Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand
that still hung over the sill.
"I'm glad to know you, Pierre! Is there no other word from Jean?"
"Only the note, Ookimow."
"You just came?"
"Aha. My dogs and sledge are back in the forest."
"Listen!" Philip turned toward the door. In the hall he heard
footsteps. "Le M'sieur is awake," he said quickly to Pierre. "I
will see you in the forest!"
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the half-breed was
gone. A moment later Philip knew that it was Adare who had passed
his door. He dressed and shaved himself before he left his room.
He found Adare in his study. Metoosin already had a fire burning,
and Adare was standing before this alone, when Philip entered.
Something was lacking in Adare's greeting this morning. There was
an uneasy, searching look in his eyes as he looked at Philip. They
shook hands, and his hand was heavy and lifeless. His shoulders
seemed to droop a little more, and his voice was unnatural when he
spoke.
"You did not go to bed until quite late last night, Philip?"
"Yes, it was late, Mon Pere."
For a moment Adare was silent, his head bowed, his eyes on the
floor. He did not raise his gaze when he spoke again.
"Did you hear anything--late--about midnight?" he asked. He
straightened, and looked steadily into Philip's eyes. "Did you see
Miriam?"
For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt
concealment under the searching scrutiny of the older man's eyes.
Like an inspiration came to him a thought of Josephine.
"Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you," he said
truthfully. "And she was in her room before eleven o'clock."
"It is strange, unaccountable," mused Adare. "Miriam left her bed
last night while I was asleep. It must have been about midnight,
for it is then that the moon shines full into our window. In
returning she awakened me. And her hair was damp, there was snow
on her gown! My God, she had been outdoors, almost naked! She said
that she must have walked in her sleep, that she had awakened to
find herself in the open door with the wind and snow beating upon
her. This is the first time. I never knew her to do it before. It
disturbs me."
"She is sleeping now?"
"I don't know. Josephine came a little later and said that she
could not sleep. Miriam went with her."
"It must have been the baby," comforted Philip, placing a hand on
Adare's arm. "We can stand it, Mon Pere. We are men. With them it
is different. We must bear up under our grief. It is necessary for
us to have strength for them as well as ourselves."
"Do you think it is that?" cried Adare with sudden eagerness. "If
it is, I am ashamed of myself, Philip! I have been brooding too
much over the strange change in Miriam. But I see now. It must
have been the baby. It has been a tremendous strain. I have heard
her crying when she did not know that I heard. I am ashamed of
myself. And the blow has been hardest on you!"
"And Josephine," added Philip.
John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling
of relief Philip saw the old light in his eyes.
"We must cheer them up," he added quickly. "I will ask Josephine
if they will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere."
He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went
at once to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed. He was
agreeably surprised to find that both Miriam and Josephine were up
and dressing. With this news he returned to Adare.
Three quarters of an hour later they met in the breakfast-room. It
took only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last
heroic fight. She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over
her neck and cheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor.
Miriam seemed greatly changed from the preceding night. Her eyes
were clearer. A careful toilette had taken away the dark circles
from under them and had added a touch of colour to her lips and
cheeks. She went to Adare when the two men entered, and with a
joyous rumble of approval the giant held her off at arm's length
and looked at her.
"It didn't do you any harm after all," Philip heard him say. "Did
you tell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?"
He did not hear Miriam's reply, for he was looking down into
Josephine's face. Her lips were smiling. She made no effort to
conceal the gladness in her eyes as he bent and kissed her.
"It was a hard night, dear."
"Terrible," she whispered. "Mother told me what happened. She is
stronger this morning. We must keep the truth from HIM."
"The TRUTH?"
He felt her start.
"Hush!" she breathed. "You know--you understand what I mean. Let
us sit down to breakfast now."
