A NOTE AND ITS ANSWER
Ten minutes later, a man approached Seguis.
"We've found the provisions under a tent near the other cabin,"
he said.
"Quick, then!" the half-breed snapped. "Get them out as soon as
you can. If we can get away without being seen, so much the better."
But in this, Seguis had counted without Buxton. Because of the
passive actions of the two men upon his appearance the half-breed
considered them cowards, and, after disarming them, had kept a
careless watch over their movements, though always holding them in
sight. In relieving them of rifles and revolvers, he thought he
had silenced them, but Buxton was provided against just such an
emergency. Beneath his outer garments, he wore a second belt,
which permitted the suspension of a revolver in such a position
that it could be neither seen nor felt in a hasty examination. Now,
when the opportunity offered, he secured this weapon, and fired
rapidly a number of times into the air.
Almost immediately tent doors were opened, and men, carrying weapons,
burst out, bewildered, but aware of danger from the signal. By
previous arrangement, they gathered around the factor's cabin,
where Buxton had already taken his stand. In a moment, he had told
them what had happened, and then the factor himself appeared. In
the three weeks that had elapsed, he had recovered sufficiently to
leave his bed, and his shoulder was almost healed. Now, he took
command. In the meantime, Seguis's men, having secured a goodly
supply of provisions, were making all speed into the forest.
Fitzpatrick, dazed at the audacity of the free-traders, gave vent
to an explosion of fury.
"Fire!" he commanded gratingly. "Kill every one of 'em. Fire!" And
the leveled rifles of almost fifty men spoke with unerring aim.
Three of those last to leave the camp fell, but the others, now in
the protection of the forest, fled away on their snow-shoes at top
speed.
"After 'em!" snarled Fitzpatrick. "Don't let one of 'em get away.
We'll end this matter here."
Instantly there was a rush for tents and belongings, for none of
the men had had the opportunity to slip on snowshoes. Fifteen
minutes later, the pursuers struck out, led by the aged factor,
whose rage seemed to lend him almost superhuman strength. In vain,
Jean had besought him to stay in camp, saying that the others would
do just as well without him. At last, he had promised reluctantly
to return in an hour. Two men who had been wounded previously were
ordered to remain, and to put the storehouse in order.
When Charley Seguis heard the pistol of Buxton give warning, his
first impulse was to turn upon the man, and shoot him dead. But
his second--and Seguis usually listened to the second--was to get
away peaceably with all the provisions possible. Consequently,
his order rang out short and sharp, and was obeyed, for it was the
principle of the free-traders to strike no blow except in defense.
In his mind's eye, the intelligent half-breed reviewed the scene
that must shortly ensue. After that first volley, he could picture
the pursuers in their rush for equipment, the hasty start, and the
deserted camp. Seguis had come hither for two purposes--to secure
food, and to see Jean Fitzpatrick. He had accomplished the first;
now to accomplish the second. Putting one of his trusted men in
charge of the party, with directions to head for Sturgeon Lake,
and explaining he was going to reconnoiter a little, Seguis struck
sharply to the right, and began a long, circular detour. Half an
hour brought him to a spot behind the Hudson Bay camp, where a
considerable hill, with a few scattered trees, sheltered it from
the northern storm blasts. Cautiously, and without a sound, Seguis
climbed this hill, dodging from tree to tree. At last, he reached
the summit, and, lying down on his stomach, peered over... His
heart stood still. Not twenty yards away from him, slightly down
the declivity, stood Jean Fitzpatrick. Her back was to him, and
her eyes were glued to a pair of field-glasses. Evidently, she was
trying to discern signs of the pursuit in a clear space several
miles away.
Seguis looked beyond her interestedly. There was not a sign of life
in the camp. The men who had stayed behind to right the storehouse
were now in the woods, picking up any supplies that might have been
dropped. Fortune had again favored him. Very cautiously, he stood
upright, then slowly advanced. So intent was the girl upon the
pursuit that she did not hear the delicate crunching of the
snow-shoes. When ten feet away, he drew himself to his full height,
and spoke her name, softly:
"Miss Jean."
