Hugo Ennis, a man well under thirty, tall and spare of form, with the lithe and active limbs that are capable of hard and prolonged action, had stood for a time by the tough door of his little shack. It was a single-roomed affair, quite large enough for a lone man, which he had carefully built of peeled logs. Within it there was a bunk fixed against the wall, upon which his heavy blankets had been folded in a neat pile, for he was a man of some order. Near the other end there was a stove, a good one that could keep the place warm and amply sufficed for his simple cookery. The table was of axe-hewn cedar planks and the two chairs had been rustically designed of the same material. Between the logs forming the walls the spaces had been chinked with moss, covered with blue clay taken from the river-bank, above the falls. Strong pegs had been driven into the heavy wood and from them hung traps and a couple of guns, with spare snowshoes He had been looking down, over the great rocky ledge at one side of his shack, into the big pool of the Roaring River, which at this time was but a wild jam of huge slabs of ice insecurely soldered together by snow and the spray from the falls. Beneath that jumbled mass he knew that the water was straining and groaning and swirling until it found under the thick ice the outlet that would lead it towards the big lake to the eastward. Although the middle of March was at hand there was not the slightest sign of any breaking up. He knew that it would take a long time yet before the snows began to melt, the ice to become thinner on the lakes and the waters to rise, brown and turbid with the earth torn from the banks and the sand ever ground up in the rough play of turbulent waters with rolling boulders. Yet the coming of spring was not so very It was a glorious country, he truly believed. The winter had been long but the hunting and trapping had kept him busy enough. The days had seemed too short to become dreary and he had slept long during the nights, seldom awakening at the rumblings of the maddened pent-up waters or the sharp explosions of great trees cracking in the fierce cold. But he was glad of the prospect of renewed hard work upon his claim, of promising toil to expose further the great silver-bearing veins of calcite that wound their way through the harder rock. He knew that his find was of the sort that had flooded the Nipissing and the Gowganda countries with eager searchers and delvers, and created villages and even towns in a wilderness where formerly the moose wandered in the great hardwood swamps and the deer were often chased by ravening packs of baying wolves. His attention had reverted to the great “Maybe some day you’ll learn enough to let those varmints alone, Maigan, old boy,” he said, having become accustomed to long conversations with his companion. “I expect you’re pretty nearly as silly as a man. Experience teaches you mighty little. Dogs and men have been stung since the beginning of the world, I expect, and keep on making the same old mistakes. Hold hard, old fellow! I know it hurts like the deuce but these things have just got to come out.” Maigan is the name of the wolf, in some of the Indian dialects, and Hugo’s friend seemed but little removed from a wolfish ancestry. He evidently did his best to bear the punishment bravely, for he never whimpered. At times, however, he sought hard to pull his muzzle away. Finally, to his great relief, the last serrated quill was pulled out and he jumped up, placing his paws on the man’s shoulders, perhaps to show he held no grudge. After his master had petted him, an excitable red squirrel required his immediate attention and, as usual, led him to a fruitless chase. He returned soon, scratching at the boards, and “Keep still, Maigan!” ordered his master. “Wonder who’s coming? Maybe one of Papineau’s young ones.” The fire was getting low and he put a couple of sticks of yellow birch in the stove. A few seconds later he heard a shout that came from behind the saplings which, in some places, concealed the old tote-road from his view. No one but Big Stefan could bellow out so powerfully, to be sure. He opened the door and Maigan leaped out. In more leisurely fashion he followed and stopped, in astonishment, as he caught sight of the dog-team flying back towards Carcajou. “That’s a queer start!” he commented. “First time I ever knew him not to stop for a cup of tea and a talk.” He thought he saw something like a black box through the branches and went up. It must be something Stefan had left for him. He walked up the path in leisurely fashion. There was evidently no hurry. He was feeling a little disappointment, for he had become fond of Stefan during his long prospecting trip and would have been glad of a chat to “Are––are you Hugo Ennis?” she faltered. “That’s my name,” he said. “Every one knows me around here. What––what can I do for you?” “My––my name is Madge Nelson,” she Stammered. “I––I’m Madge Nelson from––from New York.” “How do you do, Miss Nelson?” he said, “I––I’m afraid I’m the only lost thing around here,” she said, seeking to hold back the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes. “Oh! I think––I think I’m becoming mad!” she suddenly cried out, bitterly. “Is––is that your––your house, the––the residence you spoke of?” “The––the residence!” he repeated. “And I spoke of it, did I? Well, I suppose that anything with a roof on it is a residence, if you come to that. Yes, that’s it, the little shack among the birches, and you’d better come in till Stefan gets back, for it’s mighty cold here and––and if you’re from New York you’re not used to this sort of thing. It’s the best I can offer you, but I really never thought it worth talking about. It’s the slight improvement on a dog-kennel that we folks have to be contented with, in these parts. Come