The Peace of Roaring River Part 11

Sophy McGurn put up the large iron bar that was used to secure the front door, when the store was closed. Then she put some papers away in the safe under the counter and went up to the family sitting room, where her mother was knitting and her father, with an open paper on his lap and his spectacles pushed up over his forehead, was fast asleep in a big and highly varnished oaken rocker trimmed with scarlet plush.

"I'm goin' to bed," she announced; "good-night."

The old gentleman awoke with a start and the mother, looking over her gla.s.ses, bade her good-night and sweet dreams, according to a long-established formula.

"Don't know what's the matter with Sophy, she's that restless an'

nervous," said her mother.

"She always was, fur's I know," answered McGurn. "If she's gettin' the complaint worse she must be sickenin' for something."

The subject of these remarks, once in her room, was in no hurry to woo the slumber she had expressed a desire for. In her mind anxiety was battling with anger and disappointment. Whether or not she really loved Ennis, or had turned to him merely because his general ways and appearance showed him to be a man of some breeding, with education superior to the usual standard of Carcajou, such as she would have been glad to marry, at any rate her brow narrowed, her lips closed into a thin straight line and her hands were clenched tight. What she had done would probably utterly prevent any renewal of the friendship she had tried to establish, since Hugo would perhaps be run out of the place. Moreover, that girl was really very pretty, in spite of what she had said downstairs, and this stranger was now over there. Sophy had expected to see her return with Stefan, perhaps also with Hugo, and the girl's face would have shown marks of tears, and Hugo would have been in a towering rage, and gradually the people of Carcajou would have been made aware, somehow, of what had happened, and the settler of Roaring Falls would be the b.u.t.t of laughter, if not of scurrilous remarks. But now the dark night had come and Carcajou was very still under the starlight.

The old cat scratching at her door startled her. The profound silence that followed appeared to irk her badly. After a long time there was the shriek of the night-freight's whistle and the great rumbling of the arriving train, the grinding of brakes, shouts that sounded harshly, various loud thumps as cars were shunted off to the siding.

And then the train started again, groaning and clattering and heaving up the grade through the cut, after which the intense stillness returned and she lay awake, her eyes peering through darkness, her senses all alert and her nerves a-quiver, until nearly the coming of dawn.

But the men who had gone out, before scattering to their homes, had reached a unanimous conclusion. It was true that excitement was rare in Carcajou, but this was a matter of upholding the fair reputation of the mill and four or five dozen shacks and frame houses that const.i.tuted the village. It was decided that a committee must go over to the Falls and investigate.

"I won't say but what Hugo Ennis he's been mostly all right, fur's we know," acknowledged Phil Prouty of the section gang. "But then he warn't brought up in these here parts an' he can't be allowed to flout the morals o' this community in any sich way. If it's like we fears, the gal'll have ter pack off an' him promise ter behave or leave the country. Them's my sentiments. We better go to-morrow."

At this, however, there were some objections. It might be that on the next day the young woman would return. Then their trip would be useless. And then two days later would be Sunday, on which there would be less interference with their occupations, especially as it was the off day in church, where the services were held but twice a month. It was voted to start then at an early hour. There was a strong team of horses used to lumbering that could be trusted to manage the old tote-road, drawing Sam Kerrigan's big sleigh.

"Hosses used ter do it," a.s.serted the latter, "and they kin do it again."

"Maybe Stefan'd take you up with them dogs of his, Kilrea," suggested one of the men, grinning.

"No! And by the way, byes. Ye don't want ter let that there Swede know nothin' of this. He's too thick with Hugo, he is, and we don't want him around raisin' any ruction if there happens to be a bit o' loud talk. He'd be liable to raise a rumpus, he would."

This appeared to be excellent strategy and it met with unanimous approval. The men dispersed to their respective shacks and houses, to discuss the matter further with their wives, in case any of them were still awake. One or two of the st.u.r.dier ladies at once volunteered to lend further dignity to the proceedings with their presence and could not be dissuaded from joining the Carcajou Vigilantes.

In the meanwhile the unconscious objects of all these plans were happily unaware of the fate in store for them. Madge, with a little child that had snuggled into her arms, had found a forgetfulness that was a blessing. In spite of her weariness and of the emotions she had undergone, the good food and pure air had produced some effect upon her. She slumbered perhaps more deeply and restfully than she had for many long months. And Hugo Ennis, in pain, tossed in his bunk, his mind racked with uneasy thoughts and his wounded shoulder throbbing, till he slept also.

