THE CARAQUET ROAD: AND THE WOLVES HOWL ONCE MORE
Why comest thou to ride with me?
"The road, this night, is dark."
Dost thou and thine then side with me?
"Ride on, ride on and hark!"
_The Night Ride._
There she sat, anyhow, alone except for Macartney, who stood at the
horses' heads. Wherever she was going, I had an idea he was as surprised
about it as I was, and that he had been expostulating with her about her
expedition. But, if he had, he shut up as I appeared. I could only
stammer as I stared at Paulette, "You--you're not coming!"
"I seem to be," she returned placidly. And Macartney gave me the
despairing glance of a sensible man who had tried his best to head off a
girl's silly whim, and failed.
"It's as you like," he said--to her, not to me. "But you understand you
can't get back to-night, if you go to Caraquet. And--Good heavens--you
ought _not_ to go, if you want the truth of it! There's nothing to
see--and you'll get half frozen--and you mayn't get back for days, if it
snows!"
Paulette Brown looked at him as if he were not there. Then she laughed.
"I didn't say I was going to Caraquet! If you want to know all about my
taking a chance for a drive behind a pair of good horses, Miss Wilbraham
wants Billy Jones's wife to come over for a week and work for her. I'm
going to stay all night with Mrs. Jones and bring her back in the
morning. She'll never leave Billy unless she's fetched. So I really
think you needn't worry, Mr. Macartney," she paused, and I thought I saw
him wince. "I'm not going to be a nuisance either to you or Mr.
Stretton," and before he had a chance to answer she started up the
horses. I had just time to take a flying jump and land in the wagon
beside her as she drove off.
Macartney exclaimed sharply, and I didn't wonder. If he had not jumped
clear the near wheels must have struck him. I lost the angry, startled
sentence he snapped out. But it could have been nothing in particular,
for my dream girl only turned in her seat and smiled at him.
I had no smile as I took the reins from her. I had wanted a chance to be
alone with her, and I had it: but I knew better than to think she was
going to Billy Jones's for the sake of a drive with me. The only real
thought I had was that behind me, in the back of the wagon, were the
boxes of gold she had marked inexplicably with her blue seal, and that I
had heard her say the night before that she "would have to get that
gold!"
How she meant to do it was beyond me; and it was folly to think she ever
_could_ do it, with six feet of a man's strength beside her. But
nevertheless, when you loved a girl for no other earthly reason than
that she was your dream of a girl come true, and even though she
belonged to another man, it was no thought with which to start on a
lonely drive with her. I set my teeth on it and never opened them for a
solid mile over the hummocky road through the endless spruce bush,
behind which the sun had already sunk. I could feel my dream girl's
shoulder where she sat beside me, muffled in a sable-lined coat of
Dudley's: and the sweet warmth of her, the faint scent of her
gold-bronze hair, made me afraid to speak, even if I had known what I
wanted to say.
But suddenly she spoke to me. "Mr. Stretton, you're not angry with me
for coming with you?"
"You know I'm not." But I did not know what I was. Any one who has read
as far as this will know that if ever a plain, stupid fool walked this
world, it was I,--Nicholas Dane Stretton. Put me in the bush, or with
horses, and I'm useful enough,--but with men and women I seem to go
blind and dumb. I know I never could read a detective story; the clues
and complications always made me feel dizzy. I was pretty well dazed
where I sat beside that girl I knew I ought to find out about, and her
nearness did not help me to ask her ugly questions. If she had not been
Dudley's,--but I broke the thought short off. I said to myself
impersonally that it was impossible for a girl to do any monkey tricks
about the La Chance gold with a man like me. Yet I wondered if she meant
to try!
But she showed no sign of it. "I had to come," she said gently. "Marcia
really wants Billy Jones's wife: she won't let me wait on her, and of
course Charliet can't do it. You believe me, don't you? I didn't come
just for a drive with you!"
I believed that well enough, and I nodded.
"Then," said my dream girl quietly, "will you please stop the horses?"
