Kitabı oku: «The Wilderness Trail», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XX
AWAITING THE HANGMAN

Stretched on a rough bed of blanket-covered branches, in a low, squat log cabin, a man lay smoking his pipe, and conversing in snatches with two other men who sat by the door, also smoking pipes.

The man on the bed was not yet thirty years old, but his face was furrowed with lines of care – not only lines of care, but of character. The hair about his temples was sprinkled with gray, a fact that added to the dignity of his countenance. In his whole attitude, as he lay, there was a certain masterful repose and self-confidence, an air of peace and understanding that sat well upon him.

The men at the door, on the other hand, were nervous and miserable, and shifted their positions uneasily now and again. A small fire burned in the middle of the room.

“What time is it, boys?” asked the man on the bunk.

“Three o'clock, Mac,” replied Timmins, pulling on his watch with fingers that shook, and straining his eyes in the dim light.

“Four or five hours more. That's what I hate, this waiting. I'll be mighty glad when I hear the steps outside.”

“Don't, Mac, for heaven's sake!” muttered Buxton hoarsely, his languid drawl gone for once. Then, he burst out: “McTavish, I can't stand this – this thing that's going to happen. It's murder, that's what it is! Why don't you tell all the circumstances of that night Indian Tom was killed?

“It wouldn't get me off, if I did. Can't you see that Fitzpatrick is going to get me, even if he has to do it with his own hands? I did tell about going to Peter Rainy in the woods, and it only strengthened the circumstantial evidence. If I told of the other person I was with when the shot came, it would only draw out a flood of revelations, and not in the slightest change the verdict. Besides, it would bring at least half-a-dozen people to their graves in shame and sorrow. No, Buxton, even if I could get myself off, I haven't any right to do it.”

Donald lighted his pipe again and fell into a somber reverie. For two weeks now, he had been in his cabin, awaiting the end. The men that sentenced him to death had ordained a fortnight in which he might change his mind, and save himself, if he would. Now, this was the finish. He sighed with relief. Then, a tender light came into his eyes. Only the day before, Jean Fitzpatrick, white and still with pain, had come to him, and had begged him, on her knees, to save himself at her expense.

“If you don't confess that I was with you that night, I'll do it myself,” she had cried, beside Herself.

And he had answered:

“Princess, if you do, I'll deny it.”

But even that had not convinced her, and she had risen with a firm purpose in her mind. Then, in the supreme renunciation of his life, he had told her everything; that he was a nobody, according to law; that her father was merely working out to a triumphal conclusion the revenge he had plotted so many years, and that there was but one way of cleaning the slate, which bore the writing of so many lives.

“When your father has done away with me I think he will be satisfied, for my father's heart will be broken and all the ambitions that have carried him to where he is will fall to ashes. I have a mother and a sister – ah, they would love you, my mother and sister! – and think what these revelations would mean to them. Disgrace and dishonor!

“Donald, what about me?” she had cried, weeping. “You haven't thought about me. You speak of your father and your mother and sister, but you haven't even mentioned me. Am I nothing to you? Oh, forgive me! I don't mean that! But, Donald, if I lose you, I shall die, too. Don't you see I can't live without you? You found me a girl innocent and ignorant of life, and of men. You were a good man, and you gave me a good love. And I gave you my love, the love of a grown woman, suddenly on fire with things I had never suspected before. Love can't come to me again. Oh, can't you think of me? And yourself! Haven't you the desire to live life to its greatest fulfilment? Can you give me up this way?”

Utterly selfish was her grief. But it was the innocent, instinctive selfishness of the wild thing robbed of its due. Hers was a nature as strong in its renunciation as in its seeking, but she had not come to renunciation yet… She stroked his head, pushing back the fur cap that he wore.

“Oh, my lover, my boy, your hair is streaked with gray! Oh, my poor darling!”

He smiled wanly.

“That,” he said faintly, “came after I had thought of you – and given you up!”

Then, the greater woman awakened in her, the woman that has drawn man's head upon her breast to comfort him since the world began; the woman that has borne the sons and daughters of the earth amid pain and fear and ingratitude; the woman that has ever stood aside, alike in right and wrong, that the man may achieve his destiny.

So, then, stood Jean Fitzpatrick in sight of the trimmed tree-limb that was soon to bear the body of him whom she knew to be hers. Her weeping was stilled, and the eyes that looked into the eyes of Donald McTavish bore alike the pain and the glory of woman's eternal sacrifice. And to them both came the sense of peace that follows a bitter struggle won. They talked a while of intimate, tender things, and then she left him.

