait!" Something in the grave face and set features silenced the squawman. "But it's true--we have talked just about enough. I've got onequestion. Lounsbury--do you think, by any chance--you've got anymanhood left? Do you think you're rotten clear through?"

Harold leaped then, savage as a wolf, and his rifle swung in his arms. Instantly Bill's form, impassive before, seemed simply to waken withlife. There was no rage in his face, only determination; but his armdrove out fast as a serpent's head. Seemingly with one motion hewrenched the gun from the man's hand and sent him spinning against thewall. 

Before even his body crashed against the logs, Bill had whirled to facethe squaw. He knew these savage women. It would be wholly in characterfor her whip a gleaming knife from her dress and spring to her man'said. But she looked up as if with indifference, and once more went backto her work. 

Bill was considerably heartened. At least he didn't have to deal withthe savage love that sometimes the Indian women bore the whites. Sindywas evidently wholly indifferent to Harold's fate. The match obviouslyhad not been a great success. 

For an instant Harold lay still, crumpled on the floor; then hisbleeding hands fumbled at his belt. Once more Bill sprang and snatchedhim to his feet. The holster, however, was empty. 

"No more of that, " Bill cautioned. The man's eyes smoldered withresentment, but for the moment he was cowed. "Before you start anythingmore, hear what I've got to offer you. " His voice lowered, and thewords came rather painfully. "It's your one chance, Lounsbury--tocome back. Virginia Tremont has come into the North, looking for you. She's at my camp. She wants to take you back with her. "

Lounsbury's breath caught with a strange, sobbing sound. "Virginia--uphere?" he cried. "Does she know about--this----" He indicated thecabin interior, and all it meant, with one sweep of his arm. 

"Of course not. How could she? Whether you tell her or not is a matterfor you and she to decide. She's come to find you--and bring youback. "

"My God! To the States?"

"Of course. "

For the instant the black wrath had left his face, and his thought swungbackward to his own youth, --to the days he had known Virginia in afar-off city. He was more than a little awed at this manifestation ofher love. He supposed that she had forgotten him long since and hadnever dreamed that she would search for him here. 

Once more the expression of his face changed, and Bill couldn't haveexplained the wave of revulsion that surged through him. He only knew ablind desire to tear with his strong fingers those leering lips beforehim. Harold was lost in insidious speculations. He remembered thegirl's beauty, the grace and litheness of her form, the holy miracle ofher kisses. Opposite him sat his squaw, --swarthy, unclean, shapeless, comely as squaws go but as far from Virginia as night was from day. Perhaps it wasn't too late yet----

But at that instant he heard the East Wind on the roof, and he recalledthat the old problem of existence faced him still. He had solved it uphere. His cabin was warm, he was full-fed; the squaw grubbed his livingfor him out of the frozen forests. He did not want to be forced to facethe competition of civilized existence again. He was dirty, care-free;his furs supplied food and clothes for him and certain rags for her, andfilled his cupboard with strong drink. He remembered that the girl hadhad no money, and that he had come first to the North to find gold. Ifhe had succeeded, if his poke were heavy with the yellow metal, he couldgo back to his city and take up his old life anew, but he couldn't beginat the bottom. With wealth at his command he might even find a moredesirable woman than Virginia: perhaps the years had changed her even ashimself. There was no need of dreaming further about the matter. Onlyone course, considering the circumstances, lay before him. 

"You're very kind, " he said at last. "But I won't go. Tell her youdidn't find me. "

Bill straightened and sighed. "Make no mistake about that, Lounsbury, "he answered. "You're going with me--" and then he spoke softly, a pausebetween each word--"if I have to drag you there through the snow. Iwas told to bring you back, and I'm going to do it. "

"You are, eh?" Harold scowled and tried to find courage to attack thisman again. Yet his muscles hung limp, and he couldn't even raise hiseyes to meet those that looked so steadfastly at him now. 

"Sindy can go home to Buckshot Dan. He'll take her back--you stoleher from him. And you, Lounsbury, rotten as you are, are coming withme. God knows I hope she'll drive you from her door; but I'm going tobring you, just the same. "

Harold's eyes glowed, and for the moment his brain was too busy withother considerations openly to resent the words. Then his face grewcunning. It was all plain enough: Bill loved Virginia himself. Throughsome code of ethics that was almost incredible to Harold, he was willingto sacrifice his own happiness for hers. And the way to pay for therough treatment he had just had, treatment that he couldn't, at presentat least, avenge in kind, was to win the girl away from him. The thingwas already done. She loved him enough to search even the frozen realmsof the North for him: simply by a little tenderness, a little care, hecould command her to love to the full again. The fact that Bill wantedher made her infinitely more desirable to him. 

"You won't tell her--about Sindy?"

"Not as long as you're decent. That's for you to settle foryourself--whether she finds out about her. "

Harold believed him. While he himself would have used the smirch as aweapon against his rival, he knew that Bill meant what he said. "I'llgo, " he announced. "If she's at the Gray Lake cabin, we've got plentyof time to make it before dark. "

XV

Harold Lounsbury found to his surprise that they were not to start atonce. It soon became evident that Bill had certain other matters on hismind. 

"Build a fire and put on some water to heat--fill up every pan youhave, " he instructed Sindy. He himself began to cram their little stovewith wood. Harold watched with ill-concealed anxiety. 

"What's that for?" he asked at last. 

Bill straightened up and faced him. "You didn't think I was going totake you looking like you do, do you--into Virginia's presence? Thefirst thing on the program is--a bath. "

Harold flushed: the red glow was evident even through the sootyaccumulation on his face. "It seems to me you're going a little outsideyour authority as Miss Tremont's representative. I don't know that Ineed to have any hillbilly tell me when I need a bath. "

"Yes?" Bill's eyes twinkled--for the first time during their talk. "Hillbilly is right--in contrast to a cultured gentleman of cities. But let me correct you. You may not know it, but I do. And you needone now. " He turned once more to Sindy. "And see what you can do aboutthis gentleman's clothes, too; if he's got any clean underwear or anyother togs, load 'em out. "

"Anything else?" Harold asked sarcastically. 

"Several things. Have you got any kind of a razor?"

"No. I don't want one either. "

"Better look around and find one. If you don't, I'll be obliged toshave you with my jackknife--and it will be inclined to pull. It'ssharp enough for skinning grizzlies but not for that growth of yours. And I'll try to trim your hair up for you a little, too. When youbathe, bathe all over--don't spare your face or your hair. Water mayseem strange at first, but you'll get used to it. And I'll go over andsit with Joe Robinson and his friend until you are ready. Thesurroundings are more appetizing. If you can polish yourself well in anhour, we'll make it through to-night. "

Harold's heart burned, but he acquiesced. Then Bill turned and left himto his ablutions. 

Less than an hour later Harold came mushing up the lean-to where Billwaited. And the hour had wrought a profound and amazing change in theman's appearance. He had conscientiously gone to work to cleansehimself, and he had succeeded. His hair, dull before, was a glossydark-brown now; he had shaved off the matted growth about his lips, leaving only a small, neat mustache; his hair was trimmed and carefullyparted. The man's skin had also resumed its natural shade. 

For the first time Bill realized that Harold was really a ratherhandsome man. His features were much more regular than Bill's own. Thelips were fine, --just a little too fine, in fact, giving an intangiblebut unmistakable hint of cruelty. The only thing that had not changedwas his eyes. They were as smoldering and wolfish as ever. 

By Bill's instructions he had loaded his back with blankets, his pistolwas at his belt, and he carried a thirty-five rifle in the hollow of hisarm. 

"I'm ready, " he said gruffly. 

"I'm glad to hear it. " Bill glanced at his watch. "It's late, but bymushing fast we can make it in by dark. I told Virginia that I'd likelyneed an extra day at least--she'll think I've worked fast. She'd knowit--if she had seen how you looked an hour ago. I was counting onfinding you somewhere along the Yuga. "

"We moved up--a few weeks ago. "

"There's one other thing, before we start. I want you to tell theseunderstrappers of yours to take that squaw and clear out of Clearwater. Tell 'em to take her back where she belongs--to Buckshot Dan. He'lltake her in, all right. I've been working in Miss Tremont's interestsuntil now--now I'm working in my own. This happens to be my trappingcountry. If I come back in a few weeks and find them still here there'sapt to be some considerable shedding of a bad mixture of bad blood. Inother words--skin out while you yet can. "

The half-breeds, understanding perfectly, looked to Harold forconfirmation. The latter had already learned several lessons ofimportance this day, and he didn't really care to learn any more. Hisanswer was swift. 

"Go, as he says, " Harold directed. 

Their dark faces grew sullen. The idea was evidently not to theirfavor. Then one asked a question in the Indian vernacular. 

Bill was alert at once. Here was a situation that he couldn't handle. Harold glanced once at his face, saw by his expression that he wasbaffled, and answered in the same language. From the tone of his voiceBill would have said that he uttered a promise. 

Once more the Indian questioned, and Harold hesitated an instant, as ifseeking an answer. It seemed to the other white man that his eye fellto the rifle that Bill carried. Then he spoke again, gesturing. Thegesture that he made was four fingers, as if in an instinctive motion, held before the Indian's eyes. Then he announced that he was ready togo. 

The afternoon was almost done when they started out. The distant treeswere already dim; phantoms were gathered in the spaces between thetrunks. The two mushed swiftly through the snow. 

Bill had enough memory of that glance to his rifle to prefer to walkbehind, keeping a close eye on Harold. Yet he could see no reason onearth why the man should make any attempt upon his life. The trip wasto Harold's own advantage. 

He had plenty of time to think in the long walk to his cabin. Only thesnowy forest lay about him: the only sound was the crunch of their shoesin the snow, and there was nothing to distract him. Now that it wasevident that Harold had no designs upon his life, he walked with bowedhead, a dark luster in his eyes. 

He had fulfilled his contract and found the missing man. Even now hewas showing him the way to Virginia. He wondered if he had been a foolto have sacrificed his own happiness for an unworthy rival. The worldgrew dreary and dark about him. 

He had tried to hide his own tragedy by a mask of brusqueness, even agrim humor when he had given his orders to Harold. But he hadn'tdeceived himself. His heart had been leading within him. Now he evenfelt the beginnings of bitterness, but he crushed them down with all thepower of his will. He mustn't let himself grow bitter, at least, --blackand hating and jealous. Rather he must follow his star, believe yetin its beauty and its fidelity, and never look at it through glassesdarkly. He must take what fate had given him and be content, --a fewwonderful weeks that could never come again. He had had his fling ofhappiness; the day was at an end. 

It was true. As if by a grim symbolism, darkness fell over Clearwater. The form in front of him grew dim, ghostly, yet well he knew itsreality. The distant trunks blurred, faded, and were obliterated; thetrees, swept and hidden by the snow, were like silent ghosts that faded;the whole vista was like a scene in a strange and tragic dream. 

The silence seemed to press him down like a malignant weight. Themysterious and eerie sorrow of the northern night went home to him asnever before. 

He knew all too well the outcome of this day's work. There would be afew little moments of gratitude from Virginia; perhaps in the joy of thereunion she would even forget to give him this. He would try to smileat her, to wish her happiness; he would fight to make his voice soundlike his own. She would take Harold to her heart the same as ever. Hehad not the least hope of any other consummation. Now that Harold wasshaved and clean he was a handsome youth, and all the full sweep of herold love would go to him in an instant. In fact, her love had alreadygone to him--across thousands of miles of weary wasteland--andthrough that love she had come clear up to these terrible wilds to findhim. 

His speech, his bearing seemed already changed. He was remembering thathe was a gentleman, one of Virginia's own kind. He already looked thepart. Perhaps he was already on the way toward true regeneration. It was better that he should be, for Virginia's happiness. Herhappiness--this had been the motive and the theme of Bill's work clearthrough: it was his one consolation now. In a few days the snow crustwould be firm enough to trust, and hand in hand they would go down towardBradleyburg. He would see the joy in their faces, the old luster ofwhich he himself had dreamed in Virginia's eyes. But it would not flowout to him. The holy miracle would not raise him from the dead. Hewould serve her to the last, and when at length they saw the roofs andtottering chimneys of Bradleyburg she would go out of his work and outof his life, never to return. In their native city Harold Lounsburywould take his old place. He's have his uncle's fortune to aid him inis struggle for success. The test of existence was not so hard downthere; he might be wholly able to hold Virginia's respect and love, andmake her happy. Such was Bill's last prayer. 

They were nearing the cabin now. They saw the candlelight, like a paleghost, in the window. Virginia was still up, reading, perhaps, beforethe fire. She didn't guess what happiness Bill was bringing her acrossthe snow. 

Bill could fancy her, bright eyes intent, face a little thoughtful, perhaps, but tender as the eyes of angels. He could see her hairburnished in the candlelight, the soft, gracious beauty of her face. Her lips, too, --he couldn't forget those lips of hers. A shudder ofcold passed over his frame. 

He strode forward and put his hand on Harold's arm. "Wait, " hecommanded. "There's one thing more. "

Harold paused, and the darkness was not so dense but that this face wasvaguely revealed, sullen and questioning. 

"There's one thing more, " Bill repeated again. "I've brought you here. I've given you your chance--for redemption. God knows if I had mychoice I'd have killed you first. She's not going to know about thesquaw, unless you tell her. These matters are all for you to decide, Iwon't interfere. "

He paused, and Harold waited. And his eager ears caught the faint throbof feeling in the low, almost muttered notes. 

"But don't forget I'm there, " he went on. "I work for her--until shegoes out of my charge and I'm her guide, her protector, the guardian ofher happiness. That's all I care about--her happiness. I don't knowwhether or not I did wrong to bring a squaw man to her--but if you'reman enough to hold her love and make her happy, it doesn't matter. ButI give--one warning. "

His voice changed. It took on a quality of infinite and immutableprophecy In the darkness and the silence, the voice might have comefrom some higher realm, speaking the irrevocable will of the forestgods. 

"She'll be more or less in your power at times, up here. I won't bewith you every minute. But if you take one jot of advantage of thatfact--either in word or deed--I'll break you and smash you and killyou in my hands!"

He waited an instant for the words to go home. Harold shivered as ifwith cold. And because in his mind already lay the vision of theirmeeting, he uttered one more sentence of instructions. He was a strongman, this son of the forest--and no man dared deny the trait--but hecould not steel himself to see that first kiss. The sight of the girl, fluttering and enraptured in Harold's arms, the soft loveliness of herlips on his, was more than he could bear. 

"Go on in, " he said. "She's waiting for you. "

And she was. She had waited six years, dreaming all the while of hisreturn. Harold went in, and left his savior to the doubtful mercy ofthe winter forest, the darkness that had crept into his heart, and thehush that might have been the utter silence of death itself had it notbeen for the image of a faint, enraptured cry, the utterance of dreamscome true, within the cabin door. 

XVI

When Virginia heard the tramp of feet on her threshold she didn't dreambut that Bill had returned a day earlier than he had planned. Her heartgave a queer little flutter of relief. The cabin had been lonelyto-night, the silence had oppressed her; most of all she had dreaded thelong night without the comforting reassurance of his presence. Shewouldn't have admitted, even to herself, that her comfort was sodependent upon this man. And she sprang up, joyously as a birdspringing from a bough, to welcome him. 

The next instant she stopped, appalled. The door did not open, thesteps did not cross her threshold. Instead, knuckles rapped feebly onthe door. 

Even in a city, it is a rather discomforting experience for a girl, alone in a home at night, to answer a tap on the door. Here in thisawful silence and solitude she was simply and wholly terrified. Shehadn't dreamed that there was a stranger within many miles of the cabin. For an instant she didn't know what to do. The knock sounded again. 

But Virginia had acquired a certain measure of self-discipline in theseweary weeks, and her mind at once flashed to her pistol. Fortunatelyshe had not taken it from her belt, and she had full confidence in herability to shoot it quickly and well. Besides, she remembered that herdoor was securely bolted. 

"Who's there?" she asked. "Is it you, Bill?"

"It's not Bill, " the answer came. "But he's here. "

The first thought that came to her was that Bill had been injured, hurtin some adventure in the snow, and men had brought him back to thecabin. Something that was like a sickness surged through her frame. But an instant more she knew that, had he been injured, there would havebeen no wayfarers to find him and bring him in. There was only oneremaining possibility: that this man was one whom Bill had gone out tofind and who had returned with him. 

The thought was so startling, so fraught with tremendous possibilitiesthat for a moment she seemed to lose all power of speech or action. 

"Who is it?" she asked again, steadily as she could. 

And the answer came strange and stirring through the heavy door. "It'sI--Harold Lounsbury. Bill told me to come. "

Virginia was oppressed and baffled as if in a mysterious dream. For themoment she stood still, trying to quiet her leaping heart and herfluttering nerves. Yet she knew she had to make answer. She knew thatshe must find out whether this voice spoke true--whether or not it washer lost lover, returned to her at last. 

Yet there could be no mistake. The voice was the same that sheremembered of old. It was as if it had spoken out of the dead years. Her hands clasped at her breast, then she walked to the threshold andopened the door. 

Harold Lounsbury stepped through, blinking in the candlelight. Instinctively the girl flung back, giving him full right of way andstaring as if he were a ghost. He turned to her, half apologetic. "Bill told me to come, " he said. 

The man stood with arms limp at his side, and a great surge of mingledemotions swept the girl as in a flood. She was pale as a ghost, and herhands trembled when she stretched them out. "Harold, " she murmuredunsteadily. She tried to smile. "Is it really you, Harold?"

"It's I, " he answered. "We've come together--at last. "

The words seemed to rally her scattered faculties. The dreamlikequality of the scene at once dissolved. Utter and bewildering surpriseis never an emotion that can long endure; its very quality makes forbrevity. Already some leveling, cool sense within her had begun toaccept the fact of his presence. 

Instinctively her eyes swept his face and form. All doubt was past:this man was unquestionably Harold. Yet she was secretly and vaguelyshocked. Her first impression was one of change: that the years hadsome way altered him, --other than the natural changes that no livingcreature may escape. 

In reality his face had aged but little. He had worn just such amustache when he went away. Perhaps his eyes were changed: for themoment she thought that they were, and the change repelled her andestranged her. His mouth was not quite right, either; his form, thoughpowerful, had lost some of its youthful trimness. 

It seemed to her, for one fleeting instant, that there was a brutalityin his expression that she had never seen before. But at once thereaction came. Of course these northern forests had changed him. Hehad fought with the cold and the snow, with all the primeval forces ofnature: he had simply hardened and matured. It was true that the calmstrength of Bill's face was not to be seen in his. Nevertheless he wasclean, stalwart, and his embarrassment was a credit to him rather than adiscredit. 

This thought was the beginning of the reaction that in a moment graspedher and held her. The truth suddenly flamed clear and bright: thatHarold Lounsbury had returned to her arms. Her search was over. Shehad won. He stood before her, alive and well. He had come back to her. Her effort had been crowned with success. 

He was her old lover, in the flesh. Of course she would experience someshock on first meeting him, see some changes; but they were nothing thatshould keep her from him. He seized her hands in both of his. "Virginia, " he cried. "My God, I can't believe it's you!"

She remained singularly cool in the ardor of this cry. "Why didn't youwrite?" she asked. "Why didn't you come home?"

The questions, instead of embarrassing him further, put Harold at hisease. He was on safe grounds now. He had prepared for just thesequeries, on the long walk to the cabin. 

"I did write, " he cried. "Why didn't you answer?"

The words came glib to his lips. She stared at him in amazement. "Youdid--you say you wrote to me?" she asked him, deeply moved. 

"Wrote? I wrote a dozen times. And I never received a word--exceptfrom Jules Nathan. "

"But Jules Nathan--Jules Nathan is dead!"

"He is?" But Harold's surprise was feigned. This was one piece of newsthat had trickled through the wastes to him, --of the death of JulesNathan, a man known to them both. It was safe to have heard fromhim. The contents of the letter could never be verified. "He toldme--after I'd written many times, and never got an answer--that youwere engaged to be married--to a Chicago man. I thought you'd forgottenme. I thought you'd been untrue. "

Virginia held hard on her faculties and balanced his words. She hadknown Chicago men during the six years that she had moved in the mostexalted social circles of her own city. The story held water, even ifshe had been inclined to doubt it. She knew it was always easy for anengagement rumor to start and be carried far, when a prominent girl wasinvolved. "I didn't get your letters, " she told him. "Are you sure youaddressed them right----"

"I thought so----"

"And you didn't get mine----"

"No--not after the first few days. I changed my address--but I toldyou of the change in a letter. I never heard from you after that. "

"Then it's all been a misunderstanding--a cruel mistake. And youthought I had forgotten----"

"I thought you'd married some one else. I couldn't believe it when Billcame to my cabin to-day and told me you were here--I've been trappingover toward the Yuga. And now--we're together at last. "

But curiously these last words cost her her self-possession. Instantlyshe was ill at ease. The reestablishment of their old relation couldonly come gradually: although she had not anticipated it, the six yearsof separation had wrought their changes. She felt that she needed timeto become adjusted to him--just as a man who has been blind needs timeto become adjusted to his vision. And at once their proximity, in thislonely cabin, was oddly embarrassing. 

"Where's Bill?" she asked. She turned to the door and called. "Bill, where are you?"

His voice seemed quite his own when he answered from the stillness ofthe night. "I'll be in in a moment--I was just getting a load ofwood. "

It wasn't true. He had been standing dumb and inert in the darkness, his thoughts wandering afar. But he began hastily to fill his arms withfuel. Virginia turned back to her new-found lover. 

She was a little frightened by the expression on his face. His eyeswere glowing, the color had risen in his cheeks, he was curiously eagerand breathless. "Before he comes, " he urged. "We've been apart solong----"

His hands reached out and seized hers. He drew her toward him. Shedidn't resist: she felt a deep self-annoyance that she didn't crave hiskiss. She fought away her unwonted fear; perhaps when his lips met herseverything would be the same again, and her long-awaited happiness wouldbe complete. He crushed her to him, and his kiss was greedy. 

Yet it was cold upon her lips. She struggled from his arms, and helooked at her in startled amazement. In fact, she was amazed atherself. When she had time to think it over, alone in her bed at night, she decided that her desperate struggle had been merely an attempt tofree herself from his arms before Bill came in and saw them. She onlyknew that she didn't want this comrade of hers, this stalwart forester, to see her in Harold's embrace. But in the second of the act she hadknown a blind fear, almost a repulsion, and an overwhelming desire toescape. 

She turned with a radiant smile to welcome the tall form that strode in, looking neither to the right nor left, arms heaped with wood. Shefound, much to her surprise, that she felt more at ease after Bill camein. She asked him how he had happened to get trace of the missing man;he answered in an even, almost expressionless tone that someway puzzledher. Then she launched desperately into that old life-saver in momentsof embarrassment, --a discussion of the fates and fortunes of mutualacquaintances. 

"But I'm tired, Harold, " she told him in an hour. "The surprise ofseeing you has been--well, too much for me. I believe I'll go to myroom. It's behind that curtain. "

Harold rose eagerly as if something was due him in the moment ofparting; Bill got up in respect to her. But her glance was impartial. A moment later she was gone. 

The first night Bill and Harold made bunks on the floor of the cabin, but health and propriety decreed that such an arrangement could only betemporary. They could not put their trust in an immediate deliverance. They might be imprisoned for weeks to come. And Bill solved the problemwith a single suggestion. 

They would build a small cabin for the two men to sleep in. Many timeshe had erected such a structure by his own efforts; the two of themcould push it up in a few hours' work. 

Harold had no fondness for toil of this kind, but he couldn't see how hecould well avoid it. His indifference to his own fate was quite past bynow. The single moment before Bill had entered the cabin door hadthoroughly wakened his keenest interests and desires; already, hethought, he had entirely re-established his relations with Virginia. Hewas as anxious to make good now as she was to have him. Already hethought himself once more a man and a gentleman of the great outsideworld. His vanity was heightened; the girl's beauty had increased, ifanything, since his departure; and he was more than ready to go throughthe adventure to its end. And he didn't dare run the risk ofdispleasing Virginia so soon after their meeting. 

He knew how she stood on the matter. He had ventured to make oneprotest, --and one had been quite enough. "I'm really not much good atcabin building, " he had said. "But I don't see why Bill shouldn't gowork at it. I suppose you hired him for all camp work. "

For an instant Virginia had stared at him in utter wonder, and then aswift look of grave displeasure had come into her face. "You forget, Harold, that it was Bill that brought you back. The thirty days he washired for were gone long ago. " But she had softened at once. "It'syour duty to help him, and I'll help him too, if I can. "

They had cut short logs, cleaned away the snow, and with the strength oftheir shoulders lifted the logs one upon another. With his ax Billcunningly cut the saddles, carving them down so that the rainfall woulddrain down the corners rather than lie in the cavities and thus rot thetimbers. Planks were cut for the roof, and tree boughs laid down forthe floor. 

The floor space was only seven feet long by eight wide--just enoughfor two bunks--and the walls were about as high as a sleeping-carberth. The work was done at the day's end. 

In the next few days Bill mostly left the two together, trying to findhis consolation in the wild life of the forest world outside the cabin. Harold had taken advantage of his absence and had made good progress:Virginia's period of readjustment was almost complete. She was preparedto make the joys of the future atone for the sorrows of the past. 

Harold was still good-looking, she thought; his speech, though breakingcareless at times, was attractive and charming; and most of all hislove-making was more arduous than ever. In the city life that theyplanned he would fit in well; his uncle would help him to get on hisfeet. Fortunately for their peace of mind, they did not know the realtruth, --that Kenly Lounsbury himself was at that moment strugglingwith financial problems that were about to overwhelm him. She toldherself, again and again, that her life would be all that she haddreamed, that her fondest hopes had come true. A few weeks more of thesnow and the waste places, --and then they could start life anew. 

Yet there was something vaguely sinister, something amiss in the factthat she found herself repeating the thought so many times. It wasalmost as if she were trying to reassure herself, to drown out somewhispering inner voice of doubt and fear. She couldn't get away from ahaunting feeling that, in an indescribable way, her relations withHarold had changed. 

His ardent speeches didn't seem to waken sufficient response in her ownbreast. She lacked the ecstasy, the wonder that she had known when, asa girl, she had first become engaged to Harold. They embarrassed herrather than thrilled her; they didn't seem quite real. Perhaps she hadsimply grown older. That was it: some of her girlish romance had died anatural death. She would give his man her love, would take his inreturn, and they would have the usual, normal happiness of marriage. All would come out well, once they got away from the silence and thesnows. 

