THE HEART OF THE RED FIRS (continued 5)

She knew that quick, incautious voice, and yet she could not master her unreasoning terror. It was Philip, but Philip shrouded in mystery; and the Philip she had known, with all his faults, had been open, above concealment, clear as day.

"Hush, you don't want any matches here," the other answered softly, and he dropped to his knees, feeling the floor. "Never mind," he said, rising, "Smith has the duplicate. Come, we must get away."

Louise waited, listening, until the tender pushed off, then she took the key and rose from her cramped position. She walked unsteadily around the bar and stopped, supporting herself on it for a moment. She was facing the dim square of light that marked the rear entrance, and she saw the mast of the little vessel rising tall and spectral through the gloom. Then presently her jib unfolded, her mainsail ran up, and she stood away and like a phantom dissolved in the smoke.

Louise turned and walked to the front door and on down towards her gate. Her fingers locked and unlocked over the key. "It was Philip," she told herself. "He comes here to the mills, secretly, at night, where he is master, and puts something in hiding. And I—I dared not speak to him. I crept like a coward—out of sight. I had done nothing—wrong—and yet I was—afraid."

Little Silas was waiting with Mason at the gate. She stopped in the light of the slab-fire to admire the fine lines of the finished boat. The old sailor stumped away radiant, and she went in with the child and lighted the swinging lamp and set the crimson shade. She drew the blinds and seated herself in the low wicker chair by the open fire to give the boy his hour. But afterwards, when he had been tucked snugly in his bed and she came back to the room, she took the key from her pocket and studied it, turning it slowly in her hands, as though she expected to find in it some difference from other keys; some clue to that mystery in the tap-room. There was a lurking dread in her eyes; lines settled at the corners of her sweet mouth. "The other man was Mr. Stratton," she said at last. "And some one else has the duplicate. Oh, I don't understand. I don't understand."

She returned the key to her pocket and went over to the piano. But she played mechanically, in fragments. Why had the tap-room been fitted with a strong lock? What was this terrible thing Philip had brought ashore? Awful crimes she had read of in newspapers flashed through her mind. What did this chest contain? She rose and began to walk the floor.

Suddenly the great silence that hung over the mills at night was broken by a hoarse whistle. The color went from her lips. Her body rocked slowly; she stood locking and unlocking her slender hands. The echo died along the bluff. She drew a great breath. "Why," she said, and laughed mirthlessly, "it is only one of the tugs; the Tyee probably, coming in for wood or water."

But her hand stole to her pocket and closed over the key. She went to the front door and stood alert, listening, on the piazza, straining her eyes to define the lines of the steamer which was making her landing in the mingled smoke and fog. "Of course it's one of the tugs," she repeated, and walked the length of the porch, hurriedly, and halted, again listening.

The few men who had lingered near the slab-fire commenced to go down to the dock. She watched their figures grow dimmer, until they were only moving shadows in the thick atmosphere. The moon, rising above the lower, heavier strata, began to show a crimson run. Then, after a while, she heard Forrest's step on the walk. She went to the steps to meet him. She saw that two men waited a few yards behind him at the branch walk.

He followed her into the hall, and pushing the door to, stood with his hand on the knob. "The revenue cutter is here," he said. "The inspectors think they have located dope. They are coming in here, now, to go through the house." He paused, looking down into her white face. "I tried my best to prevent it," he added, "but they will do it very quietly. One of them is my friend Bates. You have nothing to fear."

But the terror grew in her eyes. She made an effort to speak, but the words failed her. She shaped her lips again. It was hardly more than a whisper. "What did you say they were looking for?"

"Opium. It generally is opium, and of course it's just a matter of form to come in here. A man is detailed to go through the mills and he makes a clean sweep of every building."

She caught the sound of the clicking gate. "Paul," she said, "make some excuse for me. Do it. Stay yourself, and light them through the rooms. Delay them if you can."

She turned and ran through the hall, and pausing to snatch up Mason's candle and matches at the back door, ran out around the house to the walk, in the moment Forrest admitted the officers.

It did not seem strange to Forrest that she had wished to avoid these men; he, himself, had felt the humiliation of their visit, for, though it was not remarkable that suspicion should have fallen on any of that rough Freeport crew, it was carrying the matter pretty far to include Mrs. Kingsley's home. He had asked the inspectors to exempt it, but Bates had replied, "I'm sorry, but the fact is, Forrest, that's the place I'm detailed specially to search." And what had she meant by "Delay them if you can?"

He took a lamp and lighted the officers through the rooms. Little Silas wakened and sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. He saw these men open his mother's bureau, drawer after drawer, and thrust their hands through her things, and he turned to Forrest for explanation. But the young man stood back, waiting in silence, with frowning brows.

There was no one on the walk when Louise hurried to the ruin. The fog and smoke had become very dense along the front of the bluff, but the moonlight filtered through enough to show objects, with the indistinctness of wet nights. The walls of the hotel loomed out of the pall, lonesomely. The floor complained at her tread. She went quickly behind the bar, and drawing the key from her pocket, found the lock. Inside the tap-room she lighted the candle. The floor was strewn with sand, dust, pebbles and bits of broken board. The tide still swashed under the worm-eaten planks; they shook at her step.

She put the candle down and tried to move the chest. It yielded slowly to her straining effort. Her first impulse had been to drag it through to the rear balcony and push it over into the sea, but she had not considered its weight. She locked the door and stood briefly scanning the floor. The short, uneven strips were rotting about the old nail-heads, which in places had worked up from the boards. There were widening cracks where ends joined. She knelt down and tried to start some of these rusty nails, but they were firmer than they looked. She moved from one to another in growing haste, still on her knees, and tugged at the stubborn iron with her tender hands. The jagged roughness tore her fingers, imbedding splinters at every wrench. She reached a looser nail. Her renewed effort forced the wood around it, and she began to use it as a claw, prying and digging faster and faster, working out the next. Presently she was able to lift this plank, and she used it as a lever under the second, bearing gradually with increasing weight. It gave without breaking and she laid it aside while she raised a third strip. There was an increased rush of air. The flickering candle-flame was snuffed out. Still the light from the high window showed the chest, and she dragged it to the aperture. It fell slanting, and caught in the flooring. At the same instant some one outside tried the tap-room door.

She grasped the chest with the strength of desperation. It slowly righted and went through. The tide closed over it with a deeper swash.

Again she heard that cautious noise. Some one was trying to force a key in the lock. It was obstructed by the one she had left there, and the attempt was followed by a muttered curse. She laid the planks back in their order, and brushing the sand and pebbles hastily over them, rose, panting, and faced the door. There was no further disturbance, but the room suddenly darkened. She turned, lifting her eyes to the high window, and saw against the light the head of a man. It appeared briefly and moved down, but she caught the brutish profile. It was the face that had once alarmed her, peering into her room out of the night.

She threw the door open, and relocking it from the outside, ran swiftly through the bar-room and down the walk. Presently she glanced back fearfully, but the man had not followed, and she paused to hurl the key and the candle far out in the tide.

As she approached her gate she saw that Forrest was waiting at the foot of the piazza steps, while the inspectors came along the side of the house from the rear. They moved slowly, prodding the sawdust and planking that built up the yard, and she hoped to gain the porch before they came that far. But they met her while she was still on the walk. Bates swept her with his keen glance, but the lantern, which the other man was adjusting, flashed that moment full in his face, and, blinded, he passed without stopping her, going in the direction of the ruin.

Forrest saw her and stood holding the gate. The slab-fire suddenly burst into brighter flame. It showed him clearly the stains of earth and brine upon her gown; the grime of dust and moisture on her worn face. She raised her hand to ward off his look, and her sleeve, rent to the elbow, fell back from her beautiful forearm, baring a long deep, bleeding hurt, ploughed there by the brass-bound end of the falling chest. "Louise, Louise," he said. "What is it? Tell me."

She pushed him aside and went up the steps.

"Trust me," he said. "Let me help you."

"No," she answered, "No. Don't ask me." Then she turned and looked down at him, and through the anguish in her eyes he saw the old heart-breaking appeal. "I—I did it—for—little Silas." Her voice broke in a great tearless sob. She went in and closed the door.

After a moment Forrest turned and followed the officers around to the ruin. As he approached he heard the sound of blows. What wall had they found to require such battering? He was there in time to see the hinges of the old tap-room door wrenched out of the soft wood. It fell inward, starting a cloud of dust from the rotting floor. Bates stepped on it, and flashed his lantern over the interior. His keen eyes swept the empty place and came back to meet the glance of the other inspector. He laughed. "Well, Bates," he said, "I guess we're fooled."

Bates's eyes moved to the fallen door. "This lock was put on this room for a purpose," he said. "And the Phantom could land almost under these walls at high tide. She may be stumbling around out there now, feeling her way in through the smoke."

"The Phantom?" Forrest started. He leaned an instant on the bar behind him, then he pulled himself erect and stood staring into the empty tap-room. The lantern shining in his face showed it hard and gray with the deepening furrow cleaving his brows. "The Phantom was here," he told himself. "The stuff was left in there—and she—knew it. She concealed it, moved it, somehow, while those men were at the house."

Bates turned and looked at him. "I suppose, Forrest," he said, "you can't account for this lock? You could hardly think of using this old ruin for storage purposes."

"No, no." His voice rang. He met the inspector's look clearly, with his quick, upward fling of the head. "I ought to know all about it, but I never saw it before. My work kept me in the other direction, at the mills."