During the hour that followed Philip was amazed at Miriam. She
laughed and talked as she had not done before. The bit of
artificial colour she had given to her cheeks and lips faded under
the brighter flush that came into her face. He could see that
Josephine was nearly as surprised as himself. John Adare was
fairly boyish in his delight. The meal was finished and Philip and
Adare were about to light their cigars when a commotion outside
drew them all to the window that overlooked one side of the
clearing. Out of the forest had come two dog-teams, their drivers
shouting and cracking their long caribou-gut whips. Philip stared,
conscious that Josephine's hand was clutching his arm. Neither of
the shouting men was Jean.
"An Indian, and Renault the quarter-blood," grunted Adare. "Wonder
what they want here in November. They should be on their trap-
lines."
"Perhaps, Mon Pere, they have come to see their friends,"
suggested Josephine. "You know, it has been a long time since some
of them have seen us. I would be disappointed if our people didn't
show they were glad because of your home-coming!"
"Of course, that's it!" cried Adare. "Ho, Metoosin!" he roared,
turning toward the door. "Metoosin! Paitoo ta! Wawep isewin!"
Metoosin appeared at the door.
"Build a great fire in the una kah house," commanded Adare. "Feed
all who come in from the forests, Metoosin. Open up tobacco and
preserves, and flour and bacon. Nothing in the storeroom is too
good for them. And send Jean to me! Where is he?"
"Numma tao, ookimow."
"Gone!" exclaimed Adare.
"He didn't want to disturb you last night," explained Philip. "He
made an early start for the Pipestone."
"If he was an ordinary man, I'd say he was in love with one of the
Langlois girls," said Adare, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Neah,
Metoosin! Make them comfortable, and we will all see them later."
As Metoosin went Adare turned upon the others: "Shall we all go
out now?" he asked.
"Splendid!" accepted Josephine eagerly. "Come, Mikawe, we can be
ready in a moment!"
She ran from the room, leading her mother by the hand. Philip and
Adare followed them, and shortly the four were ready to leave the
house. The una kah, or guest house, was in the edge of the timber.
It was a long, low building of logs, and was always open with its
accommodations to the Indians and half-breeds--men, women, and
children--who came in from the forest trails. Renault and the
Indian were helping Metoosin build fires when they entered. Philip
thought that Renault's eyes rested upon him in a curious and
searching glance even as Adare shook hands with him. He was more
interested in the low words both the Indian and the blood muttered
as they stood for a moment with bowed heads before Josephine and
Miriam. Then Renault raised his head and spoke direct to
Josephine:
"I breeng word for heem of Jan Breuil an' wewimow over on Jac'
fish ma Kichi Utooskayakun," he said in a low voice. "Heem lee'l
girl so seek she goin' die."
"Little Marie? She is sick--dying, you say?" cried Josephine.
"Aha. She ver' dam' seek. She burn up lak fire."
Josephine looked up at Philip.
"I knew she was sick," she said. "But I didn't think it was so
bad. If she dies it will be my fault. I should have gone." She
turned quickly to Renault. "When did you see her last?" she asked.
"Listen! Papak-oo-moo?"
"Aha."
"It is a sickness the children have each winter," she explained,
looking questioningly into Philip's eyes again. "It kills quickly
when left alone. But I have medicine that will cure it. There is
still time. We must go, Philip. We must!"
Her face had paled a little. She saw the gathering lines in
Philip's forehead. He thought of Jean's words--the warning they
carried. She pressed his arm, and her mouth was firm.
"I am going, Philip," she said softly. "Will you go with me?"
"I will, if you must go," he said. "But it is not best."
"It is best for little Marie," she retorted, and left him to tell
Adare and her mother of Renault's message.
Renault stepped close to Philip. His back was to the others. He
spoke in a low voice:
"I breeng good word from Jean Croisset, M'sieur. Heem say Soomin
Renault good man lak Pierre Langlois, an' he fight lak devil when
ask. I breeng Indian an' two team. We be in forest near dog
watekan, where Pierre mak his fire an' tepee. You understand?
Aha?"
"Yes--I understand," whispered Philip, "And Jean has gone on--to
see others?"
"He go lak win' to Francois over on Waterfound. Francois come in
one hour--two, t'ree, mebby."