Perhaps his large and extravagant speeches were merely out of place inthe stark reality of the wilderness; they could thrill her as ever whenshe returned to her native city. Likely he could dance, after a littlepractice, as well as ever; fill his niche in society and give her allthe happiness that woman has a right to expect upon this imperfectearth. There was certainly nothing to be distressed over now. They hadbeen brought together as if by a miracle; any haunting doubt and fear, too subtle and intangible to put into words or even concrete thought, would quickly pass away. 

She did not, however, go frequently into his arms. Someway, anembarrassment, a sense of inappropriateness and unrest always assailedher when he tried to claim the caresses that he felt were his due. Andat first she could not find a plausible explanation for her reserve. Perhaps these tendernesses were also out of place in the grim reality ofthe North; more likely, she decided, it was a subtle sense, the guardianangel of her own integrity, warning her that too intimate relations withthat man must be avoided, isolated and exiled as they were. "Not now, Harold, " she would tell him. "Not until we're established again--athome. "

Finally his habits and his actions did not quite meet with her approval. The first of these was only a little thing, --a failure to keep shaved. Shaving in these surroundings, without a mirror, with a battered oldrazor that had lain long in the cabin and had to be sharpened on awhetstone, where every drop of hot water used had to be laboriouslyheated on the stove, was an annoying chore at best: besides, there wasno one to see him except Virginia and the guide. The stubble matted andgrew on his lips and jowls. Bill, in contrast, shaved with greatestcare every evening. A more important point was that his avoidance ofhis proper share of Bill's daily toil. He neither hewed wood nor drewwater, nor made any apologies for the omission. Rather he gave the ideathat Bill's services were due him by rights. 

There was a little explosion, one afternoon, when he ventured to adviseher in regard to her relations with Bill. The forester himself wascutting wood outside the cabin: they heard the mighty ring of his axagainst the tough spruce. Virginia was at work preparing their simpleevening meal; Harold was stretched on her own cot, the curtain drawnback, his arms under his head, his unshaven face curiously dark andunprepossessing. 

"You must begin to keep on your own ground--with Bill, Virginia, " hebegan in the silence. 

Virginia turned to him, a wave of hot resentment flowing clear to herfinger tips. If he had seen her flushed, intent face he would havebacked ground quickly. Unfortunately he was gazing quietly out thewindow. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

Wholly aware of her own displeasure, wondering at it and anxious to hideit, she was able to control her voice. Its tone gave no key to herthoughts. Harold answered her, still unwarned:

"I mean--keep him at his distance. He's a different sort from you andI. I don't mean he isn't all right, as far as his kind goes--but hehasn't had the advantages. " Harold spoke tolerantly, patronizingly. "Those fellows are apt to take advantage of any familiarity. They'reall right if you keep 'em in their place--but they're mighty likely tobreak lose from it any minute. I'm sorry you ever let him call youVirginia. "

Virginia's eyes blazed. If it is one of the precepts of good breedingever to let anger control the spirit, Virginia had made a breach indeed. Her little hands clenched, and she had a fierce and insane desire tobeat those babbling lips with her fists. Then she struggled to regainher composure. 

"Listen, Harold, " she began at last coldly. "I don't care to hear anymore such talk as that. "

The man looked up then. He saw the righteous indignation in her face. He felt the rising tide of his own anger. "I'm only trying to warnyou----" he began weakly. 

"And I don't need or want any such warnings. I don't care what youthink of Bill--for that matter, you can be sure that Bill doesn't careat all either--but I'll ask you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Oh, if you only knew--how good, how strong, how true he has been--howtender he has been to me----"

Harold was torn with jealous rage, and in his fury and malice he madethe worst mistake of all. "I hope he hasn't been _too_ tender----" hesuggested viciously. 

But at once he was on his feet, begging her pardon. He knew that he hadmade a dangerous and regrettable mistake. She forgave him--forgivenesswas as much a part of her as her graciousness or her loyalty--but shedidn't immediately forget. And Harold sat long hours with smolderingeyes and clenched hands, a climbing fire and fury in his brain, whilethe malice and resentment and jealousy that he held toward Bill grew tohatred, bitter and black. 

XVII

The addition of Harold to their number did not influence, for long, Virginia's old relations with Bill. They were comrades as ever; theytalked and chatted around the little stove in the hushed nights; theyplayed their favorite melodies on the battered phonograph, and they tookthe same joyous, exciting expeditions into the wild. These latterdiversions were looked upon with no favor by Harold, but he couldn't seehow he could reasonably interfere. Nor did he care, at first, toaccompany them. He had no love for the snow-swept wastes. 

The crust on the snow was steadily strengthening; most the days wereclear and excessively cold. The journey could be undertaken soon. Onlya few more days of the adventure remained. 

Their excursions at first were a matter of pleasure only, but by oneunexpected stroke from the sinister powers of the wild they weresuddenly made necessary. Her first knowledge of the blow came when Billentered her cabin to build the morning fire. 

She had not yet risen. It had always been her practice to wait till theroom was snug and warm before she dressed. She was asleep when Billcame in, and aroused by his footsteps, she was aware of the fleetingmemory of unhappy dreams. She couldn't have told just what theywere. It seemed to her that some unseen danger had been menacing hersecurity, --that evil and dangerous forces were conspiring and makingwar against her. Hidden foes were in ambush, ready to pounce forth. 

The danger seemed different and beyond that which she had faced everyday: snow and cold and the other inanimate forces of the wild. And shewas vastly relieved to hear Bill's voice calling her from sleep. 

But the next instant her fears returned--not the ghastly fear of evildreams but of actual and real disaster. It wasn't Bill's usual customto waken her. He wanted her to spend as many as possible of themonotonous hours in sleep. There was a subdued quality in his voice, too, that once or twice she had heard before. She drew aside thecurtain, far enough to see his face. There was no paleness, however, nor no fear, for all that his eyes were sober. 

"You'd better get up as soon as you can, Virginia, " he said. "We've gotto take a real hunt to-day. "

"Hunt? After meat?"

"Yes. We're face to face with a new problem. The pack came by lastnight--the wolf pack. As usual, when men are near, they didn't make asound. I didn't hear them at all. And they got away with the big mooseham, hanging on the spruce. Stripped the bone clean. "

"Then we're out of meat?"

"All except the little piece outside the door. We've been going throughit pretty fast. "

Bill spoke true. Their meat consumption had practically doubled sinceHarold had come. For all his lack of physical exercise, the latter wasan unusually heavy eater. 

"But we won't be able to find any now. The moose are gone----"

"We're not very likely to, that's certain; but it won't be a tragedy ifwe don't. It would only be an annoyance. It's true that we've got tohave more supplies to start down--I don't believe we could make itthrough with what we have, considering the loss of this ham--but ifit's necessary I can mush over to me Twenty-three Mile cabin and get thesupplies I left over there. Harold tells me he hasn't a thing in hisold place. However, I can do it, if we don't happen to pick up somemeat to-day. "

"We might track down the wolves, and get one of those----"

"Wolf meat hasn't a flavor you'd care for, I'm afraid. The Indians havebeen known to eat it, but they can but away beaver and tough old grizzlybear. Those things are starvation meats only. But if you care to, wecan dash out and see if we can pick up a young caribou or a left-overmoose. It's pleasant out to-day, anyway. It's rather warm--I believethere's going to be a change of weather. "

"Good or bad?" the girl asked. 

"Haven't had any government bulletins on that point, this morning. Probably bad. The weather in the North, Virginia, goes along the way itis a while, and then it gets worse. "

She dressed, and at breakfast their exultation over their trip grewpainful to Harold's ears. He announced his intention of going along. 

Curiously, even Virginia did not receive this announcement withparticular enthusiasm. It was not that her regard for Bill was any kinto that she held for Harold. Rather, it was a fear that Harold'spresence might blunt the edge of the fine companionship she enjoyed withthe woodsman. It would throw a personal element into an otherwisecare-free and adventurous day. But she smiled at him, rather fondly. 

"Just as you like, Harold. "

They put on their snowshoes, their warmest wraps, and started gaylyforth. Bill took rather a new course to-day. He bent his steps towarda stream that he called Creek Despair, --named for the fact that he hadonce held high hopes of finding his lost mine along its waters, only tomeet an utter and hopeless failure. From the map he had judged that thelost claim lay somewhere along its course, but he had washed it from itsmother springs clear to its mouth, finding scarcely the faintest tracesin the pan. Because he had made such a tireless search in thisparticular section in previous years he had completely avoided it in thepresent adventure. Even on his pleasure trips with Virginia he hadnever forgotten his search: thus he had led her into more favorableregions where he might reasonably keep his eyes over for clews. Nowthat he had given up finding the claim--for this season, at least, andperhaps forever--one way was as good as another. And he rememberedthat an old caribou trail lay just beyond the stream on the steephillside. 

Bill led the way, mushing quietly an swiftly, and Virginia sped afterhim. The cold had brought a high color to her cheeks and a luster toher eyes; her nerves and muscles tingled with life. She was inwonderful spirits. Never she took a hundred paces without experiencingsome sort of a little, heart-gladdening adventure. 

Every manifestation of the forest life about her filled her withdelight. The beauty of the winter woods, the absorbing record that thewild creatures had left in the snow, the long sweep of range and valleythat she could glimpse from a still hilltop, all had their joy for her. With Bill she found something to delight her, something to make herlaugh and quicken her blood, in every hundred yards of their course. Sometimes when the snow record was obscure, Bill stopped and explained, usually with a graphic story and unconscious humor that made the woodstingle and ring with her joyous, rippling laughter. More than often, however, she was able to piece our the mystery by herself. 

Bill had a long and highly fanciful conversation with a little, black-tailed ermine that tried to run under his feet; he imitated--toVirginia's delight, the spectacle of a large and stiff cow moose pullingherself through the mud; he repeated for her the demented cries of theloons that they had sometimes heard from the still waters of Gray Lake. But he didn't forget that the main purpose of their expedition was tohunt. When at last they reached the caribou range he commanded silence. 

Harold, silent in the others' gayety, immediately evinced a decidedinclination to talk. He had not particularly enjoyed the excursion sofar. In the first place he had no love either for the winter forest orthe creatures that inhabited it; he would have been much morecomfortable and at ease beside the cabin stove. He couldn't much withcomfort at Bill's regular pace: he was rather out of breath andirritated after the first two hundred rods. Most of all, he wassavagely conscious of the fact that Virginia was not giving him arightful share of her attention. For the time being she seemed to haveforgotten his presence. He was resentful, wishing disaster upon thehunt, eager to turn back. 

"The rule is silence, from now on, " Virginia answered his first remark. "Bill says we're in a game country. "

The answer didn't satisfy him. But his heart suddenly leaped when Billglanced back in warning and pointed to an entrancing wilderness picture, a hundred yards in front. 

In a little glade and framed by the forest stood a large bull caribou, flashing and incredibly vivid against the snow. There is no animal inall North American fauna, even the bull elk, that presents a moresplendid figure than that huge member of the deer family, Osburn'scaribou. His mane is snow white, his back and sides a glossy brown, his eye flashes, and his antlers--in the season that he carriesthem--stream back like young trees. The bull did not stir out of histracks, yet he gave the impression of infinite movement and pulsing, quivering vitality. He shook and threw his head, he lifted his forefoot nervously, and framed by the winter forest he was a sight never toforget. Incidentally he made a first-class target, --one that seemedimpossible to miss. 

"I'll take him, " Harold shouted. "Let me take him. "

In a flash Harold realized that here was his opportunity: in one stroke, one easy shot, he could turn the day's ignominy into triumph. He couldfocus Virginia's admiration upon himself. But the impulse had evendeeper significances. It was not the way of sportsmen, wandering infile on mountain trails, to clamor for the first shot at game. Whateveris said is usually in solicitation to a companion to shoot; and Virginiafelt oddly embarrassed. Harold's gun leaped to his shoulder. 

But in the fields of sport there is always a penalty for extremeeagerness. There is a retributive justice for those that attempt tograsp opportunities. Harold was afraid that Bill might raise and shoot, thus rubbing him of his triumph, and he pressed back against the triggerjust a fifth of a second too soon. The target looked too big to miss, but his bullet flung up the snow behind the animal. 

The caribou's powerful limbs pushed out a mighty leap. Frenzied, Haroldshot again; but his nerve was broken and his self-control blown to thefour winds. The animal had gained the shelter of the thickets by now, and Harold's third and fourth shots went wild. Then he lowered hisweapon with a curse. 

It is part of the creed of a certain type of hunter to never admit aclean miss. "My sights are off, " Harold shouted. "They didn't shootwithin three feet of where I aimed. Damn such a gun--but I think Iwounded him the third shot. You'll find him dead if you follow him longenough. "

Bill answered nothing, but went to see. In the firing he hadn't evenraised his own gun to his shoulder. There is a certain code amonghunters in regard to shooting another's game: an unwritten law that, except in a case of life and death, one hunter does not interfere withanother's shooting. It was through no desire to embarrass Harold thathe didn't assist him in putting down his trophy. He was simply givingthe man full play. Bill stared at the caribou tracks in the snow, followed them a hundred feet, and then came mushing back. 

"You didn't seem to have put one in, " he reported simply. 

"I didn't, eh?" Harold answered angrily. "How could you tell, so soon?I suppose you're woodsman enough to know that a wounded animal doesn'talways show blood. I'd be ready to bet that if we followed him farenough we'd find him dead. "

"We'd have to follow him till he died naturally of old age, " was thegood-humored reply. "We can't always hit, Lounsbury. He began to trotwhen he got into the trees--a perfectly normal gait. I think we'dbetter look for something else. "

"Then I want you to carry my gun awhile, and let me take yours. Thesights are off a mile. It's all ready, and here's a handful of extrashells. You ought to be willing to do that, at least. "

Harold had forgotten that this man was not his personal guide, subjectto his every wish. He held out gun and shells; and, smiling, Billreceived them, giving his own weapon in exchange. They mushed on downthe trail. 

But Harold's miss had not been his greater sin. To miss is human; notrue sportsman holds it against his fellow. The omission that followed, however, was by all the codes of the hunting trails unpardonable. Hesupposed that he had refilled his rifle magazine with shells before heput it in Bill's hands. In his confusion and anger, he had forgotten todo so; and the only load that the gun contained was that in the barrel, thrown in automatically when the last empty shell was ejected. 

XVIII

Several seasons before there had been a fatality on the hillside aboveCreek Despair. An ancient spruce tree, one that had watched the forestdrama for uncounted years, whose tall head lifted above all thesurrounding forest and who had known the silence and the snow of ahundred winters, had languished, withered and died from sheer old age. For some seasons it had stood in its place, silent and grim and majesticin death. On the day that the three hunters emerged on their snowshoesin search of meat for their depleted larder, the wind pressed gentlyagainst it. Because its trunk was rotted away it swayed and fellheavily. 

There was nothing particularly memorable in this. All trees die; all ofthem fall at last. Its particular significance lay in the fact that asit shattered down, sliding a distance on the steep hillside, it scrapedthe snow from the mouth of a winter lair of a scarcely less venerableforest inhabitant, --a savage, long-clawed, gray-furred grizzly bear. 

The creature had gone into hibernation weeks before: he was deep in thecold-trance--that mysterious coma of which the wisest naturalists haveno real knowledge--when the tree fell. He hadn't in the least countedon being disturbed until the leaves budded out in spring. He had filledhis belly well, crawled into a long, narrow cavern in the rock, the snowhad sifted down and sealed him in, his bodily heat had warmed to asufficient degree the little alcove in the cavern that he occupied, hisblood temperature had dropped down and his breathing had almost ceased, and he had lain in a deep, strange stupor, oblivious to the passage oftime. And he felt the rage known to all sleepy men on being awakened. 

The grizzly is a particularly crafty, intelligent animal--on theintellectual plane of the dog and elephant--and he had chosen hiswinter lair with special purpose in mind of a long and uninterruptedsleep. The cavern mouth was so well concealed that even the sharp eyesof the wild creatures, passing up and down the creek hardly a hundredfeet away, never guessed its existence. The cavern maw had been largeonce, for all to see, but an avalanche had passed over it. Tons ofsnow, picking up a great cargo of rocks and dirt that no stream dredgein the world could lift, had roared and bellowed down the slope, narrowly missing the trunk of the great spruce, changing the contour ofthe creek bed and concealing its landmarks, and only a square yard ofthe original entrance was left. This opening was concealed by a littlecluster of young spruce that had sprung up in the fallen earth. Yes, old Ephraim had had every reason to believe that no one would find himor break his sleep, and he was all the more angry at the interruption. 

The falling tree had made a frightful crash just over his head, and eventhe deep coma in which the grizzly lay was abruptly dissolved. Hesprang up, ready to fight. A little gleam of sunlight ventured throughthe spruce thicket, down into the mouth of the cavern, and lay like apatch of gold on the cavern floor. It served to waken some slightdegree of interest in the snowy world without. It might be well to lookaround a moment, at least, before he lay down to sleep again. At leasthe had to scrape more snow over the cabin mouth. And in the meantime hemight be lucky enough to find the dearest delight in his life, --agood, smashing, well-matched fight to cool the growing anger in hisgreat veins. 

Ephraim was an old bear, used to every hunting wile, and his dispositionhadn't improved with years. He was the undisputed master of the forest, and he couldn't think of any particular enemy that he would notencounter with a roar of joy. As often, in the case of the old, histeeth were rotting away; and the pain was a darting, stabbing devil inhis gums. His little, fierce eyes burned and smoldered with wrath, hegrunted deep in his throat, and he pushed out savagely through thecavern maw. It was only a step farther through the spruce thicket intothe sunlight. And at the first glance he knew that his wish was comingtrue. 

Three figures, two abreast and one behind, came mushing through thelittle pass where the creek flowed. He knew them well enough. Therewere plenty of grizzly traditions concerned with them. He recognizedthem in an instant as his hereditary foes, --the one breed that had notyet learned to give him right-of-way on the trail. They were tall, fearful forms, and something in their eyes sent a shudder of cold clearto his heart, yet he was not in the humor to give ground. His nerveswere jumpy and unstrung from the fall of the tree, his jaw wracked him;a turn of the hair might decide whether he would merely stand and letthem pass, or whether he would launch into that terrible, death-dealingcharge that most grizzly hunters, sooner or later, come to know. Hismental processes did not go far enough to disassociate these enemieswith the stabbing foe in his gums. For the same reason he blamed themfor disruption of his sleep. His ears laid back, and he uttered a deepgrowl. 

There was no more magnificent creature in all of the breadth of theforest than this, the grizzly of the Selkirks. He was old and savageand wise; but for all his years, in the highest pinnacle of hisstrength. No man need to glance twice at him to know his glory. Notenderfoot could look at him and again wonder why, in the talk round thecamp fire, the tried woodsmen always spoke of the grizzly with respect. 

It was true that in the far corners of the earth there were creaturesthat could master him. The elephant could crush the life from hismighty body with the power of his knees; Kobaoba the rhino, most surlyof all game, could have pierced his heart with his horn; perhapseven the Cape buffalo--that savage explosive old gentleman of theAfrican marshes, most famous for his deadly propensity to charge onsight--could have given him a fair battle. But woe to the lion thatshould be obliged to face that terrible strength! Even the tiger, sinuous and terrible--armed with fangs like cruel knives and dreadful, raking, rending claws--could not have faced him in a fair fight. 

But these were folk of the tropics, and his superiority was unquestionedamong the northern animals. Even the bull moose had no wish to engagein a stand-up-and-take, close-range, death fight with a grizzly. Thebull caribou left his trail at the sound of his heavy body in thethicket; the wolf pack, most deadly of fighting organizations, were gladto avoid him in the snow. His first cousins, the Alaskan bears, weremore mighty than he, but they were less agile and, probably, lesscunning. Such lesser creatures as wished to continue to enjoy thewinter sunlight stepped softly when they journeyed past his lair. 

He was a peculiar gray in color, --like brown hair that has silvered inmany winters. His huge head was lowered between his high, rockingshoulders, his forelegs were simply great, knotty, cast-iron bunches offiber and tendons; his long claws--worn down by digging in the rocksfor marmots--were like great, curved fingers. As he stepped, hisforefeet swung out, giving to his carriage an arrogance and a swaggerthat would have been amusing if it hadn't been terrible. His wickedteeth gleamed white in foam, and the hair stood stiff at his shoulders. 

There is no forest crisis that presents such a test to human nerves asthe charge of a grizzly. There is no forest voice more fraught withferocity and savagery of the beasts of prey than his low, deep, reverberating growl. Human beings have not yet reached such perfectionof self-mastery that they can hear such a sound, leaping suddenly like athing of substance through the bush, and disregard it. It was to bethat these three foes, journeying toward him along Creek Despair, didnot disregard it now. For all the depth of the snow, he pushed throughthe spruce thicket into the sunlight. 

Thus the three hunters met him--in all his strength and glory--notfifty feet distant at the base of the hill. He seemed to be poised tocharge. 

Bill's keen eyes saw the bear first. All at once its huge outlineagainst the snow leaped to his vision. At the same instant the beargrowled, a sound that halted halted Virginia and Harold in their tracks. For an instant all four figures stood in indescribable tableau: the bearpoised, the three staring, the snowy wastes silent and changeless andunreal. 

It was the last sight in the world that Bill had expected. He hadsupposed that the grizzlies were all in hibernation now; he hadn'tconceived of the possibilities whereby the great creature had beencalled from his sleep. And he knew in one glance the full peril of thesituation. 

Often in his forest travels Bill had met grizzlies, and nearly always hehad passed them by. Usually the latter were glad to make their escape;and Bill would hasten their departure with shouts of glee. Yet this manknew the grizzly, his power and his wrath, and most of all he knew hisutter unreliability. It is not the grizzly way to stand impassive whenhe is at bay, and neither does he like to flee up hill. If the animaldid think his escape was cut off--a delusion to which the bear familyseem particularly subject--he would charge them with a fury and mightthat had no equal in the North American animal world. And a grizzlycharge is a difficult thing to stop in a distance of fifty feet. 

The presence of Virginia in their party had its influence in Bill'sdecision. In times past he had been willing enough to take a smallmeasure of risk to his own life, but the life of every grizzly in theNorth could not pay for one jot of risk to hers. Lastly he realized atthe first sight of those glowing, angry eyes, the ears back, and thestiff hairs on the shoulder that the grizzly was in a fighting mood. 

For all the complexity of his thought, his decision did not take aninstant. There was no waiting to offer the sporting opportunity toHarold. Virginia was not aware of a lapse in time between the instantthat Bill caught sight of the bear and that in which his gun cameleaping to his shoulder. He had full confidence in the hard-hittingvicious bullet in Harold's thirty-five, and most of all he relied on thefour reserve shots that he supposed lay in the rifle magazine. Thegrizzly dies hard: he felt that all four of them would be needed toarrest the charge that would likely follow his first shot. 

He didn't wait for those great muscles to get into action. The animalwas standing broadside to him, his head turned and red eyes watching; ifBill had his own gun, he would have aimed straight for the space betweenthe eyes. This is never a sportsman's shot; but for an absolutemarksman, in a moment of crisis, it is the surest shot of all. But hedid not know Harold's gun well enough to trust such a shot. Indeed, heaimed for the great shoulder, the region of the lungs and heart. Thegun cracked in the silence. 

The bullet went straight home, ripping through the lungs, tearing thegreat arteries about the heart, shivering even a portion of the heartitself. And yet the grizzly sprang like a demon through the deep snow, straight towards him. 

It is no easy thing to face a grizzly's charge. The teeth gleam in redfoam, the eyes flash, the great shoulders rock. For all the deep snowthat he bounded through, the beast approached at an unbelievable pace. He bawled as he came--awful, reverberating sounds that froze the bloodin the veins. If the course had been open, likely he would have beenupon him before Bill could send home another shot. There could only beone result to such a meeting as this. One blow would strike the lifefrom Bill's body as the lightning strikes it from a tree. But the snowimpeded the bear, and it seemed to Virginia's horrified eyes that Billwould have time to empty the magazine. She saw his fingers race as heworked the lever action of the gun: she saw his eyes lower again to thesights. The bear seemed almost upon him. And she screamed when sheheard the impotent click of the hammer against the breech. Bill hadfires the single shot that was in the gun. 

Before ever he heard the sound Harold remembered. In one wave of horrorhe recalled that he had forgotten to refill the magazine with shells. Yet leaping fast--red and deadly and terrible upon the heels of hisremorse--there came an emotion that seared him like a wall of fire. He saw Bill's fate. By no circumstance of which he could conceive couldthe man escape. A shudder passed over his frame, but it was not ofrevulsion. Rather it was an emotion known well to the beasts of prey, though to human beings it comes but rarely. Here was his enemy, the manhe hated above all living creatures, and the blood lust surged throughhim like a madness. In one wave of ecstasy he felt that he was about tosee the gratification of his hatred. 

In the hands of a brave and loyal man, the rifle Harold carried mightyet have been Bill's salvation. It was a large-caliber, close-range gunof stupendous striking power. Yet Harold didn't lift it to hisshoulder. Part of it was willful omission, mostly it was the paralysisof terror. Yet he would have need enough for the gun if the bear turnedon him. He saw that Bill's had was groping, hopeless though the effortwas, for one of the shells that Harold had given him and which hecarried in his pocket. 

But there was no time to find it, to open his gun and insert it, and tofire before the ravening enemy would be upon him. He made the effortsimply because it was his creed: to struggle as long as his life bloodpulsed in his veins. He knew there was no chance to run or dodge. Thebear could go at thrice his own pace in the deep snow. His last hopehad been that Harold would come to his aid: that the man would stop thebear's charge with Bill's own heavy rifle; but now he knew that Harold'senmity of cowardice had betrayed him. 

But at that instant aid came from an unexpected quarter. Virginia wasnot one to stand helpless or to turn and flee. She remembered thepistol at her belt, and she drew it in a flash of blue steel. True andstraight she aimed toward the glowing eyes of the grizzly. 

At the angle that they struck, her bullets did not penetrate the brain, but they did give Bill an instant's reprieve. The bear struck at thewounds they made, then halted, bawling, in the snow. His roving eyecaught sight of Virginia's form. With a roar he bounded toward her. 