"Of course," said Bates slowly, "of course, as I thought. I've simply got to patrol this beach, to-night, and wait for daylight to pick up a clue."

Forrest walked with the officers back towards the cutter. "I should have known about that lock," he told himself. "I should have found out why that horse was up there on the bluff that day. I should have learned what brought Stratton here alone. A little investigation would have shown how things were going. I might have kept Philip out of the scheme; brought things to a climax in time."

When the trio made the turn in the bluff that shut them off from a view of the ruin, Smith swung himself down from the rear balcony to the rim of beach which the ebbing tide had bared. He groped under the stringers and found a dark lantern, which he lighted and held beneath the building. It showed the top of the chest above the water, and he pushed along between the wall and the bluff to the side of the tap-room, and dipped under the floor. Presently he emerged, dragging the chest. He stooped and lifted, worked it on to his shoulder, and went splashing knee-deep and waist-deep in hollows, around to the western exposure of the headland. When it seemed accessible he used his lantern again and found the path. A short distance up he wormed himself, crouching, through a tangle of hazel and salal and reached a little spur flanked by an old cedar snag.

He put his burden down, and by the light of his lantern took two pairs of saddle-bags from the hollow heart of the trunk, and filled them with the contents of the chest. What remained he put into a coarse sack. Then he picked up the empty chest and ran back a pace or two and hurled it out into the tide. He waited, listening, but he heard only the rush and ebb of the sea, and he returned to the cedar, and taking the weighted bags on his shoulders, pushed on up to the summit.

He stopped there, gathering breath. The ledge where he stood seemed to run shelf wise along an abyss. The mingled fog and smoke gave immensity to the distance below. He bent his head, listening again, and caught faintly the voice of the sea, nothing more. Then suddenly out of the night behind him there came a gentle nicker. His big lips broke in a leer. He ran, groping along the ridge trail to his horse.

He threw the bags across his saddle and stopped to fold the sack inside his blanket, which he carried rolled at the crupper. Then he moved away up the ridge, running afoot with the horse. Once he swung himself up behind the load for a brief interval, while he gathered wind, but he was down again directly and slipping over the ground with the same ease.

Finally he halted. Out of the stillness he heard the sound of hoofs crossing a bridge. He fell to his knees an instant with his ear to the ground, and when he rose his lips again broke in their horrible leer. He moved on to a point where the trail cut a thoroughfare, and, presently, Stratton joined him. He took one pair of the saddlebags with him on the chestnut, and Smith mounted and they rode on together in the direction of the Nisqually.

CHAPTER XXIII

"AS LONG AS WE TWO LIVE"

Forrest stood on the upper landing of the mills. It was hardly midday and the air was charged with the singing and buzzing of saws and the rumble of the tramway. The town across the harbor was hidden in the thick pall, and the sun hung overhead a blood-red ball. Ashes and cinders fell everywhere; one breathed, tasted smoke.

The cutter, which had steamed over to the town during the night, had returned and was lying at the lower wharf, and Forrest was watching Bates. He had stayed to patrol the mills but had gone aboard when the steamer arrived, and had now come over the gangway and was walking up from the dock. Presently he mounted the stairs to the landing, but the manager did not turn, and he came over and stood by him, looking off into the smoke. "Of course, Forrest," he said at last, "you think a lot of the Judge. You are under obligations to him."

"I think a great deal of him, yes." Forrest gave the inspector a level look. "He is one of the best friends I ever had; but 'obligations' is hardly the word." He paused, looking off again into the smoke, then said, "Judge Kingsley is able to meet and brave through—what he must. It's Kingsley's wife I've got to think of. You don't know her, Bates." He paused, steadying his voice. "She has the old, rigorous New England sense of duty; the blood and principles of generations of Puritans are condensed in her. And yet she is so gentle, so sweet—but you can't understand without seeing her."

"I see," said Bates slowly, "I see. But, Forrest, suppose Kingsley is left out of this, could you put us on Stratton's track?"

Forrest swung around. "You ought to know, Bates, I'm not that sort of a man. And she—isn't that kind of a woman. She would wring the misery out of a thing like this, as no other woman would, and suffer the shame of it all her life,—but the expiation would mean something to her. She could stand the disgrace better, when it came to it, than covered guilt."

"I understand all that, Forrest,"—Bates lifted his hand with a sweeping gesture that dismissed that side of the question,—"but it's this way: the Phantom was at her moorings over there at Seattle, when the cutter ran across last night. The captain boarded her immediately, and found Kingsley sleeping like a kid in his cabin below. Stratton had come up from Victoria with him, yes, but he had gone ashore. He couldn't tell just where he was at that time, but he usually put up at the Arlington. And, yes, they had run pretty close to Foulweather Bluff, just as we saw, and he was sorry about the matter of the headlight,—the glass had smashed in and he hadn't the chance to rig another,—but he was ready if they had come to collect the fine. And of course he had heard the cutter's salute, but it was too great a risk to bring the Phantom around in the smoke; we had just come mighty near a collision. Then, when the captain told him he would have to make a thorough search of the yacht, he sat coolly advising him where to look. Hadn't he better cut up the cushions? He never had been certain what was inside. And there was a place on the port side that had always sounded a little hollow. They would find a hatchet in that locker if they wanted to rip off a few boards. In short, Forrest, there was absolutely nothing to show, beyond the fact that the Phantom brought over our man. But, whatever Kingsley knows, or doesn't know, I must get on Stratton's track right away. That thoroughbred which he usually keeps in the Arlington stables when he is in town is gone; and that's about the only clue I have to work on."

"Then," said Forrest, with another level look, "if I were you I would go up to the top of this bluff and look around."

Bates started. A sudden understanding leaped in his face.

"And," continued Forrest, "if I happened to miss my trail anywhere up the ridge, I think I would shape a course straight through to a shooting-box he owns, up the Nisqually."

"Thank you for that, Forrest," Bates grasped his hand warmly, "thank you. When you went into the milling business the Government lost the chance of a mighty good man."

He turned with this and ran lightly down the stairs. A moment later the noon whistle sounded and the workmen began to come out on the landing. Forrest stood waiting while Bates hurried back to the cutter. A small vessel moved out from the shrouded city front, her set jib showing lighter in the dense grayness, and like a spectre drifted towards the mills. But Forrest saw her absently. He was thinking that he must go over to the little dining-room. Louise had not met him there at the usual breakfast hour, but she would hardly miss the midday meal. Young Silas would make it necessary for her to come. And he must sit there, passively, as though nothing had occurred, while she was in such desperate straits. How could he look into her face? How could he crush down any longer what he thought of Philip? What he hoped for Stratton? The recollection of him, his handsome, mocking face, his fascination, incredible power over Kingsley, most of all his responsibility for the wrecked life of this sweet woman, made his muscles tingle, and sent the blood with a rush through his veins. It was the passion of a strong and much-enduring man brought to his limit. His arms ached for physical contact. Some day, soon, he would like to set his hands on Stratton in one tremendous, unforgettable grip.

But Louise was not coming to the dining-room. Little Silas, mounting the stairs with Mason, was saying so. His "muvver" was not hungry; she was going to have some tea at home. But he was ready, and he had told Sing to watch, and when he saw him coming with Uncle Paul, to bring in the soup.

Forrest went over to the dining-room with the boy, and a little later the Phantom swung in to her wharf. Kingsley came ashore and went directly up the walk to his house. His wife did not meet him at the door. He did not find her in the parlor. Of course she was at lunch, or was it dinner here at the mills? He sat down to the piano and ran his fingers over the keys. Presently the noise brought her into the room, and he looked up with a nod and smile, drumming on to the end of his tune. Then he wheeled around on the stool and rose to his feet. "Well, Louise," he said, "I have good news for you." She received his kiss on her cheek, at which he laughed, and putting his hand under her chin, compelled her sweet lips. "We are going home to Olympia."

He waited for her to speak, but she did not. She only stood locking and unlocking her slim hands, and looking at him with tragic, circle-rimmed eyes. "You'll be glad to get away from Freeport," he added.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "I shall be very—glad—to leave Freeport; I am going—but not to Olympia; not with you."

"You are not going to Olympia, Louise? Not with me?"

"That is what I said." Her breast heaved and she went on with apparent effort. "We made a—terrible mistake; I have known it for a long time. Still, I believed we could live out our lives together—for the sake of little Silas."

"Do you mean—our marriage, Louise? Do you think that was a mistake?"

"Yes." Her face grew very white, and she put one hand on a table, leaning a little on the support.

His own face clouded. It was the way of this man to value things according to the difficulty of possession; and he found himself suddenly shaken by a new and strange tenderness for his wife, while at the same time he felt a swift and bitter suspicion. He turned and walked the floor, retracing his steps, and going the length of the room again. "It is true, then," he said. "It is true."

"What is true?"

"What Stratton told me. This thing the mill-hands are bruiting about." She started and stood quivering from head to foot, and he added slowly, watching her, "This story about you and Paul."

She did not speak directly. She was like one brutally struck. Then infinite contempt rose in her face; her deep eyes flamed, and her voice, when she found speech, took its contralto notes. "You say that. You. When you know the situation was thrust upon him. When you, yourself, left me alone with our baby, in this rough milling camp, for weeks together, with no possible protection but his. Think of it. When I told you I was afraid, you asked him to see that the house had special watch at night; when I said that I missed you, you asked him to bring his violin and spend his evenings with me; even when Si's hard illness came, it was not you who shared my anxiety; it was not you who quieted him, carried him in your strong arms. No, it was not you, but Paul Forrest. And he saved—little Silas; you know he risked his own life for him." Her voice broke. "Oh, you must see that he was forced into it; you must. He had enough else to do—but—you left him no alternative."

