LINKS OF STEEL
When Norman Grey flung himself out of Old Meg's house his one burning
idea was to seek the man who had insulted Madeline. He half expected to
find him where he had left him, and was more than disappointed when no
sign of the rascal was to be seen. He hurried along the trail desirous
of reaching the store as quickly as possible, and meeting Siwash Bill
face to face. Although unarmed the thought of fear or of the possible
outcome of a personal affray with such a man never entered his head. But
as he walked swiftly forward and the cool night air fanned his hot brow,
he realised how unwise would be such a line of action at the present
critical condition of affairs. Nothing would be gained, he felt sure,
and much harm might be done by indiscreet hastiness. He would wait for a
while. Too many things were at stake. He knew how the squaw man would be
incensed by the blow he had received, and that he would, no doubt, seek
speedy revenge in some underhanded manner.
Thinking thus he reached the forest, and passed by the spot where
crouched his enemy with his forefinger slightly pressing the nimble
trigger of his revolver. No sense of danger from that quarter came into
Grey's mind, and he strode swiftly onward, unaware of the imminent
peril which had been so narrowly averted.
The moon was now rising full and broad. A few fleecy clouds were
drifting slowly overhead. The land lay silent and sombre. Nature was
hushed in a dreamy, mystic repose. Grey paused and gazed upon the scene.
His mind cleared, while a new strength and quietness entered his heart.
He thought of Madeline. The sight of that slight form and fair face had
awakened the vibrant chords of memory. His face had been close to hers
as she lay in his arms while he bore her into the house. A great desire
had seized him to press his lips firmly to hers, no matter what she
might be. How he longed to seize her and bear her away from such a
place. But, no, he would not do it against her will. What was she doing
here, anyway? Why should she leave a home of comfort for such a desolate
region? "Madeline! Madeline!" he breathed. "What does it all mean? Oh,
to feel that you are as I left you by that garden gate; that you are the
same pure-souled woman as of old!"
He entered the cabin, threw himself into the bunk, and soon fell into a
fitful sleep. He was awakened by the rattle of dishes, and a peculiar
sizzling sound. Opening his eyes he beheld Buckskin Dan standing before
the little sheet-iron stove frying some moose meat. The appetising smell
filled the room, making Grey realise that he was very hungry. For a
while he lay still and watched Dan as he worked. What an ideal life, he
thought, as his eyes roved about the cosy cabin. What did such a man
need with the luxuries of civilisation? Here in the wilderness he is
free to come and go at will. The land teeming with game, and this quiet
abode as a place of retreat. Yet he must be lonely at times, he mused.
Now a pleasant companion, a woman for instance, would prove an
additional charm. She would have to be pretty and genial, or the
situation might not be so fascinating. But, then, such cramped quarters
might not suit her. She would need more rooms, and that would
necessitate extra furniture. And suppose there should not be always two?
That would certainly complicate matters, and affairs at times might not
be so congenial.
A slight laugh unconsciously broke from Grey's lips, which caused Dan to
turn quickly about. A smile spread over his furrowed face as he noticed
that his companion was awake.
"Thought ye was asleep," he remarked, "an' here I've been tiptoein'
around the room like a thief fer the last half hour."
"Oh, I've been quietly musing in this comfortable place for a few
minutes," Grey replied.
"Wall, is that so? Yer musin' must have been very amusin' from the
chuckles ye jist let out."
"It was," Grey replied as he sat up in the bunk. "I was thinking what a
change it would make here if you had a wife. I was wondering if it would
be as agreeable to you as living alone."
To these words Buckskin Dan made no immediate reply. He seemed to be
suddenly interested in the meat that was now becoming temptingly
browned. He laid his few meagre dishes upon the rough table, while Grey
washed his face and hands in a tin basin near the door. The latter noted
the old man's silence, and feared that he had offended him by his
jocular remark. It was only after they had sat down to their breakfast
that Dan awoke from his reverie. He looked across the table and fixed
his faded eyes upon Grey's face.
"Ye hit me to the quick by that question of yours, pardner," he began.
"Ye didn't mean no harm, an' I take yer words kindly. But, young man, ye
little realised how that thrust stung."
"I'm sorry," Grey faltered, for the man's impressive manner was
affecting him more than ordinary.
"That's all right, pardner. Don't ye worry one mite. Ye axed a fair
question. But, my God! how kin I answer? Would I like to have a wife?
Would I be happier? Am I happy now, d'ye think? Am I happy wanderin' out
on the hills all by meself, an' comin' back to this lonely cabin, with
never a face to greet me, an' never a word of welcome? Then, when I'm
under the weather, an' somewhat petered out, to lie all day long in this
shack with never a gentle voice to ax how I am, no one to do fer me, an'
no one to care whether I live or die--d'ye think that is happiness?
Young man, git a home, an' git it as soon as possible. Buckskin Dan's
been over the trail afore ye, an' he knows a thing or two."
"I'm afraid it's too late," Grey sadly replied.
Dan looked keenly at his companion as if trying to read the purport of
his words.
"D'ye mean to tell me," he asked, "that you too have lost?"
"That's about it."
"Dead?"
"No, and yes."
"Ah, livin' yit, then?"
"In a way."
"But she's alive, young man. Remember that's somethin'. Ye've got hope
yit; it ain't altogether crushed. Look at me, pardner. Didn't I love the
sweetest, fairest lass that ever trod God's earth? But she left me!"
