Isobel (15 page)

"Go on," she said, softly.

"And then— I brought her to you," he said.

"You met him?"

Her question was so sudden that it startled him, and in an instant he
had betrayed himself.

Little Isobel slipped to the floor, and Isobel stood up. She came near
to him, as she came that marvelous night out on the Barren, and in her
eyes there was the same prayer as she put her two hands up to him and
looked straight into his face.

He thought it would be easier. But it was terrible. She did not move.
No sound came from her tight-drawn lips as he told her of the meeting
with Deane, and of her husband's illness. She guessed what was coming
before he had spoken it. At his words, telling of death, she drew away
from him slowly. She did not cry out. Her only evidence that she had
heard and understood was the low moan that fell from her lips. She
covered her face with her hands and stood for a moment an arm's length
away, and in that moment all the force of his great love for her swept
upon MacVeigh in an overwhelming flood. He opened his arms, longing to
gather her into them and comfort her as he would have comforted a
little child. In that love he would willingly have dropped dead at her
feet if he could have given back to her the man she had lost. She
raised her head in time to see his outstretched arms, she saw the love
and the pleading in his face, and into her own eyes there leaped the
fire of a tigress.

"You— you—" she cried. "It was you who killed him! He had done no
wrong— save to protect me and avenge me from the insult of a brute!
He had done no wrong. But the Law— your Law— set you after him, and
you hunted him like a beast; you drove him from our home, from me and
the baby. You hunted him until he died up there— alone. You— you
killed him."

With a sudden cry she turned and caught up little Isobel and ran
toward the other door. And as she disappeared into the room from which
she had first appeared Billy heard her moaning those terrible words.

"You— you— you—"

Like a man who had been struck a blow he swayed back to the outer
door. Near his dogs and sledge he met Pierre Couchée and his
half-French wife coming in from their trap line. He scarcely knew what
explanation he gave to the half-breed, who helped him to put up his
tent. But when the latter left to follow his wife into the cabin he
said:

"She ess seek, ver' seek. An' she grow more seek each day until— mon
Dieu!— my wife, she ess scare!"

He cut a few balsam boughs and spread out his blankets, but did not
trouble to build a fire. When the half-breed returned to say that
supper was waiting he told him that he was not hungry, and that he was
going to sleep. He doubled himself up under his blankets, silent and
staring, even neglecting to feed the dogs. He was awake when the stars
appeared. He was awake when the moon rose. He was still awake when the
light went out in Pierre Couchée's cabin. The snow-man was gone from
his vision— home and hope. He had never been hurt as he was hurt now.
He was yet awake when the moon passed far over his head, sank behind
the wilderness to the west, and blackness came. Toward dawn he fell
into an uneasy slumber, and from that sleep he was awakened by Pierre
Couchée's voice.

When he opened his eyes it was day, and the half-breed stood at the
opening of the tent. His face was filled with horror. His voice was
almost a scream when he saw that MacVeigh was awake and sitting up.

"The great God in heaven!" he cried. "It is the plague, m'sieur— le
mort rouge— the small pox! She is dying—"

MacVeigh was on his feet, gripping him by the arms.

He turned and ran toward the cabin, and Billy saw that the
half-breed's team was harnessed, and that Pierre's wife was bringing
forth blankets and bundles. He did not wait to question them, but
hurried into the plague-stricken cabin. From the woman's room came a
low moaning, and he rushed in and fell upon his knees at her side. Her
face was flushed with the fever, half hidden in the disheveled masses
of her hair. She recognized him, and her dark eyes burned madly.

"Take— the baby!" she panted. "My God— go— go with her!"

Tenderly he put out a hand and stroked back her hair from her face.

"You are sick— sick with the bad fever," he said, gently.

"Yes— yes, it is that. I did not think— until last night— what it
might be. You— you love me! Then take her— take the baby and go—
go— go!"

All his old strength came back to him now. He felt no fear. He smiled
down into her face, and the silken touch of her hair set his heart
leaping and the love into his eyes.

"I will take her out there," he said. "But she is all right— Isobel."
He spoke her name almost pleadingly. "She is all right. She will not
take the fever."

