IX

On arriving in Snowy Gulch, Ben's first efforts were to inquire in

regard to horses. Both pack and saddle animals, he learned, were to be

hired of Sandy McClurg, the owner of the general store and leading

citizen of the village; and at once he made his way to confer with him.

"Most of my mustangs are rented out," the merchant informed him when

they met in the rear of the general store, "but if you can get along

with three, I guess I can fix you up. You can pack two of 'em, and ride

the third."

"Good enough," Ben agreed. "And after I once get in, I'd like to turn

back two of them, and maybe all three--to save the hire and the bother

of taking care of them. I suppose, after the fashion of cayuses, they'll

leg it right home."

"Just a little faster than a dog. Horses don't much care to grub their

food out of them spruce forests. They're good plugs, so of course I

don't want to rent 'em to any one who'll abuse 'em, or take 'em on too

hard trips. Where are you heading, if the question's fair?"

"Through Spruce Pass and down into the Yuga River."

"Prospecting, eh? There's been quite a movement down that way lately,

considering it never was anything but a pocket country. By starting

early you can make it through in a day. And you said your name was--"

"Darby. Ben Darby."

The merchant opened his eyes. "Not the Ben Darby that took all the

prizes at the meet at Lodge Pole--"

Ben's rugged face lit with the brilliancy of his smile. "The same

Darby," he admitted.

"Well, well! I hope you'll excuse them remarks about abusing the horses.

If I had known who you was, 'Wolf' Darby, I'd have known you knew how to

take care of cayuses. Take 'em for as long as you want, or where you

want. And when did you say you was going?"

"First thing to-morrow."

"Well, you're pretty likely to have companionship on the road, too.

There is another party that is going up that way either to-morrow or the

day after. Pretty lucky for you."

"I'm glad of it, if he isn't a tenderfoot. That must be a pretty thickly

settled region--where I'm heading."

"On the contrary, there's only three human beings in the whole

district--and there's a thousand of square miles back of it without even

one. These three are some men that went up that way prospecting some

time ago, and this other party will make four." He paused, smiling.

"Yes, I think you will enjoy this trip to-morrow, after you see who it

is. I'd enjoy it, and I'm thirty years older than you are."

Ben's thought was elsewhere, and he only half heard. "All right--I'll be

here before dawn to-morrow and get the horses. And now will you tell

me--where Steve Morris lives? I've got some business with him."

"Right up the street--clear to the end of the row." McClurg's humor had

quite engulfed him by now, and he chuckled again. "And if I was you,

I'd stop in the door just this side--and get acquainted with your fellow

traveler."

"What's his name?" Ben asked.

"The party is named Neilson."

Unfortunately the name had no mental associations for Ben. It wakened no

interest or stirred no memories. He had read the letter the copy of

which he carried but once, and evidently the name of the man Ezram had

been warned against had made no lasting impression on Ben's mind.

"All right. Maybe I'll look him up."

Ben turned, then made his way up the long, straggly row of unpainted

shacks that marked the village street. A few moments later he was

standing in the Morris home, facing the one friend that Hiram Melville

had possessed on earth.

Ben stated his case simply. He was the partner of Hiram's brother, he

said, and he had been designated to take care of Fenris and such other

belongings as Hiram had left. Morris studied his face with the quiet,

far-seeing eyes of a woodsman.

"You've got means of identification?" he asked.

Ben realized with something of a shock that he had none at all. The

letter he carried was merely a copy without Hiram's signature; besides,

he had no desire to reveal its contents. For an instant he was

considerably embarrassed. But Morris smiled quietly.

"I guess I won't ask you for any," he said. "Hiram didn't leave

anything, far as I know, except his old gun and his pet. Lord knows, I'd

let anybody take that pet of his that's fool enough to say he's got any

claim to him, and you can be sure I ain't going to dispute his claim."

"Fenris, then, is,--something of a problem?"

"The worst I ever had. His old gun is a good enough weapon, but I'm

willing to trust you with it to get rid of Fenris. If you don't turn out

to be the right man, I'll dig up for the gun--and feel lucky at that. I

won't be able to furnish another Fenris, though, and I guess nobody'll

be sorry. And if I was you--I'd take him out in a nice quiet place and

shoot him."

