XX

For many minutes Philip did not move, or look from the bit of damp

fabric which he held between his fingers. His heart was chilled. He

felt sick. Each moment added to the emotion which was growing in him,

an emotion which was a composite of disgust and of anguish.

Jeanne--Thorpe! An eternity of difference seemed to lie between those

two--Jeanne, with her tender beauty, her sweet life, her idyllic

dreams, and Thorpe, the gang-driver! In his own soul he had made a

shrine for Jeanne, and from his knees he had looked up at her, filled

with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. He had worshiped her, as

Dante might have worshiped Beatrice. To him she was the culmination of

all that was sweet and lovable in woman, transcendently above him. And

from this love, this worship of his, she had gone that very night to

Thorpe, the gang-man. He shivered. Going to the stove he thrust in a

handful of paper, dropped the handkerchief in with it, and set the

whole on fire.

A few moments later the door opened and MacDougall came in. He was

followed by the two swarthy-faced St. Pierres, the camp huntsmen.

Philip shook hands with them, and they passed after the engineer

through a narrow door leading into a room which was known as the camp

office, Cassidy, Henshaw, and the others followed within the next ten

minutes. There was not a man among them whose eyes faltered when Philip

put up his proposition to them. As briefly as possible he told them a

part of what he had previously revealed to MacDougall, and frankly

conceded that the preservation of property and life in the camp

depended almost entirely upon them.

"You're not the sort of men to demand pay in a pinch like this," he

finished, "and that's just the reason I've confidence enough in you to

ask for your support. There are fifty men in camp whom we could hire to

fight, but I don't want hired fighters. I don't want men who will run

at the crack of a few rifles, but men who are willing to die with their

boots on. I won't offer you money for this, because I know you too

well. But from this hour on you're going to be a part of the Great

Northern Fish and Development Company, and as soon as the certificates

can be signed I'm going to turn over a hundred shares of stock to each

of you. Remember that this isn't pay. It's simply a selfish scheme of

mine to make you a part of the company. There are eight of us. Give us

each an automatic and I'll wager that there isn't a combination in this

neck of the woods strong enough to do us up."

In the pale light of the two oil-lamps the men's faces glowed with

enthusiasm. Cassidy was the first to grip Philip's hand in a pledge of

fealty.

"When hell freezes over, we're licked," he said. "Where's me automatic?"

MacDougall brought in the guns and ammunition.

"In the morning we will begin the erection of a new building close to

this one," said Philip. "There is no reason for the building, but that

will give me an excuse for keeping you men together on one job, within

fifty feet of your guns, which we can keep in this room. Only four men

need work at a shift, and I'll put Cassidy in charge of the operations,

if that is satisfactory to the others. We'll have a couple of new bunks

put in here so that four men can stay with MacDougall and me every

night. The other four, who are not on the working shift, can hunt not

far from the camp, and keep their eyes peeled. Does that look good?"

"Can't be beat," said Henshaw, throwing open the breech of his gun.

"Shall we load?"

"Yes."

The room became ominous with the metallic click of loaded cartridge

clips and the hard snap of released chambers.

Five minutes later Philip stood alone with MacDougall. The loaded

rifles, each with a filled cartridge belt hanging over the muzzle, were

arranged in a row along one of the walls.

"I'll stake everything I've got on those men," he exclaimed. "Mac, did

it ever strike you that when you want REAL men you ought to come north

for them? Every one of those fellows is a northerner, except Cassidy,

and he's a fighter by birth. They'll die before they go back on their

word."

MacDougall rubbed his hands and laughed softly.

"What next, Phil?"

"We must send the swiftest man you've got in camp after Billinger, and

get word to the other parties you sent out as quickly as we can.

They'll probably get in too late. Billinger may arrive in time."

"He's been gone a week. It's doubtful if we can get him back within

three," said MacDougall. "I'll send St. Pierre's cousin, that young

Crow Feather, after him as soon as he can get a pack ready. You'd

better go to bed, Phil. You look like a dead man."

