THE MISSING BONDS
The walls of the room seemed the restraining bars of a prison, shutting
her apart from life and the right to love. She lifted the latch and
flung open the door, standing upon the threshold amid the seething
inrush of the storm.
The fine snow felt good against her throbbing temples, and she stared
into the blackness whose whirling chaos voiced the violence of the
heart-storm that raged within her breast. _He_ had conquered the storm!
She shivered as an icy blast sent the snow-powder flying half across
the room, closed the door, and resumed her tireless journey to and fro,
to and fro, and at each turn she glanced at the sleeping man.
She dropped to her knees beside the bunk and looked long into his
rugged face. He, too, had suffered. She remembered the deep hurt in his
eyes at their parting. Yet he was not beaten.
She had sent him from her, heartsick and alone into the great world,
and he had fought and conquered and earned a place among men.
And as the girl looked, her eyes grew tender and the pain in her heart
seemed more than she could bear. When she rose to her feet the savage
hatred was gone from her heart, and in its place was determination--the
determination to win back the love of this man.
She, too, would fight, even as he had fought--and win. He had not been
discouraged and beaten. She remembered the look upon his face as he
strode toward her that morning on the skidway in search of Leduc.
Unconsciously her tiny fists doubled, her delicate white jaw squared,
and her eyes narrowed to slits, even as his had narrowed--but her lips
did not smile.
He was _her_ man! She could give him more than this half-breed girl
could give him, and she would fight to win back her own--that which had
been her own from the first.
Almost at her feet upon the floor, just under the edge of the bunk
where it had been carelessly tossed, lay his mackinaw of coarse,
striped cloth. The girl stooped, drew it forth, and smoothed it out.
"His coat," she breathed almost reverently as she patted its rough
folds. "He took it off and wrapped it around Charlie. Oh, it must have
been terrible--_terrible_!"
She was about to hang it upon its peg when something fell to the floor
with a sharp slap--a long, heavy envelope that had dropped from a
ragged tear in the lining where the men had ripped it from the body of
the boy.
She hung the garment upon its peg and stooped to recover the packet.
The envelope was old, and had evidently been exposed to the action of
water, for the flap gaped open and the edges were worn through at the
ends. Upon one side was tightly bound a photograph, dim and indistinct
from the rub of the coarse cloth.
Her lips tightened at the corners as she stepped to the desk and turned
up the lamp. She would see what manner of girl it was who had scored so
heavily against her in this battle of hearts. She held the picture
close to the yellow flame and stared unbelievingly at the nearly
effaced features.
With a swift movement she tore the encircling cord from the packet and
examined it more closely. Her heart beat wildly, and the blood surged
through her veins in great, joyous waves. For the photograph showed,
not the dark features of the Indian girl, but--_her own_!
Worn almost beyond recognition it was, with corners peeled and rolled
back from the warped and water-thickened mounting--but unmistakably
_her picture_.
"He cares! He does care!" she repeated over and over. "Oh, my boy! My
boy!" And then her eyes fell upon the thick envelope with its worn
edges and open flap which lay unheeded upon the desk-top.
Mechanically she reached for it, and her hand came in contact with its
thick, heavily engraved contents. She raised the papers to the light
and stared; there were five in all, neatly folded, lying one upon
another.
The green background of the topmost one was faded and streaked, and a
thin, green wash had trickled over the edges of the others, staining
them.
A yellow slip of paper fluttered to the desk. She picked it up and read
the almost illegible, typewritten lines. It was a memorandum addressed
to Strang, Liebhardt & Co., and bearing the faded signature of Hiram
Carmody.
A sudden numbness overcame the girl. She sank slowly into the chair in
front of the desk and stared dully from the yellowed slip of paper to
the faded green bonds.
The room seemed suddenly cold, and she stared, unseeing, at her
bloodless finger-tips. She tried to think--to concentrate her mind upon
the present--but her brain refused to act, and she muttered helplessly:
"The bonds--the bonds--he took the bonds!"
Like one in a dream, she arose and replenished the fire in the little
air-tight. It had burned almost to ashes.
