THE LOVE OF POLEON DORET
To the girl crouching at the stern of Runnion's boat it seemed as if
this day and night would never end. It seemed as if the procession of
natural events must have ceased, that there was no longer any time, for
she had been suffering steadily for hours and hours without end, and
began to wonder dreamily whether she had not skipped a day in her
reckoning between the time when she first heard of the strike on her
claim and this present moment. It occurred to her that she was a rich
girl now in her own right, and she smiled her crooked smile, as she
reflected that the thing she had longed for without hope of attainment
had come with confusing swiftness, and had left her unhappier than
ever....
Would the day never come? She pulled the rugs up closer about her as
the morning chill made her shiver. She found herself keeping mechanical
count with the sound of the sweeps--they must be making good speed, she
thought, and the camp must be miles behind now. Had it been earlier in
the season, when the river ran full of drift, they never could have
gone thus in the dark, but the water was low and the chances of
collision so remote as to render blind travel safe. Even yet she could
not distinguish her oarsman, except as a black bulk, for it had been a
lowering night and the approaching dawn failed to break through the
blanket of cloud that hung above the great valley. He was a good
boatman, however, as she gathered from the tireless regularity of his
strokes. He was a silent man, too, and she was grateful for that. She
snuggled down into her blanket and tried to sleep, but she only dozed
for a minute, it seemed, to find her eyes fly wide open again. So,
restless and tired of her lonely vigil, she gave a premonitory cough,
and said to her companion:
"You must be tired rowing so steadily?"
"Oh, I don't mind it," he replied.
At the sound of his voice she sat bolt upright. It couldn't be--if this
were Runnion he would have spoken before! She ventured again,
tremulously:
"Have you any idea what time it is?"
"About three o'clock. I fancy."
"Who are you?" The question came like a shot.
"Don't you know?"
"What are YOU doing here, Mr. Runnion?"
"I'm rowing," he answered, carelessly.
"Why didn't you speak?" A vague feeling of uneasiness came over her, a
suspicion that all was not right, so she waited for him to explain, and
when he did not, she repeated her question. "What made you keep still
so long? You knew who _I_ was?"
"Well, it's the first time I ever took you on a midnight row, and I
wanted to enjoy it."
The mockery in his voice quickened her apprehension. Of a sudden the
fear of being misjudged impelled her to end this flight that had become
so distasteful in a moment, preferring to face the people at the post
rather than continue her journey with this man.
"I've changed my mind, Mr. Runnion," she said. "I don't want to go down
to the Mission. I want you to take me back."
"Can't do it," he said; "the current is too swift."
"Then set me ashore and I'll walk back. It can't be far to town."
"Twenty-five miles. We've been out about three hours." He kept on
rowing steadily, and although the distance they had gone frightened
her, she summoned her courage to say:
"We can make that easily enough. Come, run in to the bank."
He ceased rowing and let the boat drift with dragging sweeps, filled
his pipe and lighted it, then took up his oars again and resumed his
labors.
"Please do as I ask you, Mr. Runnion. I've decided I don't want to go
any farther." He laughed, and the sound aroused her. "Put me ashore
this minute!" she cried, indignantly. "What do you mean?"
"You've got a fierce temper, haven't you?"
"Will you do it or not?"
When he made no answer, except to continue the maddening monotony of
his movements, she was seized with a rash resolve to wrench the oars
out of his hands, and made a quick motion towards him, at which he
shouted:
"Sit down! Do you want to upset us?"
The unstable craft lurched and dipped dangerously, and, realizing the
futility of her mad impulse, she sank back on her knees.
"Put me ashore!"
"No," he said, "not till I'm ready. Now, keep your seat or we'll both
drown; this ain't a ferry-boat." After a few strokes, he added, "We'll
never get along together unless you tame that temper."
"We're not going to get along together, Mr. Runnion--only as far as the
Mission. I dare say you can tolerate me until then, can you not?" She
said this bitingly.
"Stark told me to board the first boat for St. Michael's," he said,
disregarding her sarcasm, "but I've made a few plans of my own the last
hour or so."
"St. Michael's! Mr. Stark told you--why, that's impossible! You
misunderstood him. He told you to row me to the Mission. I'm going to
Father Barnum's house."
