OTTWELL BINNS (continued 4)

"What is it?" she asked quickly.

"There is some one about," he answered. "I heard the twang of a bowstring and the swish of an arrow over my head. Some one aimed—Ah, there it is!"

He pointed to the wall of the cabin, where an arrow had struck, and still quivered. Going to the wall he dragged it out, and looked at it. It was ivory tipped, and must have been sent with great force. The girl looked at it with eyes that betrayed no alarm, though her face had grown pale.

"An Indian!" she said.

"Yes," he answered. "And more than one I should fancy. That fox-bark was a signal. No doubt it gave notice of our return."

"What shall we do?" asked Helen quietly.

"Do!" he answered with a short laugh. "We will have our supper and wait developments. We can do nothing else. We shall have to wait until daylight—then we may learn something."

Helen nodded. "Yes, I suppose there is nothing else to do; and a hostile force outside is no reason why we should die of hunger within."

Calmly, as if hostile Indians were part of the daily program, she continued the preparations for supper, whilst Stane fixed a blanket over the parchment window, which was the one vulnerable point in the cabin. This he wedged with the top of a packing case, which the owner of the cabin had improvised for a shelf, and by the time he had finished, supper was almost ready. As they seated themselves at the table, the girl laughed suddenly.

"I suppose we are in a state of siege?"

"I don't know, but I should not be surprised. It is very likely."

"I feel quite excited," she said. "Do you think we shall have to fight?"

"It depends what the intentions of our friends outside may be. We shall certainly have to be on the alert."

"You mean we shall have to keep watch."

"That I think will be necessary. They might try to rush the cabin, though I do not think they will. It is pretty solidly built."

"Why should Indians attack us?"

"I do not know. They may think that we are interfering with their hunting-rights."

"Perhaps this hostility explains why the owner of the cabin has not returned."

"That is possible. This is a good fur country; but he may have felt that the furs were not worth the risk."

"Yes!" answered Helen, and after a moment's silence asked: "Do you think those Indians up the lake have anything to do with it?"

"That is more than possible, indeed, it is very likely. I did not like that old chief. There was a very cunning look in his eyes and it is very possible that he designs to get rid of both us and Anderton. The mysterious visitants we have had, and the man in the wood this morning have a rather ominous look."

"But we shall fight them?"

"Of course! If they are going to fight, we shall fight; though for your sake I hope that won't be necessary."

"Oh, you must not mind me," was the reply, given with a little laugh. "The truth is that I think I should rather enjoy a fight."

Stane gave her a quick look of admiration. "I know you will not be afraid," he said, "and if Anderton gets through it may not be long before help arrives. Also it must be remembered that we may be disturbing ourselves unnecessarily. That," he nodded towards the arrow—"may be no more than the malicious freak of some hunter returning home, and meant to scare us."

"But you do not think so?" asked Helen, looking at his grave face.

"Well——" he began, but the girl interrupted him.

"You don't," she cried. "I know you don't. You have already admitted that you think the matter is serious, as I do myself, though I don't pretend to know anything about Indians. In a situation of this sort the truth is the best, and I know, we both know, that there is some occasion for concern. Is not that so?"

"Well," he agreed, "we can't be too careful."

"Then tell me what we must do," she said a little reproachfully, "and don't make me feel that I am a child."

He considered a moment, then he replied: "We must keep watch and watch through the night. Not that I think there will be any attack. These Northern Indians are wonderfully patient. They will play a waiting game, and in the end make a surprise attack. They will know that now we are on the alert, and I should not be surprised if for the present they have withdrawn altogether."

"You really believe that?"

"Honestly and truly!"

"Then for the moment we are safe."

"Yes! I think so; and you can go to rest with a quiet mind."

"Rest!" laughed the girl. "Do you think I can rest with my heart jumping with excitement? I shall keep the first watch, perhaps after that I shall be sufficiently tired—and bored—to go to sleep."

Stane smiled at her words, and admiration of her courage glowed in his eyes, but what she suggested fitted in well enough with his own desires, and he let her have her way, and himself lay down on his couch of spruce-boughs, and after a little time pretended to sleep. But in reality sleep was far from his eyes. From where he lay, he could see the girl's face, as she sat in the glowing light of the stove. There was a thoughtful, musing look upon it, but no sign of fear whatever, and he knew that her courageous demeanour was not an assumed one, but was the true index of the gay courage of her heart.

Helen was thinking of the face of Miskodeed as she had seen it over her shoulder, when they were departing from the encampment up the lake. She had read there a love for the man who was her own companion, and in the dark, wildly beautiful eyes she had seen the jealousy of an undisciplined nature. And as she sat in the glowing light of the stove, she was conscious of a feeling of antagonism to this rare daughter of the wilds who dared to love the man whom she herself loved. She understood, from the feelings she herself was conscious of, what must be the Indian girl's attitude towards herself, and was inclined to trace the hostility which had suddenly manifested itself to that source. The girl had been in the neighbourhood of the cabin once, she was sure of that, and might have come again, probably by some short path through the woods, her hand, possibly, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow which had awakened their apprehensions. But in that case, she asked herself, why had the arrow been directed against her companion rather than herself?

That she could not understand, and after a time her thoughts passed to the story which Stane had related to the policeman, and the account of the forged bill that the latter had given. The two together seemed absolutely conclusive. What a man had done once on the way of crime, he could do again, and as her conviction of Gerald Ainley's guilt grew, she was quite sure that somehow he was the moving spirit in her companion's deportation from Fort Malsun. He had not expected to see Hubert Stane, and when the latter had demanded an interview he had been afraid, and in his fear had taken steps for his removal. Ainley loved her; but now, if he were the last man left in the world, she would never——

A sound of movement interrupted her reverie, and she half-turned as Stane rose from his spruce-couch.

"You have heard nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she replied.

"I will take the watch now, Miss Yardely, and do you lie down and rest."

"I will lie down," she said with a little laugh, "but I am afraid sleep will be another matter. My mind is in a ferment."

"You can try at any rate," he said. "I will call you if any untoward thing occurs."

"You promise?" she asked. "I wouldn't miss one bit of anything that is happening—not for worlds."

"I promise," he answered with a smile.

"Though I devoutly hope there will be no need for me to keep the promise."

"I'm not at all sure I do," laughed Helen, and obediently retired to her screened bunk.

Stane lit his pipe, and seated himself near the stove. He had, as he had previously told the girl, little fear of any attack developing that night, and this anticipation proved to be the correct one. The still, dead hours passed in quietness, and when the grey day broke, he cautiously opened the cabin-door and looked out. Nothing stirred anywhere, either in the forest or lakewards. He turned and looked at his companion who had just emerged from her sleeping place.

"I think we have our little world to ourselves again."

"Whoever made the attack may be lurking in the woods!" said Helen.

"That of course is more than possible, but I do not think it is likely. It is extremely cold and a night in the open would be anything but desirable. The attacker or attackers, if from the Indian encampment, probably returned there. They must know that we can't leave here, and they will probably try to lull us into a feeling of security, and then attempt a surprise. Anyway after breakfast we'll beat the neighbouring coverts, I don't fancy being kept indoors by an enemy who may prove to be very contemptible."

When breakfast was finished and the necessary morning tasks finished, Stane, who had been in and out of the hut frequently and had kept a careful watch on the wood and lake, looked at Helen.

"Do you feel equal to facing the possible danger, Miss Yardely?"

"I am not afraid," answered Helen quickly, "and if I were I wouldn't own it—or show it, I hope."

"I don't believe you would," replied Stane with a smile. "We will go out, first on the lake where we can survey the shore; and then along the path in the woods where we saw that man yesterday."

"About that man," said Helen slowly. "There was something that I meant to tell you yesterday, but I forgot it again in the excitement of Mr. Anderton's arrival."

"What was that?" asked Stane pausing in the act of slipping on his fur parka.

"Well, I had an odd fancy that he was not an Indian."

"You thought he was a white man?"

"Yes," answered Helen, "that idea occurred to me when you spoke of Indians. The man may have been a native, but in the fleeting glimpse I had of him he did not give me that impression. Of course I may be utterly mistaken."

"But what white man would run away from us?" asked Stane, thoughtfully. "What could possibly be his reason for avoiding us?"

"I don't know," answered Helen, with a quick laugh. "And as it may be no more than my fancy, the question of the man's racial identity is not worth worrying over. I merely thought I would tell you what my impression was."

Stane nodded. "Anyway, white or red he is not going to keep us from our walk. Are you ready?"

"Quite," she answered, and going outside they slipped on their snow-shoes, and then made a bee-line out on the lake.

They walked forward for perhaps half-a-mile and halted at a point whence they got a wide view of the shore. Stane looked up and down the lake. Its smooth white surface was absolutely without life but for his companion and himself. Then he scrutinized the shore, point by point, creek by creek, and Helen also looked carefully.

