The singer by this time had reached the door, and the song ceased. She was a young woman, slight and beautiful, who crossed the threshold, carrying a sunbonnet in one hand and a bunch of wild flowers in the other. Her eyes glanced for an instant at the bearded stranger standing in the centre of the room. Then they rested upon the child lying on the couch and with a cry of surprise and delight she darted forward and knelt down by his side. Later when she looked inquiringly around Grey was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared, and only the woman with the hard eyes was standing before her.
Grey stumbled rather than walked out of the log cabin. He looked about for the Indian, but he was nowhere to be seen. The evening breeze fanned and cooled his flushed face. He wished to get away somewhere. His throat was dry; he felt he would choke. His brain reeled as he staggered forward. A trail to the left caught his eye, and along this he tottered. Madeline there! Madeline in such a den as that! What did it all mean? Was it only a horrible dream, or was he going mad? Had he been mistaken? Perhaps it was someone else. No, it was all too real. It was she without any doubt! Could he ever forget that face, those eyes, that wealth of dark-brown hair, and the slight girlish figure? It was Madeline, his long-lost Madeline. He had expected to find her some day, somewhere, but not here.
He had reached the forest now, and sat down on a log by the side of the trail. He wished to think, to solve the mystery. Madeline there! Was it possible? Then thoughts, terrible spectres, surged through his brain. Why was she there? How could he associate the pure-souled woman as he had known her with such a life as that? That song, full of intense pathos, that face, that cry of surprise and joy; they came to him again. Madeline was there—only a few rods away, beneath that roof! A great longing filled his heart. Oh, to go to her, to look into those eyes and listen to her voice! He rose from the log, and took a step forward. He would go. He would know the worst at once. But he hesitated. His hand sought his brow in perplexity. He tried to think, to reason. No, not to-night. He would rest first, and in the morning, perhaps, it would be better to go to her.
The bark of a dog aroused him. It made him realise that night was upon him, and he must have food and shelter. Following the direction of the sound, ere long he reached a clearing of several acres in extent. All around he beheld log cabins and frames of numerous tents. Through the midst of these the trail wound, and along this he moved, watching for some sign of life. At length he reached a building larger than the rest, where stood a lean Indian dog which sidled angrily away as Grey approached. In answer to his knock a gruff voice commanded him to enter. Pushing open the door he beheld two men seated before a rough deal table, playing cards. In a corner nearby sat a powerfully-built man, with a long beard, and wavy hair well streaked with grey. He was calmly smoking, and watching the game with much interest.
Across one side of the room ran a rough counter, formed of whipsawn boards, which evidently knew nothing of soap and water. Behind this and arranged along the wall were all sorts of articles from cheap prints to tea, tobacco, beads and candy.
The opposite side of the room was lined with goods, useful in bartering with Indians. Rifles and shot-guns were lying on stands. Sacks of flour, rice and beans were piled in one corner, while slabs of bacon hung from the huge ridge-pole overhead. All this Grey intuitively observed as he stood for an instant near the door.
The players paused in their game, and stared hard at the new-comer, while the man in the corner forgot to take three regular and deliberate puffs of his blackened pipe. A visitor was evidently a curiosity at Hishu.
"Chair, stranger?" remarked one of the players, shoving forward a three-legged stool with his foot.
"Do you own this cabin?" Grey asked as he accepted the proffered seat.
"Reckon so," was the reply. "Paid, and d—high, too, for everything here. Anything I can do for ye, stranger?"
"Yes. I'm dead beat, and almost starved. So if you'll give me a snack of food and a shake-down for the night it will make a new man of me."
"Sure thing," was the response. "You're welcome to the grub, such as 'tis, but can't say about a shake-down. We're mighty cramped for room just now. Anyway, we'll see later how things pan out, and maybe we can do something for ye."
Saying which he turned toward a door at the back of the room, and gave a short, sharp command in the native tongue.
What he said Grey did not know, but almost immediately an Indian woman appeared in the doorway. It was not her sudden appearance which arrested Grey's attention, so much as her strange attitude. Her eyes glowed with defiance, mingled with fear, while a surly expression shrouded her face, which exhibited marks of much natural beauty. A glance was sufficient to show Grey that this was no ordinary, submissive Indian woman standing before him. Combined with her defiance and fear was a haughtiness which could not be concealed. Although partially cowed and curbed, she had evidently known the exhilarating joy of unrestrained freedom. And that same spirit still animated her heaving breast, but in a more terrible form. It was pent up, and liable at any moment to break forth in the wildest fury like a checked mountain stream or the boiling lava of some hidden volcano. But now she listened attentively to the words of command hurled forth, and at once disappeared within the back room.
"Fine squaw, that," remarked the other player, gazing with admiration upon the retreating form. "How in h— do you manage to curb such a spirit? Your deal, Bill," and he shoved the cards across the table.
Mechanically his partner shuffled and dealt the cards. But his thoughts were elsewhere, and as the game proceeded he shot an occasional furtive glance at the stranger sitting near.
An uncomfortable feeling stole into Grey's heart as he felt those piercing eyes fixed upon him. Once he looked full into their cold depths, and involuntarily recoiled at the sinister expression he beheld lurking there. The player noticed the start, and an oath escaped his lips as he flung his last card down upon the table. Then swinging on his stool he hurled a torrent of Indian words across the room.
In a moment or two the woman reappeared with a rough wooden tray containing some beans, thick bread and a cup of black tea.
"Put it here," demanded her imperious lord, shoving forward the small table. "We're done with our game for the present."
Grey was hungry, and he did good justice to the food set before him. But his mind was not easy. Why had that man given him those keen lightning glances? Did he surmise who he was and the purpose of the visit? Then his thoughts drifted away to that lone house down the trail, to the child and to Madeline. He forgot for a time his surroundings and the sinister-eyed man. He was with her, sitting by her side, looking into her face, and listening to her words of love.
At length he roused from his reverie and looked quickly about the room. The two card players were nowhere to be seen. Only the man in the buckskin jacket was sitting in the corner, pulling away at his old pipe. Their eyes met, and instinctively Grey felt that here was one to be trusted.
"Do you live in this place?" he asked, pushing back the table a little, and turning around on his stool.
