It was now near ten o’clock and we soon would know whether our
hiding-place was a safe one. I knew that it was safer than would have
been a flight through the woods, where Brack and his men might be
prowling, yet I was so apprehensive that the sight of Brack’s big head
thrust through the brush, his old sneering smile on his lips, would
not have surprised me in the least. But no one came.
The forenoon passed without sight or sound of human being. At noon we
were more hungry than we had been at breakfast. The spruce grouse had
improved remarkably in flavor. In fact we agreed as we devoured what
remained of them that seldom had we tasted better food.
“And nourishing; I’m sure they’re very nourishing,” said Betty. “They
improve on acquaintance, as one’s appetite grows less finicky.”
My hopes began to rise as the hours passed with no sign of the
appearance of Brack or any of his men. Apparently it was no man of the
captain’s who had found the cave and removed the rifle. Then he had no
way of knowing where we were hidden; we were safe at least for the
present. When I explained this to Betty she said quietly—
“I’ve felt safe all the time, Mr. Pitt.”
“And quite right, too,” I replied. “The situation hasn’t been what any
one but a pessimist would call dangerous.”
“Mr. Pitt!”
“What?”
She looked at me gravely for several seconds.
“I’m not a child, Mr. Pitt; it isn’t necessary to lie to me.”
“What! Lie to you?”
“Please. I understand how you feel about it. I’m a weak, carefully
reared and sheltered girl who must be treated as a child, sheltered
from everything unpleasant, and lied to about—about the fact that she
is in danger, because she has happened to attract a brute; and that
your life is in danger because you’re hiding her.”
“But, really——”
“Well, you needn’t keep up the pretense, Mr. Pitt. I’ve known all the
time. I’ve known better than you have; the woman can know better, you
know, even if she is a girl. I’ve known ever since Captain Brack came
toward me last night up there in the cabin. His eyes were like—like
he’d dropped a curtain and let me see a lot of uncaged wild beasts
baring their teeth to me. I knew then—more than you could; and I know
that he won’t give up—ever.”
“As I recall it,” I said when I could speak with a calmness equal to
her own, “you laughed at him at just the moment that you saw all
this?”
“Of course. We couldn’t let him see we were scared, could we?”
“And in the canoe, you sang——”
“That was partly for George’s sake. And then I did feel safe; and have
felt so ever since.”
“And all your high spirits—playing Injun—fixing up the cave, and so
on, have all been acting?”
“No. Certainly not. I tell you I do feel safe.”
“Why?”
Again she smiled inscrutably.
“You wouldn’t believe me now if I told you. Some day maybe you will.
Then I’ll tell you—if you ask. But you must not ask now.”
For the present I, too, felt safe. But only for the present. Brack
would not give up. That implacable will would have its way and the
hunt for us probably was on at that moment. Brack, realizing our
helplessness in the wilderness, would know that our field of flight
would be restricted to the vicinity of the fiord, and with his men
would search the hills relentlessly. I blessed the fate that had sent
my feet stumbling into our well-hidden cavern.
As I weighed the chances of our discovery—which chance consisted
practically of some literally blundering into the cave—I considered
our plight in a more favorable aspect. The doctor would deliver my
message to Pierce, and Freddy would pass on to the others the secret
of our place of concealment. Dr. Olson, Freddy, Wilson and George, by
this time probably knew where we were.
There was a world of consolation in this thought. They would
communicate with us; Freddy would see to that. Yes, we would hear from
our friends before much longer.
But as the hours passed with no sign of such good fortune I began to
doubt. What were our friends doing? What were they thinking of? Didn’t
they realize that every minute which we passed in this uncertainty was
a minute of torture?
Betty’s patience seemed to grow as mine diminished. She had begun to
weave a mat out of the branches which we had carried in, and
apparently she was more interested in this than in what our friends
were doing. The mat was finished as darkness began to creep up the
hillside, and Betty spread thereupon the food I had snatched from the
cabin table. There was a piece of sausage, three slices of bread, and
a can of sardines.
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “we had better save some for the morrow.”
“I refuse to save,” she retorted, chin in air. “Poor we may be, sir;
but never shall it be said that we stinted ourselves in the matter of
rich and nourishing sustenance. Pray, sir, draw up before it gets too
dark to distinguish the varied viands.”
“This is prodigal conduct,” I protested, as she divided the food
equally and passed my share to me. “What of tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you will get more birds, and if you do not, you will get
something else. And if you don’t get that—Sir! I refuse to worry about
anything so sordid as food. Now if it were a matter pertaining to
higher things—Oh! Aren’t these sardines delicious!”