"No sign of any one," he commented at last. "No camp or fire, we might be alone in the world. If there is any one he is hidden in the deep woods, and for the present invisible. I think instead of going back to the cabin we will make a detour to the point where we surprised the stranger yesterday."

Stane leading, to break the track in the untrodden snow, they made their way shorewards and struck it well to the north of the cabin, then began to work through the woods, keeping a sharp look out as they went. They saw nothing, however, and when they reached the bushes behind which the stranger had slipped the previous day, there were no fresh tracks to awaken alarm. They stood there looking down between the serried lines of trees. Nothing save the trees was visible, and there was no sound of movement anywhere. The silence was the silence of primeval places, and somehow, possibly because of the tenseness of nerve induced by the circumstances of the walk, the girl was more conscious of it than ever she had been before.

"There is something inimical in the silence up here," she said in a whisper, as she gave a little shudder. "One has a feeling as if all the world of nature were lying in wait to ambush one."

"Nature red in tooth and claw," Stane quoted lightly, "only up here her teeth are white, and her claws also. And when she bares them a man has little chance. But I understand your feeling, one has the sense of a besetting menace. I felt it often last winter when I was new to the country, and it is a very nasty feeling—as if malign gods were at work to destroy one, or as if fate were about to snip with her scissors."

"Yes," answered the girl, still whisperingly, then she smiled. "I have never felt quite like this before. I suppose it rises out of the real menace that may be hidden in the woods, the menace of some one watching and waiting to strike."

"Very possible," answered Stane, flashing a quick look at her. He was looking for the sign of fear, but found none, and a second later he said abruptly: "Miss Yardely, I think you are very brave."

"Oh," laughed the girl in some confusion, "I don't know that, but I hope I am not below the general average of my sex."

"You are above it," he said with emphasis. "And I know that this, even for the bravest of women, must be rather a nerve-breaking walk."

"I won't deny that I find it so," was the reply. "But I am sustained by an ideal."

"Indeed?" he asked inquiringly.

"Yes! Years ago I read about some English women in India who were at a military station when the Mutiny broke out. The regiments in the neighbourhood were suspected of disloyalty and any sign of fear or panic would have precipitated a catastrophe. If the women had left, the Sepoys would have known that they were suspected, so they remained where they were, attending to their households, paying their ordinary calls, riding about the district as if the volcano were not bubbling under their feet, and they even got up a ball in defiance of the danger. Some people would call the latter mere bravado, but I am sure it was just a picturesque kind of courage, and in any case it impressed the Sepoys. Those particular regiments remained loyal—and it was the behaviour of the white women which saved the situation. And their courage is my ideal. I have always felt that if I were placed in a similar situation I would at least try to live up to it."

"You are doing so," answered Stane with conviction. "This situation is not quite the same, but——" He broke off and looked round the silent woods, which might well be the hiding-place of implacable enemies, then added: "Well, it is a test of character and courage!"

"Oh," laughed the girl a little nervously, "you do not know how I am quaking inwardly."

"I am not to blame for that," he answered laughingly, "you conceal the fact so well."

In due time they reached the cabin without mishap. They had found no sign of the enemy of the previous night. If he still lurked in the wood he kept himself hidden and Stane hoped that he had withdrawn for good. But he determined to take no chances, and busied himself in the next few hours with cutting a good store of wood which he stacked in the cabin. He also chopped a considerable amount of ice which he stored as far away from the stove as possible. Some cached moose-meat, which was frozen solid as a board, he hung on the rafters of the cabin, which themselves were white with frost.

The short day had almost ended when he had completed these tasks, and he was about to enter the cabin, when through the dusk he caught sight of a figure, standing among the trees openly watching him. The garb proclaimed the figure to be that of a woman, and for a moment he was utterly startled. Then, acting on impulse, he started to walk towards the watcher, his unmittened hand on the butt of the pistol at his hip.

CHAPTER XVII

THE ATTACK

The watching woman made no attempt to escape, but somewhat to Stane's surprise, awaited his coming. As he drew nearer he was again startled to find that it was the girl whom he had talked with at Fort Malsun.

"Miskodeed," he cried in surprise. "You! What are you doing here?"

"I come to warn thee," said the girl in her own dialect. "Once before I did that, and I was too late. But now I am in time."

"To warn me?" he echoed, still too surprised to say more.

"Yes," answered Miskodeed. "There are those who will seek to kill thee tonight."

"Tonight! But why?"

"I do not know, fully. The thing is hidden from me, but there is some one who means to slay."

"Who is it?" asked Stane in sudden curiosity.

"It is the son of Chief George's sister—the man for whom the officer came to the encampment yesterday."

"Then he is at the camp, after all?"

"He was there when the officer came. The story which Chief George told about his departure to the Great Barrens was a lie."

"But why should he seek to kill me?"

"Have I not said I do not know fully? But he promises big things if thou are slain: rifles and the water that burns and makes men sing, and tea and molasses, and blankets for the women."

"But," protested Stane, "I have but one rifle and little spirit and tea. I am not worth plundering, and Chief George must know that the law will take account of his doings, and that the grip of the law reaches right up to the Frozen Sea."

"He knows," answered the girl quietly, "but Chigmok—that is his sister's son—has filled him with a lying tale that the law will take no account of thee, and he believes, as Chigmok himself believes."

"But——" began Stane, and broke off as the girl lifted her hand.

"Chief George has seen the rifles, and the burning water, the box of tea and the bale of blankets, and his soul is hungry for them. He would kill more than thee to win them."

"And the—the man who is with me?"

A little flash came in the girl's dark eyes. "That man——" she said in a voice that had an edge like a knife, "tell me, is she thy squaw?"

"Then you know, Miskodeed?" he said, with a quick feeling of shame.

"I know that man is the bright-faced woman who came to Fort Malsun. Tell me, is she thy squaw?"

"No?" he answered sharply. "No!"

"Then what does she in thy lodge?"

"That is due to an accident. She drifted down to the great river, and I saved her from the water, and started to take her back to Fort Malsun. Our canoe was stolen in the night, and when we took the land-trail my leg was broken and we were delayed, and by the time I was fit for travel, winter was upon us, so we sought the cabin to wait for help. That is the explanation, and now tell me, Miskodeed, is the woman to die?"

"The bright-faced one is to be saved alive."

"Ah! That is an order?"

"It is necessary for the winning of the rifles, and the tea and the blankets."

Stane pursed his lips to whistle at the news. There was more behind it than appeared; and he knew that Chigmok the murderous half-breed was not the framer of the plot, however, he might be the instrument for its execution. He looked at the girl thoughtfully for a moment, and as he did so a soft look came in the wild, dark eyes that were regarding him intently.

"Canst thou not leave the bright-faced woman, and I will show thee a way through the woods. We will go together——"

"It is impossible! Quite impossible, Miskodeed," cried Stane almost violently.

He did not know that other ears than those to which they were addressed caught those words of repudiation. Helen Yardely, missing his presence about the cabin, had stepped out to look for him, and catching a murmur of voices in the still air, had stood listening. The words, coupled with the girl's name, reached her quite clearly, and struck her like a blow. She did not wait to hear more, but retreated to the cabin, her cheeks burning with shame, her grey eyes bright with fierce scorn. She did not know to what the words referred, but, in her haste and jealousy she utterly misinterpreted the situation, and her scorn was as much for herself as for Stane as she thought how she had grown to love a man who——

The thought was an intolerable one. She could not endure it, and she began fiercely to do a totally unnecessary task in the hope of driving it from her. That was impossible, and after a minute or two she seated herself in front of the stove and stared into its glow with eyes that flashed with mingled anger and pain, the while she awaited Stane's return.

Meanwhile, the interview which had kindled such fires within her had already come to an abrupt conclusion. For as Stane declined her suggestion Miskodeed lifted a warning finger.

"Hark!" she whispered.

Stane listened, as did the girl. Whatever sound had made her speak the word was hushed, and after a few seconds she spoke again. "Then thou wilt die for this bright-faced woman?"

"A thousand times!" he answered with quiet vehemence. "Understand, Miskodeed——"

He got no further. In the recesses of the wood a fox barked sharply, and a second later the sound was repeated in two different directions.

"Ah," cried the Indian girl, "They come. Thou art too late. Thou wilt die for thy bright-faced woman now—once."

A second later she turned away, and began to walk rapidly between the trees. Stane did not stand to watch her go. Without an instant's delay he made for the cabin at a run, and as he entered it, breathing rather heavily, he flung to the door and dropped the wooden bar in place. Then without a word he walked to the window and barricaded it as he had done on the previous night. Helen still seated by the stove looked at him in some wonder, and he offered what to him appeared a sufficient explanation.

"Last night when we returned a fox barked in the wood, and a little after some one shot an arrow to kill me. Just now three foxes barked in quick succession in different directions, and as I have not seen a fox since we came here, I think it is as well to take precautions."

