Breakfast was over and, although Jimmy would have liked another bannock,
he got up and strapped on his pack. Deering needed the bannock, for
flour was running out. A fire burned on the stone hearth and the little
shack in a corner of the rocks was warm. Jimmy did not want to leave it,
but he knew he must, and the Indian waited for him to start.
They had not killed a deer and although they had shot two or three blue
grouse a blue grouse is not large. Sometimes one can knock down a little
willow grouse with a stick, but the willow grouse had recently vanished
and the Indian had caught nothing in his snares. In fact, it looked as
if all the birds and animals had gone south. Jimmy had eaten salmon
until he loathed the battered fish, but the salmon had begun to die.
"Your load's not big," said Deering, "Have you put up all the food you
need?"
"I've got all the food I'm going to take," Jimmy rejoined. "I can load
up at Kelshope, but you must wait until I get back."
"Oh, well; but since I know the bush and might make better time, you
ought to let me go."
"You're obstinate," said Jimmy. "I know Jardine and we want his help."
"That is so," said Deering and gave him his hand. "Anyhow, you have got
the Indian and I expect he'll hit the shortest line. I wish you luck."
Jimmy pulled up his pack and set off. Speed was important, for he
imagined he had left Deering a larger supply of food than the other
knew. Since he was going to Kelshope, he could get fresh supplies, but
Deering could not. Yet if he was longer than he calculated, it would be
awkward. Jimmy felt lonely and rather daunted. The shack was small and
rude, but the bark walls kept out the wind and in the cold evenings he
had liked to sit by the snapping fire.
Now the trackless wilderness was in front, and he must get across before
his food was gone. He did get across, but he imagined the Indian's
inherited talents accounted for his doing so. Jimmy himself did not know
much about the journey. When he thought about it afterwards, he dully
pictured the fatigue and strain, the sharpening pinch of hunger and the
stern effort to push on.
At length they came down the rocks one morning and saw his clearing in
the distance. Jimmy gave the Indian all the food he had, and telling him
to camp at the ranch, started for Jardine's. He was hungry and for a day
or two his side had hurt. Sometimes he was faint, and when he crossed a
stony belt he stumbled awkwardly. For all that, in the evening he
reached the split-rail fence at Kelshope.
Jimmy knew how one pulled out the bars, but they baffled him and he
knocked down the crossed supports. In front of the house he stopped, for
a flickering light shone from the window and he saw Margaret sewing by
the fire. His broken boots and torn clothes embarrassed him, but he
braced up and went to the door.
Margaret put down her sewing and her look was rather strained. Jimmy
leaned against the table and gave her an apologetic smile. His hair was
long, his beard had begun to grow and his face was pinched. His ragged
clothes looked slack and although he had given the Indian his blanket,
his shoulders were bent from weariness.
"Oh, Mr. Leyland!" Margaret exclaimed in a pitiful voice.
"To my friends, I'm Jimmy," he rejoined. "To know you and your father
are my friends is some comfort, because I'm going to use your
friendship. Besides, I rather think I don't look like Mr. Leyland."
Margaret's voice was gentle and she said, "Very well, Jimmy! But where
have you come from?"
"I started, about a week since, from our bark shack across the range,
but I don't know much about it. The Indian's at my ranch and can hold
out until the morning. I want to borrow some cartridges and food."
"Why of course!" said Margaret and indicated a chair. "I'll get supper
ready. Father's at the depot, but we won't wait for him."
Jimmy got into the chair; for he imagined he did not sit down
gracefully. The deerskin was soft and his head went back against the
rail. Now he was not forced to keep going, he knew he was very tired.
Margaret began to move about and by and by he asked: "Can't I help?"
Margaret looked up with a smile. "No, Jimmy. I have not much use for the
help you could give."
Jimmy was satisfied to rest. He was dull, but he liked to see Margaret
break up the fire and carry about the plates. She was very graceful and
he knew her sympathetic, but this was not all. After the lonely bush,
the ranch kitchen, lighted by the snapping flames, was like home. When
supper was ready it cost him something of an effort to pull around his
chair, and then for a time he tried to conquer his savage appetite. When
one was opposite an attractive girl one did not eat like a wolf.
Margaret knew the bush and smiled.
"Isn't the food good? I really think I can cook."
"My notion is, the best hotel cook in Canada could not serve a supper
like yours."