He picked up the child and carried her out into the larger room.
Pierre and his wife were at the door. They were dressed for travel, as
he had seen them come in off the trap line the evening before. He
dropped Isobel and sprang in front of them.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "You are not going away! You cannot
go!" He turned almost fiercely upon the woman. "She will die— if you
do not stay and care for her. You shall not run away!"

"It is the plague," said Pierre. "It is death to remain!"

"You shall stay!" said MacVeigh, still speaking to Pierre's wife. "You
are the one woman— the only woman— within a hundred miles. She will
die without you. You shall stay if I have to tie you!"

With the quickness of a cat Pierre raised the butt of the heavy
dog-whip which he held in his hand and it came down with a sickening
thud on Billy's head. As he staggered into the middle of the cabin
floor, groping blindly for a moment before he fell, he heard a
strange, terrified cry, and in the open inner door he saw the
white-robed figure of Isobel Deane. Then he sank down into a pit of
blackness.

It was Isobel's face that he first saw when he came from out of that
black pit. He knew that it was her voice calling to him before he had
opened his eyes. He felt the touch of her hands, and when he looked up
her loose, soft hair swept his breast. His head was bolstered up, and
so he could look straight into her face. It frightened him. He knew
now what she had been saying to him as he lay there upon the floor.

"You must get up! You must go!" he heard her mooning. "You must take
my baby away. And you— you— must go!"

He pulled himself half erect, then rose to his feet, swaying a little.
He came to her then, with the look in his face she had first seen out
on the Barren when he had told her that he was going with her through
the forest.

"No, I am not going away," he said, firmly, and yet with that same old
gentleness in his voice. "If I go you will die. So I am going to
stay."

She stared at him, speechless.

"You— you can't," she gasped, at last. "Don't you see— don't you
understand? I'm a woman— and you can't. You must take her— my baby—
and go for help."

"There is no help," said MacVeigh, quietly. "Within a few hours you
will be helpless. I am going to stay and— and— I swear to God I will
care for you— as he— would have done. He made me promise that— to
care for you— to stick by you—"

She looked straight into his eyes. He saw the twitching of her throat,
the quiver of her lips. In another moment she would have fallen if he
had not put a supporting arm about her.

"If— anything— happens," she gasped, brokenly, "you will take care—
of her— my baby—"

"Yes— always."

"And if I— get well—"

Her head swayed dizzily and dropped to his breast.

"If I get— well—"

"Yes," he urged. "Yes—"

"If I—"

He saw her struggle and fail.

"Yes, I know— I understand," he cried, quickly, as she grew heavier
in his arms. "If you get well I will go. I swear to do that. I will go
away. No one will ever know— no one— in the whole world. And I will
be good to you— and care for you—"

He stopped, brushed back her hair, and looked into her face. Then he
carried her into the inner room; and when he came out little Isobel
was crying.

"You poor little kid," he cried, and caught her up in his arms. "You
poor little—"

The child smiled at him through her tears, and Billy suddenly sat down
on the edge of the table.

"You've been a little brick from the beginning, and you're going to
keep it up, little one," he said, taking her pretty face between his
two big hands. "You've got to be good, for we're going to have a—
a—" He turned away, and finished under his breath. "We're going to
have a devil of a time! "

Seated on the table, little Isobel looked up into Billy's face and
laughed, and when the laugh ended in a half wail Billy found that his
fingers had tightened on her little shoulder until they hurt. He
tousled her hair to bring back her good-humor, and put her on the
floor. Then he went back to the partly open door. It was quiet in the
darkened room. He listened for a breath or a sob, and could hear
neither. A curtain was drawn over the one window, and he could but
indistinctly make out the darker shadow where Isobel lay on the bed.
His heart beat faster as he softly called Isobel's name. There was no
answer. He looked back. Little Isobel had found something on the floor
and was amusing herself with it. Again he called the mother, and still
there was no answer. He was filled with a sort of horror. He wanted to
go over to the dark shadow and assure himself that she was breathing,
but a hand seemed to thrust him back. And then, piercing him like a
knife, there came again those low, moaning words of accusation:

"It was you— it was you— it was you—"

In that voice, low and moaning as it was, he recognized some of
Pelliter's madness. It was the fever. He fell back a step and drew a
hand across his forehead. It was damp, clammy with a cold
perspiration. He felt a burning pain where he had been struck, and a
momentary dizziness made him stagger. Then, with a tremendous effort,
he threw himself together and turned to the little girl. As he carried
her out through the door into the fresh air Isobel's feverish words
still followed him:

"It was you— you— you— you!"

