Again the world came back to Kent, the world that lay just beyond his
open window. But scarcely had O'Connor gone when it began to change,
and in spite of his determination to keep hold of his nerve Kent felt
creeping up with that change a thing that was oppressive and
smothering. Swiftly the distant billowings of the forests were changing
their tones and colors under the darkening approach of storm. The
laughter of the hills and ridges went out. The shimmer of spruce and
cedar and balsam turned to a somber black. The flashing gold and silver
of birch and poplar dissolved into a ghostly and unanimated gray that
was almost invisible. A deepening and somber gloom spread itself like a
veil over the river that only a short time before had reflected the
glory of the sun in the faces of dark-visaged men of the Company
brigade. And with the gloom came steadily nearer a low rumbling of
thunder.
For the first time since the mental excitement of his confession Kent
felt upon him an appalling loneliness. He still was not afraid of
death, but a part of his philosophy was gone. It was, after all, a
difficult thing to die alone. He felt that the pressure in his chest
was perceptible greater than it had been an hour or two before, and the
thought grew upon him that it would be a terrible thing for the
"explosion" to come when the sun was not shining. He wanted O'Connor
back again. He had the desire to call out for Cardigan. He would have
welcomed Father Layonne with a glad cry. Yet more than all else would
he have had at his side in these moments of distress a woman. For the
storm, as it massed heavier and nearer, filling the earth with its
desolation, bridged vast spaces for him, and he found himself suddenly
face to face with the might-have-beens of yesterday.
He saw, as he had never guessed before, the immeasurable gulf between
helplessness and the wild, brute freedom of man, and his soul cried
out--not for adventure, not for the savage strength of life--but for
the presence of a creature frailer than himself, yet in the gentle
touch of whose hand lay the might of all humanity.
He struggled with himself. He remembered that Dr. Cardigan had told him
there would be moments of deep depression, and he tried to fight
himself out of the grip of this that was on him. There was a bell at
hand, but he refused to use it, for he sensed his own cowardice. His
cigar had gone out, and he relighted it. He made an effort to bring his
mind back to O'Connor, and the mystery girl, and Kedsty. He tried to
visualize McTrigger, the man he had saved from the hangman, waiting for
Kedsty in the office at barracks. He pictured the girl, as O'Connor had
described her, with her black hair and blue eyes--and then the storm
broke.
The rain came down in a deluge, and scarcely had it struck when the
door opened and Cardigan hurried in to close the window. He remained
for half an hour, and after that young Mercer, one of his two
assistants, came in at intervals. Late in the afternoon it began to
clear up, and Father Layonne returned with papers properly made out for
Kent's signature. He was with Kent until sundown, when Mercer came in
with supper.
Between that hour and ten o'clock Kent observed a vigilance on the part
of Dr. Cardigan which struck him as being unusual. Four times he
listened with the stethoscope at his chest, but when Kent asked the
question which was in his mind, Cardigan shook his head.
"It's no worse, Kent. I don't think it will happen tonight."
In spite of this assurance Kent was positive there was in Cardigan's
manner an anxiety of a different quality than he had perceived earlier
in the day. The thought was a definite and convincing one. He believed
that Cardigan was smoothing the way with a professional lie.
He had no desire to sleep. His light was turned low, and his window was
open again, for the night had cleared. Never had air tasted sweeter to
him than that which came in through his window. The little bell in his
watch tinkled the hour of eleven, when he heard Cardigan's door close
for a last time across the hall. After that everything was quiet. He
drew himself nearer to the window, so that by leaning forward he could
rest himself partly on the sill. He loved the night. The mystery and
lure of those still hours of darkness when the world slept had never
ceased to hold their fascination for him. Night and he were friends. He
had discovered many of its secrets. A thousand times he had walked hand
in hand with the spirit of it, approaching each time a little nearer to
the heart of it, mastering its life, its sound, the whispering
languages of that "other side of life" which rises quietly and as if in
fear to live and breathe long after the sun has gone out. To him it was
more wonderful than day.
