Chapter V: Part TWO: The Wolf-Man (1)

XVI

As a wolf might plan a hunt in the forest, Ben planned his war against Neilson and his subordinates. He knew perfectly that he must not attempt open warfare. The way of the wolf is the way of cunning and stealth: the stalk through the thicket and the ferocious attack upon the unsuspecting; and such example must guide Ben in his operations. He could not be too careful, too furtive.

His foes were three against one, and they were on their own ground. They knew the trails and the lay of the country; and as always, in the science of warfare, this was an advantage hardly to be overcome. Ben knew that his only hope lay in the finest strategy. First he must make a surprise attack, and second, he must utilize all natural advantages.

He was well aware that he could lie in ambush, close to the mine, and probably send one man to a speedy death with a rifle bullet. But he did not have one enemy; he had three. The survivors of the first shot would immediately seek shelter--probably returning shot for shot--and that would insert an element of uncertainty into the venture. At the distance he would be obliged to shoot, he would possibly only succeed in wounding one of his enemies, and he might miss him altogether. Such a plan as this was wholly too uncertain for adoption.

There must be no sporting chances in his strategy. The way of the wolf is to cover every opening, to prepare for every contingency that his brute mind can foresee. He would give and receive no quarter, and the ancient fairness and honor must be likewise forgotten. He must take no risk with his own life until the last of the three was down. What happened thereafter did not greatly concern him. The world could shatter to atoms after that for all he would care. He was a son of forest solitude; and he had but one dream left in life.

It was not his aim to give his foes the least chance to fight back, the slightest hope of battle. He would use any advantage, descend to any wile. This was not to be a sportsmen's war, but a grim battle to the death, inexorable and merciless.

These things were all fully known to him before ever he left the hillside, and like a man asleep, walked down to his camp. The fire had burned down to coals--sullen and angry--but he heaped on fuel, and they broke into a blaze. Then, Fenris at his side, he squatted on the ground beside the dancing flame.

He watched it, fascinated; mostly silent but sometimes muttering and whispering half-enunciated words. His red eyes and the black hair, matted about his lips and shadowing the backs of his hands, gave him a wild, fierce look; and it was as if the primal blood-lust and hatred that seared him had literally swept him back into the forgotten centuries,--the first, savage human hunter at the edge of the retreating glaciers. The scene had not changed: dark spruce and the red glow of fire; and there was atavism in his very posture. The first men had squatted beside their camp fires this same way, their wolfine pets beside them, as they made their battle plans.

The eager flames held Ben's fascinated gaze as a crystal ball might hold the eyes of a seer. They seemed to have a message for him if he could just grasp it, a course whereby he might achieve success. Oh, they could be cruel, relentless--mercilessly eating their way into sensitive flesh. They were no respecters of persons, these creeping, leaping tongues. Nor must _he_ have any scruples or qualms as to how he gained his ends. He too must be merciless, and if necessary, strike down the innocent in order to reach the guilty.

As he watched certain knowledge reached him of life and death. The conclusion slowly came to him that just blind killing was not enough. For all he knew death might bring instant forgetfulness--and thus not constitute in itself a satisfactory measure of vengeance. The _fear_ of death was a reality and a torment: for all he knew, the thing itself might be a change for the better. It might be that, suddenly hurled out of this world of three dimensions, his enemies would have no knowledge nor carry no memories of the hand that struck them down. There could be no satisfaction in this. To murder from ambush might be a measure of expedience, but never one of self-gratification. When Ben struck he wanted them to know who was their enemy, and for what crime they were laid low.

The best way of all, of course, was to strike indirectly at them, perhaps through some one they loved. Soon, perhaps, he would see the way.

He went to his blankets, but sleep did not come to him. The wolf stood on guard. Beatrice Neilson had fallen into happy dreams long since, but there was further wakefulness in Hiram Melville's newer cabin, farther up-creek. Ray Brent and Chan Heminway still sat over their cups, the fiery liquid running riot in their veins, but slumber did not come easily to-night. And when Beatrice was asleep, Neilson stole down the moonlit moose trail and joined his men.

"I've brought news," he began, when the door had closed out the stars and the breath of the night. Chan, his small eyes glazed from strong drink, staggered to his feet to offer his chair to his chief. Brent, however, was in no mood for servility to-night. He had done man's work in the early evening; and his triumph and his new-found sense of power had not yet died in his body. Perhaps he had learned the way to all success. There was a curious sullen defiance in the blearing gaze over his glass.

"What's your news?" Ray's voice harshened, possessing a certain quality of grim levity. "I guess old Hiram's brother hasn't come to life again, has he?"

It was a significant thing that both Chan and Neilson looked oppressed and uneasy at the words. Like all men of low moral status they were secretly superstitious, and these boasting words crept unpleasantly under their skins. It is never a good thing to taunt the dead! Ray had spoken sheerly to frighten and shock them, thus revealing his own fearlessness and strength; yet his voice rang louder than he had meant. He had no desire for it to carry into the silver mystery of the night.

