Isobel (6 page)

He had almost reached the foot of the ridge when he brought himself
short with a sudden low cry of horror. He had reached a point where
the side of the ridge seemed to have broken off, leaving a precipitous
wall. In a flash he realized what had happened. Deane and Isobel had
descended upon a "snow trap," and it had given way under their weight,
plunging them to the rocks below. For no longer than a breath he stood
still, and in that moment there came a sound from far behind that sent
a strange thrill through him. It was the howl of a dog. Bucky and his
men were in close pursuit, and they were traveling with the team.

He swung a little to the left to escape the edge of the trap and
plunged recklessly to the bottom. Not until he saw where Scottie Deane
and the team had dragged themselves from the snow avalanche did he
breathe freely again. Isobel was safe! He laughed in his joy and wiped
the nervous sweat from his face as he saw the prints of her moccasins
where Deane had righted the sledge. And then, for the first time, he
observed a number of small red stains on the snow. Either Isobel or
Deane had been injured in the fall, perhaps slightly. A hundred yards
from the "trap" the sledge had stopped again, and from this point it
was Deane who rode and Isobel who walked!

He followed more cautiously now. Another hundred yards and he stopped
to sniff the air. Ahead of him the spruce and balsam grew close and
thick, and from that shelter he was sure that something was coming to
him on the air. At first he thought it was the odor of the balsam. A
moment later he knew that it was smoke.

Force of habit brought his hand for the twentieth time to his empty
pistol holster. Its emptiness added to the caution with which he
approached the thick spruce and balsam ahead of him. Taking advantage
of a mass of low snow-laden bushes, he swung out at a right angle to
the trail and began making a wide circle. He worked swiftly. Within
half or three-quarters of an hour Bucky would reach the ridge.
Whatever he accomplished must be done before then. Five minutes after
leaving the trail he caught his first glimpse of smoke and began to
edge in toward the fire. The stillness oppressed him. He drew nearer
and nearer, yet he heard no sound of voice or of the dogs. At last he
reached a point where he could look out from behind a young ground
spruce and see the fire. It was not more than thirty feet away. He
held his breath tensely at what he saw. On a blanket spread out close
to the fire lay Scottie Deane, his head pillowed on a pack-sack. There
was no sign of Isobel, and no sign of the sledge and dogs. Billy's
heart thumped excitedly as he rose to his feet. He did not stop to ask
himself where Isobel and the dogs had gone. Deane was alone, and lay
with his back toward him. Fate could not have given him a better
opportunity, and his moccasined feet fell swiftly and quietly in the
snow. He was within six feet of Scottie before the injured man heard
him, and scarcely had the other moved when he was upon him. He was
astonished at the ease with which he twisted Deane upon his back and
put the handcuffs about his wrists. The work was no sooner done than
he understood. A rag was tied about Deane's head, and it was stained
with blood. The man's arms and body were limp. He looked at Billy with
dulled eyes, and as he slowly realized what had happened a groan broke
from his lips.

In an instant Billy was on his knees beside him. He had seen Deane
twice before, over at Churchill, but this was the first time that he
had ever looked closely into his face. It was a face worn by hardship
and mental torture. The cheeks were thinned, and the steel-gray eyes
that looked up into Billy's were reddened by weeks and months of
fighting against storm. It was the face, not of a criminal, but of a
man whom Billy would have trusted— blonde-mustached, fearless, and
filled with that clean-cut strength which associates itself with
fairness and open fighting. Hardly had he drawn a second breath when
Billy realized why this man had not killed him when he had the chance.
Deane was not of the sort to strike in the dark or from behind. He had
let Billy live because he still believed in the manhood of man, and
the thought that he had repaid Deane's faith in him by leaping upon
him when he was down and wounded filled Billy with a bitter shame. He
gripped one of Deane's hands in his own.

