The window was open when Philip came to it, and Jean was waiting
to give him an assisting hand. The moment he was in the room he
turned to look at Josephine. She was gone. Almost angrily he
whirled upon the half-breed, who had lowered the window, and was
now drawing the curtain. It was with an effort that he held back
the words on his lips. Jean saw that effort, and shrugged his
shoulders with an appreciative gesture.
"It is partly my fault that she is not here, M'sieur," he
explained. "She would have told you nothing of what has passed
between us--not as much, perhaps, as I. She will see you in the
morning."
"And there's damned little consolation at the present moment in
that," gritted Philip, with clenched hands. "Jean--I'm ready to
fight now! I feel like a rat must feel when it's cornered. I've
got to jump pretty soon--in some direction--or I'll bust. It's
impossible--"
Jean's hand fell softly upon his arm.
"M'sieur, you would cut off this right arm if it would give you
Josephine?"
"I'd cut off my head!" exploded Philip.
"Do you remember that it was only a few hours ago that I said she
could never be yours in this world?" Croisset reminded him, in the
same quiet voice. "And now, when even I say there is hope, can you
not make me have the confidence in you that I must have--if we
win?"
Philip's face relaxed. In silence he gripped Jean's hand.
"And what I am going to tell you--a thing which Josephine would
not say if she were here, is this, M'sieur," went on Jean. "Before
you left us alone in this room I had a doubt. Now I have none. The
great fight is coming. And in that fight all the spirits of
Kisamunito must be with us. You will have fighting enough. And it
will be such fighting its you will remember to the end of your
days. But until the last word is said--until the last hour, you
must be as you have been. I repeat that. Have you faith enough in
me to believe?"
"Yes, I believe," said Philip. "It seems inconceivable, Jean--but
I believe."
Jean moved to the door.
"Good-night, M'sieur," he said.
"Good-night, Jean."
For a few moments after Croisset had left him Philip stood
motionless. Then he locked the door. Until he was alone he did not
know what a restraint he had put upon himself. Jean's words, the
mysterious developments of the evening, the half promise of the
fulfilment of his one great hope--had all worked him into a white
heat of unrest. He knew that he could not stay in his room, that
it would be impossible for him to sleep. And he was not in a
condition to rejoin Adare and his wife. He wanted to walk--to find
relief in physical exertion, Of a sudden his mind was made up. He
extinguished the light. Then he reopened the window, and dropped
out into the night again.
He made his way once more to the edge of the forest. He did not
stop this time, but plunged deeper into its gloom. Moon and stars
were beginning to lighten the white waste ahead of him. He knew he
could not lose himself, as he could follow his own trail back. He
paused for a moment in the shelter of a spruce to fill his pipe
and light it. Then he went on. Now that he was alone he tried to
discover some key to all that Jean had said to him. After all, his
first guess had not been so far out of the way: it was a physical
force that was Josephine's deadliest menace. What was this force?
How could he associate it with the baby back in Adare House?
Unconsciously his mind leaped to Thoreau, the Free Trader, as a
possible solution, but in the same breath he discarded that as
unreasonable. Such a force as Thoreau and his gang would be dealt
with by Adare himself, or the forest people. There was something
more. Vainly he racked his brain for some possible enlightenment.
He walked ten minutes without noting the direction he was taking
when he was brought to a standstill with a sudden shock. Not
twenty paces from him he heard voices. He dodged behind a tree,
and an instant later two figures hurried past him. A cry rose to
his lips, but he choked it back. One of the two was Jean. The
other was Josephine!
For a moment he stood staring after them, his hand clutching at
the bark of the tree. A feeling that was almost physical pain
swept over him as he realized the truth. Josephine had not gone to
her room. He understood now. She had purposely evaded him that she
might be with Jean alone in the forest. Three days before Philip
would not have thought so much of this. Now it hurt. Josephine had
given him her love, yet in spite of that she was placing greater
confidence in the half-breed than in him. This was what hurt--at
first. In the next breath his overwhelming faith in her returned
to HIM. There was some tremendous reason for her being here with
Jean. What was it? He stepped out from behind the tree as he
stared after them.
His eyes caught the pale glow of something that he had not seen
before. It was a campfire, the illumination of it only faintly
visible deeper in the forest. Toward this Josephine and Jean were
hurrying. A low exclamation of excitement broke from his lips as a
still greater understanding dawned upon him. His hand trembled.
