For an hour after he had gone to bed Philip lay awake thinking of the
doctor's story. He dreamed of it when he fell asleep. In a way for which
he could not account, the story had a peculiar effect upon him, and
developed in him a desire to know the end. He awoke in the morning
anxious to resume the subject with McGill, but the doctor disappointed
him. During the whole of the day he made no direct reference to his
mission in the North, and when Philip once or twice brought him back
to the matter he evaded any discussion of it, giving him to understand,
without saying so, that the matter was a closed incident between them,
only to be reopened when he was able to give some help in the search.
The doctor talked freely of his home, of the beauty and the goodness
of his wife, and of a third member whom they expected in their little
family circle in the spring. They discussed home topics--politics, clubs
and sport. The doctor disliked society, though for professional reasons
he was compelled to play a small part in it, and in this dislike the
two men found themselves on common ground. They became more and more
confidential in all ways but one. They passed hours in playing cribbage
with a worn pack of Pierre's cards, and the third night sang old college
songs which both had nearly forgotten. It was on this evening that they
planned to remain one more day in Pierre's cabin and then leave for Fort
Smith.
“You have hope--there,” said Philip in a casual way, as they were
undressing.
“Little hope, but the search will begin from there,” replied the doctor.
“I have more hope at Chippewayan, where we struck a clew. I sent back my
Indian to follow it up.”
They went to bed. How long he had slept Philip had no idea, when he was
awakened by a slight noise. In a sub-conscious sort of way, with his
eyes still closed, he lay without moving and listened. The sound came
again, like the soft, cautious tread of feet near him. Still without
moving he opened his eyes. The oil lamp which he had put out on retiring
was burning low. In its dim light stood the doctor, half dressed, in a
tense attitude of listening.
“What's the matter?” asked Philip.
The professor started, and turned toward the stove.
“Nervousness, I guess,” he said gloomily. “I was afraid I would awaken
you. I've been up three times during the last hour--listening for a
voice.”
“A voice?”
“Yes, back there in the bunk I could have sworn that I heard it calling
somewhere out in the night. But when I get up I can't hear it. I've
stood at the door until I'm frozen.”
“It's the wind,” said Philip. “It has troubled me many times out on the
snow plains. I've heard it wail like children crying among the dunes,
and again like women screaming, and men shouting. You'd better go to
bed.”
“Listen!” The doctor stiffened, his white face turned to the door.
“Good Heavens, was that the wind?” he asked after a moment.
Philip had rolled from his bunk and was pulling on his clothes.
“Dress and we'll find out,” he advised.
Together they went to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The
sky was thick and heavy, with only a white blur where the moon was
smothered. Fifty yards away the gray gloom became opaque. Over the
thousand miles of drift to the north there came a faint whistling wind,
rising at times in fitful sweeps of flinty snow, and at intervals dying
away until it became only a lulling sound. In one of these intervals
both men held their breath.
From somewhere out of the night, and yet from nowhere that they could
point, there came a human voice.
“Pier-r-r-r-e Thoreau--Pier-r-r-r-e Thoreau--Ho, Pierre Thoreau-u-u-u!”
“Off there!” shivered the doctor.
“No--out there!” said Philip.
He raised his own voice in an answering shout, and in response there
came again the cry for Pierre Thoreau.
“I'm right!” cried the doctor. “Come!”
He darted away, his greatcoat making a dark blur in the night ahead of
Philip, who paused again to shout through the megaphone of his hands.
There came no reply. A second and a third time he shouted, and still
there was no response.
“Queer,” he thought. “What the devil can it mean?”
The doctor had disappeared, and he followed in the direction he had
gone. A hundred yards more and he saw the dark blur again, close to the
ground. The doctor was bending over a human form stretched out in the
snow.
“Just in time,” he said to Philip as he came up. Excitement had gone
from his voice now. It was cool and professional, and he spoke in a
commanding way to his companion. “You're heavier than I, so take him by
the shoulders and hold his head well up. I don't believe it's the cold,
for his body is warm and comfortable. I feel something wet and thick on
his shirt, and it may be blood. So hold his head well up.”