CHAPTER VIII

Doubts

It was with a violent start that Hugo awoke, feeling chilled to the bone in spite of his heavy blankets. His injured shoulder was so stiff that for some minutes he was scarcely able to move it. He got out of his bunk, his whole frame shaking with the cold, and managed to kindle a fire in the stove. But presently he felt warm again, rather unaccountably warm, in fact, and his face grew quite red. Curiously enough, for a man with the vast appet.i.te of hard workers in cold regions, he did not at all feel inclined to eat. Yet he prepared some food, according to custom, and sat before a tin pint dipper of strong hot tea. This he managed to swallow, with some approach to comfort, but when he tried to eat the first few mouthfuls satiated him and he pushed the remainder away.

He had opened the door to let Maigan go out, and when the dog returned after a good roll in the snow Hugo swept his breakfast of rolled oats and bread into a pan and fed it to his companion.

"You're certainly not going hungry because my own grub doesn't taste right, old boy," he commented.

Men of the wilderness learn to speak to their dogs, or even to think out aloud, when no living thing chances to be near. It answers to the inherited need of speech, to an instinct so long inbred in man that he must needs, at times, hear the sound of a voice, even if it be but his own, or go crazy.

Maigan wagged his tail and gobbled up the food. When he saw his master fastening on his snowshoes he barked loudly. Hugo allowed him to romp about for a few minutes before hitching him up to the toboggan.

A few minutes later they were on their way to Papineau's. An attempt to smoke his pipe was immediately abandoned by the young man. For some reason it tasted wretchedly. While the start was made at a good pace little more than a couple of hundred yards had been covered before Hugo realized that he was going ever so slowly. Maigan was stopping all the time and waiting for him. What on earth was the matter? He judged that the poor night's sleep had had some ill effect upon him.

It couldn't be his shoulder. Certainly not! The pain in it was no more than any chap could bear, even if he had to make a wry face over it at times. He wondered whether anything he had eaten on the previous day could have disagreed with him. He decided that it probably was some canned meat he had bought at McGurn's. That explained the thing quite satisfactorily to him. Anyway, it was bound to wear off soon. Such things always did. With this cheering thought he sought to lengthen his stride again, but a moment later he was dragging himself along, dully, wondering what was the matter with him.

He was anxious to see Madge again. He must tell her of the finding of her message. Surely he would be able to talk to her, calmly and quietly, and to obtain from her all that she knew of this strange jumble of mysteries. He hoped that she had been able to rest, that he would find her less weary and overwrought. This girl had been badly treated, sinned against most grievously. If there was anything he could do he would offer his services eagerly.

"I expect she'll want to turn right back to Carcajou," he told himself. "I wish I were feeling more fit for the journey. If Papineau is home from his trapping he will help me out. But I'll feel all right soon. This is bound to pa.s.s off. If I get too tired when I reach Carcajou, Stefan will put me up for the night. It--it seems a pity that girl will have to go."

He trudged along behind the toboggan. He could have ridden on it, most of the way, but wanted to keep Maigan fresh for the trip to Carcajou, for the trunk would have to go also. The light sled was nothing for the dog to pull, of course, and sometimes he dashed ahead so that his pace became too great for his master. Then he would stop and sit down in his traces, to wait until he was overtaken. The road was unaccountably long, that morning, but at last they came in sight of the Papineau homestead and the cleared land upon which some crops of oats and potatoes had already been raised, amid the short stumps of the half-cleared land. In summer the river ran very slowly at this place, and big trout were ever making rings on the surface which they broke in their dashes after all sorts of flies and beetles. On the land opposite, where there had once been a forest fire, the red weeds that follow conflagrations grew strong and rank in the summer time and little saplings sprouted up among the charred and wrecked trunks of the _brule_. But at this time it all looked very bleak and desolate.

"She couldn't ever have lived in such a country," he told himself, with perhaps a tinge of regret. "Poor little thing, I wonder what's to become of her? The whole thing's a shame--a ghastly shame. Wait till Stefan and I find out all about it. Somebody's got to get hurt, that's all!"

Maigan had already hauled the toboggan to the door of the big shack, and the other animals had come near to renew a.s.surances of armed neutrality. The good woman of the house appeared just as Hugo came up.

