WILLIAM
mmm
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BY
WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE
AUTHOR OF "OH, YOU TKX! " "THE BIG-TOWN ROUND-UP.
" OUNSIGHT PASS," ETC.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY WILLIAM MACLBOP RAINB
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
sE jf KitoetBibe
CAMBRIDGE MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
TO
CAPTAIN SIR CECIL E. DENNY, BART.
OF THE FIRST THREE HUNDRED RIDERS OF THE PLAINS
WHO CARRIED LAW INTO THE LONE LANDS
AND MADE THE SCARLET AND GOLD
A SYNONYM FOR
JUSTICE, INTEGRITY, AND INDOMITABLE PLUCK
M&2519
CONTENTS
I. IN THE DANGER ZONE 1
II. THE AMAZON 6
HI. ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY 14
IV. THE WOLFERS 22
V. MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE 85
VI. "SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS" 45
VII. THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 53
VIII. AT SWEET WATER CREEK 64
IX. TOM MAKES A COLLECTION 72
X. A CAMP-FIRE TALE 82
XI. C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 88
XII. TOM DUCKS TROUBLE 99
XIII. THE CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH DIFFICUL
TIES 104
XIV. SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION 109
XV. KISSING DAY 115
XVI. A BUSINESS DEAL 123
XVII. A BOARD CREAKS 128
XVIII. A GUN ROARS 135
XIX. "D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME?" 140
XX. ONISTAH READS SIGN 149
XXI. ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR 155
XXII. "MY DAMN PRETTY LiV HIGH-STEPPIN
SQUAW" 165
viii CONTENTS
XXIII. A FORETASTE OF HELL 170
XXIV. WEST MAKES A DECISION 181
XXV. FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST 187
XXVI. A RESCUE 195
XXVII. APACHE STUFF 203
XXVIII. "IS A WELL Wl YOU, LASS?" 212
XXIX. NOT GOING ALONE 219
XXX. "M" FOR MORSE 226
XXXI. THE LONG TRAIL 232
XXXII. A PICTURE IN A LOCKET 239
XXXIII. INTO THE LONE LAND 245
XXXIV. THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN 253
XXXV. SNOW-BLIND ~ 262
XXXVI. THE WILD BEAST LEAPS 268
XXXVII. NEAR THE END OF A LONG CROOKED TRAIL 275
XXXVIII. OVER A ROTTING TRAIL 280
XXXIX. A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS 288
XL. "MALBROUCK S EN VA-T-EN GUERRE" 294
XLI. SENSE AND NONSENSE 298
XLII. THE IMPERATIVE URGE 304
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CHAPTER I -..:;:.:
IN THE DANGER ZONE
SHE stood on the crown of the hill, silhouetted against
a sky-line of deepest blue. Already the sun was sinking
in a crotch of the plains which rolled to the horizon edge
like waves of a great land sea. Its reflected fires were
in her dark, stormy eyes. Its long, slanted rays were a
spotlight for the tall, slim figure, straight as that of a
boy.
The girl s gaze was fastened on a wisp of smoke rising
lazily from a hollow of the crumpled hills. That float
ing film told of a camp-fire of buffalo chips. There was a
little knitted frown of worry on her forehead, for imagi
nation could fill in details of what the coulee held : the
white canvas tops of prairie schooners, some spans of
oxen grazing near, a group of blatant, profane whiskey-
smugglers from Montana, and in the wagons a cargo of
liquor to debauch the Bloods and Piegans near Fort
Whoop-Up.
Sleeping Dawn was a child of impulse. She had all
youth s capacity for passionate indignation and none
of the wisdom of age which tempers the eager desire
of the hour. These whiskey-traders were ruining her
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people. More than threescore Blackfeet braves had
been killed within the year in drunken brawls among
themselves. The plains Indians would sell their souls
for fire-water. When the craze was on them, they would
exchange furs, buffalo robes, ponies, even their wives
and daughters for a bottle of the poison.
In the sunset glow she stood rigid and resentful, one
small fist clenched, the other fast to the barrel of the
rifle she carried. The evils of the trade came close to
her. Fergus McRae still carried the gash from a knife
thrust earned in a drunken brawl. It was likely that
to-morrow he would cut the trail of the wagon wheels
and again make a bee-line for liquor and trouble. The
swift blaze of revolt found expression in the stamp of
her moccasined foot.
As dusk fell over the plains, Sleeping Dawn moved
forward lightly, swiftly, toward the camp in the hollow
of the hills. She had no definite purpose except to spy
the lay-out, to make sure that her fears were justified.
But through the hinterland of her consciousness rebel
lious thoughts were racing. These smugglers were
wholly outside the law. It was her right to frustrate
them if she could.
Noiselessly she skirted the ridge above the coulee,
moving through the bunch grass with the wary care
she had learned as a child in the lodges of the tribe.
Three men crouched on their heels in the glow of a
camp-fire well up the draw. A fourth sat at a little dis
tance from them riveting a stirrup leather with two
stones. The wagons had been left near the entrance
of the valley pocket some sixty or seventy yards from
IN THE DANGER ZONE 3
the fire. Probably the drivers, after they had unhitched
the teams, had been drawn deeper into the draw to a
spot more fully protected from the wind.
While darkness gathered, Sleeping Dawn lay in the
bunch grass with her eyes focused on the camp below.
Her untaught soul struggled with the problem that
began to shape itself. These men were wolfers, desper
ate men engaged in a nefarious business. They paid no
duty to the British Government. She had heard her
father say so. Contrary to law, they brought in their
vile stuff and sold it both to breeds and tribesmen.
They had no regard whatever for the terrible injury
they did the natives. Their one intent was to get rich
as soon as possible, so they plied their business openly
and defiantly. For the Great Lone Land was still a
wilderness where every man was a law to himself.
The blood of the girl beat fast with the racing pulse of
excitement. A resolution was forming in her mind. She
realized the risks and estimated chances coolly. These
men would fire to kill on any skulker near the camp.
They would take no needless hazard of being surprised
by a band of stray Indians. But the night would be
friend her. She believed she could do what she had in
mind and easily get away to the shelter of the hill
creases before they could kill or capture her.
A shadowy dog on the outskirt of the camp rose and
barked. The girl waited, motionless, tense, but the men
paid little heed to the warning. The man working at
the stirrup leather got to his feet, indeed, carelessly,
rifle in hand, and stared into the gloom; but presently
he turned on his heel and sauntered back to his job of
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saddlery. Evidently the hound was used to voicing
false alarms whenever a coyote slipped past or a skunk
nosed inquisitively near.
Sleeping Dawn followed the crest of the ridge till it
fell away to the mouth of the coulee. She crept up be
hind the white-topped wagon nearest the entrance.
An axe lay against the tongue. She picked it up,
glancing at the same time toward the camp-fire. So
far she had quite escaped notice. The hound lay blink
ing into the flames, its nose resting on crossed paws.
With her hunting-knife the girl ripped the canvas
from the side of the top. She stood poised, one foot on a
spoke, the other on the axle. The axe-head swung in a
half-circle. There was a crash of wood, a swift jet of
spouting liquor. Again the axe swung gleaming above
her head. A third and a fourth time it crashed against
the staves.
A man by the camp-fire leaped to his feet with a
startled oath. "What s that?" he demanded sharply.
From the shadows of the wagons a light figure darted.
The man snatched up a rifle and fired. A second time,
aimlessly, he sent a bullet into the darkness.
The silent night was suddenly alive with noises.
Shots, shouts, the barking of the dog, the slap of running
feet, all came in a confused medley to Sleeping Dawn.
She gained a moment s respite from pursuit when the
traders stopped at the wagons to get their bearings.
The first of the white-topped schooners was untouched.
The one nearest the entrance to the coulee held four
whiskey-casks with staves crushed in and contents seep
ing into the dry ground.
IN THE DANGER ZONE 5
Against one of the wheels a rifle rested. The girl flying
in a panic had forgotten it till too late.
The vandalism of the attack amazed the men. They
could have understood readily enough some shots out of
the shadows or a swoop down upon the camp to stam
pede and run off the saddle horses. Even a serious
attempt to wipe out the party by a stray band of Black-
feet or Crees was an undertaking that would need no
explaining. But why should any one do such a foolish,
wasteful thing as this, one to so little purpose in its
destructiveness ?
They lost no time in speculation, but plunged into
the darkness in pursuit.
CHAPTER II
THE AMAZON
THE dog darted into the bunch grass and turned
sharply to the right. One of the men followed it, the
others took different directions.
Up a gully the hound ran, nosed the ground in a circle
of sniffs, and dipped down into a dry watercourse.
Tom Morse was at heel scarcely a dozen strides behind.
The yelping of the dog told Morse they were close on
their quarry. Once or twice he thought he made out the
vague outline of a flying figure, but in the night shadows
it was lost again almost at once.
They breasted the long slope of a low hill and took
the decline beyond. The young plainsman had the legs
and the wind of a Marathon runner. His was the per
fect physical fitness of one who lives a clean, hard life
in the dry air of the high lands. The swiftness and the
endurance of the fugitive told him that he was in the
wake of youth trained to a fine edge.
Unexpectedly, in the deeper darkness of a small
ravine below the hill spur, the hunted turned upon the
hunter. Morse caught the gleam of a knife thrust as he
plunged. It was too late to check his dive. A flame of
fire scorched through his forearm. The two went down
together, rolling over and over as they struggled.
Startled, Morse loosened his grip. He had discovered
by the feel of the flesh he was handling so roughly that
it was a woman with whom he was fighting.
THE AMAZON 7
She took advantage of his hesitation to shake free
and roll away.
They faced each other on their feet. The man was
amazed at the young Amazon s fury. Her eyes were like
live coals, flashing at him hatred and defiance. Beneath
the skin smock she wore, her breath came raggedly and
deeply. Neither of them spoke, but her gaze did not
yield a thousandth part of an inch to his.
The girl darted for the knife she had dropped. Morse
was upon her instantly. She tried to trip him, but when
they struck the ground she was underneath.
He struggled to pin down her arms, but she fought
with a barbaric fury. Her hard little fist beat upon his
face a dozen times before he pegged it down.
Lithe as a panther, her body twisted beneath his.
Too late the flash of white teeth warned him. She bit
into his arm with the abandon of a savage.
"You little devil!" he cried between set teeth.
He flung away any scruples he might have had and
pinned fast her flying arms. The slim, muscular body
still writhed in vain contortions till he clamped it fast
between knees from which not even an untamed cayuse
could free itself.
She gave up struggling. They glared at each other,
panting from their exertions. Her eyes still flamed
defiance, but back of it he read fear, a horrified and para
lyzing terror. To the white traders along the border a
half-breed girl was a squaw, and a squaw was property
just as a horse or a dog was.
For the first time she spoke, and in English. Her
voice came bell-clear and not in the guttural of the tribes.
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"Let me up!" It was an imperative, urgent, threat
ening.
He still held her in the vice, his face close to her flam
ing eyes. "You little devil," he said again.
"Let me up!" she repeated wildly. "Let me up, I
tell you."
"Like blazes I will. You re through biting and
knifing me for one night." He had tasted no liquor all
day, but there was the note of drunkenness in his voice.
The terror in her grew. "If you don t let me up "
"You 11 do what? " he jeered.
Her furious upheaval took him by surprise. She had
unseated him and was scrambling to her feet before he
had her by the shoulders.
The girl ducked her head in an effort to wrench free.
She could as easily have escaped from steel cuffs as
from the grip of his brown fingers.
"You d better let me go!" she cried. "You don t
know who I am."
"Nor care," he flung back. "You re a nitchie, and
you smashed our kegs. That s enough for me."
"I m no such thing a nitchie," 1 she denied indig
nantly.
The instinct of self-preservation was moving in her.
She had played into the hands of this man and his com
panions. The traders made their own laws and set
their own standards. The value of a squaw of the
Blackfeet was no more than that of the liquor she had
destroyed. It would be in character for them to keep
her as a chattel captured in war.
1 In the vernacular of the Northwest Indians were "nitchies." (W. M. R.)
THE AMAZON 9
"The daughter of a squaw-man then," he said, and
there was in his voice the contempt of the white man for
the half-breed.
"I m Jessie McRae," she said proudly.
Among the Indians she went by her tribal name of
Sleeping Dawn, but always with the whites she used
the one her adopted father had given her. It increased
their respect for her. Just now she was in des
perate need of every ounce that would weigh in the
scales.
"Daughter of Angus McRae?" he asked, astonished.
"Yes."
"His woman s a Cree?"
"His wife is," the girl corrected.
"What you doin here?"
"Father s camp is near. He s hunting hides."
"Did he send you to smash our whiskey -barrels?"
"Angus McRae never hides behind a woman," she
said, her chin up.
That was true. Morse knew it, though he had never
met McRae. His reputation had gone all over the
Northland as a fearless fighting man honest as daylight
and stern as the Day of Judgment. If this girl was a
daughter of the old Scot, not even a whiskey-trader
could safely lay hands on her. For back of Angus was
a group of buffalo-hunters related to him by blood over
whom he held half-patriarchal sway.
"Why did you do it?" Morse demanded.
The question struck a spark of spirit from her. "Be
cause you re ruining my people destroying them with
your fire-water."
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He was taken wholly by surprise. "Do you mean
you destroyed our property for that reason?"
She nodded, sullenly.
"But we don t trade with the Crees," he persisted.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was
of the Blackf oot tribe and not of the Crees, but again for
reasons of policy she was less than candid. Till she was
safely out of the woods, it was better this man should
not know she was only an adopted daughter of Angus
McRae. She offered another reason, and with a flare of
passion which he was to learn as a characteristic of her.
"You make trouble for my brother Fergus. He shot
Akokotos (Many Horses) in the leg when the fire-water
burned in him. He was stabbed by a Piegan brave who
did not know what he was doing. Fergus is good. He
minds his own business. But you steal away his brains.
Then he runs wild. It was you, not Fergus, that shot
Akokotos. The Great Spirit knows you whiskey-
traders, and not my poor people who destroy each
other, are the real murderers."
Her logic was feminine and personal, from his view
point wholly unfair. Moreover, one of her charges did
not happen to be literally true.
"We never sold whiskey to your brother not our
outfit. It was Jackson s, maybe. Anyhow, nobody
made him buy it. He was free to take it or leave it."
"A wolf does n t have to eat the poisoned meat in a
trap, but it eats and dies," she retorted swiftly and
bitterly.
Adroitly she had put him on the defensive. Her words
had the sting of barbed darts.
THE AMAZON 11
"We re not talking of wolves."
44 No, but of Blackfeet and Bloods and Sarcees," she
burst out, again with that flare of feminine ferocity so
out of character in an Indian woman or the daughter of
one. "D* you think I don t know how you Americans
talk? A good Indian is a dead Indian. No wonder we
hate you all. No wonder the tribes fight you to the
death."
He had no answer for this. It was true. He had been
brought up in a land of Indian wars and he had accepted
without question the common view that the Sioux, the
Crows, and the Cheyennes, with all their blood brothers,
were menaces to civilization. The case for the natives
he had never studied. How great a part broken pledges
and callous injustice had done to drive the tribes to the
war-path he did not know. Few of the actual frontiers
men were aware of the wrongs of the red men.
The young man s hands fell from her arms. Hard-
eyed and grim, he looked her over from head to foot.
The short skirt and smock of buckskin, the moccasins
of buffalo hide, all dusty and travel -stained, told of life
in a primitive country under the simplest and hardest
conditions.
Yet the voice was clear and vibrant, the words well
enunciated. She bloomed like a desert rose, had some
quality of vital life that struck a spark from his imagi
nation.
What manner of girl was she? Not by any possibility
would she fit into the specifications of the cubby-hole
his mind had built for Indian women. The daughters
even of the boisbrules had much of the heaviness and
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\
stolidity of their native mothers. Jessie Mcllae was
graceful as a fawn. Every turn of the dark head, every
lift of the hand, expressed spirit and verve. She must,
he thought, have inherited almost wholly from her
father, though in her lissom youth he could find little of
McRae s heavy solidity of mind and body.
"Your brother is of the metis. 1 He s not a tribesman.
And he s no child. He can look out for himself," Morse
said at last.
His choice of a word was unfortunate. It applied as
much to her as to Fergus. Often it was used contemp
tuously.
"Yes, and the metis does n t matter," she cried, with
the note of bitterness that sat so strangely on her hot-
blooded, vital youth. "You can ride over him as though
you re lords of the barren lands. You can ruin him for
the money you make, even if he s a subject of the Great
Mother and not of your country. He s only a breed a
mongrel. "
He was a man of action. He brushed aside discussion.
"We ll be movin back to camp."
Instantly her eyes betrayed the fear she would not
put into words. "No no! I won t go."
His lids narrowed. The outthrust of his lean jaw left
no room for argument. "You ll go where I say."
She knew it would be that way, if he dragged her by
the hair of the head. Because she was in such evil case
she tamed her pride to sullen pleading.
"Don t take me there! Let me go to father. He ll
1 The half-breeds were known as "metis." The word means, of course,
mongrel. (W. M. R.)
THE AMAZON 13
horsewhip me. I 11 have him do it for you. Is n t that
enough? Won t that satisfy you?"
Red spots smoldered like fire in his brown eyes. If he
took her back to the traders camp, he would have to
fight Bully West for her. That was certain. All sorts of
complications would rise. There would be trouble with
McRae. The trade with the Indians of his uncle s firm,
of which he was soon to be a partner, would be wrecked
by the Scotchman. No, he could n t take her back to
the camp in the coulee. There was too much at stake.
"Suits me. I ll take you up on that. He s to horse
whip you for that fool trick you played on us and to
make good our loss. Where s his camp?"
From the distance of a stone-throw a heavy, raucous
voice called, " Lo, Morse!"
The young man turned to the girl, his lips set in a
thin, hard line. "Bully West. The dog s gone back and
is bringin him here, I reckon. Like to meet him?"
She knew the reputation of Bully West, notorious as
a brawler and a libertine. Who in all the North did not
know of it? Her heart fluttered a signal of despair.
"I I can get away yet up the valley," she said in
a whisper, eyes quick with fear.
He smiled grimly. "You mean we can."
"Yes."
"Hit the trail."
She turned and led the way into the darkness.
CHAPTER III
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY
THE harsh shout came to them again, and with it a
volley of oaths that polluted the night.
Sleeping Dawn quickened her pace. The character
of Bully West was sufficiently advertised in that single
outburst. She conceived him bloated, wolfish, malig
nant, a man whose mind traveled through filthy green
swamps breeding fever and disease. Hard though this
young man was, in spite of her hatred of him, of her
doubt as to what lay behind those inscrutable, reddish-
brown eyes of his, she would a hundred times rather
take chances with him than with Bully West. He was at
least a youth. There was always the possibility that he
might not yet have escaped entirely from the tenderness
of boyhood.
Morse followed her silently with long, tireless strides.
The girl continued to puzzle him. Even her manner of
walking expressed personality. There was none of the
flat-footed Indian shuffle about her gait. She moved
lightly, springily, as one does who finds in it the joy
of calling upon abundant strength.
She was half Scotch, of course. That helped to explain
her. The words of an old song hummed themselves
through his mind.
" Yestreen I met a winsome lass, a bonny lass was she,
As ever climbed the mountain-side, or tripped aboon the lea;
She wore nae gold, nae jewels bright, nor silk nor satin rare,
But just the plaidie that a queen might well be proud to wear."
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY 15
Jessie McRae wore nothing half so picturesque as the
tartan. Her clothes were dingy and dust-stained. But
they could not eclipse the divine, dusky youth of her.
She was slender, as a panther is, and her movements
had more than a suggestion of the same sinuous grace.
Of the absurdity of such thoughts he was quite aware.
She was a good-looking breed. Let it go at that. In
story-books there were Indian princesses, but in real
life there were only squaws.
Not till they were out of the danger zone did he speak.
"Where s your father s camp?"
She pointed toward the northwest. "You don t need
to be afraid. He ll pay you for the damage I did."
He looked at her in the steady, appraising way she
was to learn as a peculiarity of his.
" I m not afraid," he drawled. " I 11 get my pay and
you ll get yours."
Color flamed into her dusky face. When she spoke
there was the throb of contemptuous anger in her voice.
"It s a great thing to be a man."
"Like to crawfish, would you?"
She swung on him, eyes blazing. "No. I don t ask
any favors of a wolfer."
She spat the word at him as though it were a missile.
The term was one of scorn, used only in speaking of the
worst of the whiskey-traders. He took it coolly, his
strong white teeth flashing in a derisive smile.
"Then this wolfer won t offer any, Miss McRae."
It was the last word that passed between them till
they reached the buffalo-hunter s camp. If he felt any
compunctions, she read nothing of the kind in his brown
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face and the steady stride carrying her straight to pun
ishment. She wondered if he knew how mercilessly
twenty-year-old Fergus had been thrashed after his
drunken spree among the Indians, how sternly Angus
dispensed justice in the clan over which he ruled. Did
he think she was an ordinary squaw, one to be whipped
as a matter of discipline by her owner?
They climbed a hill and looked down on a camp of
many fires in the hollow below.
"Is it you, lass?" a voice called.
Out of the shadows thrown by the tents a big bearded
man came to meet them. He stood six feet in his woolen
socks. His chest was deep and his shoulders tremen
dously broad. Few in the Lone Lands had the physical
strength of Angus McRae.
His big hand caught the girl by the shoulder with a
grip that was half a caress. He had been a little anxious
about her and this found expression in a reproach.
"You shouldna go out by your lane for so lang after
dark, Jess. Weel you ken that."
"I know, Father."
The blue eyes beneath the grizzled brows of the
hunter turned upon Morse. They asked what he was
doing with his daughter at that time and place.
The Montana trader answered the unspoken question,
an edge of irony in his voice. "I found Miss McRae wan-
derin around, so I brought her home where she would
be safe and well taken care of."
There was something about this Angus did not under
stand. At night in the Lone Lands, among a thousand
hill pockets and shoestring draws, it would be only a
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY 17
millionth chance that would bring a man and woman
together unexpectedly. He pushed home questions,
for he was not one to slough any of the responsibilities
that belonged to him as father of his family.
A fat and waistless Indian woman appeared in the
tent flap as the three approached the light. She gave a
grunt of surprise and pointed first at Morse and then at
the girl.
The trader s hands were covered with blood, his
shirt-sleeve soaked in it. Stains of it were spattered
over the girl s clothes and face.
The Scotchman looked at them, and his clean-shaven
upper lip grew straight, his whole face stern. "What 11
be the meanin o this?" he asked.
