The Danger Trail - James Oliver Curwood (ebook e reader TXT) 📗

that she had become more to him than a passing vision in a strange wilderness filled him. That night he had forgotten half of the strenuous lesson he had striven years to master; success, ambition, the mere joy of achievement, were for the first time sunk under a greater thing for him--the pulsating, human presence of this girl; and as he looked down into her face, pleading with him still in its white, silent terror, he forgot, too, what this woman was or might have been, knowing only that to him she had opened a new and glorious world filled with a promise that stirred his blood like sharp wine. He crushed her hands once more to his breast as he had done on the Great North Trail, holding her so close that he could feel the throbbing of her bosom against him. He spoke no word--and still her eyes pleaded with him to go. Suddenly he freed one of his hands and brushed back the thick hair from her brow and turned her face gently, until what dim light came down from the stars above glowed in the beauty of her eyes. In his own face she saw that which he had not dared to speak, and from her lips there came a soft little sobbing cry.
"No, I have not promised--and I will not promise," he said, holding her face so that she could not look away from him. "Forgive me for--for--doing this--" And before she could move he caught her for a moment close in his arms, holding her so that he felt the quick beating of her heart against his own, the sweep of her hair and breath in his face. "This is why I will not go back," he cried softly. "It is because I love you--love you--"
He caught himself, choking back the words, and as she drew away from him her eyes shone with a glory that made him half reach out his arms to her.
"You will forgive me!" he begged. "I do not mean to do wrong. Only, you must know why I shall not go back into the South."
From her distance she saw his arms stretched like shadows toward her. Her voice was low, so low that he could hardly hear the words she spoke, but its sweetness thrilled him.
"If you love me you will do this thing for me. You will go to-morrow."
"And you?"
"I?" He heard the tremulous quiver in her voice. "Very soon you will forget that you have--ever--seen--me."
From down the path there came the sound of low voices. Excitedly the girl ran to Howland, thrusting him back with her hands.
"Go! Go!" she cried tensely. "Hurry back to the cabin! Lock your door--and don't come out again to-night! Oh, please, if you love me, please, go--"
The voices were approaching. Howland fancied that he could distinguish dark shadows between the thinned walls of the forest. He laughed softly.
"I am not going to run, little girl," he whispered. "See?" He drew his revolver so that it gleamed in the light of the stars.
With a frightened gasp the girl pulled him into the thick bushes beside the path until they stood a dozen paces from where those who were coming down the trail would pass. There was a silence as Howland slipped his weapon back into its holster. Then the voices came again, very near, and at the sound of them his companion shrank close to him, her hands clutching his arms, her white, frightened face raised to him in piteous appeal. His blood leaped through him like fire. He knew that the girl had recognized the voices--that they who were about to pass him were the mysterious enemies against whom she had warned him. Perhaps they were the two who had attacked him on the Great North Trail. His muscles grew tense. The girl could feel them straining under her hands, could feel his body grow rigid and alert. His hand fell again on his revolver; he made a step past her, his eyes flashing, his face as set as iron. Almost sobbing, she pressed herself against his breast, holding him back.
"Don't--don't--don't--" she whispered.
They could hear the cracking of brush under the feet of those who were approaching. Suddenly the sounds ceased not twenty paces away.
From his arms the girl's hands rose slowly to his shoulders, to his face, caressingly, pleadingly; her beautiful eyes glowed, half with terror, half with a prayer to him.
"Don't!" she breathed again, so close that her sweet breath fell warm on his face. "Don't--if you--if you care for me!"
Gently he drew her close in his arms, crushing her face to his breast, kissing her hair, her eyes, her mouth.
"I love you," he whispered again and again.
The steps were resumed, the voices died away. Then there came a pressure against his breast, a gentle resistance, and he opened his arms so that the girl drew back from him. Her lips were smiling at him, and in that smile there was gentle accusation, the sweetness of forgiveness, and he could see that with these there had come also a flush into her cheeks and a dazzling glow into her eyes.
"They are gone," she said tremblingly.
"Yes; they are gone."
He stood looking down into her glowing face in silence. Then, "They are gone," he repeated. "They were the men who tried to kill me at Prince Albert. I have let them go--for you. Will you tell me your name?"
"Yes--that much--now. It is Meleese."
"Meleese!"
The name fell from him sharply. In an instant there recurred to him all that Croisset had said, and there almost came from his lips the half-breed's words, which had burned themselves in his memory, "Perhaps you will understand when I tell you this warning is sent to you by the little Meleese." What had Croisset meant?
