At the end of half an hour the Indian went out, and then Dick Bracknell broke the silence.
“I wonder what Joy thinks of me? Did she tell you?”
“She knows how she was trapped—you are aware of that, of course? I think she will never forgive you.”
“I’m not surprised,” was the reply, “and yet, Roger, I think the world of her. When I married her I loved her—and I wasn’t thinking of her money overmuch. It was Lady Alcombe who put that rotten scheme in my head. If I’d only been patient, and run straight, and not been tempted by that agent to sell the secret of the Travis gun—but there’s a whole regiment of ‘if’s’ so what’s the use of gassing? Anyway, Joy’s mine—and no man else can get her while I live.”
It was the last word he said upon the subject, and nearly three weeks later, having recovered sufficiently to travel, he journeyed with his cousin and the Indian up the Elkhorn. On the fourth morning of that journey Roger Bracknell woke, to find that preparations were already well advanced for departure. One team was already harnessed with a larger complement of dogs than usual, whilst his own sled, with three dogs standing by, was still unharnessed. His cousin indicated it with a jerk of his head.
“We part company today, Roger. I’m sorry to rob your dog team, but Joe insists as he’s afraid you’ll get down to the police-post too soon for us, if we leave you your full team. Besides, we’re tackling a stiff journey and we shall need dogs before we’re through. We’re starting immediately, and you’ll have to breakfast alone, and by the time you’re through with it your parole is off. You understand?”
The corporal nodded, and his cousin continued, “With only three dogs you won’t be such a fool as to try and trail us, and we’ve left you enough grub to get you down to North Star comfortably. Your rifle’s there on the top of your sled, and I trust you not to try and use it on us till you’ve eaten your breakfast.... So long, old man.”
He turned lightly away, without waiting for his cousin to speak, and the corporal heard him humming an old chanson of the Voyageurs—
“Ah, ah, Babette,
We go away;
But we will come
Again, Babette—
Again back home,
On—”
The song failed suddenly, and as Joe the Indian cracked his whip to the waiting dogs, Dick Bracknell looked back over his shoulder. His face was white and twisted as if with pain, and there was anguish in his eyes. The corporal took a hasty step towards him, but was waved back, and the team moved forward, the runners singing on the windswept ice. For ten minutes the officer stood watching, until the cavalcade passed out of sight behind a tree-clad island, but Dick Bracknell did not look back once. The corporal turned to the fire with a musing look upon his face, and whilst he prepared breakfast, his mind was with the man travelling up the river. The interrupted chanson haunted him and he found himself searching for the unsung fragment. For a time it eluded him, but presently he found it and hummed to himself—