It was that hour when, with clear skies, the gray northern dawn would
have been breaking faintly over the eastern forests. Kent found the
darkness more fog-like; about him was a grayer, ghostlier sort of
gloom. But he could not see the water under his feet. Nor could he see
the rail of the scow, or the river. From the stern, ten feet from the
cabin door, the cabin itself was swallowed up and invisible.
With the steady, swinging motion of the riverman he began bailing. So
regular became his movements that they ran in a sort of rhythmic
accompaniment to his thoughts. The monotonous _splash, splash, splash_ of
the outflung pails of water assumed, after a few minutes, the character
of a mechanical thing. He could smell the nearness of the shore. Even
in the rain the tang of cedar and balsam came to him faintly.
But it was the river that impressed itself most upon his senses. It
seemed to him, as the minutes passed, like a living thing. He could
hear it gurgling and playing under the end of the scow. And with that
sound there was another and more indescribable thing, the tremble of
it, the pulse of it, the thrill of it in the impenetrable gloom, the
life of it as it swept on in a slow and mighty flood between its
wilderness walls. Kent had always said, "You can hear the river's heart
beat--if you know how to listen for it." And he heard it now. He felt
it. The rain could not beat it out, nor could the splash of the water
he was throwing overboard drown it, and the darkness could not hide it
from the vision that was burning like a living coal within him. Always
it was the river that had given him consolation in times of loneliness.
For him it had grown into a thing with a soul, a thing that personified
hope, courage, comradeship, everything that was big and great in final
achievement. And tonight--for he still thought of the darkness as
night--the soul of it seemed whispering to him a sort of paean.
He could not lose. That was the thought that filled him. Never had his
pulse beat with greater assurance, never had a more positive sense of
the inevitable possessed him. It was inconceivable, he thought, even to
fear the possibility of being taken by the Police. He was more than a
man fighting for his freedom alone, more than an individual struggling
for the right to exist. A thing vastly more priceless than either
freedom or life, if they were to be accepted alone, waited for him in
the little cabin, shut in by its sea of darkness. And ahead of them lay
their world. He emphasized that. _Their_ world--the world which, in an
illusive and unreal sort of way, had been a part of his dreams all his
life. In that world they would shut themselves in. No one would ever
find them. And the glory of the sun and the stars and God's open
country would be with them always.
Marette was the very heart of that reality which impinged itself upon
him now. He did not worry about what it was she would tell him
tomorrow, or day after tomorrow. He believed that it was then--when she
had told him what there was to tell, and he still reached, out his arms
to her--that she would come into those arms. And he knew that nothing
that might have happened in Kedsty's room would keep his arms from
reaching, to her. Such was his faith, potent as the mighty flood hidden
in the gray-ghost gloom of approaching dawn.
Yet he did not expect to win easily. As he worked, his mind swept up
and down the Three Rivers from the Landing to Fort Simpson, and
mentally he pictured the situations that might arise, and how he would
triumph over them. He figured that the men at Barracks would not enter
Kedsty's bungalow until noon at the earliest. The Police gasoline
launch would probably set out on a river search soon after. By
mid-afternoon the scow would have a fifty-mile start.
Before darkness came again they would be through the Death Chute, where
Follette and Ladouceur swam their mad race for the love of a girl. And
not many miles below the Chute was a swampy country where he could hide
the scow. Then they would start overland, west and north. Given until
another sunset, and they would be safe. This was what he expected. But
if it came to fighting--he would fight.
The rain had slackened to a thin drizzle by the time he finished his
bailing. The aroma of cedar and balsam came to him more clearly, and he
heard more distinctly the murmuring surge of the river. He tapped again
at the door of the cabin, and Marette answered him.
The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals when he entered.
Again he fell on his knees, and took off his dripping slicker.
The girl greeted him from the berth. "You look like a great bear,
Jeems." There was a glad, welcoming note in her voice.
He laughed, and drew the stool beside her, and managed to sit on it,
the roof compelling him to bend his head over a little. "I feel like an
elephant in a birdcage," he replied. "Are you comfortable, little Gray
Goose?"
"Yes. But you, Jeems? You are wet!"
"But so happy that I don't feel it, Gray Goose."
He could make her out only dimly there in the darkness of the berth.
Her face was a pale shadow, and she had loosened her damp hair so that
the warmth and dry air might reach it more easily. Kent wondered if she
could hear the beating of his heart. He forgot the fire, and the
darkness grew thicker. He could no longer see the pale outline of her
face, and he drew back a little, possessed by the thought that it was
sacrilegious to bend nearer to her, like a thief, in that gloom. She
sensed his movement, and her hand reached to him and lay lightly with
its fingertips touching his arm.