"I left him no alternative? Well, I own it. But you, Louise, come, out with it. It's true. You do love him."

"No," and her voice thrilled him, "No. When a woman is married and has her little child—to think of, she doesn't turn so easily to—other loves."

At this he began to walk the floor again. She watched him with lifted head and flaming eyes.

"I wonder," he said, stopping suddenly and regarding her with a touch of humor in his face, "I wonder if you think I don't care anything for you."

"Yes, you have led me to think so."

He laughed aloud. "Why, I couldn't care that," he snapped his fingers, "for any other woman. I couldn't love any woman but you. Don't you know it, Sweetheart?" He put his arm around her, drawing her head against his shoulder. "Come, say you forgive me."

But she drew away, freeing herself desperately with her two arms. His own fell. She moved back and the step was immeasurable space between them. "No," she said. "No. Do not ask it."

He took another turn across the floor, uncertainly, his hands seeking his pockets. "Tell me this," he said quietly, stopping before her. "Is there something else? Something more than—well—my neglect. Something I don't know about."

"How can I tell you?" She pressed her hands to her head and let them fall, meeting his look. "Your way of loving has never been my way. I could never make you understand how much I cared for you. You were everything to me, Philip; everything. I worshipped you. To have you indifferent, away, to lose you as I did, was to have nothing. But I still could teach Silas to respect you, to believe in you. No slight, no neglect of me could make me doubt you in—other ways. You were a man of honor among men; you had your place—until—last night."

His glance wavered while she spoke. He felt an unaccountable weakness, a sudden tightness at the throat, and he reached back to a chair behind him and sank down.

"Philip," she said, "how could you do it? How—could—you?" Tears rushed to her eyes; she brushed them impatiently away. "Think of it. To lend the Phantom, that clean, white yacht, to an opium smuggler; to make him your companion, friend; to be his willing tool. Oh, the shame of it! The shame of it! How could you?"

He dropped his face in his hands. He felt suddenly that a court of justice might be more merciful than this proud, sweet, unrelenting woman. Then he made an effort to pull himself together. "I see," he said, "you saw the revenue boat and you accepted Forrest's version. The captain of the cutter would have told you different. There is some suspicion hanging over Stratton, I admit, and those inspectors were looking for the Phantom, in fact they boarded her, merely because he happened to make the cruise with me over from Victoria. They of course found nothing."

"No," she said slowly, "they found—nothing." There was a brief silence, then she went on. "I was there, in the old hotel, when you landed. I often walked that way when the house seemed too—unbearably—lonely. I liked the sounds of the tide. I believed, at first, the Phantom had missed the dock in the smoke; then I thought it might be another boat, and some secret plot going on about the mills; something Paul should know. I am not a very brave woman, as you have often said, and I crept under the bar to wait. I was even afraid when I knew it was you. The key you dropped fell on my skirt. Afterwards, when the cutter came, I understood. And while the inspectors searched through these rooms, I went back to the ruin and lifted enough of the floor to get—the chest—through."

"You did that? Oh, Louise, Louise!" He dropped his face again in his hands. He saw in a flash the magnitude of what she had done; the terrible moral as well as the physical effort it had cost her. But he felt more, in that bitter moment, that it was to her, the one in all the world from whom he had most cared to hide his dishonor, he owed his salvation. "Oh, Louise," he repeated, "and you did it for me."

"No." Her voice rang. "No. I did it for little Silas; to save him the disgrace. I am going to take him away, where the smallest hint or suspicion can never reach him. But I will not have a divorce—unless you wish." And the break in her voice, the white stillness of her face more than her words convinced him.

He rose to his feet. "The scheme was all Mark Stratton's," he said. "He took advantage of my being in a tight place. He promised to assume the whole risk; let him shoulder the disgrace."

She was silent.

"Louise," he said desperately, "you can't be so hard. I know what I did. I know there isn't the shadow of excuse for me, but you can't be so hard. You don't mean a separation. You are only trying me. Fix a limit; give me a certain time to prove myself. Give me some sort of hope, Louise."

He was very handsome at that moment. He possessed great personal magnetism; his emotion softened his voice and the brilliancy of his black eyes. He came a step towards her, opening his arms impetuously. "I will do anything you say, Sweetheart; only don't leave me."

She stood shrinking against the table. "I could never respect myself—again," she said slowly, with manifest effort, "unless—you accepted your share of the atonement; and—my own confession—would follow; but—little Silas—would begin life—handicapped."

"Silas. Well, it's all right, put him first; I deserve it. But count in old Si, too; it would cut him pretty bad. After all, we are in the same boat. Let us forget it and make a new start." Her face was very white; her body rocked. He thought that she was falling. He took her in his arms. "Sweetheart," he said, "don't send me away; I love you so."

But she laid her palms against his breast, holding herself aloof. His arms fell. "Then make it a probation," he pleaded. "I will be good. Promise me you will come back—in a year."

She shook her head. She was almost past speaking. She braced herself with her hand on the table again, her whole body trembling. "No," she said at last, "no. Please go; don't say any more. It must be separation—nothing less—as long as we two live!"

CHAPTER XXIV

"A MAN OF STRAW"

Smith, having slower horses and the bulk of the outfit, started for the Pass at daybreak, with the understanding that Stratton would overtake him at the crossing of the Nisqually; and it was hardly two hours later that the thoroughbred forded the Des Chutes above the lodge, and, followed by a pack-animal, made a sharp ascent to the rock tower, where his master halted to load the remainder of the cache.

The forest fires that had been the salvation of the Phantom, had proved a disadvantage on the road from Seattle. The two horsemen had been forced to make wide détours around blazing timber; sometimes the trail was lost in the charred ruins of burned out tracts, and arriving at the ranch where Stratton had expected to pick up pack-animals, they found the buildings completely wiped away, and all signs of humanity and life gone. But Smith annulled these delays by starting a red trail backward from the Nisqually plains through the untouched woods they had travelled; cutting off any chance of pursuit for several days.

Stratton had been further handicapped by the pain in his head, which the heat and glare brought on with increasing violence. There were moments when riding became impossible, and he threw himself from the saddle, prone on the earth, to wait for harder paroxysms to pass. But as they approached the headwaters, they came into the shade of clean, unbroken timber; the smoke decreased to scarcely more than a haze, and, while Smith pressed Laramie to forage for the necessary pack-horses, Stratton was able to allow himself twenty-four hours of absolute rest, induced by a few drops of the mixture he had learned to use in the solitude of his lodge, and this put him on his feet again.

Still he made slow progress down the rough path from the tower that morning, and even when he struck the main trail he halted repeatedly, like a man of two minds. Finally he wheeled and, encumbered by the pack-horse, which led indifferently, paced back, and turned into a by-way that brought him into the school branch. He held Sir Donald at a walk and studied the ground, until, though he noticed Mose's footprints in a moist place, he was satisfied the black had not yet passed. Presently he stopped, listening. The track, there, doubled a trunk of great girth; a hollow cedar stump, roofed like an arbor by the branches of young alders, which also screened a break in the inner wall, like a curtain before a door.

The sound became a brisk and steady lope. To this man, who had waited for it often, who was accustomed to read the individuality of horses as a psychologist studies men, it was unmistakable. He backed the pack-animal into the salal, and held the thoroughbred in, while Colonel, falling to a gentle pace, rounded the curve and came to a playful standstill.

"Good morning." Alice's glance moved from Stratton to the laden pack-horse. "But it looks like good-by," she said.

"Yes, I turned back to say it. I missed seeing you at the homestead, yesterday, and I am starting on another trading and hunting trip. I should find elk now, in the mountains, and I hope to bring you the horns of a goat."

"I'll have a place for all you bring," she answered, her lips dimpling. "Mose told me you were going. But," she added seriously, "I'm glad you are going alone. Mose saw Pete Smith, late last evening, creeping along from the foot-bridge, and this morning, of course you know, Mill Thornton's horse was gone."

"Not the sorrel?" Sir Donald, accustomed to every fluctuation of his master's voice, trembled and wheeled. But the hand on the bridle steadied and brought him around. "No," Stratton added, "No, I had not heard. I came the other way, by the ford and the canyon trail, and so missed seeing Mrs. Mill. And Thornton believes it was Smith?"

"Yes, he is sure of it. There was a clear track on the wet grass across my claim to strike the canyon trail. He followed it far enough to be certain, then started for the prairie to get Jake's horse. Ketchem is very swift and he expected to bring the Government detectives back with him. They have tracked Pete to the settlement, and spent last night at the Myers homestead."

Stratton put his hand on the black's glossy neck, giving it a quick, firm stroke. "And they are looking for—Smith?" he asked.

"Yes. He has committed some new crime; Samantha didn't understand what. I doubt if the man who told Mill knew. But," she halted an instant, compelling his eyes with her clear, steadfast look that seemed to expect a best in him, "you will help the Government now. You will stop him if the opportunity comes. And you know how Mill needs his horse. Think if it was Sir Donald; think how it must go all against the grain of a fine, mettlesome creature to be touched, even, by those unclean, wicked hands."