She must have been rather staggered by his appearance, for she drew back, staring at him and shaking her head in decided disapproval.

"'Ow many mile you call heem to de depot at Carcajou," she asked him, with hands on her hips and a severe look on her face.

"Why, it's twelve miles to my shack and one more to this place," he answered, dully. "You know that just as well as I. Don't you remember the county surveyors told us so last year?"

"An' you tink you goin' pull dat toboggan all way back wid you h'arm all bad an' you seek, lookin' lak' one ghosts! Excuse me, Monsieur Hugo, but you one beeg fool. My man Papineau 'e come back from de traps to-morrow an' heem pull de young lady 'ome wid de dogs. You no fit to go. I tink you go to bed right now, bes' place for you, sure."

She pulled him inside, holding on to his uninjured arm as if he had been under arrest. She was a masterful woman, to be sure. Madge had arisen from a chair and Mrs. Papineau addressed her. A glance at the man's countenance had left the girl appalled. His features were drawn, the brown tint of his face had changed to a characterless gray, his eyes looked sunken and brighter, as if some fever brought a flame into them.

"Sure you no in h'awful beeg 'urry for to go 'ome, Mees?" asked the hostess. "Dis man heem real seek. Heem no fit for valk all vay back to Carcajou now. To-morrow my man take you. Papineau he no forgif me if I let Monsieur Hugo go aff an' heem so seek."

"Why, of course! I'm not in any special hurry. To-morrow will do just as well. He--he mustn't think of going to-day and--and it doesn't matter in the least. It--it makes no difference at all."

"Do you really think that you can manage to stay here for another day?" the young man asked her, as he dropped rather heavily on a bench by the table. "I don't think there 's really much the matter with me, really, and I'm sure I could manage it if you're anxious to get away.

But perhaps to-morrow...."

"Mrs. Papineau has been ever so kind to me," answered the girl, slowly. "That sort of thing is such a comfort, especially when--when one isn't used to it. n.o.body ever took such care of me over there in New York. I've had plenty to eat and a nice warm place to sleep in. I haven't been used to much luxury where--where I came from. And--and you mustn't mind me. It will always be time enough to go, but--but I won't know how to thank this--this kindly woman."

Hugo didn't know whether these words held a reproach to him, but they sounded very hopeless and sad. The girl had sat down again, on a low stool near the fire. A chimney had been built in a corner, to supplement the stove, and she was looking intently at the bright flames leaping up and the fat curling smoke that rose in little patches, as bits of white bark twisted and crackled. Mrs. Papineau had gone back to the stove at the other end of the room, where she and her eldest girl had been washing dishes. In the rising sparks of the logs on fire Madge saw queer designs, strange moving forms her eyes followed mechanically. She felt that she was merely waiting--waiting for the worst that was yet to come, but the heat was grateful.

"If that's the case we might as well postpone the trip for a day,"

Hugo acknowledged, somewhat shamefacedly. "I don't often get played out but for some reason I'm not quite up to the mark to-day."

"You keep still an' rest yourself a bit," Mrs. Papineau ordered, coming back to him and feeling his pulse gravely, whereat she made a wry face. She informed him that he undoubtedly had a fever and must remain absolutely quiet while she brewed him a decoction of potent herbs she had herself picked and stored away.

Madge looked at Hugo again, anxiously, feeling that her careless handling of that little pistol was undoubtedly responsible for his illness. Their eyes met and he managed to smile.

"A mere man can do nothing but obey when a woman commands, Miss Nelson," he declared, with a weak attempt at jocularity. "I'm sure it's dreadful stuff she's going to make me swallow. Still, I'm glad of a short rest."

He drew his chair a little nearer, and, speaking in a lower voice, went on:

"I'll tell you, Miss Nelson. We--we perhaps owe one another some explanations. It happens that I've found something. It's the queerest thing ever happened. I'd like to explain...."

"What is the use, Mr. Ennis?" she replied, her voice revealing an intense discouragement. "And besides, you are ill now. It--it doesn't really matter what has happened, I suppose. I couldn't expect anything else, I dare say. I was a fool to come, to--to believe what I did.

And--and I'm ashamed, it--it seems as if the least little pride that was left me has gone--gone for ever. Please--please don't say anything more. It distresses me and can't possibly do any good."