The Snowshoe Trail

  XIV

  Bill only had to turn to see the snowy roof of the cabin, two hundredyards away down the glade. Ordinarily his sharp eyes would havediscerned it long before: perhaps the same inner spirit, encounteredbefore this eventful day, was trying to protect him still. He turnedwithout a word, and no man could have read the expression on hiswind-tanned face. He mushed slowly on to his journey's end.

  It was a new cabin, just erected, and smoke drifted faintly from itschimney. Bill rapped on the door.

  "Come along in," some one answered gruffly. Bill removed his snowshoes,and the door opened before his hand.

  He did not have to glance twice at the bearded face to know in whosepresence he stood. His inner senses told him all too plainly. Changedas he was, there was no chance in heaven or earth for a mistake. Thiswas Harold Lounsbury, the same man who had passed his camp years before,the same lost lover that Virginia had come to find.

  Even now, Bill thought, it was not too late to withdraw. He couldpretend that he had came to quarrel in regard to his trapping rights.After one glance he knew that, from the standard of good sense, therewas a full reason for withdrawal. In the years he might even reconcilehis own conscience to the act. Harold leaned forward, but he didn't getup to meet him.

  Bill scarcely noticed the man's furtive preparations for self-defense.His rifle lay across his knees, and ostensibly he was in the act ofcleaning it, but in reality he was holding it ready for Bill's firstoffensive move. He had known of Bill of old; in the circle in which hemoved--lost utterly to the sight of the men of Bradleyburg--therewere stories in plenty about this stalwart woodsman. For days--eversince he had come here with his Indians and laid down his trapline--he had dreaded just such a visit. The real reason for Bill'scoming did not even occur to him.

  Bill saw that the man was frightened. His lips were loose, his eyesnervous and bright, his hands did not hold quite steady. But all theseobservations were at once obliterated and forgotten in the face of agreater, more profound discovery. In one scrutinizing glance the truthswept him like a flood. Here was one that the wilderness had crushed inits brutal grasp. As far as Bill's standards were concerned, it hadbroken and destroyed him.

  This did not mean that his health was wasted. His body was strong andtrim: except for a suspicious network of red lines in his cheeks and ayellow tinge to the whites of his eyes, he would have seemed in superbphysical condition. The evidence lay rather in the expression of hisface, and most of all in the surroundings in which he lived.

  He had been, to some extent at least, a man of refinement and culturewhen he had passed through Bill's camp so long ago. He had beenclean-shaven except for a small mustache; courteous, rather patronizingbut still friendly. Now he was like a surly beast. His eyes werenarrow and greedy,--weasel eyes that at once Bill mistrusted anddisliked. A scowl was at his lips, no more were they in a firm,straight line. The light and glory of upright manhood, if indeed he hadever possessed it, had gone from him now. He was a friend and acompanion of Joe and Pete: in a measure at least he was of their ownkind.

  When the white man chooses to descend, even the savages of the forestcannot keep pace with him. Bill knew now why Harold had never writtenhome. The wilderness had seized him body and soul, but not in theembrace of love with which it held Bill. Obviously he had taken theline of least resistance to perdition. He had forgotten the world ofmen; in reality he was no longer of it. Bill read the truth--afamiliar truth in the North--in his crafty, stealthy, yet savage face.

  He was utterly unkempt and slovenly. His coarse beard covered his lips,his matted hair was dull with dirt, his skin was scarcely less dark thanthat of the Indians themselves. The nails on his hands were foul; thefloor of the house was cluttered with rubbish and filth. It was aworthy place, this new-built cabin! Even the desolate wastes outsidewere not comparable with this.

  Yet leering through his degeneracy, his identity could not be mistaken.Here was the man Virginia had pierced the North to seek.

  Harold removed his pipe. "What do you want?" he asked.

  For a moment Bill did not answer. His thoughts were wandering afar. Heremembered, when Harold had passed his camp, there had been somethingvaguely familiar, a haunting resemblance to a face seen long before.The same familiarity recurred to him now. But he pushed it away andbent his mind to the subject in hand. "You're Lounsbury, of course," hesaid.

  "Sure." This man had not forgotten his name, in the years that he waslost to men. "I ask you again--what do you want?"

  "You've been living on the Yuga. You came up here to trap in myterritory."

  The man's hands stirred, ever so little, and the rifle moved on hisknees. "You don't own this whole country." Then he seemed totake courage from Bill's impassive face. He remembered his stanchallies--Pete and Joe. "And what if I did?"

  "You knew I trapped here. You brought up Joe Robinson and a breed withyou. You meant to clean up this winter--all the furs in the country."

  Harold's face drew in a scowl. "And what are you goin' to do about it?"

  "The queer thing is----" and Bill spoke quietly, slowly, "I'm not goingto do anything about it--now."

  Harold's crafty eyes searched his face. He wondered if Bill wasafraid--some way it didn't fit into the stories that he had heard of himthat this woodsman should be afraid. But he might as well go on thatsupposition as any other. "Maybe it's a good thing," he said. And foran instant, something of his lost suavity of speech came back to him."Then to what--do I owe the honor of this visit?"