"No, you're not, and I didn't misunderstand him. He wants to get you
outside, all right, but I reckon you'd rather go as Mrs. Runnion than
as the sweetheart of Ben Stark."
"Are you crazy?" the girl cried. "Mr. Stark kindly offered to help me
reach the Father at his Mission. I'm nothing to him, and I'm certainly
not going to be anything to you. If I'd known you were going to row the
boat, I should have stayed at home, because I detest you."
"You'll get over that."
"I'm not in the humor for jokes."
He rested again on his oars, and said, with deliberation:
"Stark 'kindly offered' did he? Well, whenever Ben Stark 'kindly'
offers anything, I'm in on the play. He's had his eye on you for the
last three months, and he wants you, but he slipped a cog when he gave
me the oars. You needn't be afraid, though, I'm going to do the square
thing by you. We'll stop in at the Mission and be married, and then
we'll see whether we want to go to St. Michael's or not, though
personally I'm for going back to Flambeau."
During the hours while he had waited for Necia to discover his
identity, the man's mind had not been idle; he had determined to take
what fortune tossed into his lap. Had she been the unknown, unnoticed
half-breed of a month or two before, he would not have wasted thought
upon priests or vows, but now that a strange fate had worked a change
in her before the world, he accepted it.
The girl's beauty, her indifference, the mistaken attitude of Stark
urged him, and, strongest of all, he was drawn by his cupidity, for she
would be very rich, so the knowing ones said. Doubtless that was why
Stark wanted her, and, being a man who acknowledged no fidelity to his
kind or his Creator, Runnion determined to outwit his principal, Doret,
Burrell, and all the rest. It was a chance to win much at the risk of
nothing, and he was too good a gambler to let it pass.
With his brusque declaration Necia realized her position--that she was
a weak, lonely girl, just come into womanhood, so cursed by good looks
that men wanted her, so stained by birth that they would not take her
honestly; realized that she was alone with a dissolute creature and
beyond help, and for the first time in her life she felt the meaning of
fear.
She saw what a frail and helpless thing she was; nothing about her was
great save her soul, and that was immeasurably vexed and worried. She
had just lived through a grief that had made her generous, and now she
gained her first knowledge of the man-animal's gross selfishness.
"You are absolutely daft," she said. "You can't force me to marry you."
"I ain't going to force you; you'll do it willingly."
"I'll die first. I'll call the first man we see--I'll tell Father
Barnum, and he'll have you run out of the country--it would only take a
word from me."
"If you haven't changed your mind when we get to his place, I'll run
through without stopping; but there isn't another priest between there
and St. Mike's, and by the time we get to the mouth of the river, I
guess you'll say yes to most anything. However, I'd rather marry you at
Holy Cross if you'll consent, and I'm pretty sure you will--when you
think it over."
"We won't discuss it."
"You don't understand yet," he continued, slowly. "What will people say
when they know you ran away with me."
"I'll tell them the truth."
"Huh! I'm too well known. No man on the river would ever have you after
that."
"You--you--" Her voice was a-quiver with indignation and loathing, but
her lips could not frame an epithet fit for him. He continued rowing
for some time, then said:
"Will you marry me?"
"No! If this thing is ever known, Poleon will kill you--or father."
For a third time he rested on his oars.
"Now that we've come to threats, let me talk. I offered to marry you
and do the square thing, but if you don't want to, I'll pass up the
formality and take you for my squaw, the same as your father took
Alluna. I guess you're no better than your mother, so your old man
can't say much under the circumstances, and if he don't object, Poleon
can't. Just remember, you're alone with me in the heart of a
wilderness, and you've got to make a choice quick, because I'm going
ashore and make some breakfast as soon as it's light enough to choose a
landing-place. If you agree to come quietly and go through with this
thing like a sensible girl, I'll do what's right, but if you
don't--then I'll do what's wrong, and maybe you won't be so damned
anxious to tell your friends about this trip, or spread your story up
and down the river. Make up your mind before I land."