Instead of replying the man took the pipe from his mouth, knocked it against the bench on which he was sitting, and examined it carefully. Then from a deep capacious pocket he drew forth a large clasp-knife and a plug of tobacco, and began deliberately to whittle away at the latter.
Grey was surprised at this action, and believed that his question had not been heard. Perhaps the man was somewhat deaf, and it was necessary to speak louder. He was about to repeat his words, when the man suddenly paused, looked carefully around the room, and jerked his bench closer to Grey's side.
"Young man, what are ye adoin' here?" he asked.
So low and full of meaning was the voice that Grey's eyes opened wide with astonishment.
"Just travelling," he replied.
"H'm," ejaculated the questioner, as he carefully rolled the tobacco between his hands. "Prospectin' or trappin'?"
"Oh, anything that turns up. I'm not particular."
Creak, creak. It was the back door, which moved as if shaken by the wind. The buckskinned man gave a slight start and glanced to the left.
"Doin' anything that turns up, eh?" he remarked. "Isn't it rather unsartin bizness? How d'ye expect to live?"
Creak, creak, went the door again. The creaking of a door generally disturbs one's nerves. There seems to be something uncanny about it, as if unseen evil spirits were outside trying to force an entrance. But when one suspects that men are standing there, with ears close to the crack, listening with sinister intent to every word which falls from the lips of those in the room, the tension becomes almost unbearable. Grey was all alert now. The whole place was conducive to suspicion. The sudden disappearance of the two card players, the low warning voice of the quiet smoker, and that creaking door. There was no breeze to cause it to move, for the evening was still, with not a leaf aquiver.
"An' whar will ye stay to-night?"
The question was kindly asked, and the eyes which looked straight into Grey's spoke of trust.
"Don't know," was the reply. "Under the trees maybe, unless the owner of this cabin will give me a shake-down here."
"No, that won't do," came the response. "I've a snug cabin over yon, so if ye'll put up with the accommodation ye're welcome to it, sich as 'tis."
Grey at once rose to his feet, and followed his companion, who was already starting toward the door. They had advanced but a few rods from the cabin when the clatter of hoofs sounded along the trail. In a few moments a horseman appeared, astride a raw lanky cayuse, and drew up before the store. Grey had paused, and was looking back, but his companion clutched him fiercely by the arm, and hurried him along.
"Come, lad," he whispered, "it's no time fer starin' now. Let's git under shelter."
The horseman quickly made the cayuse fast to a post. He then turned and watched the retreating forms of Grey and Buckskin Dan. He stood there for several minutes after the two had disappeared within a small log cabin up the trail. He was a lean, lank, Cassius-type of man, with furtive, restless eyes, which had won for him the sobriquet of "Shifty" Nick. An old, dirty, weather-beaten slouch hat had been drawn over his low receding forehead until the broad brim was on a dead level with his piercing eyes. Presently his lips curled in an angry snarl, and a row of white teeth showed for an instant beneath a heavy dark moustache. Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets he moved toward the store, gave the dog lying by the door a savage kick, and entered the building. Seeing no one there he strode swiftly forward to the door at the rear of the room. Here he paused and listened. Hearing voices within he gave the door a push, and entered. Seated on stools were the two card players, Siwash Bill and Windy Pete, while sitting on the floor in one corner was the Indian woman. Her fingers were busy stringing beads for a buckskin jacket lying near. She seemed to be engrossed solely with her work, and her head was bent low. But not a sound in that room escaped her acute ears. Occasionally she lifted her eyes and gave a lightning glance toward the two men. Then in that brief instant her dusky face revealed a world of meaning. A passion deep and intense was consuming that quiet form. Love, fear and hate were raging there, contending with one another in fierce conflict.
Shifty Nick looked contemptuously at the two men before him.
"So this is how yer spendin' yer time," he snarled. "Great lot you are. Are yez scart of somethin'? What's happened to the d— place? Scarce a soul around, an' you hidin' here with the squaw."
"What's wrong, Shifty?" returned Bill. "Ye seem to be outer sorts. What's the news? Where's the gang an' the kid?"
Deigning no reply Nick flung himself upon a stool, and eyed the two. His bronze face was paler than usual, and his face twitched in an agitated manner.
"Where did that cub come from?" he at length demanded.
"What cub?"
"Oh, you know. That young cuss with old Dan. What's he doin' here?"
"How in h— do I know," replied Bill, somewhat nettled at the other's surly manner.
"But ye ought to know. It's yer bizness to know. Here I've been out in the blazin' sun all day watchin' the trail, while you've been skulkin' here in this hole."
"Well, suppose we have, ye needn't git so tarnal ugly. We've been doin' nothin', 'bout same as you. There was nothin' fer us to do but wait."
Nick tapped the floor with his boots for a minute or two lost in thought.
"Boys," he at length began. "I'm sore upset to-night. I've brought yez bad news—the gang's gone down in the Rapids."
The effect of this message was most startling. With a muttered oath Siwash Bill leaped to his feet and confronted the horseman. Pete sat on the stool like a statue. His lower jaw dropped and his eyes bulged big with astonishment. Even the Indian woman paused in her work and looked up. Her eyes glowed with a strange light, whether of sorrow or fierce joy she alone knew.
"Speak, speak, man, fer God's sake!" shouted Pete, "an' tell us what ye mean."
"Haven't I told ye?"
"Yes, yes. But don't stop there. Tell us all. When did it happen, an' where's the kid?"
"Damn if I know where the brat is. I thought you knew. Why didn't ye ask that stranger?"
"The stranger. What has he to do with the kid? What are ye drivin' at?"
"Nuthin' much, 'cept he had 'im."
"Had 'im?"
"Sure thing."
"Not when he was here."
"No, so I understand."
"But when? What's wrong with ye? Why don't ye spit it out?"
"I will if ye'll sit down an' give me time. There, that's better," he continued, as Bill with a growl dropped back upon his stool. "Now I kin spin it off. Well, fer two days I watched yon trail an' river, not knowin' by which the gang 'ud come. I knew it 'ud be by one or t'other unless they got pinched. Early this mornin' as I happened by chance along a high bluff this side of the rapids I spotted two men hikin' along the trail headin' fer Hishu. At first I thought they were the gang, but watchin' closer I saw that one was an Injun carry in' somethin' large in his arms."
