Produced by Kathryn Lybarger and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net A MATING IN THE WILDS _BORZOI WESTERN STORIES_ THE CROSS PULL _By Hal G. Evarts_ THE LONG DIM TRAIL _By Forrestine Hooker_ A MATING IN THE WILDS _By Ottwell Binns_ A MATING IN THE WILDS BY OTTWELL BINNS NEW YORK ALFRED A. KNOPF 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS I THE MAN FROM THE RIVER, 7 II AN ATTACK AT MIDNIGHT, 18 III A LOST GIRL, 31 IV A PIECE OF WRECKAGE, 43 V A BRAVE RESCUE, 56 VI A MYSTERIOUS SHOT, 68 VII STRANDED, 80 VIII A MEETING IN THE FOREST, 95 IX UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE, 105 X A CANOE COMES AND GOES, 118 XI A FOREST FIRE, 132 XII THE RAFT, 146 XIII A LODGE IN THE WILDERNESS, 158 XIV MYSTERIOUS VISITORS, 172 XV A FACE AT THE TENT-DOOR, 185 XVI AN ARROW OUT OF THE NIGHT, 199 XVII THE ATTACK, 212 XVIII A DEAD GIRL, 225 XIX A HOT TRAIL, 238 XX A PRISONER, 251 XXI CHIGMOK'S STORY, 264 XXII AINLEY'S STORY, 278 XXIII A SURPRISE FOR AINLEY, 292 XXIV THE TRAIL TO PARADISE, 305 CHAPTER I THE MAN FROM THE RIVER The man in the canoe was lean and hardy, and wielded the paddle against the slow-moving current of the wide river with a dexterity that proclaimed long practice. His bronzed face was that of a quite young man, but his brown hair was interspersed with grey; and his blue eyes had a gravity incompatible with youth, as if already he had experience of the seriousness of life, and had eaten of its bitter fruits. He was in a gala dress of tanned deerskin, fringed and worked by native hands, the which had quite probably cost him more than the most elegant suit by a Bond Street tailor, and the effect was as picturesque as the heart of a young male could desire. To be in keeping with such gay attire he should have worn a smiling face, and sung some joyous chanson of the old voyageurs, but he neither sang nor smiled; paddling steadily on towards his destination. This was a northern post of the Hudson Bay Company, built in the form of a hollow square with a wide frontage open to the river. The trading store, the warehouse, and the factor's residence with its trim garden, occupied the other three sides of the square, and along the river front was a small floating wharf. A tall flag-pole rose above the buildings, and the flag itself fluttered gaily in the summer breeze, taking the eye at once with its brave colouring. The young man in the canoe noticed it whilst he was half a mile away, and for a moment, ceasing his paddling, he looked at it doubtfully, his brow puckering over his grave eyes. The canoe began to drift backward in the current, but he made no effort to check it, instead, he sat there staring at the distant flag, with a musing look upon his face, as if he were debating some question with himself. At last he spoke aloud, after the habit of men who dwell much alone. "The steamer can't have come yet. It probably means nothing except that the factor is expecting its arrival. Anyway I must have the grub, and I can get away in the morning." He dipped his paddle again. The canoe ceased to drift and began to forge ahead towards the post. Before he drew level with it, he started to steer across the current, but instead of making for the wharf, beached his canoe on the rather marshy bank to the north of the buildings; then having lifted it out of the water, he stood to his full height and stretched himself, for he had been travelling in the canoe eleven days and was conscious of body stiffness owing to the cramped position he had so long maintained. Standing on the bank he surveyed the river carefully. Except for a drifting log there was nothing moving on its wide expanse. He listened intently. The soft wind was blowing down river, but it did not bring with it the throb of a steamer's screw which he half expected to hear. He nodded to himself. "Time enough!" Then he became aware of sounds for which he had not listened--the voices of men somewhere in the post's enclosure, and, nearer at hand, that of some one singing in some soft Indian dialect. He turned swiftly, and coming along a half-defined path between the willows, caught sight of the singer--a native girl of amazing beauty. She wore a tunic of beaded caribou-skin, which fitting closely revealed rather than concealed the lines of her lithe young figure. Her face was light-bronze in colour, every feature clearly cut as a cameo, the forehead smooth and high, the nose delicately aquiline, the lips a perfect cupid's bow, the eyebrows high and arched. The eyes themselves were soft and dark and had the wildness of the wilderness-born, whilst the hair, black and luminous as the raven's wing, crisped in curls instead of hanging in the straight plaits of the ordinary native woman. She moved forward slowly with graceful stride of one whose feet had never known the cramping of civilized foot-gear, tall and straight and as royal-looking as Eve must have been when she left the hand of God. To the man, as he stood there, she seemed like an incarnate spirit of the wilds, like the soft breath of the Northland spring, like---- Similes failed him of the suddenest, for in that instant the girl grew aware of him and checked her stride and song at the same moment. For a fraction of time they stood there looking at each other, the man of the white dominant race, the girl of a vanishing people, whose origin is shrouded in the grey mists of time. There was wonder on the man's face, for never had he seen such beauty in a native, and on the girl's face there was a startled look such as the forest doe shows when the wind brings the breath of a presence that