With the breaking of the full dawn the Clown called the old dog, rose
and stretched himself, and, noticing Alice awake, whispered:
"Good mornin',--how d'ye stand it? Kinder coolish, warn't it, 'long
'bout three o'clock?"
Alice placed her finger on her lips.
"Yes--let 'em sleep," whispered the Clown.
He rose, drew on his brogans and tiptoed noiselessly out to the ashes
of the dead fire. With the crackling of a blaze freshly built, the
rest awoke. The second day of their flight had begun.
It was rough and slow going along the shore of Bear Pond, with the
exception of the spit of sand on which they had camped. The shore
was lined with dead trees and jagged masses of rock; there was no
alternative but to follow the shore, the swamp lands, which were even
worse, extending far back of the dead timber. By noon they had only
reached the foot of the range of mountains. By another twilight they
found themselves on the other side of the range and within half a
day's tramp of Alder Swamp.
All that day Alice kept patiently on with the rest. Her husband's grit
was a revelation to her; not once since they left the burned camp had
he mentioned the catastrophe.
Thayor's mind was also occupied. His loss had been a heavy one; the
camp he loved had been criminally laid in ashes--such had been his
reward for generosity. The very men he had befriended had burned him
out with murderous intent. They would at that moment take his life
could they find him. His money had been the cause of jealousy and
discontent; it had resulted in a catastrophe--one that had been
premeditated, carefully planned and carried swiftly into execution,
presumably by the help of Morrison's liquor. It was clear, too,
that the fire had started simultaneously in half a dozen places. The
identity of the burned man was still a mystery. "Pray God it wasn't
poor Bob Dinsmore hunting for food!" he said to himself. If Holcomb
and the trapper had any suspicion they made no comment. They had left
the body lying where it was. Neither had they referred to the hero who
had risked his life to save both Holcomb and Alice.
As for Holcomb's thoughts, they had been all fastened on Margaret.
In fact, there was no moment when she was out of his mind. He was
continually near her during every step of their forced march as they
followed the trapper--often her hand in his for better support.
It was while helping her over the hard places, she leaning on his arm,
clasping his fingers for a better spring over a wind-slash or slippery
rock that the currents of their lives flowed together.
Margaret, who, though tired out, had kept up her spirits all day, had
wandered off by herself a little way into the silent woods during
a half hour's rest and had sunk down on a bed of moss behind the
lean-to. There, half hidden by a thicket of balsam, Holcomb had
discovered her pitiful little figure huddled in the rough ulster. She
did not hear him until he stood over her and, bending, laid his hand
on the upturned collar of the overcoat that lay damp against the fair
hair.
"Don't cry," he had said tenderly; "we'll soon be out of this."
"I know," she returned faintly, meeting his eyes in an effort to be
brave, "but--but--Billy, I'm so unhappy."
"But that's because you're tired out. That's what's the matter.
It's been too rough a trip for you. I told Holt yesterday we must go
slower."
"No," she moaned, "no--it's not that."
"But it will come out all right," he pleaded, "I feel sure of it.
Think of it--to-morrow you will be out of the woods and--and--safely
on your way home." Yet he was not sure of either.
She looked up at him with her brown eyes wide open, her lips
trembling.
"But then _you_ will be gone, Billy!"
His own lips trembled now. That which he had tried all these days to
tell her, she had told him out of her frank young heart. He took one
of her plump, little hands in both his own, holding it as gently as he
would have held a wounded bird. A strange sensation of weakness stole
through him. He bent lower, until his bronzed cheek felt the flush of
her own through the maze of spun gold. Then he sank on his knees in
the damp moss, pressing his lips to the warm fingers.
"God knows!" he burst out, "I have no right to talk to you. I've tried
not to, but I must tell you."
"Don't, Billy--don't!" she sobbed, and she looked into his eyes
through her tears, her limp form in the coarse ulster swaying as if
she was about to faint.
He felt the hot tears strike his hand; saw the dim wonder in her eyes.
Then slowly, still trembling, she sank in his arms.
"And I love you too, Billy," she breathed as she yielded her lips. "I
love you with all my heart--with all my soul!"
None of these happenings did they ever breathe to Alice--time enough
for that when the fear that haunted them all had passed. The mother
had looked at them both in wonder when the two fell into line again,
noting the new spring in their steps and the glad light in the girl's
eyes, but she made no comment.
They had now reached a desolate region of oozy moss and dead trees;
here they camped for the second night. It was a place even a hungry
lynx would have avoided. The stillness was oppressive--a silence that
one could _hear_. Before it grew quite dark this audible hush was
twice broken by the plaintive note of a hermit thrush--a bird so shy
that he leaves his mate, seeking his hermitage among forgotten places.
The place was inanimate--dead like the trees--their skeletons rising
weirdly from the spongy moss.
The moon rose at length, seemingly shedding its light over the
desolate spot out of pity. Again Alice Thayor lay awake until long
past midnight. The very desolation fascinated her. Again she thought
of Sperry, and again her face flamed with indignation--in fact, he
had seldom been clear of her mind, try as she might to banish him.
