Deeper in the Wilderness
Within the shack Madge was now ready to start. Hugo's big woolen cap
was pulled down well over her ears and she again wore a coat much too
large for her, a thing which, in other days long gone, might have made
her laugh.
As she moved to the door she hesitated. Where was she going to? What
object was there in moving there or anywhere else? The wild dream that
had come upon her in the big city was dispelled and nothing on earth
remained but the end that must come in some way or other. Of course
she had no desire to remain in this shack, but neither had she any
desire for anything else. What was the use of anything she might do?
By this time she was stranded high and dry among breakers innumerable,
with never the slightest outlook towards safety. The few dollars in
her pockets offered no possibility of return. This man might give her
enough to get back, if she asked him. It was the least he could do.
But she would rather have torn out her tongue than ask him for money.
And it would only be going back to that dreadful city in which she had
suffered so much. No, it was unthinkable! Better by far for her to lie
down somewhere in that great forest and die. And now she was about to
see more strangers and remain over night in new surroundings. Where
would she drift to after that?
She made a gesture of despair. Her down-hanging arms straightened
rigidly at her side, with the fists clenched as when one seeks to be
brave in the face of impending agony. Her head was thrown back and her
eyes nearly closed. In that position she remained for a moment, her
brain whirling, her head on fire with a burning pain. Then the tension
relaxed a little and she cast another look about her, without seeing
anything, after which she pushed the door open and stepped out upon
the crunching snow.
Hugo rose at once, albeit somewhat stiffly, and spoke to the dog who
stood up, with head turned to watch the proceedings.
"I don't think I'd better take the trunk on this trip," he explained.
"It would make a rather heavy load for just one dog. We'll take your
bag, of course, and I can bring the trunk over to-morrow morning. It
will be perfectly safe there by the road. We haven't any thieves in
this country, that I know of. Now will you please sit down there, in
the middle. Maigan will pull you all right. I'll get the blankets."
"But--couldn't I walk? You said it was only a mile. I--I think I could
manage that," ventured Madge, dully.
"I don't think you could," he answered. "I'm sure you're quite played
out. In some places the snow is bound to be soft. I could give you a
pair of snowshoes but you wouldn't know how to use them and they'd
tire you to death. You've already had a pretty hard day, I know.
Maigan won't mind it in the least. He'd take the trunk, too, readily
enough, but that would make slow going."
She obeyed. What did she care? What difference could it make? He
wrapped the blankets over her, after she had sat down on an old
wolfskin he had covered the sled with. After this he took a long line
attached to the toboggan and passed it over his right shoulder,
pulling at the side of the dog, who toiled on briskly. When they
reached the tote-road it seemed rougher than ever and the country
wilder. To her right Madge could see the river that was nothing but a
winding jumble of snow-capped rocks and grinding ice, with here and
there patches of inky-looking water, where the ice-crust had split
asunder. Also she dully noted places where the water seemed to froth
up over the surface, boiling in great suds from which rose, straight
up in the still air, a cloud of heavy gray vapor. The cold felt even
more intense than earlier in the day. It impressed the girl as if some
tremendous force were bearing down mightily upon the world and holding
it in thrall. With the lowering of the sun the shadows had grown
longer. After a time the slight sound of the man's snowshoes over the
crackling snow, of the scraping toboggan, of the panting dog, began to
seem to Madge like some sort of desecration of a stillness in which
man was nothing and only an eternal and vengeful power reigned
supreme. In spite of the patches of sunlight filtering down through
branches or glaring upon the river there was now something dismal in
all this, and she began to feel the cold again, penetrating,
relentless, evil in its might.
They had gone about half way when, on the top of a slight rise, both
dog and man stopped for a moment's rest. The latter looked quite
exhausted. His face was set hard, in an expression she could not
fathom.
"Really, I think I could walk," said the girl again. "There--there's
no reason you should work so hard for me. And--and you look terribly
tired."
"Oh, no!" he disclaimed, hastily. "I--I could pull you all by myself
if--well, it's only a short distance away now, and Maigan is doing
nearly all the work, anyway. I--I don't think anything I can do for
you can quite make up for all that you seem to have gone through."