He turned, with the intention of securing the gun from an inner room. He

did not even reach the door. It was as if both of them were struck

motionless, frozen in odd, fixed attitudes, by a shrill scream for help

that penetrated like a bullet the thin walls of the house.

Instinctively both of them recognized it, unmistakably, as the piercing

cry of a woman in great distress and terror. It rose surprisingly high,

hovered a ghastly instant, and then was almost drowned out and

obliterated by another sound, such a sound as left Ben only wondering

and appalled.

The sound was in the range between a growl and a bay, instantly

identifying itself as the utterance of an animal, rather than a human

being. And it was savage and ferocious simply beyond power of words to

tell. Ben's first thought was of some enormous, vicious dog, and yet his

wood's sense told him that the utterance was not that of a dog. Rather

it contained that incredible fierceness and savagery that marks the

killing cries of the creatures of the wild.

He heard it even as he leaped through the door in answer to the scream

for aid. His muscles gathered with that mysterious power that had always

sustained him in his moments of crisis. He took the steps in one leap,

Morris immediately behind him.

"Fenris is loose," he heard the man say. "He'll kill some one----!"

Ben could still hear the savage cries of the animal, seemingly from

just behind the adjoining house. A girl's terrified voice still called

for help. And deeply appalled by the sounds, Ben wished that the rifle,

such a weapon as had been his trust since early boyhood, was ready and

loaded in his hands.

He raced about the house; and at once the scene, in every vivid detail,

was revealed to him. Pressed back against the wall of a little woodshed

that stood behind her house a girl stood at bay,--a dark-eyed girl whose

beautiful face was drawn and stark-white with horror. She was screaming

for aid, her fascinated gaze held by a gray-black, houndlike creature

that crouched, snarling, twenty yards distant.

Evidently the creature was stealing toward her in stealthy advance more

like a stalking cat than a frenzied hound. Nor was this creature a

hound, in spite of the similarity of outline. Such fearful, lurid

surface-lights as all of them saw in its fierce eyes are not

characteristic of the soft, brown orbs of the dog, ancient friend to

man, but are ever the mark of the wild beast of the forest. The fangs

were bared, gleaming in foam, the hair stood erect on the powerful

shoulders; and instantly Ben recognized its breed. It was a magnificent

specimen of that huge, gaunt runner of the forests, the Northern wolf.

Evidently from the black shades of his fur he was partly of the Siberian

breed of wolves that beforetime have migrated down on the North American

side of Bering Sea.

A chain was attached to the animal's collar, and this in turn to a stake

that had been freshly pulled from the ground. This beast was

Fenris,--the woods creature that old Hiram Melville had raised from

cubdom.

There could be no doubt as to the reality of the girl's peril. The

animal was insane with the hunting madness, and he was plainly stalking

her, just as his fierce mother might have stalked a fawn, across the

young grass. Already he was almost near enough to leap, and the girl's

young, strong body could be no defense against the hundred and fifty

pounds of wire sinew and lightning muscle that constituted the wolf. The

bared fangs need flash but once for such game as this. And yet, after

the first, startled glance, Ben Darby felt himself complete master of

the situation.

No man could tell him why. No fact of his life would have been harder to

explain, no impulse in all his days had had a more inscrutable origin.

The realization seemed to spring from some cool, sequestered knowledge

hidden deep in his spirit. He knew, in one breathless instant, that he

was the master--and that the girl was safe.

He seemed to know, again, that he had found his ordained sphere. He knew

this breed,--this savage, blood-mad, fierce-eyed creature that turned,

snarling, at his approach. He had something in common with the breed,

knowing their blood-lusts and their mighty moods; and dim, dreamlike

memory reminded him that he had mastered them in a long war that went

down to the roots of time. Fenris was only a fellow wilderness creature,

a pack brother of the dark forests, and he had no further cause for

fear.

"Fenris!" he ordered sharply. "Come here!" His voice was commanding and

clear above the animal's snarls.