Morse turned to the girl, fastened his eyes on her
steadily, and waited.
"Nae lees. I ll hae the truth," Angus added harshly.
"I did it with my hunting-knife," the daughter
said, looking straight at her father.
"What s that? Are ye talkin havers, lass?"
"It s the truth, Father."
The Scotchman swung on the trader with a swift
question, at the end of it a threat. "Why would she
do that? Why? If you said one word to my lass "
"No, Father. You don t understand. I found a camp
of whiskey-traders, and I stole up and smashed four-
five kegs. I meant to slip away, but this man caught
me. When he rushed at me I was afraid so I slashed
at him with my knife. We fought."
"You fought," her father repeated.
"He did n t know I was a girl not at first."
18 MAN-SIZE
The buffalo-hunter passed that point. "You went to
this trader s camp and ruined his goods?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The slim girl faced her judge steadily with eyes full
of apprehension. "Fergus," she said in a low voice,
"and my people."
"What aboot them?"
"These traders break the law. They sell liquor to
Fergus and to "
"Gin that s true, is it your business to ram-stam in
an destroy ither folks property? Did I bring you up
i the fear o the Lord to slash at men wi your dirk an
fight wi them like a wild limmer? I ve been ower-easy
wi you. Weel, I ll do my painfu duty the nicht, lass."
The Scotchman s eyes were as hard and as inexorable
as those of a hanging judge.
"Yes," the girl answered in a small voice. "That s
why he brought me home instead of taking me to his
own camp. You re to whip me."
Angus McRae was not used to having the law and
the judgment taken out of his own hands. He frowned
at the young man beneath heavy grizzled eyebrows
drawn sternly together. "An 5 who are you to tell me
how to goverp my ain hoose?" he demanded.
"My name s Morse Tom Morse, Fort Benton,
Montana, when my hat s hangin up. I took up your
girl s proposition, that if I did n t head in at our camp,
but brought her here, you were to whip her and pay me
damages for what she d done. Me, I did n t propose it.
She did."
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY 19
"You gave him your word on that, Jess?" her father
asked.
"Yes." She dragged out, reluctantly, after a mo
ment: "With a horsewhip."
"Then that s the way it ll be. The McRaes don t
cry back on a bargain," the dour old buffalo-hunter
said. "But first we ll look at this young man s arm.
Get water and clean rags, Jess."
Morse flushed beneath the dark tan of his cheeks.
"My arm s all right. It 11 keep till I get back to camp."
"No such thing, my lad. We 11 tie it up here and now.
If my lass cut your arm, she ll bandage the wound."
"She ll not. I m runnin this arm."
McRae slammed a heavy fist down into the palm of
his hand. "I ll be showin you aboot that, mannie."
"Hell, what s the use o jawin ? I m goin to wait, I
tell you."
"Don t curse in my camp, Mr. Morse, or whatever
your name is." The Scotchman s blue eyes flashed.
"It s a thing I do not permeet. Nor do I let beardless
lads tell me what they will or won t do here. Your
wound will be washed and tied up if I have to order you
hogtied first. So mak the best o that."
Morse measured eyes with him a moment, then gave
way with a sardonic laugh. McRae had a full share of
the obstinacy of his race.
"All right. I m to be done good to whether I like it
or not. Go to it." The trader pulled back the sleeve of
his shirt and stretched out a muscular, blood-stained arm.
An ugly flesh wound stretched halfway from elbow to
wrist.
20 MAN-SIZE
Jessie brought a basin, water, a towel, and clean rags.
By the light of a lantern in the hands of her father, she
washed and tied up the wound. Her lips trembled.
Strange little rivers of fire ran through her veins when
her finger-tips touched his flesh. Once, when she lifted
her eyes, they met his. He read in them a concentrated
passion of hatred.
Not even when she had tied the last knot in the ban
dage did any of them speak. She carried away the towel
and the basin while McRae hung the lantern to a nail
in the tent pole and brought from inside a silver-
mounted riding-whip. It was one he had bought as a
present for his daughter last time he had been at Fort
Benton.
The girl came back and stood before him. A pulse
beat fast in her brown throat. The eyes betrayed the
dread of her soul, but they met without flinching those
of the buffalo-hunter.
The Indian woman at the tent entrance made no mo
tion to interfere. The lord of her life had spoken. So
it would be.
With a strained little laugh Morse took a step for
ward. "I reckon I ll not stand out for my pound of
flesh, Mr. McRae. Settle the damages for the lost liquor
and I ll call it quits."
The upper lip of the Scotchman was a straight line
of resolution. "I m not thrashing the lass to please you,
but because it s in the bond and because she s earned it.
Stand back, sir."
The whip swung up and down. The girl gasped and
shivered. A flame of fiery pain ran through her body to
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY 21
the toes. She set her teeth to bite back a scream.
Before the agony had passed, the whip was winding
round her slender body again like a red-hot snake. It
fell with implacable rhythmic regularity.
Her pride and courage collapsed. She sank to her
knees with a wild burst of wailing and entreaties. At
last McRae stopped.
Except for the irregular sobbing breaths of the girl
there was silence. The Indian woman crouched beside
the tortured young thing and rocked the dark head,
held close against her bosom, while she crooned a
lullaby in the native tongue.
McRae, white to the lips, turned upon his unwelcome
guest. "You re nae doot wearyin to tak the road, man.
Bring your boss the morn an* I ll mak a settlement."
Morse knew he was dismissed. He turned and walked
into the darkness beyond the camp-fires. Unnoticed,
he waited there in a hollow and listened. For a long time
there carne to him the soft sound of weeping, and after
ward the murmur of voices. He knew that the fat and
shapeless squaw was pouring mother love from her own
heart to the bleeding one of the girl.
Somehow that brought him comfort. He had a queer
feeling that he had been a party to some horrible out
rage. Yet all that had taken place was the whipping of
an Indian girl. He tried to laugh away the weak sym
pathy in his heart.
But the truth was that inside he was a wild river of
woe for her.
CHAPTER IV
THE WOLFERS
WHEN Tom Morse reached camp he found Bully West
stamping about in a heady rage. The fellow was a giant
of a man, almost muscle-bound in his huge solidity.
His shoulders were rounded with the heavy pack of
knotted sinews they carried. His legs were bowed from
much riding. It was his boast that he could bend a
silver dollar double in the palm of his hand. Men had
seen him twist the tail rod of a wagon into a knot.
Sober, he was a sulky, domineering brute with the in
stincts of a bully. In liquor, the least difference of
opinion became for him a cause of quarrel.
Most men gave him a wide berth, and for the sake of
peace accepted sneers and insults that made the blood
boil.
"Where you been all this time?" he growled.
"Ploughin around over the plains."
"Did n t you hear me callin ?"
"D you call? I ve been quite a ways from camp.
Bumped into Angus McRae s buffalo-hunting outfit.
He wants to see us to-morrow."
"What for?"
"Something about to-night s business. Seems he
knows who did it. Offers to settle for what we lost."
Bully West stopped in his stride, feet straddled,
head thrust forward. "What s that?"
THE WOLFERS 23
"Like I say. We re to call on him to-morrow for a
settlement, you V me."
"Did McRae bust our barrels?"
"He knows something about it. Didn t have time
to talk long with him. I hustled right back to tell you."
"He can come here if he wants to see me," West
announced.
This called for no answer and Tom gave it none. He
moved across to the spot where the oxen were picketed
and made sure the pins were still fast. Presently he
rolled his blanket round him and looked up into a sky
all stars. Usually he dropped asleep as soon as his head
touched the seat of the saddle he used as a pillow. But
to-night he lay awake for hours. He could not get out
of his mind the girl he had met and taken to punish
ment. A dozen pictures of her rose before him, all of
them mental snapshots snatched from his experience
of the night. Now he was struggling to hold her down,
his knees clamped to her writhing, muscular torso.
Again he held her by the strong, velvet-smooth arms
while her eyes blazed fury and defiance at him. Or her
stinging words pelted him as she breasted the hill
slopes with supple ease. Most vivid of all were the ones
at her father s camp, especially those when she was
under the torture of the whip.
No wonder she hated him for what he had done to
her.
He shook himself into a more comfortable position
and began to count stars. . . . Ninety -five, ninety-six,
ninety-seven. . . . What was the use of stressing the
affair, anyhow? She was only a half-breed. In ten
24 MAN-SIZE
years she would be fat, shapeless, dirty, and repellent.
Her conversation would be reduced to grunts. The
glance he had had at her mother was illuminating.
Where was he? . . . One hundred eleven, twelve,
thirteen. . . . Women had not obtruded much into
his life. He had lived in the wind and the sun of the
outdoors, much of the time in the saddle. Lawless he
was, but there was a clean strain in his blood. He had
always felt an indifferent contempt for a squaw-man.
An American declassed himself when he went in for
that sort of thing, even if he legalized the union by some
form of marriage. In spite of her magnificent physical
inheritance of health and vitality, in spite of the quick
and passionate spirit that informed her, she would be
the product of her environment and ancestry, held
close to barbarism all her life. The man who mated
with her would be dragged down to her level.
Two hundred three, four, five. . . . How game she
had been! She had played it out like a thoroughbred,
even to telling her father that he was to use the horse
whip in punishing her. He had never before seen a
creature so splendid or so spirited. Squaw or no squaw,
he took off his hat to her.
The sun had climbed the hilltop when Morse wak
ened.
"Come an get it!" Barney the cook was yelling at
him.
Bully West had changed his mind about not going to
the buffalo-hunter s camp.
"You V Brad 11 stay here, Barney, while me V
Tom are gone," he gave orders. "And you ll keep a
THE WOLFERS 25
sharp lookout for raiders. If any one shows up that
you re dubious of, plug him and ask questions after
ward. Understand?"
"I hear ye," replied Barney, a small cock-eyed man
with a malevolent grin. "An* we ll do just that, boss."
Long before the traders reached it, the camp of the
buffalo-hunters advertised its presence by the stench of
decaying animal matter. Hundreds of hides were pegged
to the ground. Men and women, squatting on their
heels, scraped bits of fat from the drying skins. Already
a train of fifty Red River carts 1 stood ready for the
homeward start, loaded with robes tied down by means
of rawhide strips to stand the jolting across the plains.
Not far away other women were making pemmican
of fried buffalo meat and fat, pounded together and
packed with hot grease in skin bags. This food was a
staple winter diet and had too a market value for trade
to the Hudson s Bay Company, which shipped thou
sands of sacks yearly to its northern posts on the
Peace and the Mackenzie Rivers.
The children and the sound of their laughter gave the
camp a domestic touch. Some of the brown, half -naked
youngsters, their skins glistening in the warm sun,
were at work doing odd jobs. Others, too young to
fetch and carry, played with a litter of puppies or with
a wolf cub that had been caught and tamed.
The whole bustling scene was characteristic of time
and place. A score of such outfits, each with its Red
1 The Red River cart was a primitive two- wheeled affair, made entirely
of wood, without nails or metal tires. It was usually drawn by an ox.
(W. M. R.)
26 MAN-SIZE
River carts and its oxen, its dogs, its women and chil
dren, traveled to the plains each spring to hunt the
bison. They killed thousands upon thousands of them,
for it took several animals to make a sack of pemmican
weighing one hundred fifty pounds. The waste was
enormous, since only the choicest cuts of meat were
used.
Already the buffalo were diminishing in numbers.
Vast hordes still roamed the plains. They could be
killed by scores and hundreds. But the end was near.
It had been several years since Colonel Dodge reported
that he had halted his party of railroad builders two
days to let a herd of over half a million bison pass.
Such a sight was no longer possible. The pressure of
the hunters had divided the game into the northern and
the southern herds. Within four or five years the
slaughter was to be so great that only a few groups of
buffalo would be left.
The significance of this extermination lay largely in
its application to the Indians. The plains tribes were
fed and clothed and armed and housed by means of the
buffalo. Even the canoes of the lake Indians were made
from buffalo skins. The failure of the supply reduced
the natives from warriors to beggars.
McRae came forward to meet the traders, the sleeves
of his shirt rolled to the elbows of his muscular brown
arms. He stroked a great red beard and nodded gruffly.
It was not in his dour honest nature to pretend that he
was glad to see them when he was not.
"Well, I m here," growled West, interlarding a few
oaths as a necessary corollary of his speech. "What s
THE WOLFERS 27
it all about, McRae? What do you know about the
smashing of our barrels?"
"I ll settle any reasonable damage," the hunter said.
Bully West frowned. He spread his legs deliberately,
folded his arms, and spat tobacco juice upon a clean
hide drying in the sun. "Hold yore hawsses a minute.
The damage 11 be enough. Don t you worry about that.
But first off, I aim to know who raided our camp. Then
I reckon I ll whop him till he s wore to a frazzle."
Under heavy, grizzled brows McRae looked long at
him. Both were outstanding figures by reason of per
sonality and physique. One was a constructive force,
the other destructive. There was a suggestion of the
gorilla in West s long arms matted with hair, in the
muscles of back and shoulders so gnarled and knotted
that they gave him almost a deformed appearance. Big
and broad though he was, the Scot was the smaller.
But power harnessed and controlled expressed itself
in every motion of the body. Moreover, the blue eyes
that looked straight and hard out of the ruddy face
told of coordination between mind and matter.
Angus McRae was that rare product, an honest, out
spoken man. He sought to do justice to all with whom
he had dealings. Part of West s demand was fair, he
reflected. The trader had a right to know all the facts
in the case. But the old Hudson s Bay trapper had a
great reluctance to tell them. His instinct to protect
Jessie was strong.
"I ve saved ye the trouble, Mr. West. The guilty
yin was o my ain family. Your young man will tell ye
I ve done a the horsewhippin that s necessary."
28 MAN-SIZE
The big trail boss looked blackly at his helper. He
would settle with Morse at the proper time. Now he had
other business on hand.
"Come clean, McRae. Who was it? There ll be
nothin doin till I know that," he growled.
"My daughter."
West glared at him, for once astonished out of pro
fanity.
"What?"
"My daughter Jessie."
"Goddlemighty, d ja mean to tell me a girl did it?"
He threw back his head in a roar of Homeric laughter.
"Ever hear the beat of that? A damn HT Injun squaw
play in her tricks on Bully West! If she was mine I d
tickle her back for it."
The eyes in the Scotchman s granite face flashed.
"Man, can you never say twa-three words withoot pro
fanity? This is a God-fearin camp. There s nae place
here for those who tak His name in vain."
"Smashed em with her own hands is that what
you mean? I ll give it to her that she s a plucky li P
devil, even if she is a nitchie."
McRae reproved him stiffly. "You ll please to re
member that you re talking of my daughter, Mr. West.
I ll allow no such language aboot her. You re here to
settle a business matter. What do ye put the damage
at?"
They agreed on a price, to be paid in hides delivered
at Whoop-Up. West turned and went straddling to the
place where he and Morse had left their horses. On the
way he came face to face with a girl, a lithe, dusky
THE WOLFERS 29
young creature, Indian brown, the tan of a hundred
summer suns and winds painted on the oval of her lifted
chin. She was carrying a package of sacks to the place
where the pemmican was being made.
West s eyes narrowed. They traveled up and down
her slender body. They gloated on her.
After one scornful glance which swept over and ig
nored Morse, the girl looked angrily at the man barring
her way. Slowly the blood burned into her cheeks.
For there was that in the trader s smoldering eyes that
would have insulted any modest maiden.
"You Jessie McRae?" he demanded, struck of a
sudden with an idea.
"Yes."
"You smashed my whiskey -barrels?"
"My father has told you. If he says so, is n t that
enough?"
He slapped an immense hand on his thigh, hugely
diverted. "You damn HT high-steppin filly! Why?
What in hell d I ever do to you?"
Angus McRae strode forward, eyes blazing. He had
married a Cree woman, had paid for her to her father
seven ponies, a yard of tobacco, and a bottle of whiskey.
His own two-fisted sons were metis. The Indian in them
showed more plainly than the Celt. Their father ac
cepted the fact without resentment. But there was in
his heart a queer feeling about the little lass he had
adopted. Her light, springing step, the lift of the throat
and the fearlessness of the eye, the instinct in her for
cleanliness of mind and body, carried him back forty
years to the land of heather, to a memory of the laird s
30 MAN-SIZE
daughter whom he had worshiped with the hopeless
adoration of a red-headed gillie. It had been the one
romance of his life, and somehow it had reincarnated it
self in his love for the half-breed girl. To him it seemed
a contradiction of nature that Jessie should be related
to the flat-footed squaws who were slaves to their lords.
He could not reconcile his heart to the knowledge that
she was of mixed blood. She was too fine, too dainty,
of too free and imperious a spirit.
"Your horses are up the hill, Mr. West," he said
pointedly.
It is doubtful whether the trader heard. He could not
keep his desirous eyes from the girl.
"Is she a half- or a quarter-breed?" he asked McRae.
"That ll be her business and mine, sir. Will you
please tak the road?" The hunter spoke quietly, re
straining himself from an outbreak. But his voice
carried an edge.
"By Gad, she s some clipper," West said, aloud to
himself, just as though the girl had not been present.
"Will you leave my daughter oot o your talk, man?"
warned the Scotchman.
"What s ailin you?" West s sulky, insolent eyes
turned on the buffalo-hunter. "A nitchie s a nitchie.
Me, I talk straight. But I aim to be reasonable too.
I don t like a woman less because she s got the devil in
her. Bully West knows how to tame em so they 11 eat
outa his hand. I ve took a fancy to yore girl. Tha s
right, McRae."
"You may go to the tent, Jessie," the girl s father told
her. He was holding his temper in leash with difficulty.
THE WOLFERS 31
"Wait a mo." The big trader held out his arm to bar
the way. "Don t push on yore reins, McRae. I m
makin you a proposition. Me, I m lookin for a wife,
an* this here breed girl of yours suits me. Give her to me
an I 11 call the whole thing square. Could n t say
fairer than that, could I?"
The rugged hunter looked at the big malformed
border ruffian with repulsion. "Man, you gi e me a
scunner," he said. "Have done wi this foolishness an
be gone. The lass is no for you or the like o you."
"Hell s hinges, you ain t standin there tellin me
that a Cree breed is too good for Bully West, are you?"
roared the big whiskey-runner.
"A hundred times too good for you. I d rather see
the lass dead in her coffin than have her life ruined by
you," McRae answered in dead earnest.
"You don t get me right, Mac," answered the smug
gler, swallowing his rage. "I know yore religious no
tions. We ll stand up before a sky pilot and have this
done right. I aim to treat this girl handsome."
Jessie had turned away at her father s command.
Now she turned swiftly upon the trader, eyes flashing.
"I d rather Father would drive a knife in my heart than
let me be married to a wolfer!" she cried passionately.
His eyes, untrammeled by decency, narrowed to feast
on the brown immature beauty of her youth.
"Tha so?" he jeered. "Well, the time s comin when
you ll go down on yore pretty knees an beg me not to
leave you. It ll be me n you one o these days. Make
up yore mind to that."
"Never! Never! I d die first !" she exploded.
32 MAN-SIZE
Bully West showed his broken, tobacco-stained teeth
in a mirthless grin. "We ll see about that, dearie."
"March, lass. Your mother 11 be needin you,"
McRae said sharply.
The girl looked at West, then at Morse. From the
scorn of that glance she might have been a queen and
they the riffraff of the land. She walked to the tent.
Not once did she look back.
"You ve had your answer both from her and me.
Let that be an end o it," McRae said with finality.
The trader s anger ripped out in a crackle of obscene
oaths. They garnished the questions that he snarled.
"Wha s the matter with me? Why ain t I good enough
for yore half-breed litter?"
It was a spark to gunpowder. The oaths, the insult,
the whole degrading episode, combined to drive McRae
out of the self-restraint he had imposed on himself. He
took one step forward. With a wide sweep of the
clenched fist he buffeted the smuggler on the ear.
Taken by surprise, West went spinning against the
wheel of a cart.
The man s head sank between his shoulders and
thrust forward. A sound that might have come from
an infuriated grizzly rumbled from the hairy throat.
His hand reached for a revolver.
Morse leaped like a crouched cat. Both hands caught
at W r est s arm. The old hunter was scarcely an instant
behind him. His fingers closed on the wrist just above
the weapon.
"Hands off," he ordered Morse. "This is no your
quarrel."
THE WOLFERS 33
The youngster s eyes met the blazing blue ones of the
Scot. His fingers loosened their hold. He stepped back.
The two big men strained. One fought with every
ounce of power in him to twist the arm from him till the
cords and sinews strained ; the other to prevent this and
to free the wrist. It was a test of sheer strength.
Each labored, breathing deep, his whole energy cen
tered on coordinated effort of every muscle. They strug
gled in silence except for the snarling grunts of the
whiskey-runner.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the wrist began
to turn from McRae. Sweat beads gathered on West s
face. He fought furiously to hold his own. But the
arm turned inexorably.
The trader groaned. As the cords tightened and
shoots of torturing pain ran up the arm, the huge
body of the man writhed. The revolver fell from his
paralyzed fingers. His wobbling knees sagged and
collapsed.
McRae s fingers loosened as the man slid down and
caught the bull-like throat. His grip tightened. West
fought savagely to break it. He could as soon have
freed himself from the clamp of a vice.
The Scotchman shook him till he was black in the
face, then flung him reeling away.
"Get oot, ye yellow wolf!" he roared. "Or fegs}
I ll break every bone in your hulkin body. Oot o my
camp, the pair o you!"
W est, strangling, gasped for air, as does a catfish
on the bank. He leaned on the cart wheel until he was
able to stand. The help of Morse he brushed aside
34 MAN-SIZE
with a sputtered oath. His eyes never left the man who
had beaten him. He snarled like a whipped wolf. The
hunter s metaphor had been an apt one. The horrible
lust to kill was stamped on his distorted, grinning face,
but for the present the will alone was not enough.
McRae s foot was on the revolver. His son Fergus,
a swarthy, good-looking youngster, had come up and
was standing quietly behind his father. Other hunters
were converging toward their chief.
The Indian trader swore a furious oath of vengeance.
Morse tried to lead him away.
"Some day I ll get yore squaw girl right, McRae,
an then God help her," he threatened.
The bully lurched straddling away.
Morse, a sardonic grin on his lean face, followed him
over the hill.
CHAPTER V
MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE
"THREW me down, did n t you?" snarled West out of
the corner of bis mouth. "Knew all the time she did it
an never let on to me. A hell of a way to treat a friend."
Tom Morse said nothing. He made mental reserva
tions about the word friend, but did not care to express
them. His somber eyes watched the big man jerk the
spade bit cruelly and rowel the bronco when it went
into the air. It was a pleasure to West to torture an
animal when no human was handy, though he preferred
women and even men as victims.
