The Promise Part 20

"Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money in th' bank, an' her majesty's--Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky--phwat more c'd a man want?"

"The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him."

"Ye shud av towld um to go to h.e.l.l! Wor-rkin' a man wid a foot loike that is croolty to animals; av ye was a ha.r.s.e he'd be arrested."

"He didn't tell me to go. He is crowded for men; the grub is rotten; something has to be done; and he asked me if I thought I could make it."

Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew together in a frown.

"He said ye c'd make ut in two days?" he inquired.

"Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light with that rangy team is not such an awful pull."

"An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye camped comin' in?"

"Yes."

Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was pa.s.sing in his mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the grub-shack.

When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting.

"At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground."

"I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch."

"A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play h.e.l.l makin' foorty moiles on a crutch in th' winter--no mather how good th' thrail was broke."

"Forty miles! Look here, Irish--what are you talking about? I thought your bottle had been empty for a week."

"Impty ut is--which me head ain't. Listen: S'posin'--just s'posin', moind yez Oi'm sayin'--a man wid a b.u.m leg was camped in th' shack av Melton's No. 8, an' th' ha.r.s.es in th' shtable. An' s'posin' some one shnaked in in th' noight an' stole th' ha.r.s.es on um an' druv 'em to Hilarity, an' waited f'r th' boss to sind f'r 'em. An' s'posin' a wake wint by befoor th' boss c'd sind a man down to look up th' team he'd sint f'r a cook, wid orders to hurry back. An' s'posin' he found th'

b.u.m-legged driver froze shtiff on th' tote-road phwere he'd made out to hobble a few moiles on his crutch--phwat thin? Why, th' man was a greener, an', not knowin' how to handle th' team, they'd got away from um."

Bill followed the Irishman closely, and knew that he spoke with a purpose. His eyes narrowed, and his lips bent into that cold smile which the men of the camp had come to know was no smile at all, but a battle alarm, the more ominous for its silence.

"Do you mean that it is a frame-up? That Moncrossen----" Fallon silenced him with a motion.

"Whist!" he whispered and glanced sharply about him, then leaned over and dug a stiffened forefinger into the other's ribs. "Oi don't mane nothin'. But 'tis about toime they begun bankin' their bird's-eye.

"Creed et dinner in camp, but he never et supper. Him an' th' boss made medicine in th' office _afther_ th' boss talked to ye. Put two an' two togither an' Oi've towld ye nothin' at all; but av ye fergit ut Oi'll see that phwat th' wolves lave av th' b.u.m-legged teamster is buried proper an' buried deep, an' Oi'll blow in tin dollars f'r a ma.s.s f'r his sowl.

"Av ye _don't_ fergit ut, ye moight fetch back a gallon jug av Hod Burrage's embalmin' flooid, f'r me inwards is that petrified be th'

grub we've been havin' av late, they moight mishtake ut f'r rale liquor. Good-by, an' good luck--'tis toime to roll in."

CHAPTER XX

A FIRE IN THE NIGHT

The sledding was good on the tote-road.

The thaw that ruined the iced surface of the skid-ways was followed by several days of freezing weather that put a hard, smooth finish on the deep snow of the longer road, over which the runners of the box-bodied tote-sled slipped with scarcely any resistance to the pull of the sharp-shod team.

Bill Carmody, snugly bundled in robes in the bottom of the sled, idly watched the panorama of tree-trunks between which the road twisted in an endless succession of tortuous windings.

It was not yet daylight when he rounded the bend which was the scene of his fight with the werwolf.

But by the thin, cold starlight and the pale luminosity of the fading aurora, he recognized each surrounding detail, and wondered at the accuracy with which the trivialities of the setting had been subconsciously impressed upon his memory.

It was here he had first met Fallon, and he remembered the undisguised approval in the Irishman's voice and the firm grip of the hand that welcomed him into the comradery of the North-men as he stood, faint from hunger and weary from exertion, staring dully down at the misshapen carca.s.s of Diablesse.

"Good old Irish," he muttered, and smiled as he thought of himself, Bill Carmody, proud of the friendship of a lumberjack.

He had come to know that in the ceaseless whirl of society the heavier timbers--the real men are thrown outward--forced to the very edges of the bowl, where they toil among big things upon the outskirts of civilization.

He pulled off his heavy mitten and fumbled for his pipe. In the side-pocket of his mackinaw his hand encountered an object--hard and cold and unfamiliar to his touch.

He withdrew it and looked at the wicked, blue-black outlines of an automatic pistol. Idly he examined the clip, crowded with shiny, yellow cartridges. He recognized the gun as Fallon's, and smiled as he returned it to his pocket.

"Only in case of a pinch," he grinned, and glanced approvingly at the fist that doubled hard to the strong clinch of his fingers.

Hour after hour he slipped smoothly southward, relieving the monotony of the journey by formulating his plan of action in case the forebodings of Fallon should be realized.

Personally he apprehended no trouble, but he made up his mind that trouble coming should not find him unprepared.

When at last the team swung into the clearing of Melton's old No. 8, the stars winked in cold brilliance above the surrounding pines, and the deserted buildings stood lifeless and dim in the deepening gloom.

Bill headed the horses for the stable which he found, as Irish had told him, located at some distance from the other buildings and cut off from sight by a knoll and a heavy tangle of scrub that had sprung up in the clearing.

He climbed stiffly and painfully from the sled-box, and with the aid of his crutch, hobbled about the task of unhitching the horses. He watered them where a plume of thin vapor disclosed the whereabouts of a never-freezing spring which burbled softly between its low, ice-encrusted banks.

It proved a difficult matter, crippled as he was, to handle the horses, but at length he got them into the stable, c.h.i.n.ked the broken feed-boxes as best he could, and removed the bridles, hanging them upon the hames.

He closed the door and, securing his lantern, blankets, and lunch-basket, made his way toward the old shack where he had spent his first night in the timber land.

The sagging door swung half open, and upon the rough floor the snow-water from the recent thaw had collected in puddles and frozen, rendering the footing precarious.

Bill noted with satisfaction that there still remained a goodly portion of the firewood which he had cut and carried in upon his previous visit, and he soon had a fire roaring in the rusty stove.

He was in no hurry. He knew that any attempt to make away with the team would be delayed until the thief believed him to be asleep, and his plans were laid to the minutest detail.

Setting the lantern upon the table, he proceeded to eat his lunch, after which he lighted his pipe, and for an hour smoked at the fireside. In spite of the pain of his injured foot his mind wandered back to the events of his first visit to the shack.

There, in the black shadow of the pile of firewood, lay the empty whisky bottle where the Indian had tossed it after drinking the last drop of its contents.

Carmody stared a long time at this silent reminder of his first serious brush with King Alcohol, then, from the inner pocket of his mackinaw, he drew the sealed packet and gazed for many minutes at the likeness of the girl--dimming now from the rub of the coa.r.s.e cloth of the pocket.