He looked at her, very gravely, as he sat down upon a fallen log,
close at hand, after clearing off some snow with a sweep of his mitt.
There was something very sad, she thought, an expression of pain upon
his face which she noted and which led her into a very natural error.
She was compelled to consider these things as evidences of regret, of
a conscience that was beginning to irk him badly. Her head bent down
till she was staring into her lap; she felt that tears were once more
dangerously near.
No thought came to her of appealing to this man, of suing for pity and
charity, but she began to speak, the words coming from a full heart
that gave her pain were spoken in low tones, nearly as if she had been
talking to herself.
"I--I'm thinking of the boys who were stoning the frog," she began,
haltingly. "You remember. It was fun for them but death to the frog.
I--I think a good many things work that way in the world, don't--don't
you, Mr. Ennis? You--you don't really look like--like a very bad man.
If--if you had a sister or mother you'd--you'd probably be kind to
them. What--what do you think of it yourself, honestly? A--a girl,
who's a fool, of course, but after all just a girl, is dying of
loneliness and misery in a big city. She--she can't stand it any more,
not--not for another day. And then she finds that paper and like--like
an utter fool she answers that advertisement. It--it looked like a
bare chance of--of being able to keep body and soul together, and--and
remain honest and decent, which--which is a hard enough thing for a
girl to do, in--in some places. And then the man answers back. She--I
never expected he would, but he did, and he offered all sorts of
wonderful things that--that looked like heaven itself to--to a hungry
failure of a girl to whom life had become too heavy a burden to bear.
And--and so she answers that letter and--and tries to tell the truth
about herself, and says that--that she is prepared to carry out her
part of the bargain if--if the man has spoken truly of himself--if--if
he can respect her--treat her like a woman who--who is ready to do her
best to--to deserve a little kindness and consideration. And he tells
her again to come--to come as soon as possible, and--and there was
nothing to detain her for a moment. The city had been too cruel--too
utterly cruel. And then she comes here and finds that--that it was all
lies--wicked lies--I'm sorry, it's the only word I can use."
Hugo was staring at her, open-mouthed, but before he could utter a
word she began again:
"The man had never meant it, of course--he wasn't awaiting her at all,
as he had promised--and when she finally comes to him he speaks
coldly, cynically, denying his words, pretending he knows nothing.
It--it's a rather clumsy way of getting out of it, seems to me. Anyway
he saw that his joke had been carried too far. It--it hasn't proved
such a very good one, has it? It--it has turned out to be pretty poor
fun. I--I dare say I deserve it all. It--it was awful folly on my
part, I see it now, and--and I'm ashamed, dreadfully ashamed--I feel
the redness mounting to--to the very roots of my hair--and it
overwhelms me. Don't--don't you feel something of--of the same sort,
or--or do you still think the joke was a good one?"
She had grown rather excited and it was quite true that a deep blush
was now mantling her face. In her halting speech--in the words that
had come slowly at first, and then had flowed more rapidly, there had
been wounded pride beside the deep resentment and the pain.
"Do--do you really believe such a thing?" answered the man, wincing
again. "You speak of something that is an abomination, that would
stink in a decent man's nostrils. And--and you speak of shame! Do you
think such a word could express all that a man would be overwhelmed
with if he had done such a thing? Great Heavens! Miss Nelson, a man
having once committed such a crime would be humiliated for the rest of
his life, it seems to me. It would be an unpardonable sin for which
there could be no forgiveness, none surely on the part of the woman,
and none that the man could ever grant himself. It--it surely isn't
possible that any such thing has occurred, that any man could so lower
himself beneath all the dirt that his feet have ever trodden."
He spoke strongly, his face now also high in color, his voice
tremulous and indignant, his hard right fist clenched till the arm
vibrated with the strain.
Madge looked at him again. For a moment his tone had been convincing
and she had nearly believed that he spoke the truth. But the evidence
against him was too strong.
