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  CHAPTER XXIII

  A FORETASTE OF HELL

  Jessie's eyes flew to West and to Whaley. As yet neither of them hadseen the Blackfoot. She raised a hand and pretended to brush back alock of hair.

  The Indian recognized it as a signal that she had seen him. His headdisappeared.

  Thoughts in the girl's mind raced. If Winthrop Beresford or Tom Morsehad been outside instead of Onistah, she would not have attempted togive directions. Either of them would have been more competent thanshe to work out the problem. But the Blackfoot lacked initiative. Hewould do faithfully whatever he was told to do, but any independentaction attempted by him was likely to be indecisive. She could notconceive of Onistah holding his own against two such men as theseexcept by slaughtering them from the window before they knew he wasthere. He had not in him sufficient dominating ego.

  Whaley was an unknown quantity. It was impossible to foresee how hewould accept the intrusion of Onistah. Since he was playing his owngame, the chances are that he would resent it. In West's case therecould be no doubt. If it was necessary to his plans, he would nothesitate an instant to kill the Indian.

  Reluctantly, she made up her mind to send him back to Faraway forhelp. He would travel fast. Within five hours at the outside he oughtto be back with her father or Beresford. Surely, with Whaley on herside, she ought to be safe till then.

  She caught sight of Onistah again, his eyes level with thewindow-sill. He was waiting for instructions.

  Jessie gave them to him straight and plain. She spoke to Whaley, butfor the Blackfoot's ear.

  "Bring my father here. At once. I want him. Won't you, please?"

  Whaley's blank poker stare focused on her. "The last word I had fromAngus McRae was to keep out of your affairs. I can take a hint withoutwaiting for a church to fall on me. Get some one else to take yourmessages."

  "If you're going back to town I thought--perhaps--you'd tell him howmuch I need him," she pleaded. "Then he'd come--right away."

  Onistah's head vanished. He knew what he had to do and no doubt wasalready on the trail. Outside it was dark. She could hear the swirlingof the wind and the beat of sleet against the window-pane. A storm wasrising. She prayed it might not be a blizzard. Weather permitting, herfather should be here by eight or nine o'clock.

  West, straddling past, snarled at her. "Get Angus McRae outa yorehead. Him an' you's come to the partin' o' the ways. You're travelin'with me now. Un'erstand?"

  His partner, sneering coldly, offered a suggestion. "If you expectto travel far you'd better get your webs to hitting snow. This girlwasn't out looking at the traps all by herself. Her trail leadsstraight here. Her friends are probably headed this way right now."

  "Tha's right." West stopped in his stride. His slow brain stalled."What d' you reckon I better do? If there's only one or two wemight--"

  "No," vetoed Whaley. "Nothing like that. Your play is to get out. Andkeep getting out when they crowd you. No killing."

  "Goddlemighty, I'm a wolf, not a rabbit. If they crowd me, I'll surepump lead," the desperado growled. Then, "D' you mean light outto-night?"

  "To-night."

  "Where'll I go?"

  "Porcupine Creek, I'd say. There's an old cabin there Jacques Perritotused to live in. The snow'll blot out our tracks."

  "You goin' too?"

  "I'll see you that far," Whaley answered briefly.

  "Better bring down the dogs from the coulee, then."

  The gambler looked at him with the cool insolence that characterizedhim. "When did I hire out as your flunkey, West?"

  The outlaw's head was thrust forward and down. He glared at hispartner, who met this manifestation of anger with hard eyes into whichno expression crept. West was not insane enough to alienate his lastally. He drew back sullenly.

  "All right. I'll go, since you're so particular." As his heavy bodyswung round awkwardly, the man's eyes fell on Jessie. She hadlifted one small foot and was starting to pull on one of the dufflestockings. He stood a moment, gloating over the beautifully shapedankle and lower limb, then slouched forward and snatched her up fromthe stool into his arms.

  His savage, desirous eyes had given her an instant's warning. She washalf up before his arms, massive as young trees, dragged her into hisembrace.

  "But before I go I'll have a kiss from my squaw," he roared. "Just toshow her that Bully West has branded her and claims ownership."

  She fought, fiercely, desperately, pushing against his rough beardedface and big barrel chest with all the force in her lithe young body.She was as a child to him. His triumphant laughter pealed as hecrushed her warm soft trunk against his own and buried her in hisopened coat. With an ungentle hand he forced round the averted headtill the fear-filled eyes met his.

