In one of the tin cups Beatrice pressed the juice from the nightshade,
obtaining perhaps a tablespoonful of black liquor. To this she added
considerable sugar, barely tasting the mixture on the end of her finger.
The balance was inclining toward the success of her plan. The sugar
mostly killed the pungent taste of the berries.
Then she concealed the cup in a cluster of vines, ready for the moment
of need. Her next act was to procure from among the supplies the little
cardboard box containing half a dozen or so of her pistol shells. The
way of safety was to destroy these first. The effect of the poison might
be of only a few minutes' duration, and every motion might count. Under
any conditions, they would be out of the way. She was careful, with a
superlative cunning, to take the box as well as its contents. She
foresaw that in all likelihood Ben would seek the shells as soon as he
fired the few that remained in his pistol magazine; and an empty
container might put him upon his guard. On the other hand, if he could
not find the box at all, he could easily be led to believe that it had
been simply misplaced among the other supplies.
She scattered the shells in the heavy brush where not even the bright,
searching eyes of the Canada jay might ever find them. Then she hastened
up the ridge to meet Ben on his way to the cave.
She waited a few minutes, then spying his stalwart form at the edge of
the beaver meadow, she tripped down to meet him. He was not in the least
suspicious of this little act of friendship. It was quite the customary
thing, lately, for her thus to watch for his coming; and his brown face
always lighted with pleasure at the first glimpse of her graceful form
framed by the spruce. She too had always taken pleasure in these little
meetings and in the gay talk they had as they sped down toward the
cavern; but her delight was singularly absent to-day. She tried to
restrain the wild racing of her heart.
She knew she must act her part. Her plan was to put him off his guard,
to hide her treachery with pretended friendship. To meet him here--far
distant from the poison cup hidden in the vines--would give her time to
master her leaping heart and to strengthen her self-control.
Yet she had hardly expected him to greet her in just this way,--with
such a light in his eyes and such obvious delight in his smile. He had a
rather boyish, friendly smile, this foe of hers whom she was about to
despatch into the very shadow of death. She dispelled quickly a small,
faltering voice of remorse. This was no time for remorse, for gentleness
and mercy. She hurried to his side.
"You're flushed from hurrying down that hill," he told her gayly.
"Beatrice, you're getting prettier every day."
"It's the simple life that's doing it, Ben! No late hours, no
indigestible food--"
"Speaking of food--I'm famished. I hope you've got something nice for
lunch--and I know you have."
She _had_ been careful with to-day's lunch; but it had merely been part
of her plot to put him off his guard. "Caribou tenderloin--almost the
last of him--wocus bread and strawberries," she assured him. "Does that
suit your highness?"
He made a great feint of being overwhelmed by the news. "Then let's
hurry. Take my arm and we'll fly."
She seized the strong forearm, thrilled in spite of herself by the
muscles of steel she felt through the sleeves. He fell into his fastest
walking stride,--long steps that sped the yards under them. They emerged
from the marsh and started to climb the ridge.
At a small hollow beside the creek bed her fingers suddenly tightened on
his arm. A thrill that was more of wonder than of joy coursed through
her; and her dark eyes began to glitter with excitement. The wilderness
was her ally to-day. She suddenly saw her chance--in a manner that could
not possibly waken his suspicions of her intentions--of disposing of the
remainder of his pistol cartridges.
On a log thirty feet distant sat an old grouse with half a dozen of her
brood, all of them perched in a row and relying on their protective
coloring to save them from sight. They were Franklin's grouse--and they
had appeared as if in answer to Beatrice's secret wish.
These birds were common enough in their valley, and not a day passed
without seeing from five to fifty of them, yet the sight went straight
home to Beatrice's superstitions. "Get them with your pistol," she
whispered. "I want them all--for a big grouse pie to-night."
"But our pistol shells are getting low," Ben objected. "I've hardly got
enough shells in the gun to get 'em all--"
"No matter. You have to use them some time. There's a few more in the
cave, I think. We'll have to rely on big game from now on, anyway. Don't
miss one."
Ben drew his pistol, then walked up within twenty feet. He drew slowly
down, knocking the old bird from her perch with a bullet through the
neck.
"Good work," Beatrice exulted. "Now for the chicks."
Ben took the bird on the extreme right, and again the bullet sped true.