  Bill sighed and straightened. The struggle within himself had, aninstant before, waged more furiously than ever. Why should he not leavethis man to his filthy cabin and his degeneracy and never let Virginiaknow of their meeting? He wondered if such had been his secret plan,concealed in the further recesses of his mind, when he had told herto-day's expedition concerned his mine,--so that he could withdraw ifhe wished. In this course most likely lay the girl's ultimatehappiness, certainly his own. He could steal back; no one would everknow the truth. The man had sunk beneath her; even he, Bill, was moreworthy of her than this degenerate son of cities and culture.

  Yet who was he to dare to take into his own hands the question ofVirginia's destiny? He had promised to bring her lost lover back toher; the fact that he was no longer the man she had known could be onlya subterfuge to quiet his own conscience. Besides, the last sentencethat the man had spoken had been singularly portentous. For the instanthe had fallen into his own native speech, and the fact offeredtremendous possibilities. Could it be that the old days were notentirely forgotten, that some of the virtues that Virginia had loved inhim still dwelt in his degenerate hulk, ready to be wakened again? Hehad heard of men being redeemed. And all at once he knew his course.

  So intent was he upon his thoughts that he scarcely heard the sound ofsteps in the snow outside the cabin door, then the noise of some one onthe threshold in the act of removing snowshoes.

  The task that confronted him now was that, no more and no less, to whichhe had consecrated his life,--to bring happiness to the girl he loved.There was work to do with this man. But even yet he might be redeemed;with Bill's aid his manhood might return to him. His own love for thegirl tore at his heart, the image of his life stretched lonely and drearbefore him, yet he could not turn aside.

  "I didn't come to see you about trapping. I came--about VirginiaTremont."

  His eyes were on Harold's face, and he saw the man start. He had notforgotten the name. Just for an instant his face was stark pale anddevoid of expression. "Virginia!" he cried. "My God, what do you knowabout her?"

  But he didn't wait the answer. All at once he looked, with an annoyanceand anxiety that at first Bill could not understand, toward the door ofthe cabin. The door knob slightly turned.

  Bill wheeled, with a sense of vast and impending drama. Harold swore, asingle brutal oath, then laughed nervously. An Indian squaw--for allher filth an untidiness a fair representative of
her breed--pushedthrough the door and came stolidly inside. She walked to the back ofthe cabin and began upon some household task.

  Bill's face was stern as the gray cliffs of the Selkirks when he turnedagain to Harold. "Is that your woman?" he asked simply.

  Harold did not reply. He had not wished this man, emissary from his oldacquaintances of his native city, to know about Sindy. He retained thatmuch pride, at least. But the answer to Bill's question was tooself-evident for him to attempt denial. He nodded, shrugging hisshoulders.

  Bill waited an instant; and his voice when he spoke again was singularlylow and flat. "Did you marry her?"

  Harold shrugged again. "One doesn't marry squaws," he replied.

  Once more the silence was poignant in the wretched cabin. "I came tofind Harold Lounsbury, a gentleman," Bill went on in the same strange,flat voice, "and I find--a squaw man."

  * * * * *

  Bill realized at once that this new development did not in the leastaffect his own duty. His job had been to find Harold and return him toVirginia's arms. It was not for him to settle the girl's destiny. Forall he had spent his days in the great solitudes of nature he knewenough of life to know that women do not give their love to angels.Rather they love their men as much for their weaknesses as for theirvirtues. This smirch in Harold's life was a question for the two ofthem to settle between them.

  It did, however, complicate the work of regeneration. Bill had knownsquaw men before, and few of them had ever regenerated. Usually theywere men that could not stand the test of existence by their own toil:either from failure or weakness they took this sordid line of leastresistance. From thence on they did not struggle down the trap line inthe bitter winter days. They laid comfortably in their cabins and theirsquaws tended to such small matters. It was true that the squaws woreout quickly; sometimes they needed beating, and at about forty theywithered and died, or else the blizzard caught them unprotected in theforest,--and then it became necessary to select another. This was anannoyance, but not a tragedy. One was usually as faithful and asindustrious as another.

  It was perfectly evident that Sindy had been at work setting out traps.Bill stared at the woman and for the moment he did not see the littlesparks growing to flame in Harold's eyes.

  "What did you say?" he asked, menacing. He had caught a word that hascome to be an epithet in the North.

  But by taking it up Harold made a severe strategical error. Bill hadnever hesitated, by the light of an ancient idiom, to call a spade aspade. Also he always had good reasons before he took back his words."I said," he repeated clearly, "that I'd found--a squaw man."

  Harold's muscles set but immediately relaxed again. He shrugged once."And is it anybody's business but my own?" he asked.

  "It hadn't ought to be, but it is," was the answer. "It's my business,and somebody else's too." he turned to the woman. "Listen, Sindy, andgive me a polite answer. You're Joe Robinson's sister, aren't you?"

  The Indian looked up, nodded, then went back to her work.

  "Then you left Buckshot Dan--to come here and live with this whiteman?"

  Harold turned to her with a snarl. "Don't answer him, Sindy. It's noneof his business." Then his smoldering eyes met Bill's. "Now we'vetalked enough. You can go."