right in; you look half frozen.” “And––and that is the sort of place you’ve brought me to?” she cried, her eyes now flashing at him in anger. “Well, it seems to me that it’s Stefan that brought you,” he replied, rather abashed. “That––that’s only a mean quibble,” she retorted, hotly. “And––and where’s the town––or the village––and the other people, the friends who were to greet me?” The young man was beginning to feel rather provoked at her questions. “The nearest settlers are a short mile away,––the Papineaus, very decent French Canadians. Tom Carew’s shack you must have passed on your way here. The only village, of course, is Carcajou, and that’s twelve long miles away. But Mrs. Papineau is a real good old soul, if that’s where you expect to stop. A dozen kids about the place but they’re jolly little beggars. Her husband’s trapping now, I believe, but of course I’ll take you up there.” At this she seemed to feel somewhat relieved. It was evident that she was in no great peril. Yet she looked again at his shack, with her lower lip in the bite of her teeth. “You––you didn’t really believe I’d come,” she said, her mouth quivering. “You––you were just making fun of me, I see, with––with that residence and––and the ladies who were ready to welcome me. Where are they?” Ennis was scratching his head, or the cap over it, as he stared again at her. He realized “There––there are no ladies,” he said, lamely, “except Mrs. Papineau and Mrs. Carew. They’re first-rate women, both of ’em. And of course Mrs. Papineau is your only resource till to-morrow, unless Stefan is coming back for you.” “He isn’t,” she declared. “I said nothing about going back.” “That’s awkward,” he admitted. “You’ll tell me all about this thing later on, won’t you, because I might be able to help you out. But you’ll be all right for a while, anyway. I’ll take you there.” “Please start at once,” she cried, desperately. “I––I can’t stay here for another instant.” “I can be ready in a very few minutes,” he told her, quietly. “But won’t you please come over to the shack. I’m sure you’re beginning to feel the cold. You––you’re shivering and––and I’m afraid you look rather ill.” She had insisted on Stefan’s taking back “You must put this on at once,” he told her, gently enough, “and come right over there with me.” Madge shrank from him, as if she feared to be touched by him, and yet there was something in the frank way in which he addressed her, perhaps also in the clear and unembarrassed look of his eyes, that was gradually allaying her fears and the fierce repulsion of the first few moments. Finally, chilled as she was to the very marrow of her bones, she consented to accept his offer and submitted to his helping her on with the coat. “There’s a good fire in the shack just now,” he told her. “It’s absolutely necessary for you to get thoroughly warmed up before you start off again. A cup of hot tea would do you a lot of good, too, after that long ride on Stefan’s toboggan. It’s no joke of an undertaking for a––a young lady who isn’t used to such things.” Madge was still hesitating. The suffering look that had come into her eyes moved the young man to greater pity for her. “I––I give you my word you have absolutely “I just love it,” said the man. “It grows more utterly splendid every time one looks at it. See that mass of rubbish on the top of that great hemlock. It is the nest of a pair of ospreys. They come every year, I’ve been told. Last summer I saw them circling high up in the heavens, at times, and they would utter shrill cries as if they had been the guardians of the falls and warned me off. But we had better hurry in, Miss––Miss Nelson.” For an instant she had listened, wondering. Madge entered the shack. It had been swept, neatly enough, and everything was arranged in orderly fashion, except some loose things piled up in one corner, out of the way. The little stove was glowing, and the draft was purring softly. The girl pulled off her mitts and held her reddened hands to it while Madge had dropped upon the chair, and began to feel more unutterably weary than ever. The heat, close to the stove, became too great for her and she moved her chair to the table, a couple of feet away, and placed her arms upon it. Her head fell forward on them, and when, a few moments later, Hugo spoke to her and she lifted up her face he was dismayed as he saw the tears that were running down her cheeks. The man could only bite his lips. What consolation or comfort could he proffer? It was perhaps better to appear to take no notice of her distress. But the weeping of genuine suffering and unhappiness is a hard thing for a youth to see. The impulse had come to him to cry out for information, to beg her to explain, to question her, to get at the bottom of all this mystery. He was held from this by the renewed thought that her mind was probably affected. He might further irritate her or cause her still deeper chagrin. Even if he erred in this idea the The kettle began to sing and a moment later the water was boiling hard. “I can’t offer you much of a meal, Miss Nelson,” he said, seeking to make his voice as pleasant as possible. “You’ve probably never tried sour-dough biscuits. Mrs. Papineau’s are better, but you may be able to manage one or two of these. That good woman’s a mighty good cook, as cooking goes in these parts. Here’s a can of condensed milk; won’t you help yourself? You must really try to eat something. Do you think you could try a little cold corned beef? I have some canned stuff that’s not half bad. Or it would take but a moment to broil you a partridge I got yesterday. But I’ll open these sardines first.” He went to work with a large jack-knife, but she thanked him, briefly, in a low voice, and refused to accept anything but the tea and a bit of the biscuit. She wondered why he didn’t also