It was Baree who disturbed the silent tableau in the moonlight. David
was staring at the Missioner, held by the look of anguish that had
settled so quickly and so strangely in his face, as if this bright night
with its moon and stars had recalled to him a great sorrow, when they
heard again the wolf-dog's howl out in the forest. It was quite near.
David, with his eyes still on the other, saw Father Roland start, as if
for an instant he had forgotten where he was. The Missioner looked his
way, and straightened his shoulders slowly, with a smile on his lips
that was strained and wan as the smile of one worn out by an arduous
toil.
"A splendid night," he repeated, and he raised a naked hand to his head,
as if slowly brushing away something from before his eyes. "It was a
night like this--this--fifteen years ago...."
He stopped. In the moonlight he brought himself together with a jerk. He
came and laid a hand on David's shoulder.
"That was Baree," he said. "The dog has followed us."
"He is not very far in the forest," answered David.
"No. He smells us. He is waiting out there for you."
There was a moment's silence between them as they listened.
"I will take him a fish," said David, then. "I am sure he will come to
me."
Mukoki had hoisted the gunny sack full of fish well up against the roof
of the cabin to keep it from chance marauders of the night, and Father
Roland stood by while David lowered it and made a choice for Baree's
supper. Then he reëntered the cabin.
It was not Baree who drew David slowly into the forest. He wanted to be
alone, away from Father Roland and the quiet, insistent scrutiny of the
Cree. He wanted to think, ask himself questions, find answers for them
if he could. His mind was just beginning to rouse itself to the
significance of the events of the past day and night, and he was like
one bewildered by a great mystery, and startled by visions of a possible
tragedy. Fate had played with him strangely. It had linked him with
happenings that were inexplicable and unusual, and he believed that they
were not without their meaning for him. More or less of a fatalist, he
was inspired by the sudden and disturbing thought that they had happened
by inevitable necessity.
Vividly he saw again the dark, haunting eyes of the woman in the coach,
and heard again the few low, tense words with which she had revealed to
him her quest of a man--a man by the name of Michael O'Doone. In her
presence he had felt the nearness of tragedy. It had stirred him deeply,
almost as deeply as the picture she had left in her seat--the picture
hidden now against his breast--like a thing which must not be betrayed,
and which a strange and compelling instinct had made him associate in
such a startling way with Tavish. He could not get Tavish out of his
mind; Tavish, the haunted man; Tavish the man who had fled from the
Firepan Creek country at just about the time the girl in the picture had
stood on the rock beside the pool; Tavish, terror-driven by a spirit of
the dead! He did not attempt to reason the matter, or bare the folly of
his alarm. He did not ask himself about the improbability of it all, but
accepted without equivocation that strong impression as it had come to
him--the conviction that the girl on the rock and the woman in the coach
were in some way identified with the flight of Tavish, the man he had
never seen, from that far valley in the northwest mountains.
The questions he asked himself now were not to establish in his own mind
either the truth or the absurdity of this conviction. He was determining
with himself whether or not to confide in Father Roland. It was more
than delicacy that made him hesitate; it was almost a personal shame.
For a long time he had kept within his breast the secret of his own
tragedy and dishonour. That it was _his_ dishonour, almost as much as
the woman's, had been his own conviction; and how, at last, he had come
to reveal that corroding sickness in his soul to a man who was almost a
stranger was more than he could understand. But he had done just that.
Father Roland had seen him stripped down to the naked truth in an hour
of great need, and he had put out a hand in time to save him. He no
longer doubted this last immeasurable fact. Twenty times since then,
coldly and critically, he had thought of the woman who had been his
wife, and slowly and terribly the enormity of her crime had swept
further and further away from him the anguish of her loss. He was like a
man risen from a sick bed, breathing freely again, tasting once more
the flavour of the air that filled his lungs. All this he owed to Father
Roland, and because of this--and his confession of only two nights
ago--he felt a burning humiliation at the thought of telling the
Missioner that another face had come to fill his thoughts, and stir his
anxieties. And what less could he tell, if he confided in him at all?
