A Visit Cut Short
Like the great majority of the denizens of the wilderness, Maigan
could be a steadfast friend or a bitter enemy. He would readily have
given his life for the one and torn the other asunder. Not being very
far removed from a wolfish ancestry he was necessarily suspicious,
intolerant at first of strangers and prepared to use his clean and
cutting fangs at the shortest notice. But he was also more cautious
than the dog of civilization and less apt to blurt his feelings right
out. After his first outburst he appeared to quiet down, growling but
a very little, very low, and stood at the girl's side, watchful and
ready for immediate action.
Madge stood on the wooden step that had been cleared of snow, in front
of the little door of rough planks. She watched the people coming in
Indian file down the path that had been beaten down in the deep snow.
For a moment she had thought that they might be bringing help, that
miraculously a doctor had been found at once, that these people were
friends eager to help, to remove the sick man to Carcajou and thence
to some hospital further down the railway line. But such people would
have cried out inquiries. They would have come with some shout of
greeting. But these newcomers came along without a word until their
leader was but a few yards away, when he stopped and looked at the
girl during a moment's silence.
"Where's Hugo Ennis?" he finally asked, gruffly.
"He is in the shack," replied the girl, timidly. "He is dreadfully ill
and lying on his bunk."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He was shot--shot by accident, and now I'm afraid that he is going to
die."
"Well, I'll go in and see. We'll all go in. We're mighty cold after
that long ride. Stand aside!"
"I think you might go in," the girl told him, still blocking the way,
"but the others must not. I--I won't allow him to be disturbed.
Don't--don't you understand me? I'm telling you that he's dying. I--I
won't have him disturbed. And--and who are you? You don't look like a
friend of his. What's your purpose in coming here?"
The first feeling of timidity that had seized her seemed to have left
her utterly. There remained to her but an instinct--a will to defend
the man, to protect him from unwarranted intrusion, and she spoke with
authority. But another of the visitors addressed her.
"We're folks belongin' to these townships," he said. "What we want to
know is who you are, and what right ye've got to order us about and
say who's goin' in and who's to keep out?"
Something in his words caused her cheeks to burn, but strangely enough
she felt quite calm and strong in her innocence of any evil, and she
answered quietly enough.
"My name is Madge Nelson, if you want to know, and I am here at this
moment because I am taking care of Mr. Ennis. I feel responsible for
his welfare and will continue until he is better and able to speak for
himself, or--or until he is dead. I repeat that one of you may come
in--but no more."
It appeared that her manner impressed the men to some extent, if not
the three women who crowded behind. One of the visitors was scratching
the back of his neck.
"Look a-here, Aleck, I reckon that gal is talking sense, if Hugo's
real bad like she says. We ain't got no call to butt in an' make him
worse. I know when Mirandy was sick the Doc he told me ter take a club
if I had to, to keep folks out. Let Pat Kilrea go in if he wants to
an' we'll stay outside an' wait."
"Sure, that's right enough," said old man Prouty.
Pat advanced, but Maigan began to growl.
"Say, young 'ooman, I'll bash that dog's head in if you don't keep him
still," he said, truculently. "Keep a holt of him."
Madge pulled the dog back and quieted him.
"Be good, Maigan," she said. "It's all right, old fellow."
She entered the shack behind Pat Kilrea and closed the door. In doing
this she meant no offense to the others, who didn't mind, knowing that
with a cold of some twenty below people don't care for an excess of
ventilation. They stood, the men silently, the women putting their
heads together and whispering.
"Ain't she the brazen sassy thing?" remarked Mrs. Kilrea.
"Guess she ain't no better'n she should be," opined Sophy, acidly, as
she watched the door keenly.
Pat Kilrea went to the bunk and for an instant considered the sick
man's face. Then he scratched his head again.
"Hello, Hugo!" he finally called out. "What's the matter with ye?
Ain't--ain't tryin' to hide behind a gal's skirts, are ye?"
His arm was seized from behind. The girl's eyes flashed at him.
"I--I don't know who you are!" she exclaimed. "But if--if you say such
things I'll turn that dog on you, so help me God!"
"I--I don't reckon as I meant it," stammered Pat. "He--he does look
turriple sick, now me eyes is gettin' used to the light. Why, why
don't you speak, man?"
But the sufferer on the bunk made no answer save in some low fast
words that were disconnected and meaningless. Slowly, nearly tenderly,
Pat touched a hand that felt burning hot and a forehead that was moist
and clammy. Then he turned to the girl again.
"Well, I must say I'm sorry," he acknowledged. "Looks to me like he
was done for. What are ye goin' to do for him? We--we didn't reckon to
find nothin' like this when we come, though Papineau told us he were
sick."