"Jeems," she said softly. "I'm not sorry--now--that I came up to
Cardigan's place that day--when you thought you were dying. I wasn't
wrong. You are different. And I made fun of you then, and laughed at
you, because I knew that you were not going to die. Will you forgive
me?"
He laughed happily. "It's funny how little things work out, sometimes,"
he said. "Wasn't a kingdom lost once upon a time because some fellow
didn't have a horseshoe? Anyway, I knew of a man whose life was saved
because of a broken pipe-stem. And you came to me, and I'm here with
you now, because--"
"Of what?" she whispered.
"Because of something that happened a long time ago," he said.
"Something you wouldn't dream could have anything to do with you or
with me. Shall I tell you about it, Marette?"
Her fingers pressed slightly upon his arm. "Yes."
"Of course, it's a story of the Police," he began. "And I won't mention
this fellow's name. You may think of him as that red-headed O'Connor,
if you want to. But I don't say that it was he. He was a constable in
the Service and had been away North looking up some Indians who were
brewing an intoxicating liquor from roots. That was six years ago. And
he caught something. Le Mort Rouge, we sometimes call it--the Red
Death--or smallpox. And he was alone when the fever knocked him down,
three hundred miles from anywhere. His Indian ran away at the first
sign of it, and he had just time to get up his tent before he was flat
on his back. I won't try to tell you of the days he went through. It
was a living death. And he would have died, there is no doubt of it, if
it hadn't been for a stranger who came along. He was a white man.
Marette, it doesn't take a great deal of nerve to go up against a man
with a gun, when you've got a gun of your own; and it doesn't take such
a lot of nerve to go into battle when a thousand others are going with
you. But it does take nerve to face what that stranger faced. And the
sick man was nothing to him. He went into that tent and nursed the
other back to life. Then the sickness got him, and for ten weeks those
two were together, each fighting to save the other's life, and they won
out. But the glory of it was with the stranger. He was going west. The
constable was going south. They shook hands and parted."
Marette's fingers tightened on Kent's arm. And Kent went on.
"And the constable never forgot, Gray Goose. He wanted the day to come
when he might repay. And the time came. It was years later, and it
worked out in a curious way. A man was murdered. And the constable, who
had become a sergeant now, had talked with the dead man only a little
while before he was killed. Returning for something he had forgotten,
it was the sergeant who found him dead. Very shortly afterward a man
was arrested. There was blood on his clothing. The evidence was
convincing, deadly. And this man--"
Kent paused, and in the darkness Marette's hand crept down his arm to
his hand, and her fingers closed round it.
"Was the man you lied to save," she whispered.
"Yes. When the halfbreed's bullet got me, I thought it was a good
chance to repay Sandy McTrigger for what he did for me in that tent
years before. But it wasn't heroic. It wasn't even brave. I thought I
was going to die and that I was risking nothing."
And then there came a soft, joyous little laugh from where her head lay
on the pillow. "And all the time you were lying so splendidly, Jeems--I
KNEW," she cried. "I knew that you didn't kill Barkley, and I knew that
you weren't going to die, and I knew what happened in that tent ten
years ago. And--Jeems--Jeems--"
She raised herself from the pillow. Her breath was coming a little
excitedly. Both her hands, instead of one, were gripping his hand now.
"I knew that you didn't kill John Barkley," she repeated. "And--_Sandy
McTrigger didn't kill him_!"
"But--"
"He _didn't_," she interrupted him, almost fiercely. "He was innocent, as
innocent as you were. Jeems--I Jeems--I know who killed Barkley. Oh, I
_know_--I _know_!"
A choking sob came into her throat, and then she added, in a voice
which she was straining to make calm, "Don't think that I haven't faith
in you because I can't tell you more now, Jeems," she said. "You will
understand--quite soon. When we are safe from the Police, I shall tell
you. I shall keep nothing from you then. I shall tell you about
Barkley, and Kedsty--everything. But I can't now. It won't be long.
When you tell me we are safe, I shall believe you. And then--" She
withdrew her hands from his and dropped back on her pillow.
"And then--what?" he asked, leaning far over.
"You may not like me, Jeems."
"I love you," he whispered. "Nothing in the world can stop my loving
you."
"Even if I tell you--soon--that I killed Barkley?"
"No. You would be lying."
"Or--if I told you--that I--killed--Kedsty?"
"No matter what you said, or what proof there might be back there, I
would not believe you."
She was silent. And then, "Jeems--"
"Yes, Niska, Little Goddess--?"
"I'm going to tell you something--now!"
He waited.
"It is going to--shock you--Jeems."
He felt her arms reaching up. Her two hands touched his shoulders.
"Are you listening?"
"Yes, I am listening."
"Because I'm not going to say it very loud." And then she whispered,
"Jeems--_I love you_!"