To his surprise Helen offered no comment, but sat there as if waiting for further explanations. He offered none. Being unaware of his companion's knowledge of his interview with Miskodeed he had decided to keep the incident to himself, and not to alarm her more than was necessary. Seating himself, he lit a pipe, and as his companion showed no inclination to talk, fell into thought. There was a rather strained, perplexed look on his face, and as the girl glanced at him once she wondered resentfully what thoughts accounted for it. His silence about the Indian girl told against him in her mind. If there had been nothing to be ashamed of in his relations with Miskodeed why had he not spoken openly of the incident in the wood? Jealousy, it was recorded of old, is as cruel as the grave, and as the hot flame of it grew in her heart, she almost hated the girl who was the occasion of it.

As a matter of sober fact, Stane was thinking little of Miskodeed herself, but much of the information she had brought. Whilst he kept his ears open for any unusual sounds outside the cabin, his mind was trying to probe the mystery behind the attack that, as he was sure, was preparing. Who was the inspirer of it, and why should his death be designed, whilst his companion must be spared? Miskodeed had spoken of the price that was to be paid for the attack—rifles and spirit, tea, molasses and blankets. The nature of the bribe was such as would tempt any tribe in the North and was also such as implied a white man in the background. But who was the white man who so chose his instruments for a deed from which apparently he himself shrank? The question perplexed him, and a deep furrow manifested itself between his eyes as he strove to answer it. Ainley? He dallied with the thought for a little time, and then dismissed it. Ainley was afraid of him and shrank from meeting him, but he would hardly go to such lengths as Miskodeed's statement implied; nor would he involve Helen Yardely's life in the extreme risk incidental to an attack in force on the cabin. It was unthinkable!

His mind sought other explanations. Was there some other man, some white man who had seen Helen and by this means hoped to secure her for himself? The thought was preposterous. Then a new thought leaped up. The reward Sir James was offering for his niece's recovery! Had some man his eye on that—some unscrupulous adventurer, who fearing possibly that he himself might claim a share in it, proposed to get rid of him that there might be no division of the spoil? That seemed barely feasible, and——

His thought suffered a sudden interruption. From outside came the crunch of moccasined feet on the frozen snow. He started to his feet, and took up his rifle, glancing quickly at the girl as he did so. There was a flush of excitement in her face, but the eyes that met his chilled him with their unresponsiveness. He held out his machine pistol.

"You had better have this, for the present, Miss Yardely, for I believe the attack is coming. But don't use it unless I tell you."

She took the pistol without a word, and the austerity of her manner as she did so, even in that moment, set him wondering what was the cause of it. But he had little time to dwell upon the matter for more footsteps were audible, and a voice grunted words that he did not catch. He picked up an ax, put it ready to his hand close to the door and then extinguished the slush-lamp.

The cabin was now full of shadows, though he could still see the girl's face in the glare of the stove, and marked with satisfaction that it bore no sign of fear. The position where she stood, however, was not a safe one, and he was constrained to bid her change it.

"You had better come into the corner here, Miss Yardely. It is out of range of any chance arrow through the window. That barricade of mine cannot last long, and they are sure to try the window."

The girl did not answer, but she changed her position, moving to the corner he had indicated, and just as she did so, two or three blows of an ax (as he guessed) knocked out the parchment of the window, but the barricade stood firm. The attack however, continued, and as the improvised shutter began to yield, Stane raised his rifle.

"There is nothing else for it," he whispered.

The next moment the rifle cracked and the sound was followed by a cry of pain.

"First blood!" he said, a little grimly.

There was a short lull, then something heavy smashed against the shutter and it collapsed in the room. As it did so a gun barrel was thrust in the opening, and a shot was fired apparently at random. The bullet struck the cabin wall a full two yards from where Helen was standing. Stane turned to her quickly.

"As close in the corner as you can get, Miss Yardely; then there will be no danger except from a ricochet."

Helen obeyed him. The excitement of the moment banished her resentment, and as she watched him standing there, cool and imperturbable as he waited events, a frank admiration stirred within her. Whatever his sins, he was a man!

Then came a new form of attack. Arrows fired from different angles began to fly through the open space, making a vicious sound as they struck various parts of the cabin. Stane calculated the possible angles of their flight and gave a short laugh. "They're wasting labour now. That dodge won't work."

The flight of arrows, however, continued for a little time, then followed that which Stane had begun to fear. The space of the window suddenly grew plainer, outlined by a glow outside, and the next moment three blazing armfuls of combustible material were heaved in at the window. Stane fired twice during the operation, but whether he hit or not he did not know. One of the burning bundles fell in the bunk, which was soon ablaze, and the cabin began to fill with smoke. At the same time the besieged became aware of a fierce crackling outside, and the outlook in the snow-covered lake was illumined by a growing glow. Stane understood the meaning of the phenomenon at once, and looked at the girl.

"They are trying to burn down the cabin," he said. "I am afraid it is a choice of evils, Miss Yardely. We must either stay here, and die of suffocation or fire, or face the music outside."

"Then let us go outside," answered the girl resolutely.

"I do not believe they will injure you. I believe that they have orders to the contrary, but——"

"Did Miskodeed tell you so?"

For the moment he was utterly staggered by the question, then perceiving that she knew of his recent interview with the Indian girl, he answered frankly:

"Yes! You are to be taken alive, but I am to die, according to the program as arranged!"

"Oh, no! no!" she cried in sudden anguish. "You must not die. You must fight! You must live! live! I do not want you to die!"

In the growing light in the burning cabin he could see her face quite plainly, and the anguished concern in her eyes shook him as the dangers around him never could have done. Moved for a moment beyond himself, he stretched a hand towards her.

"My dear!" he stammered. "My dear——"

"Oh then you know that I am that?" she cried.

"I have known it for months!"

She made a little movement that brought her closer to him, and yielding to the surging impulse in his heart, he threw an arm round her.

"If you die——" she began, and broke off as a gust of smoke rolled over them.

"I think it is very likely," he answered. "But I am glad to have had this moment."

He stooped and kissed her, and a sob came from her.

"I shall die too!" she said. "We will die together—but it would have been splendid to live."

"But you will live," he said. "You must live. There is no need that you should die."

"But what shall I live for?" she cried. "And why am I to be spared? Have you thought of that?"

"Yes," he answered quickly, and gave her a hurried account of his own thought upon the matter. "If I am right no harm will befall you. And we must go. It is time. Look!"

A little tongue of flame was creeping through the joining of the logs at one end of the cabin, and the logs where the bunk had been were beginning to crackle and hiss ominously. The smoke had grown thicker, and the atmosphere was pungent and choking in its quality. He left her side for a moment, and returned with her furs.

"You must put them on," he said, "or you will freeze outside."

He himself had slipped on his own furs, and when he had helped her into hers, he took his rifle and nodded towards the pistol which she still held.

"You need not use it—outside," he said. "Keep it for—for eventualities. You understand?"

"I understand," she answered calmly, knowing that in the last resource she was to do what many women of her race had done before her.

"I will go first," he said. "And you must wait a full minute before emerging. I shall try and make for the woods at the back, and if I get clear you shall follow me—you understand?"

"Oh my man! my man!" she cried in a shaking voice, knowing that though he spoke lightly, he had little hope of escape.

Not knowing what to say, or how to comfort her, Stane took her in his arms again, and kissed her, then for a moment he stood listening. Outside all was still or whatever sounds there were were drowned by the increasing roar and crackle of the fire.

"Now!" he said. "Now!"

He slipped down the bar, threw the door open suddenly and plunged outside. A yell greeted his emergence and he was aware of a small group of men standing a little way from the cabin. As he ran he fired at them from the hip; and turned sharply to the left. The two men appeared suddenly from behind the trees to bar his way, so quickly that he had not time to fire the rifle before one of them grappled with him. The rifle fell from his hand, and for a moment they struggled, then whilst the second man was still running, a shadowy figure slipped from behind a broad trunk close to where the two men were locked together, and Stane caught the sudden gleam of a knife as the light from the fire glinted upon it. He was unable to help himself, and, held in his antagonist's arms, he waited for the impending stroke. Twice the knife descended, and his opponent's grip suddenly slackened and the man slid slowly to the ground. The running man had now reached the scene of the struggle. He carried a hatchet in his hand, and he struck first at the unknown one who had killed his companion, and the unknown one went down like a log. Before Stane had recovered from his surprise the ax was raised again. He leaped at the man just as the ax descended. An intervening bough turned the stroke, twisting the ax so that it caught the side of his head, knocking him senseless. As he fell to the ground, the Indian raised the ax once more. Before the blow could fall, a rifle cracked in the wood behind him, and the attacker leaped in the air, and pitched forward upon his face.

CHAPTER XVIII

A DEAD GIRL

"Ah! Dat better! By gar, but I think it was New Jerusalem for you dis time!"

The words penetrated Stane's consciousness as he opened his eyes, and were followed by others which he obeyed instinctively. "Tak' anoder drink. Zee whisky veel vake you proper."

He gulped from the tin pannikin which was held to his lips, and coughed as the raw, potent spirit burned his throat. Then he sat up and looked at the man who was befriending him.