"The devil!" ejaculated Pete, and the Indian woman again looked suddenly up.
"They didn't see me, though," continued Shifty, "fer I smelled a rat, an' scuttled. Then I did some tall thinkin', an' made up my mind to see what was behind, fer I knew they hadn't come fer at that time of the day. Hittin' the trail some distance up, an' follow-in' it fer a piece I found a huge grizzly lyin' dead at the foot of a little knoll. There were signs of a lively skirmish, an' the man wot pumped lead into that critter ain't to be fooled with, let me tell ye that."
"Good Lord, no!" gasped Pete; "guess not."
"Continuin' my way I reached the river, an' there jist at the ford I found some things which set me thinkin' some more."
"What?" was the excited question.
"A rifle an' a buckskin jacket."
"Whew, ye don't tell!"
"Yes, there they were, thrown down upon the bank. Lookin' up an' down the river my eyes caught sight of a piece of a canoe floatin' in a little eddy along the shore. Examinin' it closely I found it was the one Shorty kep' above the rapids. Goin' down-stream a bit I found another big chunk on a sand-bar, which made me sartin that somethin' had happened to the gang. Comin' back I struck an Injun camp, where there was an old squaw an' a young 'un. They told me the hull yarn an' a d— sight more, too. That afternoon I skirted the river an' caught up with the travellers. Twice they spotted me, which made 'em hike like h—"
"But what did they do with the kid?" questioned Pete.
"Took it to Old Meg's, so the squaw told me. Guess it's there yit."
"Good," exclaimed Bill, "we'll not lose it. If Meg's got it, we're all right."
"Don't be too sure of that," replied Shifty. "What about that young cub with Buckskin Dan?"
"An' ye say that he had the kid?"
"Sartin. Didn't I tell ye?"
"But how in h— did he git hold of it?"
"Jumped in the river an' saved its life, so the squaw said."
"The devil! Ye don't say so! But how did he happen to be there jist in the nick of time?"
"Bah," and Shifty spat contemptuously upon the floor. "How did he happen to be there! How does he happen to be here? How does he happen to be everywhere? Don't ye know he's one of them d—Yellow-legs from Big Glen?"
His companions started at these words, and glanced anxiously toward the door. Shifty gave a sarcastic laugh, drew a pipe from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth.
"Scart are ye?" he asked. "I thought y'd scent 'im five miles off."
"To tell ye the truth," Pete replied, "we didn't like the looks of 'im from the first, so we came back here to talk it over. Thought mebbe he'd tell Old Dan if left alone. So we listened."
"An' what did ye learn?"
"Nuthin', only we concluded he wasn't a Yellow-leg."
"How's that?"
"Why if he was after the ones wot pinched the kid he couldn't git here so soon, an' anyway he wouldn't come alone."
"An' so that's yer conclusion, was it? I thought yez had more sense than that. 'Couldn't git here so soon,' an' 'wouldn't come alone,'" he mocked. "Don't ye know that them Mounted Devils are everywhere? Ye may think there isn't one within two hundred miles. But let somethin' happen an' he's at yer heels like greased lightnin'. As fer comin' alone he doesn't mind that. He's used to it. He'll stroll into a gang of cutthroats as cool as ye please, pick his man, snap on the irons, an' walk out. Why haven't I seen it done time an time ag'in?"
"It takes nerve to do that," suggested Pete.
"Sartin. That's what made the Force what it is to-day. Only the man with nerves like steel is picked to do an ugly job, an' he knows that the hull damn Force is back of 'im, an' back of that the British Empire, Army an' Navy combined. Touch 'im an' ye touch the hull consarn. So ye may be sure it's no weak-kneed, wobbly-spine chap wot's been sent here, let me tell ye that."
"But how are ye so sure that he is a Yellow-leg?" questioned Siwash Bill.
"Know?" retorted Shifty. "Who else would be hikin' about Hishu without any object? Besides what about that Police rifle out there on that measly cayuse, an' the buckskin jacket? There's not a shadow of a doubt about it, so ye needn't worry over that. He's here fer bizness, an' the sooner we git a move on, the better."
"Oh, if he's as ye say," replied Bill, rising and stretching himself, "we kin soon fix 'im. He hasn't struck a bunch of kids an' babies here in Hishu."
"What's yer plan?" asked Shifty.
Bill glanced significantly at a revolver at his hip.
"Now, look here, Bill. Don't make a fool of yerself. D'ye want to bring down the hull Force upon us? We've done enough already. But lay hands upon yon chap, an' they'll be about us like hornets."
"What else kin we do, then?"
Shifty sat for some time in silence, while his face twitched more than ever, as it always did when his mind was working keenly. At length he brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding whack.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "Ho, ho. It'll be all right. We won't touch 'im. But what about that pious-tongued hypocrite, Dan? Mebbe he'll have a finger in this little affair which he didn't expect. Ho, ho, me an' Pete'll help the Police to find the villain; oh, yes."
"How?" questioned Bill.
"How? Never ye mind that. We'll tend to the tail if you'll look after the head, an' that's the kid over yon. You keep an eye on it, and we'll look after the spyin' cub. Is it a go?"
"Sure," Bill assented somewhat dubiously, "but I'll be alone in my game, though."
"What about that gal with old Meg?" and Shifty tipped a wink to Pete. "She's a shy 'un, an' hasn't been broken in yit, but I guess you kin do it. I'd like to try meself, but haven't a ghost of a chance with you. She'll help ye if ye work her right."
"Think so?"
"Sartin. That kid's got to be moved. It's no place fer it here. So you've got yer job cut out. Git the kid, an' don't fergit the gal. She's a trim one that, an' I can't see how old Meg cinched her. She's the pardner fer ye. None better. If ye had her here she'd bambozzle every miner an' Injun wot comes to Hishu. They'd crowd in jist to see her, an' ye'd sell yer stuff like hot cakes."
"But they kin see her over there," replied Bill.
"No. Didn't I tell ye she's too d— shy? I can't savvey it nohow. An' ye better git a hustle on, too, fer in a short time the Injuns'll be pilin' in here like mad."
"Why, what d'ye mean, man? They won't be back fer two months yit."
"Won't they, hey? Jist you wait. I learned somethin' to-day which makes me say they will."
"Wot's that?"
