As John Aldous stood hidden in the darkness, listening for the sound of a
footstep, Joanne's words still rang in his ears. "I believe he is out
there--waiting for you," she had said; and, chuckling softly in the gloom,
he told himself that nothing would give him more satisfaction than an
immediate and material proof of her fear. In the present moment he felt a
keen desire to confront Quade face to face out there in the lantern-glow,
and settle with the mottled beast once for all. The fact that Quade had
seen Joanne as the guest of the Blacktons hardened him in his
determination. Quade could no longer be in possible error regarding her. He
knew that she had friends, and that she was not of the kind who could be
made or induced to play his game and Culver Rann's. If he followed her
after this----
Aldous gritted his teeth and stared up and down the black trail. Five
minutes passed and he heard nothing that sounded like a footstep, and he
saw no moving shadow in the gloom. Slowly he continued along the road until
he came to where a narrow pack-trail swung north and east through the thick
spruce and balsam in the direction of Loon Lake. Remembering MacDonald's
warning, he kept his pistol in his hand. The moon was just beginning to
rise over the shoulder of a mountain, and after a little it lighted up the
more open spaces ahead of him. Now and then he paused, and turned to
listen. As he progressed with slowness and caution, his mind worked
swiftly. He knew that Donald MacDonald was the last man in the world to
write such a message as he had sent him through Blackton unless there had
been a tremendous reason for it. But why, he asked himself again and again,
should Culver Rann want to kill him? Rann knew nothing of Joanne. He had
not seen her. And surely Quade had not had time to formulate a plot with
his partner before MacDonald wrote his warning. Besides, an attempt had
been made to assassinate the old mountaineer! MacDonald had not warned him
against Quade. He had told him to guard himself against Rann. And what
reason could this Culver Rann have for doing him injury? The more he
thought of it the more puzzled he became. And then, in a flash, the
possible solution of it all came to him.
Had Culver Rann discovered the secret mission on which he and the old
mountaineer were going into the North? Had he learned of the gold--where it
was to be found? And was their assassination the first step in a plot to
secure possession of the treasure?
The blood in Aldous' veins ran faster. He gripped his pistol harder. More
closely he looked into the moonlit gloom of the trail ahead of him. He
believed that he had guessed the meaning of MacDonald's warning. It was the
gold! More than once thought of the yellow treasure far up in the North had
thrilled him, but never as it thrilled him now. Was the old tragedy of it
to be lived over again? Was it again to play its part in a terrible drama
of men's lives, as it had played it more than forty years ago? The gold!
The gold that for nearly half a century had lain with the bones of its
dead, alone with its terrible secret, alone until Donald MacDonald had
found it again! He had not told Joanne the story of it, the appalling and
almost unbelievable tragedy of it. He had meant to do so. But they had
talked of other things. He had meant to tell her that it was not the gold
itself that was luring him far to the north--that it was not the gold alone
that was taking Donald MacDonald back to it.
And now, as he stood for a moment listening to the low sweep of the wind in
the spruce-tops, it seemed to him that the night was filled with whispering
voices of that long-ago--and he shivered, and held his breath. A cloud had
drifted under the moon. For a few moments it was pitch dark. The fingers of
his hand dug into the rough bark of a spruce. He did not move. It was then
that he heard something above the caressing rustle of the wind in the
spruce-tops.
It came to him faintly, from full half a mile deeper in the black forest
that reached down to the bank of the Frazer. It was the night call of an
owl--one of the big gray owls that turned white as the snow in winter.
Mentally he counted the notes in the call. One, two, three, _four_--and a
flood of relief swept over him. It was MacDonald. They had used that signal
in their hunting, when they had wished to locate each other without
frightening game. Always there were three notes in the big gray owl's
quavering cry. The fourth was human. He put his hands to his mouth and sent
back an answer, emphasizing the fourth note. The light breeze had died down
for a moment, and Aldous heard the old mountaineer's reply as it floated
faintly back to him through the forest. Continuing to hold his pistol, he
went on, this time more swiftly.