"The less you say about Hiram's brother the better," Neilson answered sternly. "We've thrashed it out once to-night." He straightened as he read the insolence, the gathering insubordination in the other's contemptuous glance; and his voice lacked its old ring of power when he spoke again. "Jumpin' claims is one thing and murder is another."

Ray, spurred on by the false strength of wickedness, drunk with his new sense of power, was already feeling the first surge of deadly anger in his veins. "I suppose if you had been doin' it, you'd let that old whelp take back this claim, worth a quarter million if it's worth a cent. Not if I know it. It was the only way--and the safe way too."

"Safe! What if by a thousandth chance some one would blunder on to that body you left in the brush? What if some sergeant of mounted police would say to his man, 'Go get Ray Brent!' Where would you be then? You've always been a murderer at heart, Brent--but some time you'll slip up--"

"Only a fool slips up. Don't think I didn't figure on everything. As you say, there's not one chance in a thousand any one will ever find him. If they do, there wouldn't be any kind of a case. Likely the old man hasn't got a friend or relation on earth. I've searched his pockets--there's nothing to tell who he is. We'll have our claim recorded soon, and it would be easy to make him out the claim-jumper rather than us--"

"Wait just a minute before you say he ain't got any friends, or at least acquaintances. That's what I came to see you about to-night." Neilson paused, for the sake of suspense. "Beatrice came up to-night, as agreed, and she had a prospector with her--and he knew old Hiram's brother."

A short, tense silence followed his words, and Ray stared into his cup. It might be that just for an instant the reckless light went out of his eyes and left them startled and glazing. Then he got to his feet. "Then God Almighty!" he cried. "What you waiting for? Why don't you croak him off before this night's over?"

"Wait, you fool, till you've heard everything," Neilson replied. "There's no hurry about killing. As I told you, the less work of that kind we do, the more chance we've got of dying in our beds. It may be reasonable for one prospector to disappear, but some one's going to be suspicious if two of 'em do. I think I've already handled the matter."

"I'd handle it, and quick too," Ray protested.

"You'd handle yourself up a gallows, too. He doesn't seem to be a close friend of this old man; he just seems to have met up with him at the river, and the old man steered him up here. He asked me where the old man's claim was, and said he wanted to go over and see him. He was taking Hiram's wolf and his gun up to him. I told him I hadn't heard of the claim, that it must be farther inside, and I think I put it over. He ain't got the least suspicion. What he'll do is hang around here a while, I suppose, prospecting--and likely enough soon forget all about the old devil. I just came down here to tell you he was here and to watch your step."

"Then the first thing up," Chan Heminway suggested, "is to bury the stiff."

"Spoke up like a fool!" Ray answered. "Not till this man is dead or out of the country. It's well hidden, and don't go prowling anywheres near it. If he's the least bit suspicious, or even if he's on the lookout for gold, he'd likely enough follow you. But there's one thing we can do--and that quick."

"And what's that?"

"Start Chan off to-morrow to the office in Bradleyburg and record this claim in our names. We've waited too long already."

"Ray, you're talking like a man now," Neilson agreed. "You and I stay here and work away, innocent as can be, on the claim. Chan, put that bottle away and get to bed. Take the trail down first thing to-morrow. Then we can laugh at all the prospectors that want to come."

XVII

Soon after the break of dawn Ben put his pick and shovel on his shoulder, and leisurely walked up the creek past Ray's cabin. Since Chan Heminway had already departed down the long trail to Bradleyburg--a town situated nearly forty miles from Snowy Gulch--Ray alone saw him pass; and he eyed him with some apprehension. Daylight had brought a more vivid consciousness of his last night's crime; and a little of his bravado had departed from him. He moved closer to his rifle.

Yet in a moment his suspicions were allayed. Ben was evidently a prospector, just as he claimed to be, and was venturing forth to get his first "lay of the land." The latter continued up the draw, crossed a ridge, halted now and then in the manner of the wild creatures to see if he were being followed, and finally by a roundabout route returned to the lifeless form of his only friend. The wolf still trotted in silence behind him.

The vivid morning light only revealed the crime in more dreadful detail. The withered form lay huddled in the stained leaves; and Ben stood a long time beside it, in deep and wondering silence, even now scarcely able to believe the truth. How strange it was that this old comrade could not waken and go on with him again! But in a moment he remembered his work.

Slowly, laboriously, with little outward sign of the emotion that rent his heart, he dug a shallow grave He knew perfectly that this was a serious risk to his cause. Should the murderer return for any purpose, to his dead, the grave would of course show that the body had been discovered and would put him on his guard against Ben. Nevertheless, the latter could not leave these early remains to the doubtful mercy of the wilderness: the agents of air and sun, and the wild beasts.

He threw the last clod and stood looking down at the upturned earth. "Sleep good, old Ez," he murmured in simple mass for the dead. "I'll do what you said."

Then, at the head of the grave, he thrust the barrel of Ezram's rifle into the ground, a monument grim as his own thoughts. The last rite was completed; he was free to work now. From now on he could devote every thought to the work in hand,--the payment of his debts.

By the same roundabout route he circled back to his camp, cooked his meager lunch, and in the afternoon ventured forth again. But he was prospecting in earnest this time, though the prospects that he sought were those of victory to his cause, rather than of gold. He was seeking simply a good, general idea of the nature and geography of the country so that he might know better how to plan his attack.