“Look at him, Timmins,” whispered Buxton in an awed whisper. “Did you ever see a face with such glory in it all your life? He's seen something that you and I will never see, here or hereafter!”

Timmins looked… The light gradually died out before his eyes.

“What time is it, boys?” asked Donald.

“Four o'clock, Mac,” answered Timmins, glancing with difficulty at the watch that shook in his fingers.

“Let me have my pencil and note-book, will you? I want to write a letter or two.” The men hesitated, and the condemned man smiled. “Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll try any funny business at this late date. I give you my word, and that's still good, isn't it?

“It sure is, Mac,” said Buxton, and he brought him the articles required.

When the prisoner had begun to write awkwardly by the flickering light, the men engaged in a whispered conversation.

“Say, Mac – ” Timmins began hesitatingly, and paused. Then, abruptly, he continued boldly: “I've got a proposition to make you.”

“What is it?”

“Buxton and me have agreed it's the only fair thing to do. You take my revolver, and bang us both over the head with it, and make your get-away. We'll frame up a good story of a desperate struggle, and all that, to tell 'em when we come to. Then, nobody'll suffer, and we won't all have murder on our souls. But give us time to fix the story up beforehand,” he concluded, whimsically. “You see, we mightn't be able to think alike afterward.”

Donald actually laughed.

“It's no go, boys,” he said gratefully; “but I'll always remember your – ” He halted blankly, and Buxton cleared his throat viciously, and spat into the fire. The fact that “always” consisted for him of perhaps four hours, at most, occurred to the man about to die with something of surprise for a moment. Then, he went on writing.

He had just sealed a letter, and given it to Timmins, when he thought he detected a noise outside the cabin. Whether it was a step or a gruff whisper, he could not say. He listened curiously. Who should be about at this hour? Surely, it was too early for the —

“I wonder, do they keep their grub in this shack?” came the whisper of a man, speaking to a companion.

Where Donald lay, with his ear almost against the logs, the voices were distinct through the chinks, but did not reach the two guards at the door. He remained silent. There was a sound of breathing, and then stealthy steps, as the men pursued their investigations along the walls. What should he do? Who were they? If he spoke, he might precipitate some calamity of which he had no inkling. Thinking hard, he could reason out no situation in the camp that would call for men to be slinking about looking for food. Besides, every one knew that the little cabin was not a storehouse.

Knowing their man and sure of their own ability to cope with any situation that might arise, Timmins and Buxton had not been over-careful in making the door of the cabin fast. At best, the bar was only a piece of wood that turned on a peg, and its main use was to keep the door tightly closed on account of the cold draft that entered every crack. McTavish had been under guard since the morning of his arrest, and the watchers were grown careless. Now, the piece of wood was not turned full across the edge of the entrance – in fact, it just managed to keep it shut. A good stiff pull would —

There was a jerk at the outside handle, a cracking and scraping of wood, an icy blast set the little fire roaring. An instant later, a long gun, with a muffled face behind it, appeared and covered the three men.

“Here, you in the corner, get up, and let's see who you are?” said the man with the gun, and Donald, before that uncompromising barrel, stood.

“Well, by the great Lucifer,” came the soft oath, “if it isn't McTavish!”

“What do you want?” demanded Donald; “and who are you?” He resented this intrusion. The time for letters was growing less and less.

“What, don't you recognize me?” The man thrust his head forward, and worked his face out of the capote that covered the features. It was Seguis.

“Well, this is luck,” the half-breed was saying to himself. “All I have to do now is to take him out of here, and the coast is clear for my own operations.”

He said a few words in Ojibway, and a couple of men appeared behind him in the doorway, as he stepped inside.

“Take off your snowshoes,” he ordered Timmins, and the under-storekeeper obeyed with real joy. Had Seguis known it, the two men in front of him were much farther from resistance than was their prisoner.

Under command, McTavish donned the rackets, and followed his new captor out of doors. He was entirely prepared for traveling, even to gauntlets, for the temperature of the cabin had been but a few degrees higher than that of outdoors.

Seguis, with a few words to a couple of followers, gave Donald into their charge, bidding him accompany them. Timmins and Buxton, chuckling together, said nothing of the event that Seguis had interrupted, and even McTavish, in his exalted nervous state, was not fool enough to remark: “Don't take me away! – for I'm due to be hanged in the morning.”