Josephine and Adare approached them.
"Mignonne is turning nurse again," rumbled Adare, one of his great
arms thrown affectionately about her waist. "You'll have a jolly
run on a clear morning like this, Philip. But remember, if it is
the smallpox I forbid her to expose herself!"
"I shall see to that, Mon Pere. When do we start, Josephine?"
"As soon as I can get ready and Metoosin brings the dogs," replied
Josephine. "I am going to the house now. Will you come with me?"
It was an hour before Metoosin had brought the dogs up from the
pit and they were ready to start. Philip had armed himself with a
rifle and his automatic, and Josephine had packed both medicine
and food in a large basket. The new snow was soft, and Metoosin
had brought a toboggan instead of a sledge with runners. In the
traces were Captain and five of his team-mates.
"Isn't the pack going with us?" asked Philip.
"I never take them when there is very bad sickness, like this,"
explained Josephine. "There is something about the nearness of
death that makes them howl. I haven't been able to train that out
of them."
Philip was disappointed, but he said nothing more. He tucked
Josephine among the furs, cracked the long whip Metoosin had given
him, and they were off, with Miriam and her husband waving their
hands from the door of Adare House. They had scarcely passed out
of view in the forest when with a sudden sharp command Josephine
stopped the dogs. She sprang out of her furs and stood laughingly
beside Philip.
"Father always insists that I ride. He says it's not good for a
woman to run," she said. "But I do. I love to run. There!"
As she spoke she had thrown her outer coat on the sledge, and
stood before him, straight and slim. Her hair was in a long braid.
"Now, are you ready?" she challenged.
"Good Lord, have mercy on me!" gasped Philip. "You look as if you
might fly, Josephine!"
Her signal to the dogs was so low he scarcely heard it, and they
sped along the white and narrow trail into which Josephine had
directed them. Philip fell in behind her. It had always roused a
certain sense of humour in him to see a woman run. But in
Josephine he saw now the swiftness and lithesome grace of a fawn.
Her head was thrown back, her mittened hands were drawn up to her
breast as the forest man runs, and her shining braid danced and
rippled in the early sun with each quick step she took.
Ahead of her the gray and yellow backs of the dogs rose and fell
with a rhythmic movement that was almost music. Their ears aslant,
their crests bristling, their bushy tails curling like plumes over
their hips, they responded with almost automatic precision to the
low words that fell from the lips of the girl behind them.
With each minute that passed Philip wondered how much longer
Josephine could keep up the pace. They had run fully a mile and
his own breath was growing shorter when the toe of his moccasined
foot caught under a bit of brushwood and he plunged head foremost
into the snow. When he had brushed the snow out of his eyes and
ears Josephine was standing over him, laughing. The dogs were
squatted on their haunches, looking back.
"My poor Philip!" she laughed, offering him an assisting hand. "We
almost lost you, didn't we? It was Captain who missed you first,
and he almost toppled me over the sled!"
Her face was radiant. Lips, eyes, and cheeks were glowing. Her
breast rose and fell quickly.
"It was your fault!" he accused her. "I couldn't keep my eyes off
you, and never thought of my feet. I shall have my revenge--here!"
He drew her into his arms, protesting. Not until he had kissed her
parted, half-smiling lips did he release her.
"I'm going to ride now," she declared. "I'm not going to run the
danger of being accused again."
He wrapped her again in the furs on the toboggan. It was eight
miles to Jac Breuil's, and they reached his cabin in two hours.
Breuil was not much more than a boy, scarcely older than the dark-
eyed little French girl who was his wife, and their eyes were big
with terror. With a thrill of wonder and pleasure Philip observed
the swift change in them as Josephine sprang from the toboggan.
Breuil was almost sobbing as he whispered to Philip:
"Oh, ze sweet Ange, M'sieur! She cam jus' in time."
Josephine was bending over little Marie's cot when they followed
her and the girl mother into the cabin. In a moment she looked up
with a glad smile.
