Chapter XV: An Expedition of Three

Mary was not in evidence around the fort. Jack spent half the night talking things over with David Cranston in the store. In the sturdy Scotch trader he found a friend according to his need. He experienced an abounding relief in unburdening himself to a man who merely smoked and nodded understandingly, without making any fuss.

"You don't have to explain to me that you're no thief," Cranston said coolly.

That was all to be said on the subject. As to the feminine element in his difficulties, Jack was necessarily silent.

"If my sons were a year or two older," Cranston said strongly. "As it is I am tied here hand and foot!"

Jack swore at him gratefully. "This is my fight," he said. "I couldn't let you give up your time to it."

"I suppose you'll take some of the men out of Sir Bryson's party back with you," said Cranston.

Jack shook his head. "Humpy Jull's all right, but he can't ride, and I have to ride like sin. Vassall's a square head too, in his way, but either one of them would only weaken me. They don't know the people. They couldn't face them down. They couldn't walk into their tepees and tell the beggars to go to hell."

Cranston smiled grimly. "Is that what you calculate to do?"

"You know what I mean. It's a way of putting it."

Cranston considered a moment. "Take Davy," he said. "The boy has pluck. He would be wild to go."

Jack was more moved than he cared to show. "Damn decent of you, Cranston," he growled. "I won't do it," he added aloud. "It's too much of a responsibility. Jean Paul is clever enough to see that he could always get at me through the boy."

"What's the alternative then?" asked Cranston.

"I'm going it alone," said Jack doggedly.

Cranston struck the counter with his fist. "No, by Gad!" he cried. "I'm the boss around here. You know as well as I that it's foolhardy for a man to ride alone at any time--the police don't do it--let alone into a village of redskins in an ugly mood. That's tempting them to murder you. And if they did, how could we convict them?"

Jack's face hardened. "They wouldn't murder me," he said, "because I'm not afraid of them."

"That's all right. It's too big a chance."

"You'd think nothing of taking it yourself."

"Never you mind that. I'm the boss here, and I forbid it!"

"You're not my boss," muttered Jack.

"Just the same, I can prevent you, my lad," said Cranston grimly. "You'll get no outfit from me for such a purpose."

Jack shrugged, and appeared to let the matter go. Cranston might have taken warning from his tight lips, but the trader thought, as he said, that he commanded the situation.

"We'll talk to Sir Bryson in the morning," Cranston went on.

"Pshaw! Sir Bryson!" muttered Jack.

"I'll get him to send Vassall down to the Crossing in a canoe with a letter to the police. I'll send my boy Angus and an Indian along. The steamboat will be up in a few days, and they can bring back the police on her. If she leaves the Crossing before they get there, the captain will turn back for the policemen. With luck they'll all be back in a week."

"A week!" thought Jack. "What would I be doing all that time? Biting my thumbs?"

By morning Jack had made his plan. He was only prevented from putting it into instant execution by his great desire to see Mary, though he would not acknowledge to himself that that was the reason he hung about the fort all morning. He waited until after the middle of the day, thinking that Cranston would surely ask him home to dinner, but the invitation was not forthcoming. Jack did not know it, but the trader for many years past had been obliged to give up dispensing hospitality at his own board. Mrs. Cranston seized on such occasions to assert her most savage and perverse self.

Meanwhile Jack showed himself assiduously in front of the trader's windows. The ladies of Sir Bryson's party did not appear all morning out of the warehouse where they were quartered, so Jack was at least spared Linda's surveillance. His pertinacity was in vain; Mary never once showed herself. By afternoon he had worked himself up to a towering, aggrieved anger. "She might at least have a word of welcome for a white man," he thought bitterly, choosing to forget her side of the case, that she had made plain to him. At last he gave up in a passion, and strode away from the fort.

Taking care that he was not observed by Cranston, Jack headed for the Indian village, which lay on the river-flat, a half mile west of the fort. Reaching it, he sought out the head man, and by degrees brought the talk around to the subject of horses. Presently a deal was in progress, and in an hour Jack found himself the owner of two fairish ponies, with a saddle for one and a pack-saddle for the other. Some of the Indians had been trading with Cranston, and by going from tepee to tepee and offering a premium on the company's prices, Jack was able to collect the grub he required, together with blankets and a Winchester and ammunition. He paid for all this with an order on Cranston, and with the order he sent back a note:

DEAR CRANSTON: I hope you won't lay this up against me. I feel as if you are the only friend I have, and I don't want to make you sore, but I've got to go. If I had to hang around the fort doing nothing for a week I'd go clean off my nut. You needn't bother your head about me. I know exactly what I'm going to do, and I'm not going to get murdered either. I'll bring you back your horses in a few days, also Garrod and Jean Paul, unless I have to bury them.