it does not see. Then the delicate nostrils quivered, the soft dark eyes kindled with sudden flame, and the rich blood surged in the bronze face from chin to brow. Almost unconsciously the man took a step forward. But at that the girl, turning suddenly, fled between the willows like the creature of the wild she was, and the man checked himself and stood watching until she was lost to view. There was a thoughtful look in his blue eyes which suddenly gave way as he smiled. "A tinted Venus!" he murmured to himself. "I wonder where she belongs." Looking round, away across the willows, planted on the meadow above the marshy banks, he caught sight of the tops of a couple of moose-hide tepees, and nodded to himself. "Come with the family to barter the winter's fur-catch." For a moment he stood there with his eyes fixed on the skin-tents. There was a reflective look upon his face, and at the end of the moment he made a movement towards the path along which the girl had fled. Then he stopped, laughed harshly at himself, and with the old look back on his face, turned again to his canoe, unloaded it, and began to pitch camp. At the end of half an hour, having lit a pipe, he strolled towards the trading-post. Entering the Square of the enclosure he looked nonchalantly about him. Two men, half-breeds, were sitting on a roughly-made bench outside the store, smoking and talking. Inside the store a tall Indian was bartering with a white man, whom he easily guessed to be the factor, and as he looked round from the open door of the factor's house, emerged a white woman whom he divined was the factor's wife. She was followed by a rather dapper young man of medium height, and who, most incongruously in that wild Northland, sported a single eyeglass. The man fell into step by the woman's side, and together they began to walk across the Square in the direction of the store. The man from the river watched them idly, waiting where he was, puffing slowly at his pipe, until they drew almost level with him. Then he stiffened suddenly, and an alert look came in his eyes. At the same moment the other man, apparently becoming aware of his presence for the first time, stared at him calmly, almost insolently. Then he started. The monocle dropped from his eye, and his face went suddenly white. He half-paused in his stride, then averting his gaze from the other man hurried forward a little. The factor's wife, who had observed the incident, looked at him inquiringly. "Do you know that man, Mr. Ainley?" The dapper young man laughed a short, discordant laugh. "He certainly bears a resemblance to a man whom I knew some years ago." "He seemed to recognize you, Mr. Ainley. I saw that much in his eyes." "Then probably he is the man whom I used to know, but I did not expect to meet him up here." "No?" She waited as if for further information which was not immediately forthcoming, then she continued: "There are many men up here whom one does not expect to meet, men who belong 'to the legion of the lost ones, the cohort of the damned,' who have buried their old selves for ever. I wonder if that man is one of them?" Gerald Ainley's face had regained its natural colour. Again he laughed as he replied: "If he is the man I knew he is certainly of the lost legion, for he has been in prison." "In prison?" echoed the woman quickly. "He does not look like a gaol-bird. What was the crime?" "Forgery! The judge was merciful and gave him three years' penal servitude." "What is his name?" "Stane--Hubert Stane!" replied the man shortly. As he spoke he glanced back over his shoulder towards the man whom they were discussing, then hastily averted his eyes. The man from the river had turned round and was looking at him with concentrated gaze. His face was working as if he had lost control of his facial muscles, and his hands were tightly clenched. It was clear that the meeting with Ainley had been something of a shock to him, and from his attitude it appeared that he resented the other man's aloofness. "The hound!" he whispered to himself, "the contemptible hound!" Then as Ainley and the factor's wife disappeared in the store, he laughed harshly and relit his pipe. As he did so, his fingers shook so that the match bobbed against the pipe-bowl, and it was very manifest that he was undergoing a great strain. He stood there staring at the store. Once he began to move towards it irresolutely, then changed his mind and came to a standstill again. "No!" he whispered below his breath. "I'll wait till the cad comes out--I'll force him to acknowledge me." But scarcely had he reached the decision, when on the quiet air came the clear notes of a bugle sounding the alert and turning his thoughts in a new direction. The notes came from the river, and were so alien to that northern land that he swung round to discover their origin. At the same moment the two half-breeds leapt from the bench and began to run towards the wharf. John Rodwell, the factor and his wife, emerged from the store and hurried in the same direction, followed by the Indian who had been bartering. Two other men appeared at the warehouse door, and as the strains of the bugle sounded again, also began to run towards the wharf, whilst from the factor's house came a boy and girl, followed by a white woman and a couple of Indian servants, all of whom followed in the wake of the others. The man in the Square did not move. Having turned towards the river as the bugle-call floated clear and silvery, and being unable to see upstream because of the fort buildings, he remained where he was, keeping one eye on the store. The man who had