He had gone a hundred yards or more into the forest, and in a little
open space, lighted up like a tiny amphitheatre in the glow of the moon,
he stopped. Suddenly there came to him, thrilling in its promise, a key
to the situation. He would wait until they reached Tavish's. And then,
in the presence of the Missioner, he would suddenly show Tavish the
picture. His heart throbbed uneasily as he anticipated the possible
tragedy--the sudden betrayal--of that moment, for Father Roland had
said, like one who had glimpsed beyond the ken of human eyes, that
Tavish was haunted by a vision of the dead. The dead! Could it be that
she, the girl in the picture....? He shook himself, set his lips tight
to get the thought away from him. And the woman--the woman in the coach,
the woman who had left in her seat this picture that was growing in his
heart like a living thing--who was she? Was her quest one of
vengeance--of retribution? Was Tavish the man she was seeking? Up in
that mountain valley--where the girl had stood on that rock--had his
name been Michael O'Doone?
He was trembling when he went on, deeper into the forest. But of his
determination there was no longer a doubt. He would say nothing to
Father Roland until Tavish had seen the picture.
Until now he had forgotten Baree. In the disquieting fear with which
his thoughts were weighted he had lost hold of the fact that in his hand
he still carried the slightly curved and solidly frozen substance of a
fish. The movement of a body near him, so unexpected and alarmingly
close that a cry broke from his lips as he leaped to one side, roused
him with a sudden mental shock. The beast, whatever it was, had passed
within six feet of him, and now, twice that distance away, stood like a
statue hewn out of stone levelling at him the fiery gleam of a solitary
eye. Until he saw that one eye, and not two, David did not breathe. Then
he gasped. The fish had fallen from his fingers. He stooped, picked it
up, and called softly:
"Baree!"
The dog was waiting for his voice. His one eye shifted, slanting like a
searchlight in the direction of the cabin, and turned swiftly back to
David. He whined, and David spoke to him again, calling his name, and
holding out the fish. For several moments Baree did not move, but eyed
him with the immobility of a half-blinded sphinx. Then, suddenly, he
dropped on his belly and began crawling toward him.
A spatter of moonlight fell upon them as David, crouching on his heels,
gave Baree the fish, holding for a moment to the tail of it while the
hungry beast seized its head between his powerful jaws with a grinding
crunch. The power of those jaws sent a little shiver through the man so
close to them. They were terrible--and splendid. A man's leg-bone would
have cracked between them like a pipe stem. And Baree, with that power
of death in his jaws, had a second time crept to him on his belly--not
fearingly, in the shadow of a club, but like a thing tamed into slavery
by a yearning adoration. It was a fact that seized upon David with a
peculiar hold. It built up between them--between this down-and-out beast
and a man fighting to find himself--a comradeship which perhaps only the
man and the beast could understand. Even as he devoured the fish Baree
kept his one eye on David, as though fearing he might lose him again if
he allowed his gaze to falter for an instant. The truculency and the
menace of that eye were gone. It was still bloodshot, still burned with
a reddish fire, and a great pity swept through David, as he thought of
the blows the club must have given. He noticed, then, that Baree was
making efforts to open the other eye; he saw the swollen lid flutter,
the muscle twitch. Impulsively he put out a hand. It fell unflinchingly
on Baree's head, and in an instant the crunching of the dog's jaw had
ceased, and he lay as if dead. David bent nearer. With the thumb and
forefinger of his other hand he gently lifted the swollen lid. It caused
a hurt. Baree whined softly. His great body trembled. His ivory fangs
clicked like the teeth of a man with ague. To his wolfish soul,
trembling in a body that had been condemned, beaten, clubbed almost to
the door of death, that hurt caused by David's fingers was a caress. He
understood. He saw with a vision that was keener than sight. Faith was
born in him, and burned like a conflagration. His head dropped to the
snow; a great, gasping sigh ran through him, and his trembling ceased.
His good eye closed slowly as David gently and persistently massaged the
muscles of the other with his thumb and forefinger. When at last he rose
to his feet and returned to the cabin, Baree followed him to the edge of
the clearing.
Mukoki and the Missioner had made their beds of balsam boughs, two on
the floor and one in the bunk, and the Cree had already rolled himself
in his blanket when David entered the shack. Father Roland was wiping
David's gun.
"We'll give you a little practice with this to-morrow," he promised. "Do
you suppose you can hit a moose?"
"I have my doubts, _mon Père_."
Father Roland gave vent to his curious chuckle.
"I have promised to make a marksman of you in exchange for your--your
trouble in teaching me how to use the gloves," he said, polishing
furiously. There was a twinkle in his eyes, as if a moment before he had
been laughing to himself. The gloves were on the table. He had been
examining them again, and David found himself smiling at the childlike
and eager interest he had taken in them. Suddenly Father Roland rubbed
still a little faster, and said:
"If you can't hit a moose with a bullet you surely can hit me with these
gloves--eh?"