"I hate to do this, old man," he cried, quickly. "It's hell to put
those things on a man who's hurt. But I've got to do it. I didn't mean
to come— no, s'elp me God, I didn't— if Bucky Smith and two others
hadn't hit your trail back at the old camp. They'd have got you—
sure. And she wouldn't have been safe with them. Understand? She
wouldn't have been safe! So I made up my mind to beat on ahead and
take you myself. I want you to understand. And you do know, I guess.
You must have heard, for I thought you were sure-enough dead in the
box, an' I swear to Heaven I meant all I said then. I wouldn't have
come. I was glad you two got away. But this Bucky is a skunk and a
scoundrel— and mebbe if I take you— I can help you— later on.
They'll be here in a few minutes."

He spoke quickly, his voice quivering with the emotion that inspired
his words, and not for an instant did Scottie Deane allow his eyes to
shift from Billy's face. When Billy stopped he still looked at him for
a moment, judging the truth of what he had heard by what he saw in the
other's face. And then Billy felt his hand tighten for an instant
about his own.

"I guess you're pretty square, MacVeigh," he said, "and I guess it had
to come pretty soon, too. I'm not sorry that it's you— and I know
you'll take care of her."

"I'll do it— if I have to fight— and kill!"

Billy had withdrawn his hand, and both were clenched. Into Deane's
eyes there leaped a sudden flash of fire.

"That's what I did," he breathed, gripping his fingers hard. "I
killed— for her. He was a skunk— and a scoundrel— too. And you'd
have done it!" He looked at Billy again. "I'm glad you said what you
did— when I was in the box," he added. "If she wasn't as pure and as
sweet as the stars I'd feel different. But it's just sort of in my
bones that you'll treat her like a brother. I haven't had faith in
many men. I've got it in you."

Billy leaned low over the other. His face was flushed, and his voice
trembled.

"God bless you for that, Scottie!" he said.

A sound from the forest turned both men's eyes.

"She took the dogs and went out there a little way for a load of
wood," said Deane. "She's coming back."

Billy had leaped to his feet, and turned his face toward the ridge.
He, too, had heard a sound— another sound, and from another
direction. He laughed grimly as he turned to Deane.

"And they're coming, too, Scottie," he replied. "They're climbing the
ridge. I'll take your guns, old man. It's just possible there may be a
fight!"

He slipped Deane's revolver into his holster and quickly emptied the
chamber of the rifle that stood near.

"Where's mine?" he asked.

"Threw 'em away," said Deane. "Those are the only guns in the outfit."

Billy waited while Isobel Deane came through low-hanging spruce with
the dogs.

There was a smile for Deane on Isobel's lips as she struggled through
the spruce, knee-deep in snow, the dogs tugging at the sledge behind
her. And then in a moment she saw MacVeigh, and the smile froze into a
look of horror on her face. She was not twenty feet distant when she
emerged into the little opening, and Billy heard the rattling cry in
her throat. She stopped, and her hands went to her breast. Deane had
half raised himself, his pale, thin face smiling encouragingly at her;
and with a wild cry Isobel rushed to him and flung herself upon her
knees at his side, her hands gripping fiercely at the steel bands
about his wrists. Billy turned away. He could hear her sobbing, and he
could hear the low, comforting voice of the injured man. A groan of
anguish rose to his own lips, and he clenched his hands hard, dreading
the terrible moment when he would have to face the woman he loved
above all else on earth.

It was her voice that brought him about. She had risen to her feet,
and she stood before him panting like a hunted animal, and Billy saw
in her face the thing which he had feared more than the sting of
death. No longer were her blue eyes filled with the sweetness and
faith of the angel who had come to him from out of the Barren. They
were hard and terrible and filled with that madness which made him
think she was about to leap upon him. In those eyes, in the quivering
of her bare throat, in the sobbing rise and fall of her breast were
the rage, the grief, and the fear of one whose faith had turned
suddenly into the deadliest of all emotions; and Billy stood before
her without a word on his lips, his face as cold and as bloodless as
the snow under his feet.

"And so you— you followed— after— that!"

It was all she said, and yet the voice, the significance of the
choking words, hurt him more than if she had struck him. In them there
was none of the passion and condemnation he had expected. Quietly,
almost whisperingly uttered, they stung him to the soul. He had meant
to say to her what he had said to Deane— even more. But the crudeness
of the wilderness had made him slow of tongue, and while his heart
cried out for words Isobel turned and went to her husband. And then
there came the thing he had been expecting. Down the ridge there raced
a flurry of snow and a yelping of dogs. He loosened the revolver in
his holster, and stood in readiness when Bucky Smith ran a few paces
ahead of his men into the camp. At sight of his enemy's face, torn
between rage and disappointment, all of Billy's old coolness returned
to him.

