The next instant Hauck was at the open door. He did not cross the
threshold at once, but stood there for perhaps twenty seconds--his gray,
hard face looking in on them with eyes in which there was a cold and
sinister glitter. Brokaw, with the fumes of liquor thick in his brain,
tried to nod an invitation for him to enter; his head rolled grotesquely
and his voice was a croak. David rose slowly to his feet, thrusting back
his chair. From contemplating Brokaw's sagging body, Hauck's eyes were
levelled at him. And then his lips parted. One would not have called it
a smile. It revealed to David a deadly animosity which the man was
trying to hide under the disguise of that grin, and he knew that Hauck
had discovered that he was not McKenna. Swiftly David shot a glance at
Brokaw. The giant's head and shoulders lay on the table, and he made a
sudden daring effort to save a little more time for himself.
"I'm sorry," he said. "He's terribly drunk."
Hauck nodded his head--he kept nodding it, that cold glitter in his
eyes, the steady, insinuating grin still there.
"Yes, he's drunk," he said, his voice as hard as a rock. "Better come to
the house. I've got a room for you. There's only one bunk in
here--McKenna."
He dragged out the name slowly, a bit tauntingly it seemed to David.
And David laughed. Might as well play his last card well, he thought.
"My name isn't McKenna," he said. "It's David Raine. He made a mistake,
and he's so drunk I haven't been able to explain."
Without answering, Hauck backed out of the door. It was an invitation
for David to follow. Again he carried his pack and gun with him through
the darkness, and Hauck uttered not a word as they returned to the Nest.
The night was brighter now, and David could see Baree close at his
heels, following him as silently as a shadow. The dog slunk out of sight
when they came to the building. They did not enter from the rear this
time. Hauck led the way to a door that opened into the big room from
which had come the sound of cursing and laughter a little before. There
were ten or a dozen men in that room, all white men, and, upon entering,
David was moved by a sudden suspicion that they were expecting him--that
Hauck had prepared them for his appearance. There was no liquor in
sight. If there had been bottles and glasses on the tables, they had
been cleared away--but no one had thought to wipe away certain liquid
stains that David saw shimmering wetly in the glow of the three big
lamps hanging from the ceiling. He looked the men over quickly as he
followed the free trader. Never, he thought, had he seen a rougher or
more unpleasant-looking lot. He caught more than one eye filled with the
glittering menace he had seen in Hauck's. Not a man nodded at him, or
spoke to him. He passed close to one raw-boned individual, so close that
he brushed against him, and there was an unconcealed and threatening
animosity in this man's face as he glared up at him. By the time he had
passed through the room his suspicion had become a conviction. Hauck had
purposely put him on parade, and there was a deep and sinister
significance in the attitude of these men.
They passed through the hall into which he and Marge had entered from
the opposite side of the Nest, and Hauck paused at the door of a room
almost opposite to the one which the girl had said belonged to her.
"This will be your room while you are our guest," he said. The glitter
in his eyes softened as he nodded at David. He tried to speak a bit
affably, but David felt that his effort was rather unsuccessful. It
failed to cover the hard note in his voice and the curious twitch of his
upper lip--a snarl almost--as he forced a smile. "Make yourself at
home," he added. "We'll have breakfast in the morning with my niece." He
paused for a moment and then said, looking keenly at David: "I suppose
you tried hard to make Brokaw understand he had made a mistake, and that
you wasn't McKenna? Brokaw is a good fellow when he isn't drunk."