"Yes, quite positively. But I shall be merciful if you, in turn, show
some charity in teaching me how to shoot."
The Little Missioner finished his polishing, set the rifle against the
wall, and took the gloves in his hands.
"It is bright--almost like day--outside," he said a little yearningly.
"Are you--tired?"
His hint was obvious, even to Mukoki, who stared at him from under his
blanket. And David was not tired. If his afternoon's work had fatigued
him his exhaustion was forgotten in the mental excitement that had
followed the Missioner's story of Tavish. He took a pair of the gloves
in his hands, and nodded toward the door.
"You mean...."
Father Roland was on his feet.
"If you are not tired. It would give us a better stomach for sleep."
Mukoki rolled from his blanket, a grin on his leathery face. He tied the
wrist laces for them, and followed them out into the moonlit night, his
face a copper-coloured gargoyle illuminated by that fixed and joyous
grin. David saw the look and wondered if it would change when he sent
the Little Missioner bowling over in the snow, which he was quite sure
to do, even if he was careful. He was a splendid boxer. In the days of
his practice he had struck a terrific blow for his weight. At the
Athletic Club he had been noted for a subtle strategy and a cleverness
of defence that were his own. But he felt that he had grown rusty during
the past year and a half. This thought was in his mind when he tapped
the Missioner on the end of his ruddy nose. They squared away in the
moonlight, eight inches deep in the snow, and there was a joyous and
eager light in Father Roland's eyes. The tap on his nose did not dim it.
His teeth gleamed, even as David's gloves went _plunk_, _plunk_, against
his nose again. Mukoki, still grinning like a carven thing, chuckled
audibly. David pranced carelessly about the Little Missioner, poking him
beautifully as he offered suggestions and criticism.
"You should protect your nose, _mon Père_"--_plunk_! "And the pit of
your stomach"--_plunk_! "And also your ears"--_plunk_, _plunk_! "But
especially your nose, _mon Père_"--_plunk_, _plunk_!
"And sometimes the tip of your jaw, David," gurgled Father Roland, and
for a few moments night closed in darkly about David.
When he came fully into his senses again he was sitting in the snow,
with the Little Missioner bending over him anxiously, and Mukoki
grinning down at him like a fiend.
"Dear Heaven, forgive me!" he heard Father Roland saying. "I didn't mean
it so hard, David--I didn't! But oh, man, it was such a chance--such a
beautiful chance! And now I've spoiled it. I've spoiled our fun."
"Not unless you're--tired," said David, getting up on his feet. "You
took me at a disadvantage, _mon Père_. I thought you were green."
"And you were pulverizing my nose," apologized Father Roland.
They went at it again, and this time David spared none of his caution,
and offered no advice, and the Missioner no longer posed, but became
suddenly as elusive and as agile as a cat. David was amazed, but he
wasted no breath to demand an explanation. Father Roland was parrying
his straight blows like an adept. Three times in as many minutes he felt
the sting of the Missioner's glove in his face. In straight-away boxing,
without the finer tricks and artifice of the game, he was soon convinced
that the forest man was almost his match. Little by little he began to
exert the cleverness of his training. At the end of ten minutes Father
Roland was sitting dazedly in the snow, and the grin had gone from
Mukoki's face. He had succumbed to a trick--a swift side step, a feint
that had held in it an ambush, and the seat of the Little Missioner's
faculties had rocked. But he was gurgling joyously when he rose to his
feet, and with one arm he hugged David as they returned to the cabin.
"Only one other man has given me a jolt like that in many a year," he
boasted, a bit proudly. "And that was Tavish. Tavish is good. He must
have lived long among fighting men. Perhaps that is why I think so
kindly of him. I love a fighting man if he fights honourably with either
brain or brawn, even more than I despise a coward."
"And yet this Tavish, you say, is pursued by a great fear. Can he be so
much of a fighting man, in the way you mean, and still live in terror
of...."
"_What?_"
That single word broke from the Missioner like the sharp crack of a
whip.
"Of _what_ is he afraid?" he repeated. "Can you tell me? Can you guess
more than I have guessed? Is one a coward because he fears whispers that
tremble in the air and sees a face in the darkness of night that is
neither living nor dead? Is he?"