passed him in the Square had not emerged. Stane stood there for two or three minutes watching first the river and then the door. At the end of that time, with a resolute look on his face, he began to stride towards the store. He was half-way there when the sound of a thin cheer reached him from the wharf. He turned and looked round. His change of position had given him an enlarged view of the river, and distant perhaps a quarter of a mile or so away he saw a brigade of boats. He stood and stared at them wonderingly for a moment, then resumed his way towards the store. As he entered he looked round, and, standing near the parchment window he caught sight of the man for whom he was looking. Ainley was rather white of face, but his eyeglass was in its place, and outwardly he was collected and cool. Hubert Stane regarded him silently for a moment, then he laughed mirthlessly. "Well, Ainley," he said abruptly, "this is a strange meeting place." "Ah!" said the other quickly. "It is you, Stane, after all!" "Surely you knew that just now?" was the reply in a cutting voice. "No, you wrong me there! I was not sure. You must remember that I was not expecting to see you up here. You had dropped out, and I had never heard a word of you since--since----" "Since I went to Dartmoor," Stane laughed again his cold, mirthless laugh. "There is no need to mince matters, Ainley. All the world knows I went there, and you need not go to any trouble to spare my feelings. When a man has been through hell nothing else matters, you know." Gerald Ainley did not reply. He stood there with an embarrassed look on his face, obviously ill at ease, and the other continued: "You do not seem pleased to see me--an old friend--you cut me just now. Why?" "Well--er--really, Stane you--you ought to--er--be able to guess!" "Perhaps I can," answered Stane ruthlessly. "Things are different now. I am a discharged convict, down and out, and old friendship counts for nothing. Is that it?" "Well," replied Ainley, half-apologetically, "you can scarcely expect that it sould be otherwise. I suppose that, really, that is why you left England. It would have been impossible for you to resume your old life among the men you knew----" "You are the first of them that I have encountered--with one exception." "Indeed," asked the other politely, "who was the exception?" "It was Kingsley. You remember him? He came to see me just before I left Dartmoor. He believed in my innocence, and he wanted me to stay in England and clear my name. He also told me something that set me thinking, and latterly I have been rather wanting to meet you, because there is a question I want answering." The sound of the bugle playing a gay fanfare broke in on the silence that followed his words, and this was followed by a rather scattered cheer. Ainley started. "Really, Stane, you must excuse me just now; I must go down to the wharf--it is my duty to do so. At--er--a more fitting opportunity I shall be glad for the sake of old times, to answer any question that you may wish to ask me. But I really must go now. That is one of the governors of the company arriving. He will be expecting to see me!" He took a step towards the door, but the other blocked the way. "I'm not going to be fobbed off with a mere excuse, Ainley. I want to talk with you; and if I can't have it now, I must know when I can." "Where are you staying?" asked the other shakily. "My camp is just outside the post here." "Then I will come to you tonight, Stane. I shall be late--midnight as like as not." "I shall wait for you," answered Stane, and stepped aside. Ainley made a hurried exit, and the man whom he had left, moving to the door, watched him running towards the wharf, where a large Peterboro' canoe had just swung alongside. There were several others making for the wharf, and as Stane watched, one by one they drew up, and discharged their complement of passengers. From his vantage place on the rising ground the watcher saw a rather short man moving up from the wharf accompanied by the obsequious factor, and behind him two other men and four ladies, with the factor's wife and Gerald Ainley. The sound of feminine laughter drifted up the Square, and as it reached him Stane stepped out from the store and hurried away in the opposite direction. CHAPTER II AN ATTACK AT MIDNIGHT It was near midnight, but far from dark. In the northern heavens a rosy glow proclaimed the midnight sun. Somewhere in the willows a robin was chirping, and from the wide bosom of the river, like the thin howl of a wolf, came the mocking cry of a loon still pursuing its finny prey. And in his little canvas tent, sitting just inside, so as to catch the smoke of the fire that afforded protection from the mosquitoes, Hubert Stane still watched and waited for the coming of his promised visitor. He was smoking, and from the look upon his face it was clear that he was absorbed in thoughts that were far from pleasant. His pipe went out, and still he sat there, thinking, thinking. Half an hour passed and the robin making the discovery that it was really bed-time, ceased its chirping; the loon no longer mocked the wolf, but still the man sat behind his smoke-smudge, tireless, unsleeping, waiting. Another half-hour crept by with leaden feet, then a new sound broke the stillness of the wild, the tinkling of a piano, sadly out of tune, followed by a chorus of voices lifted up in the homeland song. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot And days o' lang syne?" As the simple melody progressed, a look of bitterness came on Stane's face, for the song brought to him memories of other times and scenes which he had done his best to forget. He started to his feet and stepping outside the tent began to walk restlessly to and fro. The music ended and he stood still to listen. Now no sound except the ripple of the river broke the quiet, and after a moment he nodded to himself. "Now, he will come." The thin pungent song of a mosquito impinged upon the stillness, something settled on his neck and there followed a swift sting like the puncture of a hypodermic needle. Instantly he slapped the place with his hand, and retreated behind his smoke-smudge. There he threw himself once more on the pack that served him for seat and waited, as it seemed interminably. His fire died down, the smoke ceased to hide the view, and through the adjacent willows came the sudden sough of moving air. A robin broke into song, and once more the wail of the loon sounded from the wide river. Away to the north the sky flushed with crimson glory, then the sun shot up red and golden. A new day had broken; and Stane had watched through the brief night of the Northland summer for a man who had not appeared and he was now assured, would not come. He laughed bitterly, and rising kicked the fire together, threw on fresh fuel, and after one look towards the still sleeping Post, returned to the tent, wrapped himself in a blanket, and shortly after fell asleep. Three hours later he was awakened by a clatter of voices and the clamour of barking dogs, passing from sleep to full wakeness like a healthy child. Kicking the blanket from him he slipped on his moccasins and stepped outside where the source of the clamour at once manifested itself. A party of Indians had just beached their canoes, and were exchanging greetings with another party, evidently that whose tepees stood on the meadow outside the fort, for among the women he saw the Indian girl who had fled through the willows after encountering him. He watched the scene with indifferent eyes for a moment or two, then securing a canvas bucket went down to the river for water, and made his toilet. That done, he cooked his breakfast, ate it, tided up his camp, and lighting a pipe strolled into the enclosure of the Post. Several Indians were standing outside the store, and inside the factor and his clerk were already busy with others; bartering for the peltries brought from the frozen north to serve the whims of fashion in warmer lands. In the Square itself stood the plump gentleman who had landed the day before, talking to a cringing half-breed, whilst a couple of ladies with him watched the aborigines outside the store with curious eyes. Stane glanced further afield. Two men were busy outside the warehouse, a second half-breed sprawled on the bench by the store, but the man for whom he had waited through the night was not in sight. With a grimace of disappointment he moved towards the store. As he did so a little burst of mellow laughter sounded, and turning swiftly he saw the man whom he was looking for round the corner of the warehouse accompanied by a girl, who laughed heartily at some remark of her companion. Stane halted in his tracks and looked at the pair who were perhaps a dozen yards or so away. The monocled Ainley could not but be aware of his presence, yet except that he kept his gaze resolutely averted, he gave no sign of being so. But the girl looked at him frankly, and as she did so, Hubert Stane looked back, and caught his breath, as he had reason to. She was fair as an English rose, moulded in spacious lines like a daughter of the gods, with an aureole of glorious chestnut hair, shot with warm tints of gold and massed in simplicity about a queenly head. Her mouth was full, her chin was softly strong, her neck round and firm as that of a Grecian statue, and her eyes were bluey-grey as the mist of the northern woods. Fair she was, and strong--a true type of those women who, bred by the English meadows, have adventured with their men and made their homes in the waste places of the earth. Her grey eyes met Stane's quite frankly, without falling, then turned nonchalantly to her companion, and Stane, watching, saw her speak, and as Ainley flashed a swift glance in his direction, and then replied with a shrug of his shoulders, he easily divined that the girl had asked a question about himself. They passed him at half a dozen yards distance, Ainley with his face set like a flint, the girl with a scrutinizing sidelong glance that set the blood rioting in Stane's heart. He stood and watched them until they reached the wharf, saw them step into a canoe, and then, both of them paddling, they thrust out to the broad bosom of the river. Not till then did he avert his gaze, and turn again to the store. The great man of the company was still talking to the half-breed, and the other half-breed had risen from his seat and was staring into the store. He looked round as Stane approached him. "By gar," he said enthusiastically, "dat one very fine squaw-girl dere." Stane looked forward through the open doorway, and standing near the long counter, watching a tall Indian bartering with the factor, saw the beautiful Indian girl from the neighbouring camp. He nodded an affirmative, and seeing an opportunity to obtain information turned and spoke to the man. "Yes, but that girl there with Mr. Ainley----" "Oui, m'sieu. But she no squaw-girl. She grand person who make' ze tour with ze governor." "Oh, the governor makes the tour, does he?" "Oui, oui! In the old style, with a brigade of boats, and a bugler. A summer trip, vous comprenez--a picnic to all ze posts in ze province. Thus it is to be a great