His excursion took him at last to the wooded bank of the river. He stood a long time, quite motionless, listening to the water voices that only the wise can understand. This was really a noble stream. It flowed with such grandeur in its silence and solitude; old and gray and austere, it was a mighty expression of wilderness power,--resistless, immortal, eternally secretive. The waters flowed darkly, icy cold from the melting snow; but like a sleeping giant they would be quick to seize upon and destroy such as would try to brave their currents, likely never to yield them up again. Flowing forever through the uninhabited forest no man would ever know the fate of those the river claimed.

He was above the camp when he descended to its banks, but he worked his way down through the thickets toward Jeffery Neilson's cabin. The river flowed quietly here, a long, still stretch that afforded safe boating. Yet the smooth waters did not in the least alleviate Ben's haunting sense of their sinister power and peril. The old gray she-wolf is not to be trusted in her peaceful moments. His keen ears could distinctly hear the roar and rumble of wild waters, just below.

The river was of great depth as well as breadth,--one of the king rivers of the land. Ben found himself staring into its depths with a quickening pulse. He had a momentary impression that this great stream was his ally, a mighty agent that he could bend to his will.

He approached the long, sloping bank on which stood Neilson's cabin; and he suddenly drew up short at the sight of a light, staunch canoe on the open water. It was a curious fact that he noticed the craft itself before ever he glanced at its occupant. A thrill of excitement passed over him. He realized that this boat simplified to some degree his own problem, in that it afforded him means of traversing this great water-body, certainly to be a factor in the forthcoming conflict. The boat had evidently been the property of Hiram Melville.

Then he noticed, with a strange, inexplicable leap of his heart, that its lone occupant was Beatrice Neilson. His eye kindled at the recognition, and the beginnings of a smile flashed to his lips. But at once remembrance came to him, crushing his joy as the heel crushes a tender flower. The girl was of the enemy camp, the daughter of the leader of the triumvirate of murderers. While she herself could have had no part in the crime, perhaps she already had guilty knowledge of it, and at least she was of her father's hated blood.

He had builded much on his friendship with this girl; but he felt it withering, turning black--like buds under frost--in his cold breast. There could be no friendly words, except in guile; no easy comradeship between them now. They were on opposite sides, hated foes to the last. Perhaps she would be one of the innocents that must suffer with the guilty; but he felt no remorse. Not even this lovely, tender wood child must stand in his way.

Nevertheless, he must not put her on guard. He must simulate friendship. He lifted his hat in answer to her gay signal.

She wore a white middy blouse, and her brown, bare forearms flashed pleasantly in the spring sun. Her brown hair was disarranged by the wind that found a passway down the river, and her eyes shone with the sheer, unadorned love of living. Evidently she had just enjoyed a brisk paddle through the still stretches of the river. With sure, steady strokes she pushed the craft close to the little, board landing where Ben stood. She reached up to him, and in an instant was laughing--at nothing in particular but the fun of life--at his side.

The man glanced once at Fenris, spoke in command, then turned to the girl. "All rested from the ride, I see," he began easily.

Her instincts keyed to the highest pitch, for an instant she thought she discerned an unfamiliar tone, hard and hateful, in his voice. But his eyes and his lips were smiling; and evidently she was mistaken. "I never get tired," she responded. She glanced at the tools in his arms. "I suppose you've found a dozen rich lodes already this morning."

"Only one." He smiled, significantly, into her eyes. Because she was a forest girl, unused to flattery, the warm color grew in her brown cheeks. "And how was paddling? The water looks still enough from here."

"It's not as still as it looks, but it is easy going for a half-mile each way. If you aren't an expert boatman, however--I hardly think--I'd try it."

"Why not? I'm fair enough with a canoe, of course--but it looks safe as a lake."

"But it isn't." She paused. "Listen with those keen ears of yours, Mr. Darby. Don't you hear anything?"

Ben did not need particularly keen ears to hear: the far-off sound of surging waters reached him with entire clearness. He nodded.

"That's the reason," the girl went on. "If something should happen--and you'd get carried around the bend--a little farther than you meant to go--you'd understand. And we wouldn't see any more of Mr. Darby around these parts."

Her dark eyes, brimming with light and laughter, were on his face, but she failed to see him slowly stiffen to hide the sudden, wild leaping of his heart. Could it be that he saw the far-off vision of his triumph?

His eyes glowed, and he fought off with difficulty a great preoccupation that seemed to be settling over him.

"Tell me about it," he said at last, casually. "I was thinking of making a boat and going down on a prospecting trip."

"I'll tell you about it, and then I think you'll change your mind. The first cataract is the one just above where we first saw the river--coming in; then there's this mile of quiet water. From that point on the Yuga flows into a gorge--or rather one gorge after another; and sometime they'll likely be almost as famous as some of the great gorges of your country. The walls are just about straight up on each side, and of course are absolutely impassable. I don't know how many miles the first gorge is--but for nearly two hundred miles the river is considered impassable for boats. Two hundred and fifty miles or so below there is an Indian village--but they never try to go down the river from here. A few white men, however, have tried to go down with canoe-loads of fur."