There followed a curious, long instant of utter silence and infinite

suspense. The girl's scream died on her lips: the wolf stood tense,

wholly motionless. Morris, who had drawn his knife and had prepared to

leap with magnificent daring upon the wolf, turned with widening eyes,

instinctively aware of impending miracle. Ben's eyes met those of the

wolf, commanding and unafraid.

"Down, Fenris," Ben said again. "Down!"

Then slowly, steadily, Ben moved toward him. Watching unbelieving,

Morris saw the fierce eyes begin to lose their fire. The stiff hair on

the shoulders fell into place, tense muscle relaxed. He saw in wonder

that the animal was trembling all over.

Ben stood beside him now, his hand reaching. "Down, down," he cautioned

quietly. Suddenly the wolf crouched, cowering, at his feet.

X

Ben straightened to find himself under a wondering scrutiny by both

Morris and the girl. "Good Lord, Darby!" the former exclaimed. "How did

you do it--"

Now that the suspense was over, Ben himself stood smiling, quite at

ease. "Can't say just how. I just felt that I could--I've always been

able to handle animals. He's tame, anyway."

"Tame, is he? You ought to have had to care for him the last few weeks,

and you'd think tame. Not once have I dared go in reach of his rope. And

there he is, crouched at your feet! I was always dreading he'd get

away--" Morris paused, evidently remembering the girl. "Beatrice, are

you hurt?"

The girl moved toward them. "No. He didn't touch me. But you came just

in time--" The girl's voice wavered; and Ben stepped to her side. "I'm

all right now--"

"But you'd better sit down," Ben advised quietly. "It was enough to

scare any one to death--"

"Any one--but you--" the girl replied, her voice still unsteady. But she

paused when she saw the warm color spread over Ben's rugged, brown face.

And his embarrassment was real. Naturally shy and unassuming, such

effusive praise as this always disturbed him--just as it would have

embarrassed any really masculine man alive. Women, more extravagant in

speech and loving flattery with a higher ardor, would have found it hard

to believe how really distressed he was; but Morris, an outdoor man to

the core, understood completely. Besides, Ben knew that the praise was

not deserved. Excessive bravery had played no part in the scene of a

moment before. He had been brave just as far as Morris was brave,

leaping freely in response to a call for help: the same degree of

bravery that can be counted on in most men, over the face of the earth.

Bravery does not lie alone in facing danger: there must also be the

consciousness of danger, the conquest of fear. In this case Ben had felt

no fear. He knew with a sure, true knowledge that he was master of the

wolf. He knew the wolf's response to his words before ever he spoke. And

now all the words in the language could not convey to these others

whence that knowledge had come.

He vaguely realized that this had always been some way part of his

destiny,--the imposition of his will over the beasts of the forest. He

had never tried to puzzle out why, knowing that such trial would be

unavailing. He had instinctively understood such creatures as these.

To-day he felt that he knew the wild, fierce heart beating in the lean

breast as a man might know his brother's heart. The bond between them

was hidden from his sight, something back of him, beyond him, enfolded

within a secret self that was mysterious as a dream, and it reached into

the countless years; yet it was real, an ancient relationship that was

no less intimate because it could not be named. In turn, the wolf had

seemed to know that this tall form was a born habitant of the forests,

even as himself, one that would kill him as unmercifully as he himself

would kill a fall, and whose dark eyes, swept with fire, and whose cool,

strong words must never be disobeyed.

"You never seen this wolf before?" Morris asked him, calling him from

his revery.

"Never."

"Then you must be old Hiram's brother himself, to control him like you

did. Lord, look at him. Crouching at your feet."

Suddenly Ben reached and took the wolf's head between his hands. Slowly

he lifted the savage face till their eyes met. The wolf growled, then,

whimpering, tried to avert its gaze. Then a rough tongue lapped at the

man's hand.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, now," he told the girl.

"He's right, Beatrice," Morris agreed. "He's tamed him. Even I can see

that much. And I never saw anything like it, since the day I was born."

It was true: as far as Ben was concerned, the terrible Fenris--named by

a Swedish trapper, acquaintance of Hiram Melville's, for the dreadful

wolf of Scandinavian legend--was tamed. He had found a new master; Ben

had won a servant and friend whose loyalty would never waver as long as

blood flowed in his veins and breath surged in his lungs. "Lay still,

now, Fenris," he ordered. "Don't get up till I tell you."