"Whad he mean when he said you could tell me how
he d settled with her?" he growled.
"He whipped her last night when I took her back to
camp."
"Took her back to camp, did you? Why did n t you
bring her to me? Who s in charge of this outfit, any
how, young fellow, me lad?"
"McRae s too big a man for us to buck. Too influ
ential with the half-breeds. I figured it was safer to
get her right home to him." The voice of the younger
man was mild and conciliatory.
"You figured!" West s profanity polluted the clear,
crisp morning air. "I got to have a run in with you
right soon. I can see that. Think because you re C. N.
Morse s nephew, you can slip yore funny business over
on me. I ll show you."
36 MAN-SIZE
The reddish light glinted for a moment in the eyes
of Morse, but he said nothing. Young though he was,
he had a capacity for silence. West was not sensitive
to atmospheres, but he felt the force of this young man.
It was not really in his mind to quarrel with him. For
one thing he would soon be a partner in the firm of C. N.
Morse & Company, of Fort Benton, one of the biggest
trading outfits in the country. West could not afford to
break with the Morse interests.
With their diminished cargo the traders pushed north.
Their destination was Whoop-Up, at the junction of the
Belly and the St. Mary s Rivers. This fort had become
a rendezvous for all the traders within hundreds of
miles, a point of supply for many small posts scattered
along the rivers of the North.
Twelve oxen were hitched to each three- wagon load.
Four teams had left Fort Benton together, but two of
them had turned east toward Wood Mountain before
the party was out of the Assiniboine country. West had
pushed across JxHiesome Prairie to the Sweet Grass
Hills and from there over the line into Canada.
Under the best of conditions West was no pleasant
traveling companion. Now he was in a state of contin
ual sullen ill-temper. For the first time in his life he had
been publicly worsted. Practically he had been kicked
out of the buffalo camp, just as though he were a
drunken half-breed and not one whose barroom brawls
were sagas of the frontier.
His vanity was notorious, and it had been flagrantly
outraged. He would never be satisfied until he had
found a way to get his revenge. More than once his
MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE 37
simmering anger leaped out at the young fellow who
had been a witness of his defeat. In the main he kept
his rage sulkily repressed. If Tom Morse wanted to tell
of the affair with McRae, he could lessen the big man s
prestige. West did not want that.
The outfit crossed the Milk River, skirted Pakoghkee
Lake, and swung westward in the direction of the Por
cupine Hills. Barney had been a trapper in the country
and knew where the best grass was to be found. In
many places the feed was scant. It had been cropped
close by the great herds of buffalo roaming the plains.
Most of the lakes were polluted by the bison, so that
whenever possible their guide found camps by running
water. The teams moved along the Belly River through
the sand hills.
Tom Morse was a crack shot and did the hunting for
the party. The evening before the train reached Whoop-
Up, he walked out from camp to try for an antelope,
since they were short of fresh meat. He climbed a small
butte overlooking the stream. His keen eyes swept the
panorama and came to rest on a sight he had never
before seen and would never forget.
A large herd of buffalo had come down to the river
crossing. They were swimming the stream against a
strong current, their bodies low in the water and so
closely packed that he could almost have stepped from
one shaggy head to another. Not fifty yards from him
they scrambled ashore and went lumbering into the
hazy dusk. Something had frightened them and they
were on a stampede. Even the river had not stopped
their flight. The earth shook with their tread as they
found their stride.
38 MAN-SIZE
That wild flight into the gathering darkness was
symbolic, Morse fancied. The vast herds were vanish
ing never to return. Were they galloping into the Happy
Hunting Ground the Indians prayed for? What would
come of their flight? When the plains knew them no
more, how would the Sioux and the Blackfeet and the
Piegans live? Would the Lonesome Lands become even
more desolate than they were now?
"I wonder," he murmured aloud.
It is certain that he could have had no vision of the
empire soon to be built out of the desert by himself and
men of his stamp. Not even dimly could he have con
ceived a picture of the endless wheat-fields that would
stretch across the plains, of the farmers who would pour
into the North by hundreds of thousands, of the cities
which would rise in the sand hills as a monument to
man s restless push of progress and his indomitable
hope. No living man s imagination had yet dreamed
of the transformation of this terra incognita into one of
the world s great granaries.
The smoke of the traders camp-fire was curling up
and drifting away into thin veils of film before the sun
showed over the horizon hills. The bull-teams had taken
up their steady forward push while the quails were still
flying to and from their morning water-holes.
"Whoop-Up by noon," Barney predicted.
"Yes, by noon," Tom Morse agreed. "In time for a
real sure-enough dinner with potatoes and beans and
green stuff."
" Y bet yore boots, an honest to gosh gravy," added
Brad Stearns, a thin and wrinkled little man whose
MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE 39
leathery face and bright eyes defied the encroachment
of time. He was bald, except for a fringe of grayish
hair above the temples and a few long locks carefully
disposed over his shiny crown. But nobody could have
looked at him and called him old.
They were to be disappointed.
The teams struck the dusty road that terminated at
the fort and were plodding along it to the crackling ac
companiment of the long bull- whips.
"Soon now," Morse shouted to Stearns.
The little man nodded. "Mebbe they ll have green
corn on the cob. Betcha the price of the dinner they do."
"You ve made a bet, dad."
Stearns halted the leaders. "What s that? Listen."
The sound of shots drifted to them punctuated by
faint, far yells. The shots did not come in a fusillade.
They were intermittent, died down, popped out again,
yielded to whoops in distant crescendo.
"Injuns," said Stearns. "On the peck, looks like.
Crees and Blackfeet, maybe, but you never can tell.
Better throw off the trail and dig in."
West had ridden up. He nodded. "Till we know
where we re at. Get busy, boys."
They drew up the wagons in a semicircle, end to end,
the oxen bunched inside, partially protected by a small
cottonwood grove in the rear.
This done, West gave further orders. "We gotta find
out what s doin . Chances are it s nothin but a coupla
bunches of braves with a cargo of redeye aboard, Tom,
you an Brad scout out an take a look-see. Don t be
too venturesome. Soon s you find out what the rumpus
40 MAN-SIZE
is, hot-foot it back and report, y understand." The big
wolfer snapped out directions curtly. There was no
more competent wagon boss in the border-land than he.
Stearns and Morse rode toward the fort. They de
flected from the road and followed the river-bank to take
advantage of such shrubbery as grew there. They
moved slowly and cautiously, for in the Indian country
one took no unnecessary chances. From the top of a
small rise, shielded by a clump of willows, the two
looked down on a field of battle already decided. Bul
lets and arrows were still flying, but the defiant, tri
umphant war-whoops of a band of painted warriors
slowly moving toward them showed that the day was
won and lost. A smaller group of Indians was retreating
toward the swamp on the left-hand side of the road.
Two or three dead braves lay in the grassy swale be
tween the foes.
"I done guessed it, first crack," Brad said. "Crees
and Blackfeet. They sure enough do mix it whenever
they get together. The Crees ce tainly got the jump on
em this time."
It was an old story. From the northern woods the
Crees had come down to trade at the fort. They had
met a band of Blackfeet who had traveled up from the
plains for the same purpose. Filled with bad liquor,
the hereditary enemies had as usual adjourned to the
ground outside for a settlement while the traders at
the fort had locked the gates and watched the battle
from the loopholes of the stockade.
"Reckon we better blow back to camp," suggested
the old plainsman. "Mr. Cree may be feelin his oats
MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE 41
heap much. White man look all same Blackfeet to him
like as not."
"Look." Morse pointed to a dip in the swale.
An Indian was limping through the brush, taking
advantage of such cover as he could find. He was
wounded. His leg dragged and he moved with difficulty.
"He ll be a good Injun mighty soon," Stearns said,
rubbing his bald head as it shone in the sun. "Not a
chance in the world for him. They ll git him soon as
they reach the coulee. See. They re stoppin to collect
that other fellow s scalp."
At a glance Morse had seen the situation. This was
none of his affair. It was tacitly understood that the
traders should not interfere in the intertribal quarrels of
the natives. But old Brad s words, "good Injun," had
carried him back to a picture of a brown, slim girl
flashing indignation because Americans treated her race
as though only dead Indians were good ones. He could
never tell afterward what was the rational spring of his
impulse.
At the touch of the rein laid flat against its neck, the
cow-pony he rode laid back its ears, turned like a
streak of light, and leaped to a hand gallop. It swept
down the slope and along the draw, gathering speed with
every jump.
The rider let out a "Hi-yi-yi " to attract the attention
of the wounded brave. Simultaneously the limping
fugitive and the Crees caught sight of the flying horse
man who had obtruded himself into the fire zone.
An arrow whistled past Morse. He saw a bullet
throw up a spurt of dirt beneath the belly of his horse.
42 MAN-SIZE
The Crees were close to their quarry. They closed
in with a run. Tom knew it would be a near thing. He
slackened speed slightly and freed a foot from the stir
rup, stiffening it to carry weight.
The wounded Indian crouched, began to run parallel
with the horse, and leaped at exactly the right instant.
His hand caught the sleeve of his rescuer at the same
time that the flat of his foot dropped upon the white man s
boot. A moment, and his leg had swung across the
rump of the pony and he had settled to the animal s back.
So close was it that a running Cree snatched at the
bronco s tail and was jerked from his feet before he
could release his hold.
As the cow-pony went plunging up the slope, Morse
saw Brad Stearns silhouetted against the sky-line at
the summit. His hat was gone and his bald head was
shining in the sun. He was pumping bullets from his
rifle at the Crees surging up the hill after his companion.
Stearns swung his horse and jumped it to a lope.
Side by side with Morse he went over the brow in a
shower of arrows and slugs.
"Holy mackerel, boy! What s eatin you?" he yelled.
"Ain t you got any sense a-tall? Don t you know better
n to jump up trouble thataway?"
"We re all right now," the younger man said. "They
can t catch us." j
The Crees were on foot and would be out of range
by the time they reached the hilltop.
"Hmp! They ll come to our camp an raise Cain.
Why not? What business we got monkey in with their
scalping sociables? It ain t neighborly."
MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE 43
"West won t like it," admitted Morse.
"He ll throw a cat fit. What do you aim to do with
yore friend Mighty-Nigh-Lose-His-Scalp? If I know
Bully and you can bet a silver fox fur ag in a yard o*
tobacco that I do he won t give no glad hand to him.
Not none."
Morse did not know what he meant to do with him.
He had let an impulse carry him to quixotic action.
Already he was half-sorry for it, but he was obstinate
enough to go through now he had started.
When he realized the situation, Bully West exploded
in language sulphurous. He announced his determina
tion to turn the wounded man over to the Crees as soon
as they arrived.
"No," said Morse quietly.
"No what?"
"I won t stand for that. They d murder him."
"That any o my business or yours?"
"I m makin it mine."
The eyes of the two men crossed, as rapiers do, feeling
out the strength back of them. The wounded Indian, tall
and slender, stood straight as an arrow, his gaze now
on one, now on the other. His face was immobile and
expressionless. It betrayed no sign of the emotions within.
"Show yore cards, Morse," said West. "What s
yore play? I m goin to tell the Crees to take him if
they want him. You ll go it alone if you go to foggin
with a six-shooter."
The young man turned to the Indian he had rescued.
He waved a hand toward the horse from which they had
just dismounted. "Up!" he ordered./ v
44 MAN-SIZE
^
The Indian youth caught the point instantly. With
out using the stirrups he vaulted to the saddle, light as
a mountain lion. His bare heels dug into the sides of
the animal, which was off as though shot out of a gun.
Horse and rider skirted the cottonwoods and dis
appeared in a depression beyond.
CHAPTER VI
"SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS"
WEST glared at Morse, his heavy chin outthrust, his
bowed legs wide apart. "You ve done run on the rope
long enough with me, young feller. Here s where you
take a fall hard."
The younger man said nothing. He watched, warily.
Was it to be a gun-play? Or did the big bully mean to
manhandle him? Probably the latter. West was vain
of his reputation as a two-fisted fighter.
"I m gonna beat you up, then turn you over to the
Crees," the infuriated man announced.
"You can t do that, West. He s a white man same
as you," protested Stearns.
"This yore put-in, Brad?" West, beside himself with
rage, swung on the little man and straddled forward a
step or two threateningly.
"You done said it," answered the old-timer, falling
back. "An don t you come closter. I m liable to get
scared, an you d ought not to forget I J m as big as you
behind a six-shooter."
"Here they come like a swarm o bees!" yelled
Barney.
The traders forgot, for the moment, their quarrel
in the need of common action. West snatched up a
rifle and dropped a bullet in front of the nearest Indian.
The warning brought the Crees up short. They held a
46 MAN-SIZE
long consultation and one of them came forward making
the peace sign.
In pigeon English he expressed their demands.
"He s gone lit right out stole one of our broncs.
You can search the camp if you ve a mind to," West
replied.
The envoy reported. There was another long pow
wow.
Brad, chewing tobacco complacently behind a wagon
wheel, commented aloud. "Can t make up their minds
whether to come on an massacree us or not. They got
a right healthy fear of our guns. Don t blame em a
bit."
Some of the Crees were armed with bows and arrows,
others with rifles. But the trade guns sold the Indians
of the Northern tribes were of the poorest quality. 1
The whites, to the contrary, were armed with the
latest repeating Winchesters. In a fight with them the
natives were at a terrible disadvantage.
The Crees realized this. A delegation of two came
forward to search the camp. West pointed out the
tracks of the horse upon which their tribal enemy had
ridden away.
They grunted, "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
Overbearing though he was, West was an embryonic
diplomat. He filled a water-bucket with whiskey and
1 These flintlock muskets were inaccurate. They would not carry far.
Their owners were in constant danger of having fingers or a hand blown off
in explosions. The price paid for these cheap firearms was based on the
length of them. The butt was put on the floor and the gun held upright.
Skins laid flat were piled beside it till they reached the muzzle. The trader
exchanged the rifle for the furs. (W. M. R.)
SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS 47
handed it, with a tin cup, to the wrinkled old brave
nearest him.
"For our friends the Crees," he said. "Tell your
chief my young man did n t understand. He thought
he was rescuing a Cree from the Blackfeet."
"Ugh! Ugh!" The Indians shuffled away with their
booty.
There was more talk, but the guttural protests died
away before the temptation of the liquor. The braves
drank, flung a few shots in bravado toward the wagons,
and presently took themselves off.
The traders did not renew their quarrel. West s rea
sons for not antagonizing the Morse family were still pow
erful as ever. He subdued his desire to punish the young
man and sullenly gave orders to hitch up the teams.
It was mid-afternoon when the oxen jogged into
Whoop-Up. The post was a stockade fort, built in a
square about two hundred yards long, of cottonwood
logs dovetailed together. The buildings on each side of
the plaza faced inward. Loopholes had been cut in the
bastions as a protection against Indians.
In the big stores was a large supply of blankets,
beads, provisions, rifles, and clothing. The adjacent
rooms were half-empty now, but in the spring they
would be packed to the eaves with thousands of buffalo
robes and furs brought in from outlying settlements
by hunters. Later these would be hauled to Fort Ben-
ton and from there sent down the Missouri to St. Louis
and other points.
Morse, looking round, missed a familiar feature.
"Where s the liquor?" he asked.
48 MAN-SIZE
"S-sh!" warned the clerk with whom he was talking.
"Have n t you heard? There s a bunch of police come
into the country from Winnipeg. The lid s on tight."
His far eye drooped to the cheek in a wise wink. "If
you ve brought in whiskey, you d better get it out of
the fort and bury it."
"That ? s up to West. I would n t advise any police to
monkey with a cargo of his."
"You don t say." The clerk s voice was heavy with
sarcasm. "Well, I ll just make a li F bet with you. If
the North-West Mounted start to arrest Bully West or
to empty his liquor-kegs, they 11 go right through with
the job. They re go-getters, these red-coats are."
"Red-coats? Not soldiers, are they?"
"Well, they are and they ain t. They re drilled an
in companies. But they can arrest any one they ve
a mind to, and their officers can try and sentence folks.
They don t play no favorites either. Soon as they hear
of this mix-up between the Crees and the Blackfeet
they ll be right over askin whyfors, and if they find
who gave em the booze some one will be up to the neck
in trouble and squawkin for help."
West had been talking in whispers with Reddy Mad
den, the owner of the place. He stepped to the door.
"Don t onhook, Brad. We re travelin some more
first," he called to Stearns.
The oxen plodded out of the stockade and swung to
the left. A guide rode beside West and Morse. He was
Harvey Gosse, a whiskey-runner known to both of them.
The man was a long, loose-limbed fellow with a shrewd
eye and the full, drooping lower lip of irresolution.
SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS 49
It had been a year since either of the Fort Benton
men had been in the country. Gosse told them of the
change that was taking place in it.
"Business ain t what it was, an that ain t but half
of it," the lank rider complained regretfully. "It ain t
ever gonna be any more. These here red-coats are
plumb ruinin trade. Squint at a buck cross-eyed, whis
per rum to him, an one o these guys jumps a-straddle
o yore neck right away."
"How many of these what is it you call em,
Mounted Police? well, how many of em are there in
the country?" asked West.
"Not so many. I reckon a hundred or so, far as I ve
heard tell."
West snorted scornfully. "And you re lettin this
handful of tenderfeet buffalo you! Hell s hinges!
Ain t none of you got any guts?"
Gosse dragged slowly a brown hand across an un
shaven chin. " I reckon you would n t call em tender-
feet if you met up with em, Bully. There s something
about these guys I dunno what it is exactly but
there s sure something that tells a fellow not to prod
em overly much."
"Quick on the shoot?" the big trader wanted to
know.
"No, it ain t that. They don t hardly ever draw a
gun. They jest walk in kinda quiet an easy, an tell
you it ll be thisaway And tha s the way it is every
crack outa the box."
" Hmp ! " West exuded boastful incredulity. " I reckon
they have n t bumped into any one man-size yet."
50 MAN-SIZE
The lank whiskey-runner guided the train, by wind
ing draws, into the hills back of the post. Above a
small gulch, at the head of it, the teams were stopped
and unloaded. The barrels were rolled downhill into
the underbrush where they lay cached out of sight.
From here they would be distributed as needed.
" You boys 11 take turn an turn about watching till
I ve sold the cargo," West announced. "Arrange that
among yoreselves. Tom, I 11 let you fix up how you 11
spell each other. Only thing is, one of you has to be
here all the time, y understand."
Morse took the first watch and was followed by
Stearns, who in turn gave place to Barney. The days
grew to a week. Sometimes West appeared with a buyer
in a cart or leading a pack-horse. Then the cached
fire-water would be diminished by a keg or two.
It was a lazy, sleepy life. There was no need for a
close guard. Nobody knew where the whiskey was
except themselves and a few tight-mouthed traders.
Morse discovered in himself an inordinate capacity
for sleep. He would throw himself down on the warm,
sundried grass and fall into a doze almost instantly.
When the rays of the sun grew too hot, it was easy to
roll over into the shade of the draw. He could lie for
hours on his back after he wakened and watch cloud-
skeins elongate and float away, thinking of nothing or
letting thoughts happen in sheer idle content.
He had never had a girl, to use the word current
among his fellows. His scheme of life would, he sup
posed, include women by and by, but hitherto he had
dwelt in a man s world, in a universe of space and sun-
SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS 51
shine and blowing wind, under primitive conditions
that made for tough muscles and a clean mind trained
to meet frontier emergencies. But now, to his disgust,
he found slipping into his reveries pictures of a slim,
dark girl, arrow-straight, with eyes that held for him
only scorn and loathing. The odd thing about it was
that when his brain was busy with her a strange exultant
excitement tingled through his veins.
One day a queer thing happened. He had never heard
of psychic phenomena or telepathy, but he opened his
eyes from a day-dream of her to see Jessie McRae look
ing down at him.
She was on an Indian cayuse, round-bellied and
rough. Very erect she sat, and on her face was the
exact expression of scornful hatred he had seen in his
vision of her.
He jumped to his feet. "You here!"
A hot color flooded her face with anger to the roots
of the hair. Without a word, without another glance at
him, she laid the bridle rein to the pony s neck and
swung away.
Unprotesting, he let her go. The situation had
jumped at him too unexpectedly for him to know how to
meet it. He stood, motionless, the red light in his eyes
burning like distant camp-fires in the night. For the
first time in his life he had been given the cut direct by
a woman.
Yet she was n t a woman after all. She was a maid,
with that passionate sense of tragedy which comes only
to the very young.
It was in his mind to slap a saddle on his bronco and
52 MAN-SIZE
ride after her. But why? Could he by sheer dominance
of will change her opinion of him? She had grounded it
on good and sufficient reasons. He was associated in
her mind with the greatest humiliation of her life, with
the stinging lash that had cut into her young pride and
her buoyant courage as cruelly as it had into her smooth,
satiny flesh. Was it likely she would listen to any re
grets, any explanations? Her hatred of him was not a
matter for argument. It was burnt into her soul as
with a red-hot brand. He could not talk away what he
had done or the thing that he was.
She had come upon him by chance while he was
asleep. He guessed that Angus McRae s party had
reached Whoop-Up and had stopped to buy supplies
and perhaps to sell hides and pemmican. The girl had
probably ridden out from the stockade to the open prai
rie because she loved to ride. The rest needed no con
jecture. In that lone land of vast spaces travelers
always exchanged greetings. She had discovered him ly
ing in the grass. He might be sick or wounded or dead.
The custom of the country would bring her straight
across the swales toward him to find out whether he
needed help.
Then she had seen who he was and had ridden
away.
A sardonic smile of self-mockery stamped for a
moment on his brown boyish face the weariness of the
years.
CHAPTER VII
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET
MORSE ambled out at a road gait to take his turn at
guard duty. He was following the principle that the
longest way round is the shortest road to a given place.
The reason for this was to ward off any suspicion that
might have arisen if the watchers had always come and
gone by the same trail. Therefore they started for any
point of the compass, swung round in a wide detour,
and in course of time arrived at the cache.
There was n t any hurry anyhow. Each day had
twenty -four hours, and a fellow lived just as long if he
did n t break his neck galloping along with his tail up
like a hill steer on a stampede.
To-day Morse dropped in toward the cache from due
west. His eyes were open, even if the warmth of the
midday sun did make him sleepy. Something he saw
made him slip from the saddle, lead his horse into a
draw, and move forward very carefully through the
bunch grass.
What he had seen was a man crouched behind some
brush, looking down into the little gorge where the
whiskey cache was a man in leather boots, tight
riding-breeches, scarlet jacket, and jaunty forage cap.
