SHELTERING ARMS
Having closed the cabin door, Dane stepped into his snow-shoes, slung
his pack over his shoulders, and started forth after the slashers. He
carried his gun in his hand that he might be ready for any emergency.
It was not hard to follow the trail, and the travelling much easier
than when out upon the river. Although he moved rapidly forward, he
was keenly alert to every sight and sound. How far the rebels would go
without camping he had no idea. He knew that at times they travelled
all night and slept by day. If they intended to do so now it would be
necessary for him to exert every effort in order to overtake them. He
was well aware that as a rule they did not travel fast, being too
indolent and lazy, so in this lay his only hope of outstripping the
villains.
His course lay through the heart of a large forest, straight overland,
and north of where the Loyalists were encamped on the A-jem-sek. Up
hill and down he sped, pausing not for an instant, with powerful
swinging strides that would have tested even Pete's great endurance.
That he had been travelling since early morning, with the exception of
his brief stay at the cabin, seemed to make no difference to him.
Davidson had made no mistake in choosing such a man as his chief ranger.
Hour after hour he sped onward through the silent, sombre forest. The
wind increased in violence, and the trees swayed and creaked as the
tempest tore through their branches. The storm was not far off, and
might burst at any minute.
Reaching at length the summit of a hill, he paused to eat some of the
cold meat and a piece of the bread Old Mammy had given him that
morning. He was about to continue his journey when the report of a gun
rang through the forest. The sound issued from valley below, reminding
him that the slashers must be quite near. Cautiously now he moved down
the hill, peering keenly ahead, not knowing what to expect next. In a
few minutes a glimmer of light filtered among the trees, showing that
the rebels were camped by a little brook which ran through the valley.
As he slowly advanced, the light became brighter, until presently a
blazing camp-fire burst upon his eyes. Around this the slashers were
ringed, jabbering and quarrelling in an excited manner. What they were
saying Dane could not tell, but as he crept nearer, moving from tree to
tree, he saw a human body lying in the snow a short distance from the
fire. That it was one of the slashers he felt certain, and the
explanation of the shot he had heard. He was not surprised at this,
for he knew a great deal about the brutal and inhuman nature of these
creatures. They disgusted him, and he was more determined than ever to
round them up and put an end to their lawless career. There before him
was almost the last of the gang which for years had proven such a
menace to the country, and interfered with the King's mast-cutters.
That this was a final desperate effort on their part he was sure. He
was very glad to be on hand to confound them in their undertaking.
Leaving the slashers to their own devices, he doubled back upon the
trail for a short distance, plunged off into the deep snow, encircled
the camp, and at length came upon the trail farther ahead. He
travelled slower now, as there was no special hurry. He believed that
the slashers would remain in the valley for some time, and perhaps wait
for dawn before continuing their march.
After awhile he came to the valley where stood the cabin from which he
had fled several years before. He knew every foot of the place, for
here he had often come with his mother. This was her favorite walk,
and he recalled how fond she was of watching him as he played among the
trees and by the little brook. He understood now something of what it
must have meant to such a woman to live for years in the wilderness,
cut off from all social life of which she had been so fond, and meeting
no one of her own sex except the few Indian women who occasionally
visited the house.
A strong feeling of resentment rose up in Dane's heart against his
father who had submitted so noble a woman to such a living death. It
had not been his intention to go near the house from which he had been
driven. But now a great longing came upon him to descend the valley
and view the building at close quarters. Was his father sitting alone
there? he wondered, and did he ever think with any degree of fondness
of his outcast son?
Drawn by an overmastering impulse he moved rapidly down the valley.
Before reaching the clearing where the cabin stood, he turned aside,
ascended the right bank, and stopped at length beneath a great pine.
Here was a wooden cross, and as Dane stood and looked upon it his eyes
grew misty with tears. He remembered, as if it were but yesterday, the
morning he and his father had borne hither the frail body of the one
who had been everything to him. She had requested that this should be
her last resting-place where the storms of winter could not reach the
spot, and where the wind would make music in the trees overhead. The
day was very bright when they laid her there, and the birds were
singing and twittering about them. But for him there was no sunshine,
for his heart was almost breaking with grief. He knew that his father
felt badly, too, for his voice faltered as he began to read the Burial
Service. The grave was covered with snow now, and he wondered if his
father ever visited the place. But had the ground been bare, he would
have known. The well-worn path leading from the house to the grave
would have told its own tale. The big pine knew, and if endowed with
the power of human speech it would have told how every day during the
summer a lonely man came to that spot and covered the grave with fresh
wild flowers, sometimes remaining for hours, often with tears coursing
down his cheeks. Had the young man known of this he would not have
felt so bitter toward the one who had treated him so harshly.