Philip was not sure that he could sleep, notwithstanding the physical

strain he had been under during the past twenty-four hours. He was

filled with a nervous desire for continued action. Only action kept him

from thinking of Jeanne and Thorpe. After MacDougall had gone to stir

up young Crow Feather he undressed and stretched out in his bunk,

hoping that the Scotchman would soon return. Not until he closed his

eyes did he realize how tired he was. MacDougall came in an hour later,

and Philip was asleep. It was nine o'clock when he awoke. He went to

the cook's shanty, ate a hot breakfast of griddle-cakes and bacon,

drank a pint of strong coffee, and hunted up MacDougall. Sandy was just

coming from Thorpe's house.

"He's a queer guinea, that Thorpe," said the engineer, after their

first greeting. "He doesn't pretend to do a pound's work. Notice his

hands when you see him again, Phil. They look as though he had been

drumming a piano all his life. But love o' mighty, how he does make the

OTHERS work. You want to go over and see his gang throw dirt."

"That's where I'm going," said Philip. "Is Thorpe at home?"

"Just leaving. There he is now!"

At MacDougall's whistle Thorpe turned and waited for Philip.

"Goin' over?" he asked, pleasantly, when Philip came up.

"Yes. I want to see how your men work without a leader," replied

Philip. He paused for a moment to light his pipe, and pointed to a

group of men down on the lake shore. "See that gang?" he asked.

"They're building a scow. Take away their foreman and they wouldn't be

worth their grub. They're men we brought up from Winnipeg."

Thorpe was rolling a cigarette. Under his arm he held a pair of light

gloves.

"Mine are different," he laughed, quietly.

"I know that," rejoined Philip, watching the skill of his long white

fingers. "That's why I want to see them in action, when you're away."

"My policy is to know to a cubic foot what a certain number of men are

capable of doing in a certain time," explained Thorpe, as they walked

toward the plain. "My next move is to secure the men who will achieve

the result, whether I am present or not. That done, my work is done.

Simple, isn't it?"

There was something likable about Thorpe. Even in his present mood

Philip could not but concede that. He was surprised in Thorpe, in more

ways than one. His voice was low, and filled with a certain

companionable quality that gave one confidence in him immediately. He

was apparently a man of education and of some little culture, in spite

of his vocation, which usually possesses a vocabulary of its own as

hard as rock. But Philip's greatest surprise came when he regarded

Thorpe's personal appearance. He judged that he was past forty, perhaps

forty-five, and the thought made him shudder inwardly. He was

twice--almost three times--as old as Jeanne. And yet there was about

him something irresistibly attractive, a fascination which had its

influence upon Philip himself. His nails dug into tie flesh of his

hands when he thought of this man--and Jeanne.

Thorpe's gang was hard at work when they came to the end of the

rock-bed. Scarcely a man seemed to take notice when he appeared. There

was one exception, a wiry, red-faced little man who raised a hand to

his cap when he saw the foreman.

"That's the sub-foreman," explained Thorpe. "He answers to me." The

little man had given a signal, and Thorpe added, "Excuse me for a

moment. He's got something on his mind."

He drew a few steps aside, and Philip walked along the line of

laboring-men. He grinned and nodded to them, one after another.

MacDougall was right. They were the toughest lot of men he had ever

seen in one gang.

Loud voices turned him about, and he saw that Thorpe and the

sub-foreman had approached a huge, heavy-shouldered man, with whom they

seemed to be in serious altercation. Two or three of the workmen had

drawn near, and Thorpe's voice rang out clear and vibrant.

"You'll do that, Blake, or you'll shoulder your kit back home. And what

goes with you goes with your clique. I know your kind, and you can't

worry me. Take that pick and dig--or hike. There's no two ways about

it."

Philip could not hear what the big man said, but suddenly Thorpe's fist

shot out and struck him fairly on the jaw. In another instant Thorpe

had jumped back, and was facing half a dozen angry, threatening men. He

had drawn a revolver, and his white teeth gleamed in a cool and

menacing smile.

"Think it over, boys," he said, quietly. "And if you're not satisfied

come in and draw your pay this noon. We'll furnish you with outfits and

plenty of grub if you don't like the work up here. I don't care to hold

men like you to your contracts."

He came to meet Philip, as though nothing unusual had happened.

"That will delay the completion of our work for a week at least," he

said, as he thrust his revolver into a holster hidden under his coat.