"I will do what I can about the sorrel," he answered. "But I am going a long and hazardous journey; I may never see you again." He gave the black another quick, firm stroke, then, meeting her eyes, once more lost himself. "Smith is with me," he said. "Those men are looking for me. Think. Go back to that day at the tower when you stumbled on that strange, leaking tin. Go back farther to that time on Orcas Island; the story I told you there on the summit. I was that boy."

"You were that boy?"

"Yes. The time has come; I want you to know it from me. I was that boy. And you,"—he paused, and the quiver that was the surface stir of unsounded depths swept his face. "You were that woman. I can't give you up. You don't know how I love you. Wait. Listen. Never mind that friendliness; I break the truce. Never mind your impossible duty to the Judge. When a woman loves a man, as you are capable of loving, she doesn't hold him off the breadth of the whole continent; she goes when he calls. Wait. Listen. Forget that Puritan conscience of yours, this one half-hour, and I pledge myself to live up to it the rest of my life. Trust me. Promise you will join me in Chicago, New York, Montreal, whenever, wherever I write."

The color flamed in her face. "I shall be late to school," she said. "Turn Sir Donald, please."

She spoke to her horse, but the thicket crowded close and the chestnut continued to hold the way. "Wait, just one moment more," Stratton went on, "you do not understand. I will take you away, to the ends of the earth, if I must, and make a new start. I can do it; I can become the most rigid patriot, I swear, with you to back me. It rests completely with you, to make of me your kind of man, or to send me—I don't care where."

"I could never be any man's prop," she answered. "I thought you knew that!" Then suddenly her manner changed. Her face softened; her eyes filled with a great appeal. "Face it out, pay the price," she said. "I will help you; only be the man of character, of force, I have believed you to be, and not—a man of straw."

"Force," he caught at the word. "Force. Would you like me better if I should carry you away? I could do it, now, to-day; over the mountains, into the big Palouse wilderness. Sir Donald is very fleet,"—he watched her narrowly,—"and so is the black."

"Carry me away? Carry me?" Again her manner changed. She tipped back her head, laughing in soft derision.

"I know every byway northward to the British boundary and far beyond," he went on hurriedly. "Only give me the start over the divide, and the whole roused Northwest could never find you."

"But you forget my part; I should find a way back." And she laughed again, less merrily, still in derision.

He backed his horse a little among the alders, close to the cedar trunk, and swung himself from the saddle, moving to the chestnut's head and thrusting his arm through the bridle. The position brought him again to the neck of the black, and he slipped the same hand on through the coil of Colonel's lariat. "At least you are not afraid of me," he said. "I am glad of that."

"Afraid? Afraid of you? Oh, no. Why should I be? But the children will be waiting." Though the words were brave her voice trembled. It was not the first time she had tried to laugh this man off dangerous ground, but now, suddenly looking into his face, for the first time, she felt he had passed beyond her influence.

She was afraid. This was not the Stratton she had known; whose companionship hitherto had seemed a security on the trail; whose frequent visits to the headwaters had kept her in touch with the outside world; the friend who had once saved her from fire; whom, earlier, she had rescued from an ice-crevasse. That Stratton had been mocking, debonair; a few times she had seen him shaken with passion, but he had shown her strong under-currents of fine feeling; and, always, in any mood, he had remembered to be courteous, chivalrous; that was bred in the bone. But this man—it was as though she had not seen him before. His face was determined, hard. It might have been chiseled of rock. His silence was a threat. And, clearly, he did not mean to let her pass.

She turned in her saddle to look at the space behind her and gathered her rein. And instantly Stratton laid his palm on her hand and drew the bridle from her surprised hold. "You will hate me at first," he said, "perhaps hard and long; but—I can be patient—you will love me in the end and marry me."

He made a hitch in the rein and dropping it on the black's neck, lifted his hand to the silk handkerchief knotted at his throat.

"I will not," she said, and caught a great breath, "I will not." She reached for the bridle, but again his hand closed over hers. She flashed him a look; unspeakable contempt, aversion, rose in her face. "You ruffian," she added. "You common ruffian, outlaw."

And he let the hand go. He released, too, his hold on the coiled lariat, and stood back like a man unexpectedly struck. He had ceased to bar the way; she was free to ride on, but she failed to notice that. She saw only this "ruffian" and her eyes stormed. "Listen," she said, and her voice, like her sister's, deepened to contralto notes. "I warn you. I can die just once and it will come to that before I ever bring myself to marry you. As long as I live I shall never love any man but—Paul Forrest."

So, at last, in this moment of great anger, the truth which she had not even admitted to herself, was surprised from her. Then she was silent. A wave of color surged and ebbed in her face. She began to tremble, a little at first, then harder; her whole body rocked.

And Stratton watched her. The light like a blade flashed in his eyes, but he gathered himself, slowly, in check, the Stratton she knew once more. "So," he said, finally, "so, after all, it is the black's master, as I thought, as I feared at the beginning. You might have told me; it was hardly fair to me to fabricate that yarn about the Judge, and stay by it so long."

"It was not a fabrication. I am going to marry Judge Kingsley," her voice broke and she finished almost in a whisper, "as I told you."

"I see," he answered slowly, "I see." He paused and went on yet more slowly. "To think of it, the irony of it, that Forrest should love your sister."

Colonel had started, but she drew him in and turned, again facing this man. "Hush," she said, and he saw that she shook once more, from head to foot. "Hush. Deny it. Own that you know, it isn't true."

He folded his arms, one drawn still through his bridle, and met her look steadily. "But I believe it," he answered. "I am sorry, but I believe it. How do you know it isn't true?"

"You know them both, yet you can ask. You—you must have seen that she could never care for any man but Philip Kingsley."

"I grant that," he answered and smiled. "I spoke merely of Forrest. It is he who is generally blamed."

"Blamed?" She lifted her chin high; her eyes storming.

"Yes, it is common talk among the mill men; I have overheard it discussed in a hotel lobby at Seattle, and at Olympia, where they are generally and intimately known."

"But you—you have denied it?"

He shook his head. "I am sorry, but how could I deny it?"

"Because Paul Forrest isn't that kind of man; you know it. You know he is as true, as steadfast as these hills."

"True to her," Stratton persisted softly, "true to her, yes."

"No—to me."

Then suddenly on the silence there rang an ominous sound. Colonel wheeled and looked, head up, sensitive ears playing, towards the Nisqually trail; he wheeled again and she allowed him to set the pace in the direction of the school.

Plainly there were many hoof-beats and they struck into the branch leaving the river trail. Stratton spoke to the indifferent pack-horse, touched him smartly on the flank and sent him careering after the black. Then he urged the thoroughbred quickly along the trunk to the break that was like a door. There was barely room to press through, and the chestnut's head rose among the alder branches that roofed the stump. But a word, a firm touch on the forelegs, and the trained animal dropped to his knees. Another word and he rolled to his side with his head flattened to receive his master's weight. It was the method used in breaking a cavalry mount for field drill; and Sir Donald remained motionless, while Bates and his deputies thundered by with Thornton, in hot pursuit of the black and the laden pack-horse.

Stratton rested lightly, easing his weight by bracing one knee on the earth. A bough rustled outside of the trunk; a twig snapped faintly, and he was conscious that a pair of ferret eyes peered cautiously, briefly, around through the aperture. But he made no sign until the posse had passed; then he threw out his arm, feeling, and drew Lem, struggling, towards him. "You spy," he whispered, and the anger flashed in his eyes; "you spy. Tell what you know and I will skin you—by inches—alive."

Then he tossed the shaking boy aside, in a heap, and in another instant had his horse up and out of his hiding-place, and mounting, galloped lightly back in the direction of Nisqually crossing and the Pass.

CHAPTER XXV

THE ROCKSLIDE

Stratton made a steep rise and stopped, breathing the chestnut on a level shoulder of the Pass. Behind him a clump of mountain hemlock and some scrub pines marked the tree line, and, looking ahead, he saw, rounding a bald and higher spur, a rider with two pack-horses. For a brief interval these figures moved, well-defined, gathering nearness in the slanting rays of the low sun, then a black buttress closed, shutting them out like a mighty door. The man was Smith. He had not waited at Nisqually ford and he rode Thornton's sorrel.

Stratton whistled, a soft, peremptory note, and the thoroughbred sprang, moving swiftly down a short incline, and up towards the buttress. The passage grew difficult. The trail, which took the edge of a precipitous slope, was obstructed by fallen rock. Presently these loose accumulations increased to a slide. Sir Donald dropped to a walk, picking his way lightly. Finally, under the cliff, he halted, balanced nicely on a huge rocking slab, and inspected with suspicion the pitfalls before him. His master waited, motionless; the bridle hung loosely, but in a firm, alert hand. "It's all right, old fellow," he said, "It's all right, but take your own time."

The chestnut shook his mane in remonstrance and put one forefoot out cautiously, trying for hold. Then he withdrew, backing carefully, swiftly, off the slab, and with hoofs set, head high, whole body quivering, waited. The next instant the solid earth shook, and like a sprung mine, clang, clash, roar, a terrific cannonading filled the gorge.

Stratton understood. Smith had seen him at the lower curve, and, bent on deferring a meeting until the return of the sorrel was impossible, had pressed hurriedly on. The autumn frosts, thawing by day, continually split and loosened rock on the face of the cliff, and this incautious passing of the horses, a false step, a stumble, had been the slight jar necessary to start a fresh avalanche.