His breath came quickly. In that camp there waited for Josephine
and Croisset those who were playing the other half of the game in
which he had been given a blind man's part! He did not reason or
argue with himself. He accepted the fact. And no longer with
hesitation his hand fell to his automatic, and he followed swiftly
after Josephine and the half-breed.
He began to see what Jean had meant. In the room he had simply
prepared Josephine for this visit. It was in the forest--and not
in Adare House, that the big test of the night was to come.
It was not curiosity that made him follow them now. More than ever
he was determined to keep his faith with Jean and the girl, and he
made up his mind to draw only near enough to give his assistance
if it should become necessary. Roused by the conviction that
Josephine and the half-breed were not making this mysterious tryst
without imperilling themselves, he stopped as the campfire burst
into full view, and examined his pistol. He saw figures about the
fire. There were three, one sitting, and two standing. The fire
was not more than a hundred yards ahead of him, and he saw no
tent. A moment later Josephine and Jean entered the circle of
fireglow, and the sitting man sprang to his feet. As Philip drew
nearer he noticed that Jean stood close to his companion, and that
the girl's hand was clutching his arm. He heard no word spoken,
and yet he could see by the action of the man who had been sitting
that he was giving the others instructions which took them away
from the fire, deeper into the gloom of the forest.
Seventy yards from the fire Philip dropped breathlessly behind a
cedar log and rested his arm over the top of it. In his hand was
his automatic. It covered the spot of gloom into which the two men
had disappeared. If anything should happen--he was ready.
In the fire-shadows he could not make out distinctly the features
of the third man. He was not dressed like the others. He wore
knickerbockers and high laced boots. His face was beardless.
Beyond these things he could make out nothing more. The three drew
close together, and only now and then did he catch the low murmur
of a voice. Not once did he hear Jean. For ten minutes he crouched
motionless, his eyes shifting from the strange tableau to the spot
of gloom where the others were hidden. Then, suddenly, Josephine
sprang back from her companions. Jean went to her side. He could
hear her voice now, steady and swift--vibrant with something that
thrilled him, though he could not understand a word that she was
speaking. She paused, and he could see that she was tense and
waiting. The other replied. His words must have been brief, for it
seemed he could scarcely have spoken when Josephine turned her
back upon him and walked quickly out into the forest. For another
moment Jean Croisset stood close to the other. Then he followed.
Not until he knew they were safe did Philip rise from his
concealment. He made his way cautiously back to Adare House, and
reentered his room through the window. Half an hour later, dressed
so that he revealed no evidence of his excursion in the snow, he
knocked at Jean's door. The half-breed opened it. He showed some
surprise when he saw his visitor.
"I thought you were in bed, M'sieur," he exclaimed. "Your room was
dark."
"Sleep?" laughed Philip. "Do you think that I can sleep to-night,
Jean?"
"As well as some others, perhaps," replied Jean, offering him a
chair. "Will you smoke, M'sieur?"
Philip lighted a cigar, and pointed to the other's moccasined
feet, wet with melting snow.
"You have been out," he said. "Why didn't you invite me to go with
you?"
"It was a part of our night's business to be alone," responded
Jean. "Josephine was with me. She is in her room now with the
baby."
"Does Adare know you have returned?"
"Josephine has told him. He is to believe that I went out to see a
trapper over on the Pipestone."
"It is strange," mused Philip, speaking half to himself. "A
strange reason indeed it must be to make Josephine say these false
things."
"It is like driving sharp claws into her soul," affirmed Jean.
"I believe that I know something of what happened to-night, Jean.
Are we any nearer to the end--to the big fight?"
"It is coming, M'sieur. I am more than ever certain of that. The
third night from this will tell us."
"And on that night--"
Philip waited expectantly.
"We will know," replied Jean in a voice which convinced him that
the half-breed would say no more. Then he added: "It will not be
strange if Josephine does not go with you on the sledge-drive to-
morrow, M'sieur. It will also be curious if there is not some
change in her, for she has been under a great strain. But make as
if you did not see it. Pass your time as much as possible with the
master of Adare. Let him not guess. And now I am going to ask you
to let me go to bed. My head aches. It is from the blow."
"And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?'
"Nothing, M'sieur."
At the door Philip turned.
"I have got a grip on myself now, Jean," he said. "I won't fail
you. I'll do as you say. But remember, we are to have the fight at
the end!"