The water gurgled at the bow again, and the row-locks squeaked. Another
hour and then another passed in silence before the girl noted that she
no longer seemed to float through abysmal darkness, but that the river
showed in muddy grayness just over the gunwale. She saw Runnion more
clearly, too, and made out his hateful outlines, though for all else
she beheld they might have been miles out upon a placid sea, and so
imperceptible was the laggard day's approach that she could not measure
the growing light. It was a desolate dawn, and showed no glorious
gleams of color. There was no rose-pink glow, no merging of a thousand
tints, no final burst of gleaming gold; the night merely faded away,
changing to a sickly pallor that grew to ashen gray, and then dissolved
the low-hung, distorted shadows a quarter of a mile inland on either
hand into a forbidding row of unbroken forest backed by plain, morass,
and distant hills untipped by slanting rays. Overhead a bleak ruin of
clouds drifted; underneath the river ran, a bilious yellow. The whole
country so far as the eye could range was unmarred by the hand of man,
untracked save by the feet of the crafty forest people.
She saw Runnion gazing over his shoulder in search of a shelving beach
or bar, his profile showing more debased and mean than she had ever
noticed it before. They rounded a bend where the left bank crumbled
before the untiring teeth of the river, forming a bristling
chevaux-de-frise of leaning, fallen firs awash in the current. The
short side of the curve, the one nearest them, protected a gravel bar
that made down-stream to a dagger-like point, and towards this Runnion
propelled the skiff. The girl's heart sank and she felt her limbs grow
cold.
The mind of Poleon Doret worked in straight lines. Moreover, his memory
was good. Stark's statement, which so upset Gale and the Lieutenant,
had a somewhat different effect upon the Frenchman, for certain facts
had been impressed upon his subconsciousness which did not entirely
gibe with the gambler's remarks, and yet they were too dimly engraved
to afford foundation for a definite theory. What he did know was this,
that he doubted. Why? Because certain scraps of a disjointed
conversation recurred to him, a few words which he had overheard in
Stark's saloon, something about a Peterborough canoe and a woman. He
knew every skiff that lay along the waterfront, and of a sudden he
decided to see if this one was where it had been at dusk; for there
were but two modes of egress from Flambeau, and there was but one canoe
of this type. If Necia had gone up-river on the freighter, pursuit was
hopeless, for no boatman could make headway against the current; but
if, on the other hand, that cedar craft was gone--He ran out of Stark's
house and down to the river-bank, then leaped to the shingle beneath.
It was just one chance, and if he was wrong, no matter; the others
would leave on the next up-river steamer; whereas, if his suspicion
proved a certainty, if Stark had lied to throw them off the track, and
Runnion had taken her down-stream--well, Poleon wished no one to hinder
him, for he would travel light.
The boat WAS gone! He searched the line backward, but it was not there,
and his excitement grew now, likewise his haste. Still on the run, he
stumbled up to the trading-post and around to the rear, where, bottom
up, lay his own craft, the one he guarded jealously, a birch canoe,
frail and treacherous for any but a man schooled in the ways of swift
water and Indian tricks. He was very glad now that he had not told the
others of his suspicions; they might have claimed the right to go, and
of that he would not be cheated. He swung the shell over his shoulders,
then hurried to the bank and down the steep trail like some great,
misshapen turtle. He laid it carefully in the whispering current, then
stripped himself with feverish haste, for the driving call of a hot
pursuit was on him, and although it was the cold, raw hours of late
night, he whipped off his garments until he was bare to the middle. He
seized his paddle, stepped in, then knelt amidships and pushed away.
The birch-bark answered him like a living thing, leaping and dancing
beneath the strokes which sprung the spruce blade and boiled the water
to a foam, while rippling, rising ridges stood out upon his back and
arms as they rose and fell, stretched and bent and straightened.
A half-luminous, opaque glow was over the waters, but the banks quickly
dropped away, until there was nothing to guide him but the suck of the
current and the sight of the dim-set stars. His haste now became
something crying that lashed him fiercely, for he seemed to be standing
still, and so began to mutter at the crawling stream and to complain of
his thews, which did not drive him fast enough, only the sound he made
was more like the whine of a hound in leash or a wolf that runs with
hot nostrils close to the earth.
Runnion drove his Peterborough towards the shore with powerful strokes,
and ran its nose up on the gravel, rose, stretched himself, and dragged
it farther out, then looked down at Necia.
"Well, what is it, yes or no? Do you want me for a husband or for a
master?" She cowered in the stern, a pale, fearful creature, finally
murmuring:
"You--you must give me time."