"Very well," said Margaret "If you are polite, you will annoy me. What
did you eat in the bush?"
"Salmon! When I see a river, I want to go the other way."
"Oh!" said Margaret "You ate salmon now?"
"When they began to float up on the stones, we stopped," Jimmy replied.
Margaret was moved. She knew the trackless bush sometimes was cruel and
all who felt its lure did not return. Sometimes one, crossing a creek,
lost a load of food, and sometimes one's rifle jambed. Then, if the
march to the settlements were long, one starved. Jimmy had not starved,
but he was worn and thin.
"The coffee's very good; may I have some more?" he resumed. "We used
green tea, because it's light and goes far; but I mustn't bother you
about our housekeeping. Do you know if the police have brought back the
game warden?"
"They arrived some time since and put Douglas on the cars. A doctor went
with him----"
"Then he's alive?" said Jimmy, with keen relief.
"He was badly hurt, but that is all I know," Margaret replied. "Nobody
was allowed to see him----" She stopped and resumed with some
hesitation: "Mr. Stannard's packers stated----"
Jimmy gave her a steady glance. "It looks as if I shot Douglas; in the
dark, I thought him a deer. You did not imagine I meant to hurt the
man?"
"I know you did not," said Margaret in a quiet voice.
"Very well. I must tell you all I know, but I'll wait until your father
arrives. Perhaps he'll see a fresh light. Sometimes I'm puzzled----"
"You mustn't bother to talk," said Margaret. "Turn your chair to the
fire and take a smoke."
Jimmy pulled out his tobacco pouch and frowned. Margaret saw the pouch
was flat and took a plug of tobacco from a shelf.
"Wait a moment; don't get up," she said and began to cut the plug.
For a few moments Jimmy watched her with dull satisfaction. She cut the
tobacco in thin, even slices; Jimmy had remarked before that all
Margaret did was properly done. Although it was nearly dark, she had not
got a light, and red and yellow reflections from the logs played about
the room. Sometimes her eyes and hair shone and her face stood out
against a background of shadow. Jimmy thought the picture charming and
when it melted he waited for the flames to leap again, but by and by it
got indistinct.
"Give me your pouch," said Margaret and he tried to push it across.
The pouch fell from the table and his pipe went down. His head leaned to
one side and found the chair rail, and he knew nothing more.
Margaret heard his sigh and was quiet. Now sleep smoothed out the marks
of strain and fatigue, Jimmy's look was boyishly calm. He moved her to
pity, but he moved her to trust. Margaret was not a raw, romantic girl;
she knew the Canadian cities and she had studied men. If Jimmy had,
indeed, shot the agent, a strange blunder accounted for his doing so,
but Margaret doubted. She had some grounds to think the shot another's.
Then she got up quietly and carried off the plates.
Some time afterwards Jardine came in and, seeing Jimmy, stopped and
turned to Margaret. It was typical that he said nothing, but his glance
was keen. Margaret smiled and in a low voice narrated all she knew.
Jardine nodded, and sitting down, waited until Jimmy's head slipped from
the chair rail and the jerk woke him up. He looked about as if he were
puzzled, and then said, "Hello, Mr. Jardine! I didn't understand your
sitting opposite me. I expect I was asleep."
"Sure thing," Jardine agreed with a twinkle. "We have sortit the bit
back room for ye and ye had better go to bed."
"I'm not going yet," said Jimmy. "I want a smoke, but my tobacco's run
out."
Margaret gave him his pouch and he smiled, "The tobacco's yours, sir.
Miss Jardine is very kind. Well, I reckoned on her kindness, because I
want to borrow a quantity of truck, but we'll talk about this again. Do
you know where Stannard is?"
"Stannard and his daughter are at the hotel," Jardine replied and looked
at Jimmy rather hard. "Maybe he feels he ought to stay until the police
have settled who shot warden Douglas."
"But Stannard had nothing to do with it," Jimmy replied.
"He was leader o' your party and, in a way, accountable. Maybe ye ken
Okanagan started for the bush soon after ye went?"
"I didn't know," said Jimmy with some surprise. "Bob claimed he hadn't a
gun and I think he had not. Sometimes I'm puzzled, but I really think
the unlucky shot was mine."
"The packers allood it was yours, although they werena sure how many
shots they heard. Can ye locate the others' stands?"
"I tried, afterwards. In the evenings when we camped in the woods I
speculated about the accident," said Jimmy, and pulling out a few small
objects arranged them to indicate the spots the sportsmen had occupied.
