XX

The shock of the amazing discovery which Carrigan had made was as

complete as it was unexpected. His eyes had looked upon the last thing

in the world he might have guessed at or anticipated when they beheld

through the window of St. Pierre's cabin the beautiful face and partly

disrobed figure of Carmin Fanchet. The first effect of that shock had

been to drive him away. His action had been involuntary, almost without

the benefit of reason, as if Carmin had been Marie-Anne herself

receiving the caresses which were rightfully hers, and upon which it

was both insult and dishonor for him to spy. He realized now that he

had made a mistake in leaving the window too quickly.

But he did not move back through the gloom, for there was something too

revolting in what he had seen, and with the revulsion of it a swift

understanding of the truth which made his hands clench as he sat down

on the edge of the raft with his feet and legs submerged in the

slow-moving current of the river. The thing was not uncommon. It was

the same monstrous story, as old as the river itself, but in this

instance it filled him with a sickening sort of horror which gripped

him at first even more than the strangeness of the fact that Carmin

Fanchet was the other woman. His vision and his soul were reaching out

to the bateau lying in darkness on the far side of the river, where St.

Pierre's wife was alone in her unhappiness. His first impulse was to

fling himself in the river and race to her--his second, to go back to

St. Pierre, even in his nakedness, and call him forth to a reckoning.

In his profession of man-hunting he had never had the misfortune to

kill, but he could kill St. Pierre--now. His fingers dug into the

slippery wood of the log under him, his blood ran hot, and in his eyes

blazed the fury of an animal as he stared into the wall of gloom

between him and Marie-Anne Boulain.

How much did she know? That was the first question which pounded in his

brain. He suddenly recalled his reference to the fight, his apology to

Marie-Anne that it should happen so near to her presence, and he saw

again the queer little twist of her mouth as she let slip the hint that

she was not the only one of her sex who would know of tomorrow's fight.

He had not noticed the significance of it then. But now it struck home.

Marie-Anne was surely aware of Carmin Fanchet's presence on the raft.

But did she know more than that? Did she know the truth, or was her

heart filled only with suspicion and fear, aggravated by St. Pierre's

neglect and his too-apparent haste to return to the raft that night?

Again David's mind flashed back, recalling her defense of Carmin

Fanchet when he had first told her his story of the woman whose brother

he had brought to the hangman's justice. There could be but one

conclusion. Marie-Anne knew Carmin Fanchet, and she also knew she was

on the raft with St. Pierre.

As cooler judgment returned to him, Carrigan refused to concede more

than that. For any one of a dozen reasons Carmin Fanchet might be on

the raft going down the river, and it was also quite within reason that

Marie-Anne might have some apprehension of a woman as beautiful as

Carmin, and possibly intuition had begun to impinge upon her a

disturbing fear of a something that might happen. But until tonight he

was confident she had fought against this suspicion, and had overridden

it, even though she knew a woman more beautiful than herself was slowly

drifting down the stream with her husband. She had betrayed no anxiety

to him in the days that had passed; she had waited eagerly for St.

Pierre; like a bird she had gone to him when at last he came, and he

had seen her crushed close in St. Pierre's arms in their meeting. It

was this night, with its gloom and its storm, that had made the

shadowings of her unrest a torturing reality. For St. Pierre had

brought her back to the bateau and had played a pitiably weak part in

concealing his desire to return to the raft.

So he told himself Marie-Anne did not know the truth, not as he had

seen it through the window of St. Pierre's cabin. She had been hurt,

for he had seen the sting of it, and in that same instant he had seen

her soul rise up and triumph. He saw again the sudden fire that came

into her eyes when St. Pierre urged the necessity of his haste, he saw

her slim body grow tense, her red lips curve in a flash of pride and

disdain. And as Carrigan thought of her in that way his muscles grew

tighter, and he cursed St. Pierre. Marie-Anne might be hurt, she might

guess that her husband's eyes and thoughts were too frequently upon

another's face--but in the glory of her womanhood it was impossible for

her to conceive of a crime such as he had witnessed through the cabin

window. Of that he was sure.

And then, suddenly, like a blinding sheet of lightning out of a dark

sky, came back to him all that St. Pierre had said about Marie-Anne. He

had pitied St. Pierre then; he had pitied this great cool-eyed giant of

a man who was fighting gloriously, he had thought, in the face of a

situation that would have excited most men. Frankly St. Pierre had told

him Marie-Anne cared more for him than she should. With equal frankness

he had revealed his wife's confessions to him, that she knew of his

love for her, of his kiss upon her hair.