"And all drowned?" Ben asked.

"All except one party. Once two men went down when the river was high--just as it is now. They were good canoeists, and they made it through. No one ever expected they would come out again."

"And after you've once got into the rapids, there's no getting out--or landing?"

"Of course not. I suppose there are places where you might get on the bank, but the gorge above is impassable."

"You couldn't follow the river down--with horses?"

"Yes, in time. Of course it would be slow going, as there are no trails, the brush is heavy, and the country is absolutely unexplored. You see it has never been considered a gold country--and of course the Indians won't go except where they can go in canoes. Some of the hills must be impassable, too. I've heard my father speak about it--how that if any criminal--or any one like that--could take down this river in a canoe in high water--and get through into that great, virgin, trackless country a hundred miles below, it would be almost impossible to get him out. Unless the officers could chase him down the same way he went--by canoe--it would take literally weeks and months for them to get in, and by that time he could be hidden and located and his tracks covered up."

"And with good ambushes, able to hold off and kill a dozen of them, eh?" Ben's hands shook, and he locked them behind him. "They call that country--what?"

"'Back There.' That's all I've ever heard it called--'Back There.'"

"It's as good a name as any. Of course, the reason they were able to make it through in high water was due to the fact that most of the rocks and ledges were submerged, and they could slide right over them."

"Of course. Many of our rivers are safer in high water. But you seriously don't intend to take such a trip--"

He looked up to find her eyes wide and full upon his. Yet her concern for him touched him not at all. She was his enemy: that fact could never be forgotten or forgiven.

"I want to hear about it, anyway. I heard in town the river is higher than it's been for years--due to the Chinook--"

"It _is_ higher than I've ever seen it. But it's reached its peak and has started to fall, and it won't come up again, at least, till fall. When the Yuga rises it comes up in a flood, and it falls the same way. It's gone down quite a little since this morning; by the day after to-morrow no one could hope to get through Devil's Gate--the first cataract in the gorge."

"Not even with a canoe? Of course a raft would be broken to pieces."

"Not a canoe, either, in two or three days, if the river falls like it usually does. But tell me--you aren't serious--"

"I suppose not. But it gets my imagination--just the same. I suppose a man would average better than twenty miles an hour down through that gorge, and would come out at _Back There_."

Their talk moved easily to other subjects; yet it seemed to Ben that some secondary consciousness held up his end of the conversation. His own deeper self was lost in curious and dark conjectures. Her description of the river lingered in his thoughts, and he seemed to be groping for a great inspiration that was hovering just beyond his reach--as plants grope for light in far-off leafy jungles. He felt that it would come to him in a moment: he would know the dark relation that these facts about the river bore to his war with Neilson. It was as if an inner mind, much more subtle and discerning than his normal consciousness, had seen great possibilities in them, but as yet had not divulged their significance.

"I must be going now," the girl was saying. "Father pretty near goes crazy when I stay away too long. You can't imagine how he loves me and worries about me--and how fearful he is of me--"

His mind seemed to leap and gather her words. It was true: she was the joy and the pride and the hope of the old man's life. All his work, his dreams were for her. And now he remembered a fact that she had told him on the outward journey: that Ray Brent, the stronger of Neilson's two subordinates, loved her too.

"To strike at them indirectly--through some one they love--" such had been his greatest wish. To put them at a disadvantage and overcome his own--to lead them into his own ambushes. And was it for the Wolf to care what guiltless creatures fell before his fangs in the gaining of his dreadful ends? Was the gratification of his hate to be turned aside through pity for an innocent girl? Mercy and remorse were two things that he had put from him. It was the way of the Wolf to pay no attention to methods, only to achieve his own fierce desires. He stood lost in dark and savage reverie.

"Good-by," the girl was saying. "I'll see you soon--"

He turned toward her, a smile at his lips. His voice held steady when he spoke.

"It'll have to be soon, if at all," he replied. "I've got to really get to work in a few days. How about a little picnic to-morrow--a grouse hunt, say--on the other side of the river? It's going to be a beautiful day--"

The girl's eyes shone, and the color rose again in her tanned cheeks. "I'd think that would be very nice," she told him.

"Then I'll meet you here--at eight."

XVIII

Alone by the fire Ben had opportunity to balance one thing with another and think out the full consequences of his plan. As far as he could discern, it stood every test. It meant not only direct and indirect vengeance upon Neilson and his followers; but it would also, past all doubt, deliver them into his hands. That much was sure. When finally they came to grips--if indeed they did not go down to a terrible death before ever that time came--he would be prepared for them, with every advantage of ground and fortress, able to combat them one by one and shatter them from ambush. Best of all, they would know at whose hands, and for what crime, they received their retribution.

One by one he checked the chances against him. First of all, he had to face the great chance of failure and the consequent loss of his own life. But there was even recompense in this. He would not die unavenged. The blow that he would thereby deal to his enemies would be terrible beyond any reckoning, but he would have no regrets.