Seguis and his free-traders had found the approaches to the camp ridiculously easy. In fact, for the last few days sentries had been withdrawn, Fitzpatrick resting assured that the free-traders would not make an aggressive move. He had learned in a parley that all Seguis and his men asked was peace, and a chance to follow their own path. The factor was waiting for reinforcements from Fort Severn, which he had asked Braithwaite to secure, if possible, among the friendly trappers; and, until they should arrive, and the present matter of discipline be off his hands, he had no desire to make an attack. Consequently, Seguis's party had crept stealthily closer and closer to the camp, undetected. It was the time when sleep in the North country is almost a coma, and the quiet approach aroused no one. In the light of the aurora and the stars, two log cabins stood forth conspicuously. Knowing Fitzpatrick's love of ceremony and distinction, Seguis gathered that the larger and better one was his. If so, the other probably contained provisions.

During the time that he talked to McTavish and his guards, he had not realized the strange situation in which he found them. As he came nearer and nearer to Jean Fitzpatrick, his mind had grown more and more intense against McTavish. What had happened to the unfortunate Hudson Bay man, he only knew imperfectly. But that the former should be in constant communication with the girl was a spur to his jealous imagination. If he could but get his rival out of the way, for a while at least, things would be so much easier. The bird had fallen unexpectedly into his hand, and for a time he did nothing but congratulate himself. McTavish was now on his way to Sturgeon Lake temporarily, and was safely off the board… But, after a while, the strangeness of the situation in the cabin struck him, and he turned to Timmins.

“What was going on in this place when I came in?” he asked.

“We were guarding McTavish.”

“What for?”

“He was to be hanged to-morrow for the murder of Indian Tom.”

Seguis's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged.

“Damnation, you idiot!” he said at last, wrathfully. “Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have interfered for the world.”

CHAPTER XXI
A NOTE AND ITS ANSWER

Ten minutes later, a man approached Seguis.

“We've found the provisions under a tent near the other cabin,” he said.

“Quick, then!” the half-breed snapped. “Get them out as soon as you can. If we can get away without being seen, so much the better.”

But in this, Seguis had counted without Buxton. Because of the passive actions of the two men upon his appearance the half-breed considered them cowards, and, after disarming them, had kept a careless watch over their movements, though always holding them in sight. In relieving them of rifles and revolvers, he thought he had silenced them, but Buxton was provided against just such an emergency. Beneath his outer garments, he wore a second belt, which permitted the suspension of a revolver in such a position that it could be neither seen nor felt in a hasty examination. Now, when the opportunity offered, he secured this weapon, and fired rapidly a number of times into the air.

Almost immediately tent doors were opened, and men, carrying weapons, burst out, bewildered, but aware of danger from the signal. By previous arrangement, they gathered around the factor's cabin, where Buxton had already taken his stand. In a moment, he had told them what had happened, and then the factor himself appeared. In the three weeks that had elapsed, he had recovered sufficiently to leave his bed, and his shoulder was almost healed. Now, he took command. In the meantime, Seguis's men, having secured a goodly supply of provisions, were making all speed into the forest. Fitzpatrick, dazed at the audacity of the free-traders, gave vent to an explosion of fury.

“Fire!” he commanded gratingly. “Kill every one of 'em. Fire!” And the leveled rifles of almost fifty men spoke with unerring aim. Three of those last to leave the camp fell, but the others, now in the protection of the forest, fled away on their snow-shoes at top speed.

“After 'em!” snarled Fitzpatrick. “Don't let one of 'em get away. We'll end this matter here.”

Instantly there was a rush for tents and belongings, for none of the men had had the opportunity to slip on snowshoes. Fifteen minutes later, the pursuers struck out, led by the aged factor, whose rage seemed to lend him almost superhuman strength. In vain, Jean had besought him to stay in camp, saying that the others would do just as well without him. At last, he had promised reluctantly to return in an hour. Two men who had been wounded previously were ordered to remain, and to put the storehouse in order.

When Charley Seguis heard the pistol of Buxton give warning, his first impulse was to turn upon the man, and shoot him dead. But his second – and Seguis usually listened to the second – was to get away peaceably with all the provisions possible. Consequently, his order rang out short and sharp, and was obeyed, for it was the principle of the free-traders to strike no blow except in defense. In his mind's eye, the intelligent half-breed reviewed the scene that must shortly ensue. After that first volley, he could picture the pursuers in their rush for equipment, the hasty start, and the deserted camp. Seguis had come hither for two purposes – to secure food, and to see Jean Fitzpatrick. He had accomplished the first; now to accomplish the second. Putting one of his trusted men in charge of the party, with directions to head for Sturgeon Lake, and explaining he was going to reconnoiter a little, Seguis struck sharply to the right, and began a long, circular detour. Half an hour brought him to a spot behind the Hudson Bay camp, where a considerable hill, with a few scattered trees, sheltered it from the northern storm blasts. Cautiously, and without a sound, Seguis climbed this hill, dodging from tree to tree. At last, he reached the summit, and, lying down on his stomach, peered over… His heart stood still. Not twenty yards away from him, slightly down the declivity, stood Jean Fitzpatrick. Her back was to him, and her eyes were glued to a pair of field-glasses. Evidently, she was trying to discern signs of the pursuit in a clear space several miles away.