man!" "And Mr. Ainley, what is he doing at Fort Malsun?" "Ah, M'sieu Ainley! He also is ze great man. He is to be among the governors--one day. He also visits ze posts, and will no doubt travel with ze governor, whose protégé he is." "Is that so?" "Dat is so! He is ze favourite, vous comprenez?" "I did not know it." "Non? But so it ees! And Louis and me, we go with heem in ze canoe to serve heem. Though by gar, I like to make stop here, an' talk to dat squaw-girl." Stane made no vocal reply to this. He nodded carelessly and passed into the store. Factor Rodwell looked round as he entered, and surveyed him with a measuring eye, as if taking stock of a new acquaintance, then gave him a curt nod and resumed his barter with the Indian. His assistant being also busy for the moment, Stane turned towards the Indian girl whose liquid eyes were regarding him shyly, and addressed her in her native dialect. "Little sister, why did you run from me yesterday?" The girl was covered with confusion at the directness of his question, and to help her over her embarrassment the young man laughed. "You did not mistake me for Moorseen (the black bear) or the bald-face grizzly, did you?" At the question the girl laughed shyly, and shook her head without speaking. "I am but a man, and not the grizzled one. Wherefore should you run from me, little sister?" "I had never seen such a man before." The directness of the answer, given in a shy voice, astonished him. It was his turn to be embarrassed and he strove to turn the edge of the compliment. "Never seen a white man before!" he cried in mock amazement. "I did not say that I had never seen a white man before. I have seen many. The priest up at Fort of God, the doctor priest at the Last Hope, the factor there, and M'sieu Ainley who came to our camp yesternight. And there is also this fat man they call the governor--a great chief, it is said; though he does not look as such a great one should look. Yes, I have seen many white men, but none like thee before." Hubert Stane was routed once more by the girl's directness, but strove to recover himself by a return of compliments. "Well," he laughed, "for that matter there are none so many like thyself in the world. I wonder what thy name is?" The girl flushed with pleasure at the compliment, and answered his question without reserve. "I am Miskodeed." "The Beauty of the Spring! Then thou art well-named, little sister!" The girl flushed with pleasure. The flame that had leapt in her dark eyes at their first meeting burned once more, and where, but for an interruption, the conversation would have drifted can only be conjectured. But at that precise moment the tall Indian called to her. "Miskodeed." The girl moved swiftly to him and with a gesture that was almost royal the Indian pointed to a pile of trade goods heaped upon the long counter. The girl gathered as much as was possible in her arms, and staggered with her load from the store, and as Factor Rodwell nodded to him, Hubert Stane moved up the counter, and began to give his order. The factor wrote it down without comment, glancing at his customer from time to time with shrewd appraising eyes, and when Stane had paid for the goods which were to be ready before noon, he asked a question. "New to the district, aren't you?" "I wintered here," replied Stane briefly. "Then you did no trapping," said the factor with a laugh, "or you'd have brought your pelts in. I guess you must be prospecting?" "I have done a little," agreed Stane, a touch of reserve in his manner. "A lonely job!" commented the factor. "Yes," was Stane's reply, then he nodded and turned towards the door. The factor watched him go with frowning eyes, then turned to his assistant. "Not a very sociable sort, hey, Donald?" The assistant grinned, and shook his head. "Tongue-tied, I guess." "I wonder where he has his location." "Somewhere North!" answered Donald. "He came upstream, I saw him." The factor said no more to him, but passed out of the store towards the warehouse. As he did so he caught sight of Stane standing in the Square watching a canoe far out on the river. The factor's eyes were good and he recognized the occupants of the craft quite easily, and as he saw Stane's interest in them, the frown gathered about his eyes once more, and he muttered to himself: "I wonder what Mr. Ainley's little game means?" Then as he was unable to find any answer to his question he turned again to his own affairs. As for Hubert Stane he stood in the Square for quite a long time watching for the return of the canoe, determined to have speech with Ainley. Then, as it still lingered, he turned and made his way to his own camp. It was quite late in the afternoon when the opportunity he sought was given to him. Impelled by the merest curiosity he had strolled over to the Indian tepees and had there encountered Miskodeed teaching a puppy-dog tricks. He had stopped to speak to her, and was still engaged in a rather one-sided conversation, when the sound of English voices caused him to turn round. The governor's party, accompanied by the factor, was moving towards the tepees. His first impulse was to go away, then seeing Ainley among the little knot of people, he decided to remain, and to serve his own end, kept Miskodeed in conversation, as when left to herself she would have fled to the moose-hide tent. The party drew nearer. Stane was conscious of its attention, and the blood in Miskodeed's face came and went in a manner that was almost painful. Any one looking at them, and noting the apparent absorption of the man and the certain embarrassment of the girl, must