Leaving at length the spot which was so sacred to him, Dane came to the
edge of the clearing. Here he stopped and looked intently at the cabin
before him. A light shone through the little window, and he heard
sounds of voices within. Then he started and hurried swiftly forward,
for loud, coarse oaths fell upon his ears. What he had feared was
actually happening. The rebels from the north were there awaiting the
coming of the others from the Washademoak. His father, then, had not
changed. Would he lead the slashers against the mast-cutters? he
wondered. The latter must be warned of their danger, but how could he
go out with them and fight against his own father? The thought brought
the perspiration in beads to his forehead. What would his mother say
and think were she alive?
At first he was tempted to go to the house and peer upon the group
within. He banished this idea, however, as he did not wish to see his
father in the midst of the miserable slashers. He accordingly swung
around to the back of the house and entered upon the trail leading to
the river beyond. He paused but once to look back and to listen to the
sounds issuing from the cabin. Then, with a troubled mind, he
continued on his way.
He had not proceeded far when the storm swept upon him. This affected
him but little now, for he was thinking of his father and the days when
his mother was alive. Old memories came back to him, aroused by the
familiar scenes he had just left behind. His was a nature in which
sentiment played a large part. This was somewhat due to his early
training when his mother had thrilled him with stories of England's
greatness, and the glory of the cross-marked flag. She had also taught
him to respect womanhood, and she never wearied of talking to him about
the beautiful and noble women she had known and loved in her early
days. She also sang sweet, homely songs of love and gallant deeds.
All these had influenced him, and made an abiding impression upon his
life. It was little wonder, then, that his thoughts were sad as he
turned his back upon the rebel-infested cabin which for so many years
had been his happy home, and around which such fond associations
lingered.
Whenever Dane thought of his mother, Jean Sterling always came into his
mind. This was but natural, as they were the only two women he had
ever loved. One could never come back to him, but the other was
somewhere in the country, and he must find her. He longed for Pete
that he might send him in search of Sam. He thought much about what
the dying slasher had told him, and he was firmly convinced that the
girl was with the loyal Indian.
The travelling was becoming heavier now, and the storm increasing in
violence. But still he pressed on, up hill and down, over wind-swept
lakes, and bleak stretches of wild meadows. But for the importance of
his mission he would have sought the shelter of a friendly clump of
bushes, and camped for the night. He had often done so in the past,
for he could sleep as comfortably curled up in a nest of fir boughs
with the snow weaving its mystic web over him as on a soft bed. But
not to-night could he afford to tarry. Too much was at stake, so he
must hasten on, no matter how fierce the storm or how hard the trail.
His attention was at length arrested by recently-made marks in the
snow. He was woodsman enough to understand that some one was
travelling that way, evidently under considerable difficulty. Several
times he stopped to examine where the wayfarer had floundered about in
the snow in desperate efforts to regain the trail. He wondered who it
could be, so he hurried forward hoping to overtake the struggling man,
for the thought of a woman never once entered his mind.
He had gone but half a mile when he came to a place where the traveller
had left the trail and gone off to the right. He stood debating with
himself whether to follow or not, when the sound of a human voice
mingled with the roaring of the wind. What was said he could not
distinguish, although he was certain that it was a call for help.
Hesitating no longer, he surged rapidly forward, keeping careful watch
upon the crooked tracks. Someone was in need, he was certain, who had
become bewildered, lost the trail, and in despair had uttered a wild
cry for help. Such cases were not uncommon, especially in winter,
where men had perished, and the great forest had never revealed the
secrets.
In a few minutes his keen eyes caught sight of something huddled at the
foot of a lordly tree. That it was a human form he was sure, and as he
stepped forward a great cry of surprise leaped from his lips. Like one
almost bereft of his senses he sprang toward the girl, caught her in
his arms, and looked into her white face.
"Jean! Jean!" he passionately cried. "Don't you know me, your own
Dane? Open your eyes, and speak to me!"
Slowly, as if coming out of a troubled dream, the girl opened her eyes,
and stared into her lover's face.
"Don't look at me that way," he pleaded. "Don't you know me? It is
Dane."
Then he kissed her again, and again, beseeching her, and calling upon
her to speak.
Gradually the light of understanding dawned in Jean's eyes. At first
she imagined it was but a happy dream from which she would shortly
awaken. But as those strong arms held her firm, and that loved face
remained close to hers, she knew that in very truth it was her own
Dane. Her lips parted in a glad smile, and reaching out her arms, she
impulsively twined them about his neck.
"Dane! Dane!" she murmured. "How did you find me? Thank God, you
came in time."
Like a tired child she rested in his sheltering arms, and gave herself
up completely to his protecting care. The wind continued to roar, and
the great trees rocked and swayed. But the reunited lovers paid no
heed to the raging of the elements. They were together again, and
nothing else mattered.