"Who ... who are you?" he asked weakly.

"I am Jean Bènard. I come up zee lak' an' hear shots an' I see my cabin blaze like hell. I tink somethin' ver' badly wrong an' I turn to zee woods. Den I see you rush out an' I hear you shoot as you run. I see dat big man struggle with you, I see him keeled by anoder who go down, aussi, and when zee man with zee ax mak' for you I begin to shoot. I am in zee wood, an' zee divils they do not see me, an' I pick off un, deux, trois! Dey are dere still, after dey others grow afraid an' run like caribou with zee wolves at dere heels. It ees fine sport, an' I shoot as dey ran, an' presently I am left alone. I shovel snow wit' a snow-shoe on my burning cabin, for I love dat petite cabin like a child, an' den I tink I take a look at you. You not dead, so I pour hot whisky in your mouth an' you return from zee happy-huntin' grounds. Dere you have zee whole narrative."

"But Helen?" cried Stane, looking round. "Where——"

"I haf seen not any mees!" answered the trapper. "I did not know dat dere was——"

"Then they have taken her," exclaimed Stane, staggering to his feet, and looking round.

Jean Bènard also looked round. Except for the figures lying prone in the snow they were quite alone. "Dey must haf done," he said, "eef dere was a mees!"

He looked at Stane, as if he doubted his sanity and Stane reassured him. "Oh I have not gone mad, Bènard. There was a white girl with me in your cabin, Miss Yardely. You must have heard——"

"Mees Yardely! She ees here?" cried the trapper in sudden excitement.

"She was here!" corrected Stane. "I think she has been carried off. We must follow!"

"Oui! Oui!" replied Bènard. "I haf heard of her. The factor at Fort Malsun, he tell me to keep a bright look-out. Dere ees a reward——"

"We must get her!" interrupted Stane. "You must help me and I will double the reward. You understand?"

"Oui, I understand, m'sieu. Dis girl she ees mooch to you?"

"She is all the world to me."

"Den we go, m'sieu. But first we feed an' rest zee dogs. We travel queeck, after, vous comprenez? I will a meal make, an' your head it will recover, den we travel lik' zee wind."

The trapper made his way into the still smouldering hut, and began to busy himself with preparations, whilst Stane looked round again. The darkness, and the figures lying in the snow gave the scene an indescribable air of desolation, and for a moment he stood without moving; then, as something occurred to him, he began to walk towards the place where he had been struck down. Three figures lay there huddled grotesquely in the snow, and to one of them he owed his life. Which of them was it? Two of the dead lay with their faces in the snow, but the third was on its back, face upward to the sky. He stood and looked into the face. It was that of the man whom he had grappled, and who had been struck down with the knife that he had expected to strike himself. He looked at the other two. An ax lay close to the hand of one, and he had no doubt that that one was the man who would have slain him. The third one was his saviour. He looked again, and as he noted the dress a cold fear gripped his heart, for it was the dress of a woman. He fell on his knees and turned the body over, then he bent over the face. As he did so, he started back, and a sharp cry came from his lips. The cry brought Jean Bènard from the hut at a run.

"What ees it, m'sieu?" he asked as he reached Stane who knelt there as if turned to stone.

"It is a dead girl," answered Stane, brokenly—"a girl who gave her life for mine."

The trapper bent over the prostrate form, then he also cried out.

"Miskodeed!"

"Yes! Miskodeed. I did not know it was she! She killed one of them with her knife, and she was slain by the other."

"Whom I keel with the bullet!" For a moment Jean Bènard said no more, but when he spoke again there was a choking sound in his voice. "I am glad I keel dat man! eef I haf not done so, I follow heem across zee world till it was done." Something like a sob checked his utterance. "Ah, m'sieu, I love dat girl. I say to myself all zee way from Good Hope dat I weel her marry, an' I haf the price I pay her fader on zee sledge. I see her las' winter; but I not know den how it ees with me; but when I go away my heart cry out for her, an' my mind it ees make up.... An' now she ees dead! I never tink of dat! I tink only of zee happy years dat we weel haf togeder!"

He dropped suddenly in the snow, and bent over the face in its frozen beauty, sobbing as only a strong man can. He bent lower and kissed the ice-cold lips, whilst Stane staggered to his feet, and moved away. He could not endure to look on Jean Bènard's grief. As he stood staring into the darkness of the wood, he had a flashing memory of the Indian girl's face as she had whisperingly asked him if he could not leave Helen, the very note in her voice sounded in his ears, and, he knew what it was no harm for him to know then, that this child of the wilderness had given him her love, unsought. She had loved him, and she had died for him, whilst a man who had loved her, now wept over her poor body. The tragedy of it all shook him, and the irony of Jean Bènard's grief was almost beyond endurance. A great humility filled his heart, and whilst he acquitted himself of blame, he regretted deeply his vehemence of repudiation. All her words came back to him in a flood. She must have guessed that he loved Helen; yet in the greatness of her love, she had risked her life without hope, and died for him without shrinking.

He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean Bènard still knelt in the snow. The trapper's face was hidden in his mittened hands. For a moment Stane hesitated, then he placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Jean Bènard," he said quietly, "there is work to do."

Bènard rose slowly to his feet, and in the little light reflected from the snow Stane read the grief of the man's heart in his face.

"Oui! m'sieu! We must her bury; ma petite Miskodeed."

"That, yes! But there is other work."

"I could not endure to tink dat zee wolves get her——"

"I will help you, Jean. And then you will help me."

"Non! m'sieu. Help I do not need. I weel myself do zee las' duty for ma pauvre Miskodeed. My hands that would haf held an' fondled her, dey shall her prepare; an' I dat would haf died for her—I shall her bury. You, m'sieu, shall say zee prayer, for I haf not zee religion, but——"

"Call me when you are ready!" interrupted Stane, and turned away, finding the situation intolerably poignant.

He went to the hut, and busied himself with the meal which the trapper had been preparing, and presently Jean Bènard called him.

The man had swathed the dead girl in a blanket and had bent the tops of a couple of small spruce, growing close together, almost to the ground, holding them in position with a sled thong. To the trees he had lashed the corpse, and he was standing by with a knife in his hand.

"Zee ground," he said in a steady voice, "ees too frozen to dig. We bury Miskodeed in zee air; an' when zee spring winds blow an' the ground grow soft again, I dig a grave. Now eef m'sieu ees ready we will haf zee words of religion."

Stane, almost choked at the poignant irony of the thing, then shaped his lips to the great words that would have been strange if not unmeaning to the dead girl.

"I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead yet shall he live...."

For the comfort of the man, who stood by knife in hand, he recited every word that he could remember, and when he reached the words, "We therefore commit her body to the grave," the keen knife severed the moose-hide thong, and the trees, released, bent back, carrying the girl's body to its windy sepulchre, amid a shower of snow that scattered from the neighbouring trees. Stane pronounced the benediction, waited a few moments, then again he put a hand on the other's shoulder.

"Bènard, we have done what we can for the dead; now we must think of the living."

"Oui, m'sieu!"

"You must eat! I have prepared a meal. And when you have eaten and the dogs are ready we must start on the trail of Miss Yardely."

"Oui, m'sieu."

They returned to the hut together, and noting that some of the outer logs were still smouldering, the trapper shovelled snow against them with his snow-shoes, then they entered. The cabin was not so badly burned as Stane had expected to find it. The bunk had burned out, but the inner wall of the cabin had scarcely caught and the place was still tenable. Bènard blocked the window, and they sat down to eat. For a time the meal progressed in silence, Stane deliberately refraining from speech out of consideration for the feelings of his companion, though from time to time glancing at him he caught an expression of perplexity on the trapper's face. Suddenly Bènard spoke.

"But, m'sieu, I do not understand eet. You haf no quarrel with zee tribe?"

"None," answered Stane, and then told him the facts communicated to him by Miskodeed.

"Ah! then, m'sieu, dere ees a white man at zee back of things. Dat Chigmok, he ees no good, he what you call a rotter, but he not dare to do this ting heemself."

"That is how I feel," answered Stane. "But how we are to get at the truth of the matter, I do not know."

"We weel go to zee encampment. We weel mak' Chief George tell zee truth."

"If we can!" commented Stane dubiously.

"As you say, eef we can. But somethings we shall learn, m'sieu, dat ees certain."

"I hope so, Jean."

An hour afterwards they started, following the trail up the lake left by the fugitives, a broadly marked trail, which revealed that a sledge had been used, for there were the marks of the runners both coming and going. As they started, the trapper pointed this out.

"You see, m'sieu, dey come prepared. Dey know dat your Helen she weel not walk; therefore dey bring zee sled, an' lash her thereto."

"Yes! That seems likely," agreed Stane, his heart aflame with wrath at the thought of the possible indignities to which the girl might have been subjected. In silence they travelled up the lake, and after a time reached the place where the moose-hide tepees lifted their shadowy forms against the background of snow and trees. The camp was dark and silent as a place of the dead. For a moment the thought that the whole tribe had moved away, deserting their tents, held Stane's mind; but it was dispelled by the whisper of Jean Bènard.