"I've been expecting trouble with Blake and four or five of his pals

for some time. I'm glad it's over. Blake threatens a strike unless I

give him a sub-foremanship and increase the men's wages from six to ten

dollars a day. Think of it. A strike--up here! It would be the

beginning of history, wouldn't it?"

He laughed softly, and Philip laughed from sheer admiration of the

man's courage.

"You think they'll go?" he asked, anxiously.

"I'm sure of it," replied Thorpe. "It's the best thing that can happen."

An hour later Philip was back in camp. He did not see Thorpe again

until after dinner, and then the gang-foreman hunted him up. His face

wore a worried look.

"It's a little worse than I expected," he said. "Blake and eight others

came in for their pay and outfits this noon. I didn't think that more

than three or four would have the nerve to quit."

"I'll furnish you with men to take their places," said Philip.

"There's the hitch," replied Thorpe, rolling a cigarette. "I want my

men to work by themselves. Put half a dozen of your amateur road-men

among them and it will mean twenty per cent. less work done, and

perhaps trouble. They're a tough lot. I concede that. I've thought of a

way to offset the loss of Blake and the others. We can set a gang of

your men at work over at Gray Beaver Lake, and they can build up to

meet us."

Philip saw MacDougall soon after his short talk with Thorpe. The

engineer did not disguise his pleasure at the turn which affairs had

taken.

"I'm glad they're going," he declared. "If there's to be trouble I'll

feel easier with that bunch out of camp. I'd give my next month's

salary if Thorpe would take his whole outfit back where they came from.

They're doing business with the road-bed all right, but I don't like

the idea of having 'em around when there are throats to be cut, one

side or t'other."

Philip did not see Thorpe again that day. He selected his men for the

Gray Beaver work, and in the afternoon despatched a messenger over the

Fort Churchill route to meet Brokaw. He was confident that Brokaw and

his daughter would show up during the next few days, but at the same

time he instructed the messenger to go to Churchill if he should not

meet them on the way. Other men he sent to recall the prospecting

parties outfitted by MacDougall. Early in the evening the St. Pierres,

Lecault, and Henshaw joined him for a few minutes in the office. During

the day the four had done scout work five miles on all sides of the

camp. Lecault had shot a moose three miles to the south, and had hung

up the meat. One of the St. Pierres saw Blake and his gang on the way

to the Churchill. Beyond these two incidents they brought in no news. A

little later MacDougall brought in two other men whom he could trust,

and armed them with muzzle-loaders. They were the two last guns in the

camp.

With ten men constantly prepared for attack, Philip began to feel that

he had the situation well in hand. It would be practically impossible

for his enemies to surprise the camp, and after their first day's scout

duty the men on the trail would always be within sound of rifle-shots,

even if they did not discover the advance of an attacking force in time

to beat them to camp. In the event of one making such a discovery he

was to signal the others by a series of shots, such as one might fire

at a running moose.

Philip found it almost impossible to fight back his thoughts of Jeanne.

During the two or three days that followed the departure of Blake he

did not allow himself an hour's rest from early dawn until late at

night. Each night he went to bed exhausted, with the hope that sleep

would bury his grief. The struggle wore upon him, and the faithful

MacDougall began to note the change in his comrade's face. The fourth

day Thorpe disappeared and did not show up again until the following

morning. Every hour of his absence was like the stab of a knife in

Philip's heart, for he knew that the gang-foreman had gone to see

Jeanne. Three days later the visit was repeated, and that night

MacDougall found Philip in a fever.

"You're overdoing," he told him. "You're not in bed five hours out of

the twenty-four. Cut it out, or you'll be in the hospital instead of in

the fighting line when the big show comes to town."

Days of mental agony and of physical pain followed. Neither Philip nor

MacDougall could understand the mysterious lack of developments. They

had expected attack before this, and yet ceaseless scout work brought

in no evidence of an approaching crisis. Neither could they understand

the growing disaffection among Thorpe's men. The numerical strength of

the gang dwindled from nineteen down to fifteen, from fifteen to

twelve. At last Thorpe voluntarily asked Philip to cut his salary in

two, because he could not hold his men. On that same day the little

sub-foreman and two others left him, leaving only nine men at work. The

delay in Brokaw's arrival was another puzzle to Philip. Two weeks

passed, and in that time Thorpe left camp three times. On the fifteenth

day the Fort Churchill messenger returned. He was astounded when he

found that Brokaw was not in camp, and brought amazing news. Brokaw and

his daughter had departed from Fort Churchill two days after Pierre had

followed Jeanne and Philip. They had gone in two canoes, up the

Churchill. He had seen no signs of them anywhere along the route.