In the blackness Carrigan's face burned hot. If he had in him the

desire to kill St. Pierre now, might not St. Pierre have had an equally

just desire to kill him? For he had known, even as he kissed her hair,

and as his arms held her close to his breast in crossing the creek,

that she was the wife of St. Pierre. And Marie-Anne--

His muscles relaxed. Slowly he lowered himself into the cool wash of

the river, and struck out toward the bateau. He did not breast the

current with the same fierce determination with which he had crossed

through the storm to the raft, but drifted with it and reached the

opposite shore a quarter of a mile below the bateau. Here he waited for

a time, while the thickness of the clouds broke, and a gray light came

through them, revealing dimly the narrow path of pebbly wash along the

shore. Silently, a stark naked shadow in the night, he came back to the

bateau and crawled through his window.

He lighted a lamp, and turned it very low, and in the dim glow of it

rubbed his muscles until they burned. He was fit for tomorrow, and the

knowledge of that fitness filled him with a savage elation. A

good-humored love of sport had induced him to fling his first

half-bantering challenge into the face of Concombre Bateese, but that

sentiment was gone. The approaching fight was no longer an incident, a

foolish error into which he had unwittingly plunged himself. In this

hour it was the biggest physical thing that had ever loomed up in his

life, and he yearned for the dawn with the eagerness of a beast that

waits for the kill which comes with the break of day. But it was not

the half-breed's face he saw under the hammering of his blows. He could

not hate the half-breed. He could not even dislike him now. He forced

himself to bed, and later he slept. In the dream that came to him it

was not Bateese who faced him in battle, but St. Pierre Boulain.

He awoke with that dream a thing of fire in his brain. The sun was not

yet up, but the flush of it was painting the east, and he dressed

quietly and carefully, listening for some sound of awakening beyond the

bulkhead. If Marie-Anne was awake, she was very still. There was noise

ashore. Across the river he could hear the singing of men, and through

his window saw the white smoke of early fires rising above the

tree-tops. It was the Indian who unlocked the door and brought in his

breakfast, and it was the Indian who returned for the dishes half an

hour later.

After that Carrigan waited, tense with the desire for action to begin.

He sensed no premonition of evil about to befall him. Every nerve and

sinew in his body was alive for the combat. He thrilled with an

overwhelming confidence, a conviction of his ability to win, an almost

dangerous, self-conviction of approaching triumph in spite of the odds

in weight and brute strength which were pitted against him. A dozen

times he listened at the bulkhead between him and Marie-Anne, and still

he heard no movement on the other side.

It was eight o'clock when one of the bateau men appeared at the door

and asked if he was ready. Quickly David joined him. He forgot his

taunts to Concombre Bateese, forgot the softly padded gloves in his

pack with which he had promised to pommel the half-breed into oblivion.

He was thinking only of naked fists.

Into a canoe he followed the bateau man, who turned his craft swiftly

in the direction of the opposite shore. And as they went, David was

sure he caught the slight movement of a curtain at the little window of

Marie-Anne's forward cabin. He smiled back and raised his hand, and at

that the curtain was drawn back entirely, and he knew that St. Pierre's

wife was watching him as he went to the fight.

The raft was deserted, but a little below it, on a wide strip of beach

made hard and smooth by flood water, had gathered a crowd of men. It

seemed odd to David they should remain so quiet, when he knew the

natural instinct of the riverman was to voice his emotion at the top of

his lungs. He spoke of this to the bateau man, who shrugged his

shoulders and grinned.

"Eet ees ze command of St. Pierre," he explained. "St. Pierre say no

man make beeg noise at--what you call heem--funeral? An' theese goin'

to be wan gran' fun-e-RAL, m'sieu!"

"I see," David nodded. He did not grin back at the other's humor.

He was looking at the crowd. A giant figure had appeared out of the

center of it and was coming slowly down to the river. It was St.

Pierre. Scarcely had the prow of the canoe touched shore when David

leaped out and hurried to meet him. Behind St. Pierre came Bateese, the

half-breed. He was stripped to the waist and naked from the knees down.

His gorilla-like arms hung huge and loose at his sides, and the muscles

of his hulking body stood out like carven mahogany in the glisten of

the morning sun. He was like a grizzly, a human beast of monstrous

power, something to look at, to back away from, to fear.

Yet, David scarcely noticed him. He met St. Pierre, faced him, and

stopped--and he had gone swiftly to this meeting, so that the chief of

the Boulains was within earshot of all his men.