The next instant was one of drama, of incredible stress and movement. For all his mortal wounds, the short distance between the bear and thegirl seemed to recede with tragic swiftness. The animal's cries rangthrough the silent forest: near and far the wild creatures paused intheir occupations to listen. Virginia also stood her ground. There wasno use to flee; she merely stood straight, her eyes gazing along herpistol barrel, firing shot after shot into the animal's head. Becauseit was an automatic, she was able to send home the loads in rapidsuccession. 

But they were little, futile things, with never the shocking power tostop that blasting charge. Her safety still lay in that in which shehad always trusted, the same that had been her fort and her strongholdin all their past adventures. Bill saw the grizzly change in direction;his response was instinctive and instantaneous. He came leaping throughthe snow as if a great hand had hurled him, all of his musclescontracting in response to the swift, immutable command of his will. For all the burden of his snowshoes and the depths of the drifts, hisleap was almost as fast as the grizzly's own. He had but onerealization: that the girl's tender flesh must never know those rendingclaws and fangs. He leaped to intercept the rending charge with his ownbody. 

But his hand had found the shell by now, dropped it into the gun, and asa last instinctive effort, pulled back the lever that slid the cartridgeinto the barrel. There was no time to raise the gun to his shoulder. He pointed it instinctively toward the gray throat. And the end of thebarrel was against the bear's flesh as he pressed the trigger. 

No human eye could follow the lightning events of the next fraction of asecond. All that occurred was over and done in the duration of oneheart-beat, --before the shudder and explosion in the air from therifle's report had passed away. One instant, and the three figuresseemed all together; Bill crouched with rifle held pointed in his arms, Virginia behind him, the grizzly full upon them both. The next, andHarold stood alone in the snow and the silence, --awed, terrified, andestranged as if in a dream. 

Except for the three forms that lay still, half-buried and concealed inthe drifts, it was as if the adventure never occurred. The spruce treesstood straight and aloof as ever. The silence stretched unbroken; itsimmensity had swallowed and smothered the last echo of the rifle reportand the grizzly's roar. There was no movement, seemingly no life, --onlythe drifts and the winter forest and the futile sun, shining downbetween the snow-laden trees. 

Yet he knew vaguely what had occurred. The bullet had gone true. Ithad pierced the animal's neck, breaking the vertebrae of the spinalcolumn, and life had gone out of him as a flame goes out in the wind. But it had come too late to destroy the full force of the charge. Billhad been struck with some portion of the bear's body as he fell and hadbeen hurled like a lifeless doll into the drifts. Virginia, too, hadreceived some echo of that shock, probably from Bill's body as heshattered down. Now all three lay half-hidden in the snow. Which ofthem lived and which were dead Harold dared not guess. 

But he had no time to go forward and investigate before Bill had sprungto his feet. He had received only a glancing blow; the drifts intowhich he had fallen were soft as pillows. In reality he had never evenlost consciousness. Still subject to the one thought that guided andshaped his actions throughout the adventure, he crawled over toVirginia's side. 

No living man had ever seen his face as white as it was now. His eyeswere wide with the image of horror; he didn't know what wounds the dyingbear might have inflicted on the girl. There was no rend in her whiteflesh, however; and his eye kindled and his face blazed when he saw thatshe yet lived. 

He didn't waste even a small part of his energies by futile pleadingsfor her to waken. He seized her shoulders and shook her gently. 

Instantly her eyes opened. Her full consciousness returned to her witha rush. She was not scratched, not even shocked by the fall, and shereached up for Bill's hands. And instantly, with a laugh on her lips, she sprang to her feet. 

"You killed him?" she asked. 

It was the first breath she had wasted, and no man might hold it againsther. She had only to look at the huge gray form in the drifts to knowher answer. Bill, because he was a woodsman first, last, and always, slipped additional shells into Harold's rifle; then walked over to thebear. He gazed down at its filming eyes. 

"Bear's all dead, " he answered cheerfully. And Virginia's heart racedand thrilled, and a delicious exaltation swept through her, when sheglanced down at this woodsman's hands. Big and strong and brown, therewas not a tremor in their fingers. 

The both of them whirled in real and superlative astonishment. Some onewas speaking to them. Some one was asking them if they were both allright. It was a strange voice, --one that they scarcely rememberedever hearing before. 

But they saw at once that the speaker was Harold. He had come with themto-day, quite true. Both of them had almost forgotten his existence. 

XIX

In the weeks they had been together, Bill had always been careful neverto try to show Harold in a bad light. It was simply an expression ofthe inherent decency of the man: he knew that Virginia loved him, thatshe had plighted her troth to him, and as long as that love endured andthe engagement stood, he would never try to shatter her ideals in regardto him. He knew it meant only heartbreak for her to love and wed a manshe couldn't respect. He knew enough of human nature to realize thatlove often lives when respect is dead, and no possible good could comeof showing up the unworthiness that he beheld in Harold. He had nevertried to embarrass him or smirch his name. For all his indignation now, his voice was wholly cheerful and friendly when he answered. 

"We're quite all right, thanks, " he said. "The only casualty was thebear. A little snow on our clothes, but it will brush off. And by theway----"

He paused, and for all his even tones, Harold had a sickening andghastly fear of the sober query in Bill's eyes. "Why did you give me anunloaded gun and tell me it was full?" he went on. "Except for a gooddeal of luck there'd been a smile on the face of the grizzly--but noBill!"

He thought it only just that, in spite of Virginia's presence, Haroldexplain this grave omission. He felt that Virginia was entitled to anexplanation too, and Harold knew, from her earnest eyes, that she waswaiting his answer. He might have been arrogant and insulting to Bill, but he cared enough for Virginia's respect to wish to justify himself. He studied their faces; it was plain that they did not accuse him, evenin their most secret thoughts, of evil intent in handing Bill an almostempty gun. But by the stern code of the North sins of carelessness areno less damning than intentional ones and Harold knew that he had agreat deal to answer for. 

"And by the way, " Bill went on, as he waited for his reply, "I don'tremember hearing my gun off during the fray. You might explain that, too. "

"I didn't shoot because I couldn't, " Harold replied earnestly. "Atfirst you were between me and the bear--and then Virginia was. Itall happened so quickly that there was nothing I could do. I can'timagine why I forgot to reload the rifle. A man can't alwaysremember--everything. I thought I had. Thank God that it didn't turnout any worse than it did. "

Bill nodded; the girl's face showed unspeakable relief. She was gladthat this lover of hers had logical and acceptable reasons for hisomissions. The incident was past, the issue dead. They gathered aboutthe gray grizzled form in the snow. 

"Does this--help our food problem any?" Virginia asked. 

"Except in an emergency--no. Virginia, you ought to try to cut thatforeleg muscle. " He lifted one of the front feet of the bear in hishands. "You'd see what it would be like to try to bite it. He's anold, tough brute--worse eating than a wolf. Strong as mink and hardas rock. If we were starving, we'd cut off one of those hams in aminute; but we can wait a while at least. If we don't pick up some moregame during the day, I'll hike over to my Twenty-three Mile cabin andget the supplies I've left over there. There's a smoked caribou ham, among other things. I'll bring back a backload, anyway. " Then hisvoice changed, and he looked earnestly into Virginia's eyes. "But youwon't want to hunt any more to-day. I forgot--what a shock thisexperience would be to you. "

She smiled, and the paleness about her lips was almost gone. "I'mgetting used to shocks. I feel a little shaky--but it doesn't amountto anything. I want to climb up and look at the caribou trail, atleast. "

"Sure enough--if you feel you can stand it. It's only a hundred yardsor so up the hill. I'd like to take old Bruin's hide, but I don't seehow we could handle it. I believe we'd better leave him with all hisclothes on, in the snow. And Heaven knows I'd like to find out what theold boy was doing out--at a time when all the other bears arehibernating. "

They continued on up the creek until the grade of the hill was less, then clambered slowly up. Fifty yards up the slope they encountered theold caribou trail, but none of these wilderness creatures had been alongin recent days. They followed it a short distance, however, back in thedirection they had come and above the scene of their battle with thebear. 

"No profit here, " Bill said at last. "We might as well go down to thecreek bed and find better walking. "

They turned, and in an instant more came back to their own tracks. Andsuddenly Bill stopped and stared at them in dumb amazement. 

He looked so astonished, so inexpressibly baffled, that for a moment histwo companions were stricken silent. Virginia's heart leaped in herthroat. Yet the tracks contained no message for her. 

"What's the matter?" Harold asked. "What do you see?"

Bill caught himself and looked up. "Nothing very important--butmighty astonishing at that. We've just walked in a two-hundred-yardcircle, up the creek to where we climbed the hill, back along the hillin this direction, and then down. And we haven't crossed that grizzly'stracks anywhere. "

"Well, what of it?"

"Man, this snow has been here for weeks, with very little change. Doyou mean to tell me that a lively, hungry bear is going to stay thatlong in one place unless he's asleep? Virginia, as sure as you livewe--or somethin'--wakened that bear out of hibernation. And his denis somewhere in that two-hundred-yard circle. "

"There's probably a cave in the rock, " Harold suggested. "And I'm moreinterested in the cabin and dinner than I am in it. "

"Nevertheless, I've never looked into a den of hibernation, and I'vealways wanted to know what they're like. It will only take a minute. Come on--it will be worth seeing. "

But Harold had very special and particular reasons why such a courseappealed to him not at all. "Yes--and maybe find a couple of otherbears in there, in the dark and no chance to fight. I'm not interested, anyway. Go and look, if you like. "

"I will, if you don't mind. Do you want to come too, Virginia? There'sno danger--really there isn't. If this had been an old she-bear wemight have found some cubs, but these old males travel around bythemselves. "

"I certainly wouldn't stay away, " the girl replied. And her interestwas real: the study of the forest life about her had been an everincreasing delight. She felt that she would greatly like to peer intoone of those dark, mysterious dens where that most mysterious Americananimal, the grizzly, lies in deep coma through the long, winter months. 

"It will only take a minute. We haven't got to back-track him more thana hundred yards at most. We'll be back in a minute, Harold. And if youdon't mind--I'll take my own gun. "

They exchanged rifles, and Virginia and Bill started back toward thefallen grizzly. But the exploration of the winter lair had not been theonly thing Bill had in view. He also had certain words to say toVirginia, --words that he could scarcely longer repress, and which hecouldn't have spoken with ease in Harold's presence. But now that theywere alone, the sentences wouldn't shape on his lips. 

He mushed a while in silence. "I suppose I haven't got to tell you, Virginia, " he said at last. "That you--your own courage--saved mylife. "

She looked up to him with lustrous eyes. The man thrilled to the lastlittle nerve. In her comradeship for him their luster was almost likethat of which he had dreamed so often. "I know it's true, " she answeredfrankly. "And I'm glad that--that it was mine, and not somebodyelse's. " She too seemed to be having difficulty in shaping herthoughts. "I've never been happier about any other thing. Topay--just a little bit of debt. But in paying it, I incurred another--sothe obligation is just as big as ever. You know--you saved my life, too. "

He nodded. This was no time for deception, for pretty lies. 

"I saw you throw yourself in front of me, " she went on. "I cannever forget it. I'll see that picture, over and over again, till Idie--how you plunged through the snow and got in front. So since weeach did for the other--the only thing we could do--there's nothingmore to be said about it. Isn't that so, Bill?"

The man agreed, but his lips trembled as they never did during thecharge of the grizzly. 

"I've learned a lesson up here--that words aren't much good and don'tseem to get anywhere. " The girl spoke softly. "Only deeds count. After they're done, there is nothing much--that one can say. "

So they did not speak of the matter again. They came to the bear's bodyand back-tracked him through the snow. They pushed through the youngspruce from whose limbs the grizzly had knocked the snow. They theycame out upon the cavern mouth. 

Instantly Bill understood how the fall of the tree had knocked away thesnow from the maw. "There's been a landslide here too, or a snowslide, "he said. "You see--only the top of the cave mouth is left open. Thedirt's piled around the bottom. "

He crawled up over the pile of rocks and dirt and, stooping, steppedwithin the cavern. The girl was immediately behind him. Back five feetfrom the opening the interior was dark as night: the cavern walls, grayat the mouth, slowly paled and faded and were obliterated in the gloom. But there was no stir of life in the darkness, no sign of any otherhabitant. But the walls themselves, where the light from withoutrevealed them, held Bill's fascinated gaze. 

The girl stood behind him, silent, wondering what was in his mind. "This cave--I've never seen a cave just like this. Virginia----"

The man stepped forward and scratched a match on the stone. It flared;the shadows raced away. Then Bill's breath caught in a half-sob. 

Instantly he smothered the match. The darkness dropped around them likea curtain. But in that instant of light Bill beheld a scene that toreat his heart. Against the cavern wall, lost in the irremediabledarkness, he had seen a strange, white shape--a ghostly thing that laystill and caught the match's gleam--a grim relic of dead years. 

He turned to the girl, and his voice was almost steady when he spoke. "You'd better go out, Virginia--into the light, " he advised. 

"Why? Is it--_danger?_"

"Not danger. " His voice in the silence thrilled her and moved her. "Only wickedness. But it isn't anything you'd like to see. "

The single match-flare had revealed him the truth. For one littlefraction of an instant he had thought that the white form, so grimand silent against the stone, revealed some forest tragedy of yearsago, --a human prey dragged to a wild beast's lair. But the shape of thecavern, the character of its walls, and a thousand other clews told thestory plainly. The thing he had seen was a naked skeleton, flesh andgarments having dropped away in the years; and the grizzly had simplymade his lair in the old shaft of his father's mine. Bill had found hisfather's sepulcher at last!

* * * * *

For a moment he stood dreaming in the gloom. He understood, now, whyhis previous search had never revealed the mine. He had supposed thathis father had operated along some stream, washing the gold from itsgravel: it had never occurred to him that he had dug a shaft. In allprobability, considering the richness of their content, they hadburrowed into the hill and had found an old bed of the stream, hadcarried the gravel to the water's edge in buckets, and washed it out. He had never looked for tunnels and shafts: if he had done so, it wasdoubtful if he could have found the hidden cavern. The snowslide ofsome years before had covered up all outward signs of their work, struckdown the trees they had blazed, and covered the ashes of their own campfires. The girl's voice in the darkness called him from his musings. 

"I believe I understand, " she said. "You've found your mine--and yourfather's body. "

"Yes. Just a skeleton. "

"I'm not afraid. Do you want me to stay?"

"I'd love to have you, if you will. Some way--it takes away a lot ofmy bitterness--to have you here. "

It was true. It seemed wholly fitting that she should be with him as heexplored the cavern. It was almost as if the tragedy of his father'sdeath concerned her, too. 

"I can hold matches, " she told him. She came up close, and for a momenther hand, groping, closed on his, --a soft, dear pressure that spokemore than any words. When it was released he lighted another match. 

They stood together, looking down at the skeleton. But she wasn't quiteprepared for what she saw. A little cry of horror rang strangely in thedark shaft. 

This had been no natural death. Undoubtedly the elder Bronson had beenstruck down from behind, as he worked, and he lay just as he fell. There was one wound in the skull, round and ghastly, and in a momentthey saw the weapon that made it. A rusted pick, such as miners use, lay beside the body. 

"I won't try to do much to-day, " the man told her, "except to see up oneof my cornerposts and erect a claim notice. My father's notice has ofcourse rotted away in the years and the monument that probably stood outthere beyond the creek bed was covered in snowslide. You see, a claimis made by putting up four stone monuments--one at each corner of thearea claimed. We'll be starting down in a day or two, and I'll registerthe claim. Then I'll come back--and give these poor bones decentburial. "

From there he walked back to the end of the shaft, scratching anothermatch. It was wholly evident that the mine was only scratched. He heldthe light close, studying the rear wall of the cave. It was simply agravel bed, verifying his guess that here lay an old bed of the creek. In the first handful of stone he scraped out he found a half-ouncenugget. 

"It's rich?" she asked. 

"Beyond what I ever dreamed. But there's nothing more we can do now. I've made my find at least--but it doesn't seem to make me--as happyas it ought to. Of course that man--there against the wall--wouldnaturally keep a man from being very happy. Of, if I could only findand kill the devil who did it!"

His voice in the gloom was charged with immeasurable feeling. She hadnever seen this side of him before. Here was primeval emotion, thedesired for vengeance, filial obligation, hate that knew no mercy andcould never be forgotten. She understood, now, the savage feuds thatsometimes spring up among the mountain people, unable to forget a blowor an injury. She had the first inkling of how deeply his father'smurder had influenced him. 

But his face was calm when they emerged into the light. They walkedover to the creek, and beneath its overhanging banks there were the snowhad not swept, he found enough rocks for his monument. He gathered them, carried them in armfuls to a place fifty yards beyond the creek and downit, level with such a turn in the hillside above, beyond which the oldcreek bed obviously could not lie; then heaped them into a moment. Thenhe drew an old letter from his coat pocket, and searching farther, founda stub of a pencil. Virginia looked over his shoulders as he wrote. 

One hundred yards up the stream Harold watched them, dumbfounded as towhat they were doing. He saw Bill finish the writing, then place thelarger on the monument, fastening it down with a large stone. Then hecame mushing toward them. 

So intent were they upon their work that they didn't notice him until hewas almost up to them. But both of them would have paused in wonder ifthey had observed the curious mixture of emotions upon his lips. Hislips hung loose, his eyes protruded, and something that might have beengreed, or might have been jealousy or some other unguessed emotion drewand harshened his features. 

"You've found a mine?" he asked. 

Virginia looked up, joyful at Bill's good fortune. "We've found hisfather's mine--the old shaft where the bear was been sleeping. Butthere's a dreadful side of it too. "

"Show me where it is. I want to see it. Take me into it, Virginia--right away----"

Bill had a distinct sensation of revulsion at the thought of this mangoing into his father's sepulcher, and he didn't know why. It was aninstinct too deeply buried for him to trace. But he tried to force itdown. There was no reason why Virginia's fiance shouldn't view his mine. Already, Virginia was pointing out the way. 

"You can claim half to it, " he was whispering into her ear. "You werethe one with him when he found it. "

"I can--but I won't, " she replied coldly. "He asked me to go withhim. The thought's unworthy of you, Harold. "

But he was in no mood to be humbled by her disapproval. Curiously, hewas intensely excited. He mushed away toward the cavern mouth. 

Two minutes later he stood in the darkness of the funnel, fumbling for amatch. "Gold, gold, gold, " he whispered. "Heaps and heaps of it--whatI've always hunted. And Bill had to find it. That devil had to walkright into it. "

He was sickened by the thought that except for his own cowardice hewould have accompanied them into the den. At least he should have donethat much, he told himself, to atone for his conduct during the bear'scharge. Then he would have been in a position to claim half themine--and get it too. Dark thoughts, curiously engrossing and lustful, thronged his mind. 

He found a match at least and it flared in the darkness. And the whiteskeleton lay just at his feet. 

He drew back, startled, but instantly recognized his poise. He kneltwith unexplicable intentness. He too saw the ghastly wound and its grimconnection with the rusted pick. And he bent, slowly, like a man who istrying to control an unwonted eagerness, lifted the pick in his arms. 

His fingers seemed to curl around it, like those of a miser around hisgold. Some way, his grasp seemed caressing. Oh, it was easy to handleand lift! How naturally it swung in his arms! What a deadly blow thecruel point could inflict! Just one little tap had been needed. Bronson had rocked and fallen, no longer to hold his share in the mine'sgold. If there were an enemy before him now, one tap, and one alone wasall that would be needed. 

He could picture the scene of some twenty years before; the flickeringcandles, the gray walls covered with dancing shadows, the yellowgold, --beautiful in the light. He could see Bronson working, --always theplodder, always the fool! Behind him Rutheford, his partner, the pickin his arms and his brave intent in his brain. Then one swiftstroke----

Harold did not know that at the thought his muscles made involuntaryresponse. He swung the pick down, imagining the blow, with a ferocityand viciousness that would have been terrible to see. 

In the darkness his face was drawn and savage, and ugly fires glowed andsmoldered and flamed in his eyes. 

XX

Bill made plans for an early start to his Twenty-three Mile cabin. Thehike would have been easy enough, considering the firm snow that coveredthe underbrush, but the hours of daylight were few and swift. And hehad no desire to try to find his way in that trackless country in thedarkness. 

"I'll leave before dawn--as soon as it gets gray, " he told Virginia ashe bade her good night. "I'll come back the next day, with a backloadof supplies. And with the little we have left, we will have enough togo on. We can start for Bradleyburg the day after that. "

Virginia took no pleasure in bidding him good-by. She had alreadylearned that this winter forest was a bleak and fearful place when herwoodsman was away. Curiously, she could find little consolation in thethought that she and Harold could have a full day together, alone. Andbefore the night was half over, it seemed to her, she heard his stealingfeet on the cabin floor outside her curtain. 

He seemed to be moving quietly, almost stealthily. She heard the stovedoor open, and the subdued crack of a match scratched gently. A warmglow flooded her being when she understood. 

For all the arduous day's toil that waited him, Bill hadn't forgotten tobuild her fire. The cabin would still be warm for her to dress. Shedidn't know that her eyes were shining in the gloom. She drew aside thecurtain. 

"I'm awake, Bill. I want to tell you good-by again, " she said. 

"I don't see what makes me so clumsy, " Bill returned impatiently. "Ithought I could get this fire going without waking you up. But I'm gladenough to have another good-by. "

"And you'll be--awfully careful?" Her voice did not hold quitesteadily. "So many--many things can happen in those awfulwoods--when you are alone. I never realized before how they're alwayswaiting, always holding a sword over your head, ready to cut you down. I'm afraid to have you go----"

He laughed gently, but the deathless delight he felt at her wordsrippled through the laugh like flowing water. "There's nothing to beafraid of, Virginia. You'll see me back to-morrow night. I've wanderedthese woods by myself a thousand times----"

"And the thousandth and first time you might fall into their trap! Butwhy can't we take some of that grizzly meat----"

"Virginia, you'd break your pretty teeth on it. Of course we could in apinch--but this is no march, to-day. Good-by. "

"Good-by. " Her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her tones were soberand earnest. "I'll pray for you, Bill--the kind of prayers you toldme about--entreating prayer to a God that can hear--and understand--andhelp. A real God, not just an Idea such as I used to believe in. Here'smy hand, Bill. "

He groped for it as a plant gropes for sunlight, as the blind grope tofind their way. He found it at last: it was swallowed in his own palm, and the heart of the man raced and thrilled and burned. She couldn'tsee what he did with it in the darkness. It seemed to her she felt awarmth, a throbbing, a pressure that was someway significant andportentous above any experience of her life. Yet she didn't know thathe had dropped to his knees outside the curtain and pressed the hand tohis lips. The door closed slowly behind him. 

The last stars were fading, slipping away like ghosts into the furtherrecesses of the sky, as he pushed away from the cabin door. He didn'tneed the full light of morning to find his way the first few miles. Heneed only head toward the peak of a familiar mountain, now a shadowagainst the paling sky. 

The night was not so cold as it had a right to be. He had expected atemperature far below zero: in reality it seemed not far below freezing. Some weather change impended, and at first he felt vaguely uneasy. Buthe mushed on, the long miles gliding slowly, steadily beneath him. Onlyonce he missed his course, but by back-tracking one hundred yards hefound it again. 

Morning came out, the trees emerged from the gloom, the shadows faded. He kept his direction by the landmarks learned while following his traplines. The day was surprisingly warm. His heavy woolens began tooppress him. 

As always the wilderness was silent and vaguely sinister, but after afew hours it suddenly occurred to him that the air was preternaturallystill. A few minutes later, when he struck a match to light his pipe, this impression was vividly confirmed. As is the habit with allwoodsmen he watched the match-smoke to detect the direction of the wind. The blue strands, with hardly a waver or tremor, streamed straight up. He was somewhat reassured, however, when he remembered that he had notyet emerged from a great valley between low ranges that ordinarilyprevented free passage of the winds. 

He mushed on, his snowshoes crunching on the white crust. The powers ofthe wilderness gave him good speed--almost to the noon hour. Thenthey began to show him what they could do. 

He was suddenly aware that the fine edge of the wilderness silence hadbeen dulled. There was a faint stir at his ear drums, to dim to name oridentify or even to accept as a reality. He stopped, listeningintently. 

The stir grew to a faint and distant murmur, the murmur to a long swishlike a million rustling garments. A tree fell, with a crash, far away. Then the wind smote him. 

In itself it was nothing to fear. It was not a hurricane, not even aparticularly violent storm, but only a brisk gale that struck him fromthe side and more or less impeded his progress. Trees that weretottering and ready to fall went down with reverberating reports; thesnowdust whirled through the forest, changing the contour of the drifts, and filling up the tracks of the wild creatures. But for Bill the windheld a real menace. It was from the southeast, and warm as a girl'shand against his face. 

No man of the Northwest Provinces is unacquainted with this wind. It isprayed for in the spring because its breath melts the drifts swiftly, but it is hated to death by the traveler caught far from his cabin onsnowshoes. The wind was the far-famed Chinook, the southeast gale thatsoftens the snow as a child's breath melts the frost on a window pane. 

It did not occur to Bill to turn back. Already he was nearly halfway tohis destination. The food supplies had to be secured, sooner or later;and when the Chinook comes no man knows when it will go away. He mushedon through the softening snow. 

Within an hour the crust was noticeably softer. One hour thereafter andthe snow was soft and yielding as when it had first fallen in earlywinter. Mushing was no longer a pleasant pursuit. Henceforth it wassimply toil, rigorous and exhausting. The snowshoe sank deep, the snowitself clung to the webs and frame until it was almost impossible tolift. 

A musher in the soft wet snow can only go at a certain pace. There isno way to hurry the operation and get speedily over the difficulties. Any attempt to quicken the pace results only in a fall. The shoe cannotbe pushed ahead as when the snow is well-packed or crusted. It has tobe deliberately lifted, putting the leg tendons to an unnatural strain. 

It was too far to turn back. As many miles of weary snow stretchedbehind him as before him. At Twenty-three Mile cabin he could pass anight as comfortable as at home: there were food and blankets in plenty, and the well-built hut contained a stove. Once there, he could wait fora hard freeze that would be certain to harden the half-thawed snow andmake it fit for travel. His only course was to push on step by step. 