"Do you stay here with zee dogs, m'sieu, whilst I go drag out Chief George. Have zee rifle ready; an' eef dere is trouble, be prompt at zee shootin'. Vous comprenez?"

"Yes," answered Stane, "if there is trouble I will not hesitate."

He stood with the rifle ready, watching Bènard's progress across the snow. He saw him reach the chief's tepee, and throw open the moose-hide flap, then disappear inside. He waited for what seemed an intolerable time, and once heard a rustle from the nearest tepee, and divined that in spite of the stillness of the camp, quick eyes were watching the doings of his companion and himself. Then he caught a coughing grunt, and out of the tepee which the trapper had entered, emerged two forms, the first bent and shambling, the other that of Jean Bènard. They picked their way, walking close together, between the moose-hide tents, and as they drew near the sledge, Stane saw that the shambling form was that of Chief George, and that he walked with the muzzle of the trapper's pistol in the small of his back.

"We weel go forwards up zee lak' a leetle way, m'sieu, out of arrow-shot. Den Chief George he weel talk or die."

They marched up the lake five hundred yards or more, the camp behind them maintaining the silence of the dead, then Bènard halted.

"Now," he said, "we weel talk!"

Pointing his pistol at the Indian and speaking in the patois of the tribe, he addressed him.

"What means the attack upon my cabin?"

"I know nothing," mumbled the Indian, shaking with fear or cold. "It was Chigmok—my sister's son—who led the young men away."

"So! But thou hast seen the rifles and the burning water, the blankets, the tea and the molasses which are the price to be paid. I know that thou hast seen them." At the words the Chief started a little, then he made a mumbling admission:

"Yes, I have seen them. They are a great price."

"But who pays?"

"I know not. A white man, that is all I know. The rest is known to Chigmok alone."

Bènard considered the answer for a moment, and entertaining no doubt that it was the true one, wasted no further time in that direction.

"Whither has the white maiden been carried?"

Chief George waved his hand to the East. "Through the woods to the lake of Little Moose, there to meet the man who pays the price."

"These words are the words of truth?" asked the trapper, harshly. "If thou liest——"

"Wherefore should I lie, since so much is already known to thee?" interrupted the Indian.

"It would be unwise," agreed Bènard, and then asked: "What is to be done to the white girl by the man who pays the price?"

"I know not; belike he will take her for his squaw, or wherefore should he pay so great a price?"

Bènard looked at Stane. "Dere ees nothing more dat he can tell. I sure of dat, an' we waste time."

"Yes! Let him go."

The trapper nodded and then addressed the Indian once more. "Thou wilt go back to thy lodge now, but this is not the end. For the evil that hath been done the price will have to be paid. Later the men of the law, the riders-of-the-plains, will come and thee they will take——"

"It is Chigmok, my sister's son, who planned——"

"But it is thee they will take for punishment and Chigmok also. Now go!"

Chief George waited for no second bidding, but began to shamble off across the snow towards his encampment. The two men watched him go, in silence for a little time, and then Stane spoke.

"This lake of the Little Moose, where is it?"

"About sixteen miles to zee East. It ees known to me. A leetle lak' desolate as hell, in zee midst of hills. We weel go there, an' find dis white man an' Mees Yardely."

"We must make speed or the man may be gone," responded Stane.

"Oui, I know! We weel travel through zee night. There be two ways thither, the one through zee woods an' zee oder between zee hills. Zee way of zee woods ees zee mos' easy, but dat of zee hills ees shorter. We weel take dat, an' maybe we give Chigmok and his white man one surprise."

Under the light of the stars, and helped by the occasional flashing light of the aurora, they travelled up the lake for some distance, then leaving its surface they turned abruptly eastward, following an unbroken trail through a country which began rapidly to alter in character. The great woods thinned out and the way they followed took an upward swing, whilst a steady wind with the knife-edge cold of the North began to blow in their faces. Stane at the gee-pole of the sledge, bent his head before the sharp particles of ice-like snow that it brought with it, and grew anxious lest they should be the vanguard of a storm. But looking up he saw the stars clear overhead, and guessing that the particles came from the trees and the high ground on either side of them, his fears left him.

Then a new and very real trouble assailed him. He began to have cramps in the calves of his legs, and it seemed as if his muscles were tying themselves into knots. Sharp pains in the groin made it a torture to lift his feet above the level of the snow; and once or twice he could have groaned with the pain. But he set his teeth grimly, and endured it in silence, thinking of the girl moving somewhere ahead in the hands of a lawless and ruthless man. He knew that the torture he was suffering was what was known among the voyageurs as mal de roquette, induced by a considerable tramp on snow-shoes after a long spell of inactivity, and that there was no relief from it, until it should gradually pass away of its own accord.

The trail was not an easy one, and the dogs whined as they bent to the collars, but Jean Bènard, with a frame of iron and with muscles like steel-springs marched steadily on, for what to Stane seemed hours, then in the shelter of a cliff crowned with trees he called a halt.

"We rest here," he said, "an' wait for zee daylight. Den we look down on zee lak' of zee Leetle Moose. We mak' fire behind zee rock."

Without more ado, he slipped the harness from the dogs and fed them, whilst Stane collected wood for a fire, which was made as an Indian makes his fire, small and round, and which, built behind a mass of rock, was hidden from any one on the lake-side of the trail. Then a meal was prepared of which both partook heartily; and over the pipes they sat to await the dawn. After a little while Stane, in spite of his consuming anxiety for Helen, under the genial warmth of the fire and the fatigue induced by the strenuous march, began to nod, and at last fell sound asleep. But Jean Bènard watched through the night, a look of hopelessness shadowing his kindly face.

CHAPTER XIX

A HOT TRAIL

The cold Northland dawn had broken when Stane was roused from his sleep by the voice of his companion.

"M'sieu! m'sieu! It ees time to eat!"

Stane rubbed his eyes and looked round. Then he stood upright and stretched himself, every stiff muscle crying out against the process. He looked at the waiting breakfast and then at Bènard. One glance at the drawn face of the latter told him that he had not slept, but he refrained from comment on the fact, knowing well what thoughts must have made sleep impossible for him.

"Have you seen anything yet, Jean?" he asked as he seated himself again.

"Not yet, m'sieu," answered the trapper. "But eef Chief George did not lie we cannot miss Chigmok—an zee oders."

"But if he lied?" asked Stane with a sudden accession of anxiety.

"Then we shall haf to range an' find zee trail. But I do not tink he lie. He too mooch afraid! Eat, m'sieu, den we can watch zee lak' for zee comin' of Chigmok."

Stane ate his breakfast quickly, and when he had finished, accompanied Bènard a little way up the trail, which running along the base of the cliff by which they had camped, made a sudden turn between the rocks and unexpectedly opened out on a wide view.

Before him lay the snow-covered lake of the Little Moose, a narrow lake perhaps fifteen miles long. On one side ran a range of high rocky hills, a spur of which formed his own vantage place, and on the other side were lower hills covered with bush and trees almost to their crests. From the height where he stood he had an almost bird's-eye view of the lake, and he examined it carefully. Nothing moved on its virgin surface of snow. It was as blank as Modred's shield. He examined the shore at the foot of the wood-covered hills carefully. Creek by creek, bay by bay, his eye searched the shore-line for any sign of life. He found none, nowhere was there any sign of life; any thin column of smoke betokening the presence of man. He looked at the other shore of the lake, though without any expectation of finding that which he sought. It was bleak and barren, and precipitous in places, where the hills seemed to rise directly from the lake's edge. Nothing moved there, and a single glance told him that the land trail on that side was an impossibility. He looked at his companion.

"Dey haf not yet arrive," said Bènard, answering his unspoken question. "Dey camp in zee woods for zee night."

"If Chief George lied——"

"I say again I tink he not lie. We must haf zee patience, m'sieu. Dere is noding else dat we can do. We are here an' we must watch."

The minutes passed slowly, and to keep themselves from freezing the two men were forced to do sentry-go on the somewhat narrow platform where they stood, occasionally varying the line of their short march by turning down the trail towards their camp, a variation which for perhaps a couple of minutes hid the lake from view. Every time they so turned, when the lake came in sight again, Stane looked down its length with expectation in his eyes, and every time he was disappointed. An hour passed and still they watched without any sign of their quarry to cheer them. Then Jean Bènard spoke.

"We tire ourselves for noding, m'sieu. We walk, walk, walk togeder, an' when Chigmok come we too tired to follow heem. It ees better dat we watch in turn."

Stane admitted the wisdom of this, and since he felt that it was impossible for himself to sit still, and suspected that his companion was sadly in need of rest, he elected to keep the first watch.

"Very well, Jean, do you go and rest first; but tell me before you go where the party we are looking for should strike the lake."

