The Willow’s back was toward the door when the Factor from Lac Bain
entered the cabin, and for a few startled seconds she did not turn. Her
first thought was of Pierrot—for some reason he had returned. But even
as this thought came to her, she heard in Baree’s throat a snarl that
brought her suddenly to her feet, facing the door.
McTaggart had not entered unprepared. He had left his pack, his gun, and
his heavy coat outside. He was standing with his back against the door;
and at Nepeese—in her wonderful dress and flowing hair—he was staring as
if stunned for a space at what he saw. Fate, or accident, was playing
against the Willow now. If there had been a spark of slumbering
chivalry, of mercy, even, in Bush McTaggart’s soul, it was extinguished
by what he saw. Never had Nepeese looked more beautiful, not even on
that day when MacDonald the map-maker had taken her picture. The sun,
flooding through the window, lighted up her marvellous hair; her flushed
face was framed in its lustrous darkness like a tinted cameo. He had
dreamed, but he had pictured nothing like this woman who stood before
him now, her eyes widening with fear and the flush leaving her face even
as he looked at her.
It was not a long interval in which their eyes met in that terrible
silence—terrible to the girl. Words were unnecessary. At last she
understood—understood what her peril had been that day at the edge of
the chasm and in the forest, when fearlessly she had played with the
menace that was confronting her now.
A breath that was like a sob broke from her lips.
“M’sieu!” she tried to say. But it was only a gasp—an effort. She seemed
choking.
Plainly she heard the click of the iron bolt as it locked the door.
McTaggart advanced a step.
Only a single step McTaggart advanced. On the floor Baree had remained
like a carven thing. He had not moved. He had not made a sound but that
one warning snarl—until McTaggart took the step. And then, like a flash,
he was up and in front of Nepeese, every hair of his body on end; and at
the fury in his growl McTaggart lunged back against the barred door. A
word from Nepeese in that moment, and it would have been over. But an
instant was lost—an instant before her cry came. In that moment man’s
hand and brain worked swifter than brute understanding; and as Baree
launched himself at the Factor’s throat, there came a flash and a
deafening explosion almost in the Willow’s eyes.
It was a chance shot, a shot from the hip with McTaggart’s automatic.
Baree fell short. He struck the floor with a thud and rolled against the
log wall. There was not a kick or a quiver left in his body. McTaggart
laughed nervously as he shoved his pistol back in its holster. He knew
that only a brain shot could have done that.
With her back against the farther wall, Nepeese was waiting. McTaggart
could hear her panting breath. He advanced halfway to her.
“Nepeese, I have come to make you my wife,” he said.
She did not answer. He could see that her breath was choking her. She
raised a hand to her throat. He took two more steps, and stopped. He had
never seen such eyes.
“I have come to make you my wife, Nepeese. To-morrow you will go on to
Nelson House with me and then back to Lac Bain—forever.” He added the
last word as an afterthought. “Forever,” he repeated.
He did not mince words. His courage and his determination rose as he saw
her body droop a little against the wall. She was powerless. There was
no escape. Pierrot was gone. Baree was dead.
He had thought that no living creature could move as swiftly as the
Willow when his arms reached out for her. She made no sound as she
darted under one of his outstretched arms. He made a lunge, a brutal
grab, and his fingers caught a bit of hair. He heard the snap of it as
she tore herself free and flew to the door. She had thrown back the bolt
when he caught her and his arms closed about her. He dragged her back,
and now she cried out—cried out in her despair for Pierrot, for Baree,
for some miracle of God that might save her.
And Nepeese fought. She twisted in his arms until she was facing him.
She could no longer see. She was smothered in her hair. It covered her
face and breast and body, suffocating her, entangling her hands and
arms—and still she fought. In the struggle McTaggart stumbled over the
body of Baree, and they went down. Nepeese was up fully five seconds
ahead of the man. She could have reached the door. But again it was her
hair. She paused to fling back the thick masses of it so that she could
see, and McTaggart was at the door ahead of her.
He did not lock it again, but stood facing her. His face was scratched
and bleeding. He was no longer a man but a devil. Nepeese was broken,
panting—a low sobbing came with her breath. She bent down, and picked up
a piece of firewood. McTaggart could see that her strength was almost
gone.
She clutched the stick as he approached her again. But McTaggart had
lost all thought of fear or caution. He sprang upon her like an animal.
The stick of firewood fell. And again fate played against the girl. In
her terror and hopelessness she had caught up the first stick her hand
had touched—a light one. With her last strength she struck at McTaggart
with it, and as it fell on his head, he staggered back. But it did not
make him lose his hold.
Vainly she was fighting now, not to strike him or to escape, but to get
her breath. She tried to cry out again, but this time no sound came from
between her gasping lips.
Again he laughed, and as he laughed, he heard the door open. Was it the
wind? He turned, still holding her in his arms.
In the open door stood Pierrot.