"That--that big Stefan, your friend, the man who says that you saved
his life, knew that I was coming," she faltered, her voice shaking
while her body felt limp with the infinite discouragement that had
returned to her in full. "He brought you my message, at least he told
me so. What--what is the use of my saying anything more? I--I think we
might as well be going on, if--if you and your dog are rested. He--he
looks like a decent fellow, Maigan does. There are things a dog
wouldn't do, I'm sure."
"Miss Nelson, as God is my judge, I'm guiltless in this matter," the
man's voice rang out.
"Go on, Maigan, mush on!" he called, and leaned forward on the rope,
passed over one shoulder. Her last words had brought a moment of anger
and indignation. Save for the few words he had uttered he felt it
useless to protest his innocence, and the notion of her insanity
returned to him, strongly. But those were strange things she had said
about Stefan and that message. As soon as possible he would go over to
Carcajou and interview his friend the Swede. The girl's disordered
mind must have distorted something that he said. He began to wonder
whether there was any truth at all about her story, whether she really
came from New York, whether she was not some poor creature escaped
from some place for the care of the insane. But then how had she got
hold of his name and how had she ever heard of Roaring River? The more
he puzzled over these problems the more tangled they appeared to be.
"I dare say I'll find out about it soon enough," he told himself,
impatiently, for the pain he suffered began to grow worse with every
step, and an unaccountable weariness had come over him. That thing on
his shoulder must be a mere scratch, he tried to persuade himself, in
spite of the sharp pangs it gave him. Manlike he grew more obstinate
as his strength began to fail, and pulled harder, with the sweat now
running down his clammy forehead and freezing on his face.
Maigan, also, was bending hard to his task, and they went along
steadily and rapidly. The toboggan was crackling and slithering
over the snow upon which the dark indigo shadows were throwing
uncanny designs. The track was smooth and level now and the dog could
manage very well alone, so that Hugo pulled no longer. Once, as he
chanced to stumble, the girl thought she heard a groan from him. She
began to wish that she had been able to believe him, but it was
utterly impossible, although she suddenly found it in her heart to
pity him, to extenuate the abomination of his conduct. Why that
last sacrilegious lie he had uttered? The man was suffering; it
looked as if the iron were entering his soul. Oh! the pity of it!
If he had only acknowledged his offence and begged her pardon she
might perhaps have forgiven. A moment later, however, the grim
outlook before her presented itself again. There were two things
for her to choose from; one was that fitly named Roaring River
along whose bank the road wound its snaky trail and the other
consisted in the cheap little pistol in her bag. Well, there might
be comfort after all in this wild land, upon the scented fallen
needles of the pines or under that pure white ice. Her features,
which for a moment had become stony and hard, now softened again.
It was best to endeavor to harbor no more thoughts of contempt and
hatred when one's own soul might soon be suing for forgiveness.
They topped another rise of ground beyond which there was a hollow, a
tiny valley nestled among great firs and poplars and birches. In the
middle of it Madge saw another and much larger shack. It might really
have been called a house, but for its being made of logs. A film of
smoke was rising straight up in the still air, from a chimney built of
rough stones, and some dogs began to bark loudly. A woman came out,
with a child hanging to her skirts, and shaded her eyes with her hand
while she scolded the animals, who slunk away slowly.
"_Bonjour_," she called out, cheerfully. "Ah! It is Monsieur Hugo! How
you do, sare? Glad for see you! Come along quick. It ees cole again,
terrible cole."
For a second she stared at the young woman on the toboggan, but her
civility came at once uppermost and she smiled pleasantly, and rushed
up to help Madge arise, brushing off some of the snow that had fallen
on her from the trees.
"Come inside quick. I have it good hot in de house. You all perished
wid dat cole, Mees. Now you get varm again and I make tea _tout de
suite_."
She had seized Madge's hands in her own big and capable ones, with the
never-failing hospitality and friendliness of the wilderness, and led
her indoors at once. Hugo let Maigan loose, with a word of warning,
for the other dogs had begun to circle about him jealously, and
growled a little, probably for the sake of form, for they took good
care to keep out of reach of his long fangs. They had tried him once
before and knew that he was their master. Hugo, thankful that the
journey was ended, took up the girl's bag and followed her into the
house, after he had taken off his snowshoes, a job he accomplished
with some difficulty.
