Jen watched to see if her father or Pierre would notice that the horse
was changed, had been travelled during the night, or that it was a
different one altogether. As the morning wore away she saw that they did
not notice the fact. This ignorance was perhaps owing largely to the
appearance of several ranchmen from near the American border. They spent
their time in the bar-room, and when they left it was nearly noon. Still
Sergeant Tom slept. Jen now went to him and tried to wake him. She
lifted him to a sitting position, but his head fell on her shoulder.
Disheartened, she laid him down again. But now at last an undefined
suspicion began to take possession of her. It made her uneasy; it filled
her with a vague sense of alarm. Was this sleep natural? She remembered
that, when her father and others had slept so long after the prairie
fire, she had waked them once to give them drink and a little food, and
they did not breathe so heavily as he was doing. Yet what could be done?
What was the matter? There was not a doctor nearer than a hundred miles.
She thought of bleeding,--the old-fashioned remedy still used on the
prairies--but she decided to wait a little. Somehow she felt that she
would receive no help from her father or Pierre. Had they anything to
do with this sleep? Was it connected with the papers? No, not that, for
they had not sought to take them, and had not made any remark about their
being gone. This showed their unconcern on that point. She could not
fathom the mystery, but the suspicion of something irregular deepened.
Her father could have no reason for injuring Sergeant Tom; but Pretty
Pierre--that was another matter. Yet she remembered too that her father
had appeared the more anxious of the two about the Sergeant's sleep. She
recalled that he said: "Yes, it's all right, if he doesn't sleep too
long."
But Pierre could play a part, she knew, and could involve others in
trouble, and escape himself. He was a man with a reputation for
occasional wickednesses of a naked, decided type. She knew that he was
possessed of a devil, of a very reserved devil, but liable to bold action
on occasions. She knew that he valued the chances of life or death no
more than he valued the thousand and one other chances of small
importance, which occur in daily experience. It was his creed that one
doesn't go till the game is done and all the cards are played. He had a
stoic indifference to events.
He might be capable of poisoning--poisoning! ah, that thought! of
poisoning Sergeant Tom for some cause. But her father? The two seemed
to act alike in the matter. Could her father approve of any harm
happening to Tom? She thought of the meal he had eaten, of the coffee
he had drunk. The coffee-was that the key? But she said to herself that
she was foolish, that her love had made her so. No, it could not be.
But a fear grew upon her, strive as she would against it. She waited
silently and watched, and twice or thrice made ineffectual efforts to
rouse him. Her father came in once. He showed anxiety; that was
unmistakable, but was it the anxiety of guilt of any kind? She said
nothing. At five o'clock matters abruptly came to a climax. Jen was in
the kitchen, but, hearing footsteps in the sitting-room, she opened the
door quietly. Her father was bending over Sergeant Tom, and Pierre was
speaking: "No, no, Galbraith, it is all right. You are a fool. It could
not kill him."
"Kill him--kill him," she repeated gaspingly to herself.
"You see he was exhausted; he may sleep for hours yet. Yes, he is safe,
I think."
"But Jen, she suspects something, she--"
"Hush!" said Pretty Pierre. He saw her standing near. She had glided
forward and stood with flashing eyes turned, now upon the one, and now
upon the other. Finally they rested on Galbraith.
"Tell me what you have done to him; what you and Pretty Pierre have done
to him. You have some secret. I will know." She leaned forward,
something of the tigress in the poise of her body. "I tell you, I will
know." Her voice was low, and vibrated with fierceness and
determination. Her eyes glowed, and her nostrils trembled with disdain
and indignation. As they drew back,--the old man sullenly, the gambler
with a slight gesture of impatience,--she came a step nearer to them and
waited, the cords of her shapely throat swelling with excitement. A
moment so, and then she said in a tone that suggested menace,
determination:
"You have poisoned him. Tell me the truth. Do you hear, father--the
truth, or I will hate you. I will make you repent it till you die."
"But--" Pierre began.
She interrupted him. "Do not speak, Pretty Pierre. You are a devil.
You will lie. Father--!" She waited. "What difference does it make to
you, Jen?" "What difference--what difference to me? That you should be
a murderer?"
"But that is not so, that is a dream of yours, Ma'm'selle," said Pierre.
She turned to her father again. "Father, will you tell the truth to me?
I warn you it will be better for you both."
The old man's brow was sullen, and his lips were twitching nervously.
"You care more for him than you do for your own flesh and blood, Jen.
There's nothing to get mad about like that. I'll tell you when he's
gone. . . . Let's--let's wake him," he added, nervously.
He stooped down and lifted the sleeping man to a sitting posture. Pierre
assisted him.
Jen saw that the half-breed believed Sergeant Tom could be wakened, and
her fear diminished slightly, if her indignation did not. They lifted
the soldier to his feet. Pierre pressed the point of a pin deep into his
arm. Jen started forward, woman-like, to check the action, but drew
back, for she saw heroic measures might be necessary to bring him to
consciousness. But, nevertheless, her anger broke bounds, and she said:
"Cowards--cowards! What spite made you do this?"
"Damnation, Jen," said the father, "you'll hector me till I make you
sorry. What's this Irish policeman to you? What's he beside your own
flesh and blood, I say again."
"Why does my own flesh and blood do such wicked tricks to an Irish
soldier? Why does it give poison to an Irish soldier?"
"Poison, Jen? You needn't speak so ghost-like. It was only a dose of
laudanum; not enough to kill him. Ask Pierre."
Inwardly she believed him, and said a Thank-God to herself, but to the
half-breed she remarked: "Yes, ask Pierre--you are behind all this!
It is some evil scheme of yours. Why did you do it? Tell the truth for
once." Her eyes swam angrily with Pierre's.
Pierre was complacent; he admired her wild attacks. He smiled, and
replied: "My dear, it was a whim of mine; but you need not tell him, all
the same, when he wakes. You see this is your father's house, though the
whim is mine. But look: he is waking-the pin is good. Some cold water,
quick!"
The cold water was brought and dashed into the face of the soldier. He
showed signs of returning consciousness. The effect of the laudanum had
been intensified by the thoroughly exhausted condition of the body.
But the man was perfectly healthy, and this helped to resist the danger
of a fatal result.
Pierre kept up an intermittent speech. "Yes, it was a mere whim of mine.
Eh, he will think he has been an ass to sleep so long, and on duty, and
orders to carry to Archangel's Rise!" Here he showed his teeth again,
white and regular like a dog's. That was the impression they gave, his
lips were so red, and the contrast was so great. One almost expected to
find that the roof of his mouth was black, like that of a well-bred
hound; but there is no evidence available on the point.
"There, that is good," he said. "Now set him down, Pete Galbraith.
Yes--so, so! Sergeant Tom, ah, you will wake well, soon. Now the eyes
a little wider. Good. Eh, Sergeant Tom, what is the matter? It is
breakfast time--quite."
Sergeant Tom's eyes opened slowly and looked dazedly before him for a
minute. Then they fell on Pierre. At first there was no recognition,
then they became consciously clearer. "Pretty Pierre, you here in the
barracks!" he said. He put his hand to his head, then rubbed his eyes
roughly and looked up again. This time he saw Jen and her father. His
bewilderment increased. Then he added: "What is the matter? Have I been
asleep? What--!" He remembered. He staggered to his feet and felt his
pockets quickly and anxiously for his letter. It was gone.
"The letter!" he said. "My orders! Who has robbed me? Faith, I
remember. I could not keep awake after I drank the coffee. My papers
are gone, I tell you, Galbraith," he said, fiercely.