In the cabin David waited. He did not look through the window to watch
St. Pierre's approach. He sat down and picked up a magazine from the
table upon which Marie-Anne's work-basket lay. He was cool as ice now.
His blood flowed evenly and his pulse beat unhurriedly. Never had he
felt himself more his own master, more like grappling with a situation.
St. Pierre was coming to fight. He had no doubt of that. Perhaps not
physically, at first. But, one way or another, something dynamic was
bound to happen in the bateau cabin within the next half-hour. Now that
the impending drama was close at hand, Carrigan's scheme of luring St.
Pierre into the making of a stupendous wager seemed to him rather
ridiculous. With calculating coldness he was forced to concede that St.
Pierre would be somewhat of a fool to accept the wager he had in mind,
when he was so completely in St. Pierre's power. For Marie-Anne and the
chief of the Boulains, the bottom of the river would undoubtedly be the
best and easiest solution, and the half-breed's suggestion might be
acted upon after all.
As his mind charged itself for the approaching struggle, David found
himself staring at a double page in the magazine, given up entirely to
impossibly slim young creatures exhibiting certain bits of illusive and
mysterious feminine apparel. Marie-Anne had expressed her approbation
in the form of pencil notes under several of them. Under a cobwebby
affair that wreathed one of the slim figures he read, "St. Pierre will
love this!" There were two exclamation points after that particular
notation!
David replaced the magazine on the table and looked toward the door.
No, St. Pierre would not hesitate to put him at the bottom of the
river, for her. Not if he, Dave Carrigan, made the solution of the
matter a necessity. There were times, he told himself, when it was
confoundedly embarrassing to force the letter of the law. And this was
one of them. He was not afraid of the river bottom. He was thinking
again of Marie-Anne.
The scraping of a canoe against the side of the bateau recalled him
suddenly to the moment at hand. He heard low voices, and one of them,
he knew, was St. Pierre's. For an interval the voices continued,
frequently so low that he could not distinguish them at all. For ten
minutes he waited impatiently. Then the door swung open, and St. Pierre
came in.
Slowly and coolly David rose to meet him, and at the same moment the
chief of the Boulains closed the door behind him. There was no greeting
in Carrigan's manner. He was the Law, waiting, unexcited, sure of
himself, impassive as a thing of steel. He was ready to fight. He
expected to fight. It only remained for St. Pierre to show what sort of
fight it was to be. And he was amazed at St. Pierre, without betraying
that amazement. In the vivid light that shot through the western
windows the chief of the Boulains stood looking at David. He wore a
gray flannel shirt open at the throat, and it was a splendid throat
David saw, and a splendid head above it, with its reddish beard and
hair. But what he saw chiefly were St. Pierre's eyes. They were the
sort of eyes he disliked to find in an enemy--a grayish, steely blue
that reflected sunlight like polished flint. But there was no flash of
battle-glow in them now. St. Pierre was neither excited nor in a bad
humor. Nor did Carrigan's attitude appear to disturb him in the least.
He was smiling; his eyes glowed with almost boyish curiosity as he
stared appraisingly at David--and then, slowly, a low chuckle of
laughter rose in his deep chest, and he advanced with an outstretched
hand.
"I am St. Pierre Boulain," he said. "I have heard a great deal about
you, Sergeant Carrigan. You have had an unfortunate time!"
Had the man advanced menacingly, David would have felt more
comfortable. It was disturbing to have this giant come to him with an
extended hand of apparent friendship when he had anticipated an
entirely different sort of meeting. And St. Pierre was laughing at him!
There was no doubt of that. And he had the colossal nerve to tell him
that he had been unfortunate, as though being shot up by somebody's
wife was a fairly decent joke!
Carrigan's attitude did not change. He did not reach out a hand to meet
the other. There was no responsive glimmer of humor in his eyes or on
his lips. And seeing these things, St. Pierre turned his extended hand
to the open box of cigars, so that he stood for a moment with his back
toward him.
"It's funny," he said, as if speaking to himself, and with only a
drawling note of the French patois in his voice. "I come home, find my
Jeanne in a terrible mix-up, a stranger in her room--and the stranger
refuses to let me laugh or shake hands with him. Tonnerre, I say it is
funny! And my Jeanne saved his life, and made him muffins, and gave him
my own bed, and walked with him in the forest! Ah, the ungrateful
cochon!"
