Flower of the North - James Oliver Curwood (desktop ebook reader .txt) 📗

Jeanne and Philip. They had gone in two canoes, up the Churchill. He had seen no signs of them anywhere along the route.
No sooner had he received the news than Philip sent the messenger after MacDougall. The Scotchman's red face stared at him blankly when he told him what had happened.
"That's their first move in the real fight," said Philip, with a hard ring in his voice. "They've got Brokaw. Keep your men close from this hour on, Sandy. Hereafter let five of them sleep in our bunks during the day, and keep them awake during the night."
Five days passed without a sign of an enemy.
About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into the office, where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually florid face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the back of a chair with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that Philip had heard MacDougall swear.
"Damn that Thorpe!" he cried, in a low voice.
"What's up?" asked Philip, his muscles tightening.
MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe.
"I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about some things," he growled. "Thorpe brought up a load of whisky with him. I knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp, but I figured you were having trouble enough without getting you into a mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other-- is damnable! Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's there again to-night!"
A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall was not looking, and did not see the convulsive twitching of the other's face, or the terrible light that shot for an instant into his eyes.
"A woman--Mac--"
"A YOUNG woman," said MacDougall, with emphasis. "I don't know who she is, but I do know that she hasn't a right there or she wouldn't sneak in like a thief. I'm going to be blunt--damned blunt. I think she's one of the other men's wives. There are half a dozen in camp."
"Haven't you ever looked--to see if you could recognize her?"
"Haven't had the chance," said MacDougall. "She's been wrapped up both times, and as it was none of my business I didn't lay in wait. But now--it's up to you!"
Philip rose slowly. He felt cold. He put on his coat and cap, and buckled on his revolver. His face was deadly white when he turned to MacDougall.
"She is over there to-night?"
"Sneaked in not half an hour ago, I saw her come out of the edge of the spruce."
"From the trail that leads out over the plain?"
"Yes."
Philip walked to the door.
"I'm going over to call on Thorpe," he said, quietly. "I may not be back for some time, Sandy."
In the deep shadows outside he stood gazing at the light in Thorpe's cabin. Then he walked slowly toward the spruce. He did not go to the door, but leaned with his back against the building, near one of the windows. The first shuddering sickness had gone from him. His temples throbbed. At the sound of a voice inside which was Thorpe's the chill in his blood turned to fire. The terrible fear that had fallen upon him at MacDougall's words held him motionless, and his brain worked upon but one idea--one determination. If it was Jeanne who came in this way, he would kill Thorpe. If it was another woman, he would give Thorpe that night to get out of the country. He waited. He heard the gang- man's voice frequently, once in a loud, half-mocking laugh. Twice he heard a lower voice--a woman's. For an hour he watched. He walked back and forth in the gloom of the spruce, and waited another hour. Then the light went out, and he slipped back to the corner of the cabin.
After a moment the door opened, and a hooded figure came out, and walked rapidly toward the trail that buried itself amid the spruce. Philip ran around the cabin and followed. There was a little open beyond the first fringe of spruce, and in this he ran up silently from behind and overtook the one he was pursuing. As his hand fell upon her arm the woman turned upon him with a frightened cry. Philip's hand dropped. He took a step back.
"My God! Jeanne--it is you!"
His voice was husky, like a choking man's. For an instant Jeanne's white, terrified face met his own. And then, without a word to him, she fled swiftly down the trail.
Philip made no effort to follow. For two or three minutes he stood like a man turned suddenly into hewn rock, staring with unseeing eyes into the gloom where Jeanne had disappeared. Then he walked back to the edge of the spruce. There he drew his revolver, and cocked it. The starlight revealed a madness in his face as he approached Thorpe's cabin. He was smiling, but it was such a smile as presages death; a smile as implacable as fate itself.