The remainder of the flock had become uneasy now; and at the next shot
all except one flew into the branches of the surrounding trees. This
shot was equally successful, and with the fourth he knocked the
remaining bird from the log.
Each of the four birds he had downed with a shot either through the head
or the neck; and such shooting would have been marvelous indeed in the
eyes of the tenderfoot. But both these two foresters knew that there was
nothing exceptional about it. Pistol shooting is simply a matter of a
sure eye and steady nerves, combined with a greater or less period of
practice. Few were the trappers or woodsmen north of fifty-three that
could not have done as much.
Ben turned his attention to the fowl on the lower tree limbs, hitting
once but missing the second time. To correct this unpardonable
proceeding, he knocked with his seventh a fat cock, his spurs just
starting, from almost the top of a young spruce.
"Here's one more," Beatrice urged him. "I'll need every one for the
pie."
But the gun was empty. The firing pin snapped harmlessly against the
breach. They gathered the grouse and sped on down to the cavern.
Her heart seemingly leaped into her throat at every beat; but with
steady hands and smiling face she went about the preparation of the
meal. She fried the venison and baked the wocus bread, and with more
than usual spirit and gaiety set the dishes at Ben's place at the
table. "Draw up your chair," she told him. "I'll have the tea in a
minute."
Ben peered with sudden interest into her face. "What's troubling you,
Bee?" he asked gently. "You're pale as a ghost."
"I'm not feeling overly well." Her eyes dropped before his gaze. "I'm
not hungry--at all. But it's nothing to worry about--"
She saw by his eyes that he _was_ worrying; yet it was evident that he
had not the slightest suspicion of the real cause of the sudden pallor
in her cheeks. She saw his face cloud and his eyes darken; and again she
heard that faint, small voice of remorse--whispering deep in her heart's
heart. He was always so considerate of her, this jailer of hers. His
concern was always so real and deep. Yet in a moment more the kindly
sympathy would be gone from his face. He would be lying very still--and
his face would be even more pale than hers.
Listlessly she walked to the door of the cave, procuring a handful of
dried red-root leaves that she used for tea. Through the cavern opening
he saw her drop them into the bucket that served as their teapot.
Then she came back for the oiled, cloth bag that contained the last of
their sugar. This was always one of her little kindnesses,--to sweeten
his tea for him before she brought it to him. He began to eat his steak.
In one glance the girl saw that he was wholly unsuspecting. He trusted
her; in their weeks together he had lost all fear of treachery from her.
There he was, exulting over the frugal lunch she had prepared, with no
inkling of the deadly peril that even now was upon him. She wished he
did not trust her so completely; it would be easier for her if he was
just a little wary, a little more on guard.
She felt cold all over. She could hardly keep from shivering. But this
was the moment of trial; the thing would be done in a moment more. She
mustn't give way yet to the growing weakness in her muscles. She walked
to the vine where she had left the potion.
How much of it there was--it seemed to have doubled in quantity since
she had left it. A handful of the black berries meant death--certain as
the sunrise--but what did half a handful mean? The question came to her
again. How did she know that half a handful did not mean death too,--not
just hours of slumber, but relentless and irremediable death! Would that
be the end of her day's work--to see this tall, friendly warden of hers
lying dead before her gaze, the laughter gone from his lips and the
light faded from his eyes? She would be free then to strip the shell
belt from his waist. He would never waken to prevent her. She could
escape too--back to her father's home--and leave him in the cave.
All that he had told her concerning his war with her father recurred to
her in one vivid flash. Could it have been that he had told the
truth--that her father and his followers had been the attackers in the
beginning? She had never believed him fully; but could it be that he was
in the right? His claim had been invaded, he said, and his one friend
murdered in cold blood. Was this not cause enough, by the code of the
North, for a war of reprisal?
But even as these thoughts came to her, she had walked boldly to the
fire and emptied the contents of the cup into the boiling water in the
teapot. Ben would have only had to look up to see her do it. Yet still
he did not suspect.
She waited an instant, steadying herself for the ordeal to come. Then
she took the pot off the fire and poured the hot contents into the cup
that had just held the potion. She had been careful not to put enough
water into the pot to weaken the drink. The cup brimmed; but none was
left. She brought it steaming to Ben's side.