"Not another hour. Here's where you declare yourself; and remember, I
don't care which you choose, only you'd better be sensible."
She cast her despairing eyes up and down the river, then at the
wilderness on either shore; but it was as silent and unpeopled as if it
had been created that morning. She must have time; she would temporize,
pretending to yield, and then betray him to the first comer; a promise
exacted under duress would not be binding.
"I'll go quietly," she said, in a faint voice.
"I knew you'd see that I'm acting square. Come! Get the cramp out of
yourself while I make a pot of coffee." He held out his hand to assist
her, and she accepted it, but stumbled as she rose, for she had been
crouched in one position for several hours, and her limbs were stiff.
He caught her and swung her ashore; then, instead of putting her feet
to the ground, he pressed her to himself roughly and kissed her. She
gave a stifled cry and fought him off, but he laughed and held her the
closer.
"Ain't I good for one kiss? Say, this is the deuce of an engagement.
Come, now--"
"No, no, no!" she gasped, writhing like a wild thing; but he crushed
his lips to hers again and then let her go, whereupon she drew away
from him panting, dishevelled, her eyes wide and filled with horror.
She scrubbed her lips with the back of her hand, as if to erase his
mark, while he reached into the canoe and brought forth an axe, a
bundle of food, and a coffee-pot; then, still chuckling, he gathered a
few sticks of driftwood and built a fire. She had a blind instinct to
flee, and sought for a means of escape, but they were well out upon the
bar that stretched a distance of three hundred feet to the wooded bank;
on one side of the narrow spit was the scarcely moving, half-stagnant
water of a tiny bay or eddy, on the other, the swift, gliding current
tugging at the beached canoe, while the outer end of the gravelled
ridge dwindled down to nothing and disappeared into the river. At sight
of the canoe a thought struck her, but her face must have shown some
sign of it, for the man chanced to look at the moment, and, seeing her
expression, straightened himself, then gazed about searchingly. Without
a word he stepped to the boat, and, seizing it, dragged it entirely out
upon the bar, where her strength would not be equal to shoving it off
quickly, and, not content with this, he made the painter fast, then
went back to his fire. The eagerness died out of her face, but an
instant later, when he turned to the clearer water of the eddy to fill
the coffee-pot, she seized her chance and sped up the bar towards the
bank. The shingle under foot and her noisy skirts betrayed her, and
with an oath he followed. It was an unequal race, and he handled her
with rough, strong hands when he overtook her.
"So! You lied to me! Well, I'm through with this foolishness. If you'll
go back on your word like this you'll 'bawl me out' before the priest,
so I'll forget my promise, too, and you'll be glad of the chance to
marry me."
"Let me go!" she panted. "I'll marry you. Yes, yes, I'll do it, only
don't touch me now!"
He led her back to the fire, which had begun to crackle. She was so
weak now that she sank upon the stones shivering.
"That's right! Sit down and behave while I make you something hot to
drink. You're all in." After a time he continued, as he busied himself
about his task: "Say, you ought to be glad to get me; I've got a lot of
money, or I will have, and once you're Mrs. Runnion, nobody'll ever
know about this or think of you as a squaw." He talked to her while he
waited for the water to boil, his assurance robbing her of hope, for
she saw he was stubborn and reckless, determined to override her will
as well as to conquer her body, while under his creed, the creed of his
kind, a woman was made from the rib of man and for his service. He
conveyed it to her plainly. He ruled horses with a hard hand, he drove
his dog teams with a biting lash, and he mastered women with a similar
lack of feeling or consideration.
He was still talking when the girl sprang to her feet and sent a shrill
cry out over the river, but instantly he was up and upon her, his hand
over her mouth, while she tore at it, screaming the name of Poleon
Doret. He silenced her to a smothered, sobbing mumble, and turned to
see, far out on the bosom of the great soiled river, a man in a bark
canoe. The craft had just swung past the bend above, and was still a
long way off--so far away, in fact, that Necia's signal had not reached
it, for its occupant held unwaveringly to the swiftest channel, his
body rising and falling in the smooth, unending rhythm of a
master-boatman tinder great haste, his arms up-flung now and then, as
the paddle glinted and flashed across to the opposite side.
