THE MEETING
Three hours later the two horses were still jogging in the same manner
along the forest trail. In the beginning the prisoner had sought to make
as much trouble as possible by beating his heels against his horse’s
ribs, rendering the animal almost unmanageable. Conacher had then put
him in front, telling him to beat away, whereupon the Slavi had become
very quiet. The tiring horse hung back more and more, and in order to
make any progress at all, Conacher had been obliged to take the lead,
and pull the other after.
The moon was now high. Little moonlight penetrated through the trees,
but the general brightness made traveling easier. A slow trot was the
best that Conacher could get out of the horses. Even that pace was not
without danger at night. Had not the trail been freshly cleaned up that
day for the passage of the fur train, they could not have done it.
Conacher figured that he was within two or three miles of the Slavi
village. In two hours more he would make Blackburn’s Post. His heart
leaped at the thought of rousing Loseis up in the middle of the night.
How astonished she would be! He would hold her in his arms again! He
urged his horse forward, and gave the leading rein a jerk.
Not but what he had certain doubts, too, of his reception. Loseis might
blame him for returning; would want to send him away again perhaps.
Conacher firmly shook his head in the darkness. No! whatever the truth
of the situation, it was better for them to remain together. Nothing
should persuade him to leave her again.
As Conacher, dreaming, jogged along between the half-seen pillars of the
pines rising into obscurity, his wearied horse threw up his head and
whinnied. The rider instinctively drew up to listen. A sound of fear
broke from the man behind. Presently, out of the stillness of the forest
came a faint, answering whinny from ahead. Clapping heels to his horse,
Conacher rode to meet it.
The Slavi moaned in fear. “Stop!” he said. “It is not good. There is
nobody here.”
“Ha!” said Conacher. “You have found your English, eh?” He continued to
urge his horse forward.
They turned into a natural avenue through the trees where the moonlight
came flooding down. At the end of this glade, seen first as a dim gray
ghost, and gradually resolving itself into the lineaments of life, they
perceived a motionless horse and rider blocking the trail. For a second,
such a sight in that awful solitude caused even Conacher’s heart to
fail; but he did not pull up. As for the Indian, a strangled squall of
terror escaped him, and he fell to gibbering incoherently. He was
perfectly helpless. Tied as he was, he could not throw himself off his
horse without the certainty of being trampled.
Drawing closer, a wild, joyous suspicion sprang up in Conacher’s breast;
then certainty. It was Loseis in her boy’s dress, sitting astride the
sorrel mare. Flinging themselves off their horses, they flew to each
other’s arms, careless of the on-looker.
“Loseis, my darling!” murmured Conacher. “What are you doing here?”
She was all woman then. “Oh, Paul . . . Oh, Paul . . . !” she faltered.
“I came to warn you. Gault is waiting in the trail to kill you!”
“To kill me!” he echoed amazed.
A hasty, confused explanation took place. They lowered their voices that
the Indian might not overhear.
“I did not send you that letter,” said Loseis.
“I know it.”
“Why did you come back then?”
“I _had_ to come. . . . Do you blame me?”
“No! No! It is all right. If you had not come they would have ridden
after you. I can best take care of you here.”
Conacher laughed half in delight, half sorely. “You take care of me! I
like that! . . . How did you know they had sent me a letter?”
“I crept up to them in the woods. I listened.” She gave him the gist of
what she had overheard.
“Good God!” cried Conacher in his simplicity. “Think of anybody wanting
to kill _me_!” Catching hold of the leading line, he jerked the Indian
into the full moonlight. “Who is this man?” he said.
“Etzooah,” said Loseis with half a glance.
“I thought so,” said Conacher grimly. “According to the letter he was to
have gone with the outfit; but I thought I had better bring him with
me.”
“You did well,” said Loseis.
Tying the horses to trees, they walked away a little in the trail. For
awhile they were completely filled with the joy of being together again.
The difficulties ahead had to wait.
“Oh, my darling, when I realized that it was you, my heart nearly burst
with joy. It was so unexpected, so lovely to find you waiting quietly in
the moonlight!”
“Oh, Paul, it makes up for everything to have known you! I don’t care
what happens now.”
“You must have been waiting here alone for hours. How could you dare to
do it?”
“Why . . . I had to do it. I never thought twice about it.”
“You are the bravest girl in the world!”
“Oh, no! I’m just an ordinary girl who is in love with you.”
“I don’t deserve it!” he murmured.
“Well . . . neither do I!”
When they returned to earth, Conacher said simply: “What shall I do with
this Indian now? Put a bullet through his head?”
“Oh, no! no!” said Loseis nervously. “There must be no killing.”
“They started it,” said Conacher.
“I wanted to kill Gault myself,” said Loseis quaintly; “but I struggled
against it.”
Conacher laughed. “Little fire-eater!” he said, hugging her close.
“We must be serious now,” she said pushing him away.
“I’ll have to turn the man loose then,” said Conacher. “And let him find
his way to his friends on foot.”
“That will be best,” said Loseis. “They are waiting about four miles
from here. It will give us time to get out of the way.”
“The horses are so tired,” exclaimed Conacher. “And it must be eighteen
miles to the fur-camp. They will die under us before we get there.”
“But we are not going there,” said Loseis. “If I had meant that, I would
have ridden right through.”
“Where else can we go?” said Conacher, opening his eyes.
“Gault and his men would be up with us almost as soon as we broke camp
in the morning. The Slavis would run away. How could we protect
ourselves there in the open? Neither you nor I would ever be seen alive
again. How easy for Gault to explain that there had been an accident.
There would be no witnesses but his men.”
“What do you propose then?” said Conacher gravely.
“I have been thinking about it all these hours. We will go back to
Blackburn’s Post. There we will be on our own ground. There are strong
buildings to protect us, and plenty of grub and ammunition. It would be
more difficult for Gault to make out that there had been an accident
there.”
“Right!” said Conacher. “You have a head on you! Whatever happens we
will never be parted again.”
“Never!” she said going to his arms.
“One of us will not be left!”
“I swear it!” she said kissing him.
Conacher felt the strength of ten men coursing through his veins. “Come
on!” he said briskly. “How do you propose to get by the men waiting in
the trail?”
“We will take a canoe at the Slavi village. Mary-Lou is waiting there.
She will stick to us. She is not brave, but her heart is true.”
“Good!” said Conacher. “Now for this red-skinned blackguard. How about
taking him with us to the Post? Gault would then ride after the fur at
daybreak and we’d gain a day.”
“What good would that do us?” said Loseis. “He would be back at the Post
by night. And in the meantime the Slavis would be scattered. Tatateecha
is our best hope of getting help from the outside.”
“All right,” said Conacher. “But it goes against the grain to turn the
scoundrel loose.”
Taking out his knife, he proceeded to cut the cringing Indian’s bonds.
“You filthy wretch!” he cried; “you mangy, verminous coyote! If you got
your deserts I would be sticking this knife between your ribs! Go back
to your master and tell him . . .”
“Wait!” cried Loseis. “Not a word! Gault won’t know how much we know.
Let him guess!”
Conacher swallowed his anger. Etzooah slipped from his horse, and
crawled on the ground like a whipped cur.
Loseis and Conacher mounted and rode on, driving the third horse in
front of them. Etzooah, cramped from his long confinement in bonds,
staggered along slowly behind them.