"Ah, I forgot to tell you dat, m'sieu." He pointed towards the southern shore of the lake, where a small tree-covered island stood about half a mile from the shore. "You see zee island, m'sieu. Just opposite dere ees a creek. Zee regular trail comes out to zee lak' just dere, an' it ees dere dat you may look for zee comin' of Chigmok."

Stane looked at the island and marked the position of the creek, then an idea struck him. "Would it not be better, Bènard, if we removed our camp to the island? We could then surprise Chigmok when he came."

"Non, m'sieu! I tink of dat las' night; but I remember dat we must build a fire, an' zee smoke it tell zee tale; whilst zee odour it ees perceived afar. Den zee dogs, dey give tongue when oder dogs appear, an' where are we? Anoder ting, s'pose Chigmok not come zee regular trail; s'pose he knew anoder way through zee woods, an' come out further up zee lak'. Eef we on zee island we not see heem, but up here—" he swept a hand in front of him—"we behold zee whole lak' and we not miss him."

"Yes," agreed Stane. "You are right, Jean. Now go and rest. I will keep a bright look-out."

"I not doubt dat, m'sieu. You haf zee prize to watch for, but I——"

He turned away without finishing his sentence, and Stane resumed his sentry go, stopping from time to time to view the long expanse of the snow-covered lake, and to search the woods along the shore. As the time passed without bringing any change, and as the unbroken surface of the snow mocked him with its emptiness, he grew sick at heart, and a feverish anxiety mounted within him. He felt utterly helpless, and a fear that Chief George had lied, and had deliberately misled them, grew in him till it reached the force of conviction. Watching that empty valley of the lake, he felt, was a waste of time. To be doing nothing, when Helen was being hurried to be knew not what fate, was torture to him. It would, he thought, be better to go back on their trail, and endeavour to pick up that of the kidnappers, since that way they would at least be sure that they were on the right lines. So strongly did this idea appeal to him, that he turned down the trail to the camp to propose the plan to his companion. But when he turned the corner of the cliff, it was to find Jean Bènard fast asleep in front of the fire, and though his first impulse was to waken him, he refrained, remembering how tired the man must be, and how necessary it was that he should be as fresh as possible when the moment for action arrived.

"No," he whispered, as he looked at the bent form of the sleeping man. "I will wait one hour, and then we will decide."

He himself was beginning to feel the strain of the steady marching to and fro, and decided that it would be wise to spare himself as much as possible. Accordingly he seated himself by the fire, contenting himself by walking to the top of the trail to view the lake at intervals of from twelve to fifteen minutes. Twice he did this and the second time was made aware of a change in the atmosphere. It had grown much colder and as he turned the corner of the cliff a gust of icy-wind smote him in the face. He looked downwards. The surface of the lake was still barren of life; but not of movement. Films of snow, driven by the gusty wind, drove down its narrow length, were lifted higher and then subsided as the wind fell. Overhead the sky was of a uniform leaden hue and he knew that before long there would be snow. And if snow came——

His heart stood almost still at the thought. It might snow for days, and in the storm, when all trails would be obliterated it would be an easy matter to miss Helen and her captors altogether. As he returned to the fire, his mind was full of forebodings. He was afraid, and though Jean Bènard slept on, he himself could not rest. He made up the fire, prepared bacon and moose meat for cooking, set some coffee to boil. It would be as well to have a meal in case the necessity for a start should arise. These things done he went once more to the outlook, and surveyed the snow-covered landscape. The wind was still for the moment, and there were no wandering wisps of snow. His first glance was towards the creek opposite the island. There was nothing there to arrest attention. His eyes travelled further without any light of expectation in them. Creek by creek, bay by bay, he followed the shore line, then, in a second, his gaze grew fixed. The lake was no longer devoid of life. Far-off, at least ten miles, as he swiftly calculated, a blur of black dots showed on the surface of the snow. Instantly he knew it for what it was—a team of sled dogs. His heart leaped at the sight, and the next moment he was running towards the camp.

"Jean! Jean!" he cried. "Jean Bènard!"

The sleeping man passed from slumber to full wakefulness with the completeness that characterizes a healthy child.

"Ah, m'sieu," he said, standing upright. "Dey haf arrive?"

"I do not know. But there is a dog-train a long way up the lake."

"I weel tak' one look," said the trapper, beginning to walk quickly towards the head of the trail.

Stane went with him and indicated the direction.

"There, where the shore sweeps inward! Do you see, Jean?"

"Oui, m'sieu."

With bent brows the trapper stared at the blur of dots on the white surface, and after a couple of seconds began to count softly to himself. "Un, deux, trois, quatre——" Then he stopped. "Four dogs and one man," he said, turning to his companion. "But Chigmok it ees not. Behold, m'sieu, he comes dis way."

"Then who——"

"Dat ees not to be told. Zee men in zee wilderness are many." As he finished speaking a gust of wind drove suddenly in their faces, bringing with it a few particles of snow, and he looked up into the leaden sky. "Presently," he said, "it weel snow, m'sieu. Let us go and eat, then eef Chigmok has not appeared we weel go meet dat man out dere. He may haf zee news."

Reluctantly Stane turned with him, and went back to the camp. He had no desire for food, but he forced himself to eat, and when the meal was finished he assisted his companion to load the sledge. Then Bènard spoke again.

"We weel tak' one look more, m'sieu, before we harness zee dogs."

They went up to the outlook together. The lake once more showed its white expanse unbroken; the little blot of moving dots having withdrawn. Stane stared on the waste, with an expression of blank dismay upon his face, then he turned to his companion.

"Zee man, he camp," explained Bènard. "He not pushed for time, an' he know it snow b'fore long. We find heem, m'sieu, an' den—By gar! Look dere!"

As he gave vent to the exclamation, he pointed excitedly up the lake, two miles beyond the island, the neighbourhood of which Stane had gazed at so often and hopelessly during the last three hours. A dog-train had broken from the wood, and taken to the surface of the lake, three men accompanying it.

"Chigmok! Behold, m'sieu!"

On a mutual impulse they turned and running back to the camp, began hurriedly to harness the dogs to the sledge. A few minutes later they were on the move, and turning the corner of the cliff began the descent towards the lake. As they did so both glanced at the direction of the sled they were pursuing. It was moving straight ahead, fairly close in shore, having evidently sought the level surface of the lake for easier travelling. More than that they had not leisure to notice, for the descent to the lake was steep, and it required the weight and skill of both to keep the sled from overrunning the dogs, but in the space of four minutes it was accomplished, and with a final rush they took the level trail of the lake's frozen and snow-covered surface. As they did so a gust of wind brought a scurry of snow in their faces, and Bènard looked anxiously up into the sky.

"By-an'-by it snow like anythin', m'sieu. We must race to catch Chigmok b'fore it come."

Without another word he stepped ahead, and began to make the trail for the dogs, whilst Stane took the gee-pole to guide the sledge. Bènard bent to his task and made a rattling pace, travelling in a bee-line for their quarry, since the lake's surface offered absolutely no obstructions. Stane at the gee-pole wondered how long he could keep it up, and from time to time glanced at the sled ahead, which, seen from the same level, now was half-hidden in a mist of snow. He noted with satisfaction that they seemed to be gaining on it; and rejoiced to think that, as Jean Bènard's dogs were in fine mettle and absolutely fresh, they could not be long before they overhauled it. Presently the trapper stopped to rest, and Stane himself moved ahead.

"I will take a turn at trail-breaking," he said, "and do you run behind, Jean."

It was a different matter going ahead of the dogs on the unbroken snow. In a little time his muscles began to ache intolerably. It seemed as if the ligaments of the groin were being pulled by pincers, and the very bone of the leg that he had broken, seemed to burn with pain. But again, as on the previous night, he set his teeth, and defied the dreaded mal de roquette. New hope sustained him; before him, within sight as he believed, was the girl, whom, in the months of their wilderness sojourn, he had learned to love, and who on the previous night (how long ago it seemed!) in the face of imminent death, had given herself to him unreservedly. His blood quickened at the remembrance. He ignored the pangs he was enduring. The sweat, induced by the violent exertion froze on eyebrows and eyelashes, but he ignored the discomfort, and pressed on, the snow swirling past his ankles in a miniature storm. Twice or thrice he lifted his bent head and measured the distance between him and the quarry ahead. It was, he thought nearer, and cheered, he bent his body again to the nerve-racking toil.

Half an hour passed, and though the wind was rising steadily, blowing straight in their teeth and adding greatly to their labours, the snow kept off. They were still gaining slowly, creeping forward yard by yard, the men with the train ahead apparently unaware of their pursuit. Then they struck the trail made by their quarry and the work became less arduous and the pace quickened.

"By gar!" cried Bènard as they hit the trail, "we get dem now, dey make zee trail for us."

"Yes," answered Stane, his eyes ablaze with excitement.