There were two outstanding points in his favor, one of them being that the river was rapidly falling. By the time a canoe could be built the river would be wholly unnavigable. There were no canoes procurable in Snowy Gulch, if indeed a lightning trip could be made there and back to secure one, before the river fell. The conversation with the frontiersman at the river bank brought out this fact. Lastly, a raft could not live a moment in the rapids.

Very methodically he began to make his preparations. He untied his horse, leaving it free to descend to Snowy Gulch. Then he packed a few of his most essential supplies, his gun and shells, such necessary camp equipment as robes, matches, soap and towels, cooking and table ware, an axe and similar necessaries. In the way of food he laid out flour, rice, salt, and sugar, plus a few pounds of tea--nothing else. The entire outfit weighed less than two hundred pounds, easily carried in three loads upon the back.

In the still hour of midnight, when the forest world was swept in mystery, he carried the equipment down to the canoe that Beatrice had left the evening before. He loaded the craft with the greatest care, balancing it now and then with his hands at the sides, and covering up the food supplies with robes and blankets. Then he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper--evidently a paper sack that had once held provisions, cut open and spread--and wrote carefully, a long time, with a pencil.

He had no envelope to enclose it, no wax to seal it. He did, however, carry a stub of a candle--a requisite to most northern men who are obliged to build supper fires in wet forest. Folding his letter carefully, he sealed it with tallow. Then wrapping one of his blankets about him, he prepared to wait for the dawn. Fenris growled and murmured in his sleep.

Ben himself had not slept the night before; and moved and stirred by his plan of the morrow, slumber did not come easily to him now. He too murmured in his sleep and had weird, tragic dreams between sleep and wakefulness. But the shadows paled at last. A ribbon of light spread along the eastern horizon; the more familiar landmarks emerged--ghosts at first, then in vivid outline, the wooded sky line strengthened; the nebulous magic of the moon died in the forest. Birds wakened and sang; the hunting creatures crept to their lairs; sleeping flowers opened. Morning broke on a clear, warm day.

Ben devoured a heavy breakfast--all that he could force himself to swallow--then prepared to wait for Beatrice. He knew perfectly that explanations would be difficult if Neilson or one of his followers found him with the loaded boat. It was not likely, however, that any of his enemies--except, of course, Beatrice herself--would venture down that way.

Just before eight he saw her come,--first the glint of her white blouse in the green of the forest, and then the flash of her brown arms. Her voice rang clear and sweet through the hushed depths as she called a greeting. A moment later she was beside him.

"Go back and get your heavy coat," he commanded. "I've already been out on the water, and it'll freeze you stiff."

He was not overly pleased with himself for speaking thus. He had resolved to put mercy from him; and he was taking a serious risk to his own cause by the delay of sending her back for her warmer garments. She smiled into his eyes, but she came of a breed of women that had learned obedience to men, and she immediately turned. But Ben had builded better than he thought. His eyes were no longer on her radiant face. They had dropped to the pistol, in its holster, that she carried in her hands, preparatory to strapping it about her waist. It was disconcerting that he had forgotten about her pistol. It was one of those insignificant trifles that before now have disrupted the mightiest plans of nations and of men. His mind sped like lightning, and he thanked his stars that he had seen it in time. This pistol and a small package, the contents of which he did not know, were the only equipment she had.

"It's going to be a bright day," the girl said hesitatingly. "I don't think I'll need the fur coat--"

"Get it, anyway," Ben advised. "The wind's keen on the river. Leave your pistol and your package here--and go up and back at top speed. I'll be arranging the canoe--"

She laid down the things, and in a moment the thickets had hidden her. Swiftly Ben reached for the gun, and for a few speeding seconds his fingers worked at its mechanism. He was busy about the canoe when the girl returned.

Evidently Beatrice was in wonderful spirits. The air itself was sparkling, the sun--beloved with an ardor too deep for words by all northern peoples--was warm and genial in the sky; the spruce forest was lush with dew, fragrant with hidden blossoms. It was a Spring Day--nothing less. Both of them knew perfectly that miracle was abroad in the forest,--flowers opening, buds breaking into blossoms, little grass blades stealing, shy as fairies, up through the dead leaves; birds fluttering and gossiping and carrying all manner of building materials for their nests.

Spring is not just a time of year to the forest folk, and particularly to those creatures whose homes are the far spruce forests of the North. It is a magic and a mystery, a recreation and a renewed lease on life itself. It is hope come again, the joy of living undreamed of except by such highly strung, nerve-tingling, wild-blooded creatures as these; and in some measure at least it is the escape from Fear. For there is no other name than Fear for the great, white, merciless winter that had just departed.

High and low, every woods creature knows this dread, this age-old apprehension of the deepening snow. Perhaps it had its birth in eons past, when the great glaciers brought their curse of gold into the temperate regions, locking land and sea under tons of ice. Never the frost comes, and the snow deepens on the land, and the rivers and lakes are struck silent as if by a cruel magician's magic, but that this old fear returns, creeping like poison into the nerves, bowing down the heart and chilling the warm wheel of the blood. For the rodents and the digging people--even for the mighty grizzly himself--the season means nothing but the cold and the darkness of their underground lairs. For those that try to brave the winter, the portion is famine and cold; the vast, far-spreading silence broken only by the sobbing song of the wolf pack, starving and afraid on the distant ridges. Man is the conqueror, the Mighty One who can strike the fire, but yet he too knows the creepy, haunting dread and deep-lying fear of the northern winter. But that dread season was gone now, yielding for a few happy months to a gay invader from the South; and the whole forest world rejoiced.

