ON THE HOME TRAIL
Nancy's eyes were desperately troubled as she gazed out across the great
valley of the Beaver River. Somewhere behind her, in the shelter of the
woods, a mid-day camp had been pitched, and the men who had captured her
red-hand in the work of their enemies were preparing the, rough food of
the trail. But she was beyond all such concern.
Far out on every hand lay the amazing panorama of the splendid valley,
but she saw none of it. The mighty frozen waterway, the depths of virgin
snow, the far-reaching woodlands its gaping lips embraced; they were
things of frigid beauty for her eyes to gaze upon, but their meaning was
lost upon a mind tortured with the vivid, hateful pictures it was
powerless to escape.
From the moment of that dreadful night when she had witnessed the
ruthless climax of the work to which she had given herself she had known
no peace. It was no thought of her failure, her capture, that inspired
her trouble. She could have been thankful enough for that. It was the
only mercy, she felt, that had been vouchsafed to her.
No, long before her capture, a deep undermining of regret had set in.
She had been without realisation of it, perhaps. But it had been there.
In yielding to the demands of those she served, in her self-confidence
she had forgotten the woman in her. She had forgotten everything but the
crazy ambition which had blinded her to all consequences. Yes, even in
the excitement of the work itself she had forgotten everything but the
achievement she desired. But through it all, under it all, the woman in
her had been slowly awakening, and an unadmitted regret at the
destruction of work which meant the whole life of another had been
stirring. Then, when the leading tongues of the guns had flashed out,
and human life, even the life of dogs, had yielded to the demand of her
cause, the last vestige of her dreaming had been swept away, and she
told herself it was murder, _murder at her bidding_!
Now her soul was afire with the bitterness of repentance, with
passionate self-accusation. Murder had been done through her. Murder!
The horror of it all had driven her well-nigh demented when she gazed
from the distance while the two men disposed of Arden Laval's body under
the snow. The dogs? They had been left where they fell. The living had
been cut loose from their trappings to roam the forests at their will,
while the dead had remained to satisfy the fierce hunger of the savage
forest creatures. Even the sled had been destroyed, and its wood used to
make fire that the living might endure on those pitiless northern
heights. The memory of it all was days old now, but its horror showed no
abatement. The agony was still with her. She felt that never again could
she know peace.
So she had moved away out from camp, as she had done at every stopping
they had made on the long journey from the highlands down to Sachigo.
Somehow it seemed to her impossible to do otherwise. She felt she must
hide herself from the sight of those others who were her captors, and
who, in their hearts, she felt, must deeply abhor the presence of so
vile a creature in their camp.
How long she had been standing there, while the men prepared the mid-day
meal, she did not know. It was a matter of no sort of consequence to her
anyway. Nothing really seemed of any consequence now. Her jaded mind
was obsessed by a horror she could not shake off. There was nothing,
nothing in the world to do but nurse the anguish driving her.
"You'll come right along and eat, Nancy?"
The girl almost jumped at the gentle tones of the man's voice, and
glanced round at Bull Sternford in an agony of sudden terror.
"I--I--" she stammered. Then composure returned to her. "If you wish
it," she said submissively. "But I don't need food."
Bull regarded the averted face for moments. Sympathy and love were in
his clear gazing eyes. He understood something of the thing she was
enduring, and the tone of his voice had been a real expression of his
feelings. This girl, with the courage of twenty men, with her radiant
beauty, and in her pitiful, heartbroken condition, was far more precious
to him than any victory he had set himself to achieve. He knew that the
world held nothing half so precious.
He came a step nearer.
"I wonder if you'll listen to me, Nancy," he said, with a hesitation and
doubt utterly foreign, to him. "You know, for all that's happened, for
all we're mixed up against each other in this war, I'm the same man you
found me on the _Myra_ and in Quebec. I--"
"Don't."
The girl flung out her hands in a piteous appeal. And Bull recognised
the hysteria lying behind the movement.