"The Big Lake Injuns are on the warpath. The Hishus have trespassed on their ancestral huntin' grounds, an' won't take back water. The trouble's been brewin' fer years, an' has at last come to a head. It'll be either a big potlatch or war. But I fear the latter."
"Good Lord, man!" exclaimed Bill, "how did ye learn all this? Surely yer only foolin'."
"Not a bit of it. That old squaw I met on the trail let the cat out of the bag, an' the big Injun wot toted the kid is her husband, Hishu Sam. So ye know wot that means."
During the latter part of this conversation the Indian woman's eyes glowed with an intense light. She kept them fixed full upon Siwash Bill's face. Jealousy mingled with a deep hatred was expressed there. Occasionally her right hand slipped into a bundle by her side until it rested upon the haft of a keen sheath knife. But when Shifty told about the threatened war between the Indians, and mentioned the name of Hishu Sam, jealousy and hatred gave place to fear. It was expressed both in her eyes and in her face. She sat perfectly rigid, however, until the conversation had ceased and the men had passed out into the other room.
"What are ye doin' here, young man?"
The words startled Grey, and caused him to look quickly around. Twice had this man asked that same question, and each time there was a peculiar warning note in his voice.
They had entered a small cabin, and were seated upon rough stools. The place was clean and neat, a striking contrast to the disorderly room they had just left. Two narrow bunks, one above the other, stretched part way across the south end of the room, while on the opposite side, and near the door, stood a small sheet-iron camping stove. Nearby was a rough table of whipsawn boards, over which, fastened to the wall, was a rude cupboard, containing a few iron plates, cups, saucers and knives. On the floor in the centre of the room a large bearskin was spread, while the principal adornments of the walls were snowshoes, rifles and traps, suspended on wooden pegs driven into the logs. Not until the owner of the cabin had started a fire in the stove, for the evening was cool, did he blurt forth his question, "What are ye doin' here, young man?"
"Just travelling," Grey replied.
"Travellin'; jist travellin', are ye? But isn't it rather risky bizness?"
"In what way? What do you mean?"
"Oh, nuthin' much. It only depends upon what yer travellin' fer that makes the difference."
"I don't understand. Will you please explain?"
"Wall, some people travel fer their health, some fer pleasure, an' some fer bizness. Now you ain't out fer yer health, that's sartin, fer ye've got more'n yer share, it seems to me. As fer pleasure—wall, folks don't ginerally come to a place like this. Tharfere ye must be out fer bizness, an' I reckon it's mighty delicate bizness at that."
"What makes you think so?" questioned Grey, somewhat amused at these shrewd remarks.
"I dunno exactly," and the old man scratched his head. "But somehow I feel ye're here in kernection with that gang over yon. If so I say ag'in that it's mighty delicate bizness."
"What makes you think so?" and Grey looked keenly into the calm eyes before him.
"Yer one of them Reds from Big Glen, are ye not?" and the old man jerked his stool a little nearer. "Thar now ye needn't git excited," he continued, noticing Grey about to interrupt him. "Buckskin Dan hasn't studied the gentle art of observation all these years fer nuthin'. In towns, cities an' sich places yer nat'ral senses peter out. Ye don't have to look much, fer yer streets are nuthin' but grooves, like a hull bunch of sluice boxes, an' ye jist foller yer nose. Somethin' gits wrong, too, with yer hearin' gear, fer I've had men tell me that right down thar in New York on Broadway, they never hear a sound, they're so used to the noise. As fer the smell, it almost drives me mad, an' yit folks wot live thar never smell anythin'. Now that ain't nat'ral. The good Lord when he gave me my senses meant me to use 'em. Fer some time past I've been seein' an' hearin' things over in yon store which made me sorter suspicious. Now, when I see a chap like yerself wanderin' about here in a vague sort of a way I begin t' see more things, an' surmise that thar's somethin' crooked afloat. I may be wrong, but guess not. So if ye'll take a word of caution ye'll go keerful, an' if I kin help ye a leetle, don't be afeered to ax me."
At first Grey was somewhat annoyed at Dan's words, and felt like rebuking him for his interference. This resentment, however, was quickly replaced by a very different feeling. It was impossible not to be impressed by this quiet man. He realised the truth of his words, and knew how serious was his own position, and how important it was to have such a sturdy ally in Buckskin Dan.
"You've lived some time in the North, I suppose?" he at length remarked.
"Nigh onto fifteen years," was the reply.
"And you know most of the people here?"
"Sartin. Know 'em all, an' some too well fer convenience."
"Do many miners live here?"
"'Bout fifty. But they're all out in the hills now prospectin'. They're comin' and goin' most of the time. Mark my word, thar'll be a big strike made about here one of these days. The gold's thar jist waitin' fer some lucky chap to find it."
"I suppose you know Siwash Bill and his gang," remarked Grey.
"Y' bet. Remember the fust time they struck this place, an' they've been raisin' Cain ever since, especially with the Injuns."
"How many are there in the gang?"
"Five, an' they stick together like tarred feathers."
"Are you sure there are five?"
"Sartin. Never more so."
"Well, I think you'll find there are only three now."
"Three! Only three! What d'ye mean?"
"That two of them went down last night in Klikhausia Rapids, when their canoe struck a sunken rock."
At this Dan sprang to his feet, and laid his hand heavily upon Grey's shoulder.
"What! What!" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Say that over ag'in. Mebbe I didn't hear ye aright. D'ye tell me that two of 'em have gone down?"
"I believe so."
"What! Shorty an' Tim?"
"I don't know their names, but if you sit down I'll tell you all about it."
And there in that little cabin Grey told about the stolen child, the fight with the grizzly, the wreck in the rapids, and the rescue of the boy. To all this Dan listened with wide open eyes, at times interjecting a word of surprise.
"My God!" he exclaimed, when Grey had finished. "So them poor divils have gone down! Yes, I'm sartin it's them, fer I savvey things now which I couldn't afore. It's all clear to me as day. I see through their game—to steal the poor lad from his mother's arms, an' make the old man cough up the dough. Oh, them villains! It jist sarved 'em right, fer they war mean skunks. But I do pity the ones who'll have to look after 'em in t'other world. Parsons an' sich like may talk about goin' to hell, but Shorty an' Tim have taken their own hell fire along with 'em, an' don't ye fergit that."