He turned, laughing openly, so that his deep voice filled the cabin.
"Vous aves de la corde de pendu, m'sieu--yes, you are a lucky dog! For
only one other man in the world would my Jeanne have done that. You are
lucky because you were not ended behind the rock; you are lucky because
you are not at the bottom of the river; you are lucky--"
He shrugged his big shoulders hopelessly. "And now, after all our
kindness and your good luck, you wait for me like an enemy, m'sieu.
Diable, I can not understand!"
For the life of him Carrigan could not, in these few moments, measure
up his man. He had said nothing. He had let St. Pierre talk. And now
St. Pierre stood there, one of the finest men he had ever looked upon,
as if honestly overcome by a great wonder. And yet behind that apparent
incredulity in his voice and manner David sensed the deep underflow of
another thing. St. Pierre was all that Marie-Anne had claimed for him,
and more. She had given him assurance of her unlimited confidence that
her husband could adjust any situation in the world, and Carrigan
conceded that St. Pierre measured up splendidly to that particular type
of man. The smile had not left his face; the good humor was still in
his eyes.
David smiled back at him coldly. He recognized the cleverness of the
other's play. St. Pierre was a man who would smile like that even as he
fought, and Carrigan loved a smiling fighter, even when he had to slip
steel bracelets over his wrists.
"I am Sergeant Carrigan, of 'N' Division, Royal Northwest Mounted
Police," he said, repeating the formula of the law. "Sit down, St.
Pierre, and I will tell you a few things that have happened. And then--"
"Non, non, it is not necessary, m'sieu. I have already listened for an
hour, and I do not like to hear a story twice. You are of the Police. I
love the Police. They are brave men, and brave men are my brothers. You
are out after Roger Audemard, the rascal! Is it not so? And you were
shot at behind the rock back there. You were almost killed. Ma foi, and
it was my Jeanne who did the shooting! Yes, she thought you were
another man." The chuckling, drum-like note of laughter came again out
of St. Pierre's great chest. "It was bad shooting. I have taught her
better, but the sun was blinding there in the hot, white sand. And
after that--I know everything that has happened. Bateese was wrong. I
shall scold him for wanting to put you at the bottom of the
river--perhaps. Oui, ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut--that is it. A
woman must have her way, and my Jeanne's gentle heart was touched
because you were a brave and handsome man, M'sieu Carrigan. But I am
not jealous. Jealousy is a worm that does not make friendship! And we
shall be friends. Only as a friend could I take you to the Chateau
Boulain, far up on the Yellowknife. And we are going there."
In spite of what might have been the entirely proper thing to do at
this particular moment, Carrigan's face broke into a smile as he drew a
second chair up close to the table. He was swift to readjust himself.
It came suddenly back to him how he had grinned behind the rock, when
death seemed close at hand. And St. Pierre was like that now. David
measured him again as the chief of the Boulains sat down opposite him.
Such a man could not be afraid of anything on the face of the earth,
even of the Law. The gleam that lay in his eyes told David that as they
met his own over the table. "We are smiling now because it happens to
please us," David read in them. "But in a moment, if it is necessary,
we shall fight."
Carrigan leaned a little over the table. "You know we are not going to
the Chateau Boulain, St. Pierre," he said. "We are going to stop at
Fort McMurray, and there you and your wife must answer for a number of
things that have happened. There is one way out--possibly. That is
largely up to you. Why did your wife try to kill me behind the rock?
And what did you know about Black Roger Audemard?"
St. Pierre's eyes did not for an instant leave Carrigan's face. Slowly
a change came into them; the smile faded, the blue went out, and up
from behind seemed to come another pair of eyes that were hard as steel
and cold as ice. Yet they were not eyes that threatened, nor eyes that
betrayed excitement or passion. And St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke,
lacked the deep and vibrant note that had been in it. It was as if he
had placed upon it the force of a mighty will, chaining it back, just
as something hidden and terrible lay chained behind his eyes.