MacDonald did not signal again. The moon was climbing rapidly into the sky,
and with each passing minute the night was becoming lighter. He had gone
half a mile when he stopped again and signalled softly. MacDonald's voice
answered, so near that for an instant the automatic flashed in the
moonlight. Aldous stepped out where the trail had widened into a small open
spot. Half a dozen paces from him, in the bright flood of the moon, stood
Donald MacDonald.
The night, the moon-glow, the tense attitude of his waiting added to the
weirdness of the picture which the old wanderer of the mountains made as
Aldous faced him. MacDonald was tall; some trick of the night made him
appear almost unhumanly tall as he stood in the centre of that tiny moonlit
amphitheatre. His head was bowed a little, and his shoulders drooped a
little, for he was old. A thick, shaggy beard fell in a silvery sheen over
his breast. His hair, gray as the underwing of the owl whose note he
forged, straggled in uncut disarray from under the drooping rim of a
battered and weatherworn hat. His coat was of buckskin, and it was short at
the sleeves--four inches too short; and the legs of his trousers were cut
off between the knees and the ankles, giving him a still greater appearance
of height.
In the crook of his arm MacDonald held a rifle, a strange-looking,
long-barrelled rifle of a type a quarter of a century old. And Donald
MacDonald, in the picture he made, was like his gun, old and gray and
ghostly, as if he had risen out of some graveyard of the past to warm
himself in the yellow splendour of the moon. But in the grayness and
gauntness of him there was something that was mightier than the strength of
youth. He was alert. In the crook of his arm there was caution. His eyes
were as keen as the eyes of an animal. His shoulders spoke of a strength
but little impaired by the years. Ghostly gray beard, ghostly gray hair,
haunting eyes that gleamed, all added to the strange and weird
impressiveness of the man as he stood before Aldous. And when he spoke, his
voice had in it the deep, low, cavernous note of a partridge's drumming.
"I'm glad you've come, Aldous," he said. "I've been waiting ever since the
train come in. I was afraid you'd go to the cabin!"
Aldous stepped forth and gripped the old mountaineer's outstretched hand.
There was intense relief in Donald's eyes.
"I got a little camp back here in the bush," he went on, nodding riverward.
"It's safer 'n the shack these days. Yo're sure--there ain't no one
following?"
"Quite certain," assured Aldous. "Look here, MacDonald--what in thunder has
happened? Don't continue my suspense! Who shot you? Why did you warn me?"
Deep in his beard the old hunter laughed.
"Same fellow as would have shot you, I guess," he answered. "They made a
bad job of it, Johnny, an awful bad job, an' mebby there'd been a better
man layin' for you!"
He was pulling Aldous in the bush as he spoke. For ten minutes he dived on
ahead through a jungle in which there was no trail. Suddenly he turned,
led the way around the edge of a huge mass of rock, and paused a moment
later before a small smouldering fire. Against the face of a gigantic
boulder was a balsam shelter. A few cooking utensils were scattered about.
It was evident that MacDonald had been living here for several days.
"Looks as though I'd run away, don't it, Johnny?" he asked, laughing in his
curious, chuckling way again. "An' so I did, boy. From the mountain up
there I've been watching things through my telescope--been keepin' quiet
since Doc pulled the bullet out. I've been layin' for the Breed. I wanted
him to think I'd vamoosed. I'm goin' to kill him!"
He had squatted down before the fire, his long rifle across his knees, and
spoke as quietly as though he was talking of a partridge or a squirrel
instead of a human being. He wormed a hand into one of his pockets and
produced a small dark object which he handed to Aldous The other felt an
uncanny chill as it touched his fingers. It was a mis-shapened bullet.
"Doc gave me the lead," continued MacDonald coolly, beginning to slice a
pipeful of tobacco from a tar-black plug. "It come from Joe's gun. I've
hunted with him enough to know his bullet. He fired through the window of
the cabin. If it hadn't been for the broom handle--just the end of it
stickin' up"--he shrugged his gaunt shoulders as he stuffed the tobacco
into the bowl of his pipe--"I'd been dead!" he finished tersely.
"You mean that Joe----"
"Has sold himself to Culver Rann!" exclaimed MacDonald. He sprang to his
feet. For the first time he showed excitement. His eyes blazed with
repressed rage. A hand gripped the barrel of his rifle as if to crush it.
"He's sold himself to Culver Rann!" he repeated. "He's sold him our secret.