I looked round. We were miles from the mine, around a turn where the
spruce bush ceased for a long stretch of swamp,--bare, featureless, and
frozen. Then, for the first time, I looked at Dudley's girl that I was
fool enough to love.
"What for?" I demanded. "I mean, of course, if you like," for I saw she
was white to the lips, though her eyes met mine steadily, like a man's.
"Do you mean you want to go back?"
She shook her head almost absently. "No: I think there's something
bumping around in the back of the wagon. I"--there was a sharp, nervous
catch in her voice--"want to find out what it is."
I had packed the wagon, and I knew there was nothing in it to bump. But
I stopped the horses. I wondered if the girl beside me had some sort of
baby revolver and thought she could hold me up with it, if I let her get
out; and I knew just what I would do if she tried it. I smiled as I
waited. But she did not get out. She turned in her seat and reached
backwards into the back of the wagon, as if she had neither bones nor
joints in her lovely body. Marcia was right when she said it was
perfectly educated and trained. For a moment I could think of nothing
but the marvellous grace of her movement as she slid her hand under the
tarpaulin that covered the gold; then I thought I heard her catch her
breath with surprise. But she turned back with an exquisite lithe grace
that made me catch mine, and slid down in her seat as if she had never
slid out of it.
"It's a bottle," she said lightly. But it was with a kind of startled
puzzle too, as if she had sooner expected dynamite. "I can't think why;
I mean, I wonder what's in it!"
"A bottle!" I jerked around to stare at a whisky bottle in her hands. It
was tightly sealed and full of something colorless that looked like gin.
I was just going to say I could not see where it had come from, seeing I
had packed the wagon myself, and I would have gone bail there was no
bottle in it. But it came over me that she might be pretending
astonishment and have put the thing there herself while I was in my room
getting my revolver; since there had been no one else near my wagon but
Macartney, and he could not have left the horses' heads. It flashed on
me that the baby beside me, being used to Dudley, might have drugged a
little gin, thinking I would take various drinks on the way; and I
nearly laughed out. But I said: "Back there was no place for a bottle.
It's a wonder it didn't smash on the first bump!"
"Yes," said Paulette slowly. "Only I wonder--I mean I can't see----" and
she paused, staring at the bottle with a thoughtful sort of frown. "I
believe I'll hold it on my lap."
I was looking at the bottle too, where she held it with both fur-gloved
hands; and I forgot to wonder if she were lying about it or not. For
the gloves she wore were Dudley Wilbraham's, as well as the coat,--and
that any of Dudley's things should be on my dream girl put me in a
black, senseless fury. I wanted to take them straight off her and wrap
her up in my own belongings. I grabbed at anything to say that would
keep my tongue from telling her to change coats with me that instant,
and the bottle in her hand was the only thing that occurred to me. It
brought a sudden recollection back to me anyhow, and I opened my lips
quite easily.
"Scott, that looks like some of the brew I spilled over my clothes at
Skunk's Misery!"
"Skunk's Misery!" Paulette exclaimed sharply. "What on earth is Skunk's
Misery?"
"A village--at least, a den--of dirt, chiefly; off this road, between
Caraquet and Lac Tremblant." I was thankful to have something to think
about that was neither her, or me, or Dudley. I made as long a story as
I could of my stay in Skunk's Misery when I took home the half-killed
boy; of the filthy stuff I had spilled on my clothes, and how I had seen
a wolf carry them off. "By George, I believe he _liked_ the
smell--though I never thought of that till now!"
"What?" Paulette gave a curious start that might have been wonder, or
enlightenment. "And you got the stuff at Skunk's Misery, out of a
bottle like this? Oh, I ought to have guessed"--but she either checked
herself, or her pause was absolutely natural--"I should have guessed
you'd had some sort of a horrible time that night you came home. You
looked so tired. But what I meant to say was I don't see how such poor
people would have a bottle of _anything_. Didn't they say what it was?"
"Didn't ask! It looked like gin, and it smelt like a sulphide factory
when it got on my clothes. They certainly had that bottle."
"Well, Skunk's Misery hasn't got _this_ bottle, anyhow!" I could see no
reason for the look on her face. It was not gay any more; it was stern,
if a girl's face can be stern, and it was white with angry suspicion.