have utterly miscomprehended the situation, and that was what happened, for a moment later, the sound of a laughing feminine voice reached him. "Behold an idyll of the land!" He looked up with an angry light in his blue eyes. The party was just passing, and nearly every pair of eyes was regarding him curiously. And one pair, the grey eyes of the girl who had been with Ainley, met his in level glance, and in them he saw a flicker of contempt. That glance sent the blood to his face, and increased the anger which had surged within him at the laughing remark he had overheard. Ainley was among these people, and come what might he would have speech with him before them all. He stepped forward determinedly; but Ainley, who had been watching him closely, anticipated his move by falling out of the group. "Don't be a fool, Stane! You'll do yourself no good by kicking up a dust here. I couldn't come last night, but tonight at the same time I will not fail." He turned and moved on again before Stane could reply, and as he joined the English girl, the latter inquired in a surprised voice, "You know that gentleman, Mr. Ainley?" Stane caught the question, but the answer he did not hear, though he could guess its purport and found no pleasure at the thought of what it would be. Consumed with wrath and shame he went his way to his own camp, and seeking relief from intolerable thoughts busied himself with preparations for a start on the morrow, then schooled himself to wait as best he could, through the long hours before Ainley's appointed time. Again the midnight sun found him sitting behind his smoke-smudge, waiting, listening. All the songs and cries of the wild faded into silence and still Ainley had not come. Then he caught the sound of light feet running, and looking up he saw Miskodeed hurrying towards him between the willows. Wondering what had brought her forth at this hour he started to his feet and in that instant he saw a swift look of apprehension and agony leap to her face. "Beware, my brother----" He heard no more. A man rose like a shadow by his side, with lifted hand holding an ax-shaft. Before he could move or cry out the shaft descended on his uncovered head and he dropped like a man suddenly stricken dead. When he came to himself the rosy Northland night had given place to rosier dawn, and he found that he was lying, bound hand and foot, at the bottom of a Peterboro' canoe. There were three Indians in the canoe, one of whom he recognized for Miskodeed's father, and after lying for a few minutes wondering what was the meaning of the situation in which he found himself he addressed himself to the Indian: "What is the meaning of this?" The Indian stared at him like a graven image, but vouchsafed no reply. Stane lay there wondering if it had anything to do with Miskodeed, and finally, recalling the girl's dramatic appearance at the very moment when he had been stricken down, decided that it had. "What are you going to do with me?" he inquired after an interval. "Nothing," replied the Indian. "At the end of five days thou wilt be set free, and the canoe follows behind." "But why----" "It is an order," said the Indian gravely, and beyond that Stane could learn nothing, though he tried repeatedly in the five days that followed. At the end of the fifth day they pitched camp as usual, at the evening meal, and lay down to sleep, Stane tied hand and foot with buckskin thongs. In the morning, when he awoke, he was alone and his limbs were free. Scarce believing the facts he sat up and looked around him. Unquestionably his captors had gone, taking the Peterboro' with them, but leaving his own canoe hauled up on the bank. Still overcome with astonishment he rose to his feet and inspected the contents of the canoe. All the stores that he had purchased at the Post were there intact, with his rifle, his little tent and camp utensils, so far as he could tell, not a single article was missing. What on earth was the meaning of it all? "Miskodeed!" As he spoke the name the possibility that his acquaintance with the girl had been misunderstood by her relations shot into his mind. But in that case why had they dealt with him after this fashion? Then again he seemed to hear the Indian speaking. "It is an order!" "Whose order?" As his mind asked the question, he visioned Gerald Ainley, and was suddenly conscious of a great anger. Was it possible that he----? He broke off the question in his mind without finishing it; but lifted his clenched hand and shook it before the silent wilderness. His attitude was full of dumb menace, and left in no doubt his belief as to who was the author of the event that had befallen him. CHAPTER III A LOST GIRL Mr. Gerald Ainley standing in the meadow outside the Post, looked towards the river bank with smiling eyes. Where Hubert Stane's little tent had been the willows now showed an unbroken line, and he found that fact a source of satisfaction. Then between the willows he caught sight of a moving figure, and after one glance at it, began to hurry forward. A moment later the figure emerged from the willows and stood on the edge of the meadow, revealing its identity as that of the English girl with whom he had walked on the previous day. Without observing him the girl turned round and began to walk towards the Indian encampment and Ainley immediately altered his course, walking quickly so as to intercept her. He joined her about a score of paces from the tents and smilingly doffed his cap. "Good morning, Miss Yardely. You are astir early." Helen Yardely laughed lightly. "It is impossible to do anything else in this