"I know," she cried. "Oh, I know. But--don't you understand? You must
know what I am. It's my doing that Laval has gone to his death. I'm
responsible, just as surely as if I'd fired the gun that robbed him of
his life. Oh, why, why didn't I refuse the work? Why did they send me?
And those dogs. Those poor helpless dogs. They, too. I must have been
mad--mad. How can you come near me? How can you stand there summoning
me to eat food--with you? It's useless. It's--I who sent that man to his
death--I who--"
"Why, I thought it was Gouter."
Bull's manner had suddenly changed. The danger signal in the girl's eyes
had determined him. So he smiled, and there was laughter in his
challenge.
"Say," he went on rapidly, "if you told that to Gouter he'd be crazy
mad. He's the boss running shot on Labrador, and if you claimed
responsibility for the killing of Laval you'd be dead up against it with
him." He shook his head. "No, he's sort of grieved he didn't drop him
plumb on the instant as it is. It won't do you talking that way with him
around."
He watched for the effect of his words and realised a slight relaxing of
the strained look in the hazel eyes. Forthwith he plunged into the thing
he contemplated.
"I'm going to make a big talk with you before we eat," he said. "You
see, I've wanted to right along, Nancy, but--Well, I want to tell you
you're no more responsible for Laval's life, and the lives of those
dogs, than I am. We're each playing our little parts in the things of
life like the puppets we are. Our hands are clean enough, but it's not
that way with the skunks that could send you, a girl, almost a child, to
do the work, and live the life that boys like Gouter hardly know how to
get through. That man, Peterman, is going to get it one day from me if I
have luck. And I won't call it murder when I get my hands on his dirty
alien throat. But never mind that. I want to ease that poor aching head
of yours. I want to try and get you some peace of mind. That's why I
tell you you've nothing to chide yourself for, nothing at all. It's
true. You've played the game like the loyal adversary you are. And, for
the moment, I'm top dog. You've handed me a bad nightmare by the
wonderful courage and grit you've well-nigh shamed me, as a man, with.
True, true you haven't a thing to blame yourself with. You've fought a
mighty big fight I'd have been pleased to fight. It's just circumstances
pitched you into the muss up, and let you see the thing your folks have
brought about. It's that that's worrying. Think, Nancy, think hard. This
is their fight. Not yours. The blood of Laval is on Elas Peterman's
head. His, and those other creatures who are ready to commit any crime
to steal our country from us. Oh, I'm not preaching just my side. It's
true, true. We at Sachigo were content to compete openly, honestly.
Peterman and those others saw disaster in our competition. And so they
got ready to murder--if necessary. It's the soulless crime of a gang of
unscrupulous foreigners, and those hounds of hell have left you to
suffer for it just as sure as if they'd seared your poor gentle heart
with a red hot iron. Say, Nancy," he went on, with persuasive
earnestness, "put it all out of your mind. Forget it all. You're out of
the fight now. And it just hurts me to see your eyes troubled, and that
poor tender heart of yours all broken up. Won't you?"
The girl had turned away to the gaping valley again. But she answered
him. And her tone was less dull, and it was without the dreadful passion
of moments ago.
"I--I've tried to tell myself something of that," she said, with the
pathetic helplessness of a child.
"Then try some more."
Bull had drawn nearer. He laid one hand gently on her shoulder. It moved
down and took possession of the soft arm under her furs. Nancy shook her
head. But there was no decision in the movement.
"Oh, I wish--" she began.
But she could get no further. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands,
and broke into a passion of weeping.
Bull stood helplessly by. He gazed upon the shaking woman while great
sobs racked her whole body. There was nothing he could do, nothing he
dared do. He knew that. His impulse was to take her in his arms and
protect her with his body against the things which gave her pain.
But--somehow he felt that perhaps it was good for her to weep. Perhaps
it would help her. So he waited.
Slowly the violence of the girl's grief subsided. And after a while she
turned to him and gazed at him through her tears.
"I'm--I'm--"
But Bull shook his head.
"Come. Shall we go and eat?"
He still retained his hold upon her arm. And as he spoke he led her
unresistingly away towards the camp.