"I wonder if the rest of the gang know about the accident," Grey remarked, gazing thoughtfully at the little stove, which was sending out its genial heat.
"Can't tell fer sartin," was the reply. "But they'll savvey about the lad at Old Meg's over yon, an' that'll be enough fer them."
"Will they try to do anything now, do you think?"
"Do? They'll never stop doin' as long as life's in their nasty bodies. Ye don't know them varmints. They're after money, an' they're bound to git it."
"And so you think the child's in danger yet?"
"Think it? I don't think anything about it. I know it."
"And what is to be done?"
"Git that youngster out of this as soon as he's able to be moved."
"But will they let us?"
"Not if they kin help it. But thar are always ways, don't ye fergit that. Thar are ways. But come, lad, ye're dead beat an' need some rest. So curl up in yon bunk while I stroll around outside a bit."
Grey was tired, very tired, and the bed soft and comfortable. For some time, however, he lay there thinking over the events of the day. His principal thoughts were of Madeline. How strange that after such a long separation he should find her in such a desolate region—and in that house! The sight of her had brought back the old memories of happy days, when they had strolled together, talked, and loved. Thinking thus he drifted into a restless sleep in which he was besieged by wild dreams. He was surrounded by the "gang." They were trying to throttle him. Then he saw Madeline, with face as white as death, struggling in the grasp of Siwash Bill. Her eyes were full of terror as she reached out to him appealing hands for help. For an instant he had not the power to assist her. He was bound by chains which held him fast. With a great cry he made one mighty effort. The chains snapped and he was free. At once the scene faded and he awoke. The room was fairly light, for the bright moon was shining in through the little window. How late it was he could not tell. Overhead he could hear Buckskin Dan's deep breathing. For some time he lay quietly in the bunk, hoping that he would soon drop off to sleep again. But try as he might his eyes would not close. The dream had been too real, and ever before his mind rose Madeline's tearful face, while her cry of fear rang incessantly in his ears.
At length he could bear it no longer. The bunk seemed like a prison. Slipping quietly to the floor, he softly opened the door, and left the building. It was a glorious night, and the moon, almost full, was drifting through masses of fleecy clouds. The air was cool and a long, filmy fog hung over the trees down by the river. Grey stood for a while outside the door, and looked around. Not a sound broke the intense stillness of the night. The chill air cooled his flushed face. He looked toward Old Meg's house, and moved by a sudden impulse started down the trail. A walk, he thought, would do him no harm; he would sleep the better after it. He wished to look again upon the cabin which sheltered Madeline. It did not take him long to reach the little clearing in which the dwelling stood, and, not wishing to pass out into the open, he stepped aside from the trail a short distance.
Seating himself upon a fallen tree at the edge of the forest he could obtain a good view of the house, while he himself was hidden. He was somewhat surprised to see a light shining in one of the windows facing him. Then he thought of the child. Perhaps someone was watching by its side. Was it Madeline? Was she sitting there in that room keeping faithful ward over the little one? It was just like her, he knew that, to give up her own comfort for others, especially for children. He looked carefully around. Not a living thing could he see. Suppose he stepped across to the house and peered in through the window. It could do no harm, and he did so long to see her face again.
He was about to step out into the open, when an object arrested his attention, which caused him to shrink back behind a small fir tree. The object soon proved to be a man, creeping guardedly toward the house from the right. Although he kept somewhat in the shade of the trees he was exposed to full view. Almost breathlessly Grey watched him as he proceeded slowly by the side of the building until he came to the window from which the light shone. Here he paused, and looked cautiously into the room. What he beheld Grey could not tell, but presently he went to the door and gave a gentle tap. Ere long it was slowly opened, and someone appeared. At that distance he could not hear what was being said, although several minutes elapsed as Grey stood there straining his ears in an effort to distinguish the words. Then the sounds grew louder, and occasionally an intelligent word drifted toward him. It was a woman's voice he heard, and now there was no doubt about it—it was Madeline's. What was she doing there at that time of the night? He recognised the man by his voice. It was Siwash Bill—and what was Madeline doing there with him? Was it his custom to meet her thus? These thoughts and others of a similar nature surged through Grey's brain.
"I tell you no! It can never be!"
How decisive were the words which now reached him clear and distinct. Then they sank lower, and listen as he might he could not distinguish their meaning.
"Leave me, and never come here again!"
Ah, he could hear these, and they thrilled the heart of the concealed listener. She did not wish him to come. A weight was lifted from his mind, and he breathed more freely. It was only for an instant, however, for at once a cry fell upon his ears—a cry for help—and it was Madeline's! No longer now did he hesitate. She was in danger, and needed him. He sprang from his hiding place, and bounded across the open, straight toward the spot where the two were standing.
Madeline's joy at beholding the child lying on the couch soon gave place to surprise. In her first intense delight at seeing the little one with the white face and curly hair, she had thought of nothing else. The child was enough, and she had rushed forward and bent over the frail form. That sight was sufficient to stir within her memories which she believed had long since been dead. Gradually wonder took possession of her. Where had the boy come from? What was he doing in such a place as Hishu, and especially at this house above all others? Then she thought of the tall silent form she had noticed standing in the centre of the room. She had given but one fleeting glance, and yet how that figure stood out in her mind clear and distinct. There was something familiar about those broad shoulders and the poise of that head which set her heart beating fast and brought the blood surging to her cheeks. Could it be possible that it was—? She caught her breath at the mere thought. No, such an idea was ridiculous. And yet something seemed to whisper it to her, and tell her that there was no mistake, that it was Norman and none other. A peace such as she had not known for years filled her heart. A subtle influence seemed to surround her and pervade the room. For a brief space of time she kept her face close to the child. How could she look upon him? What would he say? How would he greet her? She felt that his eyes were fixed upon her. Were they filled with sorrow or reproach? Would he scorn her? At length she raised her head and looked around for one quick glance, but he was gone. Then a sharp revulsion of feeling swept over her. The crimson left her cheeks, leaving them as pallid as death. Her bloodless lips were compressed. He was gone, and she knew why! He had recognised her, had understood, and had fled!