Runnion glanced about hurriedly, then cursed as he saw no place of
concealment. The Peterborough stood out upon the bar conspicuously, as
did he and the girl; but the chance remained that this man, whoever he
was, would pass by, for his speed was great, the river a mile in width,
and the bend sharp. Necia had cried Poleon's name, but her companion
saw no resemblance to the Frenchman in this strange-looking voyager; in
fact, he could not quite make out what was peculiar about the
man--perhaps his eyes were not as sharp as hers--and then he saw that
the boatman was naked to the waist. By now he was drawing opposite them
with the speed of a hound. The girl, gagged and held by her captor's
hands, struggled and moaned despairingly, and, crouching back of the
boat, they might have escaped discovery in the gray morning light had
it not been for the telltale fire--a tiny, crackling blaze no larger
than a man's hat. It betrayed them. The dancing craft upon which their
eyes were fixed whipped about, almost leaping from the water at one
stroke, then came towards them, now nothing but a narrow thing, half
again the width of a man's body. The current carried it down abreast of
them, then past, and Runnion rose, releasing the girl, who cried out
with all her might to the boatman. He made no sound in reply, but drove
his canoe shoreward with quicker strokes. It was evident he would
effect his landing near the lower end of the spit, for now he was
within hearing distance, and driving closer every instant.
Necia heard the gambler call:
"Sheer off, Doret! You can't land here!"
She saw a gun in Runnion's hand, and a terrible, sickening fear swept
over her, for he was slowly walking down the spit, keeping abreast of
the canoe as it drifted. She could see exactly what would happen: no
man could disembark against the will of an armed marksman, and if
Poleon slackened his stroke, or stopped it to exchange his paddle for a
weapon, the current would carry him past; in addition, he would have to
fire from a rocking paper shell harried by a boiling current, whereas
the other man stood flat upon his feet.
"Keep away or I'll fire!" threatened Runnion again; and she screamed,
"Don't try it, Poleon, he'll kill you!"
At her words Runnion raised his weapon and fired. She heard the woods
behind reverberate with the echoes like a sounding-board, saw the white
spurt of smoke and the skitter of the bullet as it went wide. It was a
long shot, and had been fired as a final warning; but Doret made no
outcry, nor did he cease coming; instead, his paddle clove the water
with the same steady strokes that took every ounce of effort in his
body. Runnion threw open his gun and replaced the spent shell. On came
the careening, crazy craft in a sidewise drift, and with it the girl
saw coming a terrible tragedy. She started to run down the gravelled
ridge behind her enemy, not realizing the value or moment of her
action, nor knowing clearly what she would do; but as she drew near she
saw Runnion raise his gun again, and, without thought of her own
safety, threw herself upon him Again his shot went wide as he strove to
hurl her off, but his former taste of her strength was nothing to this,
now that she fought for Poleon's life. Runnion snarled angrily and
thrust her away, for he had waited till the canoe was close.
"Let me go, you devil!" he cried, and aimed again; but again she ran at
him. This time, however, she did not pit her strength against his, but
paused, and as he undertook to fire she thrust at his elbow, then
dodged out of his way. Her blow was crafty and well-timed, and his shot
went wild. Again he took aim, and again she destroyed it with a touch
and danced out of his reach. She was nimble and light, and quickened
now by a cold calculation of all that depended upon her.
Three times in all she thwarted Runnion, while the canoe drove closer
every instant. On the fourth, as she dashed at him, he struck to be rid
of her, cursing wickedly--struck as he would have struck at a man.