And when the scanty meal was finished she leaned back with a mock air
of repletion and said—
“Now, let come what may; I have dined.”
“Do you feel so brave?” I asked.
“Yes sir. As brave as beseems one who has dined sumptuously.”
“Joking aside, do you feel brave enough to spend an hour or two in
this dark cave—alone?”
“Is it necessary?” she asked after making sure that I was not joking.
“What are you going to do?”
“We must try to learn what’s been going on today. As soon as it is
thoroughly dark I propose to sneak back to the cabins. If I have good
luck I may be able to get a word with Dr. Olson, or George. Then we’ll
know if it’s necessary or advisable for us to remain hidden
underground.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said swiftly and with conviction.
“Why are you sure?”
“I don’t know; I feel it.”
“It may be well enough,” said I, “but I don’t feel it’s right of us to
lie here without making a move. If our friends can’t help us we ought
to know, so we may plan to help ourselves.”
“If you have decided upon it, I suppose you will go.”
“Not unless you give your consent.”
“My consent?”
“Yes. You don’t think I’d go away and leave you here alone in the cave
if you tell me you’d be afraid?”
“I shall be afraid,” she said soberly. I looked at her a little
disappointed. “I shall be afraid every minute until your return that
something may happen to you. And then,” she added lightly, “who would
get birds for my breakfast in the morning? Of course you have my
consent to go. I’ll lie here in my canoe and try to think noble
thoughts. But do be careful.”
I waited until nine before leaving the cave. It was then pitch-dark in
the woods. I had, however, laid out my course in my mind’s eye, and
set out for the crest of the ridge without hesitation.
My progress at first was nothing to be proud of. I stumbled and fell
over unseen rocks and logs, walked smack into sturdy trees, and was
tangled in the brush constantly. At the top of the ridge the woods and
brush grew thinner. It was practically bare ground here and I traveled
the crest swiftly until the odorous dampness of the night air warned
me that I was approaching the lake, and I paused sharply.
I was now, I judged, near the spot where I had descended from the
ridge to warn Slade and Harris. If I was right, I would soon be able
to see the lights from the cabins in the clearing below; and so
fearful was I of Brack’s devilish shrewdness that I dropped to my
hands and knees and crawled noiselessly forward to peer over the
ridge.
Apparently my caution was unnecessary. So far as I could see there
were no lights in the cabins. In fact, there might have been no cabins
there, so absolutely was everything below me sunk in the black night.
Minute after minute passed with my eyes straining in vain for a
glimpse of light and my ears listening vainly for some sound of human
nearness, but the darkness was no less complete than the silence.
Perhaps I had gone wrong. Perhaps that open space below, from whence
rose dampness and odor, was not the lake at all, but the bay. More
careful appraisal of my surroundings, however, convinced me that my
course had been true. That was the lake down there; the cabins were on
the farther side; and it being on toward ten o’clock, the candles were
out and the doctor, George, and the others, were asleep.
This was the reasoning with which I relieved myself, as I let myself
down the ridge toward the clearing. My caution, however, had not
deserted me, and my progress was as noiseless as could be.
It was fully half an hour after leaving the top of the ridge before I
lay in the brush behind the clearing. The cabin in which Betty and I
had left George was before me and probably fifty yards away, but no
sound or light hinted that it was inhabited.
The cold shiver which always came to me when I was afraid once more
ran up my spine as I contemplated the open space between myself and
the cabin. I wished greatly to retreat, so I promptly drove myself
forward, pistol in hand, literally dragging myself up to the rear of
the squat cabin whose very darkness and silence seemed eloquent with
sinister possibilities.
Beneath the open window through which Betty and I had fled I lay with
my head against the logs, listening for the sounds of breathing
within. No such sound came. No sound of any kind came.
I lifted my head until an ear was over the sill of the window. It was
so still that a man’s breathing, or the ticking of a watch, could not
have escaped my strained hearing. I thrust my head inside the room.
Now by its complete silence I knew that the room was empty, and I drew
myself up slowly and clambered in.
After a while I struck a match. The room was bare. The bunks,
blankets, chairs, dishes, the table, the stove, all had been removed.
The floor and walls were bare.
I went to the other cabin, where the wounded men had lain. Then I sat
down on the nearest threshold, weak and numbed. The cabins were empty.
Brack had removed our friends beyond our ken. We were deserted. But
more sinister than that; the cabins had been stripped of their last
morsel of food, of everything that might have been of assistance to us
in maintaining existence in the wilderness.