The final echo died far off; the profound silence which had followed him all day settled again like an intangible presence over the gorge. It was a stillness to challenge the very breathing of a man, if he lived, and Stratton waited, listening, for any slight disturbance beyond the buttress. None reached him. But the sorrel was fleet. She would have sprung like the wind at the first crack of the catastrophe; and if there had been space to pass the pack-animals, it was possible she had carried Smith out of the track of the slide.

But clearly this portion of the trail was now impassable. He backed Sir Donald slowly away from the bastion, and when he was able to turn him, rode down to a point where a rivulet, cascading from a hidden snow field high up, formed a gully in the slope. He took this rocky stairway, dismounting where he must, swinging into the saddle again, making détours through crumbling earth, on over slippery stone, doubling back, pressing up once more, and so gained the summit of the cliff. He left his horse and crept to the eastern edge and looked down on the slide. It was terrible. For half a mile, obliterating the trail to the next curve, stretched ruin. Midway a crag, like a broken mainmast, dismantled, toppled out of the wreckage, and at the same time a warning and a menace, held the Pass. It was also a monument. There was no longer room for doubt; somewhere down there in the bottom of the gorge, under tons of rock, the unfortunate sorrel was buried with Smith.

Aside from the light provision Stratton carried in his saddle-bag, and his blanket rolled at the crupper, the camp outfit and the remainder of the opium had gone down with the pack-horses. But he could not return to the Nisqually. Even if Bates had given up the pursuit, the roused settlement, by this time holding him responsible for Thornton's horse, would keep a tireless watch for him. He must go on.

He drew back from the precipice and stood erect. The buttress was only the advanced paw of the monster height that loomed above him. He looked up, measuring its sharp pitches, trying to shape a course around the slide. The sun dipped behind a spur, and the wind, pulling up the defile, sharpened. Then suddenly the great peaks that encircled him seemed to draw closer. They gathered personality; they became a tribunal, austere, uncompromising, sitting in supreme judgment; ready to follow quick sentence with swifter execution. Each mighty, hoary head turned to him, waiting, watchful, and a voice, intangible yet dominant like the silence, said, "Next."

"No," he answered aloud, and set his lips, "No, not yet. There is a way through, or else I can make one."

But close on this challenge there rang a rifle-shot. He swung around and dropped to his knee. Looking over the opposite edge of the buttress, he saw three horsemen at the curve which he had lately passed. Bates he knew instantly, from the powerful, white-faced bay he rode; and the big fellow, holding the rifle in readiness, while he checked in the long-limbed, nervous brown mount, was of course Thornton; the third was probably a deputy, and presently, while they waited reconnoitering the cliff, Myers joined them, urging Ginger. Then they all came slowly forward, and disappeared under the rim of the bastion.

Instantly Stratton was up. He threw himself into the saddle and put Sir Donald to the slope. The men would stop at the slide; they would turn back and doubtless pick up his trail at the rivulet. They would follow to the surface of the cliff and from there he would be an easy target along the bald face of the mountain. He pushed on tirelessly, winding, doubling, looking back often, listening, but keeping a course, always, for a small spur capped by two tilting tables of granite. He made the last steep stretch on foot, and Sir Donald, protesting, yet invariably obedient, pricking this ear, the other, to his master's brief, low command, followed to the level. The slabs, in falling from a higher ridge, had pitched shedwise against a wall, and Stratton crowded the chestnut into the hiding-place they roofed. Again, as in the hollow cedar trunk, there was not standing room for the horse; but a soft, peremptory word, a light blow on the forelegs, and he dropped to his knees, to his side, and became motionless. From his position, while he held down Sir Donald's head, Stratton looked out through the crack where the tables joined. It gave him a view of the buttress and a breadth of the trail approaching the lower curve.

Presently he saw Bates ride back to this bend with his deputy, and, after a brief halt, again to reconnoiter the top of the bastion, they rounded the curve and were gone. A moment later Thornton appeared on the top of the buttress, followed closely by Myers. They had left their horses, but the young rancher still carried his rifle, and when they had inspected the slide from the cliff, they took up the trail of the chestnut. But the light was failing, and the tracks were often lost on rocky stretches. They were forced to turn back repeatedly for the clue. Finally, not far from the granite tables, they stopped. "I 'low you might's well give it up, Mill," said Myers. "Ther sorrel was stumbling consider'ble on that ther last grade; she was losin' her nigh shoe. An' this here horse is pickin' up his feet like he was ready ter walk on air. It's ther chestnut, sure; he's er mighty good stepper in er mean place."

"An' it's Stratton I'm lookin' fur," answered Thornton grimly. "I don't keer what anybody says, he's responsible fur my horse. It was his business ter watch Smith; an' ef my little filly was cut down in that ther slide, Stratton's got to reckon 'ith me. He was here, standin' on that ther rock, when we kem 'round that curve; I saw him, an' so'd you, plain's day. He must hev gone up 'round ther slide, I dunno how, but he must hev, while we was foolin' erlong fur his blamed trail."

"Ther's somethin' mighty curious 'bout that ther chestnut," said Eben, dropping his voice and casting an apprehensive glance along the impossible way; "don't act like er nat'ral born horse. I dunno's I'd like ter ketch up 'ith him after night. You know that ther deputy 'lowed he got over ther woods, from ther schoolhouse trail, 'ithout leavin' er sign; an' Lem's ready ter swear, up and down, he see 'em, horse an' man, fade out o' sight close by that ther cedar snag. Mebbe it ain't so, but where in tarnation did he go? An' that boy kem home skeered out'n a hull year's growth."

"I dunno's I've figgered out these here inviserble folks correct, myself," said Thornton with deep irony, "but, fur a spirit horse, ther chestnut is able to take his fodder mighty reg'lar."

Eben stroked his beard and laughed softly. "Oh, I 'low he kin stand it ter hev his wings clipped, when he strikes ther bunch grass country. An' ef Bates catches ther Northern Pacific fur Portland, say to-morrow night, like he counted on, he'll hev time ter make ther upper Columbia an' lay fur his man, all right."

"I count on takin' him this side ther Pass, myself," answered Mill. "Bates 'lowed ther Government 'ud set up a mighty good reward; mebbe five hundred. An' ef that smart little filly o' mine went down in ther slide, I 'low an extry pack-horse went with her. Stratton can't go far 'ithout his outfit; he's got to sneak back sometime fur rations."

Eben already had started back down the gully, and Thornton followed. In a little while Stratton saw the two men riding towards the curve below. When they rounded it, he brought the chestnut from his hiding-place and in the deepening twilight resumed the perilous détour around the slide. The lack of "rations" need not trouble him. He knew the art of woodcraft too well; he could snare a bird, take a beaver like an Indian, and the Palouse wilderness before him was an open book. But had he not his rifle, with ammunition in the saddle-bags; besides his full cartridge-belt and good pistols? There was no further use of taking that overland train, and, once through the Cascades, he would shape his course northward for the Fraser. Bates—he laughed aloud—Bates might lie in wait until he rusted, there on the upper Columbia.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE JUDGE

Already Nature stretched busy hands out of the shadows of the great park, and with manifold browns and greens softened the newness and crudeness of the little homestead enshrined at its heart. The clearing teemed with fresh life. The charred rails of the meadow fence were overgrown with tangles of wild blackberry and raspberry, with which the stiff foliage of the Washington holly disputed room. Ferns, springing from the ashes of the fire, reached a height of eight and ten feet and opened umbrella fronds. At the cottage sweetbrier and wild honeysuckle interlaced with the tendrils of a Virginia creeper and climbed to the eaves; maidenhair unfolded pale canopies over the shallow boxes on the edge of the balcony, where were planted sweet peas, and a syringa, supported by a pillar, offered its branches to trellis the insistent hopvine, which dropped from the gable a misty curtain of green. Backward, towards the small stable, and the huge hayrick thatched with lichened bark, a wild cherry held its own among thrifty young orchard trees, and vigorous shoots of alder and maple pushed up hedge-wise along the corral. Everywhere Nature had been encouraged to retouch, and eradicate and bring to a finish the general plan.

Still, had you approached the clearing that September afternoon,—however wayworn, however surprised, charmed,—you must have allowed your glance to rest longest on the bit of life in the landscape. The teacher had laid aside her pruning shears, and taking a rake from the wall, proceeded to draw weeds and clippings into a neat hummock. Her simple gown of brown barred gingham, catching a breath of wind, stirred gauzily. Upon her head the broad sun-hat with muslin bow and strings became a picture hat, quaint, pleasing. Still, had you once known her, you must have noticed that her figure had lost a little of its roundness; the skin its old transparency and velvet smoothness; shadows lurked under her brave eyes, and, sometimes, her sweet and mirth-provoking mouth stiffened into a patient self-suppression.

She stopped at length to rest, leaning on the gate, and looked up the trail, which began a level stretch through pale alders, dipped to a hollow and rose over a knob where, set like a flaring torch, a first changing maple illumined the way, and was lost to reappear briefly on higher ground. It was there on the hillside she presently discovered Mose. He came with his swift swinging stride his gun on his shoulder, a brace of birds in his hand, and was hidden directly in foliage. She waited, and when he came over the lower knoll, under the flaming maple, she drew the wooden pin and threw the gate open. "Grouse, Mose?" she asked with evident interest. "What beauties."