She watched the yellow flames lick hungrily at the bubbling pitch of
the knot she had thrown upon the coals, and glanced from the flaring
flames to the little pile of green papers--and back again at the little
flames that climbed higher about the resinous chunk.
"Why not?" she muttered. "They can never prove he took them, and he
would think that they were lost." For a long time she sat, thinking,
and then she closed the stove and returned to the desk.
"I stood by him when his father accused him," she murmured, "when I
thought he was innocent. And now--oh, I can't! I can't give him up!"
Her voice quavered pitifully, and she clutched at the hurt in her
throat.
"I can't!" she gasped again. "He needs me now. He is mine! _Mine!_" she
cried fiercely. "We will work it out together. He was weak then--but
now he is strong. I will tell him that I know, and persuade him to
return them. And then he will be clean--brave and strong and _clean_!"
She started nervously at the sound of a fumbling at the latch. Hastily
catching up the bonds, she thrust them into the bosom of her gown and
turned to face Blood River Jack, who entered, bearing a steaming pail
of broth and a larger pail covered with a clean white cloth.
Behind him Daddy Dunnigan noisily stamped the snow from his feet. The
old man hobbled to the side of the bunk and looked intently into the
face of the sleeper, and, stooping, held his ear close to the man's
heart.
With a satisfied nod he turned to the girl, who stood close by his
side.
"He's shlaypin' foine," he said, and the little red-rimmed eyes looked
straight into the eyes of blue. "But, miss, hear-rt-hunger has kilt
more good min thin belly-hunger--ye'll foind th' _broth_ in yon
buckut."
He joined the half-breed, who waited in silence. At the door he turned
and again addressed the girl.
"In th' big buckut's ye're oun snack. Ate ut befoor ut gits cowld.
Phwin ye're done, wake um up an' make um dhrink some coffee an' all he
c'n howld av th' broth. He's th' bist man in th' woods, an' ut's up to
you to pull um t'rough."
Before the girl could reply the door closed and the two men were
swallowed up in the storm.
Ethel was surprised to find that she was hungry, and the appetizing
luncheon which old Daddy Dunnigan had carefully prepared and packed for
her was soon disposed of.
The hands of the little alarm-clock pointed to two as she crossed and
knelt at the side of the sleeping man. She leaned over and kissed his
forehead--his lips--and whispered softly into his ear.
"Bill--Bill, _dear_."
She blushed at the sound of the word, and glanced hurriedly about the
room, but there was no one to hear, and the man slept on undisturbed by
the tiny whisper. She laid a hand upon his shoulder and shook him
gently.
"Bill--wake up!" He stirred slightly, and a sigh escaped him.
"Come, wake up, dear, you must eat."
This time she did not blush at the word, and the shaking became more
vigorous. Carmody moved uneasily, grunted, and opened his eyes. Ethel
started at the steady gaze of the grey eyes so close to her own. The
grey eyes closed and he passed a hand slowly across them.
"A dream," he muttered, and the girl leaned closer.
"No, Bill," she whispered, "it is not a dream. I am here--Ethel--don't
you know me?"
"Ethel," he repeated, and the name seemed to linger on his lips. "We
must get back to her, kid, she is worrying--come--mush, kid--mush!" The
girl laid a soft hand on his forehead and smoothed back the tangled
hair.
"Bill, dear," she whispered, with her lips close to his, "Charlie is
safe. And you are safe, here in the office--with me."
Bill seemed suddenly to grasp the situation.
"Ethel!" he exclaimed. And then, in a dull, tired voice, "I--I brought
him back to you." His eyes closed, and he turned his face toward the
wall.
Ethel poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, and returning,
seated herself upon the edge of the bunk. Deftly her arm slipped under
his head, and she held the cup to his lips. Bill drank greedily to the
last drop, and the girl filled another cup with broth.
This time he helped a little, and she raised him higher and pillowed
his head against her breast. He sipped the broth hungrily, but very
slowly, pausing a long time between sips.
Ethel's body thrilled at the touch of him, the little hand that held
the cup trembled, and the man, close-pressed against her soft breast,
heard the wild pounding of her heart.
