Before sunrise the next morning two men were seen by a circling hawk
moving steadily southeast. The man leading stopped now and then
to glance carefully about him; in these pauses he studied the
ground--often a weed trodden down in dew turned their course abruptly.
After six miles of this careful back-tracing Dinsmore halted--this
time to listen. Both could now faintly distinguish voices ahead.
"Keep straight on over that thar hemlock ridge," whispered the
hide-out; "they're in the holler on t'other side." He held out his
hand to Thayor, pointed again in the direction he had indicated, and
disappeared as easily as a partridge.
Sam Thayor went on alone.
* * * * *
It was a day of dreary anxiety to those who awaited his return. The
trapper blamed himself for having allowed him to go. "It ain't right
for ye, friend, to risk yer life like this," he had declared. "Them
fellers won't stop at nothin' now--I've done my best to git ye clear
of 'em and I'll git ye clear and 'board the cars by to-morrow--all
of ye, if ye'll let me." To which Thayor, laying his hand on the old
man's shoulder, had replied:
"I refuse to expose any of you. It is a matter that concerns
myself alone. I hardly think they will attempt to molest a single,
defenceless man. As for your son, I'll take care that no one sees
him."
As the day wore on and no tidings came from either Thayor or the
hide-out, Holcomb's and the Clown's uneasiness became more and more
apparent. The midday meal passed in comparative silence. By noon the
sky became overcast and it drizzled intermittently. This told sadly
upon Alice, who went back to her blanket. There she closed her eyes,
but sleep was impossible.
Again she reviewed the events not only of this summer but of the
winter preceding it. She thought of Sperry, slowly going over in her
mind their days together--all that had happened; all that he had
dared to ask her to do. With astonishing clearness she now weighed his
worth. Bit by bit she recalled their last hours together that night on
the veranda. Then the sturdy honesty of men like Holcomb, the trapper
and the Clown in contrast with Sperry, and many of her guests at home,
rose in her mind. Their kindness to her; their unselfishness, despite
the fact that she had once treated them like a pack of uncouth boors.
But for Billy Holcomb she would have burned to death. She knew his
worth now. Sam had been right.
Then her mind dwelt on the close friendship that had grown up between
Margaret and the young woodsman. Was it friendship, really? Again she
thought of Sperry and again her cheeks burned. He had not asked her to
seek a divorce and marry him--he had demanded briefly that she leave
all and follow him. With this thought her face paled with anger.
Instantly her husband rose clear in her mind; he who, never once in
all his life, had asked her, or anyone else, to do a dishonourable
thing. She wondered at his patience and his pluck, even when she
remembered their many quarrels in which he had lost control of
himself.
With a low moan she buried her face in her hands as little by little
her mind reverted to her own cruelty; to the days of her domination
over him; to her outbursts of temper: he, a man of strength, with the
courage of his convictions. This he had proved during their
forced march in a hundred different ways--was proving it to-day,
magnificently. One ray of comfort shone through it all--that, foolish
and vain as she had been, she could still look her husband in the
face.
At length she rose shakily, and moving slowly crossed the small space
about the fire to where the trapper was chopping firewood for the
night.
"And he is not back yet?" she said to the trapper in a hopeless tone.
"No, marm, not yet," he answered gloomily. "It'll be night 'fore long;
thar ain't much daylight left him to travel in."
Alice caught her breath. "But you think he'll come, don't you, Mr.
Holt?" "Yes, marm, I do," he answered, laying down his axe. "'T ain't
hardly possible he won't; I cal'late they'll both git in 'fore dark.
It won't do to borry trouble 'fore it comes. It was my fault, marm--I
shouldn't hev let him go--it warn't right--but he would hev his way."
"And you don't think they're lost?" she ventured timidly.
"Not so long as he stays by my son, marm--no, 't ain't likely they're
lost; it warn't _that_ I was thinkin' of." He saw the sudden terror in
her eyes.
"But you think he will be back, don't you? Oh! you do, Mr. Holt--don't
you?"
"Yes, marm, I tell ye I do. He had grit 'nough to go, and I cal'late
he'll hev grit 'nough to git back. He seemed to know what he was
doin'."
She turned away that he might not see her tears. She could hear the
dull whack of the old man's axe as she retraced her steps to her place
by the crackling fire.
For another anxious hour she sat shivering before it, then the Clown
announced apologetically that supper was ready. Blakeman handed her
a cup of tea, but she did not taste it. Annette put to rights the few
comforts within the lean-to and re-folded the blankets. Margaret and
Holcomb whispered together. All moved as if in the shadow of a great
calamity.