The truth suddenly dawned upon him that he was face to face with one ofthe most uncomfortable situations of all his years in the forest. Hedidn't believe he would be able to make the cabin before the fall ofnight; if indeed he were able to complete the weary miles, it would onlybe by dint of the most cruel and exhausting labor. He carried noblankets, and although with the aid of his camp ax he could keep somesort of a fire, a night out in the snow and the cold was not anexperience to think of lightly. 

Bill knew very well just what capabilities for effort the human bodyholds. It has certain definite limits. After a few hours of such laboras this the body is tired, --tired clear through and aching in itsmuscles. Despondency takes the place of hope, the step is somewhatfaltering, hunger assails and is forgotten, even the solace of tobaccois denied because the hand is too tired to grope for and fill the pipe. Thereafter comes a deeper stage of fatigue, one in which every separatestep requires a distinct and tragic effort of will. The perceptions areblunted, the uncertainty of footfall is more pronounced, the starkreality of the winter woods partakes of a dreamlike quality. Then comesutter and complete exhaustion. 

In its first stages there can still be a few dragging or staggeringsteps, a last effort of a brave and commanding will. Perhaps there iseven a distance of creeping. But then the march is done! There is nocomeback, no rallying. The absolute limit has been reached. Butfortunately, lying still in the snow, the wanderer no longer cares. Hewonders why he did not yield to this tranquil comfort long since. 

Bill began to realize that he was approaching his own limit. The wearymiles crept by, but with a tragic languor that was like a nightmare. But time flew; only a little space of daylight remained. 

Bill's leg muscles were aching and burning now, and he had to forcehimself on by sheer power of his will. He would count twenty-fivepainful steps, then halt. The wind had taken a more westerly course bynow, and the snow was no longer melting. The air was more crisp:probably one night would serve to recrust the snow. But the fact becameever more evident that the darkness would overtake him before he couldreach the cabin. 

But now, curiously, he dreaded the thought of pausing and making a fire. Partly he feared--with the age-old fear that lay buried deep in everycell--the long, bitter night without shelter, food or blankets; buteven the labor of fire-building appalled his spirit. I would be amighty task, fatigued as he was: first to clear away the snow, cut downtrees, hew them into lengths and split them--all with a light camp axthat only dealt a sparrow blow--then to kneel and stoop and nurse thefire. 

His woodsman's senses predicted a bitter night, in spite of the warmthof the day. It would harden the snow again, but it would also wage waragainst his life. All night long he would have to fight off sleep sothat he could mend the fire and cut fuel. It mustn't be a feeble, flickering fire. The cold could get in then. All night long the flamemust not be allowed to flag. In his fatigue it would be so easy to doseoff, --just for a moment, and the fire would burn out. In that casethe fire of his spirit would burn out too, --just as certain, just assoon. 

Late afternoon: already the shadows lay strange and heavy in the distanttree aisles. And all at once he paused, thrilled, in his tracks. 

A little way to the east, on the bank of a small creek, his father andhis traitorous partner had once had a mining claim, --a mine they hadtried unsuccessfully to operate before Bronson had made his big strike. They had built a small cabin, and for nearly thirty years it had stoodmoldering and forgotten. Twice in his life Bill had seen it, --once asa boy, when his father had taken him there on some joyous, holidayexcursion, and once in his travels Bill had beheld it at a distance. Its stove had rotted away years since; it contained neither food norblankets nor furniture, yet it was a shelter against the night and thecold. And even now it was within half a mile of where he stood. 

Exultant and thankful, Bill turned in his tracks and mushed over towardit. 

XXI

There was plenty of heart-breaking work to do when Bill finally reachedthe little cabin. The snow had banked up to the depth of several feetaround it and had blown and packed against the door. He took off one ofhis snowshoes to use as a shovel and stolidly began the work of removingthe barricade. There was no opening the door against the pressure ofthe snow. Besides, the bolt was solidly rusted. 

But after a few weary strokes it occurred to him that the easiest waywould be to cut some sort of an opening in the top of the door, justlarge enough for his body to crawl through. As the cabin was abandonedthere would be no possible disadvantage to such an opening: and sincethe fire had to be built outside the cabin, against the backlogs, thedoor would have to be left open anyway, to admit the heat. With a fewstrokes of his sharp little camp ax he cut away the planks, leaving ablack hole in the door. He lighted a match and peered in. 

The interior was unchanged since his previous visit, years before. Thecabin had no floor, not the least vestige of furniture, and rodents hadlittered the ground with leaves. 

He turned to his toil of making a fire. First he cut down a spruce--aheart-breaking task with his little ax--then laboriously hacked itinto lengths. These he bore to the cabin, staggering with the load. Hesplit the logs, cutting some of them into firewood for kindling. Thenhe made a pile of shavings. 

He tested the wind and found it blowing straight west and away from thecabin. He felt oddly tired and dull, much too tired to strain andlisten for some whispered message of an inner voice that seemed to betrying hard to get his attention, a few little, vague misgivings thathaunted him. His comfort depended, he told himself, on the heat of thefire beating in through the little opening of the cabin door, so heplaced the backlog just as close as he dared in front. Then he laiddown split pieces for frame of his fire and erected his heap ofkindling. 

He entered through the opening and stood on the ground below to lightthe fire. He didn't desire to crawl through the flames to enter thecabin. Reaching as far as he could, he was just able to insert thecandle. The wind caught it, the kindling flames. Then he stoodshivering, waiting for the room to warm. 

He had a sweeping flood of thoughts as he watched the leaping flame. Its cheerful crackle, its bright color in the gloom was almost too goodto be true. In these dark forests he had learned to be wary and onguard at too great fortune. Quite often it was only a prank of perverseforest gods, before they smote him with some black disaster. It seemedto him that there was a wild laughter, a Satanic mocking in the joyouscrackle that was vaguely but fearfully ominous. The promise in therainbow, the siren's song to the mariners, the little dancing light inthe marsh--promising warmth and safety but only luring the wearytraveler to this death--had this same quality: the cheer, the hope, the beauty only to be blasted by misfortune. 

The warmth flooded in, and he looked about for something to sit on. Hewished he had brought in one of the spruce logs he had cut. But it wastoo late to procure one now. The flames leaped at the opening of thecabin: he would be obliged to crawl laboriously through them to get intothe open. Tired out, he lay down in the dry dirt, putting his arm underhis head. He would soon go to sleep. 

But his ragged, exhausted nerves would not find rest in sleep at once. His thoughts were troubling and unpleasant. The pale firelight filledthe cabin, dancing against the walls. The glare reflected wanly on theground where he lay. 

All at once he was aware that his eyes were fastened upon an old cigarbox on a shelf against the wall. He seemed to have a rememberedinterest in it, --as if long ago he had examined its contents withboyish speculations. But he couldn't remember what it contained. Likely enough it was empty. 

The hours were long, and the wind wailed and crept like a housebreakerabout the cabin; and at last--rather more to pass the time than forany other reason--he climbed to his feet and stepped to the shelf onwhich the box lay. 

As he reached to seize it, he had a distinct premonition of misfortune. It was as if some subtle consciousness within him, knowing andremembering every detail of his past and its infinite and exactrelations with his present, was warning him that to open the box was toreceive knowledge that would be hateful to him. Yet he would not becowed by such a visionary danger. He was tired out, his nerves weretorn, and he was prey to his own dark imaginings. Likely enough the boxwas empty. 

It was not, however. It contained a single photograph. 

His eye leaped over it. He remembered now; he had looked at it duringhis former visit to the cabin, years before. It was a typicalold-fashioned photograph--two men standing in stiff and awkward posesin an old-fashioned picture gallery--printed in the time-worn way. Nomodern photographer, however, could have caught a better likeness ormade a more distinct picture. It had obviously been one of his father'spossessions and had been left in the cabin. 

One of the men was his own father. He had seen his photograph oftenenough to recognize it; besides, he remembered the man in the flesh. And he stared at the other face--a rather handsome, thin-lipped, sardonic-eyed face--as if he were looking at a ghost. 

"Great God, " he cried. "It's Harold Lounsbury!"

But instantly he knew it could not be Harold Lounsbury. The picture wasfully twenty-five years old and the face was that of a mature man, probably aged thirty. Harold Lounsbury himself was only thirty. Andnow, looking closer, he saw that the features were not quite the same. There was more breeding, more sensitiveness in Harold's face. And therewas also, dim and haunting, some slight resemblance to Kenly Lounsbury, whom he had brought up into Clearwater and who had gone back withVosper. 

Yet already his inner consciousness was screaming in his ear theidentity of this man. Already he knew. It was no other than Rutheford, the man who later, in the cavern darkness, had struck his father down. 

His deductions followed with deadly and remorseless certainty. He knewnow why Harold Lounsbury had come into Clearwater. Virginia had toldBill that her lover seemed to have some definite place in view for hisprospecting: he had simply come to search for the same lost mine thatBill had discovered the previous day. He knew now why Kenly Lounsburyhad been willing to finance Virginia's trip into the North, --not inhopes of finding his lost nephew, but to find the mine of which he alsohad some knowledge and thus repair the broken remnants of his fortune. In the same sweep of realization he knew why Harold Lounsbury's face hadalways haunted him and filled him with hazy, uncertain memories. He hadnever seen Harold before; but he had seen this photograph in his ownboyhood, and Harold's face had so resembled the one in the picture thatit had haunted and disturbed him. 

Only too well he knew the truth. Harold Lounsbury was Rutheford'sson, --the son of his father's murderer. Kenly Lounsbury was Rutheford'sbrother. Both had come to Clearwater to repair their broken fortunesfrom the mine of which they both had knowledge. Whether it was guiltyknowledge or not no man could tell. 

Such directions as Rutheford had given his son had been unavailingbecause of the snowslide that had changed the contour of the littlevalley where the mine lay. He understood now Harold's disappointmentand emotion when Bill had discovered the mine. Likely his own name wasHarold Rutheford, or else Rutheford's true name had been Lounsbury. Bill stood shivering all over with rage and hate. 

Now he knew the road of vengeance! He had only to trace HaroldLounsbury back to his city--there to find his father's murderer. Hiseyes were glittering and terrible to see at the potentialities of thatfinding. Yet in an instant he knew that death had likely alreadyclaimed the elder Rutheford. Otherwise he himself would have comeback, long since, to recover the mine. He would be financing theexpedition, rather than his brother Kenly. 

But by that stern old law, the law that goes down to the roots of theearth and whose justice lies in mystic balances beyond the sight of men, has it not been written that the sins of the father shall be visitedupon the son? It wasn't too late yet to command some measure ofpayment. In Virginia's own city lived the Lounsburys, --a proud andwealthy family, moving in the most haughty circles, patronizing thehumble, flattered and honored and exalted. But oh, he could break themdown! He could stamp their name with shame. He could not pay eye foreye and tooth for tooth, because Rutheford was likely already dead. Hecould not pay for his father's murder by striking down his murderer. But he could make Harold pay for his own wrongs. He could make himatone for the bitter moments of his youth and manhood, that irremediableloss of his boyhood. If Rutheford had left a widow he could make herpay for his own mother's sufferings. 

As he stood in that bleak and lonely cabin, lost in the desolate wastesof snow, he was simply the clansman--the feudist--the primitiveavenger. Virginia too should know the crime, and the haunting sight ofthose pitiful bones in the dark cavern would rise before her eyeswhenever she sought Harold's arms. He would show her the picture; shecould see the murderer's face in her own lover's. She could never yieldto him then----

Virginia! Soft above the wail and complaint of the wind, he spoke hername. His star, his universe, the gracious, beautiful girl whosehappiness had been his one aim! And could he change that aim now?

The wind wept, the snow was swept before it in great, unearthly cloudsof white, the fire crackled and leaped at the opening in the cabin door. The northern winter night closed down, ever deeper, ever darker, evermore fraught with those mighty passions of the human soul. But heresponded no more to the wild music of the wind. The wildernesspassions no longer found an echo in his own heart. He had suddenlyremembered Virginia. 

His face was like clay in the dancing light. His eyes were sunken andwere dark as night. He knew now where his course would lie. All atonce he knew by a knowledge true as life that this dark cabin, in thedark forest, must keep its secrets. 

He could not wreak vengeance upon the man Virginia loved. He could nottake payment from her. The same law that had governed him before wasstill the immutable voice of his being, the basic and irrevocable law ofhis life. He could not blast her happiness with such a revelation asthis. His boyhood dream of vengeance would go the way of all his otherdreams, --like the smoke of a camp fire lost in the unmeasured spacesof the forest. The shadow that the dark woods had cast upon his spiritseemed to grow and deepen. 

But he must act now, while his strength was upon him. To look againinto Harold's face might cost him his own resolve. To think of Virginiain his arms, her lips against his, the wicked blood of the man pulsingso close that she could thrill at it and hear it, might set him on fireagain. He must destroy the evidence. The night might bring his owndeath--he had a vague presentiment of disaster--and this photographmust never be found beside his body. She knew his father's story; herquick mind would leap to the truth at once. Besides, the destruction ofthe photograph--so that he could never look at it again--mightlessen his own bitterness and give him a little peace. He crumpled itin his hand, and turning, gave it to the flames at the cabin mouth. 

And from the savage powers of Nature there came a strange and incredibleresponse. The wind shrieked, then seemed to ship about in the sky, completely changing direction. And all at once the smoke from the firebegan to pour in upon him, choking his lungs and filling his eyes withtears. 

XXII

For a full moment Bill gave little attention to the deepening clouds ofpungent, biting wood smoke that the wind whipped in through the hole hehad cut in the door. Likely it was just a momentary gust, a shifting inthe air currents, and the wind would soon resume its normal direction. Besides, the discovery that he had just made seemed to hold and occupyall the territory of his thought: he was scarcely aware of the burningpain that the acrid, resinous green-wood smoke brought to his eyes. This was the most bitter moment of his life, and he was lost and remotein his dark broodings. The smoke didn't matter. 

He began really to wonder about it when the room grew so smoky thatit no longer received the firelight. The hole in the door was likea flue: the smoke--that deadly green-wood smoke known of old to thewoodsman--streamed through in great clouds. He had shut his eyes atfirst; now he found it impossible to keep them open. The pungentsmoke crept into his lungs and throat, burning like fire. He knewthat it could no longer be disregarded. 

It had been part of his wilderness training to respond like lightning ina crisis. Many times on the forest trails life itself had depended uponan instantaneous decision, then immediate effort to carry the decisionout. The fawn that does not leap like a serpent's head at the firstcrack of a twig as the wolf steals toward him in the thicket never livesto grow antlers. The power to act, to summon and focus the full mightof the muscles in the wink of an eye, then to hurl them into a breachhad been Bill's salvation many times. But to-night the power seemedgone. For long seconds his muscles hung inert. He didn't know what todo. 

The capacity for mighty and instantaneous effort seemed gone from hisbody. His mind was slow too, --blunted. He could make no decisions. He only seemed bewildered and impotent. 

The truth was that Bill had been near the point of utter exhaustion fromhis day's toil in the snow and his labor of building the fire. Thevital nervous fluids no longer sprang forth to his muscles at thecommand of his brain: they came tardily, if at all. The fountain of hisnervous energy had simply run down as the battery runs down in a motor, and it could only be recharged by a rest. But there was a deeper reasonbehind this strange apathy. The last blow--the sight of thephotograph of his father's murderer and its new connection with hislife--had for the time being at least crushed the fighting spirit withinthe man. The fight for life no longer seemed worth while. In hisbitterness he had lost the power to care. 

The smoke deepened in the cabin. It seemed to be affecting his power tostand erect. He tried to think of some way to save himself; his mindwas slow and dull. 

He knew that he couldn't get out of the cabin. There was only a littlehole in the door; to crawl through it, inch by inch as he had entered, would subject him to the full fury of the flames. Oh, they would searand destroy him quickly if he tried to creep through them! All nightthey had been mocking him with their cheerful crackle; they had onlybeen waiting for this chance to torture him. He had to spring high toenter the little hole at all; there was no way to dodge the flamesoutside. But he might knock the logs apart and put the fire out. 

There was only a distance of two paces between him and the door, but heseemed to have difficulty in making these. He reeled against the wall. But when he tried to thrust his arms through to reach the burning logs, the cruel tongues stabbed at his hands. 

But in spite of the pain, he reached again. The skin blistered on hishands, and for a long, horrible instant he groped impotently. The flamewas raging by now, two or three pitch-laden spruce chunks blazingfiercely at once, and it seemed wholly likely that the cabin itselfwould catch fire. But he couldn't reach the logs. 

He remembered his gloves then and fumbled for them in his pocket. Thesmoke could only be endured a few seconds more. He caught hold the edgeof the opening and tried to spring up. But the flames beat into hisface and drove him down again. 

For a moment he stood reeling, trying to think, trying to remember someresource, some avenue of escape. There was no furniture to stand on. If he could cover his face he might be able to leap part way through theopening and knock the burning logs apart. He tried to open his smartingeyes, but the lids were wracked with pain and would not at once respond. He made it at last, but the dense smoke was impervious to his vision. The firelight gave it a ghastly pallor. 

His ax! With his ax he could chop the door away. His hand fumbled athis belt. But he remembered now; he lad left his ax outside the cabin, its blade thrust into the spruce log that had supplied his fuel. 

Suddenly he saw himself face to face with seemingly certain death. Itwas curious that he did not feel more fear, greater revulsion. It wasalmost as if it didn't matter. While the steady sinking of the burninglogs lessened, in some degree, the danger of the cabin igniting--a fewinches of snow against the door remaining unmelted--the smoke cloudswere swiftly and surely strangling him. Already his consciousness wasdeparting. He leaped for the opening again and fell sprawling on thedirt floor. He started to spring up----

But he suddenly grew inert, breathing deeply. There was still air closeto the ground. Strange he hadn't thought of it before, --just to liestill, face close to the dirt. It pained him to breathe; his eyesthrobbed and burned, but at least it was life. He pressed his face tothe cool earth. 

Yet unconsciousness was sweeping him again. He would feel himselfdrifting, then with all the faltering power of his will he wouldstruggle back. But perhaps this sweet oblivion was only sleep. Hisnerves were crying for rest. Once more he floated, and the hours ofnight crept by. 

When Bill wakened again, the last pale glimmer of the lighted smoke wasgone. He was bewildered at first, confusing reality with his dreams, but soon the full memory of the night's events swept back to him. Hisfaculties had rallied now, his thought was clearer. The few hours thathe had rested had been his salvation. 

Yet it was still night. He raised his hands before his eyes but couldnot see even their outline. And the cabin was still full of smoke. Butit seemed somewhat less dense now, less pungent. But the smarting inhis eyes was more intense. 

The fire had evidently burned down and out. He struggled to open hiseyes, then gazed around the walls in search of the opening in the door. But he could not see the reflection of an ember. He fought his way tohis feet. 

His fumbling hands encountered the log walls; he then groped about tillhe found the plank door. His gloved hands smarted, but their sense oftouch did no seem blunted. He had never known a darker night! Now thathe found the hole in the door, it was curious that he could not see onestar gleaming through. But perhaps clouds had overspread. 

A measure of heat against his face told him that coals were stillglowing under the ashes, yet he might be able to creep through. It wasworth a trial: the smoke in the cabin was still almost unbearable. Hismuscles were more at his command now; with a great lurch he sprang upand thrust head and shoulders through the opening. 

The hot ashes punished his face, and his hand encountered hot coals ashe thrust them through. Yet with a mighty effort he pushed on until hiswrists touched the icy snow. He knew that he was safe. 

He stood erect, scarcely believing in his deliverance. And the snow hadcrusted during the night; it would almost hold him up without snowshoes. As soon as the light came, he could mush on toward his Twenty-three Milecabin. It would be a cold and exhausting march, but he could make it. The night was bitter now, assailing him like a scourge the moment heleft the warm cabin; and the temperature would continue to fall untilafter dawn. The wind still blew the snow dust--a stinging lash fromthe north and west--and it had brought the cold from the Bering Sea. 

It was curious that a cloudy night could be so cold. Yet when he openedhis eyes he could not see the gleam of a star. The red coals of thefire, too, were smothered and obscured in ashes. He stepped towardthem, intending to rake them up for such heat as they could yield. Presently he halted, gazing with fascinated horror at the ground. 

He was suddenly struck with a ghastly and terrible possibility. He couldnot give it credence, yet the thought seemed to seize and chill him likea great cold. But he would know the truth in a moment. It was alwayshis creed: not to spare himself the truth. Surely it would simply be aninteresting story--this of his great fear--when he returned with hisbackload of supplies to Virginia. Something to talk about, in thepainful and embarrassed moments that remained before Virginia and herlover went out of his sight forever. 

His hand groped for a match. In his eagerness it broke off at hisfingers as he tried to strike it. But soon he found another. 

He heard it crack in the silence, but evidently it was a dud! Thedarkness before his eyes remained unbroken. 

Filled with a sick fear, he removed his glove and passed his hand overthe upheld match. There was no longer a possibility for doubt. Thetiny flame smarted his flesh. 

"Blind!" he cried. "Out here in the snow and the forest--blind!"

It was true. The pungent wood smoke had done a cruel work. Until timeshould heal the wounds of the tortured lenses, Bill was blind. 

XXIII

Standing motionless in the dreadful gloom of blindness, insensible tothe growing cold, Bill made himself look his situation in the face. Hismind was no longer blunt and dull. It was cool, analytic; he balancedone thing against another; he judged the per cent. Of his chance. Atpresent it did not occur to him to give up. It is never the way of thesons of the wilderness to yield without a fight. They know life in allits travail and pain, but also they know the Cold and Darkness and Fearthat is death. No matter how long the odds are, the wilderness creaturefights to his last breath. Bill had always fought; his life had been agreat war of which birth was the reveille and death would be retreat. 

He was wholly self-contained, his mind under perfect discipline. Hewould figure it all out and seek the best way through. Long, wearymiles of trackless forest stretched between him and safety. There wasno food in this cabin, no blankets; and the fire was out. HisTwenty-three Mile cabin was only slightly less distant than the one hehad left. And through those endless drifts and interminable forests theblind, unaided, could not find their way. 

He could conceive of no circumstances whereby Virginia and Harold wouldcome to look for him short of another day and night. They did notexpect him back until the end of the present day; they could notpossible start forth to seek him until another daylight. And this manknew what the forest and the cold would do to him in twenty-four hours. Already the cold was getting to him. 

For all that he had no food, he knew that if he could keep warm he couldsurvive until help came. Yet men cannot fast in these winter woods asthey can in the South. The simple matter of inner fuel is a desperateand an essential thing. But he had no blankets, and without a fire hewould die, speedily and surely. He didn't deceive himself on thispoint. He knew the northern winter only too well. A few hours ofsuffering, then a slow warmth that stole through the veins and was theherald of departure. He had been warmed through in the cabin, but thatwarmth would soon pass away. He wondered if he could rebuild the fire. 

He was suddenly shaken with terror at the thought that already he didnot know in what direction the fire and the cabin lay. He had becometurned around when he strode out to light the match. Instantly he beganto search for the cabin door. He went down on his hands in the snow, groping, then moved in a slow, careful circle. Just one little second'sbewilderment, one variation from the circle, and he might lose the cabinaltogether. That meant _death!_ It could mean no other thing. 

But in a moment the smoke blew into his face, and he advanced into theashes. The next moment, by circling again, he found the cabin door. Heleaned against it, breathing hard. 

"It won't do, Bill, " he told himself. "Hold steady--for one minutemore. "

A spruce log, the last segment of the tree he had cut, lay somewhere afew feet from his door. But he remembered it had fallen into a thicketof evergreen: could he find it now? The log would not burn until it wascut up with his ax: the ax would be hard to find in the pressingdarkness. Even if he found it, even if he could cut kindling with hisknife, he couldn't maintain a blaze. Building and mending a fire withgreen timber is a cruel task even with vision; and he knew as well as heknew the fact of his own life that it would be wholly impossible to theblind. 

Then what was left? Only a deeper, colder darkness than this he knewnow. Death was left--nothing else. In an hour, perhaps in ahalf-hour, possibly not until the night had gone and come again with itswind and its chill, the end would be the same. There was no light toguide him home, no landmarks that he could see. 

Then his thought seized upon an idea so fantastic, seemingly soimpossible of achievement, that at first he could not give it credence. His mind had flashed to those unfortunates that had sometimes lost theirway in the dark chambers of an underground cavern and thence to thatmethod by which they guarded against this danger. These men carriedstrings, unwinding them as they entered the cavern and following themout. He had not carried a string-end here, but he had made a trail!His snowshoe tracks probably were not yet obliterated under thewind-blown snow. Could he feel his way along them back to the cabin?

The miles were many and long, but he wouldn't have to creep on hands andknees all the way. Perhaps he could walk, stooped, touching thedepressions in the snow at every step. In his own soul he did notbelieve that he had one chance in a hundred of making it through tosafety. Crawling, creeping, groping from track to track would wear himout quickly. But was there any other course for him? If he didn't trythat, would he have any alternative other than to lie still and die? Hewasn't sure that he could even find the tracks in the snow, but if hewere able to encircle the cabin at a radius of fifty feet he could notmiss them. He groped about at the side of the cabin for his snowshoes. 

He found them in a minute, then walked straight as he could fifty feetout from the door. Once more he went on hands and feet, groping in theicy snow. He started to make a great circle. 

Fifteen feet farther he felt a break in the even surface. The snow hadbeen so soft and his shoes had sunk so deep that the powdered flakes thewind had strewn during the night had only half filled his tracks. Hestarted to follow them down. 

He walked stooped, groping with one hand, and after an endless time hisfingers dipped into dry, warm ashes. 

Only for a fraction of a second did he fail to understand. And in thedarkness and the silence the man's breath caught in what was almost asob. He realized that he had followed the tracks in the wrongdirection, and had traced them straight to the cabin door that he hadjust left. 

It was only a matter of a hundred feet, but it was tragedy here. Oncemore he started on the out-trail. 

He soon found that he could not walk in his present stooped position. Human flesh is not build to stand such a strain as that. Before he hadgone half a mile sharp pains began to attack him, viciously, in the backand thighs. For all his magnificent strength--largely returned to himin his hours of rest--he could not progress in this position more thanhalf a mile farther. 