"But, ya-as, Mees," he answered, and smiled broadly, "I ees keel dem by Myers' plas. You know where de creek ees come roun' dat ole fir log; well, it ees dare I shoot dem. Dis one she ees come tek drink; she doan be so hard shot, for sure. But dis one, saprie, he ees fool me gre't; running an' flying, w-r-r-r, w-r-r-r, an' hiding heemself unner dat beeg cedar stump."

His enthusiasm was reflected in her face; her eyes caught from his a sudden fire. "Oh," she said with a soft intake of breath, "I know just how it happened. And he was out again in a flash, almost at your feet; you hadn't room to aim, but you waited and held yourself in, till he rose; then you took him, nice and clean, in the wing."

"Monjee, Mees," he said, and laughed aloud, "but you ees on'stan' lak you ees dare." He shifted the birds to the gun hand, and closing the gate, set the pin. "But it ees good t'ing I ees fin' dose grouse, nawitka; for I ees see mo'sieur, de Judge, down to Myers' plas. He mus' be long here 'bout dinner tam, for sure."

"So soon?" she answered in surprise. "I thought from his last letter that he would be delayed longer at the mills. But it is fortunate that we have the grouse," and the corners of her mouth lifted and dimpled; "we'll show him the right way to serve a bird."

"Nawitka, Mees." Mose was feeling in the depths of his blouse. "But Eben Myers, he ees go pas' de Station today, an' he ees tell me to bring you dis mail." He paused to scrutinize the address and weigh the letter speculatively in his palm. "Saprie, it ees good t'ing Mose Laramie doan' have to write so mooch spelling, an' mebbe read it all. Monjee, he doan' be able, den, to shoot some birds, an' fish by de Nisqually. Den, Mees, it ees pos'ble you ees be, sometams, hongry."

She laughed, shaking her head. "But you are learning, Mose. The trouble was in having three languages forced on you at the start. They were bound to tangle, and I guess the English was caught in the first knot at the bottom of the snarl. But it's all right; we only need a little more patience and time."

She walked on with the boy towards the cottage, opening the letter as she went, but when she glanced down the page the humor faded from her face. She reached the branch path to the river, and turned that way.

The letter was from her sister; the first she had received since Louise's rupture with Philip. She dwelt on the Judge's return and the closing of the mills. He had told her that Forrest had saved the property; that he had met emergency after emergency with a level-headedness not one young man in five hundred could have shown. Why, there were times when he had done the work of three responsible men, and most creditably. But at last, when she had finished the Judge's eulogy, to which was added one gently eloquent of her own, she took up briefly the matter of the separation.

Alice turned back and slowly re-read this portion.

"... I am leaving my husband. I can never explain it to you—please let the question rest—but Uncle Si will tell you I am right. It was necessary to tell him the truth and he admits my only course is a separation. There can never be any sort of a compromise, as long as I live, and I hope I shall never be obliged to see Philip Kingsley again.

"I am starting home to Olympia with Uncle Si today, but if you know of anyone in the settlement who can take me in, with little Si, I would rather go out there and stay, until I can shape my plans. Possibly, when you give up the school, I may be able to fill your place as well as any. Uncle Silas, however, is urging me to go, at least for a time, to Washington. I own it will be hard to have you both so far away, and I am tempted by the security of a strange city, with the whole continent between me and—what is past."

"Oh, Louise, my poor, sweet Louise, I'd love to see Phil Kingsley taught his lesson, but I know you, dear." Alice walked on the remaining distance to the falls. "You shall come and stay with me, as long as you want to, but you're going to forgive him, yes, you are, the first time he asks it."

Still, Louise had explained to the Judge; why should she find it more difficult to tell her? And just what was this reason, anyway? Then suddenly, in one great shock, the wedge which Stratton had tried to fix, drove home. She stood, white, tense, on the trembling ledge, and stared with unseeing eyes into the upper cataract. Its thunder and passion were lost in the greater forces that engulfed her. All that Stratton had said in their last interview, his whole monstrous story, rejected hitherto, surged back, statement on statement, and compelled her belief. She saw now what that friendly intimacy of nearly two years, in that isolated place, must have meant to both Louise and Forrest. How she had created for him his only social and home life; how, day after day, countless times each day, she must have felt his quiet sympathy, helpfulness, in sharp contrast to the neglect and irresponsibility of Philip. And they had played, sung, innumerable evenings together; no man on earth could so appreciate her beautiful voice, her personal sweetness; and she had always loved his violin. How could she—how could any woman—have remained indifferent? And he—how could he help forgetting there were other women in the world? All men, good, strong men, had their fancies when they were boys in school; it was afterwards that they found the right, the one woman.

For a long time the thought of Forrest had seemed to bring him near. She felt his presence; it was as though he stood there, behind her on the ledge, watching her with clear, reproachful, almost frowning gaze. The color surged and went in her face; her shoulders shook, and the letter, which she had crushed in her hand, dropped from her relaxed hold. The torrent swirled it away. "I don't blame you," she said, and to her halting phrases the cataract stormed accompaniment, "Oh, I don't blame you. I know how you have fought it—stamped it down. But you can't kill it—it springs and springs again; it can't die. I know—I know. I've been through it—all."

At last she walked back through the meadow. The sun was dropping behind the purpling hills; birds piped night calls in the thicket; one of the Jerseys was lowing at the bars.

"Patience, Blossom, patience," she said, "Now, then, slowly, slowly." She laid her hand lightly on the tawny neck, and the cow picked her way over the lowered rails and turned towards the corral.

It was there, milking Blossom, that the Judge discovered her, when he came from the stable where Mose had helped him put up his horse. He did not speak directly, but stopped, leaning a little on the fence, his arms resting on the top bar, and watched her. There was in his eyes the look of a man who has found at last what he has long desired.

She did not yet know that he was there. Her shoulder was turned to him and she was looking up absently to a high spur of the slope. "My dear," he said, "My dear—it is a long time since I climbed a fence, but no doubt I could do it unless there is a gate."

She started and gave him a quick, backward glance, while her hand sent a swifter stream into the pail. Then she sprang up from her stool and hurried smiling to the rails.

But, presently, when she had shown him the little wicket, screened by two infant alders, the Judge found himself squeezing through, to wait for the almost filled pail. "It isn't nearly as difficult as it looks," she said, and her eyes challenged him over her shoulder.

"No, thank you," he answered laughing, "I like, better, just looking on."

But he lifted the brimming pail and carried it, not without difficulty, to the house. He set it down in the living-room and stepped back into the cool doorway, where he stood, fanning himself slowly, with his hat, and surveying the interior with growing approval.

Mose was already seated in the chimney corner, turning the roasting grouse on their spit. At the same time he tended a savory haunch of venison, while the old madame divided her attention between a boiling pot on the crane, and a tin reflector set in front of the fire.

"You see it's all very primitive," said Alice.

The Judge's eyes rested on the spit with manifest satisfaction. "It is the only right way to cook a bird," he answered.

"Nawitka," said Mose gravely. "But de mowitch, too, dis tam de year, ees gre't."

"And this was the finest stag brought in this season," said the teacher. "Mose trailed him to Nisqually ford. Those are the antlers." And if she, herself, had been the hunter, she could not have shown greater pride in the trophy over the doorway. "And this is the pelt of the cinnamon bear I wrote you about. The one Mose tracked with her two cubs. She was very savage and it was his last cartridge. Isn't the fur splendid?"

"Bien," said the pleased and embarrassed boy, "dat ees nothing. Dat ees one ver' fine gun de Mees ees give to me. It ees mooch too fine for no 'count half-breed lak me. Laramie, my fader, ees say so."

The Judge went up the little stairway built across the living-room, to the low gabled chamber under the eaves; and when he came down, presently, brushed and freshened, he found Alice laying the cloth in the balcony. She had changed the brown cotton frock for one of soft pink, and where the surplice crossed below the full throat, she had fastened a bunch of sweet peas. Others were tucked in her belt, and she gathered more from the long box on the edge of the veranda, and with a handful of mignonette, arranged them in a crystal bowl for the center of the board.

The light paled in the west; the high spur darkened; a few thin clouds parted over a far crest, and showed a young, ring-defined moon. A gust of wind fluttered the cloth and roughened her hair. The Judge lighted the lamp on the wall, and set the pink shade as she would have it, so that a soft glamour fell on the modest array of glass and china. He filled the water pitcher and placed the rustic chairs; and finally they were seated and he found himself carving the savory grouse.

"What an Arcadia you have made of it," he said at last. "But it is simply sorcery; nothing else. Any other woman must have failed; or, succeeding, would have made a wreck of herself and spoiled her life. Even a man could only have accomplished it through hardship and long toil. But you—you have a charmed life. You have looked—you have cast your spell—and presto it was done."

"It took more than that," she answered and shook her head gravely; "you should know it."

"Yes, yes," he said quickly, "you are right. And I do know it."

"It was work, the hardest kind. Mose can prove it. He helped Mill Thornton clear the building site; he helped the settlers the day they came to slash and, again, to burn the brush piles. He cut logs for the cabin, shakes for the stable, rails for fencing. He opened the new trail."

"And wasn't that sorcery? To make a steady laborer of Mose? To coerce all of these young ranchers into service?" The Judge laughed softly, deeply.

