It was six o’clock when Jen drew rein in the yard at Galbraith’s Place.
Through the dank humours of the darkest time of the night she had
watched the first grey streaks of dawn appear. She had caught her breath
with fear at the thought that, by some accident, she might not get back
before seven o’clock, the hour when her father rose. She trembled also
at the supposition of Sergeant Tom awaking and finding his papers gone.
But her fearfulness and excitement was not that of weakness, rather that
of a finely nervous nature, having strong elements of imagination, and,
therefore, great capacities for suffering as for joy; but yet elastic,
vigorous, and possessing unusual powers of endurance. Such natures
rebuild as fast as they are exhausted. In the devitalising time
preceding the dawn she had felt a sudden faintness come over her for a
moment; but her will surmounted it, and, when she saw the ruddy streaks
of pink and red glorify the horizon, she felt a sudden exaltation of
physical strength. She was a child of the light, she loved the warm
flame of the sun, the white gleam of the moon. Holding in her horse to
give him a five minutes’ rest, she rose in her saddle and looked round.
She was alone in her circle of vision, she and her horse. The long
hillocks of prairie rolled away like the sea to the flushed morning,
and the far-off Cypress Hills broke the monotonous skyline of the south.
Already the air was dissipated of its choking weight, and the vast
solitude was filling with that sense of freedom which night seems to
shut in as with four walls, and day to widen gloriously. Tears sprang to
her eyes from a sudden rush of feeling; but her lips were smiling.
The world was so different from what it was yesterday. Something had
quickened her into a glowing life.
Then she urged the horse on, and never halted till she reached home. She
unsaddled the animal that had shared with her the hardship of the
long, hard ride, hobbled it, and entered the house quickly. No one was
stirring. Sergeant Tom was still asleep. This she saw, as she hurriedly
passed in and laid the cap and cloak where she had found them. Then,
once again, she touched the brow of the sleeper with her lips, and went
to her room to divest herself of Val’s clothes. The thing had been done
without anyone knowing of her absence. But she was frightened as she
looked into the mirror. She was haggard, and her eyes were bloodshot.
Eight hours or nearly in the saddle, at ten miles an hour, had told
on her severely; as well it might. Even a prairie-born woman, however,
understands the art and use of grooming better than a man. Warm water
quickly heated at the gas, with a little acetic acid in it, used
generally for her scouring,--and then cold water with oatmeal flour,
took away in part the dulness and the lines in the flesh. But the eyes!
Jen remembered the vial of tincture of myrrh left by a young Englishman
a year ago, and used by him for refreshing his eyes after a drinking
bout. She got it, tried the tincture, and saw and felt an immediate
benefit. Then she made a cup of strong green tea, and in ten minutes was
like herself again. Now for the horse. She went quickly out where she
could not be seen from the windows of the house, and gave him a rubbing
down till he was quite dry. Then she gave him a little water and some
feed. The horse was really the touchstone of discovery. But Jen trusted
in her star. If the worst came she would tell the tale. It must be told
anyway to Sergeant Tom--but that was different now. Even if the thing
became known it would only be a thing to be teased about by her father
and others, and she could stop that. Poor girl, as though that was the
worst that was to come from her act!
Sergeant Tom slept deeply and soundly. He had not stirred. His breathing
was unnaturally heavy, Jen thought, but, no suspicion of foul play
came to her mind yet. Why should it? She gave herself up to a sweet and
simple sense of pride in the deed she had done for him, disturbed but
slightly by the chances of discovery, and the remembrance of the match
that showed her face at Archangel’s Rise. Her hands touched the flaxen
hair of the soldier, and her eyes grew luminous. One night had stirred
all her soul to its depths. A new woman had been born in her. Val was
dear to her--her brother Val; but she realised now that another had come
who would occupy a place that neither father, nor brother, nor any other
could fill. Yet it was a most weird set of tragic circumstances. This
man before her had been set to do a task which might deprive her brother
of his life, certainly of his freedom; that would disgrace him; her
father had done a great wrong too, had put in danger the life of the man
she loved, to save his son; she herself in doing this deed for her lover
had placed her brother in jeopardy, had crossed swords with her father’s
purposes, had done the one thing that stood between that father’s son
and safety; Pretty Pierre, whom she hated and despised, and thought
to be the enemy of her brother and of her home, had proved himself a
friend; and behind it all was the brother’s crime committed to avenge an
insult to her name.
But such is life. Men and women are unwittingly their own executioners,
and the executioners of those they love.
V
An hour passed, and then Galbraith and Pierre appeared. Jen noticed
that her father went over to Sergeant Tom and rather anxiously felt his
pulse. Once in the night the old man had come down and done the same
thing. Pierre said something in an undertone. Did they think he was ill?
That was Jon’s thought. She watched them closely; but the half-breed
knew that she was watching, and the two said nothing more to each other.
But Pierre said, in a careless way: “It is good he have that sleep. He
was played out, quite.”
Jon replied, a secret triumph at her heart: “But what about his orders,
the papers he was to carry to Archangel’s Rise? What about his being
back at Fort Desire in the time given him?”
“It is not much matter about the papers. The poor devil that Inspector
Jules would arrest--well, he will get off, perhaps, but that does no
one harm. Eh, Galbraith? The law is sometimes unkind. And as for obeying
orders, why, the prairie is wide, it is a hard ride, horses go wrong;--a
little tale of trouble to Inspector Jules, another at Fort Desire, and
who is to know except Pete Galbraith, Jen Galbraith, and Pierre? Poor
Sergeant Tom. It was good he sleep so.”
Jen felt there was irony behind the smooth words of the gambler. He had
a habit of saying things, as they express it in that country, between
his teeth. That signifies what is animal-like and cruel. Galbraith stood
silent during Pierre’s remarks, but, when he had finished, said:
“Yes, it’s all right if he doesn’t sleep too long; but there’s the
trouble--too long!”
Pierre frowned a warning, and then added, with unconcern: “I remember
when you sleep thirty hours, Galbraith--after the prairie fire, three
years ago, eh!”
“Well, that’s so; that’s so as you say it. We’ll let him sleep till
noon, or longer--or longer, won’t we, Pierre?”
“Yes, till noon is good, or longer.”
“But he shall not sleep longer if I can wake him,” said Jen. “You do not
think of the trouble all this sleeping may make for him.”
“But then--but then, there is the trouble he will make for others, if he
wakes. Think. A poor devil trying to escape the law!”
“But we have nothing to do with that, and justice is justice, Pierre.”
“Eh, well, perhaps, perhaps!” Galbraith was silent.
Jen felt that so far as Sergeant Tom’s papers were concerned he was
safe; but she felt also that by noon he ought to be on his way back to
Fort Desire--after she had told him what she had done. She was anxious
for his honour. That her lover shall appear well before the world, is a
thing deep in the heart of every woman. It is a pride for which she will
deny herself, even of the presence of that lover.
“Till noon,” Jen said, “and then he must go.”