CHAPTER XII LINKS OF STEEL
When Norman Grey flung himself out of Old Meg's house his one burning idea was to seek the man who had insulted Madeline. He half expected to find him where he had left him, and was more than disappointed when no sign of the rascal was to be seen. He hurried along the trail desirous of reaching the store as quickly as possible, and meeting Siwash Bill face to face. Although unarmed the thought of fear or of the possible outcome of a personal affray with such a man never entered his head. But as he walked swiftly forward and the cool night air fanned his hot brow, he realised how unwise would be such a line of action at the present critical condition of affairs. Nothing would be gained, he felt sure, and much harm might be done by indiscreet hastiness. He would wait for a while. Too many things were at stake. He knew how the squaw man would be incensed by the blow he had received, and that he would, no doubt, seek speedy revenge in some underhanded manner.
Thinking thus he reached the forest, and passed by the spot where crouched his enemy with his forefinger slightly pressing the nimble trigger of his revolver. No sense of danger from that quarter came into Grey's mind, and he strode swiftly onward, unaware of the imminent peril which had been so narrowly averted.
The moon was now rising full and broad. A few fleecy clouds were drifting slowly overhead. The land lay silent and sombre. Nature was hushed in a dreamy, mystic repose. Grey paused and gazed upon the scene. His mind cleared, while a new strength and quietness entered his heart. He thought of Madeline. The sight of that slight form and fair face had awakened the vibrant chords of memory. His face had been close to hers as she lay in his arms while he bore her into the house. A great desire had seized him to press his lips firmly to hers, no matter what she might be. How he longed to seize her and bear her away from such a place. But, no, he would not do it against her will. What was she doing here, anyway? Why should she leave a home of comfort for such a desolate region? "Madeline! Madeline!" he breathed. "What does it all mean? Oh, to feel that you are as I left you by that garden gate; that you are the same pure-souled woman as of old!"
He entered the cabin, threw himself into the bunk, and soon fell into a fitful sleep. He was awakened by the rattle of dishes, and a peculiar sizzling sound. Opening his eyes he beheld Buckskin Dan standing before the little sheet-iron stove frying some moose meat. The appetising smell filled the room, making Grey realise that he was very hungry. For a while he lay still and watched Dan as he worked. What an ideal life, he thought, as his eyes roved about the cosy cabin. What did such a man need with the luxuries of civilisation? Here in the wilderness he is free to come and go at will. The land teeming with game, and this quiet abode as a place of retreat. Yet he must be lonely at times, he mused. Now a pleasant companion, a woman for instance, would prove an additional charm. She would have to be pretty and genial, or the situation might not be so fascinating. But, then, such cramped quarters might not suit her. She would need more rooms, and that would necessitate extra furniture. And suppose there should not be always two? That would certainly complicate matters, and affairs at times might not be so congenial.
A slight laugh unconsciously broke from Grey's lips, which caused Dan to turn quickly about. A smile spread over his furrowed face as he noticed that his companion was awake.
"Thought ye was asleep," he remarked, "an' here I've been tiptoein' around the room like a thief fer the last half hour."
"Oh, I've been quietly musing in this comfortable place for a few minutes," Grey replied.
"Wall, is that so? Yer musin' must have been very amusin' from the chuckles ye jist let out."
"It was," Grey replied as he sat up in the bunk. "I was thinking what a change it would make here if you had a wife. I was wondering if it would be as agreeable to you as living alone."
To these words Buckskin Dan made no immediate reply. He seemed to be suddenly interested in the meat that was now becoming temptingly browned. He laid his few meagre dishes upon the rough table, while Grey washed his face and hands in a tin basin near the door. The latter noted the old man's silence, and feared that he had offended him by his jocular remark. It was only after they had sat down to their breakfast that Dan awoke from his reverie. He looked across the table and fixed his faded eyes upon Grey's face.
"Ye hit me to the quick by that question of yours, pardner," he began. "Ye didn't mean no harm, an' I take yer words kindly. But, young man, ye little realised how that thrust stung."
"I'm sorry," Grey faltered, for the man's impressive manner was affecting him more than ordinary.
"That's all right, pardner. Don't ye worry one mite. Ye axed a fair question. But, my God! how kin I answer? Would I like to have a wife? Would I be happier? Am I happy now, d'ye think? Am I happy wanderin' out on the hills all by meself, an' comin' back to this lonely cabin, with never a face to greet me, an' never a word of welcome? Then, when I'm under the weather, an' somewhat petered out, to lie all day long in this shack with never a gentle voice to ax how I am, no one to do fer me, an' no one to care whether I live or die—d'ye think that is happiness? Young man, git a home, an' git it as soon as possible. Buckskin Dan's been over the trail afore ye, an' he knows a thing or two."
"I'm afraid it's too late," Grey sadly replied.
Dan looked keenly at his companion as if trying to read the purport of his words.
"D'ye mean to tell me," he asked, "that you too have lost?"
"That's about it."
"Dead?"
"No, and yes."
"Ah, livin' yit, then?"
"In a way."
"But she's alive, young man. Remember that's somethin'. Ye've got hope yit; it ain't altogether crushed. Look at me, pardner. Didn't I love the sweetest, fairest lass that ever trod God's earth? But she left me!"