Tell Sir Bryson and his people.

Remember me to Mary.

JACK.

By nine o'clock he had ridden fifty miles, and he camped then only because his grass-fed beasts could go no farther. He turned them out, and ate, and crawled between his blankets by the fire; but not, in spite of his weariness, to sleep. He found that he had not succeeded in galloping away from the ache in his breast: "Mary! Mary! Mary!" it throbbed with every beat.

Wakefulness was a novel sensation to Jack. Cursing at himself, he resolutely closed his eyes and counted sheep, but in vain. He got up and replenished his fire. He lit his pipe, and, walking up and down in the grass of the prairie, gazed up at the quiet stars for peace. If he could have inspired his horses with some of his own restlessness he would have ridden on, but the poor beasts were standing close by with hanging heads, too weary to eat.

He did fall asleep at last, of course, only to be immediately wakened, it seemed to him, by a distant thudding of hoofs on the earth. It is a significant sound in a solitude, and, sitting up, he listened sharply. By the movement of the stars he saw that several hours had passed since he fell asleep. It could not be his own horses, because they were hobbled. In any case there were more than two approaching. They were coming from the direction of the fort. Jack, frowning, wondered if Cranston would go so far as to attempt to prevent him from carrying out his purpose. With instinctive caution he drew back from his fire and crouched in the shadow of a clump of willows.

Four horses came loping up. Jack's two came hobbling toward them out of the darkness, whinnying a welcome. The fire blazed between Jack and the new-comers, and he could not see them very well. He sensed that there were two riders, and as they slipped out of the saddles it appeared that one of them was skirted. For a moment they stood outlined against the dim light of the eastern sky, and Jack's heart began to thump against his ribs. Surely there could be but one such graceful head poised on such beautiful shoulders, but he couldn't believe it. Then they approached his fire, and he saw for sure: it was Mary and Davy.

She saw his tumbled blanket by the fire, and looked across toward where he crouched, with the firelight throwing up odd, strong shadows on her wistful face. "Jack!" she called softly. The voice knocked on his naked heart.

His hardihood failed him then. He came slowly toward them, trembling all over, ashamed of his trembling, and horribly self-conscious. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"We are going with you," murmured Mary. Her voice, too, was suffocated as if her heart was filling her throat.

There was a little pause. Jack looked at her like an unworthy sinner, who nevertheless sees Heaven opening before him.

"Aren't you glad to see us?" demanded Davy, coming up.

Glad! Jack was quite unable to speak. Suddenly flinging an arm around the boy's shoulders he squeezed him until Davy cried out. It was meant for Mary. She saw. Dropping to the ground, she made a great business of building up the fire.

They fell to babbling foolishly without any one's caring how foolishly; they laughed for no reason, and asked the same questions over again without heeding the answers. Jack sprang to unpack and unsaddle their horses. When they were finally hobbled and turned out, he came back to Mary. She was setting out the grub-box and making tea. Davy went away to cut poles for their two little tents.

"You do wish to be friends?" Jack said pleadingly; "after what you said!"

Mary had recovered her self-possession. "I couldn't let you go alone," she parried. "That is such a foolish thing to do. I couldn't have slept or sat still for thinking of it. Other things are not changed at all."

"But you came!" murmured Jack a little triumphantly, and moving closer to her.

She drew away. "You shouldn't say that," she murmured stiffly. "It wasn't easy for me to come. And it may cost me dear."

Jack wondered like a man why she was offended. "I know," he said, "and I'm not going to let you come. But I'm glad you wanted to."

This made matters worse. "I didn't want to," she threw back at him sharply. "I came because I was the only one who could help you. I know the Indians; they like me; they're a little afraid of me. And you can't make us go back. We have our own outfit. If you won't let us ride with you, we'll follow after!"

Jack stared, perplexed and wondering at her hurt tones. Certainly girls were beyond his comprehension. Though so different in other respects, it seemed they were alike in this: their perfect inconsistency. He tried another tack.

"Did your father let you come?"

"No," she said unwillingly. "He was very angry with you."

"He offered to let Davy come," Jack said idly.

"That's different," she said, wondering at men's stupidity.

Jack's brain moved only about a third as fast as hers. He frowned at the fire. "If you lit out without telling him," he began, "he'll think that I--what will he think of me! After I promised."

It was Mary's turn to be surprised. "Promised what?"

Jack turned stubborn. "I can't tell you," he said.

"But something that concerns me," said Mary. "I think I have a right to know it."