"It is the same sickness, Marie," she said to the mother. "I have
medicine here that will cure it. The fever isn't as bad as I
thought it would be."
Noon saw a big change in the cabin. Little Marie's temperature was
falling rapidly. Breuil and his wife were happy. After dinner
Josephine explained again how they were to give the medicine she
was leaving, and at two o'clock they left on their return journey
to Adare House. The sun had disappeared hours before. Gray banks
of cloud filled the sky, and it had grown much colder.
"We will reach home only a little before dark," said Philip. "You
had better ride, Josephine."
He was eager to reach Adare House. By this time he felt that Jean
should have returned, and he was confident that there were others
of the forest people besides Pierre, Renault, and the Indian in
the forest near the pit. For an hour he kept up a swift pace.
Later they came to a dense cover of black spruce two miles from
Adare House. They had traversed a part of this when the dogs
stopped. Directly ahead of them had fallen a dead cedar, barring
the trail. Philip went to the toboggan for the trail axe.
"I haven't noticed any wind, have you?" he asked. "Not enough to
topple over a cedar."
He went to the tree and began cutting. Scarcely had his axe fallen
half a dozen times when a scream of terror turned him about like a
flash. He had only time to see that Josephine had left the sledge,
and was struggling in the arms of a man. In that same instant two
others had leaped upon him. He had not time to strike, to lift his
axe. He went down, a pair of hands gripping at his throat. He saw
a face over him, and he knew now that it was the face of the man
he had seen in the firelight, the face of Lang, the Free Trader.
Every atom of strength in him rose in a superhuman effort to throw
off his assailants. Then came the blow. He saw the club over him,
a short, thick club, in the hand of Thoreau himself. After that
followed darkness and oblivion, punctuated by the CRACK, CRACK,
CRACK of a revolver and the howling of dogs--sounds that grew
fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and he sank
into the stillness of night.
It was almost dark when consciousness stirred Philip again. With
an effort he pulled himself to his knees, and stared about him.
Josephine was gone, the dogs were gone. He staggered to his feet,
a moaning cry on his lips. He saw the sledge. Still in the traces
lay the bodies of two of the dogs, and he knew what the pistol
shots had meant. The others had been cut loose; straight out into
the forest led the trails of several men; and the meaning of it
all, the reality of what had happened, surged upon him in all its
horror. Lang and his cutthroats had carried off Josephine. He knew
by the thickening darkness that they had time to get a good start
on their way to Thoreau's.
One thought filled his dizzy brain now. He must reach Jean and the
camp near the pit. He staggered as he turned his face homeward. At
times the trail seemed to reach up and strike him in the face.
There was a blinding pain back of his eyes. A dozen times in the
first mile he fell, and each time it was harder for him to regain
his feet. The darkness of night grew heavier about him, and now
and then he found himself crawling on his hands and knees. It was
two hours before his dazed senses caught the glow of a fire ahead
of him. Even then it seemed an age before he reached it. And when
at last he staggered into the circle of light he saw half a dozen
startled faces, and he heard the strange cry of Jean Jacques
Croisset as he sprang up and caught him in his arms. Philip's
strength was gone, but he still had time to tell Jean what had
happened before he crumpled down into the snow.
And then he heard a voice, Jean's voice, crying fierce commands to
the men about the fire; he heard excited replies, the hurry of
feet, the barking of dogs. Something warm and comforting touched
his lips. He struggled to bring himself back into life. He seemed
to have been fighting hours before he opened his eyes. He pulled
himself up, stared into the dark, livid face of Jean, the half-
breed.
"The hour--has come--" he murmured.
"Yes, the hour has come, M'sieur!" cried Jean. "The swiftest teams
and the swiftest runners in this part of the Northland are on the
trail, and by morning the forest people will be roused from here
to the Waterfound, from the Cree camp on Lobstick to the Gray Loon
waterway! Drink this, M'sieur. There is no time to lose. For it is
Jean Jacques Croisset who tells you that not a wolf will howl this
night that does not call forth the signal to those who love our
Josephine! Drink!"