She wondered if he would have roughed it with the grit her husband
had shown. Not once had Sam complained. This, in itself, was a
revelation--she who had dared to complain of everything that thwarted
her comfort or her plans. Nor had he once failed in all the hours of
their long tramp to look after her comfort as best he could. With all
this his heavy pack had been badly balanced, so much so that he had
been obliged to stop now and then to re-pad the ropes cutting under
his armpits with moss--Holcomb helping him--the straps rescued from
three charred pack-baskets being reserved for the heavier loads of the
Clown, the trapper, and Holcomb.
As these things developed in her mind another feeling arose in her
heart: a feeling of pride in the man trudging on ahead of her--pride
in his pluck, in his patience, in his cheeriness, and last, in his
bodily strength, for to her great surprise her husband proved to be
stronger than Blakeman and the match of Holcomb. She had not believed
this possible.
At dawn she fell asleep, awaking with a violent headache. She felt as
if she had been beaten; every bone in her body ached; her cheeks were
burning; her hands were like ice. She shuddered now in a chill, yet
she crawled deeper into her blanket and called no one. All through the
cold of the early dawn she suffered intensely--shivering with cold and
burning with fever, by turns. She dare not move lest she might wake
Margaret or Sam. Toward morning her legs grew warm; the old dog had
lain across them. Then she fell into a troubled sleep.
When she regained consciousness two days had elapsed. She saw dimly
that the rest were at breakfast. It was raining. The old dog again
lay across her feet; he was hungry, but he had not moved through the
night. She tried to sit up, but the trees danced in front of her.
Margaret and Thayor started toward her.
"You've slept so well, mother," she could hear Margaret saying; "you
feel better, don't you?" Thayor was on his knees beside her--he put
his arm under her shoulders and placed a tin cup to her lips.
"Come, dear--drink this"--she heard his voice faintly. Her lips moved
spasmodically. "It's broth," he said softly. "Billy killed a deer this
morning at daylight."
She stared up at him with a pair of vacant, feverish eyes. "Mrs. Van
Renssalaer cannot come--send these people away, Sam--I want them sent
away--at once--at once--Blakeman." The spasmodic movement of her jaw
continued, but her words ceased to be audible.
"Drink a little, dear," Sam pleaded. "It will do you good." The lips
smiled feebly, pressing wearily against the rusty edge of the tin cup;
then she sank back in his arms in a dead faint.
* * * * *
By the second morning her splendid physique came to the rescue.
Weakened as she was by fever, she would, she insisted, take her
place with the others when they were ready to start. To this Thayor
assented, as they were now nearing their last resting place, the
railroad lying but half a day's tramp beyond where they were camped.
As the thought of her freedom rose in her mind a strange feeling came
over her.
"Won't somebody sing?" she asked. "It's been so dreary for so many
wretched long miles. Maybe I can." They were grouped about the
smouldering fire at the time, Margaret's head in her lap, Holcomb, the
old trapper and the others in a half circle.
Thayor looked at his wife with mingled pride and astonishment: pride
in her pluck and her desire to lighten the hearts of those about
her--astonishment--amazement really, in the change that had come over
her.
Alice lifted her eyes to her husband and began, in her rich contralto
voice, a song that recalled the days when he had first known and loved
her. She sang it all through, never once taking her eyes from the man
who sat apart from the others, his head buried deep in his hands.
As the last note died away a crackling in the brush behind the lean-to
was heard. The two woodsmen sprang instantly to their feet; Annette
screamed. The drums of Alice's ears were thumping with the beating of
her heart. Holcomb reached for his rifle laying between his own and
the Clown's pack, and hurriedly cocked it. The old dog had already
plunged ahead into the underbrush with a low growl.
"Hold on, Billy," came a thin voice out of the blackness beyond and to
the left of the lean-to. "Don't shoot!"
A short, gaunt figure now leaped noiselessly--rather than strode--out
into the firelight. He moved with the furtive agility of an animal,
making straight for the fire, over which he stood for some moments
warming himself.
The silent apparition stood in a pair of soaked moccasins. On his legs
were worn trousers of deerskin, patched here and there with the skins
of muskrats and squirrels; one thin brown knee showed bare through a
rent. Over a tattered woollen shirt hung an old cloth coat twice too
big for him--moss-green from exposure, the sleeves of which hung in
shreds over his bony fingers. Framed by a shock of sandy hair falling
to his shoulders, and by an unkempt, tow-coloured beard, his eyes
shone out in the firelight over his cheek-bones, with the cavernous
brilliancy of an owl's. To have guessed his age would have been
impossible. The truth was he was thirty-one.
No one spoke. They watched.
The trapper rose to his feet and laid his hand on the stranger's
shoulder. The figure, with a wistful look in his eyes, twisted his
emaciated body and held out his hand. The trapper grasped the thin,
sinewy fingers in both his own.
"Friend," he said, turning to Thayor, "I'd like to make ye acquainted
with my son--Bob Dinsmore."