During that terrible space which followed an eternity of time rolled
slowly through the little cabin on the Gray Loon—that eternity which
lies somewhere between life and death and which is sometimes meted out
to a human life in seconds instead of eons.
In those seconds Pierrot did not move from where he stood in the
doorway. McTaggart, huddled over with the weight in his arms, and
staring at Pierrot, did not move. But the Willow’s eyes were opening.
And a convulsive quiver ran through the body of Baree, where he lay near
the wall. There was not the sound of a breath. And then, in that
silence, a great gasping sob came from Nepeese.
Then Pierrot stirred to life. Like McTaggart, he had left his coat and
mittens outside. He spoke, and his voice was not like Pierrot’s. It was
a strange voice.
“The great God has sent me back in time, m’sieu,” he said. “I, too,
travelled by way of the east, and saw your trail where it turned this
way.”
No, that was not like Pierrot’s voice! A chill ran through McTaggart
now, and slowly he let go of Nepeese. She fell to the floor. Slowly he
straightened.
“Is it not true, m’sieu?” said Pierrot again. “I have come in time?”
What power was it—what great fear, perhaps, that made McTaggart nod his
head, that made his thick lips form huskily the words, “Yes—in time.”
And yet it was not fear. It was something greater, something more
all-powerful than that. And Pierrot said, in that same strange voice:
“I thank the great God!”
The eyes of madman met the eyes of madman now. Between them was death.
Both saw it. Both thought that they saw the direction in which its bony
finger pointed. Both were certain. McTaggart’s hand did not go to the
pistol in his holster, and Pierrot did not touch the knife in his belt.
When they came together, it was throat to throat—two beasts now, instead
of one, for Pierrot had in him the fury and strength of the wolf, the
cat, and the panther.
McTaggart was the bigger and heavier man, a giant in strength; yet in
the face of Pierrot’s fury he lurched back over the table and went down
with a crash. Many times in his life he had fought, but he had never
felt a grip at his throat like the grip of Pierrot’s hands. They almost
crushed the life from him at once. His neck snapped—a little more, and
it would have broken. He struck out blindly from his back, and twisted
himself to throw off the weight of the halfbreed’s body. But Pierrot was
fastened there, as Sekoosew the ermine had fastened itself at the
jugular of the partridge, and Bush McTaggart’s jaws slowly swung open,
and his face began to turn from red to purple.
Cold air rushing through the door, Pierrot’s voice and the sound of
battle roused Nepeese quickly to consciousness and the power to raise
herself from the floor. She had fallen near Baree, and as she lifted her
head, her eyes rested for a moment on the dog before they went to the
fighting men. Baree was alive! His body was twitching; his eyes were
open; he made an effort to raise his head as she was looking at him.
Then she dragged herself to her knees and turned to the men, and
Pierrot, even in the blood-red fury of his desire to kill, must have
heard the sharp cry of joy that came from her when she saw that it was
the Factor from Lac Bain who was underneath. With a tremendous effort
she staggered to her feet, and for a few moments she stood swaying
unsteadily as her brain and her body readjusted themselves. Even as she
looked down upon the blackening face from which Pierrot’s fingers were
choking the life, Bush McTaggart’s hand was groping blindly for his
pistol. He found it. Unseen by Pierrot, he dragged it from its holster.
It was one of the black devils of chance that favoured him again, for in
his excitement he had not snapped the safety shut after shooting Baree.
Now he had only strength left to pull the trigger. Twice his forefinger
closed. Twice there came deadened explosion close to Pierrot’s body.
In Pierrot’s face Nepeese saw what had happened. Her heart died in her
breast as she looked upon the swift and terrible change wrought by
sudden death. Slowly Pierrot straightened. His eyes were wide for a
moment—wide and staring. He made no sound. She could not see his lips
move. And then he fell toward her, so that McTaggart’s body was free.
Blindly and with an agony that gave no evidence in cry or word she flung
herself down beside him. He was dead.
How long Nepeese lay there, how long she waited for Pierrot to move, to
open his eyes, to breathe, she would never know. In that time McTaggart
rose to his feet and stood leaning against the wall, the pistol in his
hand, his brain clearing itself as he saw his final triumph. His work
did not frighten him. Even in that tragic moment as he stood against the
wall, his defense—if it ever came to a defense—framed itself in his
mind. Pierrot had murderously assaulted him—without cause. In
self-defense he had killed him. Was he not the Factor of Lac Bain? Would
not the Company and the law believe his word before that of this girl?
His brain leaped with the old exultation. It would never come to that—to
a betrayal of this struggle and death in the cabin—after he had finished
with her! She would not be known for all time as _La Bête Noir_. No,
they would bury Pierrot, and she would return to Lac Bain with him. If
she had been helpless before, she was ten times more helpless now. She
would never tell of what had happened in the cabin.