Both Beatrice and Ben could sense the new wakening and revival in the still depths about them. The forest was hushed, tremulous, yet vibrant and ecstatic with renewed life. The old grizzly bear had left his winter lair; and good feeding was putting the fat again on his bones; the old cow moose had stolen away into the farther marshes for some mystery and miracle of her own. Everywhere young calves of caribou were breathing the air for the first time, trying to stand on wobbly legs and pushing with greedy noses into overflowing udders. The rich new grass yielded milk in plenty for all these wilderness nurslings. Even the she-wolf forgot her wicked savagery to nurse and fondle her whelps in the lair; even the she-lynx, hunting with renewed fervor through the branches, knew of a marvelous secret in a hollow log that she would be torn to scraps of fur rather than reveal.

The she-ermine, her white hair falling out, was brooding a litter of cutthroats and murderers in a nest of grass and twigs, and each one of them was a source of pride and joy to her mother heart. Even the wolverine had some wicked-eyed little cubs that, to her, were precious beyond rubies; but which would ultimately receive all the oaths in the language for stealing bait on the trap lines out from the settlements.

Beatrice, a woods creature herself, knew the stir and thrill of spring; but there were also more personal, more deeply hidden reasons why she was happy to-day. She was certainly a very girlish-girl in most ways, with even more than the usual allowance of romance and sentiment, and the idea of an all-day picnic with this stalwart forester went straight home to her imagination. She had been tremendously impressed with him from the first, and the day's ride out from Snowy Gulch had brought him very close to her indeed. And what might not the day bring forth! What mystery and wonder might come to pass!

Her dark eyes were lustrous, and the haunting sadness they often held was quite gone. Her face was faintly flushed, her red lips wistful, every motion eager and happy as a child's. But Ben looked at her unmoved.

Coldly his eye leaped over her supple, slender form. He saw with relief that she was stoutly clad in middy and skirt of wool, wool stockings, and solid little boots. The heavy coat she had brought was not particularly noteworthy in these woods, but it would have drawn instant admiration from knowing people of a great city. It was not cut with particular style, neither was it beautifully lined, but the fabric itself was plucked otter,--the dark, well-wearing fur of many lights and of matchless luster and beauty.

"For goodness sake, Mr. Darby," the girl cried. "What have you got in this boat? Surely that isn't just the lunch--" She pointed to the pile of supplies, covered by the blankets, in the center of the craft.

"It looks like we had enough to stay a month, doesn't it?" he laughed. "There's blankets there, of course--for table cloths and to make us comfortable--and the lunch, and a pillow or two--and some little surprises. The rest is just some stores that I'm going to take this opportunity to put across the river--to my next camp. Now, Miss Neilson--if you'll take the seat in the bow. Fenris is going to ride in the middle--"

The girl's eyes fell with some apprehension on the shaggy wolf. "I haven't established very friendly relations with Fenris--"

"I'd leave him at home, but he won't stand for it. Besides I'd like to teach him how to retrieve grouse. Lie down, old boy." Ben motioned, and Fenris sprawled at his feet. "Now come here and pet him, Miss Neilson. His fur, at this season, is wonderful--"

Reluctant to show her fear before Ben, the girl drew near. The wolf shivered as the soft hand touched his side and moved slowly to his fierce head; but he gave no further sign of enmity.

"He understands," Ben explained. "He realizes that I've accepted you, and you're all right. Until he's given orders otherwise, he'll treat you with the greatest respect."

She was deeply and sincerely pleased. It did not occur to her, in the least, little degree, that occasion could possibly arise whereby contradictory orders would be given. Ben started to help her into the boat.

"You've not forgotten anything?" he asked casually.

"Nothing I can think of."

"Got plenty of extra shells?"

"Part of a box. It's a small caliber automatic, you see, and a box holds fifty."

"It is, eh?" Ben's tone indicated deep interest. "May I see 'em a minute? I think I had a gun like it once. Not the gun--just the box of shells."

She had strapped the weapon around her waist, by now, so she didn't attempt to put it in his hands. From her pocket she procured a small box of shells, and these she passed to him. He examined them with a great show of interest, balancing their weight in the palm of his hand; then he carelessly threw the box down among the duffle in front of the stern seat. Presently he started to push off.

"You're not taking the other paddle?" the girl asked curiously.

"No. I don't believe in letting young ladies work when I take 'em on an outing. You are just to sit in the bow and enjoy yourself. Fenris, sit still and don't rock the boat!"

Just one moment more he hesitated. From his pocket he drew a piece of paper, carefully folded and sealed with tallow. This he inserted into a little crack in the blade of the second paddle--the one that was to be left at the landing.

"Just a little note for your father," he explained, "to tell him where we are, in case he worries about you."

