He knelt up in the little vessel gazing back at the ruthless work of his hands. It was there plain enough for him to see. The billows of drifting smoke were darkly outlined against the moonlit, star-decked heavens. And farther inland was the glowing heart of the fire, with leaping splashes of flame lightening up the world around it, hungrily devouring the splendid dwelling that had once been the home of his most hated enemy.
But there was none of the joy in his mood that might have been looked for. No. A light of fury was burning in his merciless eyes. He had been thwarted in his long contemplated vengeance, and he had been driven to the impotent devastation which his savage heart had prompted. He had reached the place only to find it utterly deserted. The house he found devoid of all life, and his search had only yielded him further confirmation that his intended victims had escaped him. So, in his insane savagery, he had done the thing that alone would satisfy. He had fired the house, and seen to it that even the woods about it should not escape destruction.
He remained for awhile contemplating the mischief of his handiwork and drawing such comfort from it as his mood would allow. Then, at last, feasted, satiated, he dipped his paddle again into the sluggish waters.
He knew. He understood. The chance had been his far back there at the mouth of the creek. He had heard the sound of a paddle, and should have guessed. But his wits had failed him, and the snow had blinded him. But even now he did not wholly despair. There was the winter. The man was blind. And the woman—Psha! He drove his paddle with all the fury of his desire.
CHAPTER XV
THE IRONY OF FATE
The race against the season was being won. The race against that other—?
Yes, Bill Wilder was well enough satisfied. Not a day, not an hour had been lost in his rush to the hills. He had spared no effort. And on the return he had driven hard with the full weight of the stream speeding him. There had been the one heavy snowstorm as he had passed out of the mouth of the Valley of the Fire Hills. For a few hours it had blinded him and forced him to shelter. For the rest the luck of the weather had been with him, with only the increasing cold and the twenty hour nights with which to do battle.
He was feeling good as he came to the familiar landing above the Grand Falls, and prepared for his portage down to the canyon of the rapids.
It was all curious in its way, and there were moments on the journey when he found himself half whimsically wondering at the thing he was doing. For the man he was endeavouring to save from the hands of Usak he had only utter loathing and detestation. There was no pity in him, not a moment’s thought of it. For the little distracted woman it was different. He knew he was risking everything in life out of pity for this poor creature, who was nothing in the world to him except that she was a woman, and not even white at that. He realised his utter folly. He even reminded himself that the thing he was doing was not only unfair to himself, but to those others who looked to him for succour, that other whose life had become focussed in him.