He took another course. He would walk ahead five paces, then drop downand grope again for the tracks. Sometimes he found them at once, oftenhe had to go on his hands and feet and start to circle. Then, findingthe trail, he would mush on for five steps more. 

Oh, the way was cruel! He could not see to avoid the stinging lash ofthe spruce needles, the cruel blows of the branches. Already theattempt began to partake of a quality of nightmare, --a blind andstumbling advance over infinite difficulties through the infinity oftime. It was like some torment of an evil Hereafter, --eternal, remorseless, wholly without hope. Many times he sprawled at fulllength, and always it was harder to force himself to his feet. 

Five steps on, halting and groping, then five steps more: thus the lonefigure journeyed through the winter forest. The seconds dragged intothe minutes, the minutes into hours. The cold deepened; likely it wasthe bitter hour just after dawn. The hand with which he groped for thetracks had lost all power of feeling. 

He could not judge distance or time. Already it seemed to him that hehad been upon the journey endless hours. Because of the faint graynessbefore his eyes he judged it was broad daylight: perhaps already the daywas giving over to darkness. He didn't know how far he had come. Theonly thought he had left was always to count his terrible five steps, and count five more. 

Nothing else mattered. He had for the moment at least lost sight of allother things. His thought was not so clear now; it seemed to him thatthe forest was no longer silent. There were confused murmurings in hisear, a curious confusion and perplexity in his brain. It was hard toremember who he was and where he was going. Just to count his steps, stoop, grope and find the snowshoe trail, then journey on again. 

He tried to increase the number of steps between his gropings--firstsix, then seven. Above seven, however, the trail was so hard to findthat time was lost rather than gained. Yes, he thought it was stilldaylight. Sometimes he seemed to feel the sunlight on his face. He wasnot cold now, and even the pain was gone from his hips and thighs. 

He was mistaken in this, however. The pain still sent its fearfulmessages to his brain, but in his growing stupor he was no longer awareof them. Even his hand didn't hurt him now. He wondered if it werefrozen; yet it was still sensitive to the depressions in the drifts. Itcould still grope through the snow and find the tracks. 

"I can't go on!" his voice suddenly spoke aloud. "I can't go--anymore. "

The words seemed to come from an inner man, without volition on hispart. He was a little amazed to hear them. Yet the time had not yetcome to stop and rest. The tracks still led him on. 

Always, it seemed to him, he had to grope longer to find theindentations in the snow. The simple reason was that the motor centersof his brain had begun to be impaired by cold and exhaustion, and hecould no longer walk in a straight line. He found out, however, thatthe trail usually lay to the right rather than to his left. He wastaking a shorter step with his left than with his right--the sametendency that often makes a tried woodsman walk in a great circle--andhe thus bore constantly to the left. Soon it became necessary to drophis formula down to six, then to the original five. 

On and on, through the long hours. But the fight was almost done. Exhaustion and hunger, but cold most of all, were swiftly breaking himdown. He advanced with staggering steps. 

The indentations were more shallow now. The point where he had begun tobreak through the snow crust, because of the softening snow, was passedlong ago: only because he was in a valley sheltered from the wind werethe tracks manifest at all. 

The time came at last when he could no longer get upon his feet. Andnow, like a Tithonus who could not die, he crawled along the snowshoetrail on is hands and knees. "I can't go on, " he told himself. "I'mthrough!" Yet always his muscles made one movement more. 

Suddenly he missed the trail. His hand groped in vain over the whitecrust. He crept on a few more feet, then as ever, began to circle. Soon his hand found an indentation in the snow crust, and he started tocreep forward again. 

But slowly the conviction grew upon him that he was crawling in a smallcircle, --the very circle he had just made. Some way, he had missedthe snowshoe trail. He did not remember how on his journey out he hadonce been obliged to backtrack a hundred yards and start on at a newangle. He had merely come to that point from which he had turned back. He could not find the trail because he was at its end. 

He could not remember that it was his own trail. How he came here, hispurpose and his destination, were all lost and forgotten in theintricate mazes of the past. He had but one purpose, one theme, --tokeep to his trail an journey on. He would make a bigger circle. Hestarted to creep forward in the snow. 

But as he waited, on hands and knees in the drifts, the Spirit of Mercycame down to him and gave him one moment of lucid thought. All at oncefull consciousness returned to him in a sweep as of a tide, and heremembered all that had occurred. He saw all things in their exactrelations. And now he knew his course. 

No longer would he struggle on, slave to the remorseless instinct ofself-preservation. Was there any glory, any happiness at his journey'send that would pay him for the agony of one more forward step? He hadwaged a mighty battle; but now--in a flash--he realized that thespoil for which he had fought was not worth one moment of his hours ofpain. He remembered Virginia, Harold, the mind and its revelation: herecalled that his mission had been merely an expedition after provisionsso that the two could go out of his life. Was there any reason why heshould fight for life, only to find death?

There was nothing in the distant cabin worth having now. He wassuddenly crushed with bitterness at the thought that he had made thismighty effort for a goal not worth attaining. If he struggled on, evento success, the only thing that waited him was a moment of farewell withVirginia and the vision of her slipping away from him, into her lover'sarms. When she departed only the forest and the darkness would be left, and he had these here. 

It would be different if he felt Virginia still needed him. If he couldwin her any happiness by fighting on, the struggle would still be worthwhile. But she had Harold to show her the way through the winter woods. It was true that they would have to rely on the fallen grizzly for meat:an uncomfortable experience, but nothing to compare with any furthermovement through the cruel drifts. Harold would come back and claim themine; perhaps he would even erect his own notice before his departure, and the Rutheford family would know the full fruits of their crime oflong ago. But it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now wasrest and sleep. 

Slowly he sank down in the snow. 

XXIV

When the Chinook wind, moving northwest at a faster pace than thewaterfowl move south, struck the home cabin, Virginia's first thoughtwas for Bill. She heard it come, faint at first, then blustering, justas Bill had heard it; she saw it rock down a few dead trees, and shelistened to its raging complaints at the window. 

"I'll show you my might, " it seemed to say. "You have dared my silentplaces, come into my fastness, but now I will have revenge. I'll payyou--in secret ways that you don't know. "

It so happened that Harold's first thought was also of Bill. It was acurious fact that his heart seemed to leap as if the wind had smittenit. He knew what the Chinook could do to a snow crust. He estimatedthat Bill was about halfway between the two cabins, and he didn't knowabout the little, deserted cabin where Bill could find refuge during thenight. His eyes gleamed with high anticipations. 

Harold's thought was curiously intertwined with the remembrance of thedark cavern he had entered yesterday, the gravel laden with gold. Ifindeed all things went as it seemed likely that they would go, Billwould never carry the word of his find down to the recorder's office. It was something to think of, something to dream about. Yellowgold, --and no further trouble in seeking it. Such a development wouldalso save the labor of further planning. It was a friend of his, thiswind at the window. 

"Won't this Chinook melt the snow crust?" Virginia asked him. 

He started. He hadn't realized that this newfound sweetheart of hisknew the ways of Chinook winds and snow crusts. "Oh, no, " he responded. "Why should it? Wind makes crusts, not softens them. "

Virginia was satisfied for the moment. Then her mind went back tocertain things Bill had told her on one of their little expeditions. Strangely, she took Bill's word rather than Harold's. 

"But this is a warm wind, Harold, " she objected. "If the crust ismelted Bill can't possibly get through to his Twenty-three Mile cabinto-night. What will he do?"

"He'll make it through. The crust won't melt that fast, if it melts atall. He may have a long, hard tramp, though. Don't worry, Virginia, he'll be coming in to-morrow night--with his back loaded with food. "

"I only wish I hadn't let him go. " The girl's tone was heavy and dull. 

"But we have to have supplies----"

"We could have gone out on that grizzly meat. It was so foolish to riskhis life, and I had a presentiment too. "

He was glad that she had had a presentiment. It tended to verify hisfondest dreams. But he laughed at her, and falling into one of his mostbrilliant moods, tried to entertain her. Her interest was hard to holdto-day. Her mind kept dwelling on Bill, mushing on through thesoftening snow, and her eyes kept seeking the window. 

She cooked lunch and burned every dish. Then, no longer able to denyher own fears, she ventured out in the snow to test its crust. She puton her snowshoes, starting a little way down Bill's trail. She waswhite-faced and sick of heart when she returned. 

"Harold, I'm worried, " she cried. "I tried to walk in this snow--andyou can talk about Bill making it through all you want, but I won'tbelieve you. A hundred steps has tired me out. "

He was beginning to be a little angry with her fears. And he made themistake of answering rather impatiently. 

"Well, what can you do about it? he's gone, hasn't he, and we can'tcall him back. "

"I suppose not. But if I--we--were out there in that soft snow, andhe was here, he'd find something to do about it! He'd come racing outthere to us--bringing food an blankets----"

"Oh, he'd be a hero!" Harold scorned. "Listen, Virginia--there'snothing in the world to fear. The Chinook sprang up at nine----"

"Oh, it was much later than that. "

"I looked at my watch, " the man lied. "He was only well started then;he's woodsman enough to turn around and come back if there's danger. You may see him before dark. "

"I pray that I will! And if--if--anything has happened to him----"

All at once the tears leaped to her eyes. She couldn't restrain themany more than the earth can constrain the rain. She turned into her owncurtained-off portion of the cabin so that Harold could not see. 

The afternoon that followed was endlessly long, and lonely. Her heartsank at the every complaint of the wind, and she dreaded the fall of theshadows. Three times she thrilled with inexpressible joy at a sound onthe threshold, but always it was just the wind, mocking her distress. 

She saw the sinister, northern night growing between the spruce trees, and she dreaded it as never before. She cooked a meager supper--thesupplies were almost gone--but she had no heart to sit up and talkwith Harold. At last she went behind her curtain, hoping to forget herfears in sleep. 

All through the hours of early night she slept only at intervals:dozing, coming to herself in starts and jerks, and dreaming miserably. The hours passed, and still Bill did not return. 

Her imagination was only too vivid. In her thoughts she could see thisstalwart woodsman of hers camping somewhere in the snowdrifts, blanketless, staying awake through the bitter night to mend the fire, and perhaps in trouble. She knew something of the northern cold thatwas assailing him, hovering, waiting for the single instant when hisfire should go down or when he should drop off to sleep. Oh, it waspatient, remorseless. He was likely hungry, too, and despairing. 

She wakened before dawn; and the icy, winter stars were peering throughthe cabin window. Surely Bill had returned by now: yet it would hardlybe like him to come in and not let her know of his safe return. He hadalways seemed so well to understand her fears, he was always sothoughtful. There was no use trying to go back to sleep until she knewfor certain. She slipped from her bed onto the floor of the icy cabin. 

She missed the cozy warmth of the fire; but, shivering, she slippedquickly into her clothes. Then she lighted a candle and put on hersnowshoes. She mushed across the little space of snow to the men'scabin. 

The east was just beginning to pale: the stars seemed lucid as ever inthe sky. There was a labyrinth of them, uncounted millions that gleamedand twinkled in every little rift between the spruce trees. Even thestars of lesser magnitude that through the smoke of her native city hadnever revealed themselves were out in full array to-night. And the icyair stabbed like knives the instant she left the cabin door. It was thecoldest hour she had ever known. 

She knocked on Harold's door, then waited for a reply. But the cabinwas ominously silent. Her fears increased: she knew that if Bill werepresent he would have wakened at her slightest sound. He would haveseemed to know instinctively that she was there. She knocked again, louder. 

"Who's there?" a sleepy voice answered. Virginia felt a world ofimpatience at the dull, drowsy tones. Harold had been able to sleep!He wasn't worrying over Bill's safety. 

"It's I--Virginia. I'm up and dressed. Did Bill come back?"

"Bill? No--and what in God's earth are you up this early for? Forgetabout Bill and go back to bed. "

"Listen, Harold, " she pleaded. "Don't tell me to go back to bed. Ifeel--I know something's happened to him. He couldn't have gone onclear to the cabin in that awful snow; he either started back or camped. In either case, he's in trouble--freezing or exhausted. And--and--Iwant you to go out and look for him. "

Harold was fully awake now, and he had some difficulty in controllinghis voice. In the first place he had no desire to rescue Bill. In thesecond, he was angry and bitterly jealous at her concern for him. "Youdo, eh--you'd like to send me out on a bitter night like this on afool's errand such as that. Where is there a cabin along the way--you'donly kill me without helping him. "

"Nonsense, Harold. You could take that big caribou robe and some food, and if you had to camp out it wouldn't kill you. Please get up and go, Harold. " Her tone now was one of pleading. "Oh, I want you to----"

"Go back to bed!" But Harold remembered, soon, that he wasn't talkingto his squaw, and his voice lost its impatient note. "Don't worry aboutBill any more. He'll come in all right. I'm not going out on anywild-goose chase like that--on a day such as to-day will be. You'llsee I'm right when you think about it. "

"Think!" she replied in scorn. "If it were Bill he wouldn't stop tothink. He'd just act. You won't go, then?"

"Don't be foolish, Virginia. "

Angry words rose in her throat, but she suppressed them. A daring ideahad suddenly filled her with wonder. It came full-grown: that sheherself should start forth into the snow deserts to find Bill herself. 

Virginia had not been trained to self-reliance. Except for her northernadventure, she had never been obliged to face difficulties, to care forand protect herself, to work with her hands and do everyday tasks. Tobuild a fire, to repair a leaking tap, to take responsibility foranything above such schoolday projects as amateur plays an socialgatherings would have seemed tasks impossible of achievement. At firstit had never occurred to her that she might herself be of aid to Bill. The old processes of her mind still ran true to form; she had gone toask a man to carry out her wish. At first she had felt wholly helplessat his refusal. But why should she not go herself?

If indeed Bill had reached the Twenty-three Mile cabin, he would bemushing home by now; she would meet him somewhere on his snowshoe trail. No harm would be done. It might even be a pleasant adventure to mushwith him in the snow. The snow itself was perfect for travel; and shehad learned that her strong young body was capable of long distances ina day. And if he were in trouble she could help him. 

It might mean building a fire in the snow and possibly camping outthrough the day and night to come. It would be a dreadful and dangerousexperience, yet she saw no reason why she couldn't endure it. Bill hadshowed her how to make the best of such a bad situation as this. Hehad taught her how to build a fire in the snow; her round, slenderarms--made muscular in her weeks in the North--could cut fuel to keepit burning. Besides, she would carry the caribou robe--one of the cotcoverings that Bill had stored in his cabin and which, though light asdown, was practically impervious to cold. Besides, there was no oneelse to go. 

She went swiftly to her cabin, put on her warmest clothing, and, as Billhad showed her, rolled a compact pack for her back. She took a littlepackage of food--nourishing chocolate and dried meat--the whiskyflask that had been her salvation the night of the river experience, anda stub of candle for fire-building, tying them firmly in the caribourobe. The entire package weight only about ten pounds. She fastened iton her shoulders, hung a camp ax at her belt; and as she waited for thedawn, ate a hearty but cold breakfast. Then, with never a backwardlook, she started away, down the dim, wind-blown, snowshoe trail. 

XXV

Now that the fight was done, Bill lay quite calm and peaceful in thedrifts. The pain of the cold and the wrack of exhausted muscles werequite gone. 

He was face to face with the flaming truth, and he knew his fate. TheNorth, defied so long, had conquered him a last. It had been waitingfor him, lurking, watching its chance; and with its cruel agents, thebitter cold and the unending snow, it had crushed and beaten him down. He felt no resentment. He was glad that the trial was over. He knew adeep, infinite peace. 

Sleep was encroaching upon him now. He felt himself drifting, and thetide would never bring him back. He stirred a little, putting his handsin his armpits, his face resting on his elbow. The wind swept by, sobbing: there in the shadow of death he caught its tones and itsmessages as never before. He was being swept into space. ... 

On the trail that he had made on the out-journey, and which he had triedto vainly to follow back, Virginia came mushing toward him. Neverbefore had her muscles responded so obediently to her will; she sped ata pace that she had never traveled before. It was as if some powerabove herself was bearing her along, swiftly, easily, with never awasted motion. She tilted the nose of her snowshoes just the rightangle, no more or less, and all her muscles seemed to work in perfectunison. 

The bitter cold of the early morning hours only made her blood flowfaster and gave her added energy. She scarcely felt the pack on herback. The snowshoe trail, however, was so faint as to be almostinvisible. 

Because the snow had been firm in this part of Bill's journey, his trackwas not so deep and the drifting snow had almost completely filled it. In a few places the track was entirely obscured; always there weremerely dim indentations. If she had started an hour later she could nothave followed the trail at all. For all the day was clear, the windstill whirled flurries of dry snow across her path. 

But she didn't permit herself to despair. If need be, she told herself, she would follow him clear to the Twenty-three Mile cabin. The trackswere ever more dim, but surely they would be deeper again where Bill hadencountered the soft snow. 

It became increasingly probable, however, that the tracks wouldcompletely fade away before that time. Soon the difficulty of findingthe imprints in the snow began to slacken her gait. To lose themcompletely meant failure: she could not find her way in these snowystretches unguided. As morning reached its full, the white wastesseemed to stretch unbroken. 

Was the wind-blown snow going to defeat her purpose, after all? A greatweight of fear and disappointment began to assail her. The truth of thematter was she had come to an exposed slope, and the trail had faded outunder the snow dust. 

At first there seemed nothing to do but turn back. It might bepossible, however, to cross the ridge in front: the valley beyond wasmore sheltered by the wind and she might pick up the trail again. Atleast she could follow her own tracks back, if she failed. She spedswiftly on. 

She had guessed right. Standing on the ridge top she could see, far offthrough one of the treeless glades that are found so often in the spruceforest, the long path of a snowshoe trail. Instinctively she followedit with her eyes. 

Clear where the trail entered the spruce thicket, her keen eyes made outa curious, black shadow against the snow. For a single second she eyedit calmly, wondering what manner of wild creature it might be. Itsoutline grew more distinct under her intense gaze, and she cried out. It was only a little sound, half a gasp and half a sob, but it expressedthe depths of terror and distress never known to her before. 

It seemed to her that she could not move at first. She could only standand gaze. The heart in her breast turned to ice, her blood seemed to gostill in her veins. She recognized this figure now. It was Bill, lyingstill in the frozen drifts. 

For endless hours, it seemed to her, she stood impotent with horror. Inreality, the time was not an appreciable fraction of a breath. Then, sobbing, she mushed frantically down toward him. She fairly raced, --withnever a misstep. For all the ghastly sickness that swept over her, she held her body in perfect discipline. She had no doubt but that thisman was dead. Likely he had lain there for hours, and really only avery short time of such cold as this was needed to take life. Already, she thought, the life had gone from his dark, gentle eyes; the braveheart was still; the brave heart was still; the mighty muscles lifelessclay. 

No moment of her life had ever been fraught with such overwhelmingbitterness as this. She had never known such fear, even in the grip ofthe wild waters or during the grizzly's charge. This was something thatwent deeper than mere life: it touched realms of her spirit undreamedof, and the blow seemed more cruel and more dreadful than any thatthe world could deal direct to her. If she had paused for one secondof self-analysis, heaven knows what light might have burst upon herspirit--what deep and wondrous realizations of her attitude toward Billmight have come to her; but she did not pause. She only knew that shemust reach his side. Her only thought was that Bill was dead, gonefrom her life as a flame goes from an extinguished candle. 

She knelt beside him, and with no knowledge of effort turned him overand lifted his head and shoulders into her arms. His eyes were closed, his face expressionless, his arms dropped limply to his side. At firstshe dared not dream but that the cold had already taken away his life. The dread Spirit of the North had lain in ambush for him a long time, but it had conquered him at last. 

They made an unearthly picture, --these two so silent in the drifts. Endless about them lay the snow; the winter forest was deep in itseternal silence, the little spruce trees stood patient and inert andqueer, under their heavy loads of snow. Never a voice in all thewastes, never a tear of pity or a stretching hand of mercy, --onlythe cold, only the silence, only the dread solitude of a landuntamed, --the unconquerable wild. Yet her sorrow, her ineffabledespair left no room for resentment against this dreadful land. Itwas only a lost fight in an eternal war; only a little incident inthe vast and inscrutable schemes of a remorseless Nature. 

She knew life now, this girl of cities. She knew that in her past lifeshe had never really lived: she had only moved in a gentle dream that anartificial civilization had made possible. The gayeties, the culture, the luxuries and the fashions that had seemed so real and so essentialbefore were revealed in their true light, only as dreams that wouldpass: deep in them she had never heard the crash of armor in thebattlefields without her bower. But she knew now. She saw life as itwas, stark and cruel, remorseless, pitiless to the weak, treacherous tothe strong, ever waging war against all creatures that dwelt upon theearth. 

Yet so easily could it have been redeemed! If this man were standingstrong beside her, life would be nothing to fear, nothing to appall herspirit. All the ancient persecutions of the elements, all the pitfallsof life and the exigencies of fortune could never bow their heads. Instead they would know high adventure and the exhilaration of battle;even if at the day's end they should go down into death, it would bewith unbroken spirits and brave hearts. 

But she couldn't stand alone! She needed the touch of his hand, hisshoulder against hers, the communion of his spirit and his strength. Life was an appalling thing to face alone! There was no joy now in thepunishing cold and the wastes of forest; only sadness and fear anddespair. Sitting in the snow, his head and shoulders in her arms, sheknew a fear and a loneliness undreamed of before, a loss that couldnever be atoned for or redeemed. 

She too knew the lesson that Bill had learned in his hour ofbitterness, --that one moment of heaven may atone for a whole life ofstruggle and sorrow. One clasp of arms, one whispered message, onemighty impulse of the soul in which eternity is seized and the starsare gathered might glorify the whole bitter struggle of existence. One little kiss might pay for it all. Yet for all that Harold stilllived and waited for her in the cabin, she felt that this one littleinstant of resurrection was irrevocably lost. 

It seemed so strange to her that he should be lying here, impotentin her arms. Always he had been so strong, he had stood sostraight, --always coming to her aid in a second of need, alwaysstrengthening her with his smile and his eyes. She could hardly believethat this was he, --never to cheer her again in their hard tramps, tolend her his mighty strength in a moment of crisis, to laugh with her atsome little tragedy. She sobbed softly, and her tears lay on his face. "Bill, oh, Bill, won't you wake up and speak to me?" she cried. Shepleaded softly, but he didn't seem to hear. 

"Come back to me, Bill--I need you, " she told him. He had always beenso quick to come when she needed him before now. "Are you _dead?_-- Oh, you couldn't be _dead!_ It's so cold--and I'm afraid. Oh, pleaseopen your eyes----"

She kissed him over and over--on the lips, on his closed eyes. Shepressed his head against her soft breast, as if her fluttering heartwould give some of its life to him. 

_Dead?_ Was that it? All at once she set to work to win back herself-control. It might not yet be too late to help. She grippedherself, dispelling at once all hysteria, all her vagrant thoughts. He would have been hard at work long since. His face was stillwarm--perhaps life had not yet passed. 

She put her head to his breast. His heart was beating--slowly, butsteadily and strong. 

XXVI

Bill had not been lying long inert in the snow. Otherwise Virginiawould not have heard his heart thumping so steadily in his breast. Infact, she was almost on the top of the ridge when he had given up. Hehad just drifted off to sleep when she reached his side. 

And now he thought he was in the midst of some wonderful, gloriousdream. Death was being merciful, after all: in the moment of itsdescent it was giving him the image of his fondest dream. It seemed tohim that soft, warm arms were about him, that his head was pillowedagainst a tenderness, a holiness passing understanding. He didn't wantthe dream to end. It would in a moment, the darkness would drop overhim; but even for the breath that it endured it almost atoned for thefull travail of his life. 

There were kisses, too. They came so softly, so warm, just as he haddreamed. "Virginia, " he whispered. "Is it you, Virginia--come tome----?"

Then, so clearly that he could no longer retain the delusion of dream, he heard his answer. "Yes--and I've come to save you. "

It was true. Her arms were about him; he was nestled against herbreast. Yet the kisses must have been only a dream that was worth deathto gain. She was at work on him now. He felt her swift motions; nowshe was putting a flask to his lips. A burning liquid poured into histhroat. 

There ensued a moment of indescribable peace, and then the flask was putto his lips again. The inner forces of his body, fighting still for hislife even after he had given up, seized quickly upon the warming liquor, forced it into his blood, and drove away the frost that was beginning tocongeal his life fluids. Already he felt a new stir in his veins. Hestruggled to speak. 

"No yet, " the girl whispered. "Don't make any effort yet. "

She gave him more of the liquor. He felt strength returning to hismuscles. He tried to open his eyes. The sharp pain was a swiftreminder of his blindness. "I'm blind----" he told her. 

"No matter, I'll save you. " Even his blindness would not put a barrierbetween them. One glance at the inflamed lids, however, told her thatin all probability it was just a temporary blindness from some greatirritation, soon to be dispelled. "Can you eat?" she asked. 

The man nodded. 

"It's better to, if you can. The whisky is only a stimulant, and itwon't keep you alive. " She thrust a fragment of sweet chocolate intohis mouth, permitting it to melt. "You'd better get to your feet assoon as you can--and try to get the flood flowing right again. We'reonly a few miles from the cabin--if you'll just fight we can make itin. "

He shook his head. "I can't--I can't go any farther. I can't see theway. "

"But I'll lead you. " By her intuition she guessed his despair; and shecomforted him, his head against her breast. "Don't you know I'll leadyou?" she cried, a world of pleading in her tone. "Oh, Bill--youcan't give up. You must try. If you die, I'll die too--here besideyou. Oh, Bill--don't you know I need you?"

The words stirred and wakened him more than all her first aid. Sheneeded him; she was pleading to him to get up and go on. Could herefuse that appeal? Could any wish of hers, as long as he lived and wasable to strive for her, go ungranted? The blood mounted through hisveins, awakened. A mysterious strength flowed back into his thews. 

There could be no further question of giving up. He struggled withhimself, and his voice was almost his own when he spoke. "Give me morefood--and more whisky, " he commanded. "Take some yourself too--you'llhave to help me a lot going home. And give me your hands. "

He struggled to his feet. He reeled, nearly fell; but her arms held himup. She gave him more chocolate and a swallow of the burning liquid. 

"It's a race against time, " she told him. "If I can get you into thecabin before the reaction comes, I can save you. Try with every muscleyou've got, Bill--for me!"