David was glad that he turned away without waiting for an answer. He did
not want to talk with Hauck to-night. He wanted to turn over in his mind
what he had learned from Brokaw, and to-morrow act with the cool
judgment which was more or less characteristic of him. He did not
believe even now that there would be anything melodramatic in the
outcome of the affair. There would be an unpleasantness, of course; but
when both Hauck and Brokaw were confronted with a certain situation, and
with the peculiarly significant facts which he now held in his
possession, he could not see how they would be able to place any very
great obstacle in the way of his determination to take Marge from the
Nest. He did not think of personal harm to himself, and as he entered
his room, where a lamp had been lighted for him, his mind had already
begun to work on a plan of action. He would compromise with them. In
return for the loss of the girl they should have his promise--his oath,
if necessary--not to reveal the secret of the traffic in which they were
engaged, or of that still more important affair between Hauck and the
white man from Fort MacPherson. He was certain that, in his drunkenness,
Brokaw had spoken the truth, no matter what he might deny to-morrow.
They would not hazard an investigation, though to lose the girl now, at
the very threshold of his exultant realization, would be like taking the
earth from under Brokaw's feet. In spite of the tenseness of the
situation David found himself chuckling with satisfaction. It would be
unpleasant--very--he repeated that assurance to himself; but that
self-preservation would be the first law of these rascals he was equally
positive, and he began thinking of other things that just now were of
more thrilling import to him.
It was Tavish, then--that half-mad hermit in his mice-infested
cabin--who had been at the bottom of it all! Tavish! The discovery did
not amaze him profoundly. He had never been able to dissociate Tavish
from the picture, unreasoning though he confessed himself to be, and now
that his mildly impossible conjectures had suddenly developed into
facts, he was not excited. It was another thought--or other
thoughts--that stirred him more deeply, and brought a heat into his
blood. His mind leaped back to that scene of years ago, when Marge
O'Doone's mother had run shrieking out in the storm of night to escape
Tavish. _But she had not died!_ That was the thought that burned in
David's brain now. She had lived. She had searched for her
husband--Michael O'Doone; a half-mad wanderer of the forests at first,
she may have been. She had searched for years. And she was still
searching for him when he had met her that night on the
Transcontinental! For it was she--Marge O'Doone, the mother, the wife,
into whose dark, haunting eyes he had gazed from out the sunless depths
of his own despair! _Her_ mother. Alive. Seeking a Michael
O'Doone--seeking--seeking....
He was filled with a great desire to go at once to the Girl and tell her
this wonderful new fact that had come into her life, and he found
himself suddenly at the door of his room, with his fingers on the latch.
Standing there, he shrugged his shoulders, laughing softly at himself as
he realized how absurdly sensational he was becoming all at once.
To-morrow would be time. He filled and lighted his pipe, and in the
whitish fumes of his tobacco he could picture quite easily the gray,
dead face of Tavish, hanging at the end of his meat rack. Pacing
restlessly back and forth across his room, he recalled the scenes of
that night, and of days and nights that had followed. Brokaw had given
him the key that was unlocking door after door. "Guess he was a little
crazy," Brokaw had said, speaking of Tavish as he had last known him on
the Firepan. Crazy! Going mad! And at last he had killed himself. Was it
possible that a man of Tavish's sort could be haunted for so long by
spectres of the past? It seemed unreasonable. He thought of Father
Roland and of the mysterious room in the Château, where he worshipped at
the shrine of a woman and a child who were gone.
He clenched his hands, and stopped himself. What had leapt into his mind
was as startling to his inner consciousness as the unexpected flash of
magnesium in a dark room. It was unthinkable--impossible; and yet,
following it, he found himself face to face with question after question
which he made no effort to answer. He was dazed for a moment as if by
the terrific impact of a thing which had neither weight nor form.
Tavish, the woman, the girl--Father Roland! Absurd. He shook himself,
literally shook himself, to get rid of that wildly impossible idea. He
drove his mind back to the photograph of the girl--and the woman. How
had she come into possession of the picture which Brokaw had taken? What
had Nisikoos tried to say to Marge O'Doone in those last moments when
she was dying--whispered words which the girl had not heard because she
was crying, and her heart was breaking? Did Nisikoos know that the
mother was alive? Had she sent the picture to her when she realized that
the end of her own time was drawing near? There was something
unreasonable in this too, but it was the only solution that came to him.