Suddenly she laughed, rather fiercely. "I'm glad I thought of it before
the jolting broke it in the wagon! I want to get it safely to Billy
Jones's."
The reason why beat me, since she had pretended to know nothing of it,
so I said nothing. After a long silence Paulette sighed.
"You've been very kind to me, Mr. Stretton," she said, as if she had
been thinking. "I wish you could see your way to--trusting me!"
"I don't know how I've been kind," I left out the trusting part. "I
have hardly seen you to speak to till to-night, except," and I said it
deliberately, "the first time I ever saw you, sitting by the fire at La
Chance. You did speak to me then."
"Was that--the first time you saw me?" It might have been forgetfulness,
or a challenge to repeat what she had said to me by the lake in the
dark. But I was not going to repeat that. Something told me, as it had
told me when I came on her by Dudley's fire--though it was for a
different reason, now that I knew she was his and not mine--that I would
be a fool to fight my own thoughts of her with explanations, even if she
chose to make any. I looked directly into her face instead. All I could
see was her eyes, that were just dark pools in the dusk, and her mouth,
oddly grave and unsmiling. But then and there--and any one who thinks me
a fool is welcome to--my ugly suspicions of her died. And I could have
died of shame myself to think I had ever harbored them. If she had done
things I could not understand--and she had--I knew there must be a good
reason for them. For the rest, in spite of Marcia and her silly
mysteries, and even though she belonged to Dudley, she was my dream
girl, and I meant to stand by her.
"That was the first time I spoke to you," I said, as if there had been
no pause. "After that, I picked up a seal for you, and I told you your
hair was untidy before Marcia could. I think those are all the
enormously kind things I've ever done for you. But, if you want
kindness, you know where to come!"
"Without telling you things--and when you don't trust me!"
"Telling things never made a man trust any one," said I. "And besides,"
it was so dark now, as we crawled along the side of the long rocky hill
that followed the swamp, that I had to look hard to see her face, "I
never said I didn't trust you. And there isn't anything you could tell
me that I want to know!"
"Oh," Paulette cried as sharply as if I had struck her, "do you mean
you're taking me on trust--in spite of everything?"
"In spite of nothing." I laughed. I was not going to have her think I
knew about Collins, much more all the stuff Marcia had said. But she
turned her head and looked at me with a curious intentness.
"I'll try," she began in a smothered sort of voice, "I mean I'm not all
you've been thinking I was, Mr. Stretton! Only," passionately, and it
was the last thing I had expected her to say, "I wish we were at Billy
Jones's with all this gold!"
I did not, whether she had astonished me or not. I could have driven all
night with her beside me, and her arm touching mine when the wagon
bumped over the rocks.
"We're halfway," I returned rather cheerlessly. "Why? You're not afraid
we'll be held up, are you? No human being ever uses this road."
"I wasn't thinking of human beings," she returned simply. "I was
thinking of wolves."
"Wolves?" I honestly gasped it. Then I laughed straight out. "I can't
feel particularly agitated about wolves. I know we had some at La
Chance, but we probably left them there, nosing round the bunk-house
rubbish heap. And anyhow, a wolf or two wouldn't trouble us. They're
cowardly things, unless they're in packs." I felt exactly as if I were
comforting Red Riding Hood or some one in a fairy tale, for the Lord
knows it had never occurred to me to be afraid of wolves. "What on earth
put wolves in your head?"
"I--don't know! They seemed to be about, lately."
"Well, I never saw any on this road! I've a revolver, anyhow."
"I'm g-glad," said Paulette; and the word jerked out of her, and my arms
jerked nearly out of me. In the dark the wagon had hit something that
felt like nothing but a boulder in the middle of my decent road. The
wagon stopped dead, with an up-ending lurch, and nothing holding it to
the horses but the reins. Why on earth they held I don't know. For with
one almighty bound my two young horses tried to get away from me,--and
they would have, if the reins had not been new ones. As it was I had a
minute's hard fighting before I got them under. When they stood still
the girl beside me peered over the front of the wagon into the dark.