Seguis looked beyond her interestedly. There was not a sign of life in the camp. The men who had stayed behind to right the storehouse were now in the woods, picking up any supplies that might have been dropped. Fortune had again favored him. Very cautiously, he stood upright, then slowly advanced. So intent was the girl upon the pursuit that she did not hear the delicate crunching of the snow-shoes. When ten feet away, he drew himself to his full height, and spoke her name, softly:

“Miss Jean.”

She whirled upon him swiftly, and shrank back Into herself, as though he had aimed a blow at her. He, on his part, could hardly believe his eyes when he looked into her face. This was not the happy, care-free, girlish Jean Fitzpatrick, who had laughed her way through the brief summer months. He saw, now, the face of a woman, who had learned much and suffered much. There were gravity in the eyes and a seriousness across the brow that served as the badges of this new realization; but there was no fear. After the first shrinking of surprise, she looked him coldly up and down.

“What do you want?” she said.

“To speak with you.”

“Did you come for that purpose especially?”

“Yes.” Seguis smiled a little, with satisfaction. In searching Timmins, he had found a letter addressed to Jean, in McTavish's handwriting. He might have to use it, and he might not.

“Keep your distance, sir,” the girl commanded, haughtily, “and we will talk. If you make a step nearer to me than you are now, I'll scream, and those men in the woods will hear me. And, if they hear me, and learn the trouble, it will go hard with you. Now, what do you want?”

Seguis had expected to find a fluttering, fearful youngling, somewhat impressed with his graces and courage. This businesslike disposal of his case caused his active mind to change its tack, as soon as it sensed the veer of the wind.

“I am here,” he said, “to present my compliments to you, along with those of a certain other man.”

“Whom do you mean?” Jean's voice was now a little tremulous, despite her discipline of it.

“Captain McTavish.”

“Oh!” she said, and she was silent for a moment, collecting herself. “But why do you, of all people, come with this message?” she added.

“No reason at all, except that I saved his life this morning, and thought you might want to learn the facts, and perhaps an inkling of his whereabouts.”

“Was that really your reason?” she asked, more kindly.

“It was one of them,” he answered, significantly.

It was now Jean's turn to look at her companion with some interest. He spoke with a certain dignity and reserve that she had never noticed in him before. His eyes were firm and steady when they met hers; his bearing was courteous. With a sort of horrible pleasure, she recognized that this was Donald's half-brother, and looked for a family resemblance. She found a very strong one, in the eyes and general stature. Mercifully for her feelings, the shape of the head was hidden in the swathed capote and fur cap. She wondered vaguely if he knew of the relationship.

“Where is – Captain McTavish?” she asked, finally.

“On his way to Sturgeon Lake.”

“Did he leave any message for me?”

“A letter that I have in my pocket.”

“May I see it?” she asked eagerly, involuntarily stretching forth her hand.

“How can I hand it to you, if I have to keep this distance?” Seguis asked, quizzically, and met her stare with humorous eyes.

“I'll come and get it,” she announced, “when you have it in your hand, ready for me to take.”

“You haven't thanked me yet for saving his life,” the half-breed reminded her. “If it hadn't been for me, he would now be – ”

“Don't!” she cried sharply, going pale of a sudden. “Don't ever make any reference to that!” She paused, then added: “I can't thank you enough though, Seguis, for the fact that you saved his life. Why did you do it?”

“I'll tell you later,” was the non-committal reply. “In the meantime, here is your letter.” He reached inside his shirt, and drew forth a dirty envelope, on which the girl's name was inscribed in pencil. He held it toward her without a word, and the girl clutched at it eagerly.

“Just a moment,” he said, withholding it. “You must read it here and now. I want to take it away with me. I must ask your promise in this matter.”

“Why?”

“You will learn that later, too. Will you promise?”

For a minute, the girl struggled, and then love won. Better to read the bitter parting message and lose it than not see it at all.

“Yes, I promise,” she said, quietly; and he immediately put the envelope in her hands.