Silently she crumpled up and fell, a pitiful, draggled, awkward little
figure sprawled upon the rocks; but the delay proved fatal to him, for,
though the canoe was close against the bank, and the huge man in it
seemed to offer a mark too plain to be missed, he was too close to
permit careful aim. Runnion heard him giving utterance to a strange,
feral, whining sound, as if he were crying like a fighting boy; then,
as the gambler raised his arm, the Canadian lifted himself up on the
bottom of the canoe until he stood stretched to his full height, and
leaped. As Runnion fired he sprang out and was into the water to his
knees, his backward kick whirling the craft from underneath him out
into the current, where the river seized it. He had risen and jumped
all in one moment, launching himself at the shore like a panther. The
gun roared again, but Poleon came up and on with the rush of the great,
brown grizzly that no missile can stop. Runnion's weapon blazed in his
face, but he neither felt nor heeded it, for his bare hands were upon
his quarry, the impact of his body hurling the other from his feet, and
neither of them knew whether any or all of the last bullets had taken
effect. Poleon had come like an arrow, straight for his mark the
instant he glimpsed it, an insensate, unreasoning, raging thing that no
weight of lead nor length of blade could stop. In his haste he had left
Flambeau without weapon of any kind, for in his mind such things were
superfluous, and he had never fought with any but those God gave him,
nor found any living thing that his hands could not master. Therefore,
he had rushed headlong against this armed and waiting man, reaching for
him ever closer and closer till the burning powder stung his eyes. They
grappled and fought, alone and unseen, and yet it was no fight, for
Runnion, though a vigorous, heavy-muscled man, was beaten down,
smothered, and crushed beneath the onslaught of this great naked
fellow, who all the time sobbed and whined and mewed in a panting fury.
They swung half across the spit to the farther side, where they fell in
a fantastic convulsion, slipping and sliding and rolling among the
rocks that smote and gouged and bruised them. The gambler fought for
his life against the naked flesh of the other, against the distorted
face that snapped and bit like the muzzle of a wolf, while all the time
he heard that fearful, inarticulate note of blood-hunger at his ear.
The Canadian's clenched hands crushed whatever they fell upon as if
mailed with metal; the fingers were like tearing tongs that could not
be loosed. It was a frightful combat, hideous from its inequality, like
the battle of a man against a maddened beast whose teeth tore and whose
claws ripped, whose every move was irresistible. And so it was over
shortly.
Poleon rose and ran to the fallen girl, leaving behind him a huddled
and twisted likeness of a man. He picked her up tenderly, moaning and
crooning; but as her limp head lolled back, throwing her pale, blind
features up to the heavens, he began to cry, this time like a woman.
Tears fell from his eyes, burning tears, the agony of which seared his
soul. He laid her carefully beside the water's edge, and, holding her
head and shoulders in the crook of his left arm, he wet his right hand
and bathed her face, crouching over her, half nude, dripping with the
sweat of his great labors, a tender, palpitating figure of bronzed
muscle and sinew, with all his fury and hate replaced by apprehension
and pity. The short moments that he worked with her were ages to him,
but she revived beneath his ministrations, and her first frightened
look of consciousness was changed to a melting smile.
"W-what happened, Poleon?" she said. "I was afraid!"
He stood up to his full height, shaking, and weak as the water that
dripped from him, the very bones in him dissolved. For the first time
he uttered words.
"T'ank God, ba gosh!" and ran his hand up over his wet face.
"Where is he?" She started to her knees affrightedly; then, seeing the
twisted, sprawling figure beyond, began to shudder. "He--he's dead?"
"I don' know," said Poleon, carelessly. "You feel it purty good now,
eh, w'at?"
"Yes--I--he struck me!" The remembrance of what had occurred surged
over her, and she buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Poleon! Poleon! He
was a dreadful man."
"He don' trouble you no more."
"He tried--he--Ugh! I--I'm glad you did it!" She broke down, trembling
at her escape, until her selfishness smote her, and she was up and
beside him on the instant. "Are you hurt? Oh, I never thought of that.
You must be wounded!"
The Frenchman felt himself over, and looked down at his limbs for the
first time, "No! I guess not," he said, at which Necia noticed his
meagre attire, and simultaneously he became conscious of it. He fell
away a pace, casting his eyes over the river for his canoe, which was
now a speck in the distance.
"Ba gosh! I'm hell of a t'ing for lookin' at," he said. "I'm paddle
hard--dat's w'y. Sacré! how I sweat!" He hitched nervously at the band
of his overalls, while Necia answered:
"That's all right, Poleon." Then, without warning, her face froze with
mingled repulsion and wonder. "Look! Look!" she whispered, pointing
past him.
Runnion was moving slowly, crawling painfully into a sitting posture,
uplifting a terribly mutilated face, dazed and half conscious, groping
for possession of his wits. He saw them, and grimaced frightfully,
cowering and cringing.
Poleon felt the girl's hand upon his arm, and heard her crying in a
hard, sharp voice:
"He needs killing! Put him away!"
He stared down at his gentle Necia, and saw the loathing in her face
and the look of strange ferocity as she met his eyes boldly.