The cold air did him good, and he hurried toward the tent with baby
Isobel. As he deposited her among the blankets and bearskins the
hopelessness of his position impressed itself swiftly upon him. The
child could not remain in the cabin, and yet she would not be immune
from danger in the tent, for he would have to spend a part of his time
with her. He shuddered as he thought of what it might mean. For
himself he had no fear of the dread disease that had stricken Isobel.
He had run the risk of contagion several times before and had remained
unscathed, but his soul trembled with fear as he looked into little
Isobel's bright blue eyes and tenderly caressed the soft curls about
her face, If Couchée and his wife had only taken her! At thought of
them he sprang suddenly to his feet.

"Looky, little one, you've got to stay here!" he commanded.
"Understand? I'm going to pin down the tent-flap, and you mustn't cry.
If I don't get that damned half-breed, dead or alive, my name ain't
Billy MacVeigh."

He fastened the tent-flap so that Isobel could not escape, and left
her alone, quiet and wondering. Loneliness was not new to her.
Solitude did not frighten her; and, listening with his ear close to
the canvas, Billy soon heard her playing with the armful of things he
had scattered about her. He hurried to the dogs and harnessed them to
the sledge. Couchée and his wife did not have over half an hour the
start of him— three-quarters at the most. He would run the race of
his life for an hour or two, overtake them, and bring them back at the
point of his revolver. If there had to be a fight he would fight.

Where the trail struck into the forest he hesitated, wondering if he
would not make better speed by leaving the team and sledge behind. The
excited actions of the dogs decided him. They were sniffing at the
scent left in the snow by the rival huskies, and were waiting eagerly
for the command to pursue. Billy snapped his whip over their heads.

"You want a fight, do you, boys?" he cried. "So do I. Get on with you!
M'hoosh! M'hoosh!"

Billy dropped upon his knees on the sledge as the dogs leaped ahead.
They needed no guidance, but followed swiftly in Couchée's trail. Five
minutes later they broke into thin timber, and then came out into a
narrow plain, dotted with stunted scrub, through which ran the Beaver.
Here the snow was soft and drifted, and Billy ran behind, hanging to
the tail-rope to keep the sledge from leaving him if the dogs should
develop an unexpected spurt. He could see that Couchée was exerting
every effort to place distance between himself and the plague-stricken
cabin, and it suddenly struck Billy that something besides fear of le
mort rouge was adding speed to his heels. It was evident that the
half-breed was spurred on by the thought of the blow he had struck in
the cabin. Possibly he believed that he was a murderer, and Billy
smiled as he observed where Couchée had whipped his dogs at a run
through the soft drifts. He brought his own team down to a walk,
convinced that the half-breed had lost his head, and that he would
bush himself and his dogs within a few miles. He was confident, now
that he would overtake them somewhere on the plain.

With the elation of this thought there came again the sudden,
sickening pain in his head. It was over in an instant, but in that
moment the snow had turned black, and he had flung out his arms to
keep himself from falling. The babiche rope had slipped from his hand,
and when things cleared before his eyes again the sledge was twenty
yards ahead of him. He overtook it, and dropped upon it, panting as
though he had run a race. He laughed as he recovered himself, and
looked over the gray backs of the tugging dogs, but in the same breath
the laugh was cut short on his lips. It was as if a knife-blade had
run in one lightning thrust from the back of his neck to his brain,
and he fell forward on his face with a cry of pain. After all,
Couchée's blow had done the work. He realized that, and made an effort
to call the dogs to a stop. For five minutes they went on, unheeding
the half-dozen weak commands that he called out from the darkness that
had fallen thickly about him. When at last he pulled himself up from
his face and the snow turned white again, the dogs had halted. They
were tangled in their traces and sniffing at the snow.