Jack merely pulled in his upper lip. "You do lots of things without explaining them to me. I have the same right."

Mary dropped the inquiry. "You needn't be anxious about what father is thinking," she said coldly. "I left a letter for him, telling where we were going, and I told him you didn't know we were coming."

They were silent. Jack stared at the fire, wondering unhappily what was the matter. After they had come, and he had been so glad to see them, to be near a quarrel already! To heal this inexplicable breach he put out his hand, and took Mary's.

She snatched it away with astonishing suddenness. "Don't you dare to touch me!" she muttered, low and quivering.

He was blankly surprised. "Why, Mary! What did you come for then?"

"Not for that!" she cried, with eyes full of anger and pain. "You asked me to be friends with you. All right. Nothing else!"

"Friends shake hands, don't they?" muttered Jack sulkily. "One would think I had the leprosy!"

"You know what I mean," said Mary more quietly.

Jack scowled at the fire. "I don't see how a man and a woman--if they're young--like you and I, can be just friends."

"They can," said Mary eagerly. "I'll show you."

Jack looked at her, eager, wistful, self-forgetful as she was, and a great irresponsible longing surged up in him. Passion darkened his eyes; his breast began to heave. "I couldn't," he said hoarsely, "not with you, Mary!"

She avoided him warily. "Then I must go back," she said sadly.

Jack forgot that he had intended to send her. "No! Not now," he said sharply.

She looked at him with the extraordinary look she had for him, proud, pitying, and relentless all at once. "Listen," she commanded quietly. "Somebody has got to speak plainly. I will do it. I like you very much"--her voice faltered here--"I--I wish to be friends with you--very much. But if you are so weak and dishonourable as to make love to me when you are bound to another woman, I shall despise you, and I shall have to go!"

Jack recoiled as if she had struck him, and sat staring at her, while the two hideous words burned their way into his soul. In all his life he had never been hurt like this. She had dealt a blow at the twin gods of his idolatry: Strength and Honour. It is true he did not distinguish very clearly between physical strength and moral. Strength, none the less, was the word that made his breast lift up, and Honour, scarcely less. Honour to Jack meant telling the truth.

The worst of the hurt was that he knew she was right. It was very true that some one had to speak plainly. This was the disconcerting thought he had been thrusting out of sight so determinedly. Now that it had been put into harsh speech it could never be ignored again.

Mary was busying herself with shaking hands among the supper things. Obviously she could scarcely see what she was doing. Davy came back with his poles.

"Go, go help him," she murmured tremulously.

Jack obeyed.

They ate as dawn began to break over the prairie, supper or breakfast, whichever it was. Davy's light-hearted chatter kept the situation from becoming acute again. There was no further suggestion of their going back. Afterward they turned in for a few hours to let the horses rest out.

Jack took refuge from the mosquitoes in Davy's tent. He could not talk, and he turned his back on the boy, but Davy, creeping close, wound an arm over Jack's shoulder, and, like an affectionate spaniel, thrust his head in Jack's neck.

"Say, I'm glad I'm here," he murmured sleepily. "Everything's all right again. I'd rather be with you than anybody, Jack. Say, I'm glad I'm a friend of yours. You and I and Mary, we'll make a great team, eh? What a good time we'll have!"

He fell asleep. Meanwhile Jack lay staring through the mosquito netting at the prairie grass in the ghostly light, and the low-hung, paling stars, thinking of how a woman had been obliged to remind him of Strength and Honour.

Admitting the justice of it, he took his punishment like a man. It was a much-chastened Jack that issued from the tent into the early sunshine. And although he did not know it, he was tenfold more in love with the hand that had chastised him. His glance sought hers humbly enough now. And Mary? There was none of the disdain he feared; on the contrary, her telltale eyes were lifted to his, imploring and contrite for the hurt she had dealt him.

They looked at each other, and the skies cleared. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said. It was enough for Jack that Mary did not despise him, and it was enough for Mary that he did not hate her. They were together, and the sun was shining on a sea of green grass. Their spirits soared. Troubles and heartaches vanished like steam in the sunshine. Breakfast became a feast of laughter, and Davy was enraptured.

"Blest if I can understand you two," the boy said with an unconscious imitation of his hero's casual manner that made Mary laugh again. "One minute you're as dumb as owls in the daytime, and the next you're laughing like a pair of loons at nothing at all."

They justified it by laughing afresh. "Oh, the loon's a much-abused bird, Mr. Davy," sang Jack. "He's not nearly as loony as his name. I think I'll adopt a loon for my crest."

"What's a crest?" Davy wanted to know.