"If you will imagine the table's the clearing, Bob posted us something
like this. Well, I expect the warden was going straight for my stand
behind the stump."
"Ye're thinking aboot the bullet mark in front," said Jardine. "The
packers telt me aboot it. Did ye see the other mark?"
"I did not," said Jimmy with a shiver. "When we carried Douglas to the
house I'd had enough. But I don't see where you lead."
"If the mark at the back was at the middle, he was going straight for
you. Weel, I'll take a smoke----"
He knitted his brows and for some minutes quietly studied Jimmy's plan
of the clearing. Then he said, "It's no' as plain as it looks, but the
packers reckoned two o' the police who went in with the doctor were
pretty good bushmen. We dinna ken what they think. Anyhow, ye're going
to sleep and ought to go to bed."
Jimmy went and Jardine resumed his study. Margaret left him alone. In
Scotland her father was a poacher; in the Canadian woods his rifle
supplied the ranch with meat. One could trust his judgment about
shooting. By and by he looked up.
"If Jimmy has fixed their stands right, it's possible he shot Douglas
and he reckons he did so. That's something; but he has a kind o' notion
he heard another shot. Weel, the lad's a tenderfoot. Maybe he was
excited and did not hold straight."
"_Bob_ would not get excited and he can hit a jumping deer," said
Margaret.
Jardine nodded meaningly. "I've thought aboot Bob! The warden was after
him and he lit oot. There's the puzzle for the police; three o' the
party quit!"
"Mr. Deering went because he is Jimmy's friend," said Margaret.
"Just that! Ye can trust the big fellow," Jardine agreed. "Then, if he
was where Jimmy puts him, he didna shoot. Stannard stopped and it looks
as if he had nothing to do wi' it; but I dinna ken. Stannard's no' a man
ye can reckon up, and a line from his stand would cut the warden's
track."
"But the bullet mark----"
Jardine smiled. "Jimmy, and maybe the trooper lad, would think that
fixed it, but he didna look where the bullet _cam' oot_. I wonder if
Stannard looked."
"Bob is accountable," said Margaret obstinately.
"Verra weel. Bob's in the rocks. Are ye for tracking the man?"
"By and by he must come down for food. When he does come down we'll try
to find him."
"Bob's a good bushman," Jardine remarked. "I alloo the police will not
hit his trail, but maybe he will not bother to watch out for us----" He
stopped and gave Margaret a thoughtful look when he resumed: "Bob would
reckon to find out who shot Douglas is no' our job."
"The job is ours," said Margaret quietly, but Jardine thought the blood
came to her skin. She, however, got up and when she had put out the
plates for breakfast went to bed.
In the morning Jardine gave Jimmy boots and clothes, and two days
afterwards loaded him with all the supplies he would carry. After
breakfast Jimmy strapped on his pack, but when he was ready to go he
hesitated. The loghouse was warm and home-like, and for two days he had
rested and enjoyed Margaret's society. Now he must plunge into the
wilds, he frowned. The snow was creeping down the rocks and a cold wind
wailed in the dark pine-tops. Then Jimmy turned to his hosts and forced
a smile.
"You have given me all I needed; I knew you would see me out."
"Sure thing," said Jardine. "In the bush, your friends' job is to see ye
oot."
"You are useful friends," Jimmy replied with a touch of emotion. "All
the same, I feel I ought not to bother you; I ought to start for the
railroad and give myself up to the police. If Douglas was hurt by my
carelessness, I ought to pay."
"You mustn't go yet," said Margaret firmly. "You don't altogether know
the carelessness was yours, and perhaps it was not. Somehow I think we
will find out."
"Ah," said Jimmy, "if you do find out the shot wasn't mine---- But I
doubt and the doubt weighs on me."
Margaret smiled and gave him her hand. "Brace up and trust your luck!
Stop in the mountains until we send for you. Perhaps we will send for
you sooner than you think."
Jimmy went down the path and joined the waiting Indian. He was
comforted, and when he plunged into the woods his moodiness was gone.
Margaret went back into the house and Jardine said in a thoughtful
voice, "Ye kind o' engaged ye'd send for the lad; but until ye satisfy
the police he's no' their man, he canna come back."
"That is so. The thing is rather obvious," Margaret agreed and smiled.
"However, since I did engage to send for Jimmy, I must try to make
good."