  "Kiss yore man," he ordered.

  The girl said nothing. She still struggled to escape, using everyounce of strength she possessed.

  The fury of her resistance amused him. He laughed again, throwing backthe heavy bristling jaw in a roar of mirth.

  "Yore man--yore master," he amended.

  He smothered her with his foul kisses, ravished her lips, her eyes,the soft hot cheeks, the oval of the chin, and the lovely curve ofthe throat. She was physically nauseated when he flung her from himagainst the wall and strode from the room with another horrible whoopof exultation.

  She clung to the wall, panting, eyes closed. A shocking sense ofdegradation flooded her soul. She felt as though she were drowning init, fathoms deep. Her lids fluttered open and she saw the gambler. Hewas still sitting on the stool. A mocking, cynical smile was in theeyes that met Jessie's.

  "And Tom Morse--where, oh, where is he?" the man jeered.

  A chill shook her. Dry sobs welled up in her throat. She was lost.For the first time she knew the cold clutch of despair at her heart.Whaley did not intend to lift a hand for her. He had sat there and letWest work his will.

  "Angus McRae gave me instructions aplenty," he explained maliciously."I was to keep my hands off you. I was to mind my own business. Whenyou see him again--if you ever do--will you tell him I did exactly ashe said?"

  She did not answer. What was there to say? In the cabin was no soundexcept that of her dry, sobbing breath.

  Whaley rose and came across the room. He had thrown aside thegambler's mask of impassivity. His eyes were shining strangely.

  "I'm going--now--out into the storm. What about you? If you're herewhen West comes back, you know what it means. Make your choice. Willyou go with me or stay with him?"

  "You're going home?"

  "Yes." His smile was enigmatic. It carried neither warmth norconviction.

  The man had played his cards well. He had let West give her aforetaste of the hell in store for her. Anything rather than that, shethought. And surely Whaley would take her home. He was no outlaw, buta responsible citizen who must go back to Faraway to live. He had toface her father and Winthrop Beresford of the Mounted--and Tom Morse.He would not harm her. He dared not.

  But she took one vain precaution. "You promise to take me to myfather. You'll not--be like him." A lift of the head indicated the manwho had just gone out.

  "He's a fool. I'm not. That's the difference." He shrugged hisshoulders. "Make your own choice. If you'd rather stay here--"

  But she had made it. She was getting hurriedly into her furs and wasputting on her mittens. Already she had adjusted the snowshoes.

  "We'd better hurry," she urged. "He might come back."

  "It'll be bad luck for him if he does," the gambler said coolly. "Youready?"

  She nodded that she was.

  In another moment they were out of the warm room and into the storm.The wind was coming in whistling gusts, carrying with it a fine sleetthat whipped the face and stung the eyeballs. Before she had been outin the storm five minutes, Jessie had lost all sense of direction.

  Whaley was an expert woodsman. He plunged into the forest, withouthesitation, so surely that she felt he must know where he was going.The girl followed at his
heels, head down against the blast.

  Before this day she had not for months taken a long trip on webs. Legmuscles, called into use without training, were sore and stiff. In thedarkness the soft snow piled up on the shoes. Each step became a drag.The lacings and straps lacerated her tender flesh till she knew herduffles were soaked with blood. More than once she dropped back so farthat she lost sight of Whaley. Each time he came back with words ofencouragement and good cheer.

  "Not far now," he would promise. "Across a little bog and then camp.Keep coming."

  Once he found her sitting on the snow, her back to a tree.

  "You'd better go on alone. I'm done," she told him drearily.

  He was not angry at her. Nor did he bully or browbeat.

  "Tough sledding," he said gently. "But we're 'most there. Got to keepgoing. Can't quit now."

  He helped Jessie to her feet and led the way down into a spongymorass. The brush slapped her face. It caught in the meshes of hershoes and flung her down. The miry earth, oozing over the edges of theframes, clogged her feet and clung to them like pitch.

  Whaley did his best to help, but when at last she crept up to thehigher ground beyond the bog every muscle ached with fatigue.

  They were almost upon it before she saw a log cabin looming out of thedarkness.

  She sank on the floor exhausted. Whaley disappeared into the stormagain. Sleepily she wondered where he was going. She must have dozed,for when her eyes next reported to the brain, there was a brisk fireof birch bark burning and her companion was dragging broken bits ofdead and down timber into the house.