She need make no other appeal. She took his hand, and they startedmushing over the drifts. 

* * * * *

The moose that stands at bay against the wolf pack, the ferocious littleermine in the grasp of the climbing marten never made a harder, morevaliant fight than these two waged on the way to the cabin. There wasno mercy for them in the biting cold. Bill was frightfully worn andspent from his experience of the day and the previous night, andVirginia had lent her own young strength to him. Often he reeled andfaltered, and at such times her arm in his kept him up. The milesseemed innumerable and long. 

A might that has its seat higher and beyond the mere energy-givingchemistry of their bodies came to their aid. Virginia had never dreamedthat she possessed such power of endurance and unfaltering muscles: aspirit born of an unconquerable will rose within her and bore her on. She was aware of no physical pain; the magnificent exertion of hermuscles was almost unconscious. Just as women fight for the lives oftheir babes she fought for him, as if it were the deepest instinct ofher being. The thought of giving up was intolerable, and such spirit isthe soul of victory!

They won at last. Without the stimulant and the nutritious food defeatwould have been certain. But all these factors would have beenunavailing except for the fighting spirit that her appeal to him hadawakened and which she had found, full-grown, in her own soul. 

They mused up to the cabin, and Harold stared at them like a lifelessthing as Bill reeled through the doorway. Virginia led him to her owncot, then drew the blankets over him. And she was not so exhausted butthat she could continue the fight for his recovery. 

"Build up the fire, and do it quickly, " she ordered Harold. Her tonewas terse, commanding, and curiously he leaped to obey her. She removedBill's snow-covered garments, and as Harold went out to procure morefuel she put water on the stove to heat. Then, procuring snow, shebegan to rub Bill's right hand, the hand that had been frozen in hiseffort to grope for the trail. Quick and hard work was needed to saveit. 

Harold came to her aid, but she put him to other work. She wanted to dothis task herself. Then she aroused the woodsman from his half-sleep togive him coffee, cup after cup of it that used up the last of theirmeager supply. 

It is one of the peculiar faculties of the human body to recover quicklyfrom the effects of severe cold. Even coupled with exhaustion hishardships had wrought no lasting organic injury, and the magnificentrecuperative powers of Bill's tough body came quickly to his aid. Aboutmidnight he wakened from a long sleep, wholly clear-headed and free frompain. Wet bandages were over his eyes. 

He groped and in a moment found Virginia's hands. But an instant heheld them only; it was enough to know that she was near. He realizedthat he was out of danger now: such tenderness as she had given him mustbe forgotten. She was still sitting beside his bed, wrapped in ablanket. 

He started to get up so that she could have her own cot; but she wakenedat his motions. Gently she pushed him down. 

"But I'm all right now, " he told her. "I'm sleepy--and sore--butI'm strong as ever. Let me go to my bed, and get some sleep. "

"No. I'm not sleepy yet. "

But the dull tones of her voice--even thought Bill could not see thewhite fatigue in her face--belied her words. Bill laughed, the samegay laugh that had cheered her so many times, and swung his feet to thefloor. "It's my turn to be nurse--now, " he told her. "Get in quick. "

"But I've had Harold bring some blankets here and spread them on thefloor, " she objected. "I can go to sleep there, when--I'm--tired. "

"And I can go to sleep there right now. "

With his strong arms he half-lifted her and laid her in his warm place. She yielded to his strength, sleepily and gratefully, and he drew theblankets about her shoulders. The touch of his hand was in some waywonderful, --so strong, so comforting. Then, reeling only a little, hegroped his way to the bed she had made upon the floor. 

"Good night, " he called, when he had pulled his blankets up. Guided bya hope that flooded his heart with tremulous anticipations, he held outhis hand in the darkness toward her. 

As if by a miracle, her own hand came stealing into his. No man couldtell by what unity of longing they had acted: but neither seemedsurprised to find the other's, waiting in the darkness. It was simplythe Mystery that all men see and no man understands. 

He held the little hand in his for just a breath, as a man might hold aholy thing that a prophet had blessed. Then he let it go. 

"Good night, Bill, " she told him sleepily. 

In the hours of refreshing slumber that lasted full into the nextmorning there was but one curious circumstance. In the full light ofmorning it seemed to him that he heard the faint prick of a rifle, faraway. The truth was that for all his heavy sleep, some of his guardiansenses were awake to receive impressions, and the sound was a reality. It was curiously woven into the fabric of his dreams. 

There were four shots, one swiftly upon another. Four, --and thefigure four had a puzzling, yet sinister significance to his mind. Hedidn't know what it was: he had a confused sense of some sort of aninner warning, an impression of impending danger and treachery. Who wasit that had held up four fingers somewhere in his experience, and whatmanner of signal had it been? But Bill didn't fully waken. His dreamsran on, confused and troubled. 

XXVII

The same rifle shots that brought bad dreams to Bill had a much morelucid meaning for Joe Robinson and Pete the Breed, the two Indians thatwere occupying Harold's cabin. The wind bore toward them from Harold'snew abode, the rifle was of heavy caliber, and the sound came clear andunmistakable through the stillness. They looked from one to the other. 

"Four shots, " Pete said at last. "Lounsbury's signal. "

Pete stood very still, as if in thought. "Didn't come heap too quick, "he observed. "One day more you and me been gone down to Yuga--aftersupplies. "

"Yes--but we can't go now. " Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfishcharacter of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. Therewas a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face. 

"That means--big doin's, " he pronounced gravely. "We go. "

Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Someof these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmenof the region, --for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of theirweapons. The red race--at least such representatives of it as livedin Clearwater--was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. Itwas noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, andPete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt. Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away. 

There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place, --a springa half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. Thelook on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would, it seemed, be big doings, and very soon. 

A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk. Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his featureswere drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands, however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette. 

For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessonsHarold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear tooeager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference, gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold wasseared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black andbitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a longtime in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame. 

There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatredwas an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Billfrom the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stoodfor--so opposite to Harold in everything--but also for that firstmortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him forrescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, andBill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factorin his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further causefor hatred, till now it stung and burned him like strong drink, likelive hot steam in his brain. In his inner soul he knew that Bill hadendured tests in which he had failed, and he hated him the worse for it. He had sensed Bill's contempt for him, and the absolute fairness withwhich the woodsman had always treated him brought no remorse. Bill hadfound the mine for which he sought, to which, by the degenerate code bywhich he lived, he felt he had an ancestral right. 

Ever since he had gone down into that darkened treasure house he hadknown in his own soul, late or soon, his future course. The gold alonewas worth the crime he planned. And as a crowning touch came the eventsof the day and night just passed. 

He had had no desire for Bill to return to the cabin alive. It wouldhave been a simple way out of his difficulties for the woodsman to falland die in the snow wastes of Clearwater. For him to lie so still andimpotent in the drifts would compensate for many things, and in such acase he would never have opportunity to record the finding of his mine. The only imperfection, in this event, was that it deprived Harold of hispersonal vengeance, and magnanimously he was willing to forgo that. Itwouldn't be his pleasure to see the final agony, the last shudder of theframe, --but yet at least he might see much remnants as would be leftwhen the snow had melted in spring. 

Every event of the day had pointed to a successful trip, from Harold'spoint of view. He had known that Bill couldn't make it through to hisTwenty-three Mile cabin after the Chinook wind had softened the snow. The bitter night that followed would have likely claimed quickly any onethat tried to sleep, without blankets, unsheltered in the snow fields. And when Virginia had gone out to save him and had brought back theblind and reeling man, his first impulse had been to leap upon him, inhis helplessness, and drive his hunting knife through his heart!

It wouldn't, however, had been a wise course to pursue. He didn't wantto lose Virginia. He flattered himself that he had been cunning andself-mastered. He had watched Virginia's tender services to thewoodsman, and once he had seen a luster in her eyes that had seemed toshatter his reason. And he knew that the time had come to strike. 

He felt no remorse. The North had stripped him of all the masks withwhich civilization had disguised him, and he was simply his father'sson. 

This was a land of savage and primitive passions, and he felt noself-amazement that he should be planning a murderous and an inhumancrime. He had learned certain lessons of cruelty from the wilderness;the savage breeds with whom he had mingled had had their influence too. Bill, born and living in a land of beasts, had kept the glory ofmanhood; Harold, coming from a land of men, had fallen to the beasts'own level. And even the savage wolf does not slay the pack-brother thatfrees him from a trap! Besides, his father's wicked blood was promptinghis every step. 

He threw the cigarette away and glanced critically at the rifles of histwo confederates. The breeds waited patiently for him to speak. "Where's Sindy?" he asked at last. 

They began to wonder if he had called them here just to ask about Sindy, and for an instant they were sullenly unresponsive. But the heavy lineson their master's face soon reassured them. "Over Buckshot Dan's--justwhere you said, " Joe replied. 

"Of course Buckshot took her back?" The Indians nodded. "Well, I'mgoing to let him keep her. I've got a white squaw now--and soon I'mgoing out with her--to the Outside. But there's things to do first. Bill has found the mine. "

The others nodded gravely. They expected some such development. 

"And Bill is as blind as a mole--got caught in a cabin full ofgreen-wood smoke. He'll be able to see again in a day or two. So Isent for you right away. "

The breeds nodded again, a trifle less phlegmatically. Perhaps Pete'seyes had begun to gleam, --such a gleam as the ptarmigan sees in theeyes of the little weasel, leaping through the snow. 

"The mine's worth millions--more money than you can dream of. Each ofyou get a sixth--one third divided between you. You'll never get moremoney for one night's work. More than you can spend, if you live ahundred winters. But you agree first to these terms--or you won'tknow where the mine is. "

"Me--I want a fourth, " Joe answered sullenly. 

"All right. Turn around and go home. I don't want you. "

It was a bluff, but it worked. Joe came to terms at once. Treacheroushimself and expecting treachery, Harold wisely decided that he wouldn'tdivulge the location of the mine, however, until all needed work wasdone. 

"As soon as we've finished what I've planned, we'll tear down his claimnotices and put up our own, then go down to the recorder and record theclaim, " Harold went on. "Then it's ours. No one will ever guess. Noone'll make any trouble. "

Joe's mind seemed to leap ahead of the story, and he made a verypertinent question. "The white squaw. Maybe she'll tell?"

Harold glared at him. The man inferred that he couldn't master his ownwoman. "Didn't you hear me say she was _my_ squaw? I'll tend to her. Besides--the way I've got it planned, she won't know--at least shewon't understand. Now listen, you two, and don't make any mistake. I've got to go back to the cabin now--try to be there before they wakeup. They're both tired out from a hard experience yesterday--and, asI told you, Bill's as blind as a gopher. 

"Both of you are to come to the cabin, just about dark. You'll tell meyou have been over Bald Peak way and are hitting back toward the Yugavillage. Bring along a quart of booze--firewater--and maybe twoquarts would be better. We'll have supper, and you'd better bring alongsomething in your pocket for yourselves. It will put the girl in abetter mood. And now--you see what you've got to do?"

Neither of them answered. They could guess--but they didn't conceiveof the real brilliancy of the plan. 

"If you can't, you're dummies. It's just this"--and Harold's facedrew into an unlovely snarl--"sometime in the early evening give Billwhat's coming to him. "

"Do him off----?" Joe asked stolidly. 

"Stamp him out like I stamp this snow!" He paused, and the two breedsleaned toward him, waiting for the next word. They were not phlegmaticnow. They were imbued with Harold's own passion, and their dark, savagefaces told the story. Their features were beginning to draw, even ashis; their eyes were lurid slits above the high cheek bones. 

"Make it look like a fight, " Harold went on. "Insult him--betterstill, get in a quarrel among yourselves. He'll tell you to shut up, and one of you flame up at him. Then strike the life out of him beforehe knows what he's about. He's blind and he can't fight. Then go backto my cabin and hide out. "

"No food in cabin, " Joe objected. "Get some from you?"

For a moment Harold was baffled. This was a singularly unfortunatecircumstance. But he soon saw the way out. "So you've used up thesupplies, eh? Got any booze----?"

"Still two bottles firewater----"

"Good. The trouble is that there's no food at Bill's cabin, either--not enough to last a day. Bring what you have for your supperto-night, or as much of it as you need--and after you're through withBill go back to your cabin and get what you have left----"

"There won't be none left----"

"Are you so low as that? Then listen. Do you know where Bill'sTwenty-three Mile cabin is?"

Pete nodded. Joe made no response. 

"Then you can find it, Pete. I haven't any idea where it is myself. It's only a day's march, and he's got it packed with grub. You hide outthere, and the little food we have left in the cabin'll be enough totake us down there too--the woman and I--we'll follow your snowshoestracks. Then we'll make it through to the Yuga from there. And if wehave to, we can go over to a grizzly carcass I know of and cut off a fewpounds of meat--but we won't have to. We'll join you at theTwenty-three Mile cabin to-morrow night. "

Pete the breed looked doubtful. "Bear over--east?" he asked. 

"Somewhere over there, " Harold replied. 

"Don't guess any bear meat left. Heard coyotes--hundred of'em--over east. Pack of wolves came through too--sang song over there. "

Harold could agree with him. If indeed the wolves and the coyotes hadgathered--starving gray skulkers of the forest--the great skeletonwould have been stripped clean by now. However, it didn't complicatehis own problem. The Indians could get down to the Twenty-three Milecabin with the morsel of food they had left--he and Virginia couldfollow their trail with the fragment of supplies remaining in Bill'scabin. 

"You can go from there to the Yuga and hide out, " Harold went on. "I'llgo down to the recorder's office with the woman. Don't worry about her, I'll tell 'em that you were two Indians from the East Selkirks, give 'ema couple of false names and send 'em on a goose chase. It's simple asday and doesn't need any nerve. And if you've got it through yourheads, I'm going back to the cabin. "

They had it through their heads. The plan, as Harold said, wasexceedingly simple. They digested it slowly, then nodded. But Pete hadone more question--one that was wholly characteristic of his weaselsoul. 

"What do you want us to use?" he asked. "This?" He indicated the thinblade at his thigh. "Maybe use rifle?"

Harold's eyes looked drowsy when he answered. Something like a lust, adesire swept over him; this question of Pete's moved him in dark andevil ways. "Oh, I don't know, " he replied. "It doesn't muchmatter----" He spoke in a strained, thick voice that was vaguelyexciting to the two breeds. For a few seconds he seemed to standlistening, rather than in thought, and he continued his reply as if hewere scarcely aware of his own words. It was as if a voice from thepast was speaking through his lips. The words came with no consciouseffort; rather were they the dread outpourings of an inherent fester inhis soul. His father's blood was in the full ascendancy at last. 

"There's an old pick on the table--Bill had it prospecting. " he said. 

XXVIII

Bill's eyes were considerably better when he wakened--full in thedaylight. The warm wet cloths had taken part of the inflammation out ofthem, and when he strained to open the lids, he was aware of a little, dim gleam of light. He couldn't make out objects, however, and exceptfor a fleeting shadow he could not discern the hand that he swept beforehis face. Several days and perhaps weeks would pass before the fullstrength of his sight returned. 

His greatest hope at present was that he could grope his way about thecabin and build a fire for Virginia. Whether she wished to get up ornot to-day, the growing chill in the room must be removed. He got up, fumbled on the floor for such of his outer garments as Virginia hadremoved, and after a world of difficulty managed to get them on. He wasamazingly refreshed by the night's sleep and Virginia's nursing. Hiseyes throbbed, of course; his muscles were lame and painful, his headached and his arms and legs seemed to be dismembered, yet he knew thatcomplete recovery was only a matter of hours. 

Building the fire, however, was a grievous task. He felt it incumbentupon him to move with utmost caution so that Virginia would not waken. By groping about the walls he encountered the stove. It was pleasantlywarm to his hands, and when he opened the door he found that hot coalswere still glowing in the ashes. Then he fumbled about the floor forsuch fuel as Harold had provided. 

He found a piece at last, and soon a cheery crackle told him that it hadignited. He grinned with delight at the thought that he, almost stoneblind, had been able to build a fire in a room with a sleeping girl andnot waken her. But his joy was a trifle premature. At that instant hetripped over a piece of firewood and his hands crashed against the logs. 

"Oh, blast my clumsiness!" he whispered; then stood still as death tosee what had befallen. Virginia stirred behind her curtain. 

"Is that you, Harold?" she asked. 

She was wide awake, and further deception was unavailing. "No. It'sBill. "

"Well, what are you doing, up? Did Harold--do you mean to say youbuilt the fire yourself?"

"That's me, lady----"

"Then you must have your sight again----" The girl snatched aside thecurtain and peered into his face. 

"No such luck. Coals were still glowing; all I had to do was put in apiece of firewood. But I'm all well otherwise, as far as I can tell. How about you?"

The girl stretched up her arms. "A little stiff--Bill, I've certainlygained recuperative powers since I came up here. But, Heavens, I've hadbad dreams. And now--I want you to tell me just how this blindness ofyours--is going to affect our getting out. "

It was a serious question, one to which Bill had already given muchthought. "I don't see how it can affect us a great deal, " he answeredat last. "I realize you don't know one step of the way down toBradleyburg, and I can't see the way; but Harold knows it perfectly. Ofcourse if we had plenty of food the sensible thing to do would be towait--till I get back my sight. But you know--we haven't scarcelyany food at all. The last of the meat is gone, except one little pieceof jerky. We've got a cup or two of flour and one or two cans. Ofcourse there isn't enough to get down to the settlements on. "

"Then we'll have to use the grizzly--after all?"

"Of course. Thank God we had him to fall back on. But even with him, Idon't think we ought to wait till I get back my sight. We might haveother delays, and perhaps another softening of the crust. It will bepretty annoying--traveling on grizzly flesh--and pretty awkward tohave a blind man in the party, but--I'll be some good, anyway. MaybeI can cut fuel. "

The girl was deeply touched. It was so characteristic of this man thateven in his blindness he wished to make the difficulties of the journeyjust as light as possible for her. 

"I won't let you do a thing, " she told him. "Harold and I can do thework of camp. "

"There won't be much to do, unfortunately; our camping will have to beexceedingly simple. We'll take the sled full of blankets and grizzlymeat and what other little things we need. I don't see why you can'tride on it, too--most of the way; the going is largely downhill andthe crust is perfect. We can skim along. At night we'll have to sleepout--and not get much sleep, either--but by going hard, even onsnowshoes, we can make it through in three days--sleeping out just twonights. Harold and I can build raging fires--he starting them andhelping me with the the fuel cutting. Oh, I know, Virginia, I won't bemuch good on this trip--and those two nights will be pretty terrible. We'll have to take turns in watching the fire. But with blankets aroundour shoulders, acting as reflectors for the heat, we can get some rest. "

"But you are sure Harold knows the way? I couldn't even get as far asthe river, and you are blind----"

"Harold knows the way as well as I do. I can mush all right, by hangingon the gee-pole. It will be comparatively easy going; the brush iscovered with snow. The only thing that remains is to have Harold goover and get a supply of the grizzly meat. Or, better still, sincehe'll have to take the sled, we can pick it up on the way out. It'sfrozen hard and won't take harm, and it's only a half mile out of ourway. "

As if the invocation of his name were a magic summons, Harold opened thedoor and entered. He carried Bill's loud-mouthed rifle in the hollow ofhis arm. 

"You've been hunting?" Virginia cried. She was pleased that thissweetheart of hers should have risen so early in an attempt to securefresh meat for their depleted larder. It was wholly the manly thing todo. 

"Of course. I figured we needed meat. I carried Bill's rifle because Idon't trust the sights of mine. They were a yard off that day I shot atthe caribou. "

"Did you see any game?"

Harold's eyes met hers an narrowed, ever so slightly. But his answerwas apt. "I saw a caribou--about two miles away. There didn't seem achance in the world to hit it, but considering our scarcity of meat, Itook that chance. Of course, I didn't hit within ten feet of him;Bill's gun isn't built for such long ranges. I shot--four times. "

Bill did not reply. He was thinking about those same four shots. Itwas incomprehensible that they should have made such an impression uponhim. 

"And for all that Bill hasn't got his sight back yet, we're going tostart down to-morrow, " Virginia went on in a gay voice. She glancedonce at Bill, but she did not see the world of despair that came intohis face at the delight with which she spoke. "You and I will taketurns pulling the sled; Bill will hang on to the gee-pole. And Billsays you know the way. We're going to dash right through--camp outonly two nights. "

"I know the way all right, " Harold answered. "What about food?"

"It's only a half-mile out of the way to Bill's mine. There we're goingto load the sled with grizzly meat. "

It was in Harold's mind that their journey would be far different--downto the Twenty-three Mile cabin and to the Yuga rather than over GrizzlyRiver. But for certain very good reasons he kept this knowledge tohimself. His lips opened to tell them that the wolves and coyoteshad already devoured the carcass of the bear; but he caught himself intime. It would be somewhat hard to explain how he had learned thatfact, in the first place; and in the second, there was a real danger tohis plot if this revelation were made. Likely they would suggest that, to conserve what little food they had, they start at once. The time hadnot yet come to unfold this knowledge. 

He nodded. The day passed like those preceding, --simple meals, a fewhours of talk around the fire, such fuel cutting as was necessary tokeep the cabin snug and to provide a supply for the night. This wastheir last day in Clearwater, --and Virginia could hardly accept thetruth. 

How untrue had been her gayety! In all the white lies of her past, allthe little pretenses that are as much a part of life in civilization asbuildings and streets, she had never been as false to herself as now. She had never had to act a part more cruel, --that she could feel joyat the prospect of her departure. 

She could deceive herself no longer. The events of the previous day hadopened her eyes--in a small measure at least--and her thoughtsgroped in vain for a single anticipation, a single prospect that couldlighten the overpowering weight of her sadness. And the one hope thatcame to her was that strange sister of despair, --that back in her oldlife, in her own city, full forgetfulness might come to her. 

Wasn't it true that she would say good-by to the bitter cold and thesnow wastes? Was there no joy in this? Yet these same solitudes hadbrought her happiness that, though now to be blasted, had been arevelation and a wonder that no words could name or no triumphs of thefuture could equal. The end of her adventure, --and she felt it mightas well be the end of her life. Three little days of bitter hardship, Bill tramping at her side, --and then a long, dark road leading nowhereexcept to barren old age and death. 

Never again would she know the winter forest, the silence and themystery, and the wolf pack chanting with infinite sadness from the hill. The North Wind, a reality now, would be a forgotten myth: she wouldforget that she had seen the woodland caribou, quivering withirrepressible vigor against the snowfields. The thrill, theexhilaration of battle, the heat of red blood in her veins would bestrangers soon: the whole adventure would seem like some happy, impossible dream. Never to hear a friendly voice wishing her goodmorning, never a returning step on the threshold, the touch of a stronghand in a moment of fear! She was aghast and crushed at the realizationthat this man was going out of her life forever. She would leave him tohis forests, --their shadows hiding him forever from her gaze. 

She found it hard to believe that she could fit into her old niche. Some way, this northern adventure had changed the very fiber of hersoul. She could find no joy at the thought of the old gayeties she hadonce loved, the beauty and the warmth. Was it not true that Haroldwould go out beside her, the lover of her girlhood? His uncle wouldstart him in business; her course with him would be smooth. But herhands were cold and her heart sick at the thought. 

As the hours passed, the realization of her impending departure seemedto grow, like a horror, in her thoughts. She still made her patheticeffort to be gay. It would not do for these men to know the truth, soshe laughed often and her words were joyous. She fought back the tearsthat burned in her eyelids. She could only play the game; there was noway out. 

She could conceive of no circumstances whereby her fate would bealtered. She knew now, as well as she knew the fact of her own life, that she had been trapped and snared and cheated by a sardonic destiny. For the moment she wished she had never fought her way back to the cabinwith Bill after yesterday's adventure, but that side by side in thedrifts, they had yielded to the Shadow and the cold. 

Through the dragging hours of afternoon, Harold seemed restless anduneasy. He smoked impatiently and was nervous and abstracted in thehours of talk. But the afternoon died at last. Once more the shadowslengthened over the snow; the dusk grew; the first, bright stars thrustthrough the gray canopy above them. Virginia went to the work ofcooking supper, --the last supper in this little, unforgettable cabinin the snow. 

Both Bill and Virginia started with amazement at the sound of tappingknuckles on the door. Harold's eyes were gleaming. 

XXIX

Harold saw fit to answer the door himself. He threw it wide open;Virginia's startled glance could just make out two swarthy faces, singularly dark and unprepossessing, in the candlelight. Sheexperienced a swift flood of fear that she couldn't understand: thenforced it away as an absurdity. 

"We--we mushin' over to Yuga--been over Bald Peak way, " Joe saidstumblingly. "Didn't know no one was here. Want a bunk here to-night. "

"You've got your own blankets?"

"Yes. We got blankets. "

"On your way home, eh? Well, I'll have to ask this lady. "

Harold seemed strangely nervous as he turned to Virginia. He wonderedif this courteous reference to her was a mistake; could it be that shewould object to their staying? It would make, at best, an awkwardsituation. However, he knew this girl and he felt sure. He half-closedthe door. 

"A couple of Indians, going home toward the settlement on the Yuga, " heexplained quickly. "They've come from over toward Bald Peak and werecounting on putting up here to-night. That's the woods custom, youknow--to stay at anybody's cabin. They didn't know we were here andwant to stay, anyway. Do you think we can put 'em up?"

"Good Heavens, we can't send them on, on a night like this. It isawkward, though--about food----"

"They've likely got their own food. "

"Of course they can stay. Bill can sleep on the floor in here--youcan take the two of them with you into the little cabin. It will bepretty tight work, but we can't do anything else. Bring them in. "

Harold turned again to the door, and in a moment the Indians strode, blinking, into the candlelight. The brighter light did not reveal themat greater advantage. Virginia shot them a swift glance and wasinstinctively repelled: but at once she ascribed the evil savagery oftheir faces to racial traits. She went back to her work. 

Bill, sitting against the cabin wall, tried to make sense out of aconfused jumble of thoughts and impressions and memories that flooded inone wave to his mind. His few hours of blindness had seeminglysharpened his other senses: and there was a quality of the half-breed'svoice that was distinctly familiar. He had assumed at once that the twobreeds were Joe and Pete whom he had encountered when he first foundHarold. Why, then, had the latter made no sign of recognition? Whyshould he repeat a manifest lie, --that they had been over toward BaldPeak and were traveling toward the Yuga, and that they thought the cabinwas unoccupied? He remembered that he had given these particularIndians definite orders to stay away from the district. Outwardly hewas cool and at ease, his face impassive and grave; in his inner self hewas deeply perturbed and suspicious. 