"Why play like little children, M'sieu Carrigan?" he asked. "Why not
come out squarely, honestly, like men? I know what has happened. Mon
Dieu, it was bad! You were almost killed, and you heard that poor
wreck, Andre, call for Roger Audemard. My Jeanne has told you about
that--how I found him in the forest with his broken mind and body. And
about my Jeanne--" St. Pierre's fists grew into knotted lumps on the
table. "Non, I will die--I will kill you--before I will tell you why
she shot at you behind the rock! We are men, both of us. We are not
afraid. And you--in my place--what would YOU do, m'sieu?"
In the moment's silence each man looked steadily at the other.
"I would--fight," said David slowly. "If it was for her, I am pretty
sure I would fight."
He believed that he was drawing the net in now, that it would catch St.
Pierre. He leaned a little farther over the table.
"And I, too, must fight," he added. "You know our law, St. Pierre. We
don't go back without our man--unless we happen to die. And I would be
stupid if I did not understand the situation here. It would be quite
easy for you to get rid of me. But I don't believe you are a murderer,
even if your Jeanne tried to be." A flicker of a smile crossed his
lips. "And Marie-Anne--I beg pardon!--your wife--"
St. Pierre interrupted him. "It will please me to have you call her
Marie-Anne. And it will please her also, m'sieu. Dieu, if we only had
eyes that could see what is in a woman's heart! Life is funny, m'sieu.
It is a great joke, I swear it on my soul!"
He shrugged his shoulders, smiling again straight into David's eyes.
"See what has happened! You set out for a murderer. My Jeanne makes a
great mistake and shoots you. Then she pities you, saves your life,
brings you here, and--ma foi! it is true--learns to care for you more
than she should! But that does not make me want to kill you. Non, her
happiness is mine. Dead men tell no tales, m'sieu, but there are times
when living men also keep tales to themselves. And that is what you are
going to do, M'sieu Carrigan. You are going to keep to yourself the
thing that happened behind the rock. You are going to keep to yourself
the mumblings of our poor mad Andre. Never will they pass your lips. I
know. I swear it. I stake my life on it!" St. Pierre was talking slowly
and unexcitedly. There was an immeasurable confidence in his deep
voice. It did not imply a threat or a warning. He was sure of himself.
And his eyes had deepened into blue again and were almost friendly.
"You would stake your life?" repeated Carrigan questioningly. "You
would do that?"
St. Pierre rose to his feet and looked about the cabin with a shining
light in his eyes that was both pride and exaltation. He moved toward
the end of the room, where the piano stood, and for a moment his big
fingers touched the keys; then, seeing the lacy bit of handkerchief
that lay there, he picked it up--and placed it back again. Carrigan did
not urge his question, but waited. In spite of his effort to fight it
down he found himself in the grip of a mysterious and growing thrill as
he watched St. Pierre. Never had the presence of another man had the
same effect upon him, and strangely the thought came to him that he was
matched--even overmatched. It was as if St. Pierre had brought with him
into the cabin something more than the splendid strength of his body, a
thing that reached out in the interval of silence between them, warning
Carrigan that all the law in the world would not swerve the chief of
the Boulains from what was already in his mind. For a moment the
thought passed from David that fate had placed him up against the
hazard of enmity with St. Pierre. His vision centered in the man alone.
And as he, too, rose to his feet, an unconscious smile came to his lips
as he recalled the boastings of Bateese.
"I ask you," said he, "if you would really stake your life in a matter
such as that? Of course, if your words were merely accidental, and
meant nothing--"
"If I had a dozen lives, I would stake them, one on top of the other,
as I have said," interrupted St. Pierre. Suddenly his laugh boomed out
and his voice became louder. "M'sieu Carrigan, I have come to offer you
just that test! Oui, I could kill you now. I could put you at the
bottom of the river, as Bateese thinks is right. Mon Dieu, how
completely I could make you disappear! And then my Jeanne would be
safe. She would not go behind prison bars. She would go on living, and
laughing, and singing in the big forests, where she belongs. And Black
Roger Audemard, the rascal, would be safe for a time! But that would be
like destroying a little child. You are so helpless now. So you are
going on to the Chateau Boulain with us, and if at the end of the
second month from today you do not willingly say I have won my
wager--why--m'sieu--I will go with you into the forest, and you may
shoot out of me the life which is my end of the gamble. Is that not
fair? Can you suggest a better way--between men like you and me?"
"I can at least suggest a way that has the virtue of saving time,"
replied David. "First, however, I must understand my position here. I
am, I take it, a prisoner."