"Mr. Papineau's errand was to telegraph for the doctor," she replied,
with a hand pressed to her bosom. "At--at first, when I heard you
coming, I thought he had perhaps arrived and--and that you were
intending to take him away. Do--do you really think he's going to
die?"
"Well, I'm scared it looks a good deal that way. Of course we might be
able to take him in the sleigh, but--but he don't look much as if he
could stand the trip--does he?--an'--an' I don't reckon we can do much
good stayin' round here either."
He stepped over to the door and opened it.
"That gal's right," he said. "Hugo looks desperate sick."
"Sure it ain't nothin' that's ketchin', are ye?" asked his wife,
drawing back a little.
"I didn't never hear that pistol bullets was contagious," he
answered.
"But who did it?" cried McIntosh. "And--and how d'ye know 'twas just
an accident. Seems to me we'd ought to find out something more about
it. It--it don't sound just natural."
"I tell you he was shot by accident. I did it, God forgive me,"
faltered Madge.
Sophy McGurn, at this, pushed her way forward until she stood in front
of Madge, and pointed an accusing finger at her. Her eyes were
flashing. To Maigan her move seemed a threatening one and she recoiled
as the animal crouched a little, with fangs bare and lips slavering.
"Hold him, miss, hold him quick!" cried Aleck Mclntosh. "Git back
there, Sophy, what's the matter with ye? D'ye want to be torn to
pieces? What's that ye was goin' to say?"
"She--she never shot him by accident! She--she did it on purpose, for
revenge, that's what she did, the she-devil!"
She was still standing before Madge and her voice was shaking with
excitement, while her arms and hands trembled with her passion.
"What's all that?" cried Pat Kilrea. "Ye wasn't here to see, was ye?
How d'ye know she done it a-purpose, for revenge? Ye must have some
reason for sayin' such things. Out with 'em!"
But now Sophy was shrinking back, afraid of her own outburst, fearing
that she might have revealed something. Her voice shook again as she
replied.
"I--I ain't got any reason," she stammered. "I--I was just thinking
so. It--it came to me all of a sudden. Maybe I'm mistaken."
"Mistaken, was it?" asked Pat Kilrea. "Folks ain't got any right to be
mistaken when it comes to accusin' others of murder. If you hadn't had
some reason to speak that way ye'd have kept yer mouth shut, I'm
thinking. Why don't ye come right out with it?"
"I--I didn't really mean anything by it," stammered Sophy again.
"What revenge was that you was referring to?" he persisted.
"Nothing--nothing at all. How should I know what she would do?"
"Then you ought to have kept still an' held yer tongue," said Pat.
"But it seems to me as if we'd ought to investigate this thing a
little," ventured Prouty. "We ain't got anythin' here but this 'ere
young 'ooman's word for what's happened. She can tell us how it came
about, anyways, seems to me, and we can judge if it sounds sensible
and correct like."
"That's right," put in Kilrea. "That's fair and proper."
"I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know about it," asserted
Madge, quietly. "I--I came here to see Mr. Ennis on a matter
that--that concerns us only. And I had occasion to open my bag. Among
the things in it there was a revolver. It fell out of my hands and
exploded, and--and the bullet struck him. I--I never knew that he had
been shot. He never even told me, and then he hitched the dog to the
sleigh and took me over to Mrs. Papineau's, where I have been staying.
And it was she who discovered that he had been injured. She'll tell
you so herself if you go to her. And--and he told her it was an
accident, as he would tell you now if--if he wasn't dying."
"You'd fixed it up to spend the night at Papineau's?" asked Mrs.
Kilrea, who had hitherto kept somewhat in the background.
"That was the arrangement we had made," answered the girl. "There was
no other place where I could stay. But I'd have gone up there alone if
I'd known how badly he was hurt. I've stayed with them ever since, of
course, for there was no one to take me back. Mr. Papineau hadn't
returned. He was trapping."
"I don't see but what she must be tellin' the truth," opined Mrs.
Kilrea. "There ain't anything wrong or improper in all this, savin' a
girl handlin' a revolver, which ain't wise. We can go over to
Papineau's and make sure it's just as she says."
"But there's one thing ain't clear," said Pat Kilrea. "What business
did she come on, anyways?"
Madge drew herself up and looked at him calmly.
"I've already told you that this concerns Mr. Ennis and myself," she
told him, "and I deny that you have any right...."
Just then there was a roar from the tote-road as big Stefan, lashing
his dogs, bumped down the path at a wild gallop and, a minute later,
threw himself off the sled and was among them.