"Oh, it's what you have on your note-paper," Jack said vaguely. "And they carve it on rings for you to seal your letters with."

Davy looked blank.

"It's a gentleman's private sign," said Mary. "His totem."

"Sure," said Jack with a surprised look. "How clever you are!"

Mary blushed to the eyes.

They packed and rode on, a cheerful trio on the trail. Jack to all appearances was his old, off-hand self, but he had stored away his lesson, and he never looked, or seemed never to look, at Mary. From her glance at him when she was unobserved one would have said she was sorry he obeyed her so well.

Mary and Davy rode with the unconscious ease of those who are born to the saddle. Mary, who had never seen a riding-habit, had contrived a divided skirt for herself, as she contrived everything for herself, cunningly. With it she wore a blue flannel shirt out of the store, that she had likewise adapted to her own figure. She had a man's felt hat, but, except when it rained, it was hanging by its thong from her saddle-horn. Her plentiful dark hair was braided and bound close round her head. Tied to her saddle she carried a light rifle, which upon occasion she used as handily as Jack himself.

Thus she was totally without feminine aids and artifices. With that firm, straight young figure, that well-set head and those eyes, she was finer without. For all he was making believe not to look at her, she stirred Jack's deepest enthusiasm, like the sight of distant hills at evening, or a lake embowered in greenery, or anything wholly beautiful and unspoiled from the hand of Nature.

The slender Davy showed none of his sister's trimness. Davy was a little nondescript. He possessed "Sunday clothes," but he detested them, and was only truly happy in his ragged trousers, his buttonless shirt, and his blackened apologies for moccasins. Davy was apparently insensible to cold, and it was all one to him whether he was wet or dry.

At ten o'clock they rode past the little boarded-up store at Fort Geikie. Two hours later they reined in at the edge of the bench on the other side of the portage. This was the spot where they had parted so unhappily. No one referred to that now. Casting his eyes over the valley, Jack pointed to a number of dark objects in the river meadows to the west.

"The horses," said Davy.

One of the little objects reared, and moved forward in a way that was familiar to them.

"And hobbled again," said Jack with a laugh.

"Of course as soon as you went away they would drive them back," said Mary. "They wouldn't want to be found with company horses in their camp."

Riding down the hill they made their noon spell on the site of Camp Trangmar. Jack opened the cache for an additional supply of grub, and what else he needed: his cherished leather chaps, his canvas lean-to, and mosquito bar.

"You won't need that," Davy said. "Sleep with me."

"For Garrod," said Jack. "We can't let the mosquitoes eat the poor devil."

Davy caught sight of the banjo inside. "Bring that," he begged.

Jack shook his head. "No time for tingle-pingling on this trip," he said, unconsciously using the trader's word.

Davy begged hard. "I'll look after it myself," he said.

Jack hesitated. His fingers itched for the strings. "Do you think we had better take it?" he asked Mary.

Mary was only human. "Why not?" she said.

One could not always be dwelling on one's troubles. The banjo was brought out, and while Mary, with veiled eyes, busied herself mixing bannock, and Davy listened with his delighted mouth open, Jack filled his chest and gave them "Pretty Polly Oliver."

"That's great!" said Davy with a sigh of pleasure.

Mary said nothing.

"Do you like it?" Jack asked, very off-hand.

"Very pretty," she said.

"Would you dress up as a drummer-boy and follow your lover to the wars, like Polly did?" Jack asked.

"No," she said promptly.

"Why not?" he demanded, taken aback.

"She was a poor thing," said Mary scornfully. "She couldn't live single, she said. When she did get to the wars she was only in the way, and put him to the trouble of rescuing her; but it makes a pretty song of course."

"You're not very romantic," grumbled Jack.

Mary smiled to herself, and attended to the bannock. After a long time, when Jack had forgotten all about Polly, she said: "I think romances are for people who don't feel very much themselves."

After lunch, leaving Mary and Davy to finish packing, Jack circled wide over the river-meadows to round up the horses, and reconnoitre generally. Mary and Davy were to follow him. He found that two of the horses were still missing; the others were in good condition. Riding on up the trail, he dismounted at a little stream to read what was to be seen in the tracks. He saw that the horses had been driven back two days before, and that none of them was hobbled when they crossed the stream.

At this moment all Jack's senses were suddenly roused to the _qui vive_ by the sound of the hoof-beats of two horses approaching along the trail from up the valley. Here was a new factor entering the situation. Quickly mounting, he held his horse quiet under the bushes beside the trail. The newcomers trotted around a bend; all the horses whinnied, and Jack found himself face to face with Jean Paul Ascota.