Of course, there was a possibility that he was mistaken in the voice. He resolved to know the truth. 

"It's Joe and Pete, isn't it?" he asked abruptly in the silence. 

There was no reply at first. Virginia did not glance around in time tosee the lightning signal of warning from Harold to the Indians; yet shehad an inner sense of drama and suspense. 

She had never heard quite this tone in Bill's voice before. It washard, uncompromising, some way menacing. "I say, " he repeated slowly, "are you Pete and Joe, or aren't you?"

"Pete--Joe?" Joe answered at last, in a bewildered tune. Haroldhimself could not have given a better simulation of amazement. "Don'tknow 'em. I'm Wolfpaw Black--he's Jimmy--Jimmy DuBois. "

The names were convincing, --typical breed names, the latter with atouch of French. But Harold's admiration for the resourcefulness of hisconfederate really was not justified. Joe hadn't originated the twonames. He had spoken the first two that had come to his mind, --thenames of a pair of worthy breeds from a distant encampment. 

Except for a little lingering uneasiness, Bill was satisfied. It wouldbe easy to mistake the voice. He had heard it only a few times in hislife. Virginia went on with her supper preparations, and at last thethree of them drew chairs around their crude little table. The twobreeds took their lunch from their packs and munched it, sitting besidethe stove. 

The night had fallen now, impenetrably dark, and the Northern Lightswere flashing like aerial searchlights in the sky. The five of themwere singularly quiet, deep in their own thoughts. Bill heard his watchticking loudly in his pocket. 

All at once Joe grunted in the stillness, and all except Bill whirled tolook at him. He went to his pack and fumbled among the blankets. Then, a greedy light in his eyes, he put two dark bottles upon the table. 

Bill, unseeing, did not understand. His finer senses, however, told himthat the air was suddenly electric, charged with suspense. Virginia wasfrankly alarmed. 

In her past life she had had intimate acquaintance with strong drink. While it was true that she had never partaken of it beyond an occasionalcocktail before dinner, it was common enough in the circle in which shehad moved. She was used to seeing the men of her acquaintance drinkwhisky-and-sodas, and many of her intimate girl friends drank enough toharden their eyes and injure their complexions. She herself had alwaysregarded it tolerantly, thinking that much of the hue and cry that hadbeen raised about it was sheer sentimentality and absurdity. She didn'tknow that evil genii dwelt in the dark waters that could change men intobrutes: such mild exhilaration as she had received from an unusuallypotent cocktail had only seemed harmless and amusing. 

But she was not tolerant now. She was suddenly deeply afraid. Shelooked at Bill, forgetting for the moment that in his blindness he couldnot see what was occurring and that in his helplessness she could notdepend upon him in a crisis. She turned to Harold, hoping that he wouldrefuse this offering at a word. And her fear increased when she saw thecraving on his face. 

Harold had gone a long time without strong drink. The sight of the darkbottles woke his old passion for it in a flash. His blood leaped, astrange and dreadful eagerness transcended him. Virginia was horrifiedat the sudden, insane light in his eyes, the drawing of his features. 

"Have a drink?" Joe invited. 

Bill started then, but he made no response. Harold moved toward thetable. 

"You're a real life-saver, Wolfpaw, " he replied genially. "It's a coldnight, and I don't care if I do. Virginia, pass down the cups. "

Of course there were not enough cups to go around. There were three oftin, however, counting one that Bill made from an empty can. "You'lldrink?" Joe asked Bill. 

The woodsman's face was grave. "Wolfpaw, it's against the law of thisprovince to give or receive liquor from Indians, " he replied gravely. "I won't drink to-night. "

Pete turned with a scowl. His thought had already flashed to the whiteblade at his belt. "You're damn particular----" he began. 

But Joe shook his head, restraining him. The hour to strike had not yetcome. They must enjoy their liquor first and engender fresh couragefrom its fire. He saw fit, however, to glance about the room and locatethe weapon of which Harold had spoken, --the deadly miner's pick thatleaned against the wall back of the stove. 

Curiously, Virginia's thought had flung to the weapons, too. She hadtaken off her pistol when she had been nursing Bill and hadn't put iton since. Quietly, so as not to attract attention, she glanced aboutto locate it. It was hanging on a nail at the opposite end of thetable, --and Joe stood just beside it. She had no desire to waken hissuspicions of her fear. She knew she must put up a bold front, atleast. Nevertheless her fingers longed for the comforting feel of itsbutt. She resolved to watch for a chance to procure it. 

"Have a drink?" Joe asked Virginia. 

She didn't like the tone of his voice. He was speaking with entirefamiliarity, and again she expected interference from Harold. Herfiance, however, was fingering the bottle. She saw Bill straighten, ever so little, and beheld the first signs of rising anger in the set ofhis lips. But she didn't know the full fierceness of his inwardstruggle, --an almost resistless desire to spring at once and smitethose impertinent tones from the breed's lips. But he knew that he musttake care--for Virginia's sake--and avoid a fight as long as it washumanly possible to do so. 

"No, " the girl responded coldly. 

"Then there's enough cups after all, " Harold observed. "I was going totake the pitcher, if either Virginia or this conscientious teetotalercared for a shot. " He chuckled unpleasantly. "I thought I could getmore that way. "

They poured themselves mighty drinks, --staggering portions that morethan half-emptied the first of the quarts. Then they threw back theirheads and drained the cups. 

The liquor was cheap and new, such as reaches the Indian encampmentsafter passing through many hands. It burned like fire in their throats, and almost at once it began to distill its poison into their veins. 

Harold and Pete immediately resumed their chairs; Joe still stood at thetable end. He, too, had seen the little pistol of blue steel hanging onthe nail. At first the three men were sullen and silent, enjoying thefirst warmth of the liquor. Then the barriers of self-restraint beganto break down. 

Harold began to grow talkative, launching forth on an amusing anecdote. But there was no laughter at the end of it. The Indians were nevergiven to mirth in their debauches; both Bill and Virginia were farindeed from a receptive humor. 

"What's the matter with this crowd--can't you see a joke?" Harolddemanded. "Say, Bill, over there--you who wouldn't take a gentleman'sdrink--what you sitting there like an old marmot for on a rock pile?Why don't you join in the festivities?"

For all the rudeness of Harold's speech, Bill answered quietly. "Notfeeling very festive to-night. And if I were you--I'd go easy on toomuch of that. You're out of practice, you know. "

"Yes--thanks to you. At least, before I came here I lived where Icould get a drink when I wanted it, not in a Sunday-school. "

Virginia suddenly leaned forward. "Where did you live before you camehere, Harold?" she asked. 

There was a sudden, unmistakable contempt in her voice. 

XXX

Harold caught the note of scorn in Virginia's voice, and he had aninstant of sobriety. He looked at her with eager eyes. The poison inhis veins had enhanced her beauty to him; his eyes leapt quickly over herslender form. It would pay to be careful, he thought. He didn't wantto lose her now. But in an instant his reckless mood returned. 

"Where I lived? What do you care, as long as I'm here? I suppose Billhas already told you, the dirty----"

"Don't say it, " Virginia cautioned quickly. "I wouldn't answer for theconsequences. "

But for all her brave words, terror swept her. She remembered that Billwas helpless and blind. "Bill has told me nothing. It wouldn't be likehim to tell me things--that might make me unhappy. "

"Sing another little song about him, why don't you?" Harold scorned. "I haven't heard you talk anything else for a month. But what do Icare?" He tried to steady himself, to control his erring tongue. "But, Virginia--that's all right, if he's one of your friends. He's goodenough according to his lights--but you can't expect much from someone who's never been outside these tall woods! No wonder he couldn'tsee a joke, or take a drink with a gentleman. He hasn't the chances, the environment--that's it, environment--that you and I have had. And speaking of drinks----"

He went to the table again and poured his cup half full. Then withunsteady hand he poured an equal portion for the two Indians. They tooktheir cups with burning eyes, and Harold raised his own drink aloft. 

"A little toast--and everybody stand up, " he cried. "We're going todrink to Virginia! To my future wife, gentleman--the lady who'spromised me her hand! Look at her there, you breeds--the mostbeautiful woman that ever came to the North! Drink her down!"

The burning poison poured into their throats. Virginia glanced again ather pistol, but Joe still stood, half-covering it with his arm. Herface was no longer merely anxious. All color had swept from it; hereyes were wide and pleading. But there was no one to give aid to-night. Bill sat, helpless and blind, against the wall. 

She had not dared to resent aloud the bandying of her name, the insultof their searching eyes upon her beauty. It seemed to her that sheheard a half-muttered exclamation from Bill, but his face belied it. And in reality the man's thoughts were as busy as never before. 

He opened his eyes, struggling for vision. But he could not make outthe forms of the men at all, except when they crossed in front of thecandles. The candles themselves were mere points of yellow between hislids. One of the candles was sitting just beside him, on a shelf; theother was on the table. He tried to locate the position of all four ofhis fellow-occupants of the cabin, --Virginia at one end of the table, Joe at the other, Pete opposite him on the other side of the stove, Harold standing in the middle of the room, babbling in his drunkenness. 

But the first exhilaration of the drink was dying now, giving way to amore dangerous mood. Even Harold was less talkative: the tones of hisvoice had harshened. The two Indians, when they spoke at all, weresurly and threatening. 

The moments passed. For a breath the cabin was still. Only too wellBill knew that matters were approaching the explosive stage. A singleword might invoke murderous passions that would turn the cabin intoshambles. The men drank the third time, emptying the first quart andbeginning upon the second. 

"You're a pretty little witch, " Harold addressed Virginia. "You're hardto kiss, but your kisses are worth having. What you think about that, Joe? Aren't I tellin' you the truth?"

Joe! Bill's first impression had been right, after all. His face madeno sign, but he shifted in his chair. For all the ease and almostinertness with which he sat, his muscles were wholly ready for suchcommand as his mind might give them, --to spring instantly to theirfull power for a fight to the death. Virginia heard the name too, andher fears increased. 

"Joe?" she repeated. "You know him, then?"

"Of course I know Joe. He's an old friend. He's one that Bill toldnever to show his face in this part of Clearwater again--but you don'tsee anything happening to him, do you?"

He waited, hoping Bill would make response. But the latter was holdinghard, waiting for the moment of crisis, hoping yet that it might beavoided. There was time enough when Virginia was safe and his sight hadreturned him to answer such speeches as this. 

"You see he hasn't anything to say, " Harold gloated. "I asked you aquestion, Joe--about Virginia. Didn't I tell the truth?"

The girl flinched, then caught herself with a half-sob. She resolved tomake one more appeal. "Oh Harold--please--please be careful whatyou say, " she pleaded. "You're drunk now--but don't forget you were agentleman--once. Don't drink any more. Don't let these Indians drinkany more, either. "

"A gentleman once, eh? So you don't think I'm one any more. But Bill, there--he's one, ain't he? It seems to me you've been getting kind ofbossy around here, lately--and the women of we northern men don'tbehave that way. "

"I'm not your woman, thank God--and I ask you to be careful. "

"And I repeat that warning. " Bill spoke gravely, quietly from hischair. "You're acting like a rotter, Harold, and you know it. Shut upthe bottle and try to hold yourself--and then remember what you'vebeen saying. Remember that I'm still here--and if I'm not able toavenge an insult now, the time is coming when I will. And I've got oneweapon _now_ that I won't hesitate to use. I mean--an answer to aquestion of a while ago. If you want to keep her love, be careful. "

The Indians turned to him, the murder-madness darkening their faces. Pete's hand began to steal toward his hip. He had no ancestralprecedent for the use of a miner's pick for such work as faced him now. And he held high regard for the thin, cruel blade. 

"Do you think I care?" Harold answered. "Tell her if you want to--allabout Sindy and everything else. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? I'veheard all I want to from you too--and I'll say and drink what Iplease. "

Bill had no answer at first. He had thought that this threat mightbring Harold to time; he had supposed that the man valued Virginia'slove as much as he, in a similar position, would have valued it. Haroldturned to the girl. "So you're _not_ my woman, eh?"

"No, no, no! I never will be!" The girl's eyes were blazing, and shehad forgotten her fear in her magnificent wrath. "I suppose--you werea squaw man. These Indians are your own friends. "

Harold smiled cruelly. "Yes, a squaw man. And these are my friends. Don't you suppose I've known--for the last week--you were justfooling me along, all the time fondling Bill? Sindy at least wasfaithful--and her form wouldn't take anything from yours. "

Pete, watching Joe, was somewhat amazed at the curious start the manmade. His searching gaze had leaped over the girl's form; his dark, smoldering eyes suddenly blazed red. There was no other word than red. They were like two coals of fire. 

There ensued a moment of strange and menacing silence. Pete chuckled, already receptive to Joe's thought. Harold turned to stare at him. 

Joe put his pipe to his lips, then fumbled at his pocket. He seemed tosearch in vain. "Will you give me a match, please, lady?" he asked. 

The tone was strange, thick and strained, yet Virginia's heart thrilledwith hope. The request was a welcome interlude in a quarrel that wasalready rapidly approaching the fighting stage. Perhaps if these menstarted to smoke, their blood would cool; she had known of old thattobacco was a wonderful bromide to overstretched nerves. He turnedquickly to the shelf above Bill's head and procured half a dozen matchesfrom the box. 

As her back was turned she heard Pete laugh again, --one evil syllablethat filled her with instinctive horror. Her wide eyes turned to him;he was watching her intently. Then she stepped back to give Joe thematches. 

Instinctively her eyes turned to the wall for a reassuring sight of herpistol. It was gone from its place. 

For an instant she stared in horrified amazement. The matches droppedidly from her hand. A sob caught in her throat, a sob of hopeless andutter terror, but she fought a brave little fight to suppress it. Sheknew she must appear to be brave; at least she must do this much. Shelooked at Joe; his evil, leering face told her only too plainly that hiseager hand had seized and secreted her pistol. Pete's face was drawntoo; Harold only looked bewildered. 

He was her last hope, but in one instant's scrutiny she saw that thishad vanished, too. Some terrible thought had sobered and engrossed him. Now he was eyeing her like a witless thing, his features drawn, his eyesburning. The moment was charged with ineffable suspense. 

"What is it, Virginia?" Bill asked. 

"One of these men--" she answered brokenly--"has taken my pistol. Iwant him to give it back----"

The circle laughed then, --a harsh and sinister sound that filled herwith inexpressible horror. For a moment she stood motionless in thecenter of that leering circle, her eyes wide, her face white asdeath, --a slight figure, trying to hard to stand straight, crushed anddefenseless, only her eyes pleading in last appeal. Instinctively herlips whispered a prayer. 

Joe spoke then, a single sentence in the vernacular for Harold's ears. With one gesture he indicated Harold, himself, and Pete in turn, thenpointed to the girl. His face was hideous with eagerness. 

Harold started at the words, but at first made no answer. He had losther anyway; there was no need of further restraint. The silence, thestress, most of all the burning liquor flung a wild and devastatingflame through his veins, a dreadful madness seized his brain. There wasno saving grace, no impulse of manhood, no memory of virtue to hold himback. 

His degeneracy was complete. He could not go lower. His father'swicked blood pulsed in his veins; the final brutality that the Northbestows upon those it conquers was upon him. He answered with a curse. 

"Why not?" he said. "The slut's thrown me over. When I'm through youcan do what you want. And crack the skull of that mole with the pickand throw him out in the snow. "

The two Indians lurched forward at his words. Bill left his chair in amighty leap. 

XXXI

When Bill sprang forward to intercept the attack upon the girl he camewith amazing accuracy and power. There was nothing of blindness ormisdirection about that leap. It was as if his sight had alreadyreturned to him. The real truth was that by means of his acute ear hehad located the exact position of every actor in the impending drama. 

What was more important, he knew the location of both candles. For allhis almost total blindness, he could discern through his watering eyesthe faint, yellow gleam of each. The one that burned beside him, on thelittle shelf, he brushed off with one sweep of his hand as he leaped. He knocked the second from the table; it fell, flickered, filled theroom an instant with dancing light, and then went out. The utterdarkness dropped down. 

The act had been so swift and unexpected that neither Joe, standingnearest to the girl, or Harold across the room could draw their pistolsand fire. Seemingly in a flash the darkness was upon them. No more wasBill the blind and helpless mole, to strike down with one careless blow. He was face to face with his enemies in his own dark lair. He hadturned the tables; the advantage of vision on which they had presumedhad been in an instant removed. They could see no more than he couldnow. Besides, in the hours since his rescue, he had already learned tofind his way around the cabin. 

And this was no half-darkness--that which descended as the candleswere struck down. It was the infinite, smothering gloom of anunderground cave in which no shadow could live, nor the sharpest outlineremain visible. Harold cursed in the blackness; as if in a continuationof the leap he had made to upset the candles, Bill seized Virginia inhis strong arms. He thrust her to the floor and into the angle betweenher bunk and the wall, the point that he instinctively realized would beeasiest to defend and safest from stray bullets. Then, widening hisarms, almost to the width of the little space between the table and thewall, he lunged forward again. 

Virginia's pistol was in Joe's hand by now, and he shot in Bill'sdirection. Two spurts of yellow fire broke for an instant the uttergloom. But there was no time for a third shot. He was the nearest ofthe three attackers, and Bill's outstretched arms seized him. Thewoodsman's muscles gave a mighty wrench. 

His grasp was about Joe's chest at first, but with a great lurch heslung the man's body out far enough so that he could loop his sinewyarms about the man's knees. Joe was shifted in his arms as workmen aresometimes snatched up by a mighty belt in a machine shop; he seemedsimply to snap in the remorseless grasp. Bill himself had no sensationof his enemy's weight. He had him about the knees by now, Joe's bodythrust out almost straight from centrifugal force, and with a terrificwrench of his mighty shoulders Bill hurled him against the wall. 

It was well for his enemies that none of them were in the road of thathuman missile. They would have taken no further part in the ensuingbattle. Joe's body crushed against the logs with a sound that wasstrange and horrible in the utter darkness; the pistol spun from hishand and rattled down'; then he fell with a crash to the floor. Therewas no further movement from him thereafter. His neck had been brokenlike a match. The odds were but two to one. 

Harold had taken out his own revolver now and was shooting blindly inthe darkness. Ducking low, Bill leaped for him. In that leap there wasnone of the gentle mercy with which he had dealt with him first, so longago in Harold's cabin. But a quick movement by Harold saved him fromthe full force of the leap; in a moment they were grappling in eachother's arms. 

Bill wrenched him back and forth, and in an instant would have crushedthe life out of him if it hadn't been for the interference of Pete. Thelatter breed leaped on his back, and Bill had to neglect Harold aninstant to stretch up his arms and hurl Pete to the floor. Harold stillclung to him, trying to seize his throat, but Bill wrenched him down. He flung his own body down on top of him, then seized him by the throatwith the deadly intention of hammering his head on the floor; but beforehe could accomplish his purpose Pete was upon him again. 

It was the end of the preliminaries. In that second the fight began inearnest. They were both powerful men, the breed and Harold; and Billwas like a wild beast--quick as a cougar, resistless as a grizzly--afighting fury that in the darkness was terrible as death. Mightymuscles, stinging blows, striking fists and grasping arms; the rage andglory of battle was upon him as never before. 

It was the death fight--in the darkness--and that meant it was asavage, nightmare thing that called forth those most deep and terribleinstincts that in the first days of the earth were stored and implantedin the germ plasm. These were no longer men of the twentieth century. They were simply beasts, fighting to the death in a cave. It was afamiliar thing to be warring thus in the darkness: Neither Harold norPete missed the light now. They were carried back to no less furiousbattles, fought in dark caverns under the sea; murder flamed in theirhearts and fire ran riot in their blood. 

They were no longer conscious of time; already it was as if they hadstruggled thus through the long roll of the centuries. It was hard toremember what had been the cause of the fight. It didn't matter now, anyway; the only issue left was the life of their adversary. To kill, to tear their enemies' hearts from their warm breasts and their arteriesfrom their throats, --this was all that any of the three could remembernow. It was true that Bill kept his adversaries away from Virginia'scorner as well as he could, but he did it by instinct rather than byconscious planning. He had not hated Harold in these months past, buthad only regarded him with contempt; but hate came to him fast enough inthose first moments of battle. 

Once, reeling across the cabin, they encountered soft flesh that triedto escape from beneath their feet; at first Bill thought it was Joe, returned to consciousness. But in an instant he knew the truth. "Goback to your corner. Virginia, " he commanded. 

For some reason that he could not guess, she had seen fit to crawl forthfrom her shelter; whether or not she returned to it he couldn't tell. There was no chance to warn her again. His foes were upon him. 

This was not a silent fight, at first. So that they would not attackeach other, Harold and Pete cried out often, to reveal their locationand to signal a combined attack against Bill. In the instants that hewas free from Bill's arms and he knew that his confederate was out ofrange, Harold fired blindly with his pistol. Their bodies crashedagainst the wall, broke the furniture into kindling at their feet; theysnarled their hatred and their curses. 

Bill fought like a giant, a might of battle upon him never known before. He would hurl away one, then whirl to face the other; his fists wouldlash out, his mighty shoulders would wrench. More than once theircombined attack hurled him to the floor, but always he was able toregain his feet. Once he seized Harold's wrist, and twisting it backforced him to drop the pistol. But Pete's interference prevented himfrom breaking his arm. 

Steadily Harold and Pete were learning to work together. They were usedto the darkness now; Pete obeyed the white man's shouts. Two against onewas never a fair fight, and they knew that by concerted action theycould break him down. 

One lucky blow sent Pete spinning to the floor, and Bill's strong armshurled Harold after him. Just for a fraction of an instant he stoodbraced and alone in the center of the cabin. For the instant a silence, deep and appalling past all words, fell over the room. But Harold'svoice quickly shattered it. 

"Up and at him Pete!" he cried, hoarse with fury. They both sprang uponhim again. 

Both were fortunate in securing good holds, and as they came fromopposite sides, Bill found it impossible to hurl them off. Both of hisfoes recognized their great chance; if they could retain their hold onlyfor a moment they could break him and beat him down. Harold also knewthat this was the moment of crisis. All three contestants seemed tosweep to the fray with added fury. Bill was drawing on his reservestrength--the battle could only last a few minutes longer. 

They fought in silence now. They did not waste precious breath onshouts or curses. There were no pistol shots, no warnings; only thesound of troubled breathing against the shock of their bodies as theyreeled against the walls. Bill was fighting with all his might to keephis feet. 

But the tower that was his body fell at last. All three staggered, reeled, then crashed to the floor. Pete had managed to wiggle fromunderneath and, his hold yet unbroken, struggled at Bill's left side;Harold was on top. But for all that he lay prone, Bill was not conqueredyet. With his flailing arms he knocked aside the vicious blows thatHarold aimed at his face; he tore Pete's grasp from his throat. Hefought with a final, incredible might. And now he was breaking theirholds to climb once more upon his feet. 

Then--above the sound of their writhing bodies--Virginia heard Peteexclaim. It was a savage, a murderous sound, and anew degree of terrorswept through her. But she didn't cry out. She had her own plans. 

"Hold him--just one instant!" Pete cried. The breed had rememberedhis knife. It was curious that he hadn't thought of it before. 

He took it rather carefully from his holster. The two men werethreshing on the floor by now, Harold in a desperate effort to keep hisenemy down, and there was plenty of time. Pete's hand fumbled in hispocket. In his cunning and his savagery he realized that the supremeopportunity for victory was at hand; but he must take infinite pains. 

He didn't want to run the risk of slaying his own confederate. His handfound a match; he raised his knife high. The match cracked, then flamedin the darkness. 

But it was not to be that that murderous blow should go home. He hadforgotten Bill's lone ally, --the girl that had seemed so crushed andhelpless a few minutes before. She had not remained in the safe cornerwhere Bill had thrust her, and she had had good reasons. The price thatshe paid was high, but it didn't matter now. She had crawled out tofind her pistol that Joe's hand had let fall, and just before Pete hadlighted his match her hand had encountered it on the floor. 

It seemed to leap in her hand as the match flamed. It described a bluearc; then rested, utterly motionless, for a fraction of an instant. Forthat same little time all her nervous forces rallied to her aid; hereyes were remorseless and true over the sights. 

The pistol shot rang in the silence. The knife dropped from Pete'shand. She had shot with amazing accuracy, straight for the littlehollow in his back that his raised arm had made. He turned with a lookof ghastly surprise. 

Then he went on his face, creeping like a legless thing toward the door. With a mighty effort Bill rolled Harold beneath him. 

The battle was short thereafter. Harold had never been a match forBill, unaided. The latter's hard fists lashed into his face, blow afterblow with grim reports in the silence. Harold's resistance ceased; hisbody quivered and lay still. Remembering Virginia Bill leaped to hisfeet. 

But Harold was not quite unconscious. But one impulse was left, --toescape; and dumbly he crawled to the door. Pete had managed to open it;but he crawled past Pete's body, strangely huddled and still, justbeyond the threshold. Then he paused in the snow for a last, savageexpression of his hate. 

But it was just words. No weapon remained in his hands. "I'll get youyet, you devil!" he screamed, almost incoherently. "I'll lay in waitand kill you--you can't get away! The wolves have got your grizzlymeat--you can't go without food. "

His voice was shrill and terrible in the silence of the winter night. Even in the stress and inward tumult that was the reaction of thebattle, Bill could not help but hear. He didn't doubt that the wordswere true: he realized in an instant what the loss of the grizzlyflesh would mean. But his only wish was that he had killed theman when he had him helpless in his hands. 

He remembered Joe then, and listened for any sound from him. He heardnone, and like a man in a dream he felt his way to the lifeless formbeside the wall. He seized the shoulders of the breed's coat, draggedhim like a sack of straw, and as easily hurled his body through thedoorway into the drifts. Two bodies lay there now. But only thecoyotes, seekers of the dead, had interest in them. 

He turned, then stood swaying slightly, in the doorway. No wind stirredover the desolate wastes without. The cabin was ominously silent. Hecould hear his own troubled breathing; but where there was no stir, nomurmur from the corner where he had left Virginia. A ghastly terror, unknown in the whole stress of the battle, swept over him. 