Madeline rose to her feet, and stared straight before her toward the door, and out into the yard beyond. She saw no one; she heard nothing but the beating of her own tumultuous heart. She presented a beautiful pathetic scene standing there. But the woman watching her thought nothing of this. Her cynical eyes were fixed upon Madeline's face, and her lips parted in a cold smile.
"Don't worry. He'll come back."
Madeline started at these words.
"Who is he?" and her voice was hoarse as she whispered the question.
"You'll learn in time, so don't be uneasy," replied the woman. "But, come, you had better look after that brat. I don't want to be bothered with it, and as you think so much of it you'd better tend to it at once. You must get the thing fixed up as soon as possible, for I don't want it kicking about here when the men come back from the hills. You won't have any time to look after it then, mark my words."
Madeline turned from the cruel creature toward the child. A great weight pressed upon her heart, and she felt she must cry out. Had Old Meg spoken such words that morning or the day before she would have thought little of them. Was she not accustomed to the life—hideous though it was—and this woman's sharp, pitiless tongue? Madeline imagined that she, too, was hardened and indifferent herself. But now she realised that a change had taken place. That subtle influence which surrounded her and the presence of that sweet-faced boy sleeping there on the couch made a great difference. The men would come from the hills, they would crowd into the house, and then hell would be let loose. She shuddered as she thought of it.
A cough from Donnie brought Madeline quickly to his side. He opened his eyes, and looked up into her face.
"Mother. I wants my mother," he wailed. "Why don't she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
Madeline was all alert now. Soothing the child and winning his confidence she carried him off to her own small room at the side of the house, and laid him upon her rude cot. Quickly and deftly she undressed him and tucked the blanket carefully about his little body. Donnie was restless and feverish, and the rasping cough still shook the delicate frame. For a while Madeline stood in doubt. She hardly knew what course to pursue to relieve the suffering. At length a simple remedy came to her mind. Crossing the room she drew back a curtain and brought down from a nail a much worn flannel skirt. Only for a moment did she hesitate as she looked upon it. Then seizing a pair of scissors lying on a table near by she cut off a large portion from the bottom of the garment. Telling Donnie not to be afraid, that she would return soon, she went at once to a small cooking stove at the back of the building, lighted a fire, and placed the flannel near to warm. Then going to a corner of the room she poured some coal oil from a tin can into a saucer and placed it on the stove to heat. When this had been accomplished to her satisfaction she carried Donnie to the kitchen, placed him on her lap near the fire, and thoroughly rubbed his little chest with the oil, and then applied the warm flannel. It was only a simple remedy, she was well aware, but it was all she knew, and she was willing to do what she could. This she kept up for some time, and then once more placed the little fellow back into bed. Soon she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes close in a peaceful sleep. But not for a moment did Madeline relax her watchfulness.
Hour after hour she remained faithfully on guard, keeping the fire in the stove and the flannels warm upon the chest. How thankful Madeline was for the presence of the child! Sleep fled her eyes as she sat there watching. No sound broke the intense stillness which reigned. The house was unusually quiet, for often sounds of revelry continued throughout the night. Her mind was greatly agitated. Where had this child come from, and why was such a delicate lad so far in the wilderness away from civilisation? Carefully she examined his clothes, studying well each little garment, the fine quality of the material of which it was made, and the signs of a loving hand in each tiny stitch. And why should he have the boy? No longer did she doubt that the man was Norman. But what was he doing there? Then a question stinging in its intensity pierced her heart. Was this his child? Had he a wife living somewhere in the North? Was she beautiful? Did her hands fashion the little garments lying before her? Was this the reason why Norman had fled so hurriedly from the house? Had he recognised her, and did not want to speak to her because he was married? She could not rid her mind of the thought. Dry-eyed and motionless she sat there, staring straight at the sleeping lad. She did not blame Norman. How could she expect that he would wait six long years for her, whom the world believed dead? How strange it was that she should be watching by the side of his boy! What circumstance, she wondered, had brought such a thing to pass? Though now a gulf yawned between them his child was with her, and she could love it for his sake. Bending suddenly forward she pressed her hot lips to Donnie's cheek. How soft was the little face, and what a strange new thrill that simple touch brought to her heart.
A knock upon the door at the side of the house startled her. She drew back abashed. Was it Norman, and had he been watching her through the window? It was but natural that he should come to see about his sick boy. How could she meet him? Rising to her feet she stood irresolute by the foot of the bed. What should she do? What could she say?
Again the knock sounded, louder than before. Madeline no longer hesitated. She crossed the room, turned the wooden button, and cautiously opened the door. As she did so she started back, and a slight cry of fear escaped her lips. Standing on the step with his left hand upon the side of the door was Siwash Bill. His swinish eyes leered in upon her, and a frown wrinkled his brow as he noted how she recoiled from his presence.
For some time past Madeline had noted how the squaw man had sought her company. He had come to the house, and often met her as she took her lonely walk along the trail leading to the river. He followed her like a shadow, and lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself in her good will. The more she repulsed him, the more determined he became. Rough, uncouth men frequented the house when they were in Hishu. Them she could tolerate, or had to tolerate. But this creature filled her heart with a loathsome repugnance, like the presence of a slimy, crawling viper.
"Frightened are ye, miss?" Again Bill smiled—the smile of the evil one. "Didn't know I was sich a monster."
"What do you want?" and Madeline spoke sharply. "Why do you disturb me at this time of the night?"
"Saw a light in the window, an' thought mebbe ye'd like company," was the reply.
"No, I prefer to be alone—with the child. So you might have spared yourself the trouble."
"Now don't git heady, miss. It's partly on account of that little chap that I've come here to-night. He means a pile of money to me. I've run a big risk consarnin' him, an' I can't afford to take chances."
"Run a big risk? What do you mean?"
"Listen," and the squaw man moved closer and whispered something into Madeline's ear, which caused her to start. "Thar now, ye needn't take on," Bill continued. "All ye've got to do is to hand over that kid to me when he gits better, an' part of the chink's yours."
"Never!" Madeline's determined negative rang out distinctly through the night, and thrilled a silent listener concealed not far away. "I can't do that, so God help me!"
"Can't? Think ag'in. Money's a god; it works miracles."
Madeline did not reply. How could she answer this villain? What was the use of speech? She would leave him; close the door in his face. Siwash Bill mistook her silence for acquiescence. He drew nearer, and she shrank back.