And this night that lay outside his window now was magnificent. Storm
had washed the atmosphere between earth and sky, and it seemed as
though the stars had descended nearer to his forests, shining in golden
constellations. The moon was coming up late, and he watched the ruddy
glow of it as it rode up over the wilderness, a splendid queen entering
upon a stage already prepared by the lesser satellites for her coming.
No longer was Kent oppressed or afraid. In still deeper inhalations he
drank the night air into his lungs, and in him there seemed to grow
slowly a new strength. His eyes and ears were wide open and attentive.
The town was asleep, but a few lights burned dimly here and there along
the river's edge, and occasionally a lazy sound came up to him--the
clink of a scow chain, the bark of a dog, the rooster crowing. In spite
of himself he smiled at that. Old Duperow's rooster was a foolish bird
and always crowed himself hoarse when the moon was bright. And in front
of him, not far away, were two white, lightning-shriven spruce stubs
standing like ghosts in the night. In one of these a pair of owls had
nested, and Kent listened to the queer, chuckling notes of their
honeymooning and the flutter of their wings as they darted out now and
then in play close to his window. And then suddenly he heard the sharp
snap of their beaks. An enemy was prowling near, and the owls were
giving warning. He thought he heard a step. In another moment or two
the step was unmistakable. Some one was approaching his window from the
end of the building. He leaned over the sill and found himself staring
into O'Connor's face.
"These confounded feet of mine!" grunted the staff-sergeant. "Were you
asleep, Kent?"
"Wide-awake as those owls," assured Kent.
O'Connor drew up to the window. "I saw your light and thought you were
awake," he said. "I wanted to make sure Cardigan wasn't with you. I
don't want him to know I am here. And--if you don't mind--will you turn
off the light? Kedsty is awake, too--as wide-awake as the owls."
Kent reached out a hand, and his room was in darkness except for the
glow of moon and stars. O'Connor's bulk at the window shut out a part
of this. His face was half in gloom.
"It's a crime to come to you like this, Kent," he said, keeping his big
voice down to a whisper. "But I had to. It's my last chance. And I know
there's something wrong. Kedsty is getting me out of the way--because I
was with him when he met the girl over in the poplar bush. I'm detailed
on special duty up at Fort Simpson, two thousand miles by water if it's
a foot! It means six months or a year. We leave in the motor boat at
dawn to overtake Rossand and his outfit, so I had to take this chance
of seeing you. I hesitated until I knew that some one was awake in your
room."
"I'm glad you came," said Kent warmly. "And--good God, how I would like
to go with you, Bucky! If it wasn't for this thing in my chest,
ballooning up for an explosion--"
"I wouldn't be going," interrupted O'Connor in a low voice. "If you
were on your feet, Kent, there are a number of things that wouldn't be
happening. Something mighty queer has come over Kedsty since this
morning. He isn't the Kedsty you knew yesterday or for the last ten
years. He's nervous, and I miss my guess if he isn't constantly on the
watch for some one. And he's afraid of me. I know it. He's afraid of me
because I saw him go to pieces when he met that girl. Fort Simpson is
simply a frame-up to get me away for a time. He tried to smooth the
edge off the thing by promising me an inspectorship within the year.
That was this afternoon, just before the storm. Since then--"
O'Connor turned and faced the moonlight for a moment.
"Since then I've been on a still-hunt for the girl and Sandy
McTrigger," he added. "And they've disappeared, Kent. I guess McTrigger
just melted away into the woods. But it's the girl that puzzles me.
I've questioned every scow cheman at the Landing. I've investigated
every place where she might have got food or lodging, and I bribed
Mooie, the old trailer, to search the near-by timber. The unbelievable
part of it isn't her disappearance. It's the fact that not a soul in
Athabasca Landing has seen her! Sounds incredible, doesn't it? And
then, Kent, the big hunch came to me. Remember how we've always played
up to the big hunch? And this one struck me strong. I think I know
where the girl is."