A mile and three quarters now separated the two teams, and as they followed in the trail that the others had to make, their confidence seemed justified. But nature and man alike were to take a hand and upset their calculations. In the wind once more there came a smother of snow. It was severe whilst it lasted, and blotted out all vision of the team ahead. As it cleared, the two pursuers saw that their quarry had turned inshore, moving obliquely towards a tree-crowned bluff that jutted out into the lake. Jean Bènard marked the move, and spoke almost gleefully.

"Dey fear zee snow, an' go to make camp. By zee mass, we get dem like a wolf in zee trap!"

The sledge they pursued drew nearer the bluff, then suddenly Jean Bènard threw back his head in a listening attitude.

"Hark!" he cried: "what was dat?"

"I heard nothing," answered Stane. "What did you fancy you——"

The sentence was never finished, for borne to him on the wind came two or three sharp sounds like the cracks of distant rifles. He looked at his companion.

"The detonation of bursting trees far in the wood," he began, only to be interrupted.

"Non, non! not zee trees, but rifles, look dere, m'sieu, someting ees happening."

It certainly seemed so. The sled which had almost reached the bluff, had swung from it again, and had turned towards the open lake. But now, instead of three figures, they could see only one; and even whilst they watched, again came the distant crack of a rifle—a faint far-away sound, something felt by sensitive nerves rather than anything heard—and the solitary man left with the sledge and making for the sanctuary of the open lake, plunged suddenly forward, disappearing from sight in the snow. Another fusillade, and the sled halted, just as the two men broke from the cover of the bluff and began to run across the snow in the direction of it.

"By gar! By gar!" cried Jean Bènard in great excitement. "Tings dey happen. Dere are oder men who want Chigmok, an' dey get heem, too."

Then with a clamouring wind came the snow, blotting out all further vision of the tragedy ahead. It hurtled about them in fury, and they could see scarcely a yard in front of them. It was snow that was vastly different from the large soft flakes of more temperate zones—a wild rain of ice-like particles that, as it struck, stung intolerably, and which, driven in the wind, seemed like a solid sheet held up to veil the landscape. It swirled and drifted about them and drove in their faces as if directed by some malevolent fury. It closed their eyes, clogged their feet, stopped their breathing, and at the moment when it was most essential, made progress impossible. Dogs and men bowed to the storm, and after two minutes of lost endeavour in attempting to face it, the course was altered and they raced for the shore and the friendly shelter of the trees. When they reached it, breathless and gasping, they stood for a moment, whilst the storm shrieked among the tree-tops and drove its icy hail like small shot against the trunks. In the shelter of one of them, Stane, as his breath came back to him, swung his rifle off his shoulder, and began to strip from it the deer-hide covering. Jean Bènard saw him, and in order to make himself heard shouted to him.

"What you do, m'sieu?"

"I'm going after them, Jean. There's something badly wrong."

"Oui! But with zee storm, what can you do, m'sieu?"

"I can find that girl," he said. "Think, man, if she is bound to the sled—in this——"

"Oui! Oui! m'sieu, I understand, but——"

"I shall work my way in the cover of the trees till I reach the bluff. If the storm abates you will follow but do not pass the bluff. There will be shelter in the lee of it, and I will wait your coming there."

"Go, and God go with you, m'sieu; but do not forget zee rifles which were fired dere."

"I will keep them in mind," answered Stane, and then setting his face to the storm, he began to work his way along the edge of the wood.

CHAPTER XX

A PRISONER

When Hubert Stane left the burning cabin, Helen did not obey his injunctions to the letter. A full minute she was to wait in the shadow of the door before emerging, but she disregarded the command altogether in her anxiety to know what fate was to befall him. She guessed that on his emergence he expected a volley, and had bidden her remain under cover until the danger from it should have passed; and being morally certain that he was going to his death, she had a mad impulse to die with him in what was the supreme hour of her life. As the yell greeted his emergence, she caught the sound of the rifle-shot, and not knowing that it had been fired by Stane himself, in an agony of fear for him, stepped recklessly to the door. She saw him running towards the trees, saw him grappled by the Indian who barred the way, and beheld the second figure rise like a shadow by the side of the struggling men. The raised knife gleamed in the firelight, and with a sharp cry of warning that never reached Stane, she started to run towards him. The next moment something thick and heavy enveloped her head and shoulders, she was tripped up and fell heavily in the snow, and two seconds later was conscious of two pairs of hands binding her with thongs. The covering over her head, a blanket by the feel of it, was bound about her, so that she could see nothing, and whilst she could still hear, the sounds that reached her were muffled. Her feet were tied, and for a brief space of time she was left lying in the snow, wondering in an agonized way, not what was going to happen to herself, but what had already happened to her lover.

Then there came a sound that made her heart leap with hope—a sound that was the unmistakable crack of a rifle. Again the rifle spoke, three times in rapid succession, and from the sounds she conjectured that the fight was not yet over, and felt a surge of gladness in her heart. Then she was lifted from the ground, suddenly hurried forward, and quite roughly dropped on what she guessed was a sledge. Again hands were busy about her, and she knew that she was being lashed to the chariot of the North. There was a clamour of excited voices, again the crack of the rifle, then she felt a quick jerk, and found the sled was in motion.

She had no thought of outside intervention and as the sled went forward at a great pace, notwithstanding her own parlous condition, she rejoiced in spirit. Whither she was being carried, and what the fate reserved for her she had not the slightest notion; but from the rifle-shots, and the manifest haste of her captors, she argued that her lover had escaped, and believing that he would follow, she was in good heart.

That she was in any immediate danger, she did not believe. Her captors, on lashing her to the sledge, had thrown some soft warm covering over her, and that they should show such care to preserve her from the bitter cold, told her, that whatever might ultimately befall, she was in no imminent peril. With her head covered, she was as warm as if she were in a sleeping bag, the sled ran smoothly without a single jar, and the only discomfort that she suffered came from her bound limbs.

Knowing how vain any attempt at struggle would be, she lay quietly; reflecting on all the events of the night. Strong in the faith that Stane had escaped, she rejoiced that these events had forced from his lips the declaration that in the past few weeks she had seen him repress again and again. He could never recall it; and those kisses, taken in the very face of death, those were hers until the end of time. Her heart quickened as she thought of them, and her lips burned. It was, she felt, a great thing to have snatched the deepest gladness of life in such an hour, and to have received an avowal from a man who believed that he was about to die for her. And what a man!

The thought of Miskodeed occurred to her; but now it did not trouble her very greatly. That visit of the Indian girl to the cabin had at first been incomprehensible except on one hateful supposition; but Stane's words had made it clear that the girl had come to warn them, and if there was anything behind that warning, if, as she suspected, the girl loved Stane with a wild, wayward love, that was not the man's fault. She remembered his declaration that he had never seen Miskodeed except on the two occasions at Fort Malsun, and though Ainley's evil suggestions recurred to her mind, she dismissed them instantly. Her lover was her own——

The sledge came to a sudden standstill; and lying there she caught a clamour of excited voices. She listened carefully, but such words as reached her were in a tongue unknown to her. A few minutes passed, something was thrown on the sled, close by her feet, then a whip cracked, a dog yelped, and again the sledge moved forward.

She was quite warm, and except for the thongs about her, comfortable, and presently her eyes closed, at first against the rather oppressive darkness resulting from the covering blanket, then remained closed without any conscious volition, and she slept, heavily and dreamlessly.

She was awakened by the sled coming to a standstill; and then followed the sounds of men pitching camp; the crackle of a fire, the growling and yelping of dogs quarrelling over their food. She did not know how long she had slept; but after awakening, it seemed a very long time before any one came near her. Then she caught the sound of steps crunching the frozen snow. The steps halted by the sledge and hands busied themselves with the fastenings. A minute later she felt that her limbs were free; and as the blanket was jerked from her head, she looked round.

It was still night, but by the light of a fire by which two men were sitting smoking, she caught the sight of overhanging trees and of a man who was standing by the sledge, looking down upon her. His face was in shadow and could not be seen, but the voice in which he addressed her was harsh and guttural, his manner almost apologetic.

"You stan' up now, mees."

As the blanket was jerked from her, Helen was conscious of a little prick of fear, but as the man spoke the fear vanished quicker than it had arisen. From the fact that he addressed her as miss, it was clear that he held her in some respect, whilst his manner spoke volumes. The words, though harshly spoken, were an invitation rather than a command, and accepting it as such, she first sat up, waited until a little attack of dizziness passed and then rose slowly to her feet. She swayed a little as she did so, and the man stretched a quick hand to steady her.

"Vait min'te," he said, "zee seeckness et veel pass."

It passed quicker than the man knew, and as the man had moved, bringing his face to the light, Helen used the opportunity to survey the man behind the mittened hand which she had lifted to her head. He was, she saw, a half-breed of evil, pock-marked countenance, with cruel eyes. Who he was she had not the slightest notion, but curiosity was strong within her, and as she lowered her hand, she waited for him to speak again.

"Ve vait here, leetle taime—une hour, deux, maybe tree. Zee dogs dey tire. But you veel not runs away. Dat vaire fool ting to do. Zee wood et ees so vast, an' zee wolves are plenty. You come to zee fire an' eat."