"It's the whiffletree, I think," she said, as if she were used to
wagons.
I peered over myself and hoped so. "Mercy if it is," said I. "If it's a
wheel we're stuck here. Scott, I wonder if I've a bit of rope!"
Paulette Brown pulled out ten feet of spun yarn from under her coat; and
if you come to think of it, it was a funny thing for a girl to have. It
struck me, rather oddly, that she must have come prepared for accidents.
"There," she said, "I expect you can patch us up if I hold the horses.
Here's a knife, too, and"--I turned hot all over, for she was putting
something else into my hand, just as if she knew I had been wondering
about it since first we started; but she went on without a
break--"here's my revolver. Put it in your pocket. I'd sooner you kept
it."
I was thankful I had had the decency to trust her before she gave the
weapon to me. But I was blazingly angry with myself when I got out of
the wagon and saw just what had happened. Fair in the middle of my new
road was a boulder that the frost must have loosened from the steep
hillside that towered over us; and the front of the wagon had hit it
square,--which it would not have done if I had been looking at the road
instead of talking to a girl who was no business of mine, now or ever. I
got the horses out of the traces and the pole straps, and let Paulette
hold them while I levered the boulder out of the way, down the hillside.
I was scared to do it, too, for fear they would get away from her, but
she was evidently as used to horses as to wagons: Bob and Danny stood
for her like lambs, while I set to work to repair damages. The pole was
snapped, and the whiffletree smashed, so that the traces were useless. I
did some fair jury work with a lucky bit of spruce wood, the
whiffletree, and the axle, and got the pole spliced. It struck me that
even so we should have to do the rest of the way to Billy Jones's at a
walk, but I saw no sense in saying so. I got the horses back on the
pole, and Paulette in the wagon holding the reins, still talking to the
horses quietly and by name. But as I jumped up beside her the quiet flew
out of her voice.
"The _bottle_," she all but shrieked at me. "_Mind the bottle!_"
But I had not noticed she had put it on my seat when she got out to
hold the horses. I knocked it flying across her, and it smashed to
flinders on the near fore wheel, drenching it and splashing over Danny's
hind legs. I grabbed the reins from Paulette, and I thought of skunks,
and a sulphide factory,--and dead skunks and rotten sulphide at that.
Even in the freezing evening air the smell that came from that smashed
bottle was beyond anything on earth or purgatory, excepting the stuff I
had spilt over myself at Skunk's Misery. "What on earth," I began
stupidly. "Why, that's that Skunk's Misery filth again!"
Paulette's hand came down on my arm with a grip that could not have been
wilder if she had thought the awful smell meant our deaths. "Drive on,
will you?" she said in a voice that matched it. "Let the horses _go_, I
tell you! If there's anything left in that bottle it may save us for
a--I mean," she caught herself up furiously, "it may save me from being
sick. I don't know how you feel. But for heaven's sake get me out of
that smell! Oh, why didn't I throw the thing away into the woods, long
ago?"
I wished she had. The stuff was on Danny as well as on the wheel, and we
smelt like a procession of dead whales. For after the first choking
explosion of the thing it reeked of nothing but corruption. It was the
Skunk's Misery brew all right, only a thousand times stronger.
"How on earth did Skunk's Misery filth get in my wagon?" I gasped. And
if I had been alone I would have spat.
"I--can't tell you," said Paulette shortly. "Mr. Stretton, can't you
hurry the horses? I----Oh, hurry them, please!"
I saw no particular reason why; we could not get away from the smell of
the wheel, or of Danny. But I did wind them up as much as I dared with
our kind of a pole,--and suddenly both of them wound themselves up, with
a jerk to try any pole. I had all I could do to keep them from a dead
run, and if I knew the reason I trusted the girl beside me did not. It
had hardly been a sound, more the ghost of a sound. But as I thought it
she flung up her head.
"What's that?" she said sharply. "Mr. Stretton, what's that?"
"Nothing," I began; and changed it. "Just a wolf or two somewhere."
For behind us, in two, three, four quarters at once rose a long wailing
howl.