With a bound Bucky was at Scottie Deane's side. He looked down at his
manacled hands and at the woman who was clasping them in her own, and
then he whirled on Billy with the quickness of a cat.

"You're a liar and a sneak!" he panted. "You'll answer for this at
headquarters. I understand now why you let 'em go back there. It was
her! She paid you— paid you in her own way— to free him! But she
won't pay you again—"

At his words Deane had started as if stung by a wasp. Billy saw
Isobel's whitened face. The meaning of Buck's words had gone home to
her as swiftly as a lightning flash, and for an instant her eyes had
turned to him! Bucky got no further than those last words. Before he
could add another syllable Billy was upon him. His fist shot out—
once, twice— and the blows that fell sent Bucky crashing through the
fire. Billy did not wait for him to regain his feet. A red light
blazed before his eyes. He forgot the presence of Deane and Walker and
Conway. His one thought was that the scoundrel he had struck down had
flung at Isobel the deadliest insult that a man could offer a woman,
and before either Conway or Walker could make a move he was upon
Bucky. He did not know how long or how many times he struck, but when
at last Conway and Walker succeeded in dragging him away Bucky lay
upon his back in the snow, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
Walker ran to him. Panting for breath, Billy turned toward Isobel and
Deane. He was almost sobbing. He made no effort to speak. But he saw
that the thing he had dreaded was gone. Isobel was looking at him
again— and there was the old faith in her eyes. At last— she
understood! Dean's handcuffed hands were clenched. The light of
brotherhood shone in his eyes, and where a moment before there had
been grief and despair in Billy's heart there came now a warm glow of
joy. Once more they had faith in him!

Walker had raised Bucky to a sitting posture, and was wiping the blood
from his face when Billy went to them. The corporal's hand made a limp
move toward his revolver. Billy struck it away and secured the weapon.
Then he spoke to Walker.

"There is no doubt in your mind that I hold a sergeancy in the
service, is there, Walker?" he asked.

His tone was no longer one of comradeship. In it there was the ring of
authority. Walker was quick to understand.

"None, sir!"

"And you are familiar with our laws governing insubordination and
conduct unbecoming an officer of the service?"

Walker nodded.

"Then, as a superior officer and in the name of his Majesty the King,
I place Corporal Bucky Smith under arrest, and commission you, under
oath of the service, to take him under your guard to Churchill, along
with the letter which I shall give you for the officer in charge
there. I shall appear against him a little later with the evidence
that will outlaw him from the service. Put the handcuffs on him!"

Stunned by the sudden change in the situation, Walker obeyed without a
word. Billy turned to Conway, the driver.

"Deane is too badly injured to travel," he explained, " Put up your
tent for him and his wife close to the fire. You can take mine in
exchange for it as you go back."

He went to his kit and found a pencil and paper. Fifteen minutes later
he gave Walker the letter in which he described to the commanding
officer at Churchill certain things which he knew would hold Bucky a
prisoner until he could personally appear against him. Meanwhile
Conway had put up the tent and had assisted Deane into it. Isobel had
accompanied him. Billy then had a five-minute confidential talk with
Walker, and when the constable gave instructions for Conway to prepare
the dogs for the return trip there was a determined hardness in his
eyes as he looked at Bucky. In those five minutes he had heard the
story of Rousseau, the young Frenchman down at Norway House, and of
the wife whose faithlessness had killed him. Besides, he hated Bucky
Smith, as all men hated him. Billy was confident that he could rely
upon him.

Not until dogs and sledge were ready did Bucky utter a word. The
terrific beating he had received had stunned him for a few minutes;
but now he jumped to his feet, not waiting for the command from
Walker, and strode up close to Billy. There was a vengeful leer on his
bloody face and his eyes blazed almost white, but his voice was so low
that Conway and Walker could only hear the murmur of it. His words
were meant for Billy alone.