No sooner had he received the news than Philip sent the messenger after

MacDougall. The Scotchman's red face stared at him blankly when he told

him what had happened.

"That's their first move in the real fight," said Philip, with a hard

ring in his voice. "They've got Brokaw. Keep your men close from this

hour on, Sandy. Hereafter let five of them sleep in our bunks during

the day, and keep them awake during the night."

Five days passed without a sign of an enemy.

About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into the

office, where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually florid

face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the back of a chair

with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that Philip had heard

MacDougall swear.

"Damn that Thorpe!" he cried, in a low voice.

"What's up?" asked Philip, his muscles tightening.

MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe.

"I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about some

things," he growled. "Thorpe brought up a load of whisky with him. I

knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp, but I

figured you were having trouble enough without getting you into a

mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other--is damnable!

Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's there again

to-night!"

A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall was

not looking, and did not see the convulsive twitching of the other's

face, or the terrible light that shot for an instant into his eyes.

"A woman--Mac--"

"A YOUNG woman," said MacDougall, with emphasis. "I don't know who she

is, but I do know that she hasn't a right there or she wouldn't sneak

in like a thief. I'm going to be blunt--damned blunt. I think she's one

of the other men's wives. There are half a dozen in camp."

"Haven't you ever looked--to see if you could recognize her?"

"Haven't had the chance," said MacDougall. "She's been wrapped up both

times, and as it was none of my business I didn't lay in wait. But

now--it's up to you!"

Philip rose slowly. He felt cold. He put on his coat and cap, and

buckled on his revolver. His face was deadly white when he turned to

MacDougall.

"She is over there to-night?"

"Sneaked in not half an hour ago, I saw her come out of the edge of the

spruce."

"From the trail that leads out over the plain?"

"Yes."

Philip walked to the door.

"I'm going over to call on Thorpe," he said, quietly. "I may not be

back for some time, Sandy."

In the deep shadows outside he stood gazing at the light in Thorpe's

cabin. Then he walked slowly toward the spruce. He did not go to the

door, but leaned with his back against the building, near one of the

windows. The first shuddering sickness had gone from him. His temples

throbbed. At the sound of a voice inside which was Thorpe's the chill

in his blood turned to fire. The terrible fear that had fallen upon him

at MacDougall's words held him motionless, and his brain worked upon

but one idea--one determination. If it was Jeanne who came in this way,

he would kill Thorpe. If it was another woman, he would give Thorpe

that night to get out of the country. He waited. He heard the

gang-man's voice frequently, once in a loud, half-mocking laugh. Twice

he heard a lower voice--a woman's. For an hour he watched. He walked

back and forth in the gloom of the spruce, and waited another hour.

Then the light went out, and he slipped back to the corner of the cabin.

After a moment the door opened, and a hooded figure came out, and

walked rapidly toward the trail that buried itself amid the spruce.

Philip ran around the cabin and followed. There was a little open

beyond the first fringe of spruce, and in this he ran up silently from

behind and overtook the one he was pursuing. As his hand fell upon her

arm the woman turned upon him with a frightened cry. Philip's hand

dropped. He took a step back.

"My God! Jeanne--it is you!"

His voice was husky, like a choking man's. For an instant Jeanne's

white, terrified face met his own. And then, without a word to him, she

fled swiftly down the trail.

Philip made no effort to follow. For two or three minutes he stood like

a man turned suddenly into hewn rock, staring with unseeing eyes into

the gloom where Jeanne had disappeared. Then he walked back to the edge

of the spruce. There he drew his revolver, and cocked it. The starlight

revealed a madness in his face as he approached Thorpe's cabin. He was

smiling, but it was such a smile as presages death; a smile as

implacable as fate itself.