"A guest, with certain restrictions placed upon you, m'sieu," corrected
St. Pierre.
The eyes of the two men met on a dead level.
"Tomorrow morning I am going to fight Bateese," said David. "It is a
little sporting event we have fixed up between us for the amusement
of--your men. I have heard that Bateese is the best fighting man along
the Three Rivers. And I--I do not like to have any other man claim that
distinction when I am around."
For the first time St. Pierre's placidity seemed to leave him. His brow
became clouded, a moment's frown grew in his face, and there was a
certain disconsolate hopelessness in the shrug of his shoulders. It was
as if Carrigan's words had suddenly robbed the day of all its sunshine
for the chief of the Boulains. His voice, too, carried an unhappy and
disappointed note as he made a gesture toward the window.
"M'sieu, on that raft out there are many of my men, and they have
scarcely rested or slept since word was brought to them that a stranger
was to fight Concombre Bateese. Tonnerre, they have gambled without
ever seeing you until the clothes on their backs are in the hazard, and
they have cracked their muscles in labor to overtake you! They have
prayed away their very souls that it would be a good fight, and that
Bateese would not eat you up too quickly. It has been a long time since
we have seen a good fight, a long time since the last man dared to
stand up against the half-breed. Ugh, it tears out my heart to tell you
that the fight can not be!"
St. Pierre made no effort to suppress his emotion. He was like a huge,
disappointed boy. He walked to the window, peered forth at the raft,
and as he shrugged his big shoulders again something like a groan came
from him.
The thrill of approaching triumph swept through David's blood. The
flame of it was in his eyes when St. Pierre turned from the window.
"And you are disappointed, St. Pierre? You would like to see that
fight!"
The blue steel in St. Pierre's eyes flashed back. "If the price were a
year of my life, I would give it--if Bateese did not eat you up too
quickly. I love to look upon a good fight, where there is no venom of
hatred in the blows!"
"Then you shall see a good fight, St. Pierre."
"Bateese would kill you, m'sieu. You are not big. You are not his
match."
"I shall whip him, St. Pierre--whip him until he avows me his master."
"You do not know the half-breed, m'sieu. Twice I have tried him in
friendly combat myself and have been beaten."
"But I shall whip him," repeated Carrigan. "I will wager you
anything--anything in the world--even life against life--that I whip
him!"
The gloom had faded from the face of St. Pierre Boulain. But in a
moment it clouded again.
"My Jeanne has made me promise that I will stop the fight," he said.
"And why--why should she insist in a matter such as this, which
properly should be settled among men?" asked David.
Again St. Pierre laughed; with an effort, it seemed, "She is
gentle-hearted, m'sieu. She laughed and thought it quite a joke when
Bateese humbled me. 'What! My great St. Pierre, with the blood of old
France in his veins, beaten by a man who has been named after a
vegetable!' she cried. I tell you she was merry over it, m'sieu! She
laughed until the tears came into her eyes. But with you it is
different. She was white when she entreated me not to let you fight
Bateese. Yes, she is afraid you will be badly hurt. And she does not
want to see you hurt again. But I tell you that I am not jealous,
m'sieu! She does not try to hide things from me. She tells me
everything, like a little child. And so--"
"I am going to fight Bateese," said David. He wondered if St. Pierre
could hear the thumping of his heart, or if his face gave betrayal of
the hot flood it was pumping through his body. "Bateese and I have
pledged ourselves. We shall fight, unless you tie one of us hand and
foot. And as for a wager--"
"Yes--what have you to wager?" demanded St. Pierre eagerly.
"You know the odds are great," temporized Carrigan.
"That I concede, m'sieu."
"But a fight without a wager would be like a pipe without tobacco, St.
Pierre."
"You speak truly, m'sieu."
David came nearer and laid a hand on the other's arm. "St. Pierre, I
hope you--and your Jeanne--will understand what I am about to offer. It
is this. If Bateese whips me, I will disappear into the forests, and no
word shall ever pass my lips of what has passed since that hour behind
the rock--and this. No whisper of it will ever reach the Law. I will
forget the attempted murder and the suspicious mumblings of your Broken
Man. You will be safe. Your Jeanne will be safe--if Bateese whips me."
