In that moment Kent did not speak. He made no sound. He gave no sign of
welcome, but stood in the middle of his cell, staring. If life had hung
upon speech in those few seconds, he would have died, but everything he
would have said, and more, was in his face. The girl must have seen it.
With her two hands she was gripping at the bars of the cell and looking
through at him. Kent saw that her face was pale in the lamp glow. In
that pallor her violet eyes were like pools of black. The hood of her
dripping raincoat was thrown partly back, and against the whiteness of
her cheeks her hair glistened wet, and her long lashes were heavy with
the rain.
Kent, without moving over the narrow space between them, reached out
his hands and found his voice. "Marette!"
Her hands had tightened about the bars until they were bloodless. Her
lips were parted. She was breathing quickly, but she did not smile; she
made no response to his greeting, gave no sign even of recognition.
What happened after that was so sudden and amazing that his heart
stopped dead still. Without warning she stepped back from the cell and
began to scream and then drew away from him, still facing him and still
screaming, as if something had terrified her.
Kent heard the crash of a chair in the detachment office, excited
voices, and the running of feet. Marette Radisson had withdrawn to the
far corner of the alcove, and as Carter and Pelly ran toward her, she
stood, a picture of horror, pointing at Kent's cell. The two constables
rushed past her. Close behind them followed the special officer
detailed to take Kent to Edmonton.
Kent had not moved. He was like one petrified. Close up against the
bars came the faces of Pelly, Carter, and the special constable, filled
with the expressions of men who had expected to look in upon tragedy.
And then, behind their backs, Kent saw the other thing happen. Swift as
a flash Marette Radisson's hand went in and out of her raincoat, and at
the backs of the three men she was leveling a revolver! Not only did
Kent see that swift change, but the still swifter change that came into
her face. Her eyes shot to his just once, and they were filled with a
laughing, exultant fire. With one mighty throb Kent's heart seemed to
leap out through the bars of his prison, and at the look in his face
and eyes Carter swung suddenly around.
"Please don't make any disturbance, gentlemen," said Marette Radisson.
"The first man that makes a suspicious move, I shall kill!"
Her voice was calm and thrilling. It had a deadly ring in it. The
revolver in her hand was held steadily. It was a slim-barreled, black
thing. The very color of it was menacing. And behind it were the girl's
eyes, pools of flame. The three men were facing them now, shocked to
speechlessness. Automatically they seemed to obey her command to throw
up their hands. Then she leveled her grim little gun straight at
Pelly's heart.
"You have the key," she said. "Unlock the cell!" Felly fumbled and
produced the key. She watched him closely. Then suddenly the special
constable dropped his arms with a coarse laugh. "A pretty trick," he
said, "but the bluff won't work!"
"Oh, but it will!" came the reply.
The little black gun was shifted to him, even as the constable's
fingers touched his revolver holster. With half-smiling lips, Marette's
eyes blazed at him.
"Please put up your hands," she commanded.
The constable hesitated; then his fingers gripped the butt of his gun.
Kent, holding his breath, saw the almost imperceptible tensing of
Marette's body and the wavering of Pelly's arms over his head. Another
moment and he, too, would have called the bluff if it were that. But
that moment did not come. From the slim, black barrel of the girl's
revolver leaped forth a sudden spurt of smoke and flame, and the
special constable lurched back against the cell bars, caught himself as
he half fell, and then stood with his pistol arm hanging limp and
useless at his side. He had not made a sound, but his face was twisted
in pain.
"Open the cell door!"
A second time the deadly-looking little gun was pointed straight at
Pelly's heart. The half-smile was gone from the girl's lips now. Her
eyes blazed a deeper fire. She was breathing quickly, and she leaned a
little toward Pelly, repeating her command. The words were partly
drowned in a sudden crash of thunder. But Pelly understood. He saw her
lips form the words, and half heard,
"Open the door, or I shall kill you!"
He no longer hesitated. The key grated in the lock, and Kent himself
flung the door wide open and sprang out. He was quick to see and seize
upon opportunity and swift to act. The astounding audacity of the
girl's ruse, her clever acting in feigning horror to line the guards up
at the cell door and the thrilling decisiveness with which she had used
the little black gun in her hand set every drop of blood in his body
afire. No sooner was he outside his cell than he was the old Jim Kent,
fighting man. He whipped Carter's automatic out of its holster and,
covering Pelly and the special constable, relieved them of their guns.