"Mrs. Papineau," he began, "this young lady came over to my place, a
couple of hours ago, and--and there's been some--some mistake. She
thought there was a village here, I believe. She only expects to
remain with you till to-morrow, I think, and till then I will be ever
so grateful if you will make her as comfortable as possible. I'm
afraid she's dreadfully tired and cold. I expect to return in the
morning to take her back to Carcajou, unless--unless she would prefer
to rest a day or two here."
"Ver 'appy to see de lady," declared Mrs. Papineau, heartily. "Tak'
off you coat, Monsieur Hugo, an' sit here by de fire. Hey! Baptiste,
you bring more big piece of birch. Colette, put kettle on for bile
water qvick. Tak' dis seat, lady. I pull off dem blanket. You no need
dem more. Turriple cole now. Las' night we 'ear de wolfs 'untin' along
dem 'ardwood ridges, back of de river; it ees always sign of big cole.
And de river she crack awful, and de trees dey split like guns shoot.
Glad you come an' get varm, Mees."
Madge looked about her, after she had smiled at the woman in thanks.
For the second time that day she had entered a home of kindly and
well-disposed people that seemed to be built of an altogether
different clay from that which composed the folk of the big city. In
Stefan's home the atmosphere had been gentle, one of earnest, quiet
toil, with the simple accompaniment of a kindly religious belief
according to the Lutheran persuasion. In the dwelling she had now
entered, of fervent French Canadians, she noted the vivid chromo of a
departed pope facing the still gaudier representation of the British
Royal family, if the printed legend could be believed. They were shown
in all the colors of the rainbow, as were also some saints whose
glaring portraits hung on either side of the door, surmounted by dried
palms reminiscent of Easter festivals. There seemed to be any number
of children, from an infant lying in a homemade cradle of boards, one
of which displayed an advertisement of soap, to a bashful youth who
looked at Hugo as if he worshipped him and a freckled, gawky and
friendly-faced girl of fifteen who stood around, evidently delighted
to see people and anxious to be civil to them.
And this welcome she had received seemed to be characteristic of all
these folks living in the back of beyond. Everywhere she had met
friendliness; people had seemed actually eager to help; they smiled as
if life had been a thing of joy in which the good things must be
distributed far and near and enjoyed by all. They seemed ready to
share their possessions with strangers that chanced within their
gates. It was a spirit intensely restful, consoling, bringing peace to
one's heart. It gave the girl a brief vision of something that was
heavenly. She felt that she could so easily have made her home in this
amazing region that opened its arms and actually welcomed new faces.
But the thought came to her that she had only been vouchsafed a
fleeting glance at it and to gaze, as Moses did of old, upon a
Promised Land she could never really enter.
"It is no need for to h'ask, Monsieur Hugo," Madge heard the woman
saying. "Ve do h'all ve can, sure! It ees a gladness to see de yong
lady an' heem pretty face, all red vid de cole. Come by de fire, mees.
Celestine 'ere she pull aff your beeg Dutch stockin'. Dey no belong
you, sure. Colette, push heem chair near for de lady. Hippolyte, put
couple steeks now on ze fire. Mees, I 'ope you mak' yourself to home
now. Monsieur Hugo, you stop for to h'eat a bite vid us. Ve haf' in de
shed still one big quarter from de _orignal_, de beeg mose vat my man
he shoot two veeks ago. Und dere pleanty _patates_, pleanty pork, all
you vant."
"No, thank you ever so much, I--I think I'd better be going. It will
be dark pretty soon. I know perfectly well that you will take
excellent care of Miss Nelson and so I think I'll say good-by now."
Some of the children trooped around him, disappointed, and Mrs.
Papineau came nearer, eying him curiously. Suddenly her keen eyes
caught something and she pointed with a finger.
"Vat de mattaire vid you h'arm?" she asked, excitedly. "'Ow you get
'urted?"