"Meleese," he repeated, looking strangely into the girl's face.
"Yes--Meleese--"
She drew back from him slowly, the color fading from her cheeks; and as she saw the light in his eyes, there burst from her a short, stifled cry.
"Now--you understand--you understand why you must go back into the South," she almost sobbed. "Oh, I have sinned to tell you my name! But you will go, won't you? You will go--for me--"
"For you I would go to the end of the earth!" interrupted Howland, his pale face near to her. "But you must tell me why. I don't understand you. I don't know why those men tried to kill me in Prince Albert. I don't know why my life is in danger here. Croisset told me that my warning back there came from a girl named Meleese. I didn't understand him. I don't understand you. It is all a mystery to me. So far as I know I have never had enemies. I never heard your name until Croisset spoke it. What did he mean? What do you mean? Why do you want to drive me from the Wekusko? Why is my life in danger? It is for you to tell me these things. I have been honest with you. I love you. I will fight for you if it is necessary--but you must tell me--tell me--"
His breath was hot in her face, and she stared at him as if what she heard robbed her of the power of speech.
"Won't you tell me?" he whispered, more softly. "Meleese--" She made no effort to resist him as he drew her once more in his arms, crushing her sweet lips to his own. "Meleese, won't you tell me?"
Suddenly she lifted her hands to his face and pushed back his head, looking squarely into his eyes.
"If I tell you," she said softly, "and in telling you I betray those whom I love, will you promise to bring harm to none of them, but go--go back into the South?"
"And leave you?"
"Yes--and leave me."
There was the faintest tremor of a sob in the voice which she was trying so hard to control. His arms tightened about her.
"I will swear to do what is best for you--and for me," he replied. "I will swear to bring harm to none whom you care to shield. But I will not promise to leave you!"
A soft glow came into the girl's eyes as she unclasped his arms and stood back from him.
"I will think--think--" she whispered quickly. "Perhaps I will tell you to-morrow night--here--if you will keep your oath and do what is best for you--and for me."
"I swear it!"
"Then I will meet you here--at this time--when the others are asleep. But--to-morrow--you will be careful--careful--" Unconsciously she half reached her arms out to him as she turned toward the path. "You will be careful--to-morrow--promise me that."
"I promise."
Like a shadow she was gone. He heard her quick steps running up the path, saw her form as it disappeared in the forest gloom. For a few moments longer he stood, hardly breathing, until he knew that she had gone beyond his hearing. Then he walked swiftly along the footpath that led to the cabin.


CHAPTER VII
THE BLOWING OF THE COYOTE
In the new excitement that pulsated with every fiber of his being, Howland forgot his own danger, forgot his old caution and the fears that gave birth to it, forgot everything in these moments but Meleese and his own great happiness. For he was happy, happier than he had ever been in his life, happier than he had ever expected to be. He was conscious of no madness in this strange, new joy that swept through his being like a fire; he did not stop to weigh with himself the unreasoning impulses that filled him. He had held Meleese in his arms, he had told her of his love, and though she had accepted it with gentle unresponsiveness he was thrilled by the memory of that last look in her eyes, which had spoken faith, confidence, and perhaps even more. And his faith in her had become as limitless as the blue space above him. He had known her for but a few hours and yet in that time it seemed to him that he had lived longer than in all of the years that had gone before. She had lied to him, had divulged only a part of her identity--and yet he knew that there were reasons for these things.
To-morrow night he would see her again, and then--
What would she tell him? Whatever it was, it was to be a reward for his own love. He knew that, by the half-fearing tremble of her voice, the sobbing catch of her breath, the soft glow in her eyes. Impelled by that love, would she confide in him? And then--would he go back into the South?
He laughed, softly, joyfully.
Yes, he would go back into the South--he would go to the other end of the earth, if she would go with him. What was the building of this railroad now to that other great thing that had come into his life? For the first time he saw duty in another light. There were others who could build the road; success, fortune, ambition--in the old way he had seen them--were overshadowed now by this love of a girl.
He stopped and lighted his pipe. The fragrant odor of the tobacco, the flavor of the warm smoke in his mouth, helped to readjust him, to cool his heated brain. The old fighting instincts leaped into life again. Go into the South? He asked himself the question once more, and in the gloomy silence of the forest his low laugh fell again as he clenched his hands in anticipation of what was ahead of him. No--he would build the road! And in building it he would win this girl, if it was