Outside Kent's window was Spring, the glorious Spring of the Northland,
and in spite of the death-grip that was tightening in his chest he
drank it in deeply and leaned over so that his eyes traveled over wide
spaces of the world that had been his only a short time before.
It occurred to him that he had suggested this knoll that overlooked
both settlement and river as the site for the building which Dr.
Cardigan called his hospital. It was a structure rough and unadorned,
unpainted, and sweetly smelling with the aroma of the spruce trees from
the heart of which its unplaned lumber was cut. The breath of it was a
thing to bring cheer and hope. Its silvery walls, in places golden and
brown with pitch and freckled with knots, spoke joyously of life that
would not die, and the woodpeckers came and hammered on it as though it
were still a part of the forest, and red squirrels chattered on the
roof and scampered about in play with a soft patter of feet.
"It's a pretty poor specimen of man that would die up here with all
that under his eyes," Kent had said a year before, when he and Cardigan
had picked out the site. "If he died looking at that, why, he just
simply ought to die, Cardigan," he had laughed.
And now he was that poor specimen, looking out on the glory of the
world!
His vision took in the South and a part of the East and West, and in
all those directions there was no end of the forest. It was like a
vast, many-colored sea with uneven billows rising and falling until the
blue sky came down to meet them many miles away. More than once his
heart ached at the thought of the two thin ribs of steel creeping up
foot by foot and mile by mile from Edmonton, a hundred and fifty miles
away. It was, to him, a desecration, a crime against Nature, the murder
of his beloved wilderness. For in his soul that wilderness had grown to
be more than a thing of spruce and cedar and balsam, of poplar and
birch; more than a great, unused world of river and lake and swamp. It
was an individual, a thing. His love for it was greater than his love
for man. It was his inarticulate God. It held him as no religion in the
world could have held him, and deeper and deeper it had drawn him into
the soul of itself, delivering up to him one by one its guarded secrets
and its mysteries, opening for him page by page the book that was the
greatest of all books. And it was the wonder of it now, the fact that
it was near him, about him, embracing him, glowing for him in the
sunshine, whispering to him in the soft breath of the air, nodding and
talking to him from the crest of every ridge, that gave to him a
strange happiness even in these hours when he knew that he was dying.
And then his eyes fell nearer to the settlement which nestled along the
edge of the shining river a quarter of a mile away. That, too, had been
the wilderness, in the days before the railroad came. The poison of
speculation was stirring, but it had not yet destroyed. Athabasca
Landing was still the door that opened and closed on the great North.
Its buildings were scattered and few, and built of logs and rough
lumber. Even now he could hear the drowsy hum of the distant sawmill
that was lazily turning out its grist. Not far away the wind-worn flag
of the British Empire was floating over a Hudson Bay Company's post
that had bartered in the trades of the North for more than a hundred
years. Through that hundred years Athabasca Landing had pulsed with the
heart-beats of strong men bred to the wilderness. Through it, working
its way by river and dog sledge from the South, had gone the precious
freight for which the farther North gave in exchange its still more
precious furs. And today, as Kent looked down upon it, he saw that same
activity as it had existed through the years of a century. A brigade of
scows, laden to their gunwales, was just sweeping out into the river
and into its current. Kent had watched the loading of them; now he saw
them drifting lazily out from the shore, their long sweeps glinting in
the sun, their crews singing wildly and fiercely their beloved Chanson
des Voyageurs as their faces turned to the adventure of the North.
In Kent's throat rose a thing which he tried to choke back, but which
broke from his lips in a low cry, almost a sob. He heard the distant
singing, wild and free as the forests themselves, and he wanted to lean
out of his window and shout a last good-by. For the brigade--a Company
brigade, the brigade that had chanted its songs up and down the water
reaches of the land for more than two hundred and fifty years--was
starting north. And he knew where it was going--north, and still
farther north; a hundred miles, five hundred, a thousand--and then
another thousand before the last of the scows unburdened itself of its
precious freight. For the lean and brown-visaged men who went with them
there would be many months of clean living and joyous thrill under the
open skies. Overwhelmed by the yearning that swept over him, Kent
leaned back against his pillows and covered his eyes.
In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly the
things he was losing. Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and the
river brigade would still be sweeping on--on into the Grand Rapids of
the Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding valiantly the rocks
and rapids of the Grand Cascade, the whirlpools of the Devil's Mouth,
the thundering roar and boiling dragon teeth of the Black Run--on to
the end of the Athabasca, to the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, until
the last rock-blunted nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of the
Arctic Ocean. And he, James Kent, would be DEAD!
He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he
looked forth once more. There were sixteen scows in the brigade, and
the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand. He could fancy
Pierre's big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre's wife was
waiting for him a thousand miles away. The scows were caught steadily
now in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched them
go, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroaching
monsters of steel. Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, and
his soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent.