In his room he sat up for a time and smoked. Then he went to bed.
Half a dozen times during the night he awoke from a restless
slumber. Twice he struck a match to look at his watch. It was
still dark when he got up and dressed. From five until six he
tried to read. He was delighted when Metoosin came to the door and
told him that breakfast would be ready in half an hour. This gave
him just time to shave.
He expected to eat alone with Adare again this morning, and his
heart jumped with both surprise and joy when Josephine came out
into the hall to meet him. She was very pale. Her eyes told him
that she had passed a sleepless night. But she was smiling
bravely, and when she offered him her hand he caught her suddenly
in his arms and held her close to his breast while he kissed her
lips, and then her shining hair.
"Philip!" she protested. "Philip--"
He laughed softly, and for a moment his face was close against
hers.
"My brave little darling! I understand," he whispered. "I know
what a night you've had. But there's nothing to fear. Nothing
shall harm you. Nothing shall harm you, nothing, nothing!"
She drew away from him gently, and there was a mist in her eyes.
But he had brought a bit of colour into her face. And there was a
glow behind the tears. Then, her lip quivering, she caught his
arm.
"Philip, the baby is sick--and I am afraid. I haven't told father.
Come!"
He went with her to the room at the end of the hall. The Indian
woman was crooning softly over a cradle. She fell silent as
Josephine and Philip entered, and they bent over the little
flushed face on the pillow. Its breath came tightly, gaspingly,
and Josephine clutched Philip's hand, and her voice broke in a
sob.
"Feel, Philip--its little face--the fever--"
"You must call your mother and father," he said after a moment.
"Why haven't you done this before, Josephine?"
"The fever came on suddenly--within the last half hour," she
whispered tensely. "And I wanted you to tell me what to do,
Philip. Shall I call them--now?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
In an instant she was out of the room. A few moments later she
returned, followed by Adare and his wife. Philip was startled by
the look that came into Miriam's face as she fell on her knees
beside the cradle. She was ghastly white. Dumbly Adare stood and
gazed down on the little human mite he had grown to worship. And
then there came through his beard a great broken breath that was
half a sob.
Josephine lay her cheek against his arm for a moment, and said:
"You and Philip go to breakfast, Mon Pere. I am going to give the
baby some of the medicine the Churchill doctor left with me. I was
frightened at first. But I'm not now. Mother and I will have him
out of the fever shortly."
Philip caught her glance, and took Adare by the arm. Alone they
went into the breakfast-room. Adare laughed uneasily as he seated
himself opposite Philip.
"I don't like to see the little beggar like that," he said, taking
to shake off his own and Philip's fears with a smile. "It was
Mignonne who scared me--her face. She has nursed so many sick
babies that it frightened me to see her so white. I thought he
might be--dying."
"Cutting teeth, mebby," volunteered Philip.
"Too young," replied Adare.
"Or a touch of indigestion, That brings fever."
"Whatever it is, Josephine will soon have him kicking and pulling
my thumb again," said Adare with confidence. "Did she ever tell
you about the little Indian baby she found in a tepee?"
"No."
"It was in the dead of winter. Mignonne was out with her dogs, ten
miles to the south. Captain scented the thing--the Indian tepee.
It was abandoned--banked high with snow--and over it was the
smallpox signal. She was about to go on, but Captain made her go
to the flap of the tepee. The beast knew, I guess. And Josephine--
my God, I wouldn't have let her do it for ten years of my life!
There had been smallpox in that tent; the smell of it was still
warm. Ugh! And she looked in! And she says she heard something
that was no louder than the peep of a bird. Into that death-hole
she went--and brought out a baby. The parents, starving and half
crazed after their sickness, had left it--thinking it was dead.
"Josephine brought it to a cabin close to home, in two weeks she
had that kid out rolling in the snow. Then the mother and father
heard something of what had happened, and came to us as fast as
their legs could bring them. You should have seen that Indian
mother's gratitude! She didn't think it so terrible to leave the
baby unburied. She thought it was dead. Pasoo is the Indian
father's name. Several times a year they come to see Josephine,
and Pasoo brings her the choicest furs of his trap-line. And each
time he says: 'Nipa tu mo-wao,' which means that some day he hopes
to be able to kill for her. Nice, isn't it--to have friends who'll
murder your enemies for you if you just give 'em the word?"