country, where it is daylight all the time, and birds are crying half the night. Besides we are to make a start after breakfast." "Yes, I know; I'm going with you." "You are going with us, Mr. Ainley!" There was a little note of surprise in the girl's tones. "My uncle has not mentioned it!" "No! It was only finally decided last night; though from the beginning of the excursion it has been contemplated. Sir James is making notes of his journey which I am to supplement. I believe he has an idea of bringing out a book describing the journey!" "Which you are to write, I suppose?" laughed the girl. "Well," countered the man also laughing, "I am to act as amanuensis. And after all you know I am in the service of the Company, whose fortunes Sir James directs." "He may direct them," answered the girl lightly, "but it is other men who carry them--the men of the wilds who bring the furs to the posts, and the traders who live in isolation from year's end to year's end. You must not take my uncle quite so seriously as he takes himself, Mr. Ainley." Gerald Ainley smiled. "You forget, Miss Yardely, he can make or break a man who is in the Company's service." "Perhaps!" laughed the girl. "Though if I were a man I should not so easily be made or broken by another. I should make myself and see that none broke me." She paused as if waiting for an answer, then as her companion continued silent, abruptly changed the topic. "By the by, I see that your acquaintance of other days has removed himself!" "Yes," answered Ainley, "I noticed that." "He must have gone in the night." "Yes," was the reply. "I suppose he folded his tent like the Arabs and as silently stole away." "I daresay the meeting with an old acquaintance was distasteful to him." "That is possible," answered Ainley. "When a man has deliberately buried himself in this wild land he will hardly wish to be resurrected." "And yet he did not appear to avoid you yesterday?" said the girl thoughtfully. "A momentary impulse, I suppose," replied her companion easily. "I daresay he thought I might fraternise and forget the past." "And you couldn't?" "Well, scarcely. One does not fraternise with gaol-birds even for old time's sake." They had now arrived at the tepees and as they halted, the flap of one was thrown aside, and Miskodeed emerged. She did not see them, as the moment she stepped into the open air her eyes turned towards the willows where Stane's camp had been. A look of sadness clouded the wild beauty of her face, and there was a poignant light in her eyes. "Ah!" whispered Helen Yardely. "She knows that he has gone." "Perhaps it is just as well for her that he has," answered Ainley carelessly. "These marriages of the country are not always happy--for the woman." Miskodeed caught the sound of his voice, and, turning suddenly, became aware of their presence. In an instant a swift change came over her face. Its sadness vanished instantly, and as her eyes flashing fiercely fixed themselves upon Ainley, a look of scorn came on her face intensifying its bizarre beauty. She took a step forward as if she would speak to the white man, then apparently changed her mind, and swinging abruptly on her heel, re-entered the tent. Helen Yardely glanced swiftly at her companion, and surprised a look of something very like consternation in his eyes. "That was very queer!" she said quickly. "What was very queer?" asked Ainley. "That girl's action. Did you see how she looked at you? She was going to speak to you and changed her mind." Ainley laughed a trifle uneasily. "Possibly she blames me for the disappearance of her lover!" "But why should she do that? She can hardly know of your previous acquaintance with him." "You forget--she saw him speak to me yesterday!" "Ah yes," was the girl's reply. "I had forgotten that." The notes of a bugle, clear and silvery in the still air, floated across the meadow at that moment, and Gerald Ainley laughed. "The breakfast bell! We must hurry, Miss Yardely. It will scarcely do to keep your uncle waiting." They turned and hurried back to the Post, nothing more being said in reference to Miskodeed and Hubert Stane. And an hour later, in the bustle of the departure, the whole matter was brushed aside by Helen Yardely, though now and again through the day, it recurred to her mind as a rather unpleasant episode; and she found herself wondering how so fine a man as Stane could stoop to the folly of which many men in the North were guilty. At the end of that day her uncle ordered the camp to be pitched on a little meadow backed by a sombre forest of spruce. And after the evening meal, in company with Gerald Ainley, she walked towards the timber where an owl was hooting dismally. The air was perfectly still, the sky above crystal clear, and the Northern horizon filled with a golden glow. As they reached the shadow of the spruce, and seated themselves on a fallen trunk, a fox barked somewhere in the recess of the wood, and from afar came the long-drawn melancholy howl of a wolf. Helen Yardely looked down the long reach of the river and her eyes fixed themselves on a tall bluff crowned with spruce, distant perhaps a mile and a half away. "I like the Wild," she said suddenly, breaking the silence that had been between them. "It is all right," laughed Ainley, "when you can journey through it comfortably as we are doing." "It must have its attractions even when comfort is not possible," said the girl musingly, "for the men who live here live as nature meant man to live." "On straight moose-meat--sometimes," laughed Ainley. "With bacon and beans and flour brought in from the outside for