In a moment the flying figure of the Free Trader had disappeared.
With a last glance at Jean, who was slowly sinking back into the
snow, Philip dashed in pursuit. Where Lang had buried himself in
the deeper forest the trees grew so thick that Philip, could not
see fifty yards ahead of him. But Lang's trail was distinct--and
alone. He was running swiftly. Philip had noticed that Lang had no
rifle, He dropped his own now, and drew his pistol. Thus
unencumbered he made swifter progress. He had expected to overtake
Lang within four or five hundred yards; but minute followed minute
in the mad race without another view of his enemy. He heard a few
faint shouts back in the direction of the Devil's Nest, the
barking of dogs, and half a dozen shots, the sounds growing
fainter and fainter. And then Lang's trail led him unexpectedly
into one of the foot-beaten aisles of the forest where there were
the tracks of a number of men.
At this point the thick spruce formed a roof over-head that had
shut out the fresh snow, and Philip lost several minutes before he
found the place where Lang had left the trail to bury himself
again in the unblazed forest. Half a mile farther he followed the
Free Trader's trail without catching a glimpse of the man. He was
at least a mile from the Devil's Nest when he heard sounds ahead
of him. Beyond a clump of balsam he heard the voices of men, and
then the whine of a cuffed dog. Cautiously he picked his way
through the thick cover until he crouched close to the edge of a
small open. In an instant it seemed as though his heart had leapt
from his breast into his throat, and was choking him. Within fifty
paces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But for a moment he
scarcely saw them, or the powerful team of eight huskies,
harnessed and waiting. For on the sledge, a cloth bound about her
mouth, her hands tied behind her, was Josephine!
At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The one
thought that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and
Thoreau had fooled the forest people--Josephine had not been taken
to the Devil's Nest, and the two were attempting to get away with
her.
A cry burst from his lips as he ran from cover. Instantly the pair
were facing him. Lang was still panting from his run. He held no
weapons. In the crook of Thoreau's arm rested a rifle. Swift as a
flash he raised it to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at
Philip's breast. Josephine had turned. From her smothered lips
came a choking cry of agony. Philip had now raised his automatic.
It was level with his waistline. From that position he had trained
himself to fire with the deadly precision that is a part of the
training of the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted. Before
Thoreau's forefinger had pressed the trigger of his rifle a stream
of fire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic.
Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifle
dropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down
into the snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like
lightning from the black-muzzled Savage had passed completely
through his body. It had all happened in a space so short that
Lang had not stirred. Now he found himself looking into that
little engine of death. With a cry of fear he staggered back.
Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness
that had been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than
a wolf, one of the many at Devil's Nest. Lang was different. For
all things this monster was accountable. He had no desire to
shoot. He wanted to reach him with his HANDS--to choke the life
from him slowly, to hear from his own blackening lips the
confession that had come through Jean Croisset.
He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was
struggling to free her hands, but it was only in a swift glance
that he saw this. In the same breath he had dropped his pistol and
was at Lang's throat. They went down together. Even Thoreau, a
giant in size and strength, would not have been a match for him
now. Every animal passion in him was roused to its worst.
Lang's jaws shot apart, his eyes protruded, his tongue came out--
the breath rattled in his throat. Then for a moment Philip's
death-grip relaxed. He bent down until his lips were close to the
death-filled face of his victim.
"The truth, Lang, or I'll kill you!" he whispered hoarsely.
And then he asked the question--and as he asked Josephine freed
her hands. She tore the cloth from her mouth, but before she could
rush forward, through Lang's mottling lips had come the choking
words:
"It was Miriam's."
Again Philip's fingers sank in their death-grip in Lang's throat.
Twenty seconds more and he would have fulfilled his pact with
Jean. A scream from Josephine turned his eyes for an instant from
his victim. Out of that same cover of balsam three men were
rushing upon him. A glance told him they were not of the forest
people. He had time to gain his feet before they were upon him.
It was a fight for life now, and his one hope lay in the fact that
his assailants, escaping from the Nest, did not want to betray
themselves by using firearms. The first man at him he struck a
terrific blow that sent him reeling. A second caught his arm
before he could recover himself--and then it was the hopeless
struggle of one against three.
Josephine stood free. She had seen Philip drop his pistol and she
sprang to the spot where it had fallen. It was buried under the
snow. The four men were on the ground now, Philip under. She heard
a gasping sound--and then, far away, something else: a sound that
thrilled her, that sent her voice back through the forest in cry
after cry.
What she heard was the wailing cry of the dog pack, her pack,
following over the trail which her abductors had made in their
flight from Adare House! A few steps away she saw a heavy stick in
the snow. Fiercely she tore it loose, ran back to the men, and
began striking blindly at those who were choking the life from
Philip.