"Oh! That! That's nothing," he answered, drawing back. "'Tisn't worth
bothering about. Good-night!"
"You no be one beeg fool, Monsieur Hugo!" she ordered him, masterfully.
"Now you sit down an' let me look heem arm right avay quick. Ven de
cole strike heem he get bad sure, dat h'arm."
In spite of his objections she laid violent hands on him, insisting on
pulling off his coat, whereupon a dark patch had spread. She also drew
off the heavy sweater he wore underneath it, which was stained even
more deeply. When she sought to roll up the sleeve of his flannel
shirt it would not go up high enough, but the remedy was close at
hand, in the form of a pair of scissors, and she swiftly ripped up a
seam. On the outer part of the shoulder she revealed a rather large
and jagged wound that was all smeared with blood, which still oozed
from it slowly.
"Who go an' shoot you?" she asked angrily. "I see de 'ole in de coat
an' de sweater. I know some one shoot. Vat for he shoot?"
"Well, it was just a silly little accident with a pistol," he
acknowledged with much embarrassment. "It--it won't be anything after
it's washed off. It feels all right enough and I wish you wouldn't
bother about it. I'll attend to it after I get home. It--it's stopped
hurting now."
But he was compelled to submit to the washing of his injury and to the
application of some sort of a dressing which Mrs. Papineau appeared to
put on rather skilfully. Wounds of all sorts are but too common in the
wilderness, unfortunately, and doctors few and far between. The
children had crowded around him, looking in awe, and their mother kept
ordering them away. Madge had risen from her seat and looked at the
injury, horrified and trembling. The man had never said a word when
that bullet had found its billet in his shoulder, and yet it must have
hurt him dreadfully. He--he might have been killed, owing to her
clumsiness, she reflected in consternation. And now he said nothing to
explain how it had happened--he actually seemed to be trying to shield
her.
"I--I'm dreadfully sorry," said the girl, impulsively. "It--it was all
my fault, because I let the revolver fall and it went off. But I
didn't know he was hurt. He never told me, and he insisted on pulling
at that sled, with his dog."
"Yes, it was just a little accident," admitted Hugo, "and we're making
altogether too much fuss about it. It really doesn't amount to
anything, Miss Nelson, and it feels splendidly now. I'm ever so much
obliged to you, Mrs. Papineau. And so I'll say good-night. I hope
you'll rest well, Miss Nelson. I'll be here in good time to-morrow,
never fear."
He shook hands with the housewife, who took care to wipe her own upon
her apron in preparation for the ceremony. To the children he bade a
comprehensive farewell, after which he turned again to Madge, advanced
a step and then hesitated. He had doubtless meant to shake hands with
her also but, at the last moment, probably feared a rebuff. At any
rate he nodded, bringing a smile to his features, and opened the door
into the bitter cold. After he had put on his snowshoes again and
hitched up Maigan to the toboggan he disappeared into the darkness.
For an instant Madge listened, but she heard no sound. Everything was
still outside, but for the rare crackings of ice and timber. Seeking
her chair again she leaned forward now with her elbows resting on her
knees and her face held in the hollow of her hands. At this time a
little child came to her and touched her arm. She looked at it. The
little girl had long straight black hair, great beady eyes and the
prettiest mouth imaginable. The cheeks were like red apples. She
lifted the little thing to her knees and the child nestled against her
bosom. Madge now looked at the woman, busily engaged with her few pots
and pans, and a feeling of envy came to her, a longing for the sweet
and kindly motherhood that was becoming a fierce craving for that
beautiful peace which appeared to have become so firmly established in
these little houses of the frozen wilds. She had elsewhere seen love
of children, little ones petted and made much of, husbands coming home
to a cheery welcome, but it had not seemed the same. The women so
often seemed weary, pale, and worked beyond their strength. Most of
them became querulous at times, apt to speak loudly of intolerable
wrongs or of ill-doings of neighbors across the dark hallways. Here it
looked as if quiet order, cheerful obedience, willingness on the part
of all, were ingrained in the people. Indeed, it was ever so
different.