XXI
As Philip approached the cabin he saw a figure stealing away through the gloom. His first thought was that he had returned a minute too late to wreak his vengeance upon the gang-foreman in his own home, and he quickened his steps in pursuit. The man ahead of him was cutting direct for the camp supply-house, which was the nightly rendezvous of those who wished to play cards or exchange camp gossip. The supply-house, aglow with light, was not more than two hundred yards from Thorpe's, and Philip saw that if he dealt out the justice he contemplated he had not a moment to lose. He began to run, so quickly that he approached within a dozen paces of the man he was pursuing without being heard. It was not until then that he made a discovery which stopped him. The man ahead was not Thorpe. Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house. Even at that distance he recognized the gang-foreman. He thrust his revolver under his coat and fell a little farther behind the man he had mistaken for Thorpe so that when the latter passed within the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away. Something in the other's manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body, drew a sharp breath from Philip. He was on the point of calling a name, but it died on his lips. A moment more and the man passed through the door. Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchee who had followed Thorpe.
He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store. He had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him. He saw that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect. Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened. Thorpe's hand went to his belt, Pierre's sent a lightning gleam of steel back over his shoulder. The terrible drive of the knife and the explosion of Thorpe's revolver came in the same instant. Thorpe crumpled back over the counter, clutching at his breast. Pierre turned about, staggering, and saw Philip. His eyes lighted up, and with a moaning cry he stretched out his arms as Philip sprang to him. Above the sudden tumult of men's feet and excited voices he gasped out Jeanne's name. Half a dozen men had crowded about them. Through the ring burst MacDougall, a revolver in his hand. Pierce had become a dead weight in Philip's arms.
"Help me over to the cabin with him, Mac," he said. He looked around among the men. It struck him as curious, even then, that he saw none of Thorpe's gang. "Is Thorpe done for?" he asked.
"He's dead," replied some one.
With an effort Pierre opened his eyes.
"Dead!" he breathed, and in that one word there was a tremble of joy and triumph.
"Take Thorpe over to his cabin," commanded Philip, as he and MacDougall lifted Pierre between them. "I will answer for this man."
They could hear Pierre's sobbing breath as they hurried across the open. They laid him on Philip's bunk and Pierre opened his eyes again. He looked at Philip.
"M'sieur," he whispered, "tell me--quick--if I must die!"
MacDougall had studied medicine and surgery before engineering, and took the place of camp physician. Philip drew back while he ripped open the half-breed's garments and bared his breast. Then he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went. Philip bent over Pierre. Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man's right breast. Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained locket, fastened by a babiche string about his neck.
Pierre's hands groped eagerly for Philip's.
"M'sieur--you will tell me--if I must die?" he pleaded. "There are things you must know--about Jeanne--if I go. It will not hurt. I am not afraid. You will tell me--"
"Yes," said Philip.
He could scarcely speak, and while MacDougall was at work stood so that Pierre could not see his face. There was a sobbing note in Pierre's breath, and he knew what it meant. He had heard that same sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through the lungs. Five minutes later MacDougall straightened himself. He had done all that he could. Philip followed him to the back part of the room. Almost without sound his lips framed the words, "Will he die?"
"Yes," said MacDougall. "There is no hope. He may last until morning."
Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre. There was no fear in the wounded man's face. His eyes were clear. His voice was a little stronger.
"I will die, M'sieur," he said, calmly.
"I am afraid so, Pierre."
Pierre's damp fingers closed about his own. His eyes shone softly, and he smiled.
"It is best," he said, "and I am glad. I feel quite well. I will live for some time?"
"Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre."
"God is good to me," breathed Pierre, devoutly. "I thank Him. Are we alone?"
"Do you wish to be alone?"
"Yes."
Philip motioned to MacDougall, who went into the little office room.
"I will die," whispered Pierre, softly, as though he were achieving a triumph. "And everything would die with me, M'sieur, if I did not know that you love Jeanne, and that you will care for her when I am gone. M'sieur, I have told you that I love her. I have worshiped her, next to my God. I die happy, knowing that I am dying for her. If I had lived I would have suffered, for I love alone. She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for I have never told her. It would have given her pain. And you will never let her know. As Our Dear Lady is my witness, M'sieur, she has loved but one man, and that man is you."
Pierre gave a great breath. A warm flood seemed suddenly to engulf Philip. Did he hear right? Could he believe? He fell upon his knees beside Pierre and brushed his dark hair back from his face.
"Yes, I love her," he said, softly. "But I did not know that she loved me."
"It is not strange," said Pierre, looking straight into his eyes. "But you will understand--now--M'sieur. I seem to have strength, and I will tell you all--from the beginning. Perhaps I have done wrong. You will know--soon. You remember Jeanne told you the story of the baby--of