For a long time after he had gone to bed David lay wide awake in the
darkness, his mind working until it seemed to him that it was prisoned
in an iron chamber from which it was making futile efforts to escape. He
could hear the steady breathing of Father Roland and Mukoki, who were
asleep. His own eyes he could close only by forced efforts to bring upon
himself the unconsciousness of rest. Tavish filled his mind--Tavish and
the girl--and along with them the mysterious woman in the coach. He
struggled with himself. He told himself how absurd it all was, how
grotesquely his imagination was employing itself with him--how
incredible it was that Tavish and the girl in the picture should be
associated in that terrible way that had occurred to him. But he failed
to convince himself. He fell asleep at last, and his slumber was filled
with fleeting visions. When he awoke the cabin was filled with the glow
of the lantern. Father Roland and Mukoki were up, and a fire was
crackling in the stove.
The four days that followed broke the last link in the chain that held
David Raine to the life from which he was fleeing when the forest
Missioner met him in the Transcontinental. They were four wonderful
days, in which they travelled steadily northward; days of splendid
sunshine, of intense cold, of brilliant stars and a full moon at night.
The first of these four days David travelled fifteen miles on his snow
shoes, and that night he slept in a balsam shelter close to the face of
a great rock which they heated with a fire of logs, so that all through
the cold hours between darkness and gray dawn the boulder was like a
huge warming-stone. The second day marked also the second great stride
in his education in the life of the wild. Fang and hoof and padded claw
were at large again in the forests after the blizzard, and Father Roland
stopped at each broken path that crossed the trail, pointing out to him
the stories that were written in the snow. He showed him where a fox had
followed silently after a snow-shoe rabbit; where a band of wolves had
ploughed through the snow in the trail of a deer that was doomed, and in
a dense run of timber where both moose and caribou had sought refuge
from the storm he explained carefully the slight difference between the
hoofprints of the two. That night Baree came into camp while they were
sleeping, and in the morning they found where he had burrowed his round
bed in the snow not a dozen yards from their shelter. The third morning
David shot his moose. And that night he lured Baree almost to the side
of their campfire, and tossed him chunks of raw flesh from where he sat
smoking his pipe.
He was changed. Three days on the trail and three nights in camp under
the stars had begun their promised miracle-working. His face was
darkened by a stubble of beard, his ears and cheek bones were reddened
by exposure to cold and wind; he felt that in those three days and
nights his muscles had hardened, and his weakness had left him. "It was
in your mind--your sickness," Father Roland had told him, and he
believed it now. He began to find a pleasure in that physical
achievement which he had wondered at in Mukoki and the Missioner. Each
noon when they stopped to boil their tea and cook their dinner, and each
night when they made camp, he had chopped down a tree. To-night it had
been an 8-inch jack pine, tough with pitch. The exertion had sent his
blood pounding through him furiously. He was still breathing deeply as
he sat near the fire, tossing bits of meat out to Baree. They were sixty
miles from Thoreau's cabin, straight north, and for the twentieth time
Father Roland was telling him how well he had done.
"And to-morrow," he added, "we'll reach Tavish's."
It had grown upon David that to see Tavish had become his one great
mission in the North. What adventure lay beyond that meeting he did not
surmise. All his thoughts had centred in the single desire to let Tavish
look upon the picture. To-night, after the Missioner had joined Mukoki
in the silk tent buried warmly under the mass of cut balsam, he sat a
little longer beside the fire, and asked himself questions which he had
not thought of before. He would see Tavish. He would show him the
picture. And--what then? Would that be the end of it? He felt, for a
moment, uncomfortable. Beyond Tavish there was a disturbing and
unanswerable problem. The Girl, if she still lived, was a thousand miles
from where he was sitting at this moment; to reach her, with that
distance of mountain and forest between them, would be like travelling
to the end of the world. It was the first time there had risen in his
mind a definite thought of going to her--if she were alive. It startled
him. It was like a shock. Go to her? Why? He drew forth the picture from
his coat pocket and stared at the wonder-face of the Girl in the light
of the blazing logs. _Why?_ His heart trembled. He lifted his eyes to
the grayish film of smoke rising between him and the balsam-covered
tent, and slowly he saw another face take form, framed in that
wraith-like mist of smoke--the face of a golden goddess, laughing at
him, taunting him. _Laughing--laughing_!... He forced his gaze from it
with a shudder. Again he looked at the picture of the Girl in his hand.
"_She knows. She understands. She comforts me._" He whispered the words.
They were like a breath rising out of his soul. He replaced the picture
in his pocket, and for a moment held it close against his breast.
The next day, as the swift-thickening gloom of northern night was
descending about them again, the Missioner halted his team on the crest
of a boulder-strewn ridge, and pointing down into the murky plain at
their feet he said, with the satisfaction of one who has come to a
journey's end:
"There is Tavish's."