It needed no second glance to tell Tom Morse that the
police had run down the place where they had hidden
their cargo.
54 MAN-SIZE
From out of the little canon a man appeared. He
was carrying a keg of whiskey. The man was Barney.
West had no doubt sent word to him that he would
shortly bring a buyer with him to the rendezvous.
The man in the scarlet jacket rose and stepped out
into the open. He was a few feet from Barney. In his
belt there was a revolver, but he did not draw it.
Barney stopped and stared at him, his mouth open,
eyes bulging. "Where in Heligoland you come from?"
he asked.
"From Sarnia, Ontario," the red-coat answered.
"Glad to meet you, friend. I ve been looking for you
several days."
"For me!" said Barney blankly.
"For you and for that keg of forty-rod you re
carrying. No, don t drop it. We can talk more com
fortably while both your hands are busy." The con
stable stepped forward and picked from the ground a
rifle. "I ve been lying in the brush two hours waiting
for you to get separated from this. Did n t want you
making any mistakes in your excitement."
"Mistakes!" repeated Barney.
"Yes. You re under arrest, you know, for whiskey-
smuggling."
"You re one of these here border police." Barney
used the rising inflection in making his statement.
"Constable Winthrop Beresford, North-West
Mounted, at your service," replied the officer jauntily.
He was a trim, well-set-up youth, quick of step and
crisp of speech.
"What you gonna do with me?"
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 55
"Take you to Fort Macleod."
It was perhaps because his eyes were set at not quite
the right angles and because they were so small and
wolfish that Barney usually aroused distrust. He sug
gested now, with an ingratiating whine in his voice,
that he would like to see a man at Whoop-Up first.
" Jes a liT matter of business," he added by way of
explanation.
The constable guessed at his business. The man
wanted to let his boss know what had taken place and
to give him a chance to rescue him if he would. Beres-
ford s duty was to find out who was back of this liquor
running. It would be worth while knowing what man
Barney wanted to talk with. He could afford to take a
chance on the rescue.
"Righto," he agreed. "You may put that barrel
down now."
Barney laid it down, end up. With one sharp drive
of the rifle butt the officer broke in the top of the keg.
He kicked the barrel over with his foot.
This was the moment Morse chose for putting in an
appearance.
"Hello! What s doin ?" he asked casually.
Beresford, cool and quiet, looked straight at him.
"I ll ask you that."
"Kinda expensive to irrigate the prairie that way,
ain t it?"
"Does n t cost me anything. How about you?"
Morse laughed at the question fired back at him so>
promptly. This young man was very much on the job.
"Not a bean," the Montanan said.
56 MAN-SIZE
" Good. Then you 11 enjoy the little show I m putting
on five thousand dollars worth of liquor spilt all at
one time."
"Holy Moses! Where is this blind tiger you re
raidin ?"
"Down in the gully. Lucky you happened along
just by chance. You 11 be able to carry the good news to
Whoop-Up and adjacent points."
"You re not really aimin to spill all that whiskey."
"That s my intention. Any objections?" The
scarlet-coated officer spoke softly, without any edge to
his voice. But Tom began to understand why the clerk
at the trading-post had called the Mounted Police
go-getters. This smooth-shaven lad, so easy and care
free of manner, had a gleam in his eye that meant busi
ness. His very gentleness was ominous.
Tom Morse reflected swiftly. His uncle s firm had
taken a chance of this very finale when it had sent a
convoy of liquor into forbidden territory. Better to
lose the stock than to be barred by the Canadian Gov
ernment from trading with the Indians at all. This
officer was not one to be bribed or bullied. He would
go through with the thing he had started.
"Why, no! How could I have any objections?"
Morse said.
He shot a swift, slant look at Barney, a look that told
the Irishman to say nothing and know nothing, and
that he would be protected against the law.
"Glad you haven t," Constable Beresford replied
cheerfully so very cheerfully in fact that Morse
suspected he would not have been much daunted if
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 57
objections had been mentioned. "Perhaps you ll help
me with my little job, then."
The trader grinned. He might as well go the limit
with the bluff he was playing. "Sure. I ll help you make
a fourth o July outa the kegs. Lead me to em."
"You don t know where they are, of course?"
"In the gully, you said," Morse replied innocently.
"So I did. Righto. Down you go, then." The con
stable turned to Barney. "You next, friend."
A well-defined trail led down the steep side of the
gulch. It ended in a thick growth of willow saplings.
Underneath the roof of this foliage were more than a
score of whiskey-casks.
After ten minutes with the rifle butt there was noth
ing to show for the cache but broken barrels and a
trough of wet sand where the liquor had run down the
bed of the dry gully.
It was time, Morse thought, to play his own small
part in the entertainment.
"After you, gentlemen," Beresford said, stepping
aside to let them take the trail up.
Morse too moved back to let Barney pass. The eyes
of the two men met for a fraction of a second. Tom s
lips framed silently one word. In that time a message
was given and received.
The young man followed Barney, the constable at
his heels. Morse stumbled, slipped to all fours, and
slid back. He flung out his arms to steady himself and
careened back against the constable. His flying hands
caught at the scarlet coat. His bent head and shoul
ders thrust Beresford back and down.
58 MAN-SIZE
Barney started to run.
The officer struggled to hold his footing against the
awkward incubus, to throw the man off so that he could
pursue Barney. His efforts were vain. Morse, evidently
trying to regain his equilibrium, plunged wildly at him
and sent him ploughing into the willows. The Mon-
tanan landed heavily on top, pinned him down, and
smothered him.
The scarlet coat was a center of barrel hoops, bushes,
staves, and wildly jerking arms and legs.
Morse made heroic efforts to untangle himself from the
clutter. Once or twice he extricated himself almost,
only to lose his balance on the slippery bushes and come
skating down again on the officer just as he was trying
to rise.
It was a scene for a moving-picture comedy, if the
screen had been a feature of that day.
When at last the two men emerged from the gulch,
Barney was nowhere to be seen. With him had vanished
the mount of Beresford.
The constable laughed nonchalantly. He had just
lost a prisoner, which was against the unwritten law of
the Force, but he had gained another in his place. It
would not be long till he had Barney too.
"Pretty work," he said appreciatively. "You
could n t have done it better if you d done it on purpose,
could you?"
"Done what?" asked Morse, with bland naivete.
"Made a pillow and a bed of me, skated on me.
bowled me over like a tenpin."
"I ce tainly was awkward. Could n t get my footin*
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 59
at all, seemed like. Why, where s Barney?" Appar
ently the trader had just made a discovery.
"Ask of the winds, Oh, where? " Beresford dusted
off his coat, his trousers, and his cap. When he had
removed the evidence of the battle of the gulch, he set
his cap at the proper angle and cocked an inquiring
eye at the other. "I suppose you know you re under
arrest."
"Why, no! Ami? What for? Which of the statues,
laws, and ordinances of Queen Vic have I been bustin
without knowin of them?"
"For aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner."
"Did I do all that? And when did I do it?"
"While you were doing that war-dance on what was
left of my manhandled geography."
"Can you arrest a fellow for slippin ?"
"Depends on how badly he slips. I m going to take a
chance on arresting you, anyhow."
"Gonna take away my six-shooter and handcuff
me?"
"I ll take your revolver. If necessary, I ll put on
the cuffs."
Morse looked at him, not without admiration. The
man in the scarlet jacket wasted nothing. There was
about him no superfluity of build, of gesture, of voice.
Beneath the close-fitting uniform the muscles rippled
and played when he moved. His shoulders and arms
were those of a college oarsman. Lean -flanked and
clean-limbed, he was in the hey-day of a splendid youth.
It showed in the steady eyes set wide in the tanned face,
in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, in the
60 MAN-SIZE
spring of the step. The Montanan recognizer 1 in him a
kinship of dynamic force.
"Just what would I be doing? "the whiskey-runner
asked, smiling.
Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I ll find that out
pretty soon. Your revolver, please." He held out his
hand, palm up.
"Let s get this straight. We re man to man. What 11
you do if I find I ve got no time to go to Fort Macleod
with you?"
"Take you with me."
"Dead or alive?"
"No, alive."
"And if I won t go?" asked Morse.
"Oh, you ll go." The officer s bearing radiated a
quiet, imperturbable confidence. His hand was still
extended, "//you please."
"No hurry. Do you know what you re up against?
When I draw this gun I can put a bullet through your
head and ride away?"
"Yes."
"Unless, of course, you plug me first."
" Can t do that. Against the regulations."
"Much obliged for that information. You ve got
only a dead man s chance then if I show fight."
"Better not. Game hardly worth the candle. My pals
would run you down," the constable advised coolly.
"You still intend to arrest me?"
"Oh, yes."
As Morse looked at him, patient as an animal of
prey, steady, fearless, an undramatic Anglo-Saxon who
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 61
meant to go through with the day s work, he began to
understand the power that was to make the North -West
Mounted Police such a force in the land. The only way
he could prevent this man from arresting him was to
kill the constable; and if he killed him, other jaunty
red-coated youths would come to kill or be killed. It
came to him that he was up against a new order which
would wipe Bully West and his kind from the land.
He handed his revolver to Beresford. "I ll ride with
you."
"Good. Have to borrow your horse till we reach
Whoop-Up. You won t mind walking?"
"Not at all. Some folks think that s what legs were
made for," answered Morse, grinning.
As he strode across the prairie beside the horse, Morse
was still puzzling over the situation. He perceived that
the strength of the officer s position was wholly a moral
one. A lawbreaker was confronted with an ugly alter
native. The only way to escape arrest was to commit
murder. Most men would not go that far, and of those
who would the great majority would be deterred be
cause eventually punishment was sure. The slightest
hesitation, the least apparent doubt, a flicker of fear
on the officer s face, would be fatal to success. He won
because he serenely expected to win, and because there
was back of him a silent, impalpable force as irresistible
as the movement of a glacier.
Beresford must have known that the men who lived
at Whoop-Up were unfriendly to the North-\Vest
Mounted. Some of them had been put out of business.
Their property had been destroyed and confiscated.
&2 MAN-SIZE
Fines had been imposed on them. The current whisper
was that the whiskey-smugglers would retaliate against
the constables in person whenever there was a chance
to do so with impunity. Some day a debonair wearer
of the scarlet coat would ride out gayly from one of the
forts and a riderless horse would return at dusk. There
were outlaws who would ask nothing better than a
chance to dry-gulch one of these inquisitive riders of
the plains.
But Beresford rode into the stockade and swung from
the saddle with smiling confidence. He nodded here
and there casually to dark, sullen men who watched his
movements with implacably hostile eyes.
His words were addressed to Reddy Madden. "Can
you let me have a horse for a few days and charge it to
the Force? I ve lost mine."
Some one sniggered offensively. Barney had evi
dently reached Whoop-Up and was in hiding.
"Your horse came in a while ago, constable," Madden
said civilly. "It s in the corral back of the store."
"Did it come in without a rider?" Beresford asked.
The question was unnecessary. The horse would have
gone to Fort Macleod and not have come to Whoop-Up
unless a rider had guided it here. But sometimes one
found out things from unwilling witnesses if one asked
questions.
"Did n t notice. I was in the store myself."
"Thought perhaps you hadn t noticed," the officer
said. "None of you other gentlemen noticed either, did
you?"
The "other gentlemen" held a dogged, sulky silence.
THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET 63
A girl cantered through the gate of the stockade and
up to the store. At sight of Morse her eyes passed
swiftly to Beresford. His answered smilingly what she
had asked. It was all over in a flash, but it told the man
from Montana who the informer was that had betrayed
to the police the place of the whiskey cache.
To the best of her limited chance, Jessie McRae was
paying an installment on the debt she owed Bully West
and Tom Morse.
CHAPTER VIII
AT SWEET WATER CREEK
BEFORE a fire of buffalo chips Constable Beresford and
his prisoner smoked the pipe of peace. Morse sat on his
heels, legs crossed, after the manner of the camper. The
officer lounged at full length, an elbow dug into the sand
as a support for his head. The Montanan was on parole,
so that for the moment at least their relations were
forgotten.
"After the buffalo what?" asked the American.
"The end of the Indian is that what it means? And
desolation on the plains. Nobody left but the Hudson s
Bay Company trappers, d you reckon?"
The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle."
"Some, maybe," Morse assented. "But, holy Moses,
think of the millions it would take to stock this
country."
"Bet you the country s stocked inside of five years of
the time the buffalo are cleared out. Look at what the
big Texas drives are doing in Colorado and Wyoming
and Montana. Get over the idea that this land up here
is a desert. That s a fool notion our school geographies
are responsible for. Great American Desert? Great
American fiddlesticks ! It s a man s country, if you like;
but I ve yet to see the beat of it."
Morse had ceased to pay attention. His head was
tilted, and he was listening.
AT SWEET WATER CREEK 65
"Some one ridin this way," he said presently. "Hear
the hoofs click on the shale. Who is it? I wonder. An
what do they want? When folks intentions has n t
been declared it s a good notion to hold a hand you can
raise on."
Without haste and without delay Beresford got to his
feet. "We 11 step back into the shadow," he announced.
"Looks reasonable to me," agreed the smuggler.
They waited in the semi-darkness back of the camp-
fire.
Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound
of that clear, bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to
listen better.
The constable answered the call.
Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the
other a slim, straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and
trousers. The girl swung from the saddle and came for
ward to the camp-fire. The companion of her ride
shadowed her.
Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness.
"Bully West s after you. He s sworn to kill you," the
girl called to the constable.
"How do you know?"
"Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of
her hand the lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah
was passing the stable behind it, back of the corral.
This West was gathering a mob to follow you said
he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey."
"He is, eh?" Beresford s salient jaw set. His light
blue eyes gleamed hard and chill. He would see about
that.
66 MAN-SIZE
"They ll be here soon. This West was sure you d
camp here at Sweet Water Creek, close to the ford."
A note of excitement pulsed in the girl s voice. "We
heard em once behind us on the road. You d better
hurry."
The constable swung toward the Montanan. His
eyes bored into those of the prisoner. Would this man
keep his parole or not? He would find out pretty soon.
"Saddle up, Morse. I ll pack my kit. We ll hit the
trail."
"Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted.
"What s that?"
Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment
the firelight flickered over the copper-colored face.
Tom Morse made a discovery. This man was the Black-
foot he had rescued from the Crees.
"Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of
both hands to indicate the numbers. " Coming up creek.
Here soon."
"We ll move back to the big rocks and I ll make a
stand there," the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap
the saddles on without cinching. We ve got no time to
lose." His voice lost its curtness as he turned to the
girl. "Miss McRae, I ll not forget this. Very likely
you ve saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better
slip away quietly. You must n t be seen here."
"Why must n t I?" she asked quickly. "I don t care
who sees me."
She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that
little touch of scornful defiance in the quivering nostrils
that seemed to express a spirit free and unafraid. The
AT SWEET WATER CREEK 67
sense of superiority is generally not a lovely manifesta
tion in any human being, but there are moments when it
tells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean.
Morse strode away to the place where the horses were
picketed. He could hear voices farther down the creek,
caught once a snatch of words.
"... must be somewheres near, I tell you."
Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the
picket-pins, and moved toward the big rocks.
The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages
had played strange tricks with the sandstone. The
rocks rose like huge red toadstools or like prehistoric
animals of vast size. One of them was known as the
Three Bears, another as the Elephant.
Among these boulders Morse found the party he had
just left. The officer was still trying to persuade Jessie
McRae to attempt escape. She refused, stubbornly.
"There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot.
So am I. For that matter, if anybody is going to escape,
it had better be you," she said.
"Too late now," Morse said. "See, they ve found
the camp-fire."
Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and
were approaching the camping-ground. West was in
the lead. Morse recognized Barney and Brad Stearns.
Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian trailer
of the Piegan tribe.
"He must a heard us comin and pulled out,"
Barney said.
"Then he s back in the red rocks," boomed West
triumphantly.
68 MAN-SIZE
"Soon find out." Brad Stearns turned the head of his
horse toward the rocks and shouted. "Hello, Tom!
You there?"
No answer came from the rocks.
"Don t prove a thing," West broke out impatiently.
"This fellow s got Tom buffaloed. Did n t he make him
smash the barrels? Did n t he take away his six-gun
from him and bring him along like he had n t any mind
of his own? Tom s yellow. Got a streak a foot wide."
"Nothin of the kind," denied Stearns, indignation in
his voice. "I done brought up that boy by hand
learned him all he knows about ridin and ropin .
He ll do to take along."
"Hmp! He always fooled you, Brad. Different here.
I m aimin to give him the wallopin of his life when
I meet up with him. And that ll be soon, if he s up
there in the rocks. I m goin a-shootin ." Bully West
drew his revolver and rode forward.
The constable had disposed of his forces so that
behind the cover of the sandstone boulders they com
manded the approach. He had tried to persuade Jessie
that this was not her fight, but a question from her had
silenced him.
"If that Bully West finds me here, after he s killed
you, d you think I can get him to let me go because it
was n t my fight?"
She had asked it with flashing eyes, in which for an
instant he had seen the savagery of fear leap out.
Beresford was troubled. The girl was right enough.
If West went the length of murder, he would be an
outlaw. Sleeping Dawn would not be safe with him
AT SWEET WATER CREEK 69
after she had ridden out to warn his enemy that he was
coming. The fellow was a primeval brute. His reputation
had run over the whole border country of Rupert s Land.
Now he appealed to Morse. "If they get me, will
you try to save Miss McRae? This fellow West is a
devil, I hear."
The officer caught a gleam of hot red eyes. "I ll
tend to that. We ll mix first, him n me. Question now
is, do I get a gun?"
"What for?"
"Didn t you hear him make his brags about what
he was gonna do to me? If there s shootin I m in on
it, ain t I?"
"No. You re a prisoner. I can t arm you unless your
life is in danger."
West pulled up his horse about sixty yards from the
rocks. He shouted a profane order. The purport of it
was that Beresford had better come out with his hands
up if he did n t want to be dragged out by a rope around
his neck. The man s speech crackled with oaths and
obscenity.
The constable stepped into the open a few yards.
"What do you want? " he asked.
"You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden
gust of passion. "Think you can make a fool of Bully
West? Think you can bust up our cargo an get away
with it? I ll show you where you head in at."
"Don t make any mistake, West," advised the officer,
his voice cold as the splash of ice- water. "Three of us
are here, all with rifles, all dead shots. If you attack us,
some of you are going to get killed."
70 MAN-SIZE
"Tha s a lie. You re alone except for Tom Morse,
an he ain t fool enough to fight to go to jail. I ve got
you where I want you." West swung from the saddle
and came straddling forward. In the uncertain light
he looked more like some misbegotten ogre than a hu
man being.
"That s far enough," warned Beresford, not a trace
of excitement in manner or speech. His hands hung by
his sides. He gave no sign of knowing that he had a
revolver strapped to his hip ready for action.
The liquor smuggler stopped to pour out abuse. He
was working himself up to a passion that would justify
murder. The weapon in his hand swept wildly back and
forth. Presently it would focus down to a deadly con
centration in which all motion would cease.
The torrent of vilification died on the man s lips.
He stared past the constable with bulging eyes. From
the rocks three figures had come. Two of them carried
rifles. All three of them he recognized. His astonish
ment paralyzed the scurrilous tongue. What was
McRae s girl doing at the camp of the officer?
It was characteristic of him that he suspected the
worst of her. Either Tom Morse or this red-coat had
beaten him to his prey. Jealousy and outraged vanity
flared up in him so that discretion vanished.
The barrel of his revolver came down and began to
spit flame.
Beresford gave orders. "Back to the rocks." He
retreated, backward, firing as he moved.
The companions of West surged forward. Shots,
shouts, the shifting blur of moving figures, filled the
AT SWEET WATER CREEK 71
night. Under cover of the darkness the defenders
reached again the big rocks.
The constable counted noses. "Everybody all right? "
he asked. Then, abruptly, he snapped out: "Who was
responsible for that crazy business of you coming out
into the open?"
"Me," said the girl. "I wanted that West to know
you were n t alone."
"Did n t you know better than to let her do it?" the
officer demanded of Morse.
"He couldn t help it. He tried to keep me back.
What right has he to interfere with me?" she wanted to
know, stiffening.
"You ll do as I say now," the constable said crisply.
"Get back of that rock there, Miss McRae, and stay
there. Don t move from cover unless I tell you to."
Her dark, stormy eyes challenged his, but she moved
sullenly to obey. Rebel though she was, the code of the
frontier claimed and held her respect. She had learned
of life that there were times when her will must be subor
dinated for the general good.
CHAPTER IX
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION
THE attackers drew back and gathered together for
consultation. West s anger had stirred their own smol
dering resentment at the police, had dominated them,
and had brought them on a journey of vengeance. But
they had not come out with any intention of storming
a defended fortress. The enthusiasm of the small mob
ebbed.
"I reckon we done bit off more n we can chaw,"
Harvey Gosse murmured, rubbing his bristly chin. "I
ain t what you might call noways anxious to have them
fellows spill lead into me."
"Ten of us here. One man, an Injun, an* a breed girl
over there. You lookin for better odds, Harv?" jeered
the leader of the party.
"I never heard that a feller was any less dead because
an Injun or a girl shot him," the lank smuggler retorted.
"Be reasonable, Bully," urged Barney with his in
gratiating whine. "We come out to fix the red-coat.
We figured he was alone except for Tom, an o course
Tom s with us. But this here s a different proposition.
Too many witnesses ag in us. I reckon you ain t tellin
us it s safe to shoot up Angus McRae s daughter even
if she is a metis."
"Forget her," the big whiskey-runner snarled. "She
won t be a witness against us."
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION 73
"Why won t she?"
"Hell s hinges! Do I have to tell you all my plans?
I m sayin she won t. That goes." He flung out a ges
ture of scarcely restrained rage. He was not one who
could reason away opposition with any patience. It
was his temperament to override it.
Brad Stearns rubbed his bald head. He always did
when he was working out a mental problem. West s
declaration could mean only one of two things. Either
the girl would not be alive to give witness or she would
be silent because she had thrown in her lot with the big
trader.
The old-timer knew West s vanity and his weakness
for women. From Tom Morse he had heard of his offer
to McRae for the girl. Now he had no doubt what the
man intended.
But what of her? What of the girl he had seen at her
father s camp, the heart s desire of the rugged old
Scotchman? In the lightness of her step, in the lift of
her head, in speech and gesture and expression of face,
she was of the white race, an inheritor of its civilization
and of its traditions. Only her dusky color and a cer
tain wild shyness seemed born of the native blood in her.