"You don't know what he--what he did," she said, through her shut
teeth. "He--" But the man waited to hear no more.
Runnion saw him coming, and scrambled frantically to all-fours, then
got on his feet and staggered down the bar. As Poleon overtook him, he
cried out piteously, a shrill scream of terror, and, falling to his
knees, grovelled and debased himself like a foul cripple at fear of the
lash. His agony dispelled the savage taint of Alluna's aboriginal
training in Necia, and the pure white blood of her ancestors cried out:
"Poleon, Poleon! Not that!" She hurried after him to where he paused
above the wretch waiting for her. "You mustn't!" she said. "That would
be murder, and--and--it's all over now."
The Frenchman looked at her wonderingly, not comprehending this sudden
leniency.
"Let him alone; you've nearly killed him; that's enough." Whereat
Runnion, broken in body and spirit, began to beg for his life.
"Wat's dat you say jus' now?" Doret asked the girl. "Was dat de truth
for sure w'at you speak?"
"Yes, but you've done your work. Don't touch him again."
He hesitated, and Runnion, quick to observe it, added his entreaty to
hers.
"I'm beaten, Doret. You broke me to pieces. I need help--I--I'm hurt."
"W'at you 'spec' I do wit' 'im?" the Canadian asked, and she answered:
"I suppose we'll have to take him where he can get assistance."
"Dat skiff ain' carry all free of us."
"I'll stay here," groaned the frightened man. "I'll wait for a steamer
to pick me up, but for God's sake don't touch me again!"
Poleon looked him over carefully, and made up his mind that the man was
more injured in spirit than in body, for, outside of his battered
muscles, he showed no fatal symptoms. Although the voyageur was slower
to anger than a child, a grudge never died in him, and his simple,
self-taught creed knew no forgiveness for such men as Runnion,
cherished no mercy for preying men or beasts. He glanced towards the
wooded shores a stone's-throw above, then back at the coward he had
beaten and whose life was forfeit under the code. There was a queer
light in his eyes.
"Leave him here, Poleon. We'll go away, you and I, in the canoe, and
the first boat will pick him up. Come." Necia tugged at his wrist for
fear she might not prevail; but he was bent on brushing away a handful
of hungry mosquitoes which, warmed by the growing day, had ventured out
on the river. His face became wrinkled and set.
"Bien!" he grunted. "We lef 'im here, biccause dere ain't 'nough room
in de batteau, eh? All right! Dat's good t'ing; but he's seeck man, so
mebbe I feex it him nice place for stop till dem boats come."
"Yes, yes! Leave me here. I'll make it through all right," begged
Runnion.
"Better you camp yonder on de point, w'ere you can see dose steamboat
w'en she comes 'roun' de ben'. Dis is bad place." He indicated the
thicket, a quarter of a mile above which ran out almost to the cut
bank. "Come! I help you get feex."
Runnion shrank from his proffered assistance half fearfully, but,
reassured, allowed the Frenchman to help him towards the shore.
"We tell it de first boat 'bout you, an' dey pick you up. You wait
here, Necia."
The girl watched her rescuer guide Runnion up to the level of the
woods, then disappear with him in the firs, and was relieved to see the
two emerge upon the river-bank again farther on, for she had feared for
an instant that Poleon might forget. There seemed to be no danger,
however, for he was crashing through the brush in advance of the other,
who followed laboriously. Once Runnion gained the high point, he would
be able to command a view of both reaches of the river, and could make
signals to attract the first steamboat that chanced to come along.
Without doubt a craft of some sort would pass from one direction or the
other by to-morrow at latest, or, if not, she and Poleon could send
back succor to him from the first habitation they encountered. The two
men disappeared again, and her fears had begun to prey on her a second
time when she beheld the big Canadian returning. He was hurrying a bit,
apparently to be rid of the mosquitoes that swarmed about him; and she
marked that, in addition to whipping himself with a handful of
blueberry bushes, he wore Runnion's coat to protect his shoulders.
"Woof! Dose skeeter bug is hongry," he cried. "Let's we pass on de
river queeck."
"You didn't touch him again?"
"No, no. I'm t'rough wit' 'im."
She was only too eager to be away from the spot, and an instant later
they were afloat in the Peterborough.