It was now pitch dark and raining. The camp sat in strained silence.
Finally Margaret came over to her mother and whispered something in
her ear. A weary smile crossed Alice's lips; then she beckoned to
Holcomb, laid her hand on his arm, and looking up into his face said
in a broken voice:
"You _will_ look after Margaret, Mr. Holcomb, won't you, if--if
anything has happened?"
"All my life, Mrs. Thayor."
Before she could speak the girl leaned over and hid her face on her
mother's shoulder. A light broke over the mother's face; then she
found her voice.
"And it is true, Margaret?" she said, smoothing the girl's cheek.
"What will your father say?"
"He knows I love Billy," she whispered, as she threw her arms around
her mother's neck and burst into tears.
A grave and ominous anxiety now took possession of the camp. That
something must be done, and at once, to find Thayor, had become
evident as the night began to settle. But no man in the camp lagged.
Billy and the trapper were busy tearing long strips of yellow bark
from a birch tree for torches, while the Clown, who had been hurriedly
cutting two forked sticks, stood fitting them with the twisted
bark. For some moments the three woodsmen held a low and earnest
conversation together, Alice watching them with startled eyes. She
caught also the figure of the trapper and the old dog standing at the
limit of the firelight waiting for Holcomb, and the flare of the two
bark torches that the old man held in his hands.
At that instant the old dog sprang into the darkness beyond the
trapper, barking sharply. Holcomb, followed by Margaret, who had never
left his side since he had determined to go in search of her father,
rushed forward, following the waning light from the torches now
glimmering far ahead as the trapper leaped on after the old dog.
Alice, now left alone with Blakeman and Annette, sat peering into the
void, her ears open to every sound. Every now and then she would rise,
walk to the edge of the firelight, stand listening for a few moments
and sink back again on her seat by the embers.
Suddenly Blakeman rose to his feet, his hand cupped to his ear, his
whole body tense. His knowledge of the woods had taught him their
unusual sounds. Stepping quickly over the surrounding logs, he moved
to the edge of the darkness and listened, then walked quickly into the
blackness.
The dim flicker of approaching torches, like will-o'-the-wisps, now
flashed among the giant trees. Alice sprang up, caught the end of the
long overcoat in her fingers and, guided by the sound of Blakeman's
footsteps, calling to him at every step, dashed on into the darkness.
Then she tripped, and with a piercing shriek fell headlong.
A posse of men were approaching. The torches drew nearer and
nearer--voices could be heard. She strained her ears--but it was not
that of her husband. Again she staggered to her feet, reeled, and
would have fallen had not Blakeman caught her. He had seen the party
and turned back before he reached them.
"He's all right, madam--there he comes--they are all coming."
Thayor pushed his way ahead. He had heard the scream and recognized
the voice.
"My God, Blakeman. What's the matter?" He was on his knees beside her
now, her head resting in the hollow of his elbow.
"Madam's only fainted, sir. We got worried at your being gone so
long."
Margaret tried to throw herself down beside her mother, but Holcomb
held her back.
"No--let your father alone," he whispered--"and let us come away."
The trapper and the others, followed by Holcomb and Margaret, moved
toward the camp, the torches illumining their faces. No one saw the
hide-out. He was there--within touching distance, but he moved only in
the shadows.
Alice opened her eyes and clasped both her arms around her husband's
neck.
"Oh, Sam! tell me it is you--and you are safe, and nothing has
happened? Oh! Sam--I have been so wretched!"
"There, dear--compose yourself. It's all right--everything is all
right, and we have nothing to fear anywhere. Come, now--let me help
you to your feet and--"
"No, Sam--not yet--not yet! Please listen--I've been so wicked--so
foolish--Please forgive me--please tell me you love me. Don't let it
make any difference. I can stand everything but that. Sam, we once
loved each other--can't we again? I love you--I do--I _do_!"
For an instant he held her from him gazing into her eyes. The
revulsion was so great--the surprise so intense, he could hardly
believe his senses. Then a great uplift swept through him.
"Hush," he breathed. "Tell me again that you love me. Say it again,
Alice. Say it!" The vibrant trembling of her body, close held in his
arms, thrilled him; he could see dimly in the shadow the same old
look in her eyes--the eyes of the girl he loved. The hour of their
betrothal seemed to be his once more.
"I don't want to go home, Sam; I never want to see it again," she
swept on. "I want to live here. Will you rebuild Big Shanty for you
and me, dearest, and for Margaret and Billy? They love each other
and--"
He folded her in his arms.
"Kiss me again!" she pleaded.