She was proud, passionate, high-spirited. Would she
tamely accept Bully West for her master and go to his
tent as his squaw? Brad did n t believe it. She would
fight fight desperately, with barbaric savagery.
Her fight would avail her nothing. If driven to it,
West would take her with him into the fastnesses of the
Lone Lands. They would disappear from the sight of
men for months. He would travel swiftly with her to the
74 MAN-SIZE
great river. Every sweep of his canoe paddle would
carry them deeper into that virgin North where they
could live on what his rifle and rod won for the pot. A
little salt, pemmican, and flour would be all the supplies
he needed to take with them.
Brad had no intention of being a cat s-paw for him.
The older man had come along to save Torn Morse
from prison and for no other reason. He did not intend
to be swept into indiscriminate crime.
"Don t go with me, Bully," Stearns said. " Count me
out. Right here s where I head for Whoop-Up."
He turned his horse s head and rode into the darkness.
West looked after him, cursing. "We re better off
without the white-livered coyote," he said at last.
"Brad ain t so fur off at that. I d like blame well to
be moseyin to Whoop-Up my own self," Gosse said
uneasily.
"You ll stay right here an go through with this job,
Harv," West told him flatly. "All you boys 11 do just
that. If any of you s got a different notion we 11 settle
that here an* now. How about it?" He straddled up
and down in front of his men, menacing them with
knotted fists and sulky eyes.
Nobody cared to argue the matter with him. He
showed his broken teeth in a sour grin.
"Tha s settled, then," he went on. "It s my say-so.
My orders go if there s no objections."
His outthrust head, set low on the hunched shoulders,
moved from right to left threateningly as his gaze
passed from one to another. If there were any objec
tions they were not mentioned aloud.
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION 75
"Now we know where we re at," he continued.
"It ll be thisaway. Most of us will scatter out an fire
at the rocks from the front here; the others 11 sneak
round an come up from behind get right into the
rocks before this bully-puss fellow knows it. If you get
a chance, plug him in the back, but don t hurt the Injun
girl. Y understand? I want her alive an not wounded.
If she gets shot up, some one s liable to get his head
knocked off."
But it did not, after all, turn out quite the way West
had planned it. He left out of account one factor a
man among the rocks who had been denied a weapon
and any part in the fighting.
The feint from the front was animated enough. The
attackers scattered and from behind clumps of brush
grass and bushes poured in a fire that kept the defenders
busy. Barney, with the half-breeds and the Indian at
heel, made a wide circle and crept up to the red sand
stone outcroppings. He did not relish the job any more
than those behind him did, but he was a creature of
West and usually did as he was told after a bit of grum
bling. It was not safe for him to refuse.
To Tom Morse, used to Bully West and his ways, the
frontal attack did not seem quite genuine. It was
desultory and ineffective. Why? What trick did Bully
have up his sleeve? Tom put himself in his place to see
what he would do.
And instantly he knew. The real attack would come
from the rear. With the firing of the first shot back
there, Bully West would charge. Taken on both sides
the garrison would fall easy victims.
76 MAN-SIZE
The constable and Onistah were busy answering the
fire of the smugglers. Sleeping Dawn was crouched
down behind two rocks, the barrel of her rifle gleaming
through a slit of open space between them. She was
compromising between the orders given her and the anxi
ety in her to fight back Bully West. As much as she could
she kept under cover, while at the same time firing into
the darkness whenever she thought she saw a movement.
Morse slipped rearward on a tour of investigation.
The ground here fell away rather sharply, so that one
coming from behind would have to climb over a boulder
field rising to the big rocks. It took Tom only a casual
examination to see that a surprise would have to be
launched by way of a sort of rough natural stairway.
A flat shoulder of sandstone dominated the stairway
from above. Upon this Morse crouched, every sense
alert to detect the presence of any one stealing up the
pass. He waited, eager and yet patient. What he was
going to attempt had its risk, but the danger whipped
the blood in his veins to a still excitement.
Occasionally, at intervals, the rifles cracked. Except
for that no other sound came to him. He could keep no
count of time. It seemed to him that hours slipped
away. In reality it could have been only a few minutes.
Below, from the foot of the winding stairway, there
was a sound, such a one as might come from the grind
ing of loose rubble beneath the sole of a boot. Presently
the man on the ledge heard it again, this time more
distinctly. Some one was crawling up the rocks.
Tom peered into the darkness intently. He could see
nothing except the flat rocks disappearing vaguely in
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION 77
the gloom. Nor could he hear again the crunch of a
footstep on disintegrated sandstone. His nerves grew
taut. Could he have made a mistake? Was there
another way up from behind?
Then, at the turn of the stairway, a few feet below
him, a figure rose in silhouette. It appeared with extra
ordinary caution, first a head, then the barrel of a rifle,
finally a crouched body followed by bowed legs. On
hands and knees it crept forward, hitching the weapon
along beside it. Exactly opposite Morse, under the
very shadow of the sloping ledge on which he lay, the
figure rose and straightened.
The man stood there for a second, making up his
mind to move on. He was one of the half-breeds West
had brought with him. Almost into his ear came a stern
whisper.
"Hands up! I ve got you covered. Don t move.
Don t say a word."
Two arms shot skyward. In the fingers of one hand a
rifle was clenched.
Morse leaned forward and caught hold of it. "I ll
take this," he said. The brown fingers relaxed. "Skirt
round the edge of the rock there. Lie face down in that
hollow. Got a six-shooter."
He had. Morse took it from him.
"If you move or speak one word, I ll pump lead into
you," the Montanan cautioned.
The half-breed looked into his chill eyes and decided
to take no chances. He lay down on his face with
hands stretched out exactly as ordered.
His captor returned to the shoulder of rock above the
78 MAN-SIZE
trail. Presently another head projected itself out of the
darkness. A man crept up, and like the first stopped to
take stock of his surroundings.
Against the back of his neck something cold pressed.
"Stick up your hands, Barney," a voice ordered.
The little man let out a yelp. "Mother o Moses,
don t shoot."
"How many more of you?" asked Morse sharply.
"One more."
The man behind the rifle collected his weapons and
put Barney alongside his companion. Within five
minutes he had added a third man to the collection.
With a sardonic grin he drove them before him to
Beresford.
"I m a prisoner an not in this show, you was care
ful to explain to me, Mr. Constable, but I busted the
rules an regulations to collect a few specimens of my
own," he drawled by way of explanation.
B^resford s eyes gleamed. The debonair impudence
of the procedure appealed mightily to him. He did not
know how this young fellow had done it, but he must
have acted with cool nerve and superb daring.
"Where were they? And how did you get em without
a six-shooter?"
"They was driftin up the pass to say How-d you-
do? from the back stairway. I borrowed a gun from
one o them. I asked em to come along with me and
they reckoned they would."
The booming of a rifle echoed in the rocks to the left.
From out of them Jessie McRae came flying, something
akin to terror in her face.
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION 79
" I ve shot that West. He tried to run in on me and
anc j I sno t him." Her voice broke into an hysterical
sob.
"Thought I told you to keep out of this," the con
stable said. "I seem to have a lot of valuable volunteer
help. What with you and friend Morse here - He
broke off, touched at her distress. "Never mind about
that, Miss McRae. He had it coming to him. I ll go
out and size up the damage to him, if his friends have
had enough and chances are they have."
They had. Gosse advanced waving a red bandanna
handkerchief as a flag of truce.
"We got a plenty," he said frankly. "West s down,
an another of the boys got winged. No use us goin on
with this darned foolishness. We re ready to call it off
if you ll turn Morse loose."
Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered,
curtly. "No."
The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bris
tles awkwardly. "We lowed maybe "
"I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney."
"Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised.
"Yes, we ve got him and two others. I don t want
them. I ll turn em over to you. But not Morse and
Barney. They re going to the post with me for whiskey-
running."
Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-
Up men had carried their wounded leader. Except West,
they were all glad to drop the battle. The big smuggler,
lying on the ground with a bullet in his thigh, cursed
them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters. His anger
80 MAN-SIZE
could not shake their decision. They knew when they
had had enough.
The armistice concluded, Beresf ord and Morse walked
over to the camp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.
"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you
know," the constable told him grimly.
The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a
trap. "You didn t hit me, you liar. It was that liT
hell-cat of McRae. You tell her for me I 11 get her right
for this, sure as my name s Bully West."
There was something horribly menacing in his rage.
In the jumping light of the flames the face was that of a
demon, a countenance twisted and tortured by the im
potent lust to destroy.
Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way.
"I m servin notice, West, that you re to let that girl
alone."
There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner s throat
like that of an infuriated wild animal. He glared at
Morse, a torrent of abuse struggling for utterance. All
that he could say was, "You damned traitor."
The eyes of the younger man did not waver. " It goes.
I ll see you re shot like a wolf if you harm her."
The wounded smuggler s fury outleaped prudence.
In a surge of momentary insanity he saw red. The
barrel of his revolver rose swiftly. A bullet sang past
Morse s ear. Before he could fire again, Harvey Gosse
had flung himself on the man and wrested the weapon
from his hand.
Hard-eyed and motionless, Morse looked down at the
madman without saying a word. It was Beresf ord who
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION. 81
said ironically, "Talking about those who keep faith."
"You hadn t oughta of done that, Bully," Gosse
expostulated. "We d done agreed this feud was off for
to-night."
"Get your horses and clear out of here," the constable
ordered. " If this man s able to fight he s able to travel.
You can make camp farther down the creek."
A few minutes later the clatter of horse-hoofs died
away. Beresford was alone with his prisoners and his
guests.
Those who were still among the big rocks came for
ward to the camp-fire. Jessie arrived before the others.
She had crept to the camp on the heels of Beresford and
Morse, driven by her great anxiety to find out how
badly West was hurt.
From the shadows of a buffalo wallow she had seen
and heard what had taken place.
One glance of troubled curiosity she flashed at Morse.
What sort of man was this quiet, brown-faced American
who smuggled whiskey in to ruin the tribes, who could
ruthlessly hold a girl to a bargain that included horse
whipping for her, who for some reason of his own fought
beside the man taking him to imprisonment, and who
had flung defiance at the terrible Bully West on her
behalf? She hated him. She always would. But with
her dislike of him ran another feeling now, born of the
knowledge of new angles in him.
He was hard as nails, but he would do to ride the
river with.
CHAPTER X
A CAMP-FIRE TALE
t
ANOTHER surprise was waiting for Jessie. As soon as
Onistah came into the circle of light, he walked straight
to the whiskey-smuggler.
"You save my life from Crees. Thanks," he said in
English.
Onistah offered his hand.
The white man took it. He was embarrassed. "Oh,
well, I kinda took a hand."
The Indian was not through. "Onistah never forget.
He pay some day."
Tom waved this aside. "How s the leg? Seems to be
all right now."
Swiftly Jessie turned to the Indian and asked him a
question in the native tongue. He answered. They
exchanged another sentence or two.
The girl spoke to Morse. "Onistah is my brother. I
too thank you," she said stiffly.
" Your brother ! He s not Angus McRae s son, is he? "
"No. And I m not his daughter really. I ll tell
you about that," she said with a touch of the defensive
defiance that always came into her manner when the
subject of her birth was referred to.
She did, later, over the camp-fire.
It is fortunate that desire and opportunity do not
always march together. The constable and Morse had
both been dead men if Bully West could have killed
A CAMP-FIRE TALE 83
with a wish. Sleeping Dawn would have been on the
road to an existence worse than death. Instead, they
sat in front of the coals of buffalo chips while the big
smuggler and his companions rode away from an igno
minious field of battle.
When the constable and his prisoner had first struck
camp, there had been two of them. Now there were six.
For in addition to Jessie McRae, the Blackfoot, and
Barney, another had come out of the night and hailed
them with a "Hello, the camp!" This last self-invited
guest was Brad Stearns, who had not ridden to Whoop-
Up as he had announced, but had watched events from
a distance on the chance that he might be of help to
Tom Morse.
Jessie agreed with Beresford that she must stay in
camp till morning. There was nothing else for her to do.
She could not very well ride the night out with Onistah
on the road back to the fort. But she stayed with great
reluctance.
Her modesty was in arms. Never before had she, a
girl alone, been forced to make camp with five men as
companions, all but one of them almost strangers to
her. The experience was one that shocked her sense of
fitness.
She was troubled and distressed, and she showed it.
Her impulsiveness had swept her into an adventure
that might have been tragic, that still held potentialities
of disaster. For she could not forget the look on West s
face when he had sworn to get even with her. This man
was a terrible enemy, because of his boldness, his evil
mind, and his lack of restraining conscience.
84 MAN-SIZE
Yet even now she could not blame herself for
what she had done. The constable s life was at stake.
It had been necessary to move swiftly and deci
sively.
Sitting before the fire, Sleeping Dawn began to tell
her story. She told it to Beresford as an apology for
having ridden forty miles with Onistah to save his life.
It was, if he chose so to accept it, an explanation of how
she came to do so unwomanly a thing.
"Onistah s mother is my mother," she said. "When
I was a baby my own mother died. Stokimatis is her
sister. I do not know who my father was, but I have
heard he was an American. Stokimatis took me to her
tepee and I lived there with her and Onistah till I was
five or six. Then Angus McRae saw me one day. He
liked me, so he bought me for three yards of tobacco,
a looking-glass, and five wolf pelts."
It may perhaps have been by chance that the girl s
eyes met those of Morse. The blood burned beneath the
tan of her dusky cheeks, but her proud eyes did not
flinch while she told the damning facts about her parent
age and life. She was of the metis, the child of an un
known father. So far as she knew her mother had never
been married. She had been bought and sold like a negro
slave in the South. Let any one that wanted to despise
her make the most of all this.
So far as any expression went Tom Morse looked hard
as pig iron. He did not want to blunder, so he said
nothing. But the girl would have been amazed if she
could have read his thoughts. She seemed to him a rare
flower that has blossomed in a foul swamp.
A CAMP-FIRE TALE 85
"If Angus McRae took you for his daughter, it was
because he loved you," Beresford said gently.
"Yes." The mobile face was suddenly tender with
emotion. "What can any father do more than he has
done for me? I learned to read and write at his knee.
He taught me the old songs of Scotland that he s so fond
of. He tried to make me good and true. Afterward he
sent me to Winnipeg to school for two years."
"Good for Angus McRae," the young soldier said.
She smiled, a little wistfully. "He wants me to be
Scotch, but of course I can t be that even though I sing
Should auld acquaintance to him. I m what I am."
Ever since she had learned to think for herself, she
had struggled against the sense of racial inferiority.
Even in the Lone Lands men of education had crossed
her path. There was Father Giguere, tall and austere
and filled with the wisdom of years, a scholar who had
left his dear France to serve on the outposts of civiliza
tion. And there was the old priest s devoted friend Philip
Muir, of whom the story ran that he was heir to a vast
estate across the seas. Others she had seen at Winnipeg.
And now this scarlet-coated soldier Beresford.
Instinctively she recognized the difference between
them and the trappers and traders who frequented the
North woods. In her bed at night she had more than
once wept herself to sleep because life had built an im
passable barrier between what she was and what she
wanted to be.
"To the Scot nobody is quite like a Scot," Beresford
admitted with a smile. " When he wants to make you
one, Mr. McRae pays you a great compliment."
86 MAN-SIZE
The girl flashed a look of gratitude at him and went
on with her story. "Whenever we are near Stokimatis,
I go to see her. She has always been very fond of me.
It was n t really for money she sold me, but because
she knew Angus McRae could bring me up better
than she could. I was with her to-day when Onistah
came in and told us what this West was going to do.
There was n t time for me to reach Father. I could n t
trust anybody at Whoop-Up, and I was afraid if Onistah
came alone, you would n t believe him. You know how
people are about about Indians. So I saddled a horse
and rode with him."
"That was fine of you. I ll never forget it, Miss
McRae," the young soldier said quietly, his eyes for an
instant full on hers. "I don t think I ve ever met
another girl who would have had the good sense and the
courage to do it."
Her eyes fell from his. She felt a queer delightful
thrill run through her blood. He still respected her,
was even grateful to her for what she had done. No
experience in the ways of men and maids warned her
that there was another cause for the quickened pulse.
Youth had looked into the eyes of youth and made the
world-old call of sex to sex.
In a little pocket opening from the draw Morse
arranged blankets for the girl s bed. He left Beresford
to explain to her that she could sleep there alone with
out fear, since a guard would keep watch against any
possible surprise attack.
When the soldier did tell her this, Jessie smiled back
her reassurance. "I m not afraid not the least
A CAMP-FIRE TALE 87
littlest bit," she said buoyantly. "I ll sleep right
away."
But she did not. Jessie was awake to the finger-tips,
her veins apulse with the flow of rushing rivers of life.
Her chaotic thoughts centered about two men. One
had followed crooked trails for his own profit. There
was something in him hard and unyielding as flint.
He would go to his chosen end, whatever that might be,
over and through any obstacles that might rise. But
to-night, on her behalf, he had thrown down the gaunt
let to Bully West, the most dreaded desperado on the
border. Why had he done it? Was he sorry because he
had forced her father to horsewhip her? Or was his
warning merely the snarl of one wolf at another?
The other man was of a different stamp. He had
brought with him from the world whence he had come a
debonair friendliness, an ease of manner, a smile very
boyish and charming. In his jaunty forage cap and
scarlet jacket he was one to catch and hold the eye by
reason of his engaging personality. He too had fought
her battle. She had heard him, in that casually careless
way of his, try to take the blame of having wounded
West. Her happy thoughts went running out to him
gratefully.
Not the least cause of her gratitude was that there
had not been the remotest hint in his manner that there
was any difference between her and any white girl he
might meet.
CHAPTER XI
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF
THE North- West Mounted Police had authority not
only to arrest, but to try and to sentence prisoners.
The soldierly inspector who sat in judgment on Morse
at Fort Macleod heard the evidence and stroked an
iron-gray mustache reflectively. As he understood it,
his business was to stop whiskey-running rather than
to send men to jail. Beresford s report on this young
aaan was in his favor. The inspector adventured into
psychology.
"Studied the Indians any the effect of alcohol on
them?" he asked Morse.
"Some," the prisoner answered.
"Don t you think it bad for them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps you ve been here longer than I. Is n t this
whiskey-smuggling bad business all round?"
"Not for the smuggler. Speakin as an outsider, I
reckon he does it because he makes money," Morse
answered impersonally.
"For the country, I mean. For the trapper, for the
breeds, for the Indians."
"No doubt about that."
"You re a nephew of C. N. Morse, aren t you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wish you d take him a message from me. Tell him
that it s bad business for a big trading firm like his to
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 89
be smuggling whiskey." The officer raised a hand to
stop the young man s protest. "Yes, I knoV you re
going to tell me that we have n t proved he s been smug
gling. We ll pass that point. Carry him my message.
Just say it s bad business. You can tell him if you want
to that we re here to put an end to it and we re going
to do it. But stress the fact that it is n t good business.
Understand?"
"Yes."
"Very well, sir." A glint of a smile showed in the
inspector s eyes. "I ll give you a Scotch verdict, young
man. Not guilty, but don t do it again. You re dis
charged."
"Barney, too?"
"Hmp! He s a horse of another color. Think we ll
send him over the plains."
"Why make two bites of a cherry, sir? He can t be
guilty if I m not," the released prisoner said.
"Did I say you weren t?" Inspector MacLean
countered.
"Not worth the powder, is he, sir?" Tom insinuated
nonchalantly. "Rather a fathead, Barney is. If he s
guilty, it s not as a principal. You d much better send
me up."
The officer laughed behind the hand that stroked the
mustache. "Do you want to be judge and jury as well
as prisoner, my lad?"
"Thought perhaps my uncle would understand the
spirit of your message better if Barney went along
with me, Inspector." The brown eyes were open and
guileless.
90 MAN-SIZE
MacLean studied the Montanan deliberately. He
began to recognize unusual qualities in this youth.
" Can t say I care for your friend Barney. He s a bad
egg, or I miss my guess."
"Not much taken with him myself. Thought if I d
get him to travel south with me it might save you some
trouble."
"It might," the Inspector agreed. "It s his first
offense so far as I know." Under bristling eyebrows
he shot a swift look at this self-assured youngster. He
had noticed that men matured at an early age on the
frontier. The school of emergency developed them fast.
But Morse struck him as more competent even than the
other boyish plainsmen he had met. "Will you be
responsible for him?"
The Montanan came to scratch reluctantly. He had
no desire to be bear leader for such a doubtful specimen
as Barney.
"Yes," he said, after a pause.
"Keep him in the States, will you?"
"Yes."
"Take him along, then. Wish you luck of him."
As soon as he reached Fort Benton, Tom reported to
his uncle. He told the story of the whiskey cargo and
its fate, together with his own adventures subsequent
to that time.
The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed
Yankee who had drifted West in his youth. Since then
he had acquired gray hairs and large business interests.
At Inspector MacLean s message he grinned.
"Thinks it s bad business, does he?"
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 91
"Told me to tell you so," Tom answered.
"Did n t say why, I guess."
"No."
The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a
plug of tobacco, cut off a liberal chew, and stowed this
in his cheek. Then, lounging back in the chair, he
cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.
"Wonder what he meant."
Tom volunteered no opinion. He recognized his
uncle s canny habit of fishing in other people s minds for
confirmation of what was in his own.
"Got any idee what he was drivin at?" the old pio
neer went on.
"Sorta."
C. N. Morse chuckled. " Got a notion myself . Let s
hear yours."
"The trade with the North-West Mounted is gonna
be big for a while. The Force needs all kinds of supplies.
It ll have to deal through some firm in Benton as a
clearin house. He s servin notice that unless C. N.
Morse & Company mends its ways, it can t do business
with the N.W.M.P."
"That all?" asked the head of the firm.
"That s only half of it. The other half is that no firm
of whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the
line."
C. N. gave another little chirrup of mirth. "Keep
your brains whittled up, don t you? Any advice you d
like to give?"
Tom was not to be drawn. "None, sir."
"No comments, son? Passin it up to Uncle Newt, eh? "
92 MAN-SIZE
"You re the head of the firm. I m hired to do as
I m told."
"You figure on obeyin* orders and lettin it go at
that?"
"Not quite." The young fellow s square chin jutted
out. "For instance, I m not gonna smuggle liquor
through any more. I had my eyes opened this trip.
You have n t been on the ground like I have. If you
want a plain word for it, Uncle Newt "
"Speak right out in meetin , Tom. Should n t won
der but what I can stand it." The transplanted Yankee
slanted at his nephew a quizzical smile. "I been hearin
more or less plain language for quite a spell, son."
Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder,
quietly but without apology. "Sellin whiskey to the
tribes results in wholesale murder, sir."
"Strong talk, boy," his uncle drawled.
"Not too strong. You know I don t mean anything
personal, Uncle Newt. To understand this thing you ve
got to go up there an see it. The plains tribes up there
go crazy over fire-water an start killin each other. It s
a crime to let em have it."
Young Morse began to tell stories of instances that
had come under his own observation, of others that he
had heard from reliable sources. Presently he found
himself embarked on the tale of his adventures with
Sleeping Dawn.
The fur-trader heard him patiently. The dusty
wrinkled boots of the merchant rested on the desk. His
chair was tilted back in such a way that the weight of
his body was distributed between the back of his neck,
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 93
the lower end of the spine, and his heels. He looked a
picture of sleepy, indolent ease, but Tom knew he was
not missing the least detail.
A shadow darkened the doorway of the office. Behind
it straddled a huge, ungainly figure.
" Lo, West! How re tricks?" C. N. Morse asked in
his lazy way. He did not rise from the chair or offer to
shake hands, but that might be because it was not his
custom to exert himself.
West stopped in his stride, choking with wrath. He
had caught sight of Tom and was glaring at him.
"You re here, eh? Sneaked home to try to square your
self with the old man, did ya?" The trail foreman
turned to the uncle. " I wanta tell you he double-crossed
you for fair, C. N. He s got a heluva nerve to come back
here after playin in with the police the way he done up
there."
"I ve heard something about that," the fur-trader
admitted cautiously. " You told me Tom an* you did n t
exactly gee."
"He ll neiver drive another bull-team for me again."
West tacked to his pronouncement a curdling oath.
"We ll call that settled, then. You re through bull-
whackin , Tom." There was a little twitch of whimsical
mirth at the corners of the old man s mouth.
"Now you re shoutin, C. N. Threw me down from
start to finish, he did. First off, when the breed girl
busted the casks, he took her home stead of bringin
her to me. Then at old McRae s camp when I was
defendin myself, he jumped me too. My notion is from
the way he acted that he let on to the red-coat where the
94 MAN-SIZE
cache was. Finally when I rode out to rescue him, he
sided in with the other fellow. Had n t been for him I d
never a had this slug in my leg." The big smuggler
spoke with extraordinary vehemence, spicing his speech
liberally with sulphurous language.
The grizzled Yankee accepted the foreman s attitude
with a wave of the hand that dismissed any counter
argument. But there was an ironic gleam in his eye.
" Nough said, West. If you re that sot on it, the boy
quits the company pay-roll as an employee right now.
I won t have him annoyin you another hour. He be
comes a member of the firm to-day."
The big bully s jaw sagged. He stared at his lean
employer as though a small bomb had exploded at his
feet and numbed his brains. But he was no more sur
prised than Tom, whose wooden face was expression
less.
"Goddlemighty! Ain t I jus been tellin you how he
wrecked the whole show how he sold out to that
bunch of spies the Canadian Gov ment has done sent
up there?" exploded West.
"Oh, I don t guess he did that," Morse, Senior, said
lightly. " We got to remember that times are changin ,
West. Law s comin into the country an we old-timers
oughta meet it halfway with the glad hand. You can t
buck the Union Jack any more than you could Uncle
Sam. I figure I ve sent my last shipment of liquor
across the line."
"Scared, are you?" sneered the trail boss.
"Maybe I am. Reckon I m too old to play the smug
gler s game. And I ve got a hankerin for respectability
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 95
want the firm to stand well with the new settlers.
Legitimate business from now on. That s our motto,
boys."
"What church you been j inin , C. N.?"
"Well, maybe it ll come to that too. Think I d
make a good deacon?" the merchant asked amiably,
untwining his legs and rising to stretch.
West slammed a big fist on the table so that the ink
well and the pens jumped. "All I got to say is that this
new Sunday-school outfit you aim to run won t have
no use for a he-man. I m quittin you right now."
The foreman made the threat as a bluff. He was the
most surprised man in Montana when his employer
called it quietly, speaking still in the slow, nasal voice
of perfect good-nature.
"Maybe you re right, West. That s for you to say,
of course. You know your own business best. Figure
out your time an I ll have Benson write you a check.
Hope you find a good job."
The sense of baffled anger in West foamed up. His
head dropped down and forward threateningly.
"You do, eh? Lemme tell you this, C. N. I don t
ask no odds of you or any other guy. Jes because
you re the head of a big outfit you can t run on me. I
won t stand for it a minute."
"Of course not. I d know better n to try that with
you. No hard feelings even if you quit us." It was a
characteristic of the New Englander that while he was
a forceful figure in this man s country, he rarely quar
reled with any one.
"That so? Well, you listen here. I been layin* off
96 MAN-SIZE
that new pardner of yours because he s yore kin. Not
anymore. Different now. He s liable to have a heluva
time an don t you forget it for a minute."
The fur-trader chewed his cud imperturbably. When
he spoke it was still without a trace of acrimony.
"Guess you ll think better of that maybe, West.
Guess you re a little hot under the collar, ain t you?
Don t hardly pay to hold grudges, does it? There was
Rhinegoldt now. Kept nursin his wrongs an finally
landed in the pen. Bad medicine, looks like to me."
West was no imbecile. He understood the threat
underneath the suave words of the storekeeper. Rhine
goldt had gone to the penitentiary because C. N. Morse
had willed it so. The inference was that another law
breaker might go for the same reason. The trail boss
knew that this was no idle threat. Morse could put him
behind the bars any time he chose. The evidence was
in his hands.
The bully glared at him. "You try that, C. N. Jus
try it once. There ll be a sudden death in the Morse
family if you do. Mebbe two. Me, I d gun you both for
a copper cent. Don t fool yourself a minute."
"Kinda foolish talk, West. Don t buy you anything.
Guess you better go home an cool off, had n t you?
I ll have your time made up to-day, unless you want
your check right now."
The broken teeth of the desperado clicked as his jaw
clamped. He looked from the smiling, steady-eyed
trader to the brown-faced youth who watched the scene
with such cool, alert attention. He fought with a wild,
furious impulse in himself to go through with his threat,
C. N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF 97
to clean up and head out into the wilds. But some sav
ing sense of prudence held his hand. C. N. Morse was
too big game for him.
"To hell with the check," he snarled, and swinging
on his heel jingled out of the office.
The nephew spoke first. "You got rid of him on
purpose."
"Looked that way to you, did it?" the uncle asked
in his usual indirect way.
"Why?"
"Guess you d say it was because he won t fit into
the new policy of the firm. Guess you d say he d al
ways be gettin us into trouble with his overbearin*
and crooked ways."
"That s true. He would."
"Maybe it would be a good idee to watch him mighty
close. They say he s a bad hombre. Might be unlucky
for any one he got the drop on."
Tom knew he was being warned. "I ll look out for
him," he promised.
The older man changed the subject smilingly.
"Here s where C. N. Morse & Company turns over a
leaf, son. No more business gambles. Legitimate trade
only. That the idee you re figurin on makin me live
up to?"
"Suits me if it does you," Tom answered cheerfully.
"But where do I come in? What s my job in the firm?
You ll notice I have n t said Thanks yet."
"You?" C. N. gave him a sly, dry smile. "Oh, all
you have to do is to handle our business north of the
line buy, sell, trade, build up friendly relations with
98 MAN-SIZE
the Indians and trappers, keep friendly with the police,
and a few little things like that."
Tom grinned.
"Won t have a thing to do, will I?"
CHAPTER XII
TOM DUCKS TROUBLE
To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that
served for an office in the company store at Faraway,
came a light-stepping youth in trim boots, scarlet
jacket, and forage cap set at a jaunty angle.
" Lo, Uncle Sam," he said, saluting gayly.
" Lo, Johnnie Canuck. Where you been for a year
and heaven knows how many months?"
"Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who
killed Buckskin Jerry."
Tom took in Beresford s lean body, a gauntness of
the boyish face, hollows under the eyes that had not
been there when first they had met. There had come to
him whispers of the long trek into the frozen Lone
Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He
could guess the dark and dismal winter spent by the
two alone, without books, without the comforts of life,
far from any other human being. It must have been an
experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the
Canadian s blithe joy in living.
"Get him?" the Montanan asked.
The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted
always brought back those they were sent for. Already
the Force was building up the tradition that made them
for a generation rulers of half a continent.
"Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an
experience that had taken toll of his vitality greater than
100 MAN-SIZE
five years of civilized existence. "Been back a week.
Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a look-see."
"At what? He ain t suspectin any one at Faraway
of stretchin , bendin , or bustin the laws."
Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it
that Faraway was a cesspool of iniquity. It was far
from the border. When sheriffs of Montana became too
active, there was usually an influx of population at the
post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and
pushed north to safety.
"Seems to be. You re not by any chance lookin* for
trouble?"
" Duckin* it," answered Tom promptly.
The officer smiled genially. "It s knocking at your
door." His knuckles rapped on the desk.
" If I ever bumped into a Santa Glaus of joy *
"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.
" you certainly ain t him. Onload your grief."
"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dis
positions, animadversions, and propensities," explained
the constable. "According to the latest scientific hy
potheses, the metempsychosis "
Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never
studied geology none. Don t know this hypotenuse
you re pow-wowin about any more n my paint hawss
does. Come again in one syllables."
"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately that
is, any more than usual?"
The junior partner of C. N. Morse & Company con
sidered. "Why, yes, seems to me I have heap much
swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin and tomahawk
swingin ."
TOM DUCKS TROUBLE
"Why?"
"Whiskey, likely."
"Where do they get it?"
Tom looked at the soldier quizzically. "Your guess
is good as mine," he drawled.
"I m guessing West and Whaley."
Morse made no comment. Bully West had thrown in
his fortune with Dug Whaley, a gambler who had drifted
from one mining camp to another and been washed by
the tide of circumstance into the Northwest. Ostensibly
they supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities
to the tribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they
made their profit in whiskey smuggled across the plains.
" But to guess it and to prove it are different proposi
tions. How am I going to hang it on them? I can t
make a bally fool of myself by prodding around in their
bales and boxes. If I did n t find anything and it d
be a long shot against me West and his gang would
stick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock
would shoot down. No, I ve got to make sure, jump
em, and tie em up by finding the goods on the wagons."
"Fat chance," speculated Tom.
"That s where you come in."
"Oh, I come in there, do I? I begin to hear Old Man
Trouble knockin at my door like you promised. Break
it kinda easy. Am I to go up an ask Bully West where
he keeps his fire-water cached? Or what?"
" Yes. Only don t mention to him that you re asking.
Your firm and his trade back and forth, don t they?"
"Forth, but not back. When they ve got to have
some goods if it s neck or nothing with them they
102 MAN-SIZE
buy from us. We don t buy from them. You could n t
exactly call us neighborly."
Beresford explained. "West s just freighted in a
cargo of goods. I can guarantee that if he brought any
liquor with him and I ve good reason to think he
did it has n t been unloaded yet. To-morrow the
wagons will scatter. I can t follow all of em. If I
cinch Mr. West, it s got to be to-night."
"I see. You want me to give you my blessin . I ll
come through with a fine big large one. Go to it, con
stable. Hogtie West with proof. Soak him good. Send
him up for steen years. You got my sympathy an
approval, one for the grief you re liable to bump into,
the other for your good intentions."
The officer s grin had a touch of the proverbial Che
shire cat s malice. " Glad you approve. But you keep
that sympathy for yourself. I m asking you to pull the
chestnut out of the fire for me. You d better look out
or you ll burn your paw."
"Just remember I ain t promisin a thing. I m a
respectable business man now, and, as I said, duckin*
trouble."
"Find out for me in which wagon the liquor is.
That sail I ask."
"How can I find out? I m no mind reader."
"Drift over casually and offer to buy goods. Poke
around a bit. Keep cases on em. Notice the wagons
they steer you away from."
Tom thought it over and shook his head. ,"No, I
don t reckon I will."
"Any particular reason?"
TOM DUCKS TROUBLE 103
"Don t look to me hardly like playin the game. I m
ferninst West every turn of the road. He s crooked as a
dog s hind laig. But it would n t be right square for me
to spy on him. Different with you. That s what you re
paid for. You re out to run him down any way you can.
He knows that. It s a game of hide an go seek between
you an him. Best man wins."
The red-coat assented at once. "Right you are.
I ll get some one else." He rose to go. "See you later
maybe."
Tom nodded. "Sorry I can t oblige, but you see how
it is."
"Quite. I ought n t to have asked you."
Beresford strode briskly out of the store.
Through the window Morse saw him a moment later
in whispered conversation with Onistah. They were
standing back of an outlying shed, in such a position
that they could not be seen from the road.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH
DIFFICULTIES
THE early Northern dusk was falling when Beresford
dropped into the store again. Except for two half-
breeds and the clerk dickering at the far end of the
building over half a dozen silver fox furs Morse had the
place to himself.
Yet the officer took the precaution to lower his voice.
"I want an auger and a wooden plug the same size.
Get em to me without anybody knowing it."
The manager of the C. N. Morse & Company North
ern Stores presently shoved across the counter to him
a gunny-sack with a feed of oats. "Want it charged to
the Force, I reckon?"
"Yes."
"Say, constable, I wancha to look at these moccasins
I m orderin for the Inspector. Is this what he wants?
Or isn t it?"
Tom led the way into his office. He handed the shoe
to Beresford. "What s doin ?" he asked swiftly, be
tween sentences.
The soldier inspected the footwear. "About right,
I d say. Thought you d find what you were looking for.
A fellow usually does when he goes at it real earnest."
The eyes in the brown face were twinkling merrily.
"Findin the goods is one thing. Gettin em s quite
another," Tom suggested.
CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH 105
The voice of one of the trappers rose in protest. "By
gar, it iss what you call dirt cheap. I make you a
present. Via!"
"Got to bore through difficulties," Beresford said.
"Then you re liable to bump into disappointment.
But you can t ever tell till you try."
His friend began to catch the drift of the officer s
purpose. He was looking for a liquor shipment, and he
had bought an auger to bore through difficulties.
Tom s eyes glowed. "Come over to the storeroom an
take a look at my stock. Want you to see I m gonna
have these moccasins made from good material."
They kept step across the corral, gay, light-hearted
sons of the frontier, both hard as nails, packed muscles
rippling like those of forest panthers. Their years added
would not total more than twoscore and five, but life
had taken hold of them young and trained them to its
purposes, had shot them through and through with
hardihood and endurance and the cool prevision that
forestalls disaster.
"I m in on this," the Montanan said.
"Meaning?"
"That I buy chips, take a hand, sit in, deal cards. *
The level gaze of the police officer studied him specu-
latively. "Now why this change of heart?"
"You get me wrong. I m with you to a finish in
puttin West and Whaley out of business. They re a
hell-raisin outfit, an this country 11 be well rid of em.
Only thing is I wanta play my cards above the table.
I couldn t spy on these men. Leastways, it didn t
look quite square to me. But this is a bronc of another
106 MAN-SIZE
color. Lead me to that trouble you was promisin a
while ago."
Beresf ord led him to it, by way of a rain-washed gully,
up which they trod their devious path slowly and with
out noise. From the gully they snaked through the dry
grass to a small ditch that had been built to drain the
camping-ground during spring freshets. This wound
into the midst of the wagon train encampment.
The plainsmen crept along the dry ditch with labori
ous care. They advanced no single inch without first
taking care to move aside any twig the snapping of
which might betray them.
From the beginning of the adventure until its climax
no word was spoken. Beresf ord led, the trader followed
at his heels.
The voices of men drifted to them from a camp-fire
in the shelter of the wagons. There were, Tom guessed,
about four of them. Their words came clear through the
velvet night. They talked the casual elemental topics
common to their kind.
There was a moonlit open space to be crossed. The
constable took it swiftly with long strides, reached a
wagon, and dodged under it. His companion held to
the cover of the ditch. He was not needed closer.
The officer lay flat on his back, set the point of the
auger to the woodwork of the bed, and began to turn.
Circles and half-circles of shavings flaked out and fell
upon him. He worked steadily. Presently the resistance
of the wood ceased. The bit had eaten its way through.
Beresford withdrew the tool and tried again, this
time a few inches from the hole he had made. The
CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH 107
pressure lessened as before, but in a second or two the
steel took a fresh hold. The handle moved slowly and
steadily.
A few drops of moisture dripped down, then a small
stream. The constable held his hand under this and
tasted the flow. It was rum.
Swiftly he withdrew the bit, fitted the plug into the
hole, and pushed it home.
He crawled from .under the wagon, skirted along the
far side of it, ran to the next white-topped vehicle, and
plumped out upon the campers with a short, sharp
word of command.
"Up with your hands! Quick!"
For a moment the surprised quartette were too
amazed to obey.
"What in Halifax?"
"Shove em up!" came the crisp, peremptory
order.
Eight hands wavered skyward.
"Is this a hold-up or what?" one of the teamsters
wanted to know sulkily.
"Call it whatever you like. You with the fur cap
hitch up the mules to the second wagon. Don t make a
mistake and try for a getaway. You ll be a dead
smuggler."
The man hesitated. Was this red-coat alone?
Tom strolled out of the ditch, a sawed-off shotgun
under his arm. "I judge you bored through your diffi
culties, constable," he said cheerfully.
"Through the bed of the wagon and the end of a
rum keg. Stir your stumps, gentlemen of the whiskey-
108 MAN-SIZE
running brigade. We re on the way to Fort Edmonton
if it suits you."
If it did not suit them, they made no audible protest
of disagreement. Growls were their only comment
when, under direction of Beresford, the Montanan
stripped them of their weapons and kept guard on the
fur-capped man his name appeared to be Lemoine
while the latter brought the mules to the wagon pointed
out by the officer.
"Hook em," ordered Morse curtly.
The French-Indian trapper hitched the team to the
wagon. Presently it moved beyond the circle of firelight
into the darkness. Morse sat beside the driver, the
short-barreled weapon across his knees. Three men
walked behind the wagon. A fourth, in the uniform of
the North- West Mounted, brought up the rear on
horseback.
CHAPTER XIV
SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION
WHEN Bully West discovered that such part of the cargo
of wet goods as was in wagon number two had disap
peared and along with it the four mule-skinners, his
mind jumped to an instant conclusion. That it hap
pened to be the wrong one was natural enough to his
sulky, suspicious mind.
"Goddlemighty, they ve double-crossed us," he
swore to his partner, with an explosion of accompany
ing profanity. " Figure on cleanin up on the goods an
cuttin back to the States. Tha s what they aim to do.
Before I can head em off. Me, I 11 show em they can t
play monkey tricks on Bully West."
This explanation did not satisfy Whaley. The straight
black line of the brows above the cold eyes met in frown
ing thought.
"I ve got a hunch you re barkin up the wrong tree,"
he lisped with a shrug of shoulders.
Voice and gesture were surprising in that they were
expressions of this personality totally unexpected.
Both were almost womanlike in their delicacy. They
suggested the purr and soft padding of a cat, an odd
contradiction to the white, bloodless face with the inky
brows. The eyes of "Poker" Whaley could throw fear
into the most reckless bull-whacker on the border.
They held fascinating and sinister possibilities of
evil.
110 MAN-SIZE
"Soon see. We ll hit the trail right away after them,"
Bully replied.
Whaley s thin lip curled. He looked at West as
though he read to the bottom of that shallow mind and
meant to make the most of his knowledge.
"Yes," he murmured, as though to himself. "Some
one ought to stay with the rest of the outfit, but I
reckon I d better go along. Likely you could n t handle
all of em if they showed fight."
West s answer was a roar of outraged vanity. "Me!
Not round up them tame sheep. I 11 drive em back with
their tongues hangin out. Understand?"
At break of day he was in the saddle. An experienced
trailer, West found no difficulty in following the wagon
tracks. No attempt had been made to cover the flight.
The whiskey -runner could trace at a road gait the nar
row tracks along the winding road.
The country through which he traveled was the
border-land between the plains and the great forests
that rolled in unbroken stretch to the frozen North.
Sometimes he rode over undulating prairie. Again he
moved through strips of woodland or skirted beautiful
lakes from the reedy edges of which ducks or geese rose
whirring at his approach. A pair of coyotes took one
long look at him and skulked into a ravine. Once a
great moose started from a thicket of willows and gal
loped over a hill.
West heeded none of this. No joy touched him as he
breasted summits and looked down on wide sweeps of
forest and rippling water. The tracks of the wheel rims
engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze. If the brut-
SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION 111
ish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been
far from pleasant ones.
The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault,
slid toward the horizon. Dusk found him at the edge
of a wooded lake.
He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of
triumph. From the timber on the opposite shore came
a tenuous smoke skein. A man came to the water with
a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods. Bully
West knew he had caught up with those he was
tracking.
The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and
rode through the timber toward the smoke. At a safe
distance he dismounted, tied the horse to a young pine,
and carefully examined his rifle. Very cautiously he
stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill and
the stealth of a Sarcee scout.
Camp had been pitched in a small open space sur
rounded by bushes. Through the thicket, on the south
side, he picked a way, pushing away each sapling and
weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of his
huge body. For such a bulk of a figure he moved
lightly. Twice he stopped by reason of the crackle of a
snapping twig, but no sign of alarm came from his prey.
They sat hunched the four of them before a
blazing log fire, squatting on their heels in the comfort
able fashion of the outdoors man the world over. Their
talk was fragmentary. None gave any sign of alertness
toward any possible approaching danger.
No longer wary, West broke through the last of the
bushes and straddled into the open.
112 MAN-SIZE
"Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore
boss," he jeered, triumph riding voice and manner
heavily.
He waited for the startled dismay he expected. None
came. The drama of the moment did not meet his
expectation. The teamsters looked at him, sullenly,
without visible fear or amazement. None of them rose
or spoke.
Sultry anger began to burn in West s eyes. "Thought
you d slip one over on the old man, eh? Thought you
could put over a raw steal an get away with it. Well,
lemme tell you where you get off at. I m gonna whale
every last one of you to a frazzle. With a big club. An
I m gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of
whipped curs. Understand?"
Still they said nothing. It began to penetrate the
thick skull of the trader that there was something un
natural about their crouched silence. Why did n t
they try to explain? Or make a break for a get
away?
He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley
of curses, than to repeat his threat. "A thunderin good
wallopin , first off. Then we hit the trail together, you-
all an me."
From out of the bushes behind him a voice came.
"That last s a good prophecy, Mr. West. It ll be just
as you say."
The big fellow wheeled, the rifle jumping to his shoul
der. Instantly he knew he had been tricked, led into
a trap. They must have heard him coming, whoever
they were, and left his own men for bait.
SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION 113
From the other side two streaks of scarlet launched
themselves at him. West turned to meet them. A third
flash of red dived for his knees. He went down as
though hit by a battering-ram.
But not to stay down. The huge gorilla-shaped figure
struggled to its feet, fighting desperately to throw off
the three red-coats long enough to drag out a revolver.
He was like a bear surrounded by leaping dogs. No
sooner had he buffeted one away than the others were
dragging him down. Try as he would, he could not get
set. The attackers always staggered him before he
could quite free himself for action. They swarmed all
over him, fought close to avoid his sweeping lunges,
hauled him to his knees by sheer weight of the pack.
Lemoine flung one swift look around and saw that his
captors were very busy. Now if ever was the time to
take a hand in the melee. Swiftly he rose. He spoke
a hurried word in French.
"One moment, s il vous plait." From the bushes an
other man had emerged, one not in uniform. Lemoine
had forgotten him. "Not your fight. Better keep
out," he advised, and pointed the suggestion with a
short-barreled shotgun.
The trapper looked at him. "Is it that this iss your
fight, Mistair Morse?" he demanded.
"Fair enough. I ll keep out too."
The soldiers had West down by this time. They were
struggling to handcuff him. He fought furiously, his
great arms and legs threshing about like flails. Not
till he had worn himself out could they pinion
him.
114 MAN-SIZE
Beresford rose at last, the job done. His coat was
ripped almost from one shoulder. "My word, he s a
whale of an animal," he panted. "If I had n t chanced
to meet you boys he d have eaten me alive."
The big smuggler struggled for breath. When at last
he found words, it was for furious and horrible curses.
Not till hours later did he get as far as a plain question.
"What does this mean? Where are you taking me, you
damned spies?" he roared.
Beresford politely gave him information. "To the
penitentiary, I hope, Mr. West, for breaking Her
Majesty s revenue laws."
CHAPTER XV
KISSING DAY
ALL week Jessie and her foster-mother Matapi-Koma
had been busy cooking and baking for the great occa
sion. Fergus had brought in a sack full of cottontails
and two skunks. To these his father had added the
smoked hindquarters of a young buffalo, half a barrel
of dried fish, and fifty pounds of pemmican. For Angus
liked to dispense hospitality in feudal fashion.
Ever since Jessie had opened her eyes at the sound of
Matapi-Koma s "Koos koos kwa" (Wake up!), in the
pre-dawn darkness of the wintry Northern morn, she
had heard the crunch of snow beneath the webs of the
footmen and the runners of the sleds. For both full-
blood Crees and half-breeds were pouring into Faraway
to take part in the festivities of Ooche-me-gou-kesigow
(Kissing Day).
The traders at the post and their families would join
in the revels. With the exception of Morse, they had
all taken Indian wives, in the loose marriage of the
country, and for both business and family reasons they
maintained a close relationship with the natives. Most
of their children used the mother tongue, though they
could make shift to express themselves in English. In
this respect as in others the younger McRaes were
superior. They talked English well. They could read
and write. Their father had instilled in them a rever
ence for the Scriptures and some knowledge of both the
116 MAN-SIZE
Old and New Testaments. It was his habit to hold
family prayers every evening. Usually half a dozen
guests were present at these services in addition to his
immediate household.
With the Indians came their dogs, wolfish creatures,
prick-eared and sharp-muzzled, with straight, bristling
hair. It was twenty below zero, but the gaunt animals
neither sought nor were given shelter. They roamed
about in front of the fort stockade, snapping at each
other or galloping off on rabbit hunts through the
timber.
The custom was that on this day the braves of the
tribe kissed every woman they met in token of friend
ship and good- will. To fail of saluting one, young or
old, was a breach of good manners. Since daybreak they
had been marching in to Angus McRae s house and
gravely kissing his wife and daughter.
Jessie did not like it. She was a fastidious young
person. But she could not escape without mortally
offending the solemn-eyed warriors who offered this
evidence of their esteem. As much as possible she con
trived to be busy upstairs, but at least a dozen times she
was fairly cornered and made the best of it.
At dinner she and the other women of the fort waited
on their guests and watched prodigious quantities of
food disappear rapidly. When the meal was ended, the
dancing began. The Crees shuffled around in a circle,
hopping from one foot to the other in time to the beat
ing of a skin drum. The half-breeds and whites danced
the jigs and reels the former had brought with them
from the Red River country. They took the floor in
KISSING DAY 117
couples. The men did double-shuffles and cut pigeon
wings, moving faster and faster as the fiddler quickened
the tune till they gave up at last exhausted. Their
partners performed as vigorously, the moccasined
feet twinkling in and out so fast that the beads
flashed.
Because it was the largest building hi the place, the
dance was held in the C. N. Morse & Company store.
From behind the counter Jessie applauded the per
formers. She did not care to take part herself. The
years she had spent at school had given her a certain
dignity.
A flash of scarlet caught her eye. Two troopers of
the Mounted Police had come into the room and one
of them was taking off his fur overcoat. The trim, lean-
flanked figure and close-cropped, curly head she recog
nized at once with quickened pulse. When Winthrop
Beresford came into her neighborhood, Jessie McRae s
cheek always flew a flag of greeting.
A squaw came up to the young soldier and offered
innocently her face for a kiss.
Beresford knew the tribal custom. It was his business
to help establish friendly relations between the Mounted
and the natives. He kissed the wrinkled cheek gallantly.
A second dusky lady shuffled forward, and after her a
third. The constable did his duty.
His roving eye caught Jessie s, and found an imp of
mischief dancing there. She was enjoying the predica
ment in which he found himself. Out of the tail of that
same eye he discovered that two more flat-footed
squaws were headed in his direction.
118 MAN-SIZE
He moved briskly across the floor to the counter,
vaulted it, and stood beside Jessie. She was still laugh
ing at him.
"You re afraid," she challenged. "You ran away."
A little devil of adventurous mirth was blown to
flame in him. "I saw another lady, lonely and unkissed.
The Force answers every call of distress."
Her chin tilted ever so little as she answered swiftly.
"He who will not when he may,
When he will he shall have nay."
Before she had more than time to guess that he would
really dare, the officer leaned forward and kissed the
girl s dusky cheek.
The color flamed into it. Jessie flung a quick, startled
look at him.
" Kissing Day, Sleeping Dawn," he said, smiling.
Instantly she followed his lead. " Sleeping Dawn
hopes that the Great Spirit will give to the soldier of the
Great Mother across the seas many happy kissing days
in his life."
"And to you. Will you dance with me?"
"Not to-day, thank you. I don t jig in public."
"I was speaking to Miss McRae and not to Sleeping
Dawn, and I was asking her to waltz with me."
She accepted him as a partner and they took the floor.
The other dancers by tacit consent stepped back to
watch this new step, so rhythmic, light, and graceful.
It shocked a little their sense of fitness that the man s
arm should enfold the maiden, but they were full of
lively curiosity to see how the dance was done.
KISSING DAY 119
A novel excitement pulsed through the girl s veins.
It was not the kiss alone, though that had something
to do with the exhilaration that flooded her. Formally
his kiss had meant only a recognition of the day. Actu
ally it had held for both of them a more personal signifi
cance, the swift outreach of youth to youth. But the
dance was an escape. She had learned at Winnipeg the
waltz of the white race. No other girl at Faraway knew
the step. She chose to think that the constable had
asked her because this stressed the predominance
of her father s blood in her. It was a symbol to all
present that the ways of the Anglo-Saxon were her
ways.
She had the light, straight figure, the sense of
rhythm, the instinctively instant response of the born
waltzer. As she glided over the floor in the arms of
Beresford, the girl knew pure happiness. Not till he
was leading her back to the counter did she wake
from the spell the music and motion had woven over
her.
A pair of cold eyes in a white, bloodless face watched
her beneath thin black brows. A shock ran through her,
as though she had been drenched with icy water. She
shivered. There was a sinister menace in that steady,
level gaze. More than once she had felt it. Deep in
her heart she knew, from the world-old experience of
her sex, that the man desired her, that he was biding
his time with the patience and the ruthlessness of a
panther. "Poker" Whaley had in him a power of dan
gerous evil notable in a country where bad men were
not scarce.
120 MAN-SIZE
The officer whispered news to Jessie. "Bully West
broke jail two weeks ago. He killed a guard. We re
here looking for him."
"He has n t been here. At least I have n t heard it,"
she answered hurriedly.
For Whaley, in his slow, feline fashion, was moving
toward them.
Bluntly the gambler claimed his right. "Ooche-me-
gou-kesigow," he said.
The girl shook her head. "Are you a Cree, Mr.
Whaley?"
For that he had an answer. "Is Beresford?"
"Mr. Beresford is a stranger. He did n t know the
custom that it does n t apply to me except with
Indians. I was taken by surprise."
Whaley was a man of parts. He had been educated
for a priest, but had kicked over the traces. There was
in him too much of the Lucifer for the narrow trail the
father of a parish must follow.
He bowed. "Then I must content myself with a
dance."
Jessie hesitated. It was known that he was a liber
tine. The devotion of his young Cree wife was repaid
with sneers and the whiplash. But he was an ill man to
make an enemy of. For her family s sake rather than
her own she yielded reluctantly.
Though a heavy-set man, he was an excellent
waltzer. He moved evenly and powerfully. But in the
girl s heart resentment flamed. She knew he was holding
her too close to him, taking advantage of her modesty
in a way she could not escape without public protest.
KISSING DAY
"I m faint," she told him after they had danced a
few minutes.
"Oh, you ll be all right," he said, still swinging her to
the music.
She stopped. "No, I ve had enough." Jessie had
caught sight of her brother Fergus at the other end of
the room. She joined him. Tom Morse was standing
by his side.
Whaley nodded indifferently toward the men and
smiled at Jessie, but that cold lip smile showed neither
warmth nor friendliness. "We ll dance again many
times," he said.
The girl s eyes flashed. "We ll have to ask Mrs.
Whaley about that. I don t see her here to-night. I
hope she s quite well."
It was impossible to tell from the chill, expressionless
face of the squaw-man whether her barb had stung or
not. "She s where she belongs, at home in the kitchen.
It s her business to be well. I reckon she is. I don t
ask her."
"You re not a demonstrative husband, then?"
"Husband!" He shrugged his shoulders insolently.
"Oh, well! What s in a name?"
She knew the convenient code of his kind. They took
to themselves Indian wives, with or without some form
of marriage ceremony, and flung them aside when they
grew tired of the tie or found it galling. There was an
other kind of squaw-man, the type represented by her
father. He had joined his life to that of Matapi-Koma
for better or worse until such time as death should
separate them.
1*2 MAN-SIZE
In Jessie s bosom a generous indignation burned.
There was a reason why just now Whaley should give
his wife much care and affection. She turned her shoul
der and began to talk with Fergus and Tom Morse,
definitely excluding the gambler from the conversation.
He was not one to be embarrassed by a snub. He
held his ground, narrowed eyes watching her with the
vigilant patience of the panther he sometimes made her
think of. Presently he forced a reentry.
"What s this I hear about Bully West escaping from
jail?"
Fergus answered. "Two-three weeks ago. Killed a
guard, they say. He was headin 5 west an* north last
word they had of him."
All of them were thinking the same thing, that the
man would reach Faraway if he could, lie hidden till
he had rustled an outfit, then strike out with a dog team
deeper into the Lone Lands.
"Here s wishin him luck," his partner said coolly.
"All the luck he deserves," amended Morse quietly.
"You can t keep a good man down," WTialey boasted,
looking straight at the other Indian trader. "I
wouldn t wonder but what he ll pay a few debts when
he gets here."
Tom smiled and offered another suggestion. "If he
gets here and has time. He ll have to hurry."
His gaze shifted across the room to Beresford, alert,
gay, indomitable, and as implacable as fate.
CHAPTER XVI
A BUSINESS DEAL
It was thirty below zero. The packed snow crunched
under the feet of Morse as he moved down what served
Faraway for a main street. The clock in the store regis
tered mid-afternoon, but within a few minutes the sub-
Arctic sun would set, night would fall, and aurora lights
would glow in the west.
Four false suns were visible around the true one, the
whole forming a cross of five orbs. Each of these swam
in perpendicular segments of a circle of prismatic colors.
Even as the young man looked, the lowest of the cluster
lights plunged out of sight. By the time he had reached
the McRae house, darkness hung over the white and
frozen land.
Jessie opened the door to his knock and led him into
the living-room of the family, where also the trapper s
household ate and Fergus slept. It was a rough enough
place, with its mud-chinked log walls and its floor of
whipsawed lumber. But directly opposite the door was
a log-piled hearth that radiated comfort and cheer
fulness. Buffalo robes served as rugs and upon the walls
had been hung furs of silver fox, timber wolves, mink,
and beaver. On a shelf was a small library of not more
than twenty-five books, but they were ones that only a
lover of good reading would have chosen. Shakespeare
and Burns held honored places there. Scott s poems
and three or four of his novels were in the collection. In
124 MAN-SIZE
worn leather bindings were "Tristram Shandy," and
Smollett s "Complete History of England." Bunyan s
"Pilgrim s Progress" shouldered Butler s "Hudibras"
and Baxter s "The Saint s Everlasting Rest." Into
this choice company one frivolous modern novel had
stolen its way. "Nicholas Nickleby" had been brought
from Winnipeg by Jessie when she returned from
school. The girl had read them all from cover to cover,
most of them many times. Angus too knew them all,
with the exception of the upstart "storybook" written
by a London newspaper man of whom he had never
before heard.
"I m alone," Jessie explained. "Father and Fergus
have gone out to the traps. They ll not be back till
to-morrow. Mother s with Mrs. Whaley."
Tom knew that the trader s wife was not well. She
was expecting to be confined in a few weeks.
He was embarrassed at being alone with the girl in
side the walls of a house. His relations with Angus Mc-
Rae reached civility, but not cordiality. The stern old
Scotchman had never invited him to drop in and call.
He resented the fact that through the instrumentality
of Morse he had been forced to horsewhip the lass he
loved, and the trader knew he was not forgiven his
share in the episode and probably never would be. Now
Tom had come only because a matter of business had to
be settled one way or the other at once.
"Blandoine is leavin for Whoop-Up in the mornin .
I came to see your father about those robes. If we buy,
it ll have to be now. I can send em down with Blan
doine," he explained.
A BUSINESS DEAL
She nodded, briskly. "Father said you could have
them at your price if you 11 pay what he asked for those
not split. They re good hides cows and young bulls. 1
" It s a deal," the fur-trader said promptly. " Glad to
get em, though I m payin all I can afford for the split
ones."
"I ll get the key to the storehouse," Jessie said.
She walked out of the room with the springy, feather-
footed step that distinguished her among all the women
that he knew. In a few moments she was back. Instead
of giving him the key, she put it down on the table near
his hand.
Beneath the tan the dark blood beat into his face.
He knew she had done this in order not to run the risk
of touching him.
For a long moment his gaze gripped and held her.
Between them passed speech without words. His eyes
asked if he were outside the pale completely, if he could
never wipe out the memory of that first cruel meeting.
Hers answered proudly that, half-breed though she was,
he was to her only a wolfer, of less interest than Black,
the leader of her father s dog train.
He picked up the key and left, wild thoughts whirling
through his mind. He loved her. Of what use was it
trying longer to disguise it from himself. Of the inferior
blood she might be, yet his whole being went out to her
1 A split robe was one cut down the middle and sewn together with sinews.
The ones skinned from the animal in a single piece were much more valuable,
but the native women usually prepared the hides the other way because of
the weight in handling. One of the reasons the Indians gave the mission
aries in favor of polygamy was that one wife could not dress a buffalo robe
without assistance. The braves themselves did not condescend to menial
labor of this kind. (W. M. R.)
126 MAN-SIZE
in deep desire. He wanted her for his mate. He craved
her in every fiber of his clean, passionate manhood, as
he had never before longed for a woman in his life.
And she hated him hated him with all the blazing
scorn of a young proud soul whose fine body had endured
degradation on his account. He was a leper, to be
classed with Bully West.
Nor did he blame her. How could she feel otherwise
and hold her self-respect. The irony of it brought a
bitter smile to his lips. If she only knew it, the years
would avenge her a hundredfold. For he had cut him
self off from even the chance of the joy that might have
been his.
In the sky an aurora flashed with scintillating splen
dor. The heavens were aglow with ever-changing bars
and columns of colored fire.
Morse did not know it. Not till he had passed a dozen
steps beyond a man in heavy furs did his mind register
recognition of him as Whaley. He did not even wonder
what business was taking the gambler toward Angus
McRae s house.
Business obtruded its claims. He arranged with Blan-
doine to take the robes out with him and walked back
to the McRae storehouse. It adjoined the large log
cabin where the Scotchman and his family lived.
Blandoine and he went over the robes carefully in
order that there should be no mistake as to which ones
the trainmaster took. This done, Morse locked the door
and handed the key to his companion.
To him there was borne the sound of voices one low
and deep, the other swift and high. He caught no words,
A BUSINESS DEAL 127
but he became aware that a queer excitement tingled
through his veins. At the roots of his hair there was an
odd, prickling sensation. He could give himself no
reason, but some instinct of danger rang in him like a
bell. The low bass and the light high treble they
reached him alternately, cutting into each other, over
riding each other, clashing in agitated dissent.
Then a shrill scream for help !
Morse could never afterward remember opening the
door of the log house. It seemed to him that he burst
through it like a battering-ram, took the kitchen in
two strides, and hurled himself against the sturdy home
made door which led into the living-room.
This checked him, for some one had slid into its
socket the bar used as a bolt. He looked around the
kitchen and found in one swift glance what he wanted.
It was a large back log for the fireplace.
With this held at full length under his arm he crashed
forward. The wood splintered. He charged again,
incited by a second call for succor. This time his attack
dashed the bolt and socket from their place. Morse
stumbled into the room like a drunken man.
CHAPTER XVII
A BOARD CREAKS
AFTER Morse had closed the door, Jessie listened until
the crisp crunch of his footsteps had died away. She
subdued an impulse to call him back and put into words
her quarrel against him.
From the table she picked up a gun-cover of moose
leather she was making and moved to the fireplace.
Automatically her fingers fitted into place a fringe of red
cloth. (This had been cut from an old petticoat, but
the source of the decoration would remain a secret,
not on any account to be made known to him who was
to receive the gift.) Usually her hands were busy ones,
but now they fell away from the work listlessly.
The pine logs crackled, lighting one end of the room
and filling the air with aromatic pungency. As she
gazed into the red coals her mind was active.
She knew that her scorn of the fur-trader was a fraud.
Into her hatred of him she threw an energy always prim
itive and sometimes savage. But he held her entire
respect. It was not pleasant to admit this. Her mind
clung to the shadowy excuse that he had been a wblfer,
although the Indians looked on him now as a good friend
and a trader who would not take advantage of them.
Angus McRae himself had said there was no better
citizen in the Northland.
No, she could not hold Tom Morse in contempt as
she would have liked. But she could cherish her ani-
A BOARD CREAKS 129
mosity and feed it on memories that scorched her as
the whiplash had her smooth and tender flesh. She
would never forgive him never. Not if he humbled
himself in the dust.
Toward Angus McRae she held no grudge whatever.
He had done only his duty as he saw it. The circum
stances had forced his hand, for her word had pledged
him to punishment. But this man who had walked into
her life so roughly, mastered her by physical force,
dragged her to the ignominy of the whip, and afterward
had dared to do her a service when she woke at night
and thought of him she still burned with shame and
anger. He had been both author and witness of her
humiliation.
The girl s reverie stirred reflection of other men, for
already she had suitors in plenty. Upon one of them
her musing lingered. He had brought to her gifts of
the friendly smile, of comradeship, of youth s debonair
give-and-take. She did not try to analyze her feel
ing for Winthrop Beresford. It was enough to know
that he had brought into her existence the sparkle of
joy.
For life had stalked before her with an altogether too
tragic mien. In this somber land men did not laugh
much. Their smiles held a background of gravity. Icy
winter reigned two thirds of the year and summer was a
brief hot blaze following no spring. Nature demanded of
those who lived here that they struggle to find subsis
tence. In that conflict human beings forgot that they
had been brought into the world to enjoy it with careless
rapture.
130 MAN-SIZE
Somewhere in the house a board creaked. Jessie
heard it inattentively, for in the bitter cold woodwork
was always snapping and cracking.
Beresford had offered her a new philosophy of We.
She did not quite accept it, yet it fascinated. He be
lieved that the duty of happiness was laid on people as
certainly as the duty of honesty. She remembered that
once he had said . . .
There had come to her no sound, but Jessie knew that
some one had opened the door and was standing on the
threshold watching her. She turned her head. Her self-
invited guest was Whaley.
Jessie rose. "What do you want?"
She was startled at the man s silent entry, ready to be
alarmed if necessary, but not yet afraid. It was as
though her thoughts waited for the cue he would pres
ently give. Some instinct for safety made her cautious.
She did not tell the free trader that her father and
Fergus were from home.
He looked at her, appraisingly, from head to foot,
in such a way that she felt his gaze had stripped her.
"You know what I want. You know what I m going
to get . . . some day," he purred in his slow, feline way.
She pushed from her mind a growing apprehension.
"Father and Fergus if you want them "
"Have I said I wanted them?" he asked. "They re
out in the woods trappin . I m not lookin for them.
The two of us 11 be company for each other."
"Go," she said, anger flaring at his insolence. "Go.
You ve no business here."
"I m not here for business, but for pleasure, my dear."
A BOARD CREAKS 131
The cold, fishy eyes in his white face gloated. Sud
denly she wanted to scream and pushed back the desire
scornfully. If she did, nobody would hear her. This
had to be fought out one to one.
"Why did n t you knock?" she demanded.
"We ll say I did and that you did n t hear me," he
answered suavely. "What s it matter among friends
anyhow?"
"What do you want?" By sheer will power she kept
her voice low.
"Your mother s over at the house. I dropped in to
say she ll probably stay all night."
"Is your wife worse?"
He lifted the black brows that contrasted so
sharply with the pallor of the face. "Really you get
ahead of me, my dear. I don t recall ever getting
married."
"That s a hateful thing to say," she flamed, and bit
her lower lip with small white teeth to keep from telling
the squaw-man what she thought of him. The Cree girl
he had taken to wife was going down into the Valley of
the Shadow to bear him a child while he callously
repudiated her.
He opened his fur coat and came to the fireplace. "I
can say nicer things to the right girl," he said, and
looked meaningly at her.
"I ll have to go get Susie Lemofne to stay with me,"
Jessie said hurriedly. "I did n t know Mother was n t
coming home."