"One never can tell," began Philip cautiously. "A time might come
when she would need friends. If such a day should happen--"
He paused, busying himself with his steak. There was a note of
triumph, of exultation, in Adare's low laugh.
"Have you ever seen a fire run through a pitch-dry forest?" he
asked. "That is the way word that Josephine wanted friends would
sweep through a thousand square miles of this Northland. And the
answer to it would be like the answer of stray wolves to the cry
of the hunt-pack!"
All over Philip there surged a warm glow.
"You could not have friends like that down there, in the cities,"
he said.
Adare's face clouded.
"I am not a pessimist," he answered, after a moment. "It has been
one of my few Commandments always to look for the bright spot, if
there is one. But, down there, I have seen so many wolves, human
wolves. It seems strange to me that so many people should have the
same mad desire for the dollar that the wolves of the forest have
for warm, red, quivering flesh. I have known a wolf-pack to kill
five times what it could eat in a night, and kill again the next
night, and still the next--always more than enough. They are like
the Dollar Hunters--only beasts. Among such, one cannot have solid
friends--not very many who will not sell you for a price. I was
afraid to trust Josephine down among them. I am glad that it was
you she met, Philip. You were of the North--a foster-child, if not
born there."
That day was one of gloom in Adare House. The baby's fever grew
steadily worse, until in Josephine's eyes Philip read the terrible
fear. He remained mostly with Adare in the big room. The lamps
were lighted, and Adare had just risen from his chair, when Miriam
came through the door. She was swaying, her hands reaching out
gropingly, her face the gray of ash that crumbles from an ember.
Adare sprung to meet her, a strange cry on his lips, and Philip
was a step behind her. He heard her moaning words, and as he
rushed past them into the hall he knew that she had fallen
fainting into her husband's arms.
In the doorway to Josephine's room he paused. She was there,
kneeling beside the little cradle, and her face as she lifted it
to him was tearless, but filled with a grief that went to the
quick of his soul. He did not need to look into the cradle as she
rose unsteadily, clutching a hand at her heart, as if to keep it
from breaking. He knew what he would see. And now he went to her
and drew her close in his strong arms, whispering the pent-up
passion of the things that were in his heart, until at last her
arms stole up about his neck, and she sobbed on his breast like a
child. How long he held her there, whispering over and over again
the words that made her grief his own, he could not have told; but
after a time he knew that some one else had entered the room, and
he raised his eyes to meet those of John Adare. The face of the
great, grizzled giant had aged five years. But his head was erect.
He looked at Philip squarely. He put out his two hands, and one
rested on Josephine's head, the other on Philip's shoulder.
"My children," he said gently, and in those two words were
weighted the strength and consolation of the world.
He pointed to the door, motioning Philip to take Josephine away,
and then he went and stood at the crib-side, his great shoulders
hunched over, his head bowed down.
Tenderly Philip led Josephine from the room. Adare had taken his
wife to her room, and when they entered she was sitting in a
chair, staring and speechless. And now Josephine turned to Philip,
taking his face between her two hands, and her soul looking at him
through a blinding mist of tears.
"My Philip," she whispered, and drew his face down and kissed him.
"Go to him now. We will come--soon."
He returned to Adare like one in a dream--a dream that was grief
and pain, with its one golden thread of joy. Jean was there now,
and the Indian woman; and the master of Adare had the still little
babe huddled up against his breast. It was some time before they
could induce him to give it to Moanne. Then, suddenly, he shook
himself like a great bear, and crushed Philip's shoulders in his
hands.
"God knows I'm sorry for you, Boy," he cried brokenly. "It's hurt
me--terribly. But YOU--it must be like the cracking of your soul.
And Josephine, Mignonne, my little flower! She is with her
mother?"
"Yes," replied Philip. "Come. Let us go. We can do nothing here.
And Josephine and her mother will be better alone for a time."
"I understand," said Adare almost roughly, in his struggle to
steady himself. "You're thinking of ME, Boy. God bless you for
that. You go to Josephine and Miriam. It is your place. Jean and I
will go into the big room."
Philip left them at Adare's room and went to his own, leaving the
door open that he might hear Josephine if she came out into the
hall. He was there to meet her when she appeared a little later.
They went to Moanne. And at last all things were done, and the
lights were turned low in Adare House. Philip did not take off his
clothes that night, nor did Jean and Metoosin. In the early dawn
they went out together to the little garden of crosses. Close to
the side of Iowaka, Jean pointed out a plot.