"Yes," he continued, "money's a god; it'll do anything. An' look you; there's money in it, twenty thousand dollars! A man with that kin leave the North, go outside, an' be rich. Miss, I want that chink, an' you in the bargain. D'ye suppose I've been watchin' ye all these weeks fer nuthin'? D'ye suppose I'd a taken all yer rebuffs in silence if I didn't love ye? Not a bit of it. Come, say ye'll have me, an' we'll cut this d—place ferever. We'll cinch that twenty thousand dollars an' git out."
Madeline, though pale before, was white as death now. She clutched at the door post for support. She knew something of the determined nature of the man standing before her.
"You scoundrel!" she cried. "How dare you say such words! Leave me, and never show your face here again!"
"An' ye won't have me?"
"No; a thousand times no!"
"Then I won't ask ye. This is the land whar strength rules. If ye won't be mine one way ye will another."
Saying which the brute took a quick step forward, and placed his arm suddenly about her waist.
With a cry Madeline strove to wrench herself from his grip. But the more she strove the firmer he held her fast, and drew her closer to his breast. A faintness swept over her as she felt his hot breath upon her face, and she gave one wild piercing cry for help.
And even as she ceased to struggle, and a fearful blackness blinded her eyes, she heard the sound of rapid steps, and felt the squaw man's arms suddenly relax. Grey had arrived none too soon, and words of explanation were unnecessary. One long arm reached out, and tense knuckles caught Siwash Bill full under the left ear. Unheeding the wretch sprawling on the ground he caught Madeline in his arms and entered the building. It took but a minute for him to cross the room and lay her upon the couch. But in that brief space of time as he clasped her unconscious form to his breast an overmastering yearning took possession of him. He looked into that dear white face; his breath fanned her wavy hair, and with the greatest effort he restrained himself from pressing his lips to those slightly parted ones so close to his. But no, he must not allow his feeling to get the better of him. It would be better to wait awhile. He turned and saw Old Meg standing in the middle of the room, with a questioning look upon her face.
"What's the matter with her?" she growled. "Why all such yelling and fuss at this time of the night?"
Grey was about to express himself freely to this woman. With an effort, however, he restrained himself, knowing that angry words would do no good.
"Ask Siwash Bill," he replied. "Perhaps he'll tell you, for I don't know. But look you well after her," and he pointed to Madeline. "She's somewhat knocked out. Get a basin and some water, quick. You attend to her; I must see to someone outside."
With one deep longing glance toward Madeline he turned and left the building, leaving Old Meg staring in profound wonder after his tall retreating form.
For some time after the plotters had left the room Nadu, the Indian woman, sat quietly in the corner. No longer were her fingers busy, for the buckskin jacket had been laid aside. Other things occupied her mind. She could hear the murmur of voices in the adjoining store, and recognised the men. It was quite dark now, for the moon had not risen. Presently Nadu thrust her hand beneath her blanket, and clutched the handle of the sharp knife concealed there. Running her fingers across the blade she noted with satisfaction the keenness of the edge and the sharp needle-like point. Drawing the weapon forth she hid it deftly within the folds of a blanket wrapped about her shoulders. Rising to her feet she moved softly across the room, quietly opened the door, and slipped out into the night.
To the right flowed the river, its banks lined with cottonwood trees and jack pines. Through these she glided like some weird spectre. Occasionally she stayed her steps to listen, but all was silent. After a while she paused, and crept to the edge of the clearing. There before her was the dim form of a house, with a light shining from one of the windows. For some time Nadu remained crouched upon the ground. The light seemed to fascinate her, and when once it disappeared she started to her feet, and crept forward like a tiger ready to spring, but slunk back again when the light reappeared.
At length her eyes sought the East, where a faint glow was visible in the sky close to the horizon. It was the first signal of the moon, which soon would be rising full and bright over the land. This Nadu well knew, so creeping from her place of concealment she sped across the open, and moved warily around the log building until she came near to the window from which the light was streaming. Then standing a little to one side she peered in through the small panes of glass, until her eyes rested upon a slight form bending lovingly over a little child lying asleep upon the bed.
No feeling of tenderness smote Nadu's breast at the scene which met her gaze. Jealousy and hatred held her in thrall. Before her was the woman who was making her life a hell; the one who had crossed her path, and who was alienating the affections of her husband, the squaw man. Had she not noticed it for days, nay, weeks now? Did not all the pride of her race rebel at the neglect and ignominy which were bestowed upon her? But him she blamed not. The woman alone was the cause, and now her eyes dilated as she looked through the curtainless window. Once Madeline turned half around as if she intuitively knew of that lowering face. Then Nadu had shrunk back, fearful lest she should be observed.
During the whole of this time the Indian woman firmly clutched the knife beneath her blanket. Its touch gave her a degree of satisfaction, and often her fingers caressed the keen blade as her eyes gloated over the pale-faced woman in the room.
The moon had now risen, and was flooding the whole landscape with its silver beams. To the left the trees of the forest threw out their long trailing shadows. Nadu glanced uneasily in their direction. How sombre and gruesome they appeared! The whole air seemed to pulsate with strange forebodings. Nadu was no coward. She belonged to a tribe which knew not fear. The Big Lake Indians had never retreated from a foe. They could die with a smile and a song, but knew not how to yield. And Nadu was a child of the bravest. Had not her mother often related to her the story of that terrible night when her father had led forth the Big Lake warriors and had driven back a band of Dog Rib Indians from beyond the mountains? The fighting had been fierce, and several had been slain, her father among the number. How Nadu's heart had thrilled as she dreamed of that scene, until the spirit of her father was hers. But on this night it was detection she feared. She had a purpose in view, and until that was accomplished she must be wary.
With one long lingering look through the window she moved away from the house, and glided across the open to the edge of the forest, until her form was hidden by the dark shadows. Here she paused, and squatting upon the ground kept her eyes fixed upon the light pouring from the house.