Behind him he heard Marette's voice, calm and triumphant,
"Lock them in the cell, Mr. Kent!"
He did not look at her, but swung his gun on Pelly and the special
constable, and they backed through the door into the cell. Carter had
not moved. He was looking straight at the girl, and the little black
gun was leveled at his breast. Pelly and the wounded man did not see,
but on Carter's lips was a strange smile. His eyes met Kent's, and
there was revealed for an instant a silent flash of comradeship and an
unmistakable something else. Carter was glad! It made Kent want to
reach out and grip his hand, but in place of that he backed him into
the cell, turned the key in the lock, and with the key in his hand
faced Marette Radisson. Her eyes were shining gloriously. He had never
seen such splendid, fighting eyes, nor the birdlike swiftness with
which she turned and ran down the hall, calling him to follow her.
He was only a step behind her in passing Kedsty's office. She reached
the outer door and opened it. It was pitch-dark outside, and a deluge
of rain beat into their faces. He observed that she did not replace the
hood of her raincoat when she darted out. As he closed the door, her
hand groped to his arm and from that found his hand. Her fingers clung
to his tightly.
He did not ask questions as they faced the black chaos of rain. A
rending streak of lightning revealed her for an instant, her bare head
bowed to the wind. Then came a crash of thunder that shook the earth
under their feet, and her fingers closed more tightly about his hand.
And in that crash he heard her voice, half laughing, half broken,
saying,
"I'm afraid--of thunder!"
In that storm his laugh rang out, a great, free, joyous laugh. He
wanted to stop in that instant, sweep her up into his arms, and carry
her. He wanted to shout like an insane man in his mad joy. And a moment
before she had risked everything in facing three of the bravest men in
the service and had shot one of them! He started to say something, but
she increased her speed until she was almost running.
She was not leading Jim in the direction of the river, but toward the
forest beyond Kedsty's bungalow. Not for an instant did she falter in
that drenched and impenetrable darkness. There was something imperative
in the clasp of her fingers, even though they tightened perceptibly
when the thunder crashed. They gave Kent the conviction that there was
no doubt in her mind as to the point she was striving for. He took
advantage of the lightning, for each time it gave him a glimpse of her
bare, wet head bowed to the storm, her white profile, and her slim
figure fighting over the sticky earth under her feet.
It was this presence of her, and not the thought of escape, that
exalted him now. She was at his side. Her hand lay close in his. The
lightning gave him glimpses of her. He felt the touch of her shoulder,
her arm, her body, as they drew close together. The life and warmth and
thrill of her seemed to leap into his own veins through the hand he
held. He had dreamed of her. And now suddenly she had become a part of
him, and the glory of it rode overwhelmingly over all other emotions
that were struggling in his brain--the glory of the thought that it was
she who had come to him in the last moment, who had saved him, and who
was now leading him to freedom through the crash of storm.
At the crest of a low knoll between barracks and Kedsty's bungalow she
stopped for the first time. He had there, again, the almost
irresistible impulse to reach out in the darkness and take her into his
arms, crying out to her of his joy, of a happiness that had come to him
greater even than the happiness of freedom. But he stood, holding her
hand, his tongue speechless, and he was looking at her when the
lightning revealed her again. In a rending flash it cut open the night
so close that the hiss of it was like the passing of a giant rocket,
and involuntarily she shrank against him, and her free hand caught his
arm at the instant thunder crashed low over their heads. His own hand
groped out, and in the blackness it touched for an instant her wet face
and then her drenched hair.
"Marette," he cried, "where are we going?"
"Down there," came her voice.
Her hand had left his arm, and he sensed that she was pointing, though
he could not see. Ahead of them was a chaotic pit of gloom, a sea of
blackness, and in the heart of that sea he saw a light. He knew that it
was a lamp in one of Kedsty's windows and that Marette was guiding
herself by that light when she started down the slope with her hand
still in his. That she had made no effort to withdraw it made him
unconscious of the almost drowning discomfort of the fresh deluge of
rain that beat their faces. One of her fingers had gripped itself
convulsively about his thumb, like a child afraid of falling. And each
time the thunder crashed that soft hold on his thumb tightened, and
Kent's soul acclaimed.