"Virginia, " he called. "Where are you?"

From the dark, far end of the cabin he heard the answer, --a voice lowand tremulous such as sometimes heard from the lips of a sick child. "Here I am, Bill, " she replied. "I'm hit with a stray shot--and Ibelieve--they've killed me. "

XXXII

Was this their destiny, --utter and hopeless defeat in the moment ofvictory? Was this the way of justice that, after all they had endured, they should yet go down to death? They had fought a mighty fight, theyhad waged a cruel war against cold and hardship, they had known the fullterror and punishment of the snow wastes in their dreadful adventure ofthe past two days; and had it all come to nothing, after all? Was lifeno more than this, --a cruel master that tortured his slaves only togive them death? These thoughts brought their full bitterness in theinstant that Bill groped his way to Virginia's side. 

His hands told him she was lying huddled against the wall, a slight, pathetic figure that broke the heart within the man. "Here I am, " shesaid again, her voice not racked with pain but only soft and tender. Heknelt beside her, then groped for a match. But whether the injury wassmall or great he felt that the issue would be the same. 

But before he struck the match he remembered his foe without; he wouldbe quick to fire through the window if a light showed him his target. Even now he might be crouched in the snow, his rifle in his arms, waiting for just this chance. Bill snatched a blanket from the cot, shielded them with it, and lighted the match behind it. "He can't seethe light through this, " he told her. "If he does--I guess it doesn'tmuch matter. "

He groped for the fallen candle, lighted it, and held it close. "You'll have to look and see yourself, Virginia, " he told her. "Youremember--of course----"

Yes, she remembered his blindness. She looked down at the little stainof red on her left shoulder. "I can't tell, " she told him. "It went inright here--give me your hand. "

She took his warm hand and rested it against the wound. Someway, itcomforted her. "Close to the top of the shoulder, then, " he commented. Then he groped till his sensitive fingers told him he had found theegress of the bullet--on her arm just down from her shoulder. "Butthere's nothing I can do--it's not a wound I can dress. It's cleanernow than anything we've got to clean it with. The only thing is to liestill--so it won't bleed. "

"Do you think I'll die?" she asked him quietly. There was nofear--only sorrow--in her tones. "Tell me frankly, Bill. "

"I don't think the wound is serious in itself--if we could get youdown to a doctor, " he told her. "It isn't bleeding much now, becauseyou are lying still, but it has been bleeding pretty freely. It's justa flesh wound, really. But you see----"

Her mind leaped at once to his thought. "You mean--it's the same, either way?" she questioned. 

"It doesn't make much difference. " The man spoke quietly, just as shemight have expected him to speak in such a moment as this. "Oh, Virginia--we've fought so hard--it's bitter to lose now. You see, don't you--you couldn't walk with that wound--you don't know theway, so I could walk and pull you on the sled--and Harold is gone. Hewon't show us the way or help us now. We haven't any food here--thegrizzly has been eaten by wolves. One of us blind and one of uswounded--you see--what chance we've got against the North. If we hadthe grizzly flesh, we could stay here till my sight returned--and still, perhaps, get you out in time to save you from the injury. If you knewthe way to the settlements, I might haul you on the sled--you guidingme--and take a chance of running into some meat on the way down. Butnone of those things are true. "

"Then what"--the girl spoke breathlessly--"does it mean?"

"It means death--that's all it means. " There was no sentimentality, no tremor in his voice now. He was looking his fate in the face; heknew he could not spare the girl by keeping the truth from her. "Deathas sure as we're here--from hunger and your wound--if Harold or thecold doesn't get us first. We've been cheated, Virginia. We've playedwith a crooked dealer. I don't care on my own account----"

"Then don't care on mine, either. " All at once her hand went up andcaressed his face. "Hold me, Bill, won't you?" she asked. "Hold me inyour arms. "

She asked it simply, like a little child. He shifted his position, thenlifted her so that her breast was against his, his arms around her, hersoft hair against his shoulder. The candle, dropped from his hand, wasextinguished. The cold deepened outside the cabin. The white, icy moonrode in the sky. 

The man's arms tightened around her. He lowered his lips close to hers. There in the shadow of death her breast pressed to his, the locks ofiron that held his heart's secret were shattered, the veil of his templewas rent. "Virginia, " he asked his voice throbbing, "do you want me totell you something--the truest thing in all my life? I thought Icould keep it from you, but I can't. I can't keep it any more----"

Her arm went up and encircled his neck, and she drew his head down tohers. "Yes, Bill, " she told him, "I want you to tell me. I think Iknow what it is. "

"I love you. That's it; it never was and it never can be anythingelse. " The words, long pent-up, poured from his lips in a flood. "Virginia, I love you, love you, love you--my little girl, my little, little girl----"

She drew his head down and down until her own lips halted the flow ofhis words. "And I love you, Bill, " she told him. "No one but you. "

All the sweetness and tenderness of her glorious and newly wakened lovewas in the kiss that she gave him. Yet the man could not believe. Thehuman soul, condemned to darkness, can never believe at first when thelight breaks through. His heart seemed to halt in his breast in thisinstant of infinite suspense. 

"You do?" he whispered at last, in inexpressible wonder. "Did you saythat you loved _me_--you so beautiful, so glorious--Don't tell methat in pity----"

"I love you, Bill, " she told him earnestly, then laughed softly at hisdisbelief. She kissed him again and again, softly as moonlight fallsupon meadows. The man's heart leaped and flooded, but no more wordswould come to his lips. He could only sit with his strong arms everholding her closer to his breast, kissing the lips that responded sotenderly and lingeringly, swept with a rapture undreamed of before. Ever her soft, warm arm held his lips to hers, as if she could not lethim go. 

The seconds, thrilled with a wonder ineffable, passed into minutes. Virginia had no sensation of pain from her wound. The fear of deathoppressed her no more. She knew that she had come to her appointedplace at last, a haven and shelter no less than that to which the whiteship comes in from the tempestuous sea. This was her fate, --happinessand peace at last in her woodsman's arms. 

* * * * *

They were no different from other lovers such as cling and kiss in theglory of a summer moon, in gardens far away. Their vows were the same, the mystery and the wonder no less. The savage realm into which theywere cast could not oppress them now. They forgot the drifts unending, the winter forests stretching interminably from range to range aboutthem, the pitiless cold, ever waiting just without the cabin door. Evenimpending death itself, in the glory of this night, could cast no shadowupon their spirit. 

In the moment of their victory the North had defeated them, but in theinstant of defeat they had found infinite and eternal victory. No blowthat life could deal, no weapon that this North should wield againstthem, could crush them now. They were borne high above the reach ofthese. They had discovered the great Secret, the eternal Talismanagainst which no curse can blast or no disaster break the spirit. 

They had their secret, whispered exultations, like all lovers the lengthand breadth of the world. Virginia told him that in her own heart shehad loved him almost from the first day but how she had not realized it, in all its completeness, until now. Bill told her of the wakening ofhis own love, and how he had confessed it to himself the night they hadplayed "Souvenir" in the complaint of the wind. 

He tried to explain to her his doubts and fears, --how he had looked ather as a being from another world. "I could imagine my loving you, fromthe first, " he told her, "but never you giving your love to me. "

"And who is more worthy of it--of anybody's love--than you?" shereplied, utilizing a sweetheart's way, much more effective than words, to stop his lips. Then she told him of his bravery, his tenderness andsteadfastness; how there was no feeling of descent in giving her love tohim. She told him that in fact his education was as good as hers if notsuperior, that his natural breeding and gentleness were the equal ofthat of any man that moved in her own circle. She could find protectionand shelter in his strong arms, and in these months in the North she hadlearned that this was the most important thing of all. He could providefor her, too, with the wealth of his mine, --a point not to beforgotten. Her standards were true and sensible, she was down to thesimple, primitive basis of things, and she did not forget that provisionfor his wife was man's first responsibility and the first duty of love. 

Only once did Bill leave her, --to cover the crack of the door andbuild up the fire. When he returned, her warm little flood of kisseswas as if he had been absent for weary hours. 

But her thoughts had been busy, even in this moment. All at once shedrew his ear close to her lips. 

"Bill, will you listen to me a minute?" she asked. 

"Listen! I'll listen to every word----"

"Some way--I've taken fresh heart since we--since we found out weloved each other. It seems to me that this love wasn't given to us, only to have us die in a few days--from this awful wound and you fromhunger. We're only three days' journey--and there must be some wayout. "

"God knows I wish you could find one. But I can't see--and you don'tknow the way--and we have no food. "

"But listen--this wound isn't very bad. I know I can't walk--itwill start bleeding if I do--but if I can get any attention at allsoon, I know it won't be serious. Bill, have you found out--you cantrust me, in a pinch?"

Remembering that instant when the match had flared and her pistol hadshot so remorselessly and so true, he didn't hesitate over his answer. "Sweetheart, I'd trust you to the last second. "

"Then trust me now. Listen to every word I say and do what I tell you. I think I know the way--at least a fighting chance--to life andsafety. "

XXXIII

Whispering eagerly, Virginia told Bill the plan that would give themtheir fighting chance. His mind, working clear and true, absorbed everydetail. "It depends first, " she said, "whether or not you can crawlthrough the little window of the cabin. "

Bill remembered his experience in the smoke-filled hut and he kissedher, smiling. "I've got into smaller places than that, in my time, " hetold her. "I can take the little window right out. I put it inmyself. "

They were not so awed by their dilemma that they couldn't have gaywords. "You got into my heart, too, Bill--a great dealer smaller placethan the window, " she whispered. "The next thing--are Harold'ssnowshoes in this room?"

"So it depends on Harold, does it? I believe his snowshoes are here. Harold left rather hurriedly--and I don't think he took them. "

"What everything depends on--is getting out. Getting out quickly. The longer we stay here, without food, the more certain death is. Iknow I can't walk and you can't see. We have no food--except enoughfor one meal, perhaps--but we've got to take a chance on that. Bill, Harold is waiting, right now--probably in the little cabin where hesleeps--for a chance to get those shoes. He's helpless without them. When he gets them, he can go to the Yuga--enlist more of his breedfriends--and wait in ambush for us, just as he said. He's hopingwe've forgotten about them. I am sure he didn't take the shoes. Theywere behind the stove last night. "

To make sure, Bill groped his way across the cabin and found not onlyHarold's shoes, but his own and Virginia's, bringing them all back toher side. 

"What's now, Little Corporal?" he asked. 

"As soon as it gets light enough for him to see, I want you to go outthe cabin door. Turn at once into the brush at your right, so he can'tshoot you with the rifle. Then come around to the side of the cabin andre-enter through the window. You can feel your way, and I can guide youby my voice, but you mustn't go more than a few feet or you'll getbewildered. The moment he thinks you are gone, he'll come--not onlyto get his snowshoes but to gloat over me. I know him now! I can'tunderstand why I didn't know him before. And then--we've got to takehim by surprise. "

"And then----?"

Quickly, with few words, she told him the rest of her plot. It waswholly simple, and at least it held a fighting chance. He was not blindto the deadly three-day battle that they would have to wage againststarvation and cold, in case this immediate part of their plot was asuccess. But the slightest chance when death was the only alternativewas worth the trial. 

Very carefully and softly Bill went to work to loosen the window so thathe could take it out. It was secured by nails, but with such tools ashe had in the cabin, he soon had it free. Then he lifted out thewindow, putting it back loosely so that he could remove it in a second'stime. There was no wisdom in leaving it open until morning. The bittercold without was waiting for just that chance. 

He secured certain thongs of rawhide--left over from the moose skinthat he had used for snowshoe webs--and put them in his coat pocket. Then he made a little bed for the girl, on the floor and against thewall, exactly in front and opposite the doorway. It was noticeable, too, that he restored her pistol to her hand. 

"I don't think you'll need it, " he told her, "but I want you to have itanyway--in case of an emergency. "

There was nothing to do thereafter but to build up the fire and wait fordawn. 

In reality, Virginia had guessed the situation just right. In theadjoining cabin, scarcely one hundred yards away, Harold waited andwatched his chance to recover his snowshoes. He was wise enough to careto wait for daylight. He wanted no further meeting with Bill in thedarkness. But in the light he would have every advantage; he could seeto shoot and his blind foe could not return his fire. 

After all, he had only to be patient. Vengeance would be swift andsure. When the morning broke he would come into his own again, withnever a chance for failure. One little glance along his rifle sights, one quarter-ounce of pressure on the trigger, --and then he couldjourney down to the Yuga and his squaw in happiness and safety. Itwould be a hard march, but once there he could get supplies and returnto jump Bill's claim. Everything would turn out right for him afterall. 

The fact that his confederates were slain mattered not one way oranother. Pete had gone out with a bullet through his lungs; Virginiahad dealt him that. Joe's neck had been broken when Bill had hurled himagainst the cabin wall. But in a way, these things were an advantage. There was sufficient food in the cabin for one meal for the three ofthem, and that meant it was three meals for one. A day's rations, carefully spent, would carry him the two day's march to the Yuga. Besides, the breeds would not be present to claim their third of themine. He wondered why he hadn't handled the whole matter himself, inthe first place. He would have been fully capable, he thought. As toVirginia, --he hadn't decided about Virginia yet. He didn't know ofher wound, or his security would have seemed all the more complete. Virginia might yet listen to reason and accompany him down to the Yuga. He had only to wait till dawn. 

But Harold's thought was not entirely clear. The fury in his brain andthe madness in his blood distorted it, --just a little. Otherwise hemight have conceived of some error in his plans. He would have been alittle more careful, a little less sure. His insane and devastatinglonging for vengeance, as well as his late drunkenness, cost him thefine but essential edge of his self-mastery. 

Slowly the stars faded, the first ghostly light came stealing from theeast. The blood began to leap once more in his veins. Already it wasalmost light enough to shoot. Then his straining eyes saw Bill emergefrom the cabin. 

Every nerve in his body seemed to jerk and thrill with renewedexcitement. Yet there wasn't a chance to shoot. The light was dim; theshadows of the spruce trees hid the woodsman's figure swiftly. He wasgone; the cabin was left unoccupied except for Virginia. And for allthat she had shot so straight to save Bill's life, there was nothing tofear from her. Her fury was passed by now; he thought he knew her wellenough to know that she wouldn't shoot him in cold blood. And perhapssome of her love for him yet lingered. 

He did not try to guess the mission on which Bill had gone. If histhought had been more clear and his fury less, he would have paused andwondered about it; perhaps he would have been somewhat suspicious. Billwas blind; except to procure fuel there was no conceivable reason for anexcursion into the snow. But Harold only shivered with hatred and rage, drunk with the realization that his chance had come. 

He would go quickly to the cabin, procure his snowshoes, and be ready tomeet Bill with loaded rifle when he returned. There was no chance forfailure. He plunged and fought his way, floundering in the deep snow, toward Bill's cabin. 

He found to his great delight that the door was open, --nothing to dobut walk through. At first he was a little amazed at the sight ofVirginia lying so still against the opposite wall; it occurred to himfor the first time that perhaps she had been wounded in the fight. Ifso, it made his work all the safer. Yet she opened her eyes and gazedat him as he neared the threshold. He could see her but dimly; mostlythe cabin was still dusky with shadows. 

"I'm coming for my snowshoes, Virginia, " he told her. "Then I'm goingto go away. " He tried to draw his battered, bloody lips into a smile. 

"Come in and get them, " she replied. Her voice was low and lifeless. Harold stepped through the door. And then she uttered a curious cry. 

"Now!" she called sharply. There was no time for Harold to dart back, even to be alarmed. A mighty force descended upon his body. 

Even in that first instant Harold knew only too well what had occurred. Instead of lying in wait himself he had been lured into ambush. Billhad re-entered the window and had stood waiting in the shadow, justbeside the open door. Virginia had given him the signal when to leapdown. 

He leaped with crushing force, --as the grizzly leaps, or the cougarpounces from a tree. There was nothing of human limitations about thatattack. Harold tried to struggle, but his attempt was futile as that ofa sparrow in the jaws of the little ermine. Only too well he knew thestrength of these pitiless arms that clasped him now. He had learned itthe night before, and his lust for vengeance gave way to ghastly andblood-curdling terror. What would these two avengers do to him; whatjustice would they wreak on him, now that they had him in their power?The resistless shoulders hurled him to the floor. Virginia left her bedand came creeping to be of such aid as was needed. 

She wholly disregarded her own injury. Her own countrymen, in warsagone, had fought all day with wounds much worse. She crept with herpistol ready in her hands. 

Bill's strong fingers were at Harold's throat by now; the man'sresistance was swiftly crushed out of him. With his knee Bill held downone of Harold's arms; with his free arm he struck blow after blow intohis face. Then as unconsciousness descended upon him, Harold felt hiswrists being drawn back and tied. 

He struggled for consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw their sardonicfaces. The worst terror of his life descended upon him. 

"My god, what are you going to do to me?" he asked. 

"Why, Harold, you are going to be our little truck horse, " Virginiareplied gayly, as she handed Bill more thongs. "You are going to pullthe sled and show the way down into Bradleyburg. "

XXXIV

When the dawn came full and bright over Clearwater, Bill and his partywere ready to start. When Harold had been thoroughly cowed and his fullinstructions were given him, the thongs had been put about his anklesand removed from his wrists, and he was permitted to do the packing. That procedure was exceedingly simple; all available blankets were piledon the sled and made into a bed for Virginia, and the ax, candles, andsuch cooking utensils as were needed were packed in front. And thenthey had a short but decisive interview with Harold. 

"I won't go--I'll die first, " he cried to Virginia. "Besides, youdon't dare to use force on me; you don't know the way and Bill can'tsee. You know if you kill me you'll die yourself. "

"Fair enough, " Virginia replied sweetly. "But take this little word ofadvice. Bill and I were all reconciled to dying when we thought ofyou--and we don't mind it now if we're sure you are going along. Don'tget any false ideas about that point, Harold. We're not going to spareyou on any chance of saving ourselves. We are going to give you alittle more foot room, and fix up your hands a little, and then you aregoing to pull the sled. When we camp at night you're going to cut thewood. Don't think for a minute I'm going to be afraid to shoot if youdisobey one order--if you take one step against us. You are at ourmercy; we are not at yours. And Bill will tell you I can shootstraight. Perhaps you learned that fact last night. "

Yes, Harold had learned. He had learned it very well. 

"If I think you're trying to cheat us--to lead us out of the waytoward your breed friends--you're going to have a chance to learn itbetter, " she went on, never a quaver in her voice. "I won't wait tomake sure--I'll shoot you through the neck as easy and as quick as I'dshoot a grouse. I haven't forgotten what you did last night; I'm justeager for a chance to pay you for it. " Her voice grew more sober. "This is a warning--the only one and the last one that you will get. I'm going to watch you every minute and tie you up at night. And thefact that we can't go on without you won't have a jot of influence ifyou take a step against us. We may die ourselves, but you know thatyou'll also die. "

This was not the sheltered, incapable girl of society that addressed himnow. These words were those of the woodswoman; the eyes that gazed intohis were unwavering and hard. He knew that she was speaking true. Thecourage for retaliation oozed out of him as mud oozes into a river. 

They lengthened the thong that tied his ankles together, giving him roomfor a full walking step but not enough to leap or run. They put on hishands a pair of awkward mittens that had been stiffened by mud andwater, and lashed them to his wrists. Then they slipped the thong ofthe sled across his shoulders and under his arms like loops of a kyack. They were ready to go. 

The forest was laden with the early-morning silence; the trees stooddraped in snow. It was cold, too, --the frost gathered quickly on themufflers that they wore about their lips. All too well they knew whatlay before them. Without food to keep their bodies nourished and warm, they could scarcely hope to make the town; their one chance was thatsomewhere on the trail they would encounter game. How long a chance itwas, this late in winter, they knew all too surely. But for all thisknowledge Bill and Virginia were cheerful. 

"I haven't much hope, " Bill told her when she was tucked into the bed onthe sled. "But it's the only chance we have. "

She smiled at him. "At least, Bill, we'll have done everything wecould. Good-by, little cabin--where I found happiness. Sometimeperhaps we'll come back to you!"

The man bent and kissed her, and she gave the word for Harold to start. 

Slowly they headed toward the river. The crust was perfect; Haroldcould hardly feel the weight of the sled. Bill mushed behind, guided bythe gee-pole. The white-draped trees they had known so well spoke noword of farewell. 

Could they win through? Were they to know the hardship of the journey, starvation and bitter cold, only to find death in some still, enchantedglen of the forest that stretched in front? Was fate still jesting withthem, whispering hope only to shatter them with defeat? Were they toknow hunger and exhaustion, pain and travail, until finally their bodiesdropped down and yielded to the cold? They could not keep up longwithout the inner fuel of food. 

Their chance of finding game seemed hopelessly small, even at first. Before they reached the frozen river it seemed beyond the possibilitiesof miracle. Even the tracks of the little people--such ferocioushunters as marten and ermine--were gone from the snow. There were notracks of caribou or moose; the grouse had seemingly buried in thedrifts. The only creatures that had not hidden away from the wintercold were the wolves and the coyotes, furtive people that could not becoaxed into the range of Virginia's pistol. For all her outwardoptimism her heart grew heavy with despair. 

They crossed the river, coming out where the old moose trail had gonedown the ford. Here they had seen the last of Kenly Lounsbury andVosper, almost forgotten now. Virginia told Harold to stop an instantas she recalled those vents of months before. 

"So much has happened since then, " she said, "If only they hadleft----"

Her words died away in the middle of the sentence, and for a moment shesat gazing with wide and startled eyes. For all that sight was justbeginning to return to him, Bill was strangely and unexplainablystartled, too, probably sensing the suspense indicated in the girl'stones. Harold turned, staring. 

He could not see what Virginia saw, at first. She pointed, unable tospeak. In a little thicket of young spruce there was a curiously shapedheap of snow, capped by a done of snow that extended under thesheltering branches of a young tree. Instantly Harold understood. Somelong bundle had been left there before the snow came; when it had beenthrown down its end had caught in the branches of a young tree whereonly a small amount of snow could reach it. "See what it is, " Virginiaordered. 

The man drew the sled nearer and with desperate energy began to knockaway the snow. His first discovery was a linen tent, --one that wouldhave been familiar indeed to Bill. But digging further he found a heavybundle, tied with a rope and rattling curiously in his arms. 

At Virginia's directions he laid it in the snow and pulled the sled upwhere she could open it. Bill stood beside her, not daring to guess thetruth. 

"Oh, my darling!" she cried at last, drawing his head down to hers. Shecouldn't say more. She could only laugh and sob, alternately, as mightone whose dearest prayers had been granted. 

The bundle was full of food, --dried meat and canned goods and a smallsack of flour. They were some of the supplies that to save himself thework of caring for, the faithless Vosper had discarded when, with Kenly, he had turned back from the river. 

* * * * *

At the end of three bitter days, Bill Bronson stood once more on thehill that looked down upon the old mining camp. The twilight wasgrowing in the glen beneath; already it had cast shadows in Virginia'seyes. She sat beside him on the sled. 

It had been cruel hardship, the three days' journey, but they had madeit without mishap. At night they had built great fires at the mouth oftheir tent, but they had not escaped the curse of the cold. The dayshad been arduous and long. But they had conquered; even now they wereemerging from the dark fringe of the spruce. 

Virginia was on the rapid road toward recovery from her wound. It hadnot been severe; while she was lying still on the sled it had had everychance to heal. A few stitches by the doctor in Bradleyburg, a thoroughcleansing and bandaging, and a few more days in bed would avert allserious consequences. Bill's sight had grown steadily better as thedays had passed; already the Spirits of Mercy had permitted him, atclose range, to behold Virginia's face. 

A half-mile back, just before they approached the first fringe of thespruce forest, they had met a trapper just starting out on his line; andhe had gladly consented to take Harold the rest of the way into town. It is one of the duties of citizenship in the North, where thepopulation is so scant and the officers so few, to take an active partin law enforcement, --and this trapper was glad of the opportunity toassist them in the care of the prisoner. He was to be lodged in prisonat the little mining camp to face a charge of attempted murder, --acrime that in the northwest provinces is never regarded lightly. 

"And you weren't drowned!" the trapper marveled, when he had got hisbreath. "We've been mournin' you for dead--for months. "

"Drowned--not a bit of it, " Virginia answered gayly. "And don't mournany more. "

The trapper said he wouldn't and hastened off with his prisoner, delighted indeed to be the first to pass the good word of theirdeliverance through Bradleyburg. Bill was well known and liked throughall that portion of the North, and his supposed death had been a realblow to the townspeople. 

Bill felt wholly able to follow the broad snowshoe track the half-milefarther into town. The footsteps of the men had grown faint and diedaway, --and Virginia and he were left together on the hill. 

They had nothing to say at first. They simply watched the slowencroachment of the twilight. Lights sprang up one and one over thetown. Bill bent, and the girl raised her lips to his. 

"We might as well go on, " he said. "You're cold--and tired. "

"Yes. I can't believe--I'm saying good-by to the spruce. "

"And you're not, Virginia!" The man's voice was vibrant and joyful. "We'll have to come back often, to oversee the running of themine--half of every year at least--and we can stay at the old cabinjust the same. The woods are beautiful in summer. "

"They're beautiful now. "

And they were. She told the truth. For all their savagery, theirfearful strength, their beauty could not be denied. 

They saw the church spire, tall and ghostly in the twilight, and Bill'sstrong arms pressed the girl close. She understood and smiled happily. "Of course, Bill, " she told him. "There is no need to wait. In a fewdays I'll be strong enough to stand beside you--at the altar. "

So it was decided. They would be married in the quaint, old town ofBradleyburg, in the shadow of the spruce. 

They would return, these two. The North had claimed them--but had notmastered them--and they would come back to see again the cariboufeeding in the forest, the whirling snows, and the spruce trees liftingtheir tall heads to the winter stars. They would know the oldexultation, the joy of conflict; but no blustering storm or wildernessvoice could appall them now. In the security and harbor of their love, no wind was keen enough to chill them, no darkness appall their spirits. 

The Northern Lights were beginning their mysterious display in thetwilight sky. Far away a coyote howled disconsolately, --a cry thatwas the voice of the North itself. And the two kissed once more andpushed on down to Bradleyburg.