He forgot the presence of death as he looked at her, bowed over her
father so that her hair covered him like a silken shroud. He replaced
the pistol in its holster and drew a deep breath into his lungs. He was
still a little unsteady on his feet, but his face was again the face of
a devil. He took a step, and it was then there came a sound to rouse the
girl. In the shadow of the farther wall Baree had struggled to his
haunches, and now he growled.
Slowly Nepeese lifted her head. A power which she could not resist drew
her eyes up until she was looking into the face of Bush McTaggart. She
had almost lost consciousness of his presence; her senses were cold and
deadened—it was as if her own heart had stopped beating along with
Pierrot’s. What she saw in the Factor’s face dragged her out of the
numbness of her grief back to the abyss of her own peril. He was
standing over her. In his face there was no pity, nothing of horror at
what he had done—only an insane exultation as he looked—not at Pierrot’s
dead body, but at her. He put out a hand, and it rested on her head. She
felt his thick fingers crumpling her hair, and his eyes blazed like
embers of fire behind watery films. She struggled to rise, but with his
hands at her hair he held her down.
“Great God!” she breathed.
She uttered no other words, no plea for mercy, no other sound but a dry,
hopeless sob. In that moment neither of them heard or saw Baree. Twice
in crossing the cabin his hind-quarters had sagged to the floor. Now he
was close to McTaggart. He wanted to give a single lunge to the
man-brute’s back and snap his thick neck as he would have broken a
caribou-bone. But he had no strength. He was still partially paralyzed
from his fore-shoulder back. But his jaws were like iron, and they
closed savagely on McTaggart’s leg.
With a yell of pain the Factor released his hold on the Willow, and she
staggered to her feet. For a precious half-minute she was free, and as
the Factor kicked and struck to loose Baree’s hold, she ran to the cabin
door and out into the day. The cold air struck her face; it filled her
lungs with new strength; and without thought of where hope might lie she
ran through the snow into the forest.
McTaggart appeared at the door just in time to see her disappear. His
leg was torn where Baree had fastened his fangs, but he felt no pain as
he ran in pursuit of the girl. She could not go far. An exultant cry,
inhuman as the cry of a beast, came in a great breath from his gaping
mouth as he saw that she was staggering weakly as she fled. He was
halfway to the edge of the forest when Baree dragged himself over the
threshold. His jaws were bleeding where McTaggart had kicked him again
and again before his fangs gave way. Halfway between his ears was a
seared spot, as if a red-hot poker had been laid there for an instant.
This was where McTaggart’s bullet had gone. A quarter of an inch deeper,
and it would have meant death. As it was, it had been like the blow of a
heavy club, paralyzing his senses and sending him limp and unconscious
against the wall. He could move on his feet now without falling, and
slowly he followed in the tracks of the man and the girl.
As she ran, Nepeese’s mind became all at once clear and reasoning. She
turned into the narrow trail over which McTaggart had followed her once
before, but just before reaching the chasm, she swung sharply to the
right. She could see McTaggart. He was not running fast, but was gaining
steadily, as if enjoying the sight of her helplessness, as he had
enjoyed it in another way on that other day. Two hundred yards below the
deep pool into which she had pushed the Factor—just beyond the shallows
out of which he had dragged himself to safety—was the beginning of Blue
Feather’s Gorge. An appalling thing was shaping itself in her mind as
she ran to it—a thing that with each gasping breath she drew became more
and more a great and glorious hope. At last she reached it and looked
down. And as she looked, there whispered up out of her soul and trembled
on her lips the swan-song of her mother’s people.
Our fathers—come!
Come from out of the valley.
Guide us—for to-day we die,
And the winds whisper of death!
She had raised her arms. Against the white wilderness beyond the chasm
she stood tall and slim. Fifty yards behind her the Factor from Lac Bain
stopped suddenly in his tracks. “Ah,” he mumbled. “Is she not
wonderful!” And behind McTaggart, coming faster and faster, was Baree.
Again the Willow looked down. She was at the edge, for she had no fear
in this hour. Many times she had clung to Pierrot’s hand as she looked
over. Down there no one could fall and live. Fifty feet below her the
water which never froze was smashing itself into froth among the rocks.
It was deep and black and terrible, for between the narrow rock walls
the sun did not reach it. The roar of it filled the Willow’s ears.
She turned and faced McTaggart.
Even then he did not guess, but came toward her again, his arms
stretched out ahead of him. Fifty yards! It was not much, and shortening
swiftly.
Once more the Willow’s lips moved. After all, it is the mother soul that
gives us faith to meet eternity—and it was to the spirit of her mother
that the Willow called in the hour of death. With the call on her lips
she plunged into the abyss, her wind-whipped hair clinging to her in a
glistening shroud.