No kindly root tripped her feet as she entered, no merciful unsteadiness
caused her to drop this cup of death and spill its contents.
"Thanks, Beatrice." Ben looked up, smiling. "I'm a brute to let you fix
my tea when you are feeling so bad. But I sure am grateful, if that
helps any--"
His voice sounded far away, like a voice in a nightmare. "It's pretty
strong, I'm afraid," she told him. "The leaves weren't very good, and I
boiled them too long. I'm afraid you'll find it bitter."
"I'll drink it, if it's bitter as gall," he assured her, "after your
kindness to fix it."
His hand reached and seized the handle of the cup. Even now--_now_--he
was raising it to his lips. In an instant more he would be pouring it
down his throat, too considerate of her to admit its unwholesome taste,
drinking it down though it tasted the potion of death that it was! The
hair seemed to start on her head.
Then she seemed to writhe as in a convulsion. Her voice rose in a
piercing scream. "Ben--_Ben_--_don't drink it_!" she cried. "God have
mercy on my soul!"
But with that utterance a strength surpassing that of sinew and muscle
returned to her. She reached and knocked the cup from his hand; and its
black contents, like dark blood, stained the sandy floor of the cavern.
Ben's first thought was curiously not of his own narrow escape, but was
rather in concern for Beatrice. Whether or not he had actually
swallowed any of the liquor in the cup he did not know; nor did he give
the matter a thought. He was aware of only the terror-stricken girl
before him, her face deathly white and her eyes starting and wide. He
leaped to his feet.
Fearing that she was about to faint he steadied her with his hand. The
echo of her scream died in the cavern, the cup rolled on the floor and
came to a standstill against the wall; but still she made no sound, only
gazing as if entranced. But slowly, as he steadied her, the blessed
tears stole into her eyes and rolled down her white cheeks; and once
more breath surged into her lungs.
"Never mind, Beatrice," the man was saying, his deep, rough voice gentle
as a woman's. "Don't cry--please don't cry--just forget all about it.
Let's go over to your hammock and rest awhile."
With a strong arm he guided her to her cot, and smiling kindly, pushed
her down into it. "Just take it easy," he advised. "And forget all about
it. You'll be all right in a minute."
"But you don't understand--you don't know--what I tried to do--"
"No matter. Tell me after a while, if you want to. Don't tell me at all
if you'd rather not. I'm going back to my lunch." He laughed, trying to
bring her to herself. "I wouldn't miss that caribou steak for
anything--even though I can't have my tea. Just lay down a while, and
rest."
His rugged face lighted as he smiled, kindly and tolerantly, and then he
turned to go. But her solemn voice arrested him.
"Wait, Ben. I want you to know--now--so you won't trust me again--or
give me another chance. The cup--was poisoned."
But the friendly light did not yet wane in his eyes. "I didn't think it
was anything very good--the way you knocked it out of my hand. We'll
just pretend it was very bad tea--and let it go at that."
"No. It was nightshade--it might have killed you." She spoke in a flat,
lifeless voice. "I didn't want it to kill you--I just wanted to give you
enough to put you to sleep--so I could take your rifle shells and throw
them away--but I was willing to let you drink it, even if it _did_ kill
you."
The man looked at her, in infinite compassion, then came and sat beside
her in the hammock. Rather quietly he took one of her hands and gazed at
it, without seeing it, a long time. Then he pressed it to his lips.
For a breath he held it close to his cheek, his eyes lightless and far
away, and she gazed at him in amazement.
"You'd kiss my hand--after what I did--?"
"After what you _didn't_ do," he corrected. "Please, Beatrice--don't
blame yourself. Some way--I understand things better--than I used to.
Even if you had killed me--I don't see why it wouldn't have been your
right. I've held you here by force. Yet you didn't let me drink the
stuff. You knocked it out of my hand."
And now, for the first time, an inordinate amazement came into his face.
He looked at her intently, yet with no unfriendliness, no passion.
Rather it was with overwhelming wonder.
"_You knocked it out of my hands_!" he repeated, more loudly. "Oh,
Beatrice--it's my turn to beg forgiveness now! When I was at your mercy,
and the cup at my lips--you spared me. Why did you do it, Beatrice?"
He gazed at her with growing ardor. She shook her head. She simply did
not know the reason.