Her trembling fingers picked at the flap as she turned away.

“You will pardon me?” she announced rather than asked, turning her back upon him. No living being must see her expression as these last words met her eye.

“Certainly.”

With seeming nonchalance, Seguis filled his pipe from a skin tobacco-pouch, and began to smoke. The men gathering up scattered stores at the edge of the woods below moved slowly and painfully because of their wounds, he noticed. A snow-bunting chirped from a drift near by, and faintly to his ears from the deeper woods came the chattering scold of a whiskey-jack, or jay. He noticed these things during the first few whiffs. Then, he looked once again at Jean. Her back was still turned, but presently she faced him slowly, her cheeks flushed, and her blue eyes starry bright, though wet. He appeared unconscious of her emotion, a thing for which she mentally thanked him. In fact, she found him less offensive every moment. He was different from any half-breed she had ever known, but he was only less offensive than others. He could never be anything better.

“Now, tell me why you want this letter back?” she asked, clinging to it desperately, as though it were her lover's hand.

“I want to take it to Captain McTavish, but I want you to write something on it first. You will pardon me if I ask if that was not a letter of farewell?”

“It was.”

“Have you a pencil with you?”

“Not here, but there is one in the cabin, among my father's journals. Shall I get it?” Then she bit her lip with vexation. Instead of dominating this interview, as she had intended, she was submitting herself to the plans of the half-breed.

“I must ask for the letter while you are gone.”

After a moment's thought Jean handed it to him, with a promise to return without warning the men at the edge of the woods. A certain curiosity to see this mysterious happening to its conclusion stirred within her. Now that Donald had escaped the shadow of death that had been hovering over him, her spirits rose buoyantly, and she was anxious to further anything that concerned him. She returned presently with the pencil, and asked Seguis what he wished her to do.

“Write him a note of farewell,” came the stolid command. “It will be the last message he will ever receive from you.”

Instantly her color fled; fear filled her eyes.

“What do you mean? You're not going to kill him?” she burst out.

“No. He is going to leave the country forever.”

“Did he tell you so?” she asked.

“No. But I want you to tell him so, in your own handwriting. It is the only thing that will save him. He'll obey you. I'll see that he gets a safe-conduct to the edge of the district. If you don't do this, I can't answer for what'll happen to him.”

“Then you will kill him!” she flashed. “I knew it. Look here, Seguis! What's your object in this? You have a motive, and I demand to know what it is.”

For an instant, the passion of the man leaped to his lips, and trembled there in hot words. But he crushed it down resolutely. He was too wise to ruin his plans now. Later, in a year, in two years, five years perhaps, when the memory of McTavish had dimmed, he would speak. But, now, he must not betray himself.

“I sha'n't kill him,” he returned, calmly. “Nothing is further from my mind. But I won't be responsible for what happens to him. There's only one way of saving his life – to send him out of the country. If he stays, he'll eventually be captured, and what nearly happened to-day will happen then. You wish him to live, don't you?

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, between dry lips. “Whatever happens to me, he must live.”

“Then, write as I suggest. Make it a command, not an entreaty. He'll obey you, and his life will be saved.”

For a few moments, Jean paused, irresolute, and then, with difficulty, started the message on the back of the pages McTavish had sent to her. There was no struggle now against the inevitable; that had been endured before. This was merely writing a different final chapter to their romance, and she felt glad of the opportunity to give him life, although life without her and without honor were an empty thing to him. Strong in the feeling that upon her words his very existence depended, she made them eager and hopeful, but imperative, appealing to those instincts in him that could not resist her desire. For perhaps ten minutes, she wrote, and then handed the paper to Seguis.

“I must read it,” he said, and, at her nod of acquiescence, puzzled out the words that emotion and her awkward position had made unsteady and misshapen. Then, he nodded his head with satisfaction, and tucked the letter away.

“Seguis,” said the girl, when he prepared to go, “what is your motive in doing this? You haven't answered my question.”

“My motive and my desire in this matter,” he replied feelingly, “is to secure your own happiness; nothing else.” With that, he turned away, and coasted swiftly down the hill to the edge of the forest whence he had come.

“My own happiness!” repeated the girl to herself, as she saw him disappear. “How strange a thing for him to say! And, yet, if only Donald is alive and safe I shall be happy – in knowing that he can still think of me.”

Five minutes later, a wind-driven snow-storm that had threatened all the morning broke with terrible fury, and, scarcely able to stand against the blast, she made her way down to the deserted cabin, just as the returning factor appeared at the edge of the woods.