Suddenly he looked up into her eyes. Her face flushed crimson, and the
swift down-sweep of the long lashes hid the soft, blue eyes from the
intense, burning gaze of the hard grey ones. In confusion she averted
her face.
There was a swift movement beside her, and the next instant strong arms
were about her, and she heard, as from afar, the heavy thud as the
porcelain cup struck the floor.
Vainly she struggled in a sudden frenzy of panic to free herself from
the embrace of the encircling arms, and her heart was filled with a
great, passionate gladness at the futility of her tiny efforts as she
felt herself drawn closer and ever closer against the mighty chest of
the big man whom, in spite of herself, and of his own shortcomings and
weaknesses, she loved with the savage abandon that is the wonder-love
of woman. She knew, too, that the deep music in her ears was the sound
of his voice which came in short, stabbing, half-sentences.
"Ethel! Ethel! Little girl--you are mine, mine, _mine_! You _do_ love
me! Darling, better than life itself, I love you. I have always loved
you! Tell me, dear, it was all a lie--about St. Ledger. Tell me you
love me, dearest!"
The bearded lips found hers, and for answer, her struggles ceased, her
body relaxed against his body, her soft arms stole timidly about his
neck, and there was a wild singing in her heart.
"And there has never been another?" she whispered a few minutes later
as she sat close beside him and watched him sip hot broth from the
thick cup. The grey eyes twinkled.
"Don't you _know_, sweetheart, that there has never been another? Why,
you have known me all my life!" But the blue eyes were serious.
"I mean, since--since you went away?" For answer the man raised his arm
and pointed toward the opposite wall.
"Hand me that mackinaw," he said. Ethel gasped and stared at him wide
eyed. "The _mackinaw_--that old striped coat next to the slicker," he
smiled.
"But----" she stifled the protest, and the man wondered at the sudden
pallor of her face.
"Hand it here," he repeated, "there is something I want to show you."
Without a word the girl crossed the room and, removing the mackinaw
from its peg, laid it upon the blanket within reach of his hand. He
drew it to him, and the girl watched in silence while he ran his
fingers over the lining.
He plunged his arm to the elbow into the ragged hole and explored to
the very corners the space between the lining and the cloth. With a
blank expression of disappointment he looked up at her.
"They are gone," he said in a low voice. "My letters and my picture.
_Your_ letters, dear--and _your_ picture----"
"Letters!" the girl gasped, leaning forward and staring into his eyes.
"Why, yes, darling. There were only a few. You wrote them when I was in
Europe. They were all I had--those few little letters, and the
photograph. You remember--the one you gave me----"
"But--I don't understand----"
"I always kept it on my desk at home," he continued, ignoring the
interruption. "And your letters, too--all sealed in a big envelope. And
the morning I went away I bound the picture to the envelope and put it
in my pocket, and I have always kept it with me.
"A thousand times, dear, I have looked at the picture. It has been my
fetish--the little amulet that keeps a man from harm. And whether or
not it has succeeded, dear heart, you must judge for yourself."
"But, the letters--you never took them out--never read them?" The man
was surprised at the intense eagerness of her tone.
"No," he answered, "I never read them. You see, it got to be a sort of
game with me. It was a big game that I played against myself, and when
I was sure I had won I was going to open the letters."
He paused and looked into the girl's eyes. "And then, one day I
happened to read in an old newspaper the account of your engagement to
St. Ledger. I almost lost the game, then--but I didn't. And--after
that--the letters never were the same, and I--I just played the game to
_win_."
There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she clutched at his hand.
"But the bonds?" she cried. The man regarded her with a puzzled look.
"Bonds--bonds--what bonds?"
"Why, the bonds you were to have delivered to Strang, Liebhardt & Co.
Securities, or something."
Bill stared uncomprehendingly, then suddenly he laughed.
"Oh! Those! Why, I handed them over to father. You see, Dad handed it
to me pretty straight that morning. In fact, he--er--fired me. So I
gave him the bonds and----"
The sentence was never finished. With a glad cry the girl flung herself
upon him, and to his unutterable wonder sobbed and sobbed.