They had been travelling for a week, and were growing used to the evil of the trail. Body stiffness no longer troubled them, and having been inured to the task from childhood, the agony of cramp brought on by snow-shoe work was unknown to them, the hard exercise of the trail inducing no more than a healthy tiredness at the end of the day. Joy stretched herself luxuriously on the spruce, and looked round. The darkness of the woods was behind them, and in front the waste of snow showed dimly. In the circle of firelight the Indian George was preparing the evening meal, whilst his son Jim was feeding the dogs. The girl watched them meditatively for a moment or two, then she spoke to Miss La Farge—
“A little different to the Ritz, Babette!”
Babette looked up from the steaming moccasins.
“What do you mean, Joy?”
Joy waved her hand in a half circle. “Why, everything—the trees, the snow, the darkness, the dogs, the camp-fire, George and Jim, and you and I like a couple of Dianas.”
Babette laughed and looked round appreciatively. “It makes me think of a picture which I saw when we were in London. It had a fancy name—’When the World was Young,’ or something like that—and whoever painted it knew the wilderness well. It is, as you say, a little different to the Ritz—and ever so much better. I wonder how long we shall be on trail, not that I’m tired of it. Even hard work has its pleasures and compensations.”
“I do not know how long we shall be. I am content that we are on the right trail. The strange Indian with whom George talked today told a story of a white man, an officer of police, who had been taken to the winter camp of his tribe with a broken leg. The leg had healed, and the officer had departed ten days ago on the trail of a bad white man, and he went Northward. From the description given the officer was almost certainly Corporal Bracknell, and I have an idea that he may have news of Dick Bracknell and be following his trail, in which case I pray that we may come up with him soon; for if there was trouble between them, and the Corporal killed his cousin, it would be a very terrible thing, in view of the situation as regards the succession to Harrow Fell.”
“Yes,” answered Miss La Farge slowly, “but it is no use shutting one’s eyes to facts. The death of Dick Bracknell would be a relief to many people—yourself included!”
“It would be no relief to me if Dick Bracknell died by his cousin’s hand,” answered Joy in a low voice. “It would be quite terrible; it is more than I dare contemplate.”
“Why?” As Babette La Farge shot the question at her foster-sister she looked at her keenly, and saw a wave of warm blood surge over the beautiful face, and as she saw it her own grew suddenly tender. “No,” she added hurriedly, “don’t answer the question, Joy. There is no need. I can guess the answer, which I am sure you would not give me. I think you are right—for everybody’s sake nothing must happen between those two men. At all costs that must be prevented.”