"That's very considerate of you," the girl answered in a thoughtful voice.

She wondered at the curious glowings, lurid as red coals, that came and went in his eyes.

XIX

After the manner of backwoods fathers Jeffery Neilson had offered no objections to his daughter's all-day excursion with Ben. The ways of the frontier are informal; and besides, he had every confidence in her ability to take care of herself. The only unfortunate phase of the affair concerned Ray. The latter would look with no favor upon the venture; and in all probability a disagreeable half-hour would ensue with him if he found it out.

The control of Ray Brent had been an increasingly difficult problem. Always sullen and envious, once or twice he had not been far from open rebellion. There is a certain dread malady that comes to men at the sight of naked gold, and Ray's degenerate type was particularly subject to it. Every day the mine had shown itself increasingly rich, and Ray's ambition had given way to greed, and his greed to avarice of the most dangerous sort. For instance, he had a disquieting way of gathering the nuggets into his hands, fondling them with an unholy love. Neilson realized perfectly, now, that the younger man would not be content with a fourth share or less; and on the other hand he resolutely refused to yield any of his own, larger share. Sometime the issue would bring them to grips. Ray's dreadful crime of a few days past had given him an added insolence and self-assurance that complicated the problem still further. The leopard that has once tasted human flesh is not to be trusted again. Finally, there remained this matter of Beatrice.

Neilson's love for his daughter forbade that he should force her to receive unwelcome attentions. Ray, on the other hand, had always insisted that his chief allow him a clear field. He would be infuriated when he heard of the trip she was taking with Ben to-day. Neilson straightened, resolving to meet the issue with old-time firmness.

When he heard his daughter's voice on the canoe landing, one hundred yards below, he was inordinately startled. She had not told him that their picnic would take them on to the water. The reason had been, of course, that Beatrice knew her father's distrust of the treacherous stream and either feared his refusal to her plan or wished to save him worry. Even now they were starting. He could hear the first stroke of the paddle through the hushed woods.

He turned toward the door, instinctively alarmed; then hesitated. After all, he could not tell her to come back. Beatrice would be mortified; and besides, there was nothing definite to fear. The river was almost as still as a lake for a long stretch immediately in front of the landing; even a poor canoeist could cross with ease. It was true that rapids, mile after mile of them past counting, lay just below, but surely the canoeists would stay at a safe distance above them. And if by any chance this young prospector had no skill with a canoe, Beatrice herself was an expert.

Yet what, in reality, did he know of Ben Darby? He had liked the man's face: whence he came and what was his real business on the Yuga he had not the least idea. All at once a baffling apprehension crept like a chill through his frame.

He could not laugh it away. It laid hold of him, refusing to be dispelled. It was as if an inner voice was warning him, telling him to rush down to the river bank and check that canoe ride at all costs. It occurred to him, for the moment, that this might be premonition of a disastrous accident, yet vaguely he sensed a plot, an obscure design that filled him with ghastly terror. Once more the man started for the door.

Unaware of his ground, he did not hurry at first. He hardly knew what to say, by what excuse he could call Beatrice back to the landing. His heart was racing incomprehensibly in his breast, and all at once he started to run.

At the first step he fell sprawling, and stark panic was upon him when he got to his feet again. And when he reached the landing the canoe was already near the opposite shore, heading swiftly downstream.

He saw in one glance that the craft was rather heavily laden, Fenris atop the pile of duffle, and that Ben was paddling with a remarkably fast, easy stroke. "Come back, Beatrice," he shouted. "You've forgotten something."

The girl turned, waving, but Ben's voice drowned out hers. "We'll see you later," he called in a gay voice. "We can't come back now."

"Come back!" Neilson called again. "I order you--"

He stared intently, hoping that the man would turn. Already they were practically out of hearing; and not even Beatrice was dipping her paddle in obedience to his command. Looking more closely, he saw that the man only was paddling.

Then his eye fell to the landing on which he stood, instinctively trying to locate the second paddle. It lay at his feet. A foolhardy thing to do, he thought, a broken paddle, out there above the rapids, would mean death and no other thing. Helpless in the current, the canoe could not be guided through those fearful gates of peril below. If by a thousandth chance it escaped the rocks, it would be carried for unnumbered miles into a land unknown, a territory that could be entered only by the greatest difficulty--packing day after day over range and through thicket with a great train of pack horses--and from which the egress, except by the same perilous water route, would be almost impossible. But the thought passed as he discerned the white paper that had been fastened in the paddle blade.

He bent for it with eager hand. He knew instinctively that it contained an all-important and sinister message for him. His eyes leaped over the bold writing on the exterior.

"To Ezra Melville's murderers," Ben had written. And with that reading Jeffery Neilson knew a terror beyond any experienced in the darkest nightmare of his iniquitous life.

It did not occur to him to bring the note, unopened, to Ray Brent. As yet he did not fully understand; yet he knew that the issue was one of seconds. _Seconds_ must decide everything; his whole world hung in the balance. His hand ripped apart the sealed fold, and he held the sheet before his eyes.