  "Wait!" Something in the grave face and set features silenced the squawman. "But it's true--we have talked just about enough. I've got onequestion. Lounsbury--do you think, by any chance--you've got anymanhood left? Do you think you're rotten clear through?"

  Harold leaped then, savage as a wolf, and his rifle swung in his arms.Instantly Bill's form, impassive before, seemed simply to waken withlife. There was no rage in his face, only determination; but his armdrove out fast as a serpent's head. Seemingly with one motion hewrenched the gun from the man's hand and sent him spinning against thewall.

  Before even his body crashed against the logs, Bill had whirled to facethe squaw. He knew these savage women. It would be wholly in characterfor her whip a gleaming knife from her dress and spring to her man'said. But she looked up as if with indifference, and once more went backto her work.

  Bill was considerably heartened. At least he didn't have to deal withthe savage love that sometimes the Indian women bore the whites. Sindywas evidently wholly indifferent to Harold's fate. The match obviouslyhad not been a great success.

  For an instant Harold lay still, crumpled on the floor; then hisbleeding hands fumbled at his belt. Once more Bill sprang and snatchedhim to his feet. The holster, however, was empty.

  "No more of that," Bill cautioned. The man's eyes smoldered withresentment, but for the moment he was cowed. "Before you start anythingmore, hear what I've got to offer you." His voice lowered, and thewords came rather painfully. "It's your one chance, Lounsbury--tocome back. Virginia Tremont has come into the North, looking for you.She's at my camp. She wants to take you back with her."

  Lounsbury's breath caught with a strange, sobbing sound. "Virginia--uphere?" he cried. "Does she know about--this----" He indicated thecabin interior, and all it meant, with one sweep of his arm.

  "Of course not. How could she? Whether you tell her or not is a matterfor you and she to decide. She's come to find you--and bring youback."

  "My God! To the States?"

  "Of course."

  For the instant the black wrath had left his face, and his thought swungbackward to his own youth,--to the days he had known Virginia in afar-off city. He was more than a little awed at this manifestation ofher love. He supposed that she had forgotten him long since and hadnever dreamed that she would search for him here.

  Once more the expression of his face changed, and Bill couldn't haveexplained the wave of revulsion that surged through him. He only knew ablind desire to tear with his strong fingers those leering lips beforehim. Harold was lost in insidious speculations. He remembered thegirl's beauty, the grace and litheness of her form, the holy miracle ofher kisses. Opposite him sat his squaw,--swarthy, unclean, shapeless,comely as squaws go but as far from Virginia as night was from day.Perhaps it wasn't too late yet----

  But at that instant he heard the East Wind on the roof, and he recalledthat the old problem of existence faced him still. He had solved it uphere. His cabin was warm, he was full-fed; the squaw grubbed his livingfor him out of the frozen forests. He did not want to be forced to facethe competition of civilized existence again. He was dirty, care-free;his furs supplied food and clothes for him and certain rags for her, andfilled his cupboard with strong drink. He remembered that the girl hadhad no money, and that he had come first to the North to find gold. Ifhe had succeeded, if his poke were heavy with the yellow metal, he couldgo back to his city and take up his old life anew, but he couldn't beginat the bottom. With wealth at his command he might even find a moredesirable woman than Virginia: perhaps the years had changed her even ashimself. There was no need of dreaming further about the matter. Onlyone course, considering the circumstances, lay before him.

  "You're very kind," he said at last. "But I won't go. Tell her youdidn't find me."

  Bill straightened and sighed. "Make no mistake about that, Lounsbury,"he answered. "You're going with me--" and then he spoke softly, a pausebetween each word--"if I have to drag you there through the snow. Iwas told to bring you back, and I'm going to do it."

  "You are, eh?" Harold scowled and tried to find courage to attack thisman again. Yet his muscles hung limp, and he couldn't even raise hiseyes to meet those that looked so steadfastly at him now.

  "Sindy can go home to Buckshot Dan. He'll take her back--you stoleher from him. And you, Lounsbury, rotten as you are, are coming withme. God knows I hope she'll drive you from her door; but I'm going tobring you, just the same."

  Harold's eyes glowed, and for the moment his brain was too busy withother considerations openly to resent the words. Then his face grewcunning. It was all plain enough: Bill loved Virginia himself. Throughsome code of ethics that was almost
incredible to Harold, he was willingto sacrifice his own happiness for hers. And the way to pay for therough treatment he had just had, treatment that he couldn't, at presentat least, avenge in kind, was to win the girl away from him. The thingwas already done. She loved him enough to search even the frozen realmsof the North for him: simply by a little tenderness, a little care, hecould command her to love to the full again. The fact that Bill wantedher made her infinitely more desirable to him.

  "You won't tell her--about Sindy?"

  "Not as long as you're decent. That's for you to settle foryourself--whether she finds out about her."

  Harold believed him. While he himself would have used the smirch as aweapon against his rival, he knew that Bill meant what he said. "I'llgo," he announced. "If she's at the Gray Lake cabin, we've got plentyof time to make it before dark."