Between them they carried him back to the cabin, and with the quick
alertness of a man accustomed to every emergency of his profession the
doctor stripped off his two coats while Philip looked at the face of the
man whom they had placed in his bunk. His own experience had acquainted
him with violence and bloodshed, but in spite of that fact he shuddered
slightly as he gazed on the unconscious form.
It was that of a young man of splendid physique, with a closely shaven
face, short blond hair, and a magnificent pair of shoulders.
Beyond the fact that he knew the face wore no beard he could scarce have
told if it were white or black. From chin to hair it was covered with
stiffened blood.
The doctor came to his side.
“Looks bad, doesn't he?” he said cheerfully. “Thought it wasn't the
cold. Heart beating too fast, pulse too active. Ah--hot water if you
please, Philip!”
He loosened the man's coat and shirt, and a few moments later,
when Philip brought a towel and a basin of water, he rose from his
examination.
“Just in time--as I said before,” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “You'd
never have heard another 'Pierre Thoreau' out of him, Philip,” he went
on, speaking the young man's name as it he had been accustomed to doing
it for a long time. “Wound on the head--skull sound--loss of blood from
over-exertion. We'll have him drinking coffee within an hour if you'll
make some.”
The doctor rolled up his shirt sleeves and began to wash away the blood.
“A good-looking chap,” he said over his shoulder. “Face clean cut, fine
mouth, a frontal bone that must have brain behind it, square chin--” He
broke off to ask: “What do you suppose happened to him?”
“Haven't got the slightest idea,” said Philip, putting the coffee pot on
the stove. “A blow, isn't it?”
Philip was turning up the wick of the lamp when a sudden startled cry
came from the bedside. Something in it, low and suppressed, made him
turn so quickly that by a clumsy twist of his fingers the lamp was
extinguished. He lighted it again and faced the doctor. McGill was upon
his knees, terribly pale.
“Good Heaven!” he gasped. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, Phil--it was he! He let it out of him so unexpectedly
that it startled me.”
“I thought it was your voice,” said Philip.
“No, no, it was his. See, he is returning to consciousness.”
The wounded man's eyes opened slowly, and closed again. He heaved a
great sigh and stretched out his arms as if about to awaken from a deep
slumber. The doctor sprang to his feet.
“We must have ice, Phil--finely chopped ice from the creek down there.
Will you take the ax and those two pails and bring back both pails full?
No hurry, but we'll need it within an hour.”
Philip bundled himself in his coat and went out with the ax and pails.
“Ice!” he muttered to himself. “Now what can he want of ice?”
He dug down through three feet of snow and chopped for half an hour.
When he returned to the cabin the wounded man was bolstered up in bed,
and the doctor was pacing back and forth across the room, evidently
worked to a high pitch of excitement.
“Murder--robbery--outrage! Right under our noses, that's what it was!”
he cried. “Pierre Thoreau is dead--killed by the scoundrels who
left this man for dead beside him! They set upon them late yesterday
afternoon as Pierre and his partner were coming home, intending to
kill them for their outfit. The murderers, who are a breed and a white
trapper, have probably gone to their shack half a dozen miles up the
creek. Now, Mr. Philip Steele, here's a little work for you!”
MacGregor himself had never stirred Philip Steele's blood as did the
doctor's unexpected wards, but the two men watching him saw nothing
unusual in their effect. He set down his ice and coolly took off his
coat, then advanced to the side of the wounded man.
“I'm glad you're better,” he said, looking down into the other's strong,
pale face. “It was a pretty close shave. Guess you were a little out of
your head, weren't you?”
For an instant the man's eyes shifted past Philip to where the doctor
was standing.