  "Looks like she's getting her back up for a blizzard. Better haveplenty of fuel in," he explained.

  "Where are we?" she asked drowsily.

  "Cabin on Bull Creek," he answered. "Better get off your footwear."

  While she did this her mind woke to activity. Why had he brought herhere? They had no food. How would they live if a blizzard blew up andsnowed them in? And even if they had supplies, how could she livealone for days with this man in a cabin eight by ten?

  As though he guessed what was in her mind, he answered plausiblyenough one of the questions.

  "No chance to reach Faraway. Too stormy. It was neck or nothing. Hadto take what we could get."

  "What'll we do if--if there's a blizzard?" she asked timidly.

  "Sit tight."

  "Without food?"

  "If it lasts too long, I'll have to wait for a lull and make a try forFaraway. No use worrying. We can't help what's coming. Got to face themusic."

  Her eyes swept the empty cabin. No bed. No table. One home-madethree-legged stool. A battered kettle. It was an uninviting prospect,even if she had not had to face possible starvation while she wascaged with a stranger who might any minute develop wolfish hunger forher as he had done only forty-eight hours before.

  He did not look at her steadily. His gaze was in the red glow of thefire a good deal. She talked, and he answered in monosyllables. Whenhe looked at her, his eyes glowed with the hot red light reflectedfrom the fire, Live coals seemed to burn in them.

  In spite of the heat a little shiver ran down her spine.

  Silence became too significant. She was afraid of it. So she talked,persistently, at times a little hysterically. Her memory was good. Ifshe liked a piece of poetry, she could learn it by reading it overa few times. So, in her desperation, she "spoke pieces" to this manwhose face was a gray mask, just as the girls had done at her schoolin Winnipeg.

  Often, at night camps, she had recited for her father. If she had nodramatic talent, at least she had a sweet, clear voice, an earnestnessthat never ranted, and some native or acquired skill in handlinginflections.

  "Do you like Shakespeare?" she asked. "My father's very fond of him.I know parts of several of the plays. 'Henry V' now. That's good.There's a bit where he's talking to his soldiers before they fight theFrench. Would you like that?"

  "Go on," he said gruffly, sultry eyes on the fire.

  With a good deal of spirit she flung out the gallant lines. He beganto watch her, vivid, eager, so pathetically anxious to entertain himwith her small stock of wares.

  "But, if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive."

  There was about her a quality very fine and taking. He caught it firstin those two lines, and again when her full young voice swelled toEnglish Harry's prophecy.

  "And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers: For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

  As he watched her, old memories stirred in him. He had come from agood family in the Western Reserve, where he had rough-and-tumbled upthrough the grades into High School. After a year here he had goneto a Catholic School, Sacred Heart College, and had studied for thepriesthood. He recalled his mother, a gentle, white-haired old lady,with fond pride in him; his father, who had been the soul of honor. Bysome queer chance she had lit on the very lines that he had learnedfrom the old school reader and recited before an audience the last dayprior to vacation.

  He woke from his reveries to discover that she was giving himTennyson, that fragment from "Guinevere" when Arthur tells her of thedream her guilt has tarnished. And as she spoke there stirred in himthe long-forgotten aspirations of his youth.

  "... for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man."

  His eyes were no longer impassive. There was in them, for the momentat least, a hunted, haggard look. He saw himself as he was, in a blazeof light that burned down to his very soul.

  And he saw her too transformed--not a half-breed, the fair prey of anyman's passion, but a clean, proud, high-spirited white girl who livedin the spirit as well as the flesh.

  "You're tired. Better lie down and sleep," he told her, very gently.

  Jessie looked at him, and she knew she was safe. She might sleepwithout fear. This man would not harm her any more than Beresfordor Morse would have done. Some chemical change had occurred in histhoughts that protected her. She did not know what it was, but herpaean of prayer went up to heaven in a little rush of thanksgiving.

  She did not voice her gratitude to him. But the look she gave him wasmore expressive than words.

  Out of the storm a voice raucous and profane came to them faintly.

  "Ah, crapaud Wulf, pren' garde. Yeu-oh! (To the right!) Git down toit, Fox. Sacre demon! Cha! Cha! (To the left!)"

  Then the crack of a whip and a volley of oaths.

  The two in the cabin looked at each other. One was white to the lips.The other smiled grimly. It was the gambler that spoke their commonthought.

  "Bully West, by all that's holy!"