luxuries." "I was not thinking of the food," answered the girl quickly. "I was thinking of the toil, the hardship--the Homeric labours of those who face the hazards of the North." "Yes," agreed the man, "the labours are certainly Homeric, and there are men who like the life well enough, who have made fortunes here and have gone back to their kind in Montreal, New York, London, only to find that civilization has lost its attraction for them." "I can understand that," was the quick reply. "There is something in the silence and wildness of vast spaces which gets into the blood. Only yesterday I was thinking how small and tame the lawns at home would look after this." She swept a hand in a half-circle, and then gave a little laugh. "I believe I could enjoy living up here." Ainley laughed with her. "A year of this," he said, lightly, "and you would begin to hunger for parties and theatres and dances and books--and you would look to the Southland as to Eden." "Do you really think so?" she asked seriously. "I am sure of it," he answered with conviction. "But I am not so sure," she answered slowly. "Deep down there must be something aboriginal in me, for I find myself thrilling to all sorts of wild things. Last night I was talking with Mrs. Rodwell. Her husband used to be the trader up at Kootlach, and she was telling me of a white man who lived up there as a chief. He was a man of education, a graduate of Oxford and he preferred that life to the life of civilization. It seems he died, and was buried as a chief, wrapped in furs, a hunting spear by his side, all the tribe chanting a wild funeral chant! Do you know, as she described it, the dark woods, the barbaric burying, the wild chant, I was able to vision it all--and my sympathies were with the man, who, in spite of Oxford, had chosen to live his own life in his own way." Ainley laughed. "You see it in the glamour of romance," he said. "The reality I imagine was pretty beastly." "Well!" replied the girl quickly. "What would life be without romance?" "A dull thing," answered Ainley, promptly, with a sudden flash of the eyes. "I am with you there, Miss Yardely, but romance does not lie in mere barbarism, for most men it is incarnated in a woman." "Possibly! I suppose the mating instinct is the one elemental thing left in the modern world." "It is the one dominant thing," answered Ainley, with such emphasis of conviction that the girl looked at him in quick surprise. "Why, Mr. Ainley, one would think that you--that you----" she hesitated, stumbled in her speech, and did not finish the sentence. Her companion had risen suddenly to his feet. The monocle had fallen from its place, and he was looking down at her with eyes that had a strange glitter. "Yes," he cried, answering her unfinished utterance. "Yes! I do know. That is what you would say, is it not? I have known since the day Sir James sent me to the station at Ottawa to meet you. The knowledge was born in me as I saw you stepping from the car. The one woman--my heart whispered it in that moment, and has shouted it ever since. Helen, I did not mean to speak yet, but--well, you see how it is with me! Tell me it is not altogether hopeless! You know what my position is; you know that in two years----" Helen Yardely rose swiftly to her feet. Her beautiful face had paled a little. She stopped the flood of words with her lifted hand. "Please, Mr. Ainley! There is no need to enter on such details." "Then----" "You have taken me by surprise," said the girl slowly. "I had no idea that you--that you--I have never thought of it." "But you can think now, Helen," he said urgently. "I mean every word that I have said. I love you. You must see that--now. Let us join our lives together, and together find the romance for which you crave." The blood was back in the girl's cheeks now, running in rosy tides, and there was a light in her grey eyes that made Ainley's pulse leap with hope, since he mistook it for something else. His passion was real enough, as the girl felt, and she was simple and elemental enough to be thrilled by it; but she was sufficiently wise not to mistake the response in herself for the greater thing. The grey eyes looked steadily into his for a moment, then a thoughtful look crept into them, and Ainley knew that for the moment he had lost. "No," she said slowly, "no, I am not sure that would be wise. I do not feel as I ought to feel in taking such a decision as that. And besides----" "Yes?" he said, urgently, as she paused. "Yes?" "Well," she flushed a little, and her tongue stumbled among the words, "you are not quite the man--that I--that I have thought of--for--for----." She broke off again, laughed a little at herself and then blurted confusedly: "You see all my life, from being a very little girl, I have worshipped heroes." "And I am not a hero," said Ainley with a harsh laugh. "No! I am just the ordinary man doing the ordinary things, and my one claim to notice is that I love you! But suppose the occasion came? Suppose I----." He broke off and stood looking at her for a moment. Then he asked, "Would that make no difference?" "It might," replied the girl, the shrinking from the infliction of too severe a blow. "Then I live for that occasion!" cried Ainley. "And who knows? In this wild land it may come any hour!" As a matter of fact the occasion offered itself six days later--a Sunday, when Sir James Yardely had insisted on a day's rest. The various members of the party were employing their leisure according to their
{'title': 'A Mating in the Wilds by Ottwell Binns', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}