Lang had risen to his knees, clutching his throat, and now
staggered toward her. She struck at him, and he caught the club.
The dogs heard her cries now. Half a mile back in the forest they
were coming in a gray, fierce horde. Only Josephine knew, as she
struggled with Lang. Under his assailants, Philip's strength was
leaving him. Iron fingers gripped at his throat. A flood of fire
seemed bursting his head. Josephine's cries were drifting farther
and farther away, and his face was as Lang's face had been a few
moments before.
Nearer and nearer swept the pack, covering that last half mile
with the speed of the wind, the huge yellow form of Hero leading
the others by a body's length. They made no sound now. When they
shot out of the forest into the little opening they had come so
silently that even Lang did not see them. In another moment they
were upon him. Josephine staggered back, her eyes big and wild
with horror. She saw him go down, and then his shrieks rang out
like a madman's. The others were on their feet, and not until she
saw Philip lying still and white on the snow did the power of
speech return to her lips. She sprang toward the dogs.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!" she cried. "Hero--KILL! NIPA HAO, boys!
Beaver--Wolf--Hero--Captain--KILL--KILL--KILL!"
As her own voice rang out, Lang's screams ceased, and then she saw
Philip dragging himself to his knees. At her calls there came a
sudden surge in the pack, and those who could not get at Lang
leaped upon the remaining three. With a cry Josephine fell upon
her knees beside Philip, clasping his head in her arms, holding
him in the protection of her own breast as they looked upon the
terrible scene.
For a moment more she looked, and then she dropped her face on
Philip's shoulder with a ghastly cry. Still partly dazed, Philip
stared. Screams such as he had never heard before came from the
lips of the dying men. From screams they turned to moaning cries,
and then to a horrible silence broken only by the snarling grind
of the maddened dogs.
Strength returned to Philip quickly. He felt Josephine limp and
lifeless in his arms, and with an effort he staggered to his feet,
half carrying her. A few yards away was a small tepee in which
Lang had kept her. He partly carried, partly dragged her to this,
and then he returned to the dogs.
Vainly he called upon them to leave their victims. He was seeking
for a club when through the balsam thicket burst John Adare and
Father George at the head of a dozen men. In response to Adare's
roaring voice the pack slunk off. The beaten snow was crimson.
Even Adare, as he faced Philip, could find no words in his horror.
Philip pointed to the tepee.
"Josephine--is there--safe," he gasped. As Adare rushed into the
tepee Philip swayed up to Father George.
"I am dizzy--faint," he said. "Help me--"
He went to Lang and dropped upon his knees beside him. The man was
unrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand
inside his fang-torn coat--and pulled out a long envelope. It was
addressed to the master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and
went to Thoreau. In his pocket he found the second envelope.
Father George was close beside him as he thrust the two in his own
pocket. He turned to the forest men, who stood like figures turned
to stone, gazing upon the scene of the tragedy.
"Carry them--out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest.
"And then--cover the blood with fresh snow."
He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a
near birch.
"I feel weak--dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me--pull off some
bark."
A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore
down a handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match.
In an instant the bark was a mass of flame. Into the fire he put
the letters.
"It is best--to burn their letters," he said. Beyond this he gave
no explanation. And Father George asked no questions.
They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in her
father's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen
out of black despair into day.
"Thank God she has not been harmed," he said.
Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his
arms. He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name--
and her arms crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside
Father George.
"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean
is one of those hurt. It isn't fatal."
He went out. Father George was about to follow when Philip
motioned him back.
"Will you wait outside for a few minutes?" he asked in a low
voice. "We shall need you--alone--Josephine and I."
And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine's face, and said:
"They are all gone, Josephine--Lang, Thoreau, AND THE LETTERS.
Lang and Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters. Jean was
shot. He thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I
might better protect you. Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me
to know. The fight is done. And Father George is waiting--out
there--to make us man and wife. No one will ever know but
ourselves--and Jean. I will tell Father George that it has been
your desire to have a SECOND marriage ceremony performed by him;
that we want our marriage to be consecrated by a minister of the
forests. Are you ready, dear? Shall I call him in?"
For a full minute she gazed steadily into his eyes, and Philip did
not break the wonderful silence. And then, with a deep sigh, her
head drooped to his breast. After a moment he heard her whisper:
"You may call him in, Philip. I guess--I've got to be--your wife."
And as the logs of the Devil's Nest sent up a pall of smoke that
rose to the skies, Metoosin crouched shiveringly far back in the
gloom of the pit, wondering if the dogs he had loosed had come to
the end of the trail.