sit down to eat. It bothered her to see him hovering over her like some sort of She turned and looked at him again, swiftly but haggardly. She would never have conceived the possibility of a man dissembling so, in letters first and lying again in every move and every tone of his voice. How could he keep it so tranquil and unmoved? Yet when he came near her again, insisting on The big dog, Maigan, came to her and laid “I––I’m afraid you must have gone through a good deal of––of unhappiness,” faltered the man, anxiously. “It––it’s really too bad and I’d give anything if I could....” But the girl lifted up her hand, as if to check his words. What right had a man who was guilty of such conduct to begin proffering a repentance that was unavailing, nay, contemptible? Did he think that a few halting words could atone for his cruelty, could dispel the evil he had wrought? At this he kept silent again, during long minutes, appalled as men always are at the first sight of a woman’s tears. He felt utterly helpless to console or advise, and was becoming more and more bewildered at this interruption of his lonely and quiet life. Since she didn’t want him to speak he would hold his tongue. If she hadn’t looked so dreadfully unhappy he would have deemed her an infernal Soon she rose from the table, determinedly, with some of her energy renewed by the food and hot drink. “If you please, let us go now,” she told him, firmly. “I’m entirely at your service,” he answered. “I think you had better let me lend you a cap. That thing you have on your head can hardly keep your ears from freezing. I have a new one that’s never been worn. Wait a moment.” His search was soon rewarded. She had kept on but her inefficient little New York hat with its faded buds and wrinkled leaves and now tried to remove it. Her hands trembled, however, and the strain of travel had been hard. All at once, as she pulled away, her coiled hair escaped all restraint of pins and fell down upon her shoulders, in a great waving chestnut mass. At this Hugo opened the door and ran out, returning a couple of minutes later with the bag that had been left on the trunk. “I––I expect you need some of your things,” he ventured. She looked at him with some gratitude. Most men wouldn’t have thought of it. Nodding her thanks she opened the thing and was compelled to pull out various articles before she could get at her comb and brush. Her movements were still very nervous. It was embarrassing to be there before that man with one’s hair all undone and awry. Something fell from her hand, striking the edge of the table and toppling to the floor. There was a deafening explosion and the shack was full of the dense smoke of black powder. When Madge recovered from her terror the young man, looking very pale, had bent down and picked up the fallen weapon. For a moment she thought there was a strange look in his eyes. “I––I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “If––if you were to hit a man with that thing he’d get real mad,” he said, repeating an age-worn joke. “At any rate I’m glad you were not hurt. Rather unexpected, wasn’t it? I really think you’d better let me take the other shells out. It’s a nasty little cheap weapon and, I should judge, quite an unsafe bit of hardware for a lady to handle. Whoever gave you that thing ought to be spanked. But––but, then, of course you didn’t know it was loaded.” “I––I did know it was loaded!” cried Madge. “I––I had the man load it for me! I––I thought it might protect me from insult, perhaps, or––or let me take matters in my own hands, if need be. I––I didn’t know what sort of place I would be coming to or––or what sort of man would––would receive me! I––I felt safer with it!” Maigan was still ferreting out corners of the room, having leaped up at the shot as if the idea had come to him that some rat or chipmunk must lie dead somewhere. There nearly always was something to pick up when his master fired. “Keep still, boy!” ordered the latter. “I think we’d better count that as a miss. I’ll wait outside until you’ve fixed yourself up, Miss Nelson, and are ready to go. I’ll have to hitch up Maigan first. As soon as you come out I’ll wrap you in my blankets; you’ll be quite comfortable. We haven’t very far to go, anyway.” “Thank you––it––it won’t take me a minute,” she answered, without looking at him. She had discovered in a corner of the shack a bit of looking-glass he used to shave by, and stood before it, never noticing that he made a rather long job of drawing on his heavy fur “The little fool,” he told himself. “She seems to have been loaded for bear. Glad it was a thirty-two instead of a forty-five Colt. I didn’t think it was anything, just a bad scratch, after the first sting of it, but it feels like fire and brimstone now. It’s an infernal nuisance. Good Lord! Suppose she’d plugged herself instead of me. That would have been a fix for fair!” This idea evidently horrified him. He had a vision of blood and tears and screams, of having to rush off to Carcajou to telegraph for the nearest doctor. Perhaps people would even have suspected him. He saw Madge with her big dark-rimmed eyes and that perfectly wonderful hair, lying dead or dying on the floor of his shack. It was utterly gruesome, unspeakable, and a strong shiver passed over him. “But I wonder who the deuce she was going to shoot with that thing?” he finally asked himself. “Oh, she must be crazy, the poor little thing! It’s really too bad!” He then thought of what a fool he had been to give her back that gimcrack pistol. She probably had more shells. He must contrive to get them away from her. There was no saying what an insane person might do. “I wish Stefan would turn up soon,” he cogitated. “I’d give a lot to find out what he knows about her. It was mighty funny his never stopping here for a minute.” |