He was still pacing his room when the creaking of the door stopped him.
It was opening slowly and steadily and apparently with extreme caution.
In another moment Marge O'Doone stood inside. He had not seen her face
so white before. Her eyes were big and glowing darkly--pools of
quivering fear, of wild and imploring supplication. She ran to him, and
clung to him with her hands at his shoulders, her face close to his.
"_Sakewawin_--dear _Sakewawin_--we must go; we must hurry--to-night!"
She was trembling, fairly shivering against him, with one hand touching
his face now, and he put his arms about her gently.
"What is it, child?" he whispered, his heart choking suddenly. "What has
happened?"
"We must run away! We must hurry!"
At the touch of his arms she had relaxed against his breast. The last of
her courage seemed gone. She was limp, and terrified, and was looking up
at him in such a strange way that he was filled with alarm.
"I didn't tell him anything," she whispered, as if afraid he would not
believe her. "I didn't tell him you weren't that man--Mac--McKenna. He
heard you and Brokaw go when you passed my room. Then he went to the
men. I followed--and listened. I heard him telling them about you--that
you were a spy--that you belonged to the provincial police...."
A sound in the hall interrupted her. She grew suddenly tense in his
arms, then slipped from them and ran noiselessly to the door. There were
shuffling steps outside, a thick voice growling unintelligibly. The
sounds passed. Marge O'Doone was whiter still when she faced David.
"Hauck--and Brokaw!" She stood there, with her back to the door. "We
must hurry, _Sakewawin_. We must go--to-night!"
David looked at her. A spy? Police? Quite the first thing for Hauck to
suspect, of course. That law of self-preservation again--the same law
that would compel them to give up the girl to him to-morrow. He found
himself smiling at his frightened little companion, backed there against
the door, white as death. His calmness did not reassure her.
"He said--you were a spy," she repeated, as if he must understand what
that meant. "They wanted to follow you to Brokaw's cabin--and--and kill
you!"
This was coming to the bottom of her fear with a vengeance. It sent a
mild sort of a shiver through him, and corroborated with rather
disturbing emphasis what he had seen in the men's faces as he passed
among them.
"And Hauck wouldn't let them? Was that it?" he asked.
She nodded, clutching a hand at her throat.
"He told them to do nothing until he saw Brokaw. He wanted to be
certain. And then...."
His amazing and smiling composure seemed to choke back the words on her
lips.
"You must return to your room, Marge," he said quickly. "Hauck has now
seen Brokaw and there will be no trouble such as you fear. I can promise
you that. To-morrow we will leave the Nest openly--and with Hauck's and
Brokaw's permission. But should they find you here now--in my room--I am
quite sure we should have immediate trouble on our hands. I've a great
deal to tell you--much that will make you glad, but I half expect
another visit from Hauck, and you must hurry to your room."
He opened the door slightly, and listened.
"Good-night," he whispered, putting a hand for an instant to her hair.
"Good night, _Sakewawin_."
She hesitated for just a moment at the doors and then, with the faintest
sobbing breath, was gone. What wonderful eyes she had! How they had
looked at him in that last moment! David's fingers were trembling a
little as he locked his door. There was a small mirror on the table and
he held it up to look at himself. He regarded his reflection with grim
amusement. He was not beautiful. The scrub of blond beard on his face
gave him rather an outlawish appearance. And the gray hair over his
temples had grown quite conspicuous of late, quite conspicuous indeed.
Heredity? Perhaps--but it was confoundedly remindful of the fact that he
was thirty-eight!
He went to bed, after placing the table against the door, and his
automatic under his pillow--absurd and unnecessary details of caution,
he assured himself. And while Marge O'Doone sat awake close to the door
of her room all night, with a little rifle that had belonged to Nisikoos
across her lap, David slept soundly in the amazing confidence and
philosophy of that perilous age--thirty-eight!