It seems to be true that as a rule the lower animals catch the meaning

of but few words; usually the tone of the voice and the gesture that

accompanies it interpret a spoken order in a dog's brain. On this

occasion, it was as if Fenris had read his master's thought. He lay

supine, his eyes intent on Ben's rugged face.

And now, for the first time, Ben found himself regarding Beatrice. He

could scarcely take his eyes from her face. He knew perfectly that he

was staring rudely, but he was without the power to turn his eyes. Her

dark eyes fell under his gaze.

The truth was that Ben's life had been singularly untouched by the

influence of women. Mostly his life had been spent in the unpeopled

forest, away from women of all kinds; and such creatures as had admired

him in Seattle's underworld had never got close to him. He had had many

dreams; but some way it had never been credible to him that he should

ever know womanhood as a source of comradeship and happiness. Love and

marriage had always seemed infinitely apart from his wild, adventurous

life.

In his days in prison he had given up all dream of this happiness; but

now he could begin to dream again. Everything was changed now that he

had come home. The girl's regard for him was friendly, even somewhat

admiring, and the speculations of ripening womanhood were in her eyes.

He returned her gaze with frankest interest and admiration. His senses

had been made sharp in his wilderness life; and his respect for her grew

apace. She was not only innocent and girlish; she had those traits,

innate, that a strong man loves in women: such worth and depth of

character as he wishes bequeathed to his children.

Ben drew a long breath. It was good to be home. He had not only found

his forests, just as he had left them, but now again he was among the

forest people. This girl was of his own breed, not a stranger; her

standards were his; she was a woods girl no less than he was a woodsman.

It is good to be among one's own people, those who can follow through

and understand. She too knew the urge of unbridled vitality and spirit,

common to all the woods children; and life's vivid meaning was her

inheritance, no less than his. Her arms and lips were warm from

fast-flowing blood, her nerves were vibrant and singing like his own. A

virgin still, her eyes were tender with the warmheartedness that is such

a dominant trait of frontier peoples; but what fire, what passion might

burn in them to-morrow! They were dark, lovely eyes, rather somber now

in their earnestness, seeming shadowed by the dark shadows of the spruce

themselves.

No human face had ever given him such an image of beauty as that of this

dark-eyed forest child before him. Yet she was not piquant, demure, like

the girls he had met in France; not stylish and sophisticated like those

of the great cities he had visited since his return. Her garb became

her: simple, not holding the eye in itself but calling attention to the

brunette beauty of her throat and face, the warm redness of her childish

mouth, and the brown, warm color of her arms. She had dark, waving hair,

lovely to touch, wistful red lips. Because he was the woodsman, now and

always, he marked with pleasure that there was no indication of

ill-health or physical weakness about her. Her body was lithe and

strong, with the grace of the wild creatures.

It would be good to know her, and walk beside her in the tree aisles.

All manner of delectable possibilities occurred to him. But all at once

he checked his dreams with an iron will.

There must be no thought of women in his life--for now. He still had his

way to make. A few hours more would find him plunging deeper into the

forest, perhaps never to see her again. He felt an all-pervading sense

of regret.

"There's nothing I can say--to thank you," the girl was murmuring. "I

never saw anything like it; it was just as if the wolf understood every

word you said."

"Old Hiram had him pretty well trained, I suspect." The man's eyes fell

to the shaggy form at his feet. "I'm glad I happened along Miss--"

"Miss Neilson," the girl prompted him. "Beatrice Neilson. I live here."

Neilson! His mind seemed to leap and catch at the name. Just that day he

had heard it from the lips of the merchant. And this was the house next

door where dwelt his fellow traveler for the morrow.

"Then it's your father--or brother--who's going to the Yuga--"

"No," the girl answered doubtfully. "My father is already there. I'm

here alone--"

Then the gray eyes lighted and a smile broke about Ben's lips. Few times

in his life had he smiled in quite this vivid way.

"Then it's you," he exulted, "who is going to be my fellow traveler

to-morrow!"