"How do, peoples?" he shouted, advancing truculently towards Pat and
Mclntosh. "Papineau telt me as how Hugo he get hurted bad and sick.
And he say you peoples ask him whole lot qvestions about him. I vant
to know vhat all you is doin' here, und--und if I ain't satisfied I
take some of you and--and vipe up de ground vid you, hear me!"
His manner was ominously calm, but his words sent a shiver through the
crowd. He was and looked a tremendous figure. He had moved to the side
of the girl, as if to defend her, and his clear blue eyes went
searchingly from one man to the next.
"Papineau he tells me in Carcajou it look like you come ofer here to
make drouble for Hugo an' mebbe for dis young leddy. So I come here
fast like my togs can take me, sure ting. Und I vant to know vhen you
vants to start droubles. Der leddies can move leetle vay to one side
if dey like, to make room. Ve need plenty, I tank. Who vant to start
de row now, who begin? I tak' you vun at a time or altogedder, how you
like!"
He took a step forward and the men all moved back hurriedly. The
ladies had swiftly accepted his advice and were retreating fast, now
and then looking back in terror.
"But look here, Stefan, what are you butting in for?" Kilrea took
courage to ask while he kept discreetly out of reach. "We came to see
if everything was all right and proper here. We're satisfied now and
are going back. Got to hurry away, sun's getting low."
The Swede sniffed at him contemptuously, and drew off a big mitt of
muskrat hide. With some difficulty he drew from his clothing a huge
silver watch and looked at it.
"Glad you vas in a hurry. I tank I 'elp you a bit make tings lifely. I
gif you all yoost tree minutes ter get started. Den if any man he
ain't aboard dat sleigh I yoost vipes up de ground vit him a bit. If
you knows vhat is good for ye, den make tracks, qvick. I ban gettin'
hurry mineself, eh!"
"But what right have you to be ordering us about?" shouted Aleck
Mclntosh, imprudently.
"My frient, you's knowed as de laziest man in Carcajou and some say in
Ontario. I helps you along, sure."
He had dashed towards him with devastating speed. The fellow turned to
run, but a second later the slack of some of his garments was in
Stefan's huge hand. Struggling and backing he found himself half
lifted, half propelled on the ground, all the way to the sled. There
he was lifted high and dumped in, like a bag of feed.
"Any oders as need help?" roared Stefan.
But they were hastening for all they were worth. Kilrea took the
reins. The three women were already seated. The others jumped in and
the horses started home again, even before the Carcajou Vigilantes had
finished spreading robes over their shaky knees. Striking a bit of
flat bare rock, the runners spat out fire and squealed, after which
the heavy sled slithered and slipped over the crackling snow, so that
presently the outfit disappeared around the first bend in the
tote-road.
Miss Sophy McGurn looked particularly down-hearted. None of the
interesting events she expected had taken place. She had merely
succeeded in nearly giving herself away and arousing suspicions.
And the girl was still there, with Hugo! She had believed that Hugo
would be found sheepish and embarrassed, or in a regular fury, while
the stranger would weep and wring her hands and seek to explain. And
the invading crowd was to have manifested its indignation at this
breach of all decency and proper custom, and sent the woman away,
while they would have told the man what they thought of him, in spite
of his rage, and warned him that he must mend his ways or quit the
country.
And now they had all been driven away, and that girl had stood and
spoken as if she had some right to be there, and had been indignant at
any inquiry into her motives for coming to Roaring River. Worse than
all Pat Kilrea and his wife seemed to have turned against her, after
absolving the two of blame.
She shrank back, drawing her fur cap further down over her eyes and
ears. Now the cold seemed more bitter than she had ever felt it
before, in spite of the thermometer's rise, and the road was so long
and dreary that it seemed as if it never would end.
And Hugo Ennis was dying--and in her heart Sophy McGurn felt certain
that the girl had shot to kill, and was waiting there until he should
die. Perhaps she had rummaged about the place and found money or other
valuables, for Ennis always seemed to have some funds, though he spent
prudently and carefully, and never seemed to have dollars to throw
away. And the end of it would be that the girl would leave and the man
would be dead and all the dreams of marriage first and of a revenge
following had turned into this thing, which was a nightmare.
She reached her home half frozen, in spite of the robes, and could not
eat her food. Her mother had a few mild words to say about long
excursions out in the back country, in this sort of weather. Then the
girl left the table suddenly, and slammed the door of her room shut,
in a towering rage. A little later, after she had lain down, came
tears, for it seemed to her at this time that she had never truly
loved Ennis until she heard that he was dying, and now he was lost to
her forever.