St. Pierre was smiling. He held out his hand as he had held it out once

before in the bateau cabin, and his big voice boomed out a greeting.

Carrigan did not answer, nor did he look at the extended hand. For an

instant the eyes of the two men met, and then, swift as lightning,

Carrigan's arm shot out, and with the flat of his hand he struck St.

Pierre a terrific blow squarely on the cheek. The sound of the blow was

like the smash of a paddle on smooth water. Not a riverman but heard

it, and as St. Pierre staggered back, flung almost from his feet by its

force, a subdued cry of amazement broke from the waiting men. Concombre

Bateese stood like one stupefied. And then, in another flash, St.

Pierre had caught himself and whirled like a wild beast. Every muscle

in his body was drawn for a gigantic, overwhelming leap; his eyes

blazed; the fury of a beast was in his face. Before all his people he

had suffered the deadliest insult that could be offered a man of the

Three River Country--a blow struck with the flat of another's hand.

Anything else one might forgive, but not that. Such a blow, if not

avenged, was a brand that passed down into the second and third

generations, and even children would call out

"Yellow-Back--Yellow-Back," to the one who was coward enough to receive

it without resentment. A rumbling growl rose in the throat of Concombre

Bateese in that moment when it seemed as though St. Pierre Boulain was

about to kill the man who had struck him. He saw the promise of his own

fight gone in a flash. For no man in all the northland could now fight

David Carrigan ahead of St. Pierre.

David waited, prepared to meet the rush of a madman. And then, for a

second time, he saw a mighty struggle in the soul of St. Pierre. The

giant held himself back. The fury died out of his face, but his great

hands remained clenched as he said, for David alone,

"That was a playful blow, m'sieu? It was--a joke?"

"It was for you, St. Pierre," replied Carrigan, "You are a coward--and

a skunk. I swam to the raft last night, looked through your window, and

saw what happened there. You are not fit for a decent man to fight, yet

I will fight you, if you are not too great a coward--and dare to let

our wagers stand as they were made."

St. Pierre's eyes widened, and for a breath or two he stared at

Carrigan, as if looking into him and not at him. His big hands relaxed,

and slowly the panther-like readiness went out of his body. Those who

looked beheld the transformation in amazement, for of all who waited

only St. Pierre and the half-breed had heard Carrigan's words, though

they had seen and heard the blow of insult.

"You swam to the raft," repeated St. Pierre in a low voice, as if

doubting what he had heard. "You looked through the window--and saw--"

David nodded. He could not cover the sneering poison in his voice, his

contempt for the man who stood before him.

"Yes, I looked through the window. And I saw you, and the lowest woman

on the Three Rivers--the sister of a man I helped to hang, I--"

"STOP!"

St. Pierre's voice broke out of him like the sudden crash of thunder.

He came a step nearer, his face livid, his eyes shooting flame. With a

mighty effort he controlled himself again. And then, as if he saw

something which David could not see, he tried to smile, and in that

same instant David caught a grin cutting a great slash across the face

of Concombre Bateese. The change that came over St. Pierre now was

swift as sunlight coming out from shadowing cloud. A rumble grew in his

great chest. It broke in a low note of laughter from his lips, and he

faced the bateau across the river.

"M'sieu, you are sorry for HER. Is that it? You would fight--"

"For the cleanest, finest little girl who ever lived--your wife!"

"It is funny," said St. Pierre, as if speaking to himself, and still

looking at the bateau. "Yes, it is very funny, ma belle Marie-Anne! He

has told you he loves you, and he has kissed your hair and held you in

his arms--yet he wants to fight me because he thinks I am steeped in

sin, and to make me fight in place of Bateese he has called my Carmin a

low woman! So what else can I do? I must fight. I must whip him until

he can not walk. And then I will send him back for you to nurse,

cherie, and for that blessing I think he will willingly take my

punishment! Is it not so, m'sieu?"

He was smiling and no longer excited when he turned to David.

"M'sieu, I will fight you. And the wagers shall stand. And in this hour

let us be honest, like men, and make confession. You love ma belle

Jeanne--Marie-Anne? Is it not so? And I--I love my Carmin, whose

brother you hanged, as I love no other woman in the world. Now, if you

will have it so, let us fight!"

He began stripping off his shirt, and with a bellow in his throat

Concombre Bateese slouched away like a beaten gorilla to explain to St.

Pierre's people the change in the plan of battle. And as that news

spread like fire in the fir-tops, there came but a single cry in

response--shrill and terrible--and that was from the throat of Andre,

the Broken Man.