He's told him where the gold is, Johnny! He's bargained to guide Rann an'
his crowd to it! An' first--they're goin' to kill _us!_"
With a low whistle Aldous took off his hat. He ran a hand through his
blond-gray hair. Then he replaced his hat and drew two cigars from his
pocket. MacDonald accepted one. Aldous' eyes were glittering; his lips were
smiling.
"They are, are they, Donald? They're going to kill us?"
"They're goin' to try," amended the old hunter, with another curious
chuckle in his ghostly beard. "They're goin' to try, Johnny. That's why I
told you not to go to the cabin. I wasn't expecting you for a week.
To-morrow I was goin' to start on a hike for Miette. I been watching
through my telescope from the mountain up there. I see Quade come in this
morning on a hand-car. Twice I see him and Rann together. Then I saw
Blackton hike out into the bush. I was worrying about you an' wondered if
he had any word. So I laid for him on the trail--an' I guess it was lucky.
I ain't been able to set my eyes on Joe. I looked for hours through the
telescope--an' I couldn't find him. He's gone, or Culver Rann is keeping
him out of sight."
For several moments Aldous looked at his companion in silence. Then he
said:
"You're sure of all this, are you, Donald? You have good proof--that Joe
has turned traitor?"
"I've been suspicious of him ever since we come down from the North,"
spoke MacDonald slowly. "I watched him--night an' day. I was afraid he'd
get a grubstake an' start back alone. Then I saw him with Culver Rann. It
was late. I heard 'im leave the shack, an' I followed. He went to Rann's
house--an' Rann was expecting him. Three times I followed him to Culver
Rann's house. I knew what was happening then, an' I planned to get him back
in the mountains on a hunt, an' kill him. But I was too late. The shot came
through the window. Then he disappeared. An'--Culver Rann is getting an
outfit together! Twenty head of horses, with grub for three months!"
"The deuce! And our outfit? Is it ready?"
"To the last can o' beans!"
"And your plan, Donald?"
All at once the old mountaineer's eyes were aflame with eagerness as he
came nearer to Aldous.
"Get out of Tête Jaune to-night!" he cried in a low, hissing voice that
quivered with excitement. "Hit the trail before dawn! Strike into the
mountains with our outfit--far enough back--and then wait!"
"Wait?"
"Yes--wait. If they follow us--_fight!_"
Slowly Aldous held out a hand. The old mountaineer's met it. Steadily they
looked into each other's eyes.
Then John Aldous spoke:
"If this had been two days ago I would have said yes. But to-night--it is
impossible."
The fingers that had tightened about his own relaxed. Slowly a droop came
into MacDonald's shoulders. Disappointment, a look that was almost despair
settled in his eyes. Seeing the change, Aldous held the old hunter's hand
more firmly.
"That doesn't mean we're not going to fight," he said quickly. "Only we've
got to plan differently. Sit down, Donald. Something has been happening to
me. And I'm going to tell you about it."
A little back from the fire they seated themselves, and Aldous told Donald
MacDonald about Joanne.
He began at the beginning, from the moment his eyes first saw her as she
entered Quade's place. He left nothing out. He told how she had come into
his life, and how he intended to fight to keep her from going out of it. He
told of his fears, his hopes, the mystery of their coming to Tête Jaune,
and how Quade had preceded them to plot the destruction of the woman he
loved. He described her as she had stood that morning, like a radiant
goddess in the sun; and when he came to that he leaned nearer, and said
softly:
"And when I saw her there, Donald, with her hair streaming about her like
that, I thought of the time you told me of that other woman--the woman of
years and years ago--and how you, Donald, used to look upon her in the sun,
and rejoice in your possession. Her spirit has been with you always. You
have told me how for nearly fifty years you have followed it over these
mountains. And this woman means as much to me. If she should die to-night
her spirit would live with me in that same way. You understand, Donald. I
can't go into the mountains to-night. God knows when I can go--now. But
you----"
MacDonald had risen. He turned his face to the black wall of the forest.
Aldous thought he saw a sudden quiver pass through the great, bent
shoulders.
"And I," said MacDonald slowly, "will have the horses ready for you at
dawn. We will fight this other fight--later."