She whirled upon him swiftly, and shrank back Into herself, as
though he had aimed a blow at her. He, on his part, could hardly
believe his eyes when he looked into her face. This was not the
happy, care-free, girlish Jean Fitzpatrick, who had laughed her
way through the brief summer months. He saw, now, the face of a
woman, who had learned much and suffered much. There were gravity
in the eyes and a seriousness across the brow that served as the
badges of this new realization; but there was no fear. After the
first shrinking of surprise, she looked him coldly up and down.
"What do you want?" she said.
"To speak with you."
"Did you come for that purpose especially?"
"Yes." Seguis smiled a little, with satisfaction. In searching
Timmins, he had found a letter addressed to Jean, in McTavish's
handwriting. He might have to use it, and he might not.
"Keep your distance, sir," the girl commanded, haughtily, "and we
will talk. If you make a step nearer to me than you are now, I'll
scream, and those men in the woods will hear me. And, if they hear
me, and learn the trouble, it will go hard with you. Now, what do
you want?"
Seguis had expected to find a fluttering, fearful youngling, somewhat
impressed with his graces and courage. This businesslike disposal
of his case caused his active mind to change its tack, as soon as
it sensed the veer of the wind.
"I am here," he said, "to present my compliments to you, along with
those of a certain other man."
"Whom do you mean?" Jean's voice was now a little tremulous, despite
her discipline of it.
"Captain McTavish."
"Oh!" she said, and she was silent for a moment, collecting herself.
"But why do you, of all people, come with this message?" she added.
"No reason at all, except that I saved his life this morning, and
thought you might want to learn the facts, and perhaps an inkling
of his whereabouts."
"Was that really your reason?" she asked, more kindly.
"It was one of them," he answered, significantly.
It was now Jean's turn to look at her companion with some interest.
He spoke with a certain dignity and reserve that she had never
noticed in him before. His eyes were firm and steady when they
met hers; his bearing was courteous. With a sort of horrible
pleasure, she recognized that this was Donald's half-brother, and
looked for a family resemblance. She found a very strong one, in
the eyes and general stature. Mercifully for her feelings, the
shape of the head was hidden in the swathed _capote_ and fur cap.
She wondered vaguely if he knew of the relationship.
"Where is--Captain McTavish?" she asked, finally.
"On his way to Sturgeon Lake."
"Did he leave any message for me?"
"A letter that I have in my pocket."
"May I see it?" she asked eagerly, involuntarily stretching forth
her hand.
"How can I hand it to you, if I have to keep this distance?" Seguis
asked, quizzically, and met her stare with humorous eyes.
"I'll come and get it," she announced, "when you have it in your
hand, ready for me to take."
"You haven't thanked me yet for saving his life," the half-breed
reminded her. "If it hadn't been for me, he would now be--"
"Don't!" she cried sharply, going pale of a sudden. "Don't ever
make any reference to that!" She paused, then added: "I can't thank
you enough though, Seguis, for the fact that you saved his life.
Why did you do it?"
"I'll tell you later," was the non-committal reply. "In the
meantime, here is your letter." He reached inside his shirt, and
drew forth a dirty envelope, on which the girl's name was inscribed
in pencil. He held it toward her without a word, and the girl
clutched at it eagerly.
"Just a moment," he said, withholding it. "You must read it here
and now. I want to take it away with me. I must ask your promise
in this matter."
"Why?"
"You will learn that later, too. Will you promise?"
For a minute, the girl struggled, and then love won. Better to read
the bitter parting message and lose it than not see it at all.
"Yes, I promise," she said, quietly; and he immediately put the
envelope in her hands.
Her trembling fingers picked at the flap as she turned away.
"You will pardon me?" she announced rather than asked, turning her
back upon him. No living being must see her expression as these
last words met her eye.
"Certainly."
With seeming nonchalance, Seguis filled his pipe from a skin
tobacco-pouch, and began to smoke. The men gathering up scattered
stores at the edge of the woods below moved slowly and painfully
because of their wounds, he noticed. A snow-bunting chirped from
a drift near by, and faintly to his ears from the deeper woods came
the chattering scold of a whiskey-jack, or jay. He noticed these
things during the first few whiffs. Then, he looked once again at
Jean. Her back was still turned, but presently she faced him slowly,
her cheeks flushed, and her blue eyes starry bright, though wet.