“Yes--I must have been. He says I was calling for Pierre, and Pierre was
dead. I left him ten miles back there in the snow.” He closed his eyes
with a groan of pain and continued, after a moment, “Pierre and I have
been trapping foxes. We were coming back with supplies to last us until
late spring when--it happened. The white man's name is Dobson, and
there's a breed with him. Their shack is six or seven miles up the
creek.”
Philip saw the doctor examining a revolver which he had taken from the
pocket of his big coat. He came over to the bunkside with it in his
hand.
“That's enough, Phil,” he said softly. “He must not talk any more for
an hour or two or we'll have him in a fever. Get on your coat. I'm going
with you.”
“I'm going alone,” said Phil shortly. “You attend to your patient.”
He drank a cup of coffee, ate a piece of toasted bannock, and with the
first gray breaking of dawn started up the creek on a pair of Pierre's
old snow-shoes. The doctor followed him to the creek and watched him
until he was out of sight.
The wounded man was sitting on the edge of the cot when McGill reentered
the cabin.
His exertion had brought a flush of color back into his face, which
lighted up with a smile as the other came through the door.
“It was a close shave, thanks to you,” he said, repeating Philip's
words.
“Just so,” replied the doctor. He had placed a brace of short bulldog
revolvers on the table and offered one of them now to his companion.
“The shaving isn't over yet, Falkner.”
They ate breakfast, each with a gun beside his tin plate. Now and then
the doctor interrupted his meal to go to the door and peer over the
broadening vista of the barrens. They had nearly finished when he came
back from one of these observations, his lips set a little tighter, a
barely perceptible tremor in his voice when he spoke.
“They're coming, Falkner!”
They picked up their revolvers and the doctor buttoned his coat tight up
about his neck.
For ten minutes they sat silent and listening.
Not until the crunching beat of snow-shoes came to their ears did the
doctor move. Thrusting his weapon into his coat pocket, he went to the
door. Falkner followed him, and stood well out of sight when he opened
it. Two men and a dog team were crossing the opening. McGill's dogs were
fastened under a brush lean-to built against the cabin, and as the rival
team of huskies began filling the air with their clamor for a fight,
the stranger team halted and one of the two men came forward alone. He
stopped with some astonishment before the aristocratic-looking little
man waiting for him in Pierre's doorway.
“Is Pierre Thoreau at home?” he demanded.
“I'm a stranger here, so I can not say,” replied the doctor, inspecting
the questioner with marked coolness. “It is possible, however, that he
is--for I picked up a man half dead out in the snow last night, and I'm
waiting for him to come back to life. A smooth-faced, blond fellow, with
a cut on his head. It may be this Pierre Thoreau.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the man kicked off his
snow-shoes and with an excited wave of his arm to his companion with
the dogs, almost ran past the doctor.
“It's him--the man I want to see!” he cried in a low voice. “My name's
Dobson, of the--”
What more he had meant to say was never finished. Falkner's powerful
arms had gripped his head and throat in a vise-like clutch from which
no smother of sound escaped, and three or four minutes later, when the
second man came through the door, he found his comrade flat on his
back, bound and gagged, and the shining muzzles of two short and
murderous-looking revolvers leveled at his breast. He was a swarthy
breed, scarcely larger than the doctor himself, and his only
remonstrance as his hands were fastened behind his back was a brief
outburst of very bad and, very excited French which the professor
stopped with a threatening flourish of his gun.
“You'll do,” he said, standing off to survey his prisoner. “I believe
you're harmless enough to have the use of your legs and mouth.” With
a comic bow the little doctor added, “M'sieur, I'm going to ask you to
drive us back to Fort Smith, and if you so much as look the wrong way
out of your eyes I'll blow off your head. You and your friend are to
answer for the killing of Pierre Thoreau and for the attempted murder
of this young man, who will follow us to Fort Smith to testify against
you.”
It was evident that the half-breed did not understand, and the doctor
added a few explanatory words in French. The man on the floor groaned
and struggled until he was red in the face.