The trapper paused, and an expression of agony came into his face. Grey could find no words; he knew not what to say.
"Yes, she left me," the old man continued, "left me in the bright summer time, forty years ago come next July. She faded like the flowers of the garden. The roses fled her cheeks, the roundness left her face, an' the strength desarted her body. But she loved me to the last, an' her partin' word was to me."
"But surely forty years have healed the wound," Grey responded. "It's been long since then, and many a man would have forgotten."
"Never, young man, never! I kin see her as plain to-day as of old. Out on the hills, an' along the trail, my Nan, my lost Nanette, is always with me."
"And have you lived in the wilderness ever since?" Grey queried.
"Most of the time."
"Don't you often long, though, for civilisation?"
"I uster have a hankerin' that way. But when I saw the young fellers with their sweethearts it made me feel so lonely that I could hardly stand it. I like it better out on the hills with my Nanette. But of late I've been somewhat drawn back to this camp more'n usual. Thar's a lassie over yon at that house which minds me much of my Nan. I caught a glimpse of her one day which made me stan' very still. An' since then I have sot on the edge of the woods an' watched her as she walked along the trail a leadin' to the river. She's jist like her in form—but my Nan was never like her."
"Do you mean the young woman at Old Meg's?" Grey demanded.
"Yes; it's her I mean."
"And what do you know about her?"
"Nothin' fer sartin. It's only suspicion. But why should sich a purty lass be out in a hole like this with a cratur' like Old Meg unless thar was somethin' wrong? Tell me that."
"But haven't you heard anything? What do the men in camp say? Don't they go there?"
Grey had now risen to his feet and was standing near the table looking straight at his companion. His heart was beating fast. He expected to hear the truth from this old man. Did he know? Could he tell him anything?
"Yes, the men go thar," Dan replied, noting Grey's excitement. "But I've never axed 'em. When I see her I see my Nanette, an' I want to think it's my Nan livin' over thar an' not—"
"Don't say any more!" cried Grey fiercely, bringing his fist down upon the table with a resounding blow. "You say that you have suffered; that you lost your Nanette long ago. But she left you, and you know she was pure and good when she died. But listen to me. What would be the sufferings of a man who loved a woman whom he believed to be as noble as your Nanette? Loved her with all the true passion of a man's heart. Then lost her, and after years of seeking to find her there, living such a life as that? Could your suffering be compared to his? Far better, don't you think, that your Nanette should be dead than living such a life as that?"
"My God! yes," cried the trapper, as the meaning of the constable's words dawned upon his mind. "But are ye sure she's thar? Mebbe ye've been mistaken."
"Oh, no, there is no mistake. Wouldn't I recognise my Madeline anywhere?"
"Sure, that's only nat'ral. An' so ye tell me she was once like my Nanette? How d'ye account then fer her bein' away up here?"
"I can't. It's a sore puzzle. She was reared in a home of luxury and loving care. Her mother died when she was quite young. She was her father's only comfort, and he planned that at his death the whole of his property, which was large, should go to her. They had relatives in the United States, and Madeline in charge of a trusted friend left England to pay them a visit. On that voyage the steamer was wrecked. Several lives were reported lost, Madeline and her travelling companion among the number. Something always told me that the report was not true, and that Madeline had not been drowned. I could not rid my mind of the idea. It forced itself upon me day and night. That was six years ago, and since then I have travelled far and wide in the hope of obtaining some trace of her. And now to find her there! Oh, God, it is too hard!"
Grey sank upon the bench, and buried his face in his hands. Buckskin Dan watched him compassionately for a while, and thoughtfully stroked his long beard.
"Seems to me thar's somethin' wrong," he at length remarked. "It ain't nat'ral fer sich a lassie, brought up as ye say she was, to be in a place like this. Mebbe if ye had a talk with her she would explain matters."
"I've thought of it," was the slow reply, "but somehow I can't. The first time I saw her enter the house I wanted to rush to her at once. And then last night when she lay unconscious in my arms as I carried her into the cabin the yearning was stronger than ever."
"Young man, what are ye talkin' about?" Dan demanded. "Did ye say she was unconscious? What d'ye mean? What are ye sayin'?"
"I know you must be surprised at my words," Grey responded; then he briefly told the incident of the past night.
Dan said not a word during this recital, but sat bolt upright on his bench. His clinched hands kept moving to and fro by his side, while a deep scowl formed upon his brow.
"The d— skunk!" he ejaculated when Grey ceased. "Oh, if I only had me hands on his measly carcass! An' so he insulted the lassie did he?"
"I should like to know how she is getting along," Grey continued. "But how can I go? If I could feel she is my Madeline as of old, then no power in Hishu could keep me from her side. But I can't go unless I know she wants me. I would like to hear, too, about the boy."
The trapper sat thoughtfully smoking for some time in deep silence. Then he reached out a large hand across the table.
"Put it thar, young man," he said. "Yer tale of sorrow has brought ye very close to me old heart. We're pardners now fer sure. Buckskin Dan don't make friends easy, but when he does it's with links of steel, an' don't ye fergit that. But, come, we've sot here long enough. I jist want to run across to the store fer a little baccy an' ammunition. It'll take only a few minutes. Thar's important bizness ahead of us, an' we ain't got no time to lose."