"You know it was the pioneer spirit," she answered. "Nothing else influenced Mill Thornton to drive oxen for his neighbor, grubbing out stumps, when his own clearing was hardly under way, and Samantha wavered in the balance. Nothing else led Mr. Myers to lend his cattle for the work, in plowing time. And this same spirit, that calls the whole district out in a body to fight a forest fire, or hunt a trespasser, brought these men together to give their best effort to my house-raising. It meant a step further for the settlement, and each man takes a personal pride and interest in the new homestead he helped to make. Can't you understand that? And, dear Uncle Silas, can't you see what it means to me?"—Her voice was low and vibrant; her eyes gathered a soft brightness.—"I worked for it—endured—it's mine. Every foot of this ground is dear to me; every log in these walls. You mustn't expect me to love any other home—as well."

"I understand," said the Judge slowly, "I think that I understand. But—Forrest will be here in a few days; he intends to take up a systematic search for that lost prospect. And his heart is still set on this section. What will you do?"

"Meet my promise," she said, "of course. What else can I do? I will commute it, if you advise that, or relinquish, or sell him my right. I'm ready any time. But,—" she rose from her chair and looked off to the meadow, "I must go down and bring Colonel in. Wait here, won't you?—and have your cigar."

"I would rather walk with you," and he rose and went with her down the steps. "I noticed that meadow from the spur up the trail; it is a fine field."

"And you noticed my hayrick," she said quickly. "That was the best yield of timothy, to the acre, in the settlement this year. Jake Myers came from the prairie with his father's team to help me with the harvesting. I undertook to drive in a load,"—she paused, and he felt rather than saw, in the uncertain light, that her face rippled a smile,—"and Mr. Stratton rode down the trail just in time to see me spilled, hay and all, into the field. He was over the fence, in an instant, to rescue me from the bottom of the heap. And he stayed to help me reload, though he must have found it hard learning to use a pitchfork that warm afternoon."

The Judge laughed. He knew how she had looked at that moment, standing all flushed, irresistible, with a sweet quiver of her mobile lips, and the unconscious appeal growing in her eyes. And clearly Stratton had made the most of his opportunities, as any man must; as he had feared. "So, even Stratton came under the spell," he said; "you made him spoil those immaculate hands. And there was that other time, in the dry season when this meadow slashing accidentally burned. You did not tell me fully, but I understood he arrived, then, at the right moment, and helped to prevent a bad blaze.'

"It was a bad blaze; it looked for awhile as if the whole fence, the buildings, the timber would go. And he found me fallen, my dress afire, and he risked himself to save me. He stayed hours, afterwards, bandaging my burns, bathing my face, doing all he could, when he, himself, must have been suffering agony. Dear Uncle Silas," her voice broke, "I believed in him; he disappointed me, but I'm not ungrateful; I shall never forget."

"I understand," the Judge answered slowly, "I think that I understand. And I appreciate, I am more than grateful, for what he did, but I did not know he was hurt. How was it?"

"I had fallen close to the burning slash pile, and, when he bent to move me, a blazing sapling sprang out and struck the back of his head. I didn't realize it at the time, and he always avoided speaking of it if he could, but it seemed to have left some permanent hurt that affected his eyes; any over exertion or exposure to strong light brought on paroxysms of pain, and once, when he had been taken by an attack on the trail, he was forced to stop here. It was then he told me and that he meant to go to New York and consult an oculist. He was only waiting for his schooner to come back from the North with her cargo of furs. You know she was wrecked—a total loss; and the trip East, the services of a specialist, demanded a great deal of ready money. Sometimes—sometimes—I believe that tempted him to—do what he did. It makes me feel responsible."

"I understand," said the Judge; "it is natural you should feel so, in a measure. But, my dear, he is not what you think; he lived a dual life."

"Oh," she said, "of course you think so; every one must. He persisted, always, in showing his worst side. But I knew him very well. He told me things about his early life; he was handicapped from the start, but he was a man of fine and deep feeling—at heart. In spite of everything I shall always believe that."

"Perhaps, I do not dispute you." And he added after a moment, "Stratton himself wrote me something about that fire; I doubted you knew it, but he asked me to release you."

She stopped, surprised, and tried to read more than he said in his face. "To release me?"

"Yes. I refused. I answered that the request should come from you. Sometimes, off there in Washington, I have expected it, Alice. You seemed so happy here; so—almost—eager to put off our marriage. And Stratton has a handsome face; personal charm; he was right here on the ground. My dear, tell me this; if that schooner had returned, if he had not been tempted, would you have wished my answer to him any different?"

She turned her face away, looking up to the black shadows of the park. "Dear Uncle Silas," she said, and steadied her voice between the words, "if you—don't want me—I shall never marry."

"Want you?" The wind, drawing from the river, brought a closer booming of the falls. It toned with his pleading undernote like a great minor chord. "Want you? I want you so much that I am not willing to share even your gratitude with any other man. I want you—your best—your love—nothing less will do."

They had stopped near a clump of alders, where, in making the clearing, she had preserved an old cedar stump with chairlike arms, overrun now with vines. A little farther on Colonel waited at the meadow bars. She walked a few steps and halted in uncertainty. The Judge moved enough to rest his arms on the flat surface of the trunk, and stood leaning a little, watching her. The noise of the cataract filled the interlude. A branch rustled and a shower of dead leaves fell, slanting from the alders to his feet. Then she turned and came back.

"Dear Uncle Silas," she began, and meeting his look, repeated, her voice shaking, "Dear Uncle Silas, I've got to tell you. It's—Paul. It always was—Paul—before I knew it—when I was a small girl and he carried my books to school. But he—he—" Her breast heaved; she turned her face away once more, to the gloom of the park. "You know—what happened. Louise told you—the truth! It changes things, and, if you still want me, I'll try my best to—get over it, and make you the best wife—that I can."

Colonel moved restlessly and she walked the remaining steps to the bars. The Judge followed and dropped the rails and she led the horse through. Then, "It is all right, little girl," he said, slowly; "it is all right; as it should be. But, whatever you heard through Louise, you have made a mistake. My dear—my dear, you should have written me all about it at the start. It could hardly have made me happier, in the end, to know I had spoiled two young lives, that were meant for each other."

CHAPTER XXVII

LEM CREATES FICTION

Lem's treble piped above the low of the cows and the answering bawl of the calves outside the corral. He was seated on the top rail of the fence with a short piece of maple in his hand, out of which he was trying to shape a flute.

"—An' I hev be'n frequently so-o-old, an' I hev

be'n frequently sold;

I've tunneled, hydraulicked, and cradled—an'—

Oh, shet up, Shorts, now do."

He closed his knife with a snap and, slipping down from his perch, opened the wicket and let the white-faced calf through. Martha poured the foaming milk from her measure into a pail and changed her seat. At the same time she lifted her glance to the county road, winding up northward from the meadow. "I should jedge," she said, shading her eyes, "I should jedge that ther's Jake's horse, but it don't look nothin' like Jake."

"Naw, it ain't," answered Lem, raising his ferret eyes to the horseman. "I'll jes' bet it's Mr. Forrest; yes, sir, it's him. He's borryed Ketchem down by ther station, seein's he couldn't git word out fur his own horse." And he put the flute to his lips.

"I've travelled all over ther country, prospectin'

an' diggin' fur gold."

It was a discordant peal and the lad knew it. He also felt that this rider, descending now into the lane, regarded him with laughing eyes. Forrest drew his rein outside the bars and Martha came over to the fence. "How do you do?" he said. "You're looking well."

"Wal, yes," she answered with her serious smile, and wiping her hand on her apron, she grasped the palm he offered across the rail, "I'm fair ter middlin'. I calc'late you've kem prospectin', but Eben's off in ther hills; he 'lowed he was gittin' powerful clost ter ther head o' that ther petrified man, an' you're likelier ter find er needle in er haystack 'n him. But ef you'll stop over night 'ith us, mebbe he'll kem in."

"Thank you," said Forrest, "but I'm going right on to the headwaters. It's a long time since I had a night under the stars. I promised to leave Jake's horse with Thornton. I suppose Colonel is here; I'd like to see him, and Miss Hunter too, for a few minutes, before I ride on."

She shook her head. "You'll find her an' ther horse out to ther new ranch."

"Then," said Forrest, "I'll water Ketchem and go on; but I would like a drink of that milk, first, if you have it to spare."

"Land, yes." She dipped the great tin measure into the pail, and having wiped it also on her apron, handed it to him over the rails.

"It always seems to me," he said, pausing between draughts, "that this milk is a little better than any other."

"That's what ther schoolmarm always 'lowed. She said she tasted ther buttercups in it. But that was before ther Jedge sent her them Jerseys."

"So," said Forrest, amused and puzzled at the strangeness of the gift, "So Judge Kingsley sent her some cattle?"

"You bet," Lem answered for his mother; "an' ther ain't never be'n nothin' ter kem up ter them two cows in ther hull deestrict. 'Bout ther color o' young squirrel, an' slick's er peeled fir. Ther Jedge he kem out here las' week in his dogcart. He'd heard 'bout ther new trail an' 'lowed he'd drive straight through." The boy paused to swing himself over the fence and down into the lane. "But Mose, he didn't count on no dogcarts when he done ther slashin'. I went er piece ter show him ther branch. You'd orter o' seen him;—thort I'd bu'st;—a-holdin' onter ther reins 'ith one hand an' ther seat 'ith the other; a bumpin' over logs an' snags; a gittin' ther wheels all tied up; a grabbin' fur his hat an' yellin', 'Whoa, whoa, Carlyle.' Oh, Lord, I thort I'd die."