He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chanting
oarsmen were lost in the distance. Again he listened to the lazy hum of
the sawmill, and over his head he heard the velvety run of a red
squirrel and then its reckless chattering. The forests came back to
him. Across his cot fell a patch of golden sunlight. A stronger breath
of air came laden with the perfume of balsam and cedar through his
window, and when the door opened and Cardigan entered, he found the old
Kent facing him.
There was no change in Cardigan's voice or manner as he greeted him.
But there was a tenseness in his face which he could not conceal. He
had brought in Kent's pipe and tobacco. These he laid on a table until
he had placed his head close to Kent's hearty listening to what he
called the _bruit_--the rushing of blood through the aneurismal sac.
"Seems to me that I can hear it myself now and then," said Kent.
"Worse, isn't it?"
Cardigan nodded. "Smoking may hurry it up a bit," he said. "Still, if
you want to--"
Kent held out his hand for the pipe and tobacco. "It's worth it.
Thanks, old man."
Kent loaded the pipe, and Cardigan lighted a match. For the first time
in two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent's lips.
"The brigade is starting north," he said.
"Mostly Mackenzie River freight," replied Cardigan. "A long run."
"The finest in all the North. Three years ago O'Connor and I made it
with the Follette outfit. Remember Follette--and Ladouceur? They both
loved the same girl, and being good friends they decided to settle the
matter by a swim through the Death Chute. The man who came through
first was to have her. Gawd, Cardigan, what funny things happen!
Follette came out first, but he was dead. He'd brained himself on a
rock. And to this day Ladouceur hasn't married the girl, because he
says Follette beat him; and that Follette's something-or-other would
haunt him if he didn't play fair. It's a queer--"
He stopped and listened. In the hall was the approaching tread of
unmistakable feet.
"O'Connor," he said.
Cardigan went to the door and opened it as O'Connor was about to knock.
When the door closed again, the staff-sergeant was in the room alone
with Kent. In one of his big hands he clutched a box of cigars, and in
the other he held a bunch of vividly red fire-flowers.
"Father Layonne shoved these into my hands as I was coming up," he
explained, dropping them on the table. "And I--well--I'm breaking
regulations to come up an' tell you something, Jimmy. I never called
you a liar in my life, but I'm calling you one now!"
He was gripping Kent's hands in the fierce clasp of a friendship that
nothing could kill. Kent winced, but the pain of it was joy. He had
feared that O'Connor, like Kedsty, must of necessity turn against him.
Then he noticed something unusual in O'Connor's face and eyes. The
staff-sergeant was not easily excited, yet he was visibly disturbed now.
"I don't know what the others saw, when you were making that
confession, Kent. Mebby my eyesight was better because I spent a year
and a half with you on the trail. You were lying. What's your game, old
man?"
Kent groaned. "Have I got to go all over it again?" he appealed.
O'Connor began thumping back and forth over the floor. Kent had seen
him that way sometimes in camp when there were perplexing problems
ahead of them.
"You didn't kill John Barkley," he insisted. "I don't believe you did,
and Inspector Kedsty doesn't believe it--yet the mighty queer part of
it is--"
"What?"
"That Kedsty is acting on your confession in a big hurry. I don't
believe it's according to Hoyle, as the regulations are written. But
he's doing it. And I want to know--it's the biggest thing I EVER wanted
to know--did you kill Barkley?"
"O'Connor, if you don't believe a dying man's word--you haven't much
respect for death, have you?"
"That's the theory on which the law works, but sometimes it ain't
human. Confound it, man, _did you_?"
"Yes."
O'Connor sat down and with his finger-nails pried open the box of
cigars. "Mind if I smoke with you?" he asked. "I need it. I'm shot up
with unexpected things this morning. Do you care if I ask you about the
girl?"
"The girl!" exclaimed Kent. He sat up straighter, staring at O'Connor.
The staff-sergeant's eyes were on him with questioning steadiness. "I
see--you don't know her," he said, lighting his cigar. "Neither do I.
Never saw her before. That's why I am wondering about Inspector Kedsty.
I tell you, it's queer. He didn't believe you this morning, yet he was
all shot up. He wanted me to go with him to his house. The cords stood
out on his neck like that--like my little finger.
"Then suddenly he changed his mind and said we'd go to the office. That
took us along the road that runs through the poplar grove. It happened
there. I'm not much of a girl's man, Kent, and I'd be a fool to try to
tell you what she looked like. But there she was, standing in the path
not ten feet ahead of us, and she stopped me in my tracks as quick as
though she'd sent a shot into me. And she stopped Kedsty, too. I heard
him give a sort of grunt--a funny sound, as though some one had hit
him. I don't believe I could tell whether she had a dress on or not,
for I never saw anything like her face, and her eyes, and her hair, and
I stared at them like a thunder-struck fool. She didn't seem to notice
me any more than if I'd been thin air, a ghost she couldn't see.
