"If most on us cud see ourselves as the rest see us, we'd
want to be hermits."--Old Cy Walker.
To trail an enemy who is never without a rifle and the will to use it,
requires courage and Indian cunning as well. Pete Bolduc had both, and
after observing the many signs of a trapper's presence in the swamp,
he knew, after he crossed it and reached this lake, that somewhere on
its shores, his enemy, McGuire, had his lair.
He paused at the outlet, as did Old Cy, to scan every rod of its rocky
shores, not once, but a dozen times.
The sun was now halfway down. A mellow autumn haze softened the
encircling mountains and the broad, frowning peak to the right. A
gentle breeze rippled the upper end of the lake, and here, in the
wild rice growing along its borders, stood a deer, belly-deep in the
green growth.
No thought of the blessed harmony of lake, sky, and forest, or the
sequestered beauty of this spot, came to the half-breed. Revenge and
murder--twin demons of his nature--were in his heart, and the Indian
cunning that made him hide while he watched for signs of his enemy. The
bare peak overlooking the lake soon impressed him as a vantage point, and
after a half-hour of watchful listening he laid his rifle across the
thwart, handy to grasp on the instant, and, seizing his paddle once
more, crossed the lake to the foot of the peak.
To hide his canoe here, ascend this with pack and rifle, was the next
move of this human panther, and here in a sheltering crevasse he lay and
watched for his enemy.
Two hours later, and just at sunset, McGuire returned to the lake.
As usual, he, too, paused at the outlet to scan its shores. He believed
himself utterly secure here, and thought no human being was likely to
find this lakelet. But for all that, he was watchful. Some exploring
lumberman or some pioneer trapper might cross this vast swamp and find
this lake during his absence.
A brief scrutiny assured him that he was still safe from human eyes, and
he crossed the lake.
From the bare cliff a single keen and vengeful eye watched him.
As usual, also, McGuire made his landing at a convenient point, some
fifty rods from his cave, and carried his canoe up and turned it over,
back of a low-jutting ridge of slate. He skinned the half-dozen prizes
his traps had secured that day and followed a shallow defile to his
lair. Here his pelts were stretched, a slab of slate was lifted from
its position in a deep, wide crevasse between two of these ledges, and
McGuire crawled into his den.
Most of these movements were observed by the half-breed, who, watching
ever while he plotted and planned how best to catch his enemy unawares,
saw him emerge from amid the ledges again, go down to the lake, return
with a pail of water, and vanish once more.
All this was a curious proceeding, for he, like Old Cy, had expected to
find McGuire occupying some bark shelter, and even now he supposed there
was one among this confusion of bare rocks.
Another surprise soon came to this distant watcher, for he now saw a thin
column of smoke rise from a ledge and continue in varying volume until
hidden by twilight.
And now, secure in his cave and quite unconscious of the watcher with
murderous intent who had observed his actions, McGuire was enjoying
himself. He had built a little slate fireplace within his cave. A funnel
of the same easily fitted material carried the smoke up to a long,
inch-wide fissure in the roof. He had a table of slate to eat from,
handy by a bed filled with moss and dry grass, also pine knots for
needed light.
Opening into this small cave was a lesser one, always cool and dry, for
no rain nor melting snow could enter it, and here was McGuire's pantry,
and here also a half-dozen tin cans, safely hidden under a slab of slate,
stuffed with gold and banknotes.
To still further protect this inner cave, he had fitted a section of
slate to entirely fill its entrance.
When the last vestige of sunset had vanished and twinkling stars were
reflected from the placid lake, the half-breed descended from his lookout
point, and, launching his canoe, followed close to the shadowed shore
and landed just above where McGuire disembarked. Indian that he was, he
chose the hours of night and darkness to crawl up to the bark shelter
which he expected to find, his intention being to thrust a rifle muzzle
close to his enemy's head and then pull the trigger.
But to do this required a long wait and extreme caution. His enemy
surely had a camp-fire behind a ledge, and shelter as well. The smoke
had seemed to rise out of a ledge, but certainly could not, and so--still
unaware of McGuire's position, yet sure that he was amid these ledges,
and near a shelter--Pete grasped his rifle and crept ashore.
It was too early to surprise his enemy--time to fall asleep must be
allowed. Yet so eager was the half-breed to deal death to him, that he
must needs come here to wait. No chances must be taken when he did crawl
up to his victim, for a false step or the rattle of a loose stone, or
his form outlined against the starlit sky as he crawled over a ledge,
might mean death to him instead of McGuire. And so, crouching safely
in a dark nook above the landing, Pete waited, watched, and listened.
One hour passed--it seemed two--and then the half-breed crept stealthily
up to where the smoke had been seen. Not by strides, or even steps, but
as a panther would, lifting one foot and feeling where it would rest and
then another, and all the while listening and advancing again.
It was McGuire's habit, while staying here, to look at the weather
prospects each night, and also to obtain a drink of cool lake water
before going to sleep.
Often when the evenings were not too cold, he would sit by the lake shore
for a half-hour, smoking and watching its starlit or moon-glittering
surface, and listening to the calls of night prowlers.
In spite of being an outlaw, devoid of moral nature, and one who preyed
upon his fellow-man, he was not without sentiment, and the wild grandeur
of these enclosing mountains, and the sense of security they gave, were
pleasant to him. His life had been a harsh and brutal one. He had dealt
in man's lust and love of liquor. He measured all humankind by his own
standard of right and wrong, and believed that he must rob others or
they would rob him. He had followed that belief implicitly from the
start, and would so long as he lived. He felt that every man's hand
was against him, and no reproaches of conscience had resulted from his
cold-blooded killing of an officer. Never once did the thought return
of the few years when a woman's hand sought his in tenderness, nor any
sense of the unspeakable horror he had decreed for his own child.
So vile a wretch seemed unfit for God's green earth; and yet the silence
of night beside this lake, and the stars mirrored on its motionless
surface, soothed and satisfied him.
[Illustration: He grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of
self-preservation.]
He had now and then another impulse--to some day take his savings of many
years, secreted here, and go to some other country, assume another name,
and lead a different life.
And now, while an unsuspected enemy was waiting for him to enter a sleep
that should know no waking, he left his cave and seated himself on a
shelf-like projection close to the lake, which was deep here, and the
ledge shore a sheer face rising some ten feet above the water.
One hour or more this strange compound of brute and man sat there
contemplating the stars, and then he suddenly detected a sound--only
a faint one, the mere click of one pebble striking another.
He arose and listened.
Soon another soft, crushing sound reached him. Some animal creeping along
in the passage between the ledges, he thought.
He stepped quickly to the end of the shelf. On that instant a crouching
form rose upward and confronted him.
He had one moment only, but enough to see a tall man a step below him,
the next a flash of spitting fire, a stinging pain in one shoulder, and
this human panther leaped upon McGuire!
But life was sweet, even to McGuire, and as he grasped and struck at
this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation as both closed in
a death-grapple, one instant of awful agony came to him as a knife
entered his heart--a yell of mingled hate and deadly fear, as two
bodies writhed on the narrow shelf, a plunging sound, as both struck
the water below--and then silence.
Death and vengeance were clasped in one eternal embrace.