He seemed in imminent peril now; writhing, twisting, bending his small shape convulsively, and finding vent at last in explosive shrieks of laughter. Forrest laughed, too, from sheer sympathy, and turning his horse, rode over to the trough. So the Judge had presented Alice with some cattle,—he smiled again at the quaintness of the gift,—and she was boarding out at Thornton's new ranch. Strange she had not mentioned that, in some of those letters her sister had given him to read; but she had had a great deal to say about the clearing and Samantha.

Martha fixed her stool and resumed her milking, while Lem, having recovered poise, followed the young man slowly. He raised the flute to his lips and piped softly, then held the instrument off and eyed it with growing dissatisfaction. Forrest watched the eager horse plunge his muzzle in the cool basin, and after preliminary splashing and stamping, settle to a still, long draught. Then his glance moved to the boy. "What's that you have, Lem? A whistle?"

"Yes, but I can't make her work."

"Let me try it." Forrest took the flute and the knife and made several careful cuts in the green wood. "This is a fine knife," he said.

"You kin jes' bet your life on that; ther schoolmarm give it to me."

"Yes?" said Forrest. "How is she, Lem? She must feel the long trail sometimes; in hot weather or when it rains."

"Oh, I dunno. She 'lows it don't 'mount ter much, long as she has Colonel, an' all summer, off an' on, she's be'n havin' pleasant comp'ny. I mean Mr. Stratton. He wa'n't huntin' any ter speak of."

A quick flush flamed in Forrest's face. He gathered the bridle and raised the flute to his lips. The strain was soft, no longer discordant, and Ketchem stood moving a sensitive ear. "So, Stratton rode with her. He has a fine horse."

Lem took the instrument and examined the improvements. "You kin jes' bet on that. Ther ain't never be'n no sech stepper in this here deestrict, leavin' out Colonel. But ther ches'nut's mighty oncertain. I'd hate ter resk my money on him; ef it kem to it, I'd hate ter resk myself." He paused to try a measure. "She blows pretty good," he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Yes, we 'lowed Mill Thornton was powerful sweet on Cousin Samanthy, but land, he couldn't hold er candle ter Mr. Stratton. He was over to school 'bout every day, when he was here. Ef it rained he kem in, but mos' gen'ly he waited outside, er walkin' his horse up an' down tell school let out. You'd orter o' seen him." And with a sidelong glance at Forrest, he raised the flute again and piped a surer strain.

Forrest was silent. Lem repeated the blast with his eyes on the startled young horse. He moved forward, suddenly, with a last shrill note, bringing the whistle close to Ketchem's ear. And he stood grinning his satisfaction, while the animal lunged, reared, and was brought down, trembling, by his rider's firm hand.

"You kin ride. You kin keep your seat 'bout as good as Mr. Stratton. Dunno but what I'd resk you on that ther spirit horse o' his. I 'low you heard 'bout ther way he give them Gov'ment men ther slip?"

"Yes," answered Forrest, "yes. I learned through Mr. Bates. I happened to meet him the day I left Seattle. It seems Stratton used this shooting box out here to cache his dope in. He was bringing it through, with Smith's help, in small lots from Victoria. And the officers cut him off going east towards the Pass. They took his pack-horse, and he, himself, barely escaped on that chestnut."

Lem laughed, a noiseless contortion. "Them dep'ties was mighty puzzled 'bout jes' ther way he give 'em ther slip. Not one in ther hull bunch ever s'picioned that ther chestnut jes' natu'lly lifted his four feet off n ther face of ther earth; yes, sir, and flew clean over ther heads 'mongst ther trees, an' struck back to ther Nisqually, while they was a chasin' on after ther rest o' ther outfit." Lem caught a quick breath; his ferret eyes fell before his listener's level look, and he hastened to add, "But that ther pack-horse was John Phiander's Baldy,—he got er good price for him,—an' when the Gov'ment men found him he was up to his old tricks, a rollin' in er wide piece o' ther trail, tryin' ter get rid o' his load. Oh, gee, I thort I'd bust; you'd orter o' seen him. Them little cans, what you call dope, worked loose an' scattered all over creation. But Baldy'd never o' hed that chanct, an' they'd never o' sighted their man, ef he hedn't stopped ter kidnap ther schoolmarm."

"What?"

Lem started and his sidelong glance moved from the young man's challenging eyes to his strong whip hand. "You ain't heard 'bout that, hev you? I was chasin' round after Shorts an' that ther red heifer, an' I kem ercross 'em up ther branch. Baldy was standin' quiet, an' ther chestnut was stampin' an' rubbin' hisself like all pursest on er alder. Colonel he was snatchin' er mouthful o' grass, an' ther schoolmarm was sittin' in ther saddle 'ith her back to me. I thort she was jes' listenin', an' never sensed things tell I sneaked up close behind an ole cedar snag an' see her hands was tied 'ith er big silk hankerchief, what he wears roun' his neck. He was passin' er hitchin' strap 'cross her lap an' makin' it fast to ther cinch, an' he says mighty softlike, 'You will hate me at first fur this—mebbe a good spell—but in the end you air goin' ter love me, an' marry me.'"

Forrest frowned darkly at the water trough. He reached and swept the brimming surface with a sharp cut of his whip. Lem's lips twitched with keen appreciation. "But," he went on slowly, "she jes' looked at him 'ith her chin up in ther air, an' says, 'You ruffi'n—you outlaw. I kin die jes' once an' it's goin' ter kem ter that before I ever marry you.'"

Forrest struck the flooding trough again, still more sharply, so that the fretting young horse lunged and wheeled, and Lem sidled out of possible range. He saw Ketchem brought firmly back, then went on cautiously, "He stood watchin' her a minute an' I see his face was whiter'n ashes, an' er kind o' white fire was blazin' out'n his eyes. Then he says powerful slow, 'Is it ther black's master?'

"An' she looks off down ther trail 'ith her cheeks gittin' pink as rhododendron flowers in ther springtime, an' says, 'As long as I live I shall never love any man but—'" Lem paused, smiling his impish smile,—"'Jedge Kingsley,'" he added.

Forrest's whip hand fell limp at his side. He drew a sharp breath and looked at the boy. The sternness went out of his face; there came over it a great weariness; his eyes brimmed misery.

"Gee, gee," said Lem, "I wisht you'd a be'n there. 'You are goin' ter marry me,' says he. An' he unslung Colonel's lariat an' jumps on ther chestnut. But he wa'n't countin' ernough on that ther pack-horse. I shied er stone at him an' it took him smart on ther flank an he broke away like mad fur Salal prairie. Colonel he flung up his head, an' 'fore he could make up his mind bout Baldy, he heard them ther Gov'ment men poundin' up ther trail. The same minute he felt his rope, an he jes' give ernother fling an' jerked clear, an' swung 'round an' fit out fur ther schoolhouse. A bird couldn't o' ketched him. An' when he got ther he gentled down, nice as er kitten, an' waited fur Mose,—I 'low it must o' be'n Mose,—ter kem an' untie ther schoolmarm."

There was a brief silence, during which the young man again regarded the brimming trough and Lem watched him. Then the boy said, arbitrating with some remaining atom of conscience, "I 'low I hedn't no call ter say what I did 'bout ther Jedge."

"No," answered Forrest quickly, "No, Lem, you're right. But I'm hardly the man to repeat it, and I happened to know it already. I've known it for a long time." A pull at the bridle; a word to the horse. "Good-by, Lem," he said. Then, as Ketchem broke into a canter, he turned in his saddle to throw a piece of silver to the rogue.

The lane was muddy, after a heavy rain, and the coin dropped into a little pool. But Lem secured it, and having wiped it on the seat of his trousers, examined it narrowly. "It's a dollar," he exclaimed. "A hull dollar. Beats me what it's fur. Mus' be fur talkin'. I wisht,—" slowly, as one who sees lost possibilities,—"gee, gee, I wisht I'd a said more." He slipped the money into his pocket with a swift look at his mother, milking still in the corral, "Ef dad knew he'd 'low it's bout time fur me ter be payin' board."

Forrest found himself not in the old rough track of the herds, but following a well beaten though narrow trail, from which branched many paths. Then at length he rode along the frowning front of a great hill, and looking up his eyes traced sections of an abandoned switchback which he and Alice had pushed up that day, to find it lost in the slide on the edge of the windfall. And here, on the bank of the creek that skirted the hill, was a deserted shepherd's hut, where Eben had cached a deer, that he had shot on the trail that morning. But the roof had fallen in, and between the fragments fern and salal crowded, waist-high from the earth floor.

Forrest had believed that all he needed was to be out-of-doors; to get in touch with the growing timber again; to ride or tramp all day through the great stillness; to have the opportunity to think over and outline, undisturbed, his contemplated work, and he would be himself once more. But now, a bit of ruined cabin, the sound of running water, the pungent wind idling through a glade, a hundred small associations, brought the old futile desire sweeping back with the force of a sudden mountain flood. It was as though he saw her up there, easing her weight as Colonel set himself to the pitch; how graceful she was, dipping this way and that to his steps; avoiding encroaching boughs; sending him a swift glance across her shoulder, with the delight shining in her eyes. And how fond she was of a horse, of the forest, of all out-of-doors. She was so bright, so warm, so full of life, sparkle, charm. How could he ever forget her? How could he ever ride or tramp the woods without remembering her?