They drew swiftly nearer to the light, for it was not far from the
knoll to Kedsty's place. Kent's mind leaped ahead. A little west by
north from the inspector's bungalow was Kim's Bayou and it was
undoubtedly to the forest trail over which she had gone at least once
before, on the night of the mysterious assault upon Mooie, that Marette
was leading him. Questions began to rush upon him now, immediate
demanding questions. They were going to the river. They must be going
to the river. It was the quickest and surest way of escape. Had Marette
prepared for that? And was she going with him?
He had no time to answer. Their feet struck the gravel path leading to
the door of Kedsty's place, and straight up this path the girl turned,
straight toward the light blazing in the window. Then, to his
amazement, he heard in the sweep of storm her voice crying out in glad
triumph,
"We're home!"
Home! His breath came in a sudden gulp. He was more than astounded. He
was shocked. Was she mad or playing an amazingly improper joke? She had
freed him from a cell to lead him to the home of the Inspector of
Police, the deadliest enemy the world now held for him. He stopped, and
Marette Radisson tugged at his hand, pulling him after her, insisting
that he follow. She was clutching his thumb as though she thought he
might attempt to escape.
"It is safe, M'sieu Jeems," she cried. "Don't be afraid!"
M'sieu Jeems! And the laughing note of mockery in her voice! He rallied
himself and followed her up the three steps to the door. Her hand found
the latch, the door opened, and swiftly they were inside. The lamp in
the window was close to them, but for a space he could not see because
of the water in his eyes. He blinked it out, drew a hand across his
face, and looked at Marette. She stood three or four paces from him.
Her face was very white, and she was panting as if hard-run for breath,
but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him. The water was
running from her in streams.
"You are wet," she said. "And I am afraid you will catch cold. Come
with me!"
Again she was making fun of him just as she had made fun of him at
Cardigan's! She turned, and he ran upstairs behind her. At the top she
waited for him, and as he came up, she reached out her hand, as if
apologizing for having taken it from him when they entered the
bungalow. He held it again as she led him down the hall to a door
farthest from the stair. This she opened, and they entered. It was dark
inside, and the girl withdrew her hand again, and Kent heard her moving
across the room. In that darkness a new and thrilling emotion possessed
him. The air he was breathing was not the air he had breathed in the
hall. In it was the sweet scent of flowers, and of something else--the
faint and intangible perfume of a woman's room. He waited, staring. His
eyes were wide when a match leaped into flame in Marette's fingers.
Then he stood in the glow of a lamp.
He continued to stare in the stupidity of a shock to which he was not
accustomed. Marette, as if to give him time to acquaint himself with
his environment, was taking off her raincoat. Under it her slim little
figure was dry, except where the water had run down from her uncovered
head to her shoulders. He noticed that she wore a short skirt, and
boots, adorably small boots of splendidly worked caribou. And then
suddenly she came toward him with both hands reaching out to him.
"Please shake hands and say you're glad," she said. "Don't look
so--so--frightened. This is my room and you are safe here."
He held her hands tight, staring into the wonderful, violet eyes that
were looking at him with the frank and unembarrassed directness of a
child's. "I--I don't understand," he struggled. "Marette, where is
Kedsty?"
"He should be returning very soon."
"And he knows you are here, of course?"
She nodded. "I have been here for a month."
Kent's hands closed tighter about hers. "I--I don't understand," he
repeated. "Tonight Kedsty will know that it was you who rescued me and
you who shot Constable Willis. Good God, we must lose no time in
getting away!"
"There is great reason why Kedsty dare not betray my presence in his
house," she said quietly. "He would die first! And he will not suspect
that I have brought you to my room, that an escaped murderer is hiding
under the very roof of the Inspector of Police! They will search for
you everywhere but here! Isn't it splendid? He planned it all, every
move, even to the screaming in front of your cell--"
"You mean--Kedsty?"
She withdrew her hands and stepped back from him, and again he saw in
her eyes a flash of the fire that had come into them when she leveled
her gun at the three men in the prison alcove. "No, not Kedsty. He
would hang you, and he would kill me, if he dared. I mean that great,
big, funny-looking friend of yours, M'sieu Fingers!"