“Easy, easy,” soothed the doctor. “I appreciate the fact that it is
pretty tough luck, Dobson, but you'll have to take your medicine.
Falkner, if you'll lend a hand in getting me off I won't lose much time
in starting for Fort Smith.”
It was a strange-looking outfit that set out from Pierre Thoreau's cabin
half an hour later. Ahead of the team which had come that morning walked
the breed, his left arm bound to his side with a babiche thong. On the
sledge behind him lay an inanimate and blanket-wrapped bundle, which was
Dobson; and close at the rear of the sledge, stripped of his greatcoat
and more than ever like a diminutive drum-major, followed Dudley
McGill, professor of neurology and diseases of the brain, with a bulldog
revolver in his mittened hand.
From the door Falkner watched them go.
Six hours later Philip returned from the east. Falkner saw him coming up
from the creek and went to meet him.
“I found the cabin, but no one was there,” said Philip. “It has been
deserted for a long time. No tracks in the snow, everything inside
frozen stiff, and what signs I did find were of a woman!”
The muscles of Falkner's face gave a sudden twitch. “A woman!” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, a woman,” repeated Philip, “and there was a photograph of her on a
table in the bedroom. Did this Dobson have a wife?”
Falkner had fallen a step behind him as they entered the cabin.
“A long time ago--a woman was there,” he said. “She was a young woman,
and--and almost beautiful. But she wasn't his wife.”
“She was pretty,” replied Philip, “so pretty that I brought her picture
along for my collection at home.” He looked about for McGill. “Where's
the doctor?”
Falkner's face was very white as he explained what had happened during
the other's absence.
“He said that he would camp early this afternoon so that you could
overtake them,” he finished after he had described the capture and the
doctor's departure. “The doctor thought you would want to lose no time
in getting the prisoners to Fort Smith, and that he could get a good
start before night. To-morrow or the next day I am going to follow with
the other team. I'd go with you if he hadn't commanded me to remain here
and nurse my head for another twenty-four hours.”
Philip shrugged his shoulders, and the two had little to say as they ate
their dinners. After an hour's rest he prepared a light pack and took
up the doctor's trail. Inwardly he rankled at the unusual hand which
the little professor was playing in leaving Pierre's cabin with the
prisoners, and yet he was confident that McGill would wait for him. Mile
after mile he traveled down the creek. At dusk there was no sign of his
new friend. Just before dark he climbed a dead stub at the summit of a
high ridge and half a dozen miles of the unbroken barren stretched out
before his eyes.
At six o'clock he stopped to cook some tea and warm his meat and
bannock. After that he traveled until ten, then built a big fire and
gave up the pursuit until morning. At dawn he started again, and not
until the forenoon was half gone did he find where the doctor had
stopped to camp.
The ashes of his fire were still warm beneath and the snow was trampled
hard around them. In the north the clouds were piling up, betokening a
storm such as it was not well for a man in Philip's condition of fatigue
to face. Already some flavor of the approaching blizzard was carried to
him on the wind.
So he hurried on. Fortunately the storm died away after an hour or two
of fierce wind. Still he did not come up with McGill, and he camped
again for the night, cursing the little professor who was racing on
ahead of him. It was noon of the following day when he came in sight
of the few log cabins at Fort Smith, situated in a treeless and
snow-smothered sweep of the plain on the other side of the Slave. He
crossed the river and hurried past the row of buildings that led to
post headquarters. In front of the company office were gathered a little
crowd of men, women and children. He pushed his way through and stopped
at the bottom of the three log steps which led up to the door.
At the top was Professor McGill, coming out. His face was a puzzle.
His eyes had in them a stony stare as he gazed down at Philip. Then he
descended slowly, like one moving in a dream. “Good Heavens,” he said
huskily, and only for Philip's ears, “do you know what I've done, Phil?”
“What?” demanded Philip.
The doctor came down to the last step.