"It's not your place to feel penitent," he told her, with infinite
sincerity. "If you had let me take it, you'd have just served me
right--you'd have just paid me back in my own coin. It was fair
enough--to use every advantage you had. Good Lord, have you forgotten
that I am holding you here by force? But instead--you saved me, when you
might have killed me--and won the fight. All you've done is to show
yourself the finer clay--that's what you've done. God knows I suppose
the woman is always finer clay than the man--yet it comes with a jolt,
just the same. It's not for you to be down-hearted--Heaven knows the
strength you've shown is above any I ever had, or ever will have. You've
shown how to feel mercy--I could never show anything but hate, and
revenge. You've shown me a bigger and stronger code than mine. And
there's nothing--nothing I can say."
The tone changed once more to the personal and solicitous. "But it's
been a big strain on you--I can see that. I believe I'd lie here and
rest awhile if I were you. I'll eat my dinner--and the fire's about out
too. That's the girl--Beatrice."
Gently he picked her up, seemingly with no physical effort and laid her
in her hammock. "Then--you'll forgive me?" she asked brokenly.
"Good Heavens, I wish there was something to forgive--so we'd be a
little more even. But you've accomplished something, Beatrice--and I
don't know what it is yet--I only know you've changed me--and softened
me--as I never dreamed any one in the world could. Now go to sleep."
He turned from her, but the food on the table no longer tempted him. For
a full hour he stood before the ashes of the fire, deeply and
inextricably bewildered with himself, with life, and with all these
thoughts and hopes and regrets that thronged him. He was like ashes now
himself; the fires of his life seemed burned out. The thought recalled
him to the need of cutting fuel for the night's fire.
He might be able to quiet the growing turmoil in his brain when the
still shadows of the spruce closed around him. He seized his axe, then
peered into the cave. Beatrice, worn out by the stress of the hour
before and immensely comforted by Ben's words, was already deeply
asleep. His rifle leaned against the wall of the cavern, and he put it
in the hollow of his arm. It was not that he feared Beatrice would
attempt to procure it. The act was mostly habit, combined with the fact
that their supply of meat was all but exhausted and he did not wish to
miss any opportunity for big game.
The forest was particularly gloomy to-day. Its shadows lay deep. And
this was not merely the result of his own darkened outlook: glancing up,
he saw that clouds were gathering in the sky. They would need fuel in
plenty to keep the fire bright to-night. Evidently rain was
impending,--one of those cold, steady downpours that are disliked so
cordially by the folk of the upper Selkirks.
He went a full two hundred yards before he found a tree to his liking.
It was a tough spruce of medium height and just at the edge of the
stream. He laid his rifle down, leaning it against a fallen log; then
began his work.
It was an awkward place to stand; but he gave no thought to it. His mind
dwelt steadily on the events in the cavern of the hour before; the
girl's remorse in the instant that she had him at her mercy and the
example it set for him. The blade bit into the wood with slow
encroachments. Perhaps the expenditure of brute energy in swinging the
axe would relieve his pent-up feelings.
He was not watching his work. His blows struck true from habit. Now the
tree was half-severed: it was time to cut on the opposite side. Suddenly
his axe crashed into yielding, rotten wood.
Instantly the powers of the wilderness took their long-awaited toll. Ben
had been unwary, too absorbed by his swirling thoughts to mark the
ambush of death that had been prepared for him. Ever to keep watch, ever
to be on guard: such is the first law of the wild; and Ben had
disregarded it. Half of the tree had been rotten, changing the direction
of its fall and crashing it down before its time.
Ben leaped for his life, instinctively aiming for the shelter of the log
against which he had inclined his rifle; but the blow came too soon. He
was aware only of the rush of air as he leaped, an instant's hovering at
the crest of a depthless chasm, then the sense of a mighty, resistless
blow hurling him into infinity.
Ben's rifle, catching the full might of the blow, was broken like a
match. Ben himself was crushed to earth as beneath a meteor, the branchy
trunk shattering down upon his stalwart form like the jaws of a great
trap. He uttered one short, half-strangled cry.
Then the darkness, shot with varied and multiple lights, dropped over
him. The noise of the falling tree died away; the forest-dwellers
returned to their varied activities. The rain clouds deepened and spread
above his motionless form.