"She looked straight at Kedsty, and she kept looking at him--and then
she passed us. Never said a word, mind you. She came so near I could
have touched her with my hand, and not until she was that close did she
take her eyes from Kedsty and look at me. And when she'd passed I
thought what a couple of cursed idiots we were, standing there
paralyzed, as if we'd never seen a beautiful girl before in our lives.
I went to remark that much to the Old Man when--"
O'Connor bit his cigar half in two as he leaned nearer to the cot.
"Kent, I swear that Kedsty was as white as chalk when I looked at him!
There wasn't a drop of blood left in his face, and he was staring
straight ahead, as though the girl still stood there, and he gave
another of those grunts--it wasn't a laugh--as if something was choking
him. And then he said:
"'Sergeant, I've forgotten something important. I must go back to see
Dr. Cardigan. You have my authority to give McTrigger his liberty at
once!'"
O'Connor paused, as if expecting some expression of disbelief from
Kent. When none came, he demanded,
"Was that according to the Criminal Code? Was it, Kent?"
"Not exactly. But, coming from the S.O.D., it was law."
"And I obeyed it," grunted the staff-sergeant. "And if you could have
seen McTrigger! When I told him he was free, and unlocked his cell, he
came out of it gropingly, like a blind man. And he would go no farther
than the Inspector's office. He said he would wait there for him."
"And Kedsty?"
O'Connor jumped from his chair and began thumping back and forth across
the room again. "Followed the girl," he exploded. "He couldn't have
done anything else. He lied to me about Cardigan. There wouldn't be
anything mysterious about it if he wasn't sixty and she less than
twenty. She was pretty enough! But it wasn't her beauty that made him
turn white there in the path. Not on your life it wasn't! I tell you he
aged ten years in as many seconds. There was something in that girl's
eyes more terrifying to him than a leveled gun, and after he'd looked
into them, his first thought was of McTrigger, the man you're saving
from the hangman. It's queer, Kent. The whole business is queer. And
the queerest of it all is your confession."
"Yes, it's all very funny," agreed Kent. "That's what I've been telling
myself right along, old man. You see, a little thing like a bullet
changed it all. For if the bullet hadn't got me, I assure you I
wouldn't have given Kedsty that confession, and an innocent man would
have been hanged. As it is, Kedsty is shocked, demoralized. I'm the
first man to soil the honor of the finest Service on the face of the
earth, and I'm in Kedsty's division. Quite natural that he should be
upset. And as for the girl--"
He shrugged his shoulders and tried to laugh. "Perhaps she came in this
morning with one of the up-river scows and was merely taking a little
constitutional," he suggested. "Didn't you ever notice, O'Connor, that
in a certain light under poplar trees one's face is sometimes ghastly?"
"Yes, I've noticed it, when the trees are in full leaf, but not when
they're just opening, Jimmy. It was the girl. Her eyes shattered every
nerve in him. And his first words were an order for me to free
McTrigger, coupled with the lie that he was coming back to see
Cardigan. And if you could have seen her eyes when she turned them on
me! They were blue--blue as violets--but shooting fire. I could imagine
black eyes like that, but not blue ones. Kedsty simply wilted in their
blaze. And there was a reason--I know it--a reason that sent his mind
like lightning to the man in the cell!"
"Now, that you leave me out of it, the thing begins to get
interesting," said Kent. "It's a matter of the relationship of this
blonde girl and--"
"She isn't blonde--and I'm not leaving you out of it," interrupted
O'Connor. "I never saw anything so black in my life as her hair. It was
magnificent. If you saw that girl once, you would never forget her
again as long as you lived. She has never been in Athabasca Landing
before, or anywhere near here. If she had, we surely would have heard
about her. She came for a purpose, and I believe that purpose was
accomplished when Kedsty gave me the order to free McTrigger."
"That's possible, and probable," agreed Kent. "I always said you were
the best clue-analyst in the force, Bucky. But I don't see where I come
in."
O'Connor smiled grimly. "You don't? Well, I may be both blind and a
fool, and perhaps a little excited. But it seemed to me that from the
moment Inspector Kedsty laid his eyes on that girl he was a little too
anxious to let McTrigger go and hang you in his place. A little too
anxious, Kent."
The irony of the thing brought a hard smile to Kent's lips as he nodded
for the cigars. "I'll try one of these on top of the pipe," he said,
nipping off the end of the cigar with his teeth. "And you forget that
I'm not going to hang, Bucky. Cardigan has given me until tomorrow
night. Perhaps until the next day. Did you see Rossand's fleet leaving
for up north? It made me think of three years ago!"
O'Connor was gripping his hand again. The coldness of it sent a chill
into the staff-sergeant's heart. He rose and looked through the upper
part of the window, so that the twitching in his throat was hidden from
Kent. Then he went to the door.
"I'll see you again tomorrow," he said. "And if I find out anything
more about the girl, I'll report."
He tried to laugh, but there was a tremble in his voice, a break in the
humor he attempted to force.
Kent listened to the tramp of his heavy feet as they went down the hall.