The trapper paused, and an expression of agony came into his face. Grey
could find no words; he knew not what to say.
"Yes, she left me," the old man continued, "left me in the bright summer
time, forty years ago come next July. She faded like the flowers of the
garden. The roses fled her cheeks, the roundness left her face, an' the
strength desarted her body. But she loved me to the last, an' her
partin' word was to me."
"But surely forty years have healed the wound," Grey responded. "It's
been long since then, and many a man would have forgotten."
"Never, young man, never! I kin see her as plain to-day as of old. Out
on the hills, an' along the trail, my Nan, my lost Nanette, is always
with me."
"And have you lived in the wilderness ever since?" Grey queried.
"Most of the time."
"Don't you often long, though, for civilisation?"
"I uster have a hankerin' that way. But when I saw the young fellers
with their sweethearts it made me feel so lonely that I could hardly
stand it. I like it better out on the hills with my Nanette. But of late
I've been somewhat drawn back to this camp more'n usual. Thar's a lassie
over yon at that house which minds me much of my Nan. I caught a glimpse
of her one day which made me stan' very still. An' since then I have sot
on the edge of the woods an' watched her as she walked along the trail a
leadin' to the river. She's jist like her in form--but my Nan was never
like her."
"Do you mean the young woman at Old Meg's?" Grey demanded.
"Yes; it's her I mean."
"And what do you know about her?"
"Nothin' fer sartin. It's only suspicion. But why should sich a purty
lass be out in a hole like this with a cratur' like Old Meg unless thar
was somethin' wrong? Tell me that."
"But haven't you heard anything? What do the men in camp say? Don't they
go there?"
Grey had now risen to his feet and was standing near the table looking
straight at his companion. His heart was beating fast. He expected to
hear the truth from this old man. Did he know? Could he tell him
anything?
"Yes, the men go thar," Dan replied, noting Grey's excitement. "But I've
never axed 'em. When I see her I see my Nanette, an' I want to think
it's my Nan livin' over thar an' not--"
"Don't say any more!" cried Grey fiercely, bringing his fist down upon
the table with a resounding blow. "You say that you have suffered; that
you lost your Nanette long ago. But she left you, and you know she was
pure and good when she died. But listen to me. What would be the
sufferings of a man who loved a woman whom he believed to be as noble as
your Nanette? Loved her with all the true passion of a man's heart. Then
lost her, and after years of seeking to find her there, living such a
life as that? Could your suffering be compared to his? Far better, don't
you think, that your Nanette should be dead than living such a life as
that?"
"My God! yes," cried the trapper, as the meaning of the constable's
words dawned upon his mind. "But are ye sure she's thar? Mebbe ye've
been mistaken."
"Oh, no, there is no mistake. Wouldn't I recognise my Madeline
anywhere?"
"Sure, that's only nat'ral. An' so ye tell me she was once like my
Nanette? How d'ye account then fer her bein' away up here?"
"I can't. It's a sore puzzle. She was reared in a home of luxury and
loving care. Her mother died when she was quite young. She was her
father's only comfort, and he planned that at his death the whole of his
property, which was large, should go to her. They had relatives in the
United States, and Madeline in charge of a trusted friend left England
to pay them a visit. On that voyage the steamer was wrecked. Several
lives were reported lost, Madeline and her travelling companion among
the number. Something always told me that the report was not true, and
that Madeline had not been drowned. I could not rid my mind of the idea.
It forced itself upon me day and night. That was six years ago, and
since then I have travelled far and wide in the hope of obtaining some
trace of her. And now to find her there! Oh, God, it is too hard!"
Grey sank upon the bench, and buried his face in his hands. Buckskin Dan
watched him compassionately for a while, and thoughtfully stroked his
long beard.
"Seems to me thar's somethin' wrong," he at length remarked. "It ain't
nat'ral fer sich a lassie, brought up as ye say she was, to be in a
place like this. Mebbe if ye had a talk with her she would explain
matters."
"I've thought of it," was the slow reply, "but somehow I can't. The
first time I saw her enter the house I wanted to rush to her at once.
And then last night when she lay unconscious in my arms as I carried her
into the cabin the yearning was stronger than ever."
"Young man, what are ye talkin' about?" Dan demanded. "Did ye say she
was unconscious? What d'ye mean? What are ye sayin'?"
"I know you must be surprised at my words," Grey responded; then he
briefly told the incident of the past night.
Dan said not a word during this recital, but sat bolt upright on his
bench. His clinched hands kept moving to and fro by his side, while a
deep scowl formed upon his brow.
"The d-- skunk!" he ejaculated when Grey ceased. "Oh, if I only had me
hands on his measly carcass! An' so he insulted the lassie did he?"
"I should like to know how she is getting along," Grey continued. "But
how can I go? If I could feel she is my Madeline as of old, then no
power in Hishu could keep me from her side. But I can't go unless I know
she wants me. I would like to hear, too, about the boy."
The trapper sat thoughtfully smoking for some time in deep silence. Then
he reached out a large hand across the table.
"Put it thar, young man," he said. "Yer tale of sorrow has brought ye
very close to me old heart. We're pardners now fer sure. Buckskin Dan
don't make friends easy, but when he does it's with links of steel, an'
don't ye fergit that. But, come, we've sot here long enough. I jist want
to run across to the store fer a little baccy an' ammunition. It'll take
only a few minutes. Thar's important bizness ahead of us, an' we ain't
got no time to lose."