He appeared unconscious of her emotion, a thing for which she
mentally thanked him. In fact, she found him less offensive every
moment. He was different from any half-breed she had ever known,
but he was only less offensive than others. He could never be
anything better.
"Now, tell me why you want this letter back?" she asked, clinging
to it desperately, as though it were her lover's hand.
"I want to take it to Captain McTavish, but I want you to write
something on it first. You will pardon me if I ask if that was not
a letter of farewell?"
"It was."
"Have you a pencil with you?"
"Not here, but there is one in the cabin, among my father's journals.
Shall I get it?" Then she bit her lip with vexation. Instead of
dominating this interview, as she had intended, she was submitting
herself to the plans of the half-breed.
"I must ask for the letter while you are gone."
After a moment's thought Jean handed it to him, with a promise to
return without warning the men at the edge of the woods. A certain
curiosity to see this mysterious happening to its conclusion stirred
within her. Now that Donald had escaped the shadow of death that had
been hovering over him, her spirits rose buoyantly, and she was anxious
to further anything that concerned him. She returned presently with
the pencil, and asked Seguis what he wished her to do.
"Write him a note of farewell," came the stolid command. "It will
be the last message he will ever receive from you."
Instantly her color fled; fear filled her eyes.
"What do you mean? You're not going to kill him?" she burst out.
"No. He is going to leave the country forever."
"Did he tell you so?" she asked.
"No. But I want you to tell him so, in your own handwriting. It is
the only thing that will save him. He'll obey you. I'll see that
he gets a safe-conduct to the edge of the district. If you don't
do this, I can't answer for what'll happen to him."
"Then you will kill him!" she flashed. "I knew it. Look here,
Seguis! What's your object in this? You have a motive, and I demand
to know what it is."
For an instant, the passion of the man leaped to his lips, and
trembled there in hot words. But he crushed it down resolutely. He
was too wise to ruin his plans now. Later, in a year, in two years,
five years perhaps, when the memory of McTavish had dimmed, he
would speak. But, now, he must not betray himself.
"I sha'n't kill him," he returned, calmly. "Nothing is further
from my mind. But I won't be responsible for what happens to him.
There's only one way of saving his life--to send him out of the
country. If he stays, he'll eventually be captured, and what nearly
happened to-day will happen then. You wish him to live, don't you?
"Yes, yes," she muttered, between dry lips. "Whatever happens to
me, he must live."
"Then, write as I suggest. Make it a command, not an entreaty.
He'll obey you, and his life will be saved."
For a few moments, Jean paused, irresolute, and then, with difficulty,
started the message on the back of the pages McTavish had sent to
her. There was no struggle now against the inevitable; that had
been endured before. This was merely writing a different final
chapter to their romance, and she felt glad of the opportunity to
give him life, although life without her and without honor were an
empty thing to him. Strong in the feeling that upon her words his
very existence depended, she made them eager and hopeful, but
imperative, appealing to those instincts in him that could not
resist her desire. For perhaps ten minutes, she wrote, and then
handed the paper to Seguis.
"I must read it," he said, and, at her nod of acquiescence, puzzled
out the words that emotion and her awkward position had made unsteady
and misshapen. Then, he nodded his head with satisfaction, and
tucked the letter away.
"Seguis," said the girl, when he prepared to go, "what is your
motive in doing this? You haven't answered my question."
"My motive and my desire in this matter," he replied feelingly,
"is to secure your own happiness; nothing else." With that, he
turned away, and coasted swiftly down the hill to the edge of the
forest whence he had come.
"My own happiness!" repeated the girl to herself, as she saw him
disappear. "How strange a thing for him to say! And, yet, if only
Donald is alive and safe I shall be happy--in knowing that he can
still think of me."
Five minutes later, a wind-driven snow-storm that had threatened
all the morning broke with terrible fury, and, scarcely able to
stand against the blast, she made her way down to the deserted
cabin, just as the returning factor appeared at the edge of the
woods.