“Phil,” he whispered, “that fellow we found with a broken head played a
nice game on me. He was a criminal, and I've brought back to Fort Smith
no less person than the man sent out to arrest him, Corporal Dobson,
of the Mounted Police, and his driver, Francois Something-or-Other.
Heavens, ain't it funny?”
That same afternoon Corporal Dobson and the half-breed set out again in
quest of Falkner, and this time they were accompanied by Pierre Thoreau,
who learned for the first time what had happened in his cabin. The
doctor disappeared for the rest of the day, but early the next morning
he hunted Phil up and took him to a cabin half a mile down the river. A
team of powerful dogs, an unusually large sledge, and two Indians were
at the door.
“I bought 'em last night,” explained the doctor, “and we're going to
leave for the south to-day.”
“Giving up your hunt?” asked Philip.
“No, it's ended,” replied McGill in a matter-of-fact way. “It ended
at Pierre Thoreau's cabin. Falkner was the third man to work out my
experiment.”
Philip stopped in his tracks, and the doctor stopped, and turned toward
him.
“But the third--” Philip began.
The little doctor continued to smile.
“There are more things in Heaven and earth, Philip,” he quoted, “than
are dreamed of in your philosophy. This love experiment has turned out
wrongly, as far as preconceived theories are concerned, but when I think
of the broader, deeper significance of it all I am--pleased is not the
word.”
“What I can't see--” Philip was stopped by the doctor's lifted hand.
“You see, I am relying on your word of honor, Phil,” he explained,
laughing softly at the amazement which he saw in the other's face. “It's
all so wonderful that I want you to know the end of it, and how happily
it has turned out for me--and the little woman waiting for me back
home. It was I and not Falkner who cried out just before you turned the
lamp-wick down. A letter had fallen from his coat pocket, and it was
one of my letters--sent through my agent. Understand? I sent you for the
ice, and while you were gone I told him who I was, and he told me why I
had never heard from him, and why he was in Pierre Thoreau's cabin. My
agent had sent him north with five hundred dollars as a first payment.
To cut a long story short, he got into a card game in Prince Albert--as
the best of us do at times--and as a result become mixed up in a
quarrel, in which he pretty nearly killed a man. They've been after
him ever since, and almost had him when we found him, injured by a blow
which he received in an ugly fall earlier in the night. It's the last
and total wrecking of my theory.”
“But the girl--” urged Philip.
“We're going to see her now, and she will tell you the whole story as
she told it to me,” said the doctor, as calmly as before. “Ah, but it's
wonderful, man--this great, big, human love that fills the world! They
two met at Nelson House, as I had planned they should, and four months
after that they smashed my theory by being married by a missionary from
York Factory. I mean that they smashed the bad part of it, Phil, but all
three couples proved the other--that there exist no such things as 'soul
affinities,' and that two normal people of opposite sexes, if thrown
together under certain environment, will as naturally mate as two birds,
and will fight and die for one another afterward, too. There may not be
one in ten thousand who believes it, but I do--still. At the last moment
the man in Falkner triumphed over his love and he told her what he was,
that up until the moment he met her he drank and gambled, and that for
his shooting a man in Prince Albert he would sooner or later get a term
in prison. And she? I tell you that she busted my theory to a frazzle!
She loved him, as I now believe every woman in the world is capable of
loving, and she married him, and stuck to him through thick and thin,
fled with him when he was compelled to run--and her faith in him now
is like that of a child in its God. For a time they lived in that cabin
above Pierre Thoreau's, and perhaps they wouldn't have been found out
if they hadn't come up to Fort Smith for a holiday. Falkner told me that
his pursuers would surely stop at Pierre's, and his wife. By this time
he has a good start for the States, and will be there by the time I get
his wife down.”
Philip had not spoken a word. Almost mechanically he pulled the
photograph from his pocket.
“And this--” he said.
The doctor laughed as he took the picture from his hand.
“Is Mrs. William Falkner, Phil. Come in. I'm anxious to have you meet
her.”