By this time the rough table was set and Mrs. Papineau deplored the
fact that Hugo had not consented to remain.
"Heem is 'urted more as vat he tink," she confided to the girl.
"To-morrow somebody go to de leetle shack an' fin' 'ow he is. One dog
heem not much nurse, eh?"
These words made Madge feel uncomfortable. Once or twice the idea had
come to her that such a man ought to be punished, that he should be
made to suffer, that he deserved anything that could make him realize
how heinous his conduct had been. But now she had a vague impression
that she was sorry for him, that it was on her account that he had
refused to stay and had gone out at once in the gathering darkness
that had come so swiftly. But in spite of these thoughts and of all
the emotions she had undergone Madge felt again the besetting pangs of
fierce hunger. The slices of moose-meat sizzling in the pan filled the
place with appetizing odor. The mother placed her brood at the long
table but helped her guest first, and plentifully. How these people
ate and expected others to eat! Never could they have heard of the
scanty meals of working girls, of the cups of blue milk, of bitter
tea, or of the little rolls and bits of meat purchased at so-called
delicatessen stores. The girl ate hungrily and the meal was soon over,
but as soon as it was finished the terrible weariness came upon her
again and she was thankful to lie down upon a hard mattress of ticking
filled with the aromatic twigs of balsam fir, beneath heavy blankets
and a wonderful robe of hareskins.
Before she could fall asleep, however, the experiences of her crowded
day passed weirdly before her eyes; yet her despair seemed to be
contending with a strange feeling that was certainly not hope. It was
perhaps merely a weak acquiescence to conditions that her immense
fatigue and wearied brain made her accept, dully, stupidly, since she
had lost all power of resistance. It was something like the enforced
peace of a wounded thing that has just been able to crawl back into
its burrow and has found the rest its body craves for.
In the midst of so large a family one could not aspire to the lone
possession of a bed. The little girl she had held in her lap had been
placed beside her, not without many apologies from Mrs. Papineau. In
the darkness she could feel the little warm body nestling against her,
and hear the soft and regular breathing. It was comforting since it
brought a feeling that the little one protected her, in some strange
way, and was leading her in paths of darkness with a little warm hand
and a heart that was unafraid and confident of the morrow's shining
sun. Very soon there came a restless sleep which at first was filled
with uncanny visions, from which she awakened once or twice in fear.
But at last came entire surcease from suffering as the brain that had
been overwrought ceased to toil.
In the meanwhile Hugo had slowly made his way back to his shack. If
his arm hurt he had now little consciousness of it. The thing that
disturbed him most was that girl's unshakable belief in his villainy.
Was she really insane? He had had no opportunity to communicate that
thought to Mrs. Papineau. But then, after her arrival, she had seemed
so absolutely rational in all that she had said and done that the idea
had, for the time being, passed away from his mind. And what if, at
least in part, she had spoken the truth? What if some amazing
distortion of reality had truly and honestly given her these beliefs,
through evidence that must be all against him? The words she had
spoken before starting for the Papineaus', and the further ones
uttered on the tote-road, while he rested, held a drama so poignant
that it struck a chill to his heart. She might, after all, have been
speaking the truth as she had been misled into believing it! But then
there must be some amazing conspiracy at work, some foul doings whose
objects utterly escaped him and which left him staring at the little
lamp now burning on his table, as if it might perhaps have revealed
some key to the amazing problem.
Was it possible that a weak and slender woman could actually be
compelled to carry on a fight against hunger and illness, with never a
friend on earth, until she was finally so beaten down to the ground
that her soul cried in agony for relief? According to her she had
seized upon the only resource open to her, in which there was but a
dim outlook towards safety. Then she had found herself the victim of a
hellish jest, apparently, or of a conspiracy so base that one sickened
at the mere thought of it. There was no doubt that those big eyes of
the suffering woman haunted the man, while the accents of her despair
still rang in his ears and distressed him. The expression of the
crucified had been on that pale face of hers, which had reddened so
deeply when a sense of shame had overwhelmed her. It was as if he had
beheld a drowning woman and been utterly prevented from extending a
saving hand to her. More strongly he began to feel that some one had
surely sinned against that woman, and feelings of vengefulness, none
the less bitter for all their vagueness, began to obsess him.