Kent, forgetful of his own impending doom, was deeply interested in the
thrill of O'Connor's mystery. He had begun to visualize the situation.
More than once they had worked out enigmas of this kind together, and
the staff-sergeant saw the old, eager glow in his eyes. And Kent
chuckled joyously in that thrill of the game of man-hunting, and said:
"Kedsty is a bachelor and doesn't even so much as look at a woman. But
he likes home life--"
"And has built himself a log bungalow somewhat removed from the town,"
added O'Connor.
"And his Chinaman cook and housekeeper is away."
"And the bungalow is closed, or supposed to be."
"Except at night, when Kedsty goes there to sleep."
O'Connor's hand gripped Kent's. "Jimmy, there never was a team in N
Division that could beat us, The girl is hiding at Kedsty's place!"
"But why HIDING?" insisted Kent. "She hasn't committed a crime."
O'Connor sat silent for a moment. Kent could hear him stuffing the bowl
of his pipe.
"It's simply the big hunch," he grunted. "It's got hold of me, Kent,
and I can't throw it off. Why, man--"
He lighted a match in the cup of his hands, and Kent saw his face.
There was more than uncertainty in the hard, set lines of it.
"You see, I went back to the poplars again after I left you today,"
O'Connor went on. "I found her footprints. She had turned off the
trail, and in places they were very clear.
"She had on high-heeled shoes, Kent--those Frenchy things--and I swear
her feet can't be much bigger than a baby's! I found where Kedsty
caught up with her, and the moss was pretty well beaten down. He
returned through the poplars, but the girl went on and into the edge of
the spruce. I lost her trail there. By traveling in that timber it was
possible for her to reach Kedsty's bungalow without being seen. It must
have been difficult going, with shoes half as big as my hand and heels
two inches high! And I've been wondering, why didn't she wear
bush-country shoes or moccasins?"
"Because she came from the South and not the North," suggested Kent.
"Probably up from Edmonton."
"Exactly. And Kedsty wasn't expecting her, was he? If he had been, that
first sight of her wouldn't have shattered every nerve in his body.
That's why the big hunch won't let loose of me, Kent. From the moment
he saw her, he was a different man. His attitude toward you changed
instantly. If he could save you now by raising his little finger, he
wouldn't do it, simply because it's absolutely necessary for him to
have an excuse for freeing McTrigger. Your confession came at just the
psychological moment. The girl's unspoken demand there in the poplars
was that he free McTrigger, and it was backed up by a threat which
Kedsty understood and which terrified him to his marrow. McTrigger must
have seen him afterward, for he waited at the office until Kedsty came.
I don't know what passed between them. Constable Doyle says they were
together for half an hour. Then McTrigger walked out of barracks, and
no one has seen him since. It's mighty queer. The whole thing is queer.
And the queerest part of the whole business is this sudden commission
of mine at Fort Simpson."
Kent leaned back against his pillows. His breath came in a series of
short, hacking coughs. In the star glow O'Connor saw his face grow
suddenly haggard and tired-looking, and he leaned far in so that in
both his own hands he held one of Kent's.
"I'm tiring you, Jimmy," he said huskily. "Good-by, old pal! I--I--" He
hesitated and then lied steadily. "I'm going up to take a look around
Kedsty's place. I won't be gone more than half an hour and will stop on
my way back. If you're asleep--"
"I won't be asleep," said Kent.
O'Connor's hands gripped closer. "Good-by, Jimmy."
"Good-by." And then, as O'Connor stepped back into the night, Kent's
voice called after him softly: "I'll be with you on the long trip,
Bucky. Take care of yourself--always."
O'Connor's answer was a sob, a sob that rose in his throat like a great
fist, and choked him, and filled his eyes with scalding tears that shut
out the glow of moon and stars. And he did not go toward Kedsty's, but
trudged heavily in the direction of the river, for he knew that Kent
had called his lie, and that they had said their last farewell.