He moved towards the fire, as if certain that she would follow, and after one glance into the deep shadows of the forest, she did so. Whoever the man was, and whatever his intentions towards her, he talked sense. Flight without equipment or food, in a strange country, and in face of the menace of the arctic North would be the wildest folly. She seated herself on a log which had been placed for her convenience, accepted some fried moose-meat and unsweetened tea, whilst the other two men by the fire, both Indians, smoked stolidly, without bestowing upon her a single glance whilst she ate. When she had finished she pushed the tin plate from her, and looked at the half-breed, who had seated himself a yard or so away from her.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Ah not tell you dat!" said the man with a grin.

"Then tell me what are you going to do with me?"

"You fin' dat out for yourself in a vaire leetle taime," was the answer.

"Then where are you taking me?"

"Oh—Ah tell you dat, mees!" was the reply, given in a manner that implied that the speaker was glad to find something in which he could oblige her. "Ah tak' you to see lak' of zee Leetle Moose, ten, maybe douze miles away."

"But why should you take me there?" asked Helen.

"Non! Ah not tell you dat! You fin' out all in zee good taime," was the reply stolidly given.

Helen looked at the evil, cunning face, and knew that it was no use pursuing inquiries in that direction. She waited a full minute, then she began to ask another question, to her of even vaster moment:

"That man who was with me in the cabin, he——"

"Sacree!" cried the half-breed in a sudden burst of fury. "Dat man he ees dead, Par Dieu! an' eef he was not, I roast heem alive!"

"Dead!" As the exclamation broke from her, the girl looked at the half-breed with eyes in which gleamed a sudden fear. Then hope came to her as she remembered the shots that she had heard. "But," she protested, "he was firing on you as you left. It cannot be that he——"

"Non!" broke in the half-breed. "Dat man was with you he fire onlee once, den he die. Dose shots dey come from zee wood, an' I not know who fire dem. Eet was strange, I not know eef there be one man or more, so I run aways wit' you."

He had more to say upon that particular matter, but Helen Yardely had no ears for his words. Her hope was completely shattered by the half-breed's explanation of those pursuing shots. From them, believing they had come from her lover's rifle, she had argued with certainty that he had survived the attack, that he was alive; and now——

Dead! As the word beat in her brain, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair; and bowing her face suddenly in her hands gave way to her grief. Great sobs shook her shoulders, and scalding tears welled in her eyes. Her lover had indeed gone to his death after all, had given his life for hers as at the very beginning of their acquaintance he had risked it to the same end of saving her!

The callous half-breed was disturbed by the utter abandon of her grief. In his brutal nature there was a stirring of unusual compunction, and after watching her for a moment, he strove to console her, speaking in a wheedling voice.

"No need to weep lik' zee rain in spring, mees! What ees one man when men are as zee leaves of zee forest? Dis man dead! True—but eet ees a small ting—zee death of a man. An' I tak' you to anodder man——"

"You will what?" Helen looked up sharply as she asked the question. There was a light of wrath struggling with the grief in her eyes and the half-breed was startled by it.

"I tak' you to anodder man who weel lov' you as white squaws desire. He——"

"Who is this man?" she asked, suddenly interrupting him.

But the half-breed developed a sudden wariness.

"Non!" he said. "I not tell you dat, for why, zee surprise it veel be zee more pleasant!"

"Pleasant!" cried Helen, wrath uppermost in her heart once more. "Pleasant! I——" She checked herself, then as something occurred to her she asked another question.

"This man whom you promise me? He pays you to bring me to him?"

"Oui! He pays a great price!"

"Why?"

"I not know! How can I tell what ees in zee heart of heem? But it ees in my mind dat he burns with love, dat——"

Helen rose suddenly from her seat. "I will tell you something," she said in a voice that made the callous half-breed shiver. "When you bring me to this man I will kill him because that other man has died!"

"I not care what you do wid heem!" answered her captor with a brutal laugh. "You marrie heem, you keel heem, it ees all zee same to me, I get zee price, an' I do not love dat mans, no."

"Tell me who is he—his name, and I will pay you double the price he promises."

The half-breed smiled cunningly. "Where is your double zee price? Zee price dat man pay I haf seen. Eet ees real! Eet ees a good price! Non! mees; a promise what ees dat? A red fox in zee trap ees more dan a silvaire fox in zee wood. Dis man half zee goods, an' you—what haf you?"

He lit his pipe and turned from her to the fire. Helen gave him one glance and guessed that it was useless to try to bribe him further, then she turned and began to walk restlessly to and fro. There was a set, stony look of grief on her face; but deep in the grey eyes burned a light that boded ill for the man who had brought the grief upon her.

Time passed, and she still marched to and fro. The half-breed was nodding over the fire, and his two companions were sound asleep. Under her fur parka she felt the butt of the pistol which Stane had given her, when the attack on the cabin had commenced. She looked at the three men, and with her hand on the pistol-butt the thought came to her mind that it would be a simple thing to kill them in their sleep, and to take the dogs and so effect her escape. They were murderers; they deserved to die; and she felt that she could kill them without compunction. But her eyes swept the dark circle of trees, and for a moment she stared into the darkness with fixed gaze, then her hand slipped from the pistol, and she put from her the thought that had come to her. It was not fear of the darkness or any terror at the hazards of the frozen wilderness that deterred her from the attempt; it was just that there was within her a fierce, overwhelming desire, to meet the man who was the ultimate cause of her lover's death.

When the half-breed rose, and ordered her to resume her place on the sledge, she did so without demur, making herself as comfortable as possible. She was bound to the sledge again, though, when they resumed the journey, she was less like a mere bale than she had been, and was free to lift the blanket which now was thrown over her head for protection from the extreme cold more than for any other reason. But only once before the dawn did she avail herself of this privilege to look about her, and that was when the second halt was made. She lifted the blanket to learn the cause of the delay; and made the discovery that the dog-harness having become entangled in the branch of a fallen tree, had broken and the halt was necessary for repairs. She dropped her head-covering again and lay there in the darkness, wild thoughts mingling with her grief. She chafed at the delay. Her one anxiety was for the meeting that should involve a terrible justice; the man should die as her lover had died; and her own hand should inflict upon him the recompense of God.

The sullen dawn of the Northern winter had broken when she lifted the blanket again. They were still in the forest, having lost the trail in the darkness, and presently a fresh halt was necessary, and whilst two of the men prepared a meal, her chief captor went off through the woods as she guessed to discover their whereabouts. He returned in the course of half an hour and said something to his companion which Helen did not understand; and after a rather leisurely meal they harnessed up once more.

After a time the forest began to open out. They struck a frozen river and descending the bank and taking to its smooth surface, their speed accelerated. The banks of the river widened, and in a little time they swept clear of them on to the open plain of what she easily guessed was a frozen lake. They turned sharply to the right, and a few minutes afterwards a whirl of snow caused her to cover her face. Some considerable time passed before she looked forth again. They were travelling at a great rate. The snow was flying from the shoes of the man who broke the trail. The half-breed who was acting as driver was urging the dogs with both whip and voice, and occasionally he cast an anxious look over his shoulder. Wondering why he should do so Helen also looked back. Then her heart gave a great leap. Behind them was another dog-team with two men. Was it possible that after all the half-breed was mistaken, or that he had told her a lying tale?

She did not know, she could not tell, she could only hope, and her hope was fed by her captor's evident anxiety. He whipped the dogs cruelly, and his glances back became more frequent. Helen also looked back and saw that the sled behind was gaining on them. Was it indeed her lover in pursuit, or were these men who had witnessed the attack on the cabin, and had fired the shots which had compelled the attackers to take flight? Anything now seemed possible, and as the half-breed's anxiety grew more pronounced, her own excited hopes mounted higher.

The snow came again, a blinding whirl that blotted out the whole landscape, then the half-breed gave a sharp order, and the Indian in front breaking trail turned ashore. The half-breed looked back, and then forward, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. The girl also looked forward. They were approaching a tree-crowned bluff, which was apparently their goal. Then suddenly, bewildering in its unexpectedness, came the flash and crack of a rifle from the bushes in shore.

"Sacree!" cried the half-breed, and the next moment three rifles spoke, and he pitched over in the snow, whilst the man at the gee-pole also fell.

The man breaking the trail in front, swerved from the bluff, and the dogs swerved after him, almost upsetting the sledge. Again a rifle, and the remaining man went down. The dogs, in excitement or fear, still moved forward, and Helen strove to free herself, but a moment later the sledge halted abruptly as two of the dogs fell, shot in their traces. She had a momentary vision of two men running towards her from the shore, then the snow came down in a thick veil. Dimly she caught the outline of one of the men by her sled, and the next moment a voice she remembered broke on her ears through the clamour of the wind.

"Thank God, Helen! I am in time."

And she looked up incredulously to find Gerald Ainley looking down at her.

CHAPTER XXI

CHIGMOK'S STORY