"Josephine would say the little one will sleep best there, close
to HER," he said. "She will care for it, M'sieur. She will know,
and understand, and keep its little soul bright and happy in
Heaven."
And there they digged. No one in Adare House heard the cautious
fall of pick and spade.
With morning came a strangely clear sun. Out of the sky had gone
the last haze of cloud. Jean crossed himself, and said:
"She knows--and has sent sunshine instead of storm."
Hours later it was Adare who stood over the little grave, and said
words deep and strong, and quivering with emotion, and it was Jean
and Metoosin who lowered the tiny casket into the frozen earth.
Miriam was not there, but Josephine clung to Philip's side, and
only once did her voice break in the grief she was fighting back.
Philip was glad when it was over, and Adare was once more in his
big room, and Josephine with her mother. He did not even want
Jean's company. In his room he sat alone until supper time. He
went to bed early, and strangely enough slept more soundly than he
had been able to sleep for some time.
When he awoke the following morning his first thought was that
this was the day of the third night. He had scarcely dressed when
Adare's voice greeted him from outside the door. It was different
now--filled with the old cheer and booming hopefulness, and
Philip smiled as he thought how this stricken giant of the
wilderness was rising out of his own grief to comfort Josephine
and him. They were all at breakfast, and Philip was delighted to
find Josephine looking much better than he had expected. Miriam
had sunk deepest under the strain of the preceding hours. She was
still white and wan. Her hands trembled. She spoke little.
Tenderly Adare tried to raise her spirits.
During the rest of that day Philip saw but little of Josephine,
and he made no effort to intrude himself upon her. Late in the
afternoon Jean asked him if he had made friends with the dogs, and
Philip told him of his experience with them. Not until nine
o'clock that night did he know why the half-breed had asked.
At that hour Adare House had sunk into quiet. Miriam and her
husband had gone to bed, the lights were low. For an hour Philip
had listened for the footsteps which he knew he would hear to-
night. At last he knew that Josephine had come out into the hall.
He heard Jean's low voice, their retreating steps, and then the
opening and closing of the door that let them out into the night.
There was a short silence. Then the door reopened, and some one
returned through the hall. The steps stopped at his own door--a
knock--and a moment later he was standing face to face with
Croisset.
"Throw on your coat and cap and come with me, M'sieur," he cried
in a low voice. "And bring your pistol!"
Without a word Philip obeyed. By the time they stood out in the
night his blood was racing in a wild anticipation. Josephine had
disappeared. Jean gripped his arm.
"To-night something may happen," he said, in a voice that was as
hard and cold as the blue lights of the aurora in the polar sky.
"It is--possible. We may need your help. I would have asked
Metoosin, but it would have made him suspicious of something--and
he knows nothing. You have made friends with the dogs? You know
Captain?"
"Yes!"
"Then go to them--go as fast as you can, M'sieur. And if you hear
a shot to-night--or a loud cry from out there in the forest, free
the dogs swiftly, Captain first, and run with them to our trail,
shouting 'KILL! KILL! KILL!' with every breath you take, and don't
stop so long as there is a footprint in the snow ahead of you or a
human bone to pick! Do you understand, M'sieur?"
His eyes were points of flame in the gloom.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," gasped Philip. "But--Jean--"
"If you understand--that is all," interrupted Jean, "If there is a
peril in what we are doing this night the pack will be worth more
to us than a dozen men. If anything happens to us they will be our
avengers. Go! There is not one moment for you to lose. Remember--a
shot--a single cry!"
His voice, the glitter in his eyes, told Philip this was no time
for words. He turned and ran swiftly across the clearing in the
direction of the dog pit, Ten minutes later he came into a gloom
warm with the smell of beast. Eyes of fire glared at him. The
snapping of fangs and the snarling of savage throats greeted him.
One by one he called the names of the dogs he remembered--called
them over and over again, advancing fearlessly among them, until
he dropped upon his knees with his hand on the chain that held
Captain. From there he talked to them, and their whines answered
him.
Then he fell silent--listening. He could hear his own heart beat.
Every fibre in his body was aquiver with excitement and a strange
fear. The hand that rested on Captain's collar trembled. In the
distance an owl hooted, and the first note of it sent a red-hot
fire through him. Still farther away a wolf howled. Then came a
silence in which he thought he could hear the rush of blood
through his own throbbing veins.
With his fingers at the steel snap on Captain's collar he waited.