And not many minutes did she have to wait ere Siwash Bill came creeping along. She saw him peering in through the window, and approach the door. Then when she beheld Madeline standing there, and noticed the two talking together, the fire of rage and jealousy leaped to a white heat. Formerly she had believed that the pale-faced woman was entirely at fault. Now she knew that Bill was much to blame. He had come to the place to see this woman. She had loved the squaw man with all the affection of her passionate nature. She had waited upon him like a slave, and his curses she had received without a murmur. All this she could endure, for he was hers, and her love was deep. But now—She clutched the knife more firmly, and, waiting no longer, sped through the shadows, plunged into the forest, and reached the river. A trail, worn smooth, wound along the bank. This she followed up-stream for the space of fifty yards. Then she paused and listened. Hearing nothing but the rapid beating of her own heart she was about to continue on her way, when a faint sound fell upon her ears. She glanced quickly toward the river, but only the silver sheen of the ripple-less surface met her eyes. She believed she had been mistaken, and was about to proceed when again the sound was heard, much more distinct now. Something was down there along the shore within the shadows of the trees, she felt sure of that. At first she thought it might be only a wild duck, or a muskrat besporting itself in the water. This idea was soon dispelled, however, for presently she was able to detect the soft rhythmical dip of paddles. Moving behind a small jack pine, she crouched upon the ground and waited. Who could it be, she wondered, approaching at such an hour of the night? Was it friend or foe? It could not be any of the Hishus, for they had all gone up-stream. Could it be the Big Lake Indians? She thought of the conversation in the house, and of what Shifty had said about the trouble between the tribes, and of Hishu Sam's return. Were the Big Lakes coming in force to attack the settlement, to murder the inhabitants, seize the supplies in the store, and then sweep on to surprise the Hishus in their camping grounds! Well did she know the remorselessness and tiger-like swiftness of the Big Lakes when once aroused to action.
A sudden impulse seized her to dart forward and give warning of the invaders. She rose partly to her feet, but immediately sank back again. Why should she go? The Hishus were nothing to her, and the white men—ugh! What did she care for them now? Had they not treated her like a dog, and Bill worst of all? Let him go to the white woman; of what avail would she be to him if the Big Lakes came?
Such were the thoughts which beat through her brain as she crouched there with her straining eyes fixed upon the river. The sounds were becoming more distinct, and ere long she was able to discern the dim outline of something moving slowly over the water. Nearer and nearer it approached until the faint shape of a canoe could be discerned, with two forms seated therein. Stealthily and shadowy it glided forward, and passed the place where she was crouched.
Nadu arose, and crept silently along the trail. On and on the canoe moved until it came opposite the store. Here it drew into shore at a little opening which led to the water's edge. Nadu watched the strangers while they made the craft fast to an old root. Then they crept warily through the trees toward the settlement. Her first thought was to follow after, and ascertain the object of their visit. But the sight of the canoe brought to her mind a new idea. With Nadu to think was to act, and when sure that the men were some distance away she moved quickly from her hiding place, unfastened the canoe, gave it a gentle push, and sprang in. Seizing one of the paddles lying in the bottom, with a few vigorous strokes she headed the canoe up-stream, keeping well within the shadows. When she had gone about one hundred yards she ran into shore in a sheltered nook, and made the craft fast to a tree. Having accomplished this she hurried down the trail, and once more took up her position close to the spot where the Indians had landed.
Here she waited for some time ere the sound of returning steps rewarded her patience. Swiftly and softly the two strangers sped down the trail. Reaching the river they looked in surprise at the place where they had left the canoe. Then a whispered conversation ensued. That they were much concerned Nadu could easily tell. Closely she watched them as well as the shadows would permit. One she recognised, and the sight of his figure brought a thrill to her heart. It brought back memories of by-gone years. It was Tonda, the sturdy brave, who had sought her love ere the advent of Siwash Bill, his successful rival. She had given him up for the white man, and what had she gained? The roving life, the fascination of forest, river and lake all had been relinquished. And now she was a slave, confined to a hateful cabin, to wait upon her brutish lord and master.
The sight of Tonda stirred Nadu more than was her wont. Would he care to see her? she wondered. Would he have anything to do with her? Would her people have her back again after years of absence? The old life was drawing, appealing, calling her by numerous mystic charms.
As the Indians continued to converse, Nadu stepped quickly forward and stood by their side. Startled by her sudden appearance, the men raised their rifles. But Nadu lifted her hand, and motioned them not to fear.
"Tonda," she said in a low voice, in the language of the Big Lakes; "Tonda afraid of a squaw? Why does he tremble? Why does he wish to shoot? Is Tonda's heart weak?"
"Who speaks?" replied the latter, bending forward to obtain a better look.
"Has Tonda forgotten? Does he not remember the voice which once was music to his ears?"
"Nadu! Is it Nadu?" and the man straightened himself up. "What does Nadu care about Tonda? Nadu has left her people. She has joined the pale face intruders. She lives now among the Hishu 'dogs.'"
"Ah, ah!" Nadu replied. "Tonda speaks true. The Hishus are dogs, but they are swift-footed dogs, and do not bark before they bite. Let the Big Lakes beware, for the Hishu dogs are roused, and their fangs are long and keen."
"Why does Nadu say all this?" Tonda replied. "Does she not live among the Hishus, and knows her own people no longer?"
"Nadu is a child of Wabanda. His blood flows in her veins. His spirit is hers. Nadu has not forgotten her people; she would go back to them. She would go with Tonda."
"And did Nadu take the canoe?" questioned the latter, as a suspicion of what had happened to the craft floated into his mind.
"Ah, ah; Nadu knows," was the low reply.
"And will Nadu come to-night?"
Tonda was eager now. This woman was fascinating him as of yore. He forgot how she had repulsed him for the white man. In her presence he was as a child.
"Nadu will not go to-night. Two sleeps and Nadu will be ready."
"But why wait so long? Tonda cannot stay."
"Is Tonda afraid of the Hishus? Does he fear their fangs?"
"No, no; Tonda knows not fear. But the Big Lakes are waiting."
"Let them wait," answered the woman. "What does Tonda know about the Hishus? What has he learned to-night? Nothing. Two sleeps and Nadu will be here. She knows much."
"And the canoe?" breathed the warrior.
"Let Tonda wait, and he shall have the canoe. He shall have it to-night."
For a few minutes the two men moved aside and conversed with each other in low tones. At length Tonda turned toward the woman.
"The Big Lake warriors will trust Nadu," he said. "Let her show them the canoe, and after two sleeps they will be here."
"Tonda speaks well" was the reply. "Nadu is pleased. She will find the canoe. Come."