"Dis nice batteau," Poleon remarked, critically. "I mak' it go fas',"
and began to row swiftly, seeking the breeze of the open river in which
to shake off the horde of stinging pests that had risen with the sun.
"I come 'way queeck wit'out t'inkin' 'bout gun or skeeter net or
not'in'. Runnion she's len' me dis coat, so mebbe I don' look so worse
lak' I do jus' now, eh?"
"How did you leave him? Is he badly injured?"
"No, I bus' it up on de face an' de rib, but she's feelin' good now.
Yes. I'm leave 'im nice place for stop an' wait on de
steamboat--plaintee spruce bough for set on."
She began to shudder again, and, sensitive to her every motion, he
asked, solicitously, if she were sick, but she shook her head.
"I--I--was thinking what--supposing you hadn't come? Oh, Poleon! you
don't know what you saved me from." She leaned forward and laid a tiny,
grateful hand on the huge brown paw that rested on his oar. "I wonder
if I can ever forget?"
She noted that they were running with the current, and inquired:
"Where are we going?"
"Wal, I can't pull dis boat 'gainst dat current, so I guess we pass on
till I fin' my shirt, den bimebye we pick it up some steamboat an' go
home."
Five miles below his quick eye detected his half-submerged "bark"
lodged beneath some overhanging firs which, from the water's action,
had fallen forward into the stream, and by rare good-fortune it was
still upright, although awash. He towed it to the next sand-bar, where
he wrung out and donned his shirt, then tipped the water from the
smaller craft, and, making it fast astern of the Peterborough, set out
again. Towards noon they came in sight of a little stern-wheeled craft
that puffed and pattered manfully against the sweeping current, hiding
behind the points and bars and following the slackest water.
"It's the Mission, boat!" cried Necia. "It's the Mission boat! Father
Barnum will be aboard."
She waved her arms madly and mingled her voice with Poleon's until a
black-robed figure appeared beside the pilot-house.
"Father Barnum!" she screamed, and, recognizing her, he signalled back.
Soon they were alongside, and a pair of Siwash deckhands lifted Necia
aboard, Doret following after, the painter of the Peterborough in his
teeth. He dragged both canoes out of the boiling tide, and laid them
bottom up on the forward deck, then climbed the narrow little stairs to
find Necia in the arms of a benignant, white-haired priest, the
best-beloved man on the Yukon, who broke away from the girl to greet
the Frenchman, his kind face alight with astonishment.
"What is all this I hear? Slowly, Doret, slowly! My little girl is
talking too furiously for these poor old wits to follow. I can't
understand; I am amazed. What is this tale?"
Together they told him, while his blue eyes now opened wide with
wonder, now grew soft with pity, then blazed with indignation. When
they had finished he laid his hand upon Doret's shoulder.
"My son, I thank God for your good body and your clean heart. You saved
our Necia, and you will be rewarded. As to this--this--man Runnion, we
must find him, and he must be sent out of the country; this new, clean
land of ours is no place for such as he. You will be our pilot, Poleon,
and guide us to the spot."
It required some pressure to persuade the Frenchman, but at last he
consented; and as the afternoon drew to a close the little steamboat
came squattering and wheezing up to the bar where Runnion had built his
fire that morning, and a long, shrill blast summoned him from the point
above. When he did not appear the priest took Poleon and his
round-faced, silent crew of two and went up the bank, but they found no
sign of the crippled man, only a few rags, a trampled patch of brush at
the forest's edge, and--that was all. The springy moss showed no trail;
the thicket gave no answer to their cries, although they spent an hour
in a scattered search and sounded the steamboat's whistle again and
again.
"He's try for walk it back to camp," said Doret. "Mebbe he ain' hurt so
much, after all."
"You must be right," said Father Barnum. "We will keep the steamer
close to this shore, so that he can hail us when we overtake him."
And so they resumed their toilsome trip; but mile after mile fell
behind them, and still no voice came from the woods, no figure hailed
them. Doret, inscrutable and silent, lounged against the pilot-house
smoking innumerable cigarettes, which he rolled from squares of
newspaper, his keen eyes apparently scanning every foot of their slow
way; but when night fell, at last, and the bank faded from sight, he
tossed the last butt overboard, smiled grimly into the darkness, and
went below.