Possessing only an elementary education Jeffery Neilson was not, ordinarily, a fast reader. Usually he sounded out his words only with the greatest difficulty. But to-day, one glance at the page conveyed to him the truth: from half a dozen words he got a general idea of the letter's full, dread meaning. Ben had written:

TO NEILSON AND HIS GANG:--

When you get this, Beatrice will be on her way to Back There--either
there or on her way to hell.

Ezra Melville was my pard. A letter leaving his claim to me is in my
pocket, and I alone know where Hiram's will is, leaving it to Ezram.
Your title will never stand as long as those papers aren't
destroyed. If you don't care enough about saving your daughter from
me, at least you'll want those letters. Come and get them. I'll be
waiting for you.

BEN DARBY.

As the truth flashed home, Neilson's first thought was of his rifle. He was a wilderness man, trained to put his trust in the weapon of steel; and if it were only in his hands, there might yet be time to prevent the abduction. One well-aimed bullet over the water, shooting with all his old-time skill, might yet hurl the avenger to his death in the moment of his triumph. Just one keen, long gaze over the sights,--heaven or earth could not yield him a vision half so glorious as this! For all his terror he knew that he could shoot as he had never shot before, true as a light-ray. His remorseless eyes for once could see clear and sure. One shot--and then Beatrice could seize the paddle and save herself. And he cursed himself, more bitterly than he had ever cursed an enemy, when his empty hands showed him that he had left his rifle in his cabin.

His pistol, however, was at his belt, and his hand reached for it. But the range was already too far for any hope of accurate pistol fire. His hard eyes gazed along the short, black barrel. His steady finger pressed back against the trigger.

The first shot fell far short. The pistol was of large caliber but small velocity; and a hundred yards was its absolute limit of point-blank range. He lifted the gun higher and shot again. Again he shot low. But the third bullet fell just a few feet on the near side of the canoe.

He had the range now, and he shot again. It was like a dream, outside his consciousness, that Beatrice was screaming with fear and amazement. She was already too far to give or receive a message: all hope lay in the pistol alone. The fifth shot splashed water beyond the craft.

Once more he fired, but the boat was farther distant now, and the bullet went wild. The pistol was empty. Like a moose leaping through a marsh he turned back to his cabin for his rifle.

But already he knew that he was lost. Before ever he could climb up the hundred yards to the cabin, and back again, the craft would be around the bend in the river. Heavy brush would hide it from then on. He hastened frantically up the narrow, winding trail.

XX

Ben was fully aware, as he pushed the canoe from landing, that the success of his scheme was not yet guaranteed. Long ago, in the hard school of the woods, he had found out life; and one of the things he had learned was that nothing on earth is infallible and no man's plans are sure. There are always coincidents of which the scheming brain has not conceived: the sudden interjection of unexpected circumstances. The unforeseen appearance of Beatrice's father on the landing had been a case in point.

Most of all he had been afraid that Beatrice herself would leap from the canoe and attempt to swim to safety. He had learned in his past conversations with her that she had at least an elementary knowledge of swimming. Had she not confessed at the same time fear of the water, his plan could have never been adopted. The northern girls have few opportunities to obtain real proficiency in swimming. Their rivers are icy cold, their villages do not afford heated natatoriums. Yet he realized that he must quiet her suspicions as long as possible.

"I've got the landing picked out," he told her as they started off. "I've been all over the river this morning. It is quite a way down--around the bend--but it's perfectly safe. So don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid--with you. And how fast you paddle!"

It was true: in all her days by rivers she had never seen such perfect control of a canoe. He paddled as if without effort, but the streaming shore line showed that the boat moved at an astonishing rate. He was a master canoeist, and whatever fears she might have had vanished at once.

She talked gayly to him, scarcely aware that they were heading across and down the stream.

When her father had appeared on the bank, calling, she had not been in the least alarmed. Ben's gay shouts kept her from understanding exactly what he was saying. And when the old man had drawn his pistol and fired, and the bullet had splashed in the water some twenty yards toward shore, her mind had refused to accept the evidence of her senses.

The second shot followed the first, and the third the second, resulting in, for her part, only the impotence of bewilderment. Her first thought was that her father's fierce temper, long known to her, had engulfed him in murderous rage. Trusting Ben wholly, the real truth did not occur to her.

She screamed shrilly at the fourth shot; and Ben looked up to find her pale as the foam from his flashing paddle. "Turn around and go back," she cried to Ben. "He'll kill you if you don't! Oh, please--turn around--"

"And get in range of him so he _can_ kill me?" Ben replied savagely. "Can't you see he's shooting at me?"

"Then throw up your hands--it's all some dreadful mistake. Can't you hear me--turn and go back."

The fifth and sixth shots were fired by now; and Neilson had gone to his cabin for his rifle. Ben smiled grimly into her white face.

"We'd better keep on going to our landing place," he advised. "There's no place to land above it--I went all over the shore this morning. That will give him time to cool down. I only want to get around this curve before he comes with his rifle."

She stared at him aghast, too confused and terrified to make rational answer. He was pale, too; but she had a swift feeling that the cold, rugged face was in some way exultant, too. The first chill of fear of him brushed her like a cold wind.