He paused, and waited. St. Pierre made no answer, but amazement came
into his face, and after that a slow and burning fire in his eyes which
told how deeply and vitally Carrigan's words had struck into his soul.
"And if I should happen to win," continued David, turning a bit
carelessly toward the window, "why, I should expect as large a payment
from you. If I win, your fulfillment of the wager will be to tell me in
every detail why your wife tried to kill me behind the rock, and you
will also tell me all that you know about the man I am after, Black
Roger Audemard. That is all. I am asking for no odds, though you
concede the handicap is great."
He did not look at St. Pierre. Behind him he heard the other's deep
breathing. For a space neither spoke. Outside they could hear the soft
swish of water, the low voices of men in the stern, and a shout and the
barking of a dog coming from the raft far out on the river. For David
the moment was one of suspense. He turned again, a bit carelessly, as
if his proposition were a matter of but little significance to him. St.
Pierre was not looking at him. He was staring toward the door, as if
through it he could see the powerful form of Bateese bending over the
stern sweep. And Carrigan could see that his face was flaming with a
great desire, and that the blood in his body was pounding to the mighty
urge of it.
Suddenly he faced Carrigan.
"M'sieu, listen to me," he said. "You are a brave man. You are a man of
honor, and I know you will bury sacredly in your heart what I am going
to tell you now, and never let a word of it escape--even to my Jeanne.
I do not blame you for loving her. Non! You could not help that. You
have fought well to keep it within yourself, and for that I honor you.
How do I know? Mon Dieu, she has told me! A woman's heart understands,
and a woman's ears are quick to hear, m'sieu. When you were sick, and
your mind was wandering, you told her again and again that you loved
her--and when she brought you back to life, her eyes saw more than once
the truth of what your lips had betrayed, though you tried to keep it
to yourself. Even more, m'sieu--she felt the touch of your lips on her
hair that day. She understands. She has told me everything, openly,
innocently--yet her heart thrills with that sympathy of a woman who
knows she is loved. M'sieu, if you could have seen the light in her
eyes and the glow in her cheeks as she told me these secrets. But I am
not jealous! Non! It is only because you are a brave man, and one of
honor, that I tell you all this. She would die of shame did she know I
had betrayed her confidence. Yet it is necessary that I tell you,
because if we make the big wager we must drop my Jeanne from the
gamble. Do you comprehend me, m'sieu?
"We are two men, strong men, fighting men. I--Pierre Boulain--can not
feel the shame of jealousy where a woman's heart is pure and sweet, and
where a man has fought against love with honor as you have fought. And
you, m'sieu--David Carrigan, of the Police--can not strike with your
hard man's hand that tender heart, that is like a flower, and which
this moment is beating faster than it should with the fear that some
harm is going to befall you. Is it not so, m'sieu? We will make the
wager, yes. But if you whip Bateese--and you can not do that in a
hundred years of fighting--I will not tell you why my Jeanne shot at
you behind the rock. Non, never! Yet I swear I will tell you the other.
If you win, I will tell you all I know about Roger Audemard, and that
is considerable, m'sieu. Do you agree?"
Slowly David held out a hand. St. Pierre's gripped it. The fingers of
the two men met like bands of steel.
"Tomorrow you will fight," said St. Pierre. "You will fight and be
beaten so terribly that you may always show the marks of it. I am
sorry. Such a man as you I would rather have as a brother than an
enemy. And she will never forgive me. She will always remember it. The
thought will never die out of her heart that I was a beast to let you
fight Bateese. But it is best for all. And my men? Ah! Diable, but it
will be great sport for them, m'sieu!"
His hand unclasped. He turned to the door. A moment later it closed
behind him, and David was alone. He had not spoken. He had not replied
to the engulfing truths that had fallen quietly and without a betrayal
of passion from St. Pierre's lips. Inwardly he was crushed. Yet his
face was like stone, hiding his shame. And then, suddenly, there came a
sound from outside that sent the blood through his cold veins again. It
was laughter, the great, booming laughter of St. Pierre! It was not the
merriment of a man whose heart was bleeding, or into whose life had
come an unexpected pain or grief. It was wild and free, and filled with
the joy of the sun-filled day.
And David, listening to it, felt something that was more than
admiration for this man growing within him. And unconsciously his lips
repeated St. Pierre's words.
"Tomorrow--you will fight."