Once, on his way back from Papineau's, Maigan had pressed close to
him, as if for safety. From the great hardwood ridges of his right he
had heard a long and familiar sound. It was the one the Frenchwoman
had mentioned, the fitful baying of wolves on the track of a deer.
Picturing to himself the overtaking and pulling down of the victim, he
shivered, hardened though he was to the unending tragedies of the
wilderness, and hurried along faster, although he knew he stood in no
danger.
When he had reached his shack by the Roaring River he had entered it
and lighted the small lamp. It chanced to be the last match in his
pocket that he used for the purpose. There was no need to open the big
package that stood on a shelf, since he remembered having left two or
three small boxes in his hunting bag. He went over to the corner where
he had left it and bent over, somewhat painfully. As he lifted it from
the floor he saw an envelope and picked it up. It was addressed to
him. Tearing it open he stared at the words "Starting this evening.
Please have some one meet me. Madge Nelson."
With clenched fist he struck the table a blow that startled Maigan,
who barked, leaping up to his feet.
"It's all right, boy," said his master. "Men are pretty big fools,
excepting when they're nothing but infernal cowards. I tell you, boy,
some one will have to pay heavily for this. Good Lord! Who would have
thought of such a thing? I--I think I must be getting crazy! But
no--she's over there at Papineau's, and some one wrote to her, and
everything she said was the plain truth, as she understood it. Great
Heavens! It's no wonder she looked at me as if I'd been the dirt under
her feet. That thing's got to be straightened out, somehow, but first
I must see Stefan, of course."
For a moment a wild idea came to him of going over to Carcajou in the
darkness. Such an undertaking was by no means particularly difficult
for a strong man, who knew the way, but suddenly he realized that he
was played out and would never reach his destination that night. This
irked his soul, unbearably, until he had recourse to his old briar
pipe. In spite of the fact that his arm was beginning to hurt him
badly he sat near the stove, where he had kindled a fire again,
thinking hard. He was racking his brain to seek some motive that could
have impelled any one he knew to play such a frightful joke. One after
another he named every man he had ever known or even merely met in
Carcajou and the surrounding, sparsely settled country. But they were
nearly all friends of his, he knew, or at least had no reason to bear
him ill-will. There was one chap he had had quite a scrap with one
day, over a dog-fight in which the man had urged his animal first and
then kicked Maigan when he saw his brute having by far the worst of
it. But soon afterwards they had shaken hands and the matter had been
forgotten. Besides, the fellow was now working in Sudbury, far east
down the line. No, that wasn't a trail worth following. The more he
thought the matter over the more utterly mysterious it seemed to
become. But of one thing he was determined. He was going to move
heaven and earth to get at the bottom of all this, and when he found
out who was responsible the fur would fly.
It was perhaps fortunate for her that the idea of the red-headed girl
in old McGurn's store never entered his head for a moment. She had
always been friendly, perhaps even a little forward in her attentions
to him, though he had always paid her rather scant notice. He had
never been more than decently civil to her.
When he sought his bunk, an hour or two later, a long time elapsed
before he could fall asleep. It seemed to him that his head throbbed a
good deal, and that shoulder was growing mightily uncomfortable. He
hoped it would be better in the morning. Finally he fell asleep,
restlessly. Upon the floor, stretched out upon an old deerskin close
to the stove, Maigan was sleeping more profoundly, though now and then
he whined and sighed in his slumber, perhaps dreaming of hares and
porcupines. A cricket ensconced beneath the flat stones under the
stove began to chirp, shrilly. Outside a big-horned owl was hooting,
dismally, while the big falls continued to roar out their eternal
song. And thus the long night wore out till a flaming crimson and
copper dawn came up, with flashing rays that stabbed the great rolling
clouds while the trees kept on cracking in the intense frost and the
ice in the big pool churned and groaned under the torment of waters
seeking to burst their shackles.