She made a move toward a fur lying across the back
of a chair.
132 MAN-SIZE
He laid a hand upon her arm. "What s your rush?
What are you dodgin 5 for, girl? I m good as Susie to
keep the goblins from gettin you."
"Don t touch me." Her eyes sparked fire.
"You re mighty high-heeled for a nitchie. I reckon
you forget you re Sleeping Dawn, daughter of a Black-
foot squaw."
"I m Jessie McRae, daughter of Angus, and if you
insult me, you ll have to settle with him."
He gave a short snort of laughter. "Wake up, girl.
What s the use of foolin yourself? You re a breed.
McRae s tried to forget it and so have you. But all the
time you know damn well you re half Injun."
Jessie looked at him with angry contempt, then
wheeled for the door.
Whaley had anticipated that and was there before
her. His narrowed, covetous eyes held her while one
hand behind his back slid the bolt into place.
"Let me out!" she cried.
"Be reasonable. I m not aimin to hurt you."
"Stand aside and let me through."
He managed another insinuating laugh. "Have some
sense. Quit ridin* that high horse and listen while I
talk to you."
But she was frightened by this time as much as she
was incensed. A drum of dread was beating in her
panicky heart. She saw in his eyes what she had never
before seen on a face that looked into hers though
she was to note it often in the dreadful days that fol
lowed the ruthless appetite of a wild beast crouching
for its kill.
A BOARD CREAKS 133
"Let me go! Let me go!" Her voice was shrilly out
of control. "Unbar the door, I tell you!"
"I m a big man in this country. Before I m through
I ll be head chief among the trappers for hundreds of
miles. I m offerin you the chance of a lifetime. Throw
in with me and you ll ride in your coach at Winnipeg
some day." Voice and words were soft and smooth,
but back of them Jessie felt the panther couched for
its spring.
She could only repeat her demand, in a cry that
reached its ictus in a sob.
"If you re dreamin about that red-coat spy
hopin he ll marry you after he s played fast and loose
with you why, forget such foolishness. I know his
kind. When he s had his fling, he ll go back to his own
people and settle down. He s lookin for a woman, not
a wife."
"That s a lie!" she flung out, rage for the moment in
ascendent. "Open that door or I ll "
Swiftly his hand shot forward and caught her wrist.
"What 11 you do?" he asked, and triumph rode in his
eyes.
She screamed. One of his hands clamped down over
her mouth, the other went round her waist and drew
the slim body to him. She fought, straining from him,
throwing back her head in another lifted shriek for
help.
As well she might have matched her strength with a
buffalo bull. He was still under forty, heavy-set, bones
packed with heavy muscles. It seemed to her that all
the power of her vital youth vanished and left only
134 MAN-SIZE
limp and flaccid weakness. He snatched her close and
kissed the dusky eyes, the soft cheeks, the colorful
lips . . .
She became aware that he was holding her from him,
listening. There was a crash of wood.
Again her call for help rang out.
Whaley flung her from him. He crouched, every
nerve and muscle tense, lips drawn back in a snarl.
She saw that in his hand there was a revolver.
Against the door a heavy weight was hurled. The
wood burst into splinters as the bolt shot from the
socket. Drunkenly a man plunged across the threshold,
staggering from the impact of the shock.
CHAPTER XVIII
A GUN ROARS
THE two men glared at each other, silently, their faces
distorted to gargoyles in the leaping and uncertain
light. Wary, vigilant, tense, they faced each other as
might jungle tigers waiting for the best moment to
attack.
There was a chance for the situation to adjust itself
without bloodshed. Whaley could not afford to kill and
Morse had no desire to force his hand.
Jessie s fear outran her judgment. She saw the men
ace of the revolver trained on her rescuer and thought
the gambler was about to fire. She leaped for the
weapon, and so precipitated what she dreaded.
The gun roared. A bullet flew past Morse and buried
itself in a log. Next instant, clinging with both hands
to Whaley s wrist, Jessie found herself being tossed to
and fro as the man struggled to free his arm. Flung at
a tangent against the wall, she fell at the foot of the
couch where Fergus slept.
Again the blaze and roar of the revolver filled the
room. Morse plunged head down at his enemy, still
carrying the log he had used as a battering-ram. It
caught the gambler at that point of the stomach known
as the solar plexus. Whaley went down and out of
consciousness like an ox that has been pole-axed.
Tom picked up the revolver and dropped it into the
pocket of his fur coat. He stooped to make sure that
136 MAN-SIZE
his foe was beyond the power of doing damage. Then
he lifted Jessie from the corner where she lay huddled.
"Hurt? "he asked.
The girl shuddered. "No. Is he is he killed?"
"Wind knocked out of him. Nothing more."
"He did n t hit you?"
There was the ghost of a smile in his eyes. "No, I hit
him."
"He was horrid. I I " Again a little shiver
ran through her body. She felt very weak at the knees
and caught for a moment at the lapel of his coat to
steady herself. Neither of them was conscious of the
fact that she was in his arms, clinging to him while she
won back self-control.
"It sail right now. Don t worry. Lucky I came back
to show Blandoine which furs to take."
"If you had n t " She drew a ragged breath that
was half a sob.
Morse loved her the more for the strain of feminine
hysteria that made her for the moment a soft and tender
child to be comforted. He had known her competent,
savage, disdainful, one in whom vital and passionate
life flowed quick. He had never before seen the weak
ness in her reaching out to strength. That by sheer luck
it was his power to which she clung filled him with deep
delight.
He began to discount his joy lest she do it instead.
His arm fell away from her waist.
"I most wrecked the house," he said with a humor
ous glance at the door. " I don t always bring one o the
walls with me when I come into a room."
A GUN ROARS 137
"He bolted the door," she explained rather need
lessly. "He wouldn t let me out."
"I heard you call," he answered, without much more
point.
She glanced at the man lying on the floor. "You
don t think he might be " She stopped, unwilling
to use the word.
Tom knelt beside him and felt his heart.
"It s beating," he said. And added quickly, "His
eyes are open."
It was true. The cold, fishy eyes had flickered open
and were taking stock of the situation. The gambler
instantly chose his line of defense. He spoke, presently.
"What in the devil was bitin you, Morse? Just be
cause I was jokin the girl, you come rampagin in and
knock me galley west with a big club. I 11 not stand for
that. Soon as I m fit to handle myself, you and I ll
have a settlement."
"Get up and get out," ordered the younger man.
"When I get good and ready. Don t try to run on
me, young fellow. Some other fools have found that
dangerous."
Whaley sat up, groaned, and pressed his hands upon
the abdomen at the point where he had been struck.
The reddish-brown glint in the eyes of Morse adver
tised the cold rage of the Montanan. He caught the
gambler by the collar and pulled him to his feet.
"Get out, you yellow wolf!" he repeated in a low,
savage voice.
The white-faced trader was still wobbly on his feet.
He felt both sore and sick at the pit of his stomach, in
138 MAN-SIZE
no mood for any further altercation with this hard-hit
ting athlete. But he would not go without saving his
face.
"I don t know what business you ve got to order me
out unless " His gaze included the girl for a
moment, and the insult of his leer was unmistakable.
Morse caught him by the scruff of the neck, ran
him out of the room, and flung him down the steps
into the road. The gambler tripped on the long buffalo
coat he was wearing and rolled over in the snow.
Slowly he got to his feet and locked eyes with the
other.
Rage almost choked his words. "You ll be sorry for
this one o these days, Morse. I ll get you right. No
body has ever put one over on Poker Whaley and no
body ever will. Don t forget that."
Tom Morse wasted no words. He stood silently on
the steps, a splendid, supple figure of menacing power,
and watched his foe pass down the road. There was in
him a cruel and passionate desire to take the gambler
and break him with his hands, to beat him till he crawled
away a weak and wounded creature fit for a hospital.
He clamped his teeth hard and fought down the impulse.
Presently he turned and walked slowly back into the
house. His face was still set and his hands clenched.
He knew that if Whaley had hurt Jessie, he would have
killed him with his naked fingers.
"You can t stay here. Where do you want me to
take you?" he asked, and his cold hardness reminded
her of the Tom Morse who had led her to the whip one
other night.
A GUN ROARS 139
She did not know that inside he was a caldron of
emotion and that it was only by freezing himself he
could keep down the volcanic eruption.
"I ll go to Susie Lemoine s," she said in a small,
obedient voice.
With his hands in his pockets he stood and let her
find a fur coat and slip into it. He had a sense of frus
tration. He wanted to let go of himself and tell all that
was in his torrid heart. Instead, he encased himself in
ice and drove her farther from him.
They walked down the road side by side, neither of
them speaking. She too was a victim of chaotic feeling.
It would be long before she could forget how he had
broken through the door and saved her.
But she could not find the words to tell him so. They
parted at the door of Lemoine s cabin with a chill
"Good-night" that left them both unhappy and dis
satisfied.
CHAPTER XIX
"D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME?"
To Morse came Angus McRae with the right hand
of friendship the day after the battle in the log
house.
Eyes blue as Highland lochs fastened to those of the
fur-trader. "Lad, I canna tell ye what s in my heart.
The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his
face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The
Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace. "
Tom, embarrassed, made light of the affair. "Lucky
I was Johnnie-on-the-Spot."
The old Scot shook his head. "No luck sent ye back
to hear the skreigh o the lass, but the whisper of the
guid Father withoot whose permission not even a spar
row falls to the ground. He chose you as the instru
ment. I ll never be forgettin what you did for my
dawtie, Tom Morse. Jess will have thankit you, but I
add mine to hers."
In point of fact Jessie had not thanked him in set
words. She had been in too great an agitation of spirit
to think of it. But Morse did not say so.
"Oh, that s all right. Any one would have done it.
Mighty glad I was near enough. Hope she does n t
feel any worse for the shock."
"Not a bit. I m here to ask ye to let bygones be
bygones. I ve nursed a grudge, but, man, it s clean
D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME? 141
washed oot o my heart. Here s my hand, if you ll
tak it."
Tom did, gladly. He discovered at the same moment
that the sun was striking sparks of light from a thousand
snow crystals. It was a good world, if one only looked
for the evidence of it.
"The latchstring is always oot for you at the hame of
Angus McRae. Will you no drap in for a crack the
nicht?" asked the trapper.
"Not to-night. Sometime. I ll see." Tom found
himself in the position of one who finds open to him a
long-desired pleasure and is too shy to avail himself of
it immediately. "Have you seen Whaley yet to-day?"
he asked, to turn the subject.
The hunter s lip grew straight and grim. " I have not.
He s no at the store. The clerk says a messenger called
for him early this mornin and he left the clachan at once.
Will he be hidin oot, do you think?"
Tom shook his head. "Not Whaley. He ll bluff it
through. The fellow s not yellow. Probably he ll
laugh it off and say he was only stealin a kiss an that
Miss Jessie was silly to make a fuss about it."
" We II let it go at that after I ve told him publicly
what I think o him."
Where Whaley had been nobody in Faraway knew.
When he returned at sunset, he went direct to the store
and took off his snowshoes. He was knocking the packed
and frozen slush from them at the moment Angus
McRae confronted him.
The trader laughed, from the lips, just as Tom had
prophesied he would do. "I reckon I owe you an
142 MAN-SIZE
apology, McRae," he said. "That liT wild-cat of yours
lost her head when I jollied her and Morse broke the
door down like the jackass he is."
The dressing-down that Angus McRae gave Whaley
is still remembered by one or two old-timers in the
Northwest. In crisp, biting words he freed his mind
without once lapsing into profanity. He finished with
a warning. "Tak tent you never speak to the lass
again, or you an* me 11 come to grips."
The storekeeper heard him out, a sneering smile on
his white face. Inside, he raged with furious anger, but
he did not let his feelings come to the surface. He was
a man who had the patience to wait for his vengeance.
The longer it was delayed, the heavier would it be. A
characteristic of his cold, callous temperament was that
he took fire slowly, but, once lit his hate endured like
peat coals in a grate. A vain man, his dignity was pre
cious to him. He writhed at the defeat Morse had put
upon him, at his failure with Jessie, at the scornful pub
lic rebuke of her father. Upon all three of these some
day he would work a sweet revenge. Like all gamblers,
he followed hunches. Soon, one of these told him, his
chance would come. When it did he would make all
three of them sweat blood.
Beresford met Tom Morse later in the day. He
cocked a whimsical eye at the fur-trader.
"I hear McRae s going to sue you for damages to his
house," he said.
"Where did you hear all that?" asked his friend,
apparently busy inspecting a half-dozen beaver furs.
"And Whaley, for damages to his internal machinery.
D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME? 143
Don t you know you can t catapult through a man s
tummy with a young pine tree and not injure his physi
cal geography?" the constable reproached.
"When you re through spoofin me, as you subjects
of the Queen call it," suggested Tom.
"Why, then, I ll tell you to keep an eye on Whaley.
He does n t love you a whole lot for what you did, and
he s liable to do you up first chance he gets."
"I m not lookin for trouble, but if Whaley wants a
fight -
" He does n t not your kind of a fight. His idea
will be to have you foul before he strikes. Walk with an
eye in the back of your head. Sleep with it open.
Don t sit at windows after lamps are lit not without
curtains all down. Play all your cards close." The red
coat spoke casually, slapping his boot with a small
riding-switch. He was smiling. None the less Tom knew
he was in dead earnest.
"Sounds like good advice. I ll take it," the trader
said easily. "Anything more on your chest?"
"Why, yes. Where did Whaley go to-day? What
called him out of town on a hurry-up trip of a few hours? "
"Don t know. Do you?"
"No, but I m a good guesser."
"Meanin ?"
"Bully West. Holed up somewhere out in the woods.
A fellow came in this morning and got Whaley, who
snowshoed back with him at once."
Tom nodded agreement. "Maybeso. Whaley was
away five or six hours. That means he probably trav
eled from eight to ten miles out."
144 MAN-SIZE
"Question is, in what direction? Nobody saw him go
or come at least, so as to know that he did n t circle
round the town and come in from the other side."
" He 11 go again, with supplies for West. Watch him."
"I 11 do just that."
"He might send some one with them."
"Yes, he might do that," admitted Beresford. "I ll
keep an eye on the store and see what goes out. We
want West. He s a cowardly murderer killed the
man who trusted him shot him in the back. This
country will be well rid of him when he s hanged for
what he did to poor Tim Kelly."
"He s a rotten bad lot, but he s dangerous. Never
forget that," warned the fur-buyer. "If he ever gets
the drop on you for a moment, you re gone."
"Of course we may be barking up the wrong tree,"
the officer reflected aloud. "Maybe West is n t within
five hundred miles of here. Maybe he headed off an
other way. But I don t think it. He had to get back
to where he was known so as to get an outfit. That
meant either this country or Montana. And the word
is that he was seen coming this way both at Slide Out
and crossing Old Man s River after he made his get
away."
"He s likely figurin on losin himself in the North
woods."
"My notion, too. Say, Tom, I have an invitation
from a young lady for you and me. I m to bring you to
supper, Jessie McRae says. To-night. Venison and
sheep pemmican and real plum pudding, son. You re
to smoke the pipe of peace with Angus and warm your-
D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME? 145
self in the smiles of Miss Jessie and Matapi-Koma.
How s the programme suit you?"
Tom flushed. "I don t reckon I ll go," he said after
a moment s deliberation.
His friend clapped an affectionate hand on his shoul
der. "Cards down, old fellow. Spill the story of this
deadly feud between you and Jessie and I ll give you
an outside opinion on it."
The Montanan looked at him bleakly. "Haven t
you heard? If you have n t, you re the only man in this
country that has n t."
"You mean about the whipping? " Beresford asked
gently.
"That s all," Morse answered bitterly. "Nothing
a-tall. I merely had her horsewhipped. You would n t
think any girl would object to that, would you?"
"I d like to hear the right of it. How did it
happen?"
"The devil was in me, I reckon. We were runnin
across the line that consignment of whiskey you found
and destroyed near Whoop-Up. She came on our camp
one night, crept up, and smashed some barrels. I
caught her. She fought like a wild-cat." Morse pulled
up the sleeve of his coat and showed a long, ragged scar
on the arm. "Gave me that as a liT souvenir to re
member her by. You see, she was afraid I d take her
back to camp. So she fought. You know West. I
would n t have taken her to him."
"What did you do?"
"After I got her down, we came to terms. I was to
take her to McRae s camp and she was to be horse-
146 MAN-SIZE
whipped by him. My arm was hurtin like sin, and I
was thinkin her only a wild young Injun."
"So you took her home?"
"And McRae flogged her. You know him. He s
Scotch and thorough. It was a sickening business.
When he got through, he was white as snow. I felt like
a murderer. D you wonder she hates me?"
Beresford s smile was winning. "Is it because she
hates you that she wants you to come to supper to
night?"
"It s because she s in debt to me or thinks she is,
for of course she is n t and wants to pay it and get
rid of it as soon as she can. I tell you, Win, she could n t
bear to touch my hand when she gave me the key to the
storehouse the other night laid it down on the table
for me to pick up. It has actually become physical with
her. She d shudder if I touched her. I m not going to
supper there. Why should I take advantage of a hold
I have on her generosity? No, I ll not go."
And from that position Beresford could not move
him.
After supper the constable found a chance to see
Jessie alone. She was working over the last touches of
the gun-case.
"When it s finished who gets it?" he asked, sitting
down gracefully on the arm of a big chair.
She flashed a teasing glance at him. "Who do you
think deserves it?"
"I deserve it," he assured her at once. "But it is n t
the deserving always who get the rewards in this world.
Very likely you 11 give it to some chap like Tom Morse."
D YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME? 147
"Who would n t come to supper when we asked him."
She lifted steady, inquiring eyes. "What was the real
reason he did n t come?"
"Said he couldn t get away from the store be
cause "
"Yes, I heard that. I m asking for the real reason,
Win."
He gave it. "Tom thinks you hate him and he won t
force himself on your generosity."
"Oh!" She seemed to be considering that.
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Hate him."
She felt a flush burning beneath the dusky brown of
her cheeks. "If you knew what he d done to me "
"Perhaps I do," he said, very gently.
Her dark eyes studied him intently. "He told
you?"
"No, one hears gossip. He hates himself because of
it. Tom s white, Jessie."
"And I m Indian. Of course that does make a differ
ence. If he d had a white girl whipped, you could n t
defend him," she flamed.
"You know I didn t mean that, little pal." His
sunny smile was disarming. "What I mean is that he s
sorry for what he did. Why not give him a chance to
be friends?"
"Well, we gave him a chance to-night, didn t we?
And he chose not to take it. What do you want me
to do go and thank him kindly for having me
whipped?"
148 MAN-SIZE
Beresford gave up with a shrug. He knew when he
had said enough. Some day the seed he had dropped
might germinate.
"Would n t it be a good idea to work a W. B. on that
case?" he asked with friendly impudence. "Then if I
lost it, whoever found it could return it."
"I don t give presents to people who lose them," she
parried.
Her dancing eyes were very bright as they met his.
She loved the trim lines of his clean beautiful youth and
the soul expressed by them.
Matapi-Koma waddled into the room and the
Mounted Policeman transferred his attention to her.
She weighed two hundred twelve pounds, but was not
sensitive on the subject. Beresford claimed anxiously
that she was growing thin.
The Indian woman merely smiled on him benignantly.
She liked him, as all women did. And she hoped that
he would stay in the country and marry Sleeping Dawn.
CHAPTER XX
ONISTAH READS SIGN
McRAE fitted Jessie s snowshoes.
"You ll be hame before the dark, lass," he said, a
little anxiously.
"Yes, Father."
The hunter turned to Onistah. "She s in your care,
lad. Gin the weather changes, or threatens to, let the
traps go and strike for the toon. You re no to tak
chances."
"Back assam weputch (very early)," promised the
Blackfoot.
He was proud of the trust confided to him. To him
McRae was a great man. Among many of the trappers
and the free traders the old Scot s word was law. They
came to him with their disputes for settlement and
abided by his decisions. For Angus was not only the
patriarch of the clan, if such a loose confederation of
followers could be called a clan; he was esteemed for
his goodness and practical common sense.
Onistah s heart swelled with an emotion that was
more than vanity. His heart filled with gladness that
Jessie should choose him as guide and companion to
snowshoe with her out into the white forests where
her traps were set. For the young Indian loved her
dumbly, without any hope of reward, in much the same
way that some of her rough soldiers must have loved
Joan of Arc. Jessie was a mistress whose least whim he
150 MAN-SIZE
felt it a duty to obey. He had worshiped her ever since
he had seen her, a little eager warm-hearted child,
playing in his mother s wigwam. She was as much be
yond his reach as the North Star. Yet her swift tender
smile was for him just as it was for Fergus.
They shuffled out of the village into the forest that
crept up to the settlement on all sides. Soon they were
deep in its shadows, pushing along the edge of a muskeg
which they skirted carefully in order not to be hampered
by its treacherous boggy footing.
Jessie wore a caribou-skin capote with the fur on as a
protection against the cold wind. Her moccasins were
of smoked moose-skin decorated with the flower-pattern
bead embroidery so much in use among the French
half-breeds of the North. The socks inside them were of
duffle and the leggings of strouds, both materials manu
factured for the Hudson s Bay Company for its trappers.
The day was comparatively warm, but the snow was
not slushy nor very deep. None the less she was glad
when they reached the trapping ground and Onistah
called a halt for dinner. She was tired, from the weight
of the snow on her shoes, and her feet were blistered by
reason of the lacings which cut into the duffle and the
tender flesh inside.
Onistah built a fire of poplar, which presently crackled
like a battle front and shot red-hot coals at them in an
irregular fusillade. Upon this they made tea, heated
pemmican and bannocks, and thawed a jar of preserves
Jessie had made the previous summer of service berries
and wild raspberries. Before it they dried their moc
casins, socks, and leggings.
ONISTAH READS SIGN 151
Afterward they separated to make a round of the
traps, agreeing to meet an hour and a half later at the
place of their dinner camp.
The Blackfoot found one of the small traps torn to
pieces, probably by a bear, for he saw its tracks in the
snow. He rebuilt the snare and baited it with parts of a
rabbit he had shot. In one trap he discovered a skunk
and in another a timber wolf. When he came in sight of
the rendezvous, he was late.
Jessie was not there. He waited half an hour in grow
ing anxiety before he went to meet her. Night would
fall soon. He must find her while it was still light enough
to follow her tracks. The disasters that might have
fallen upon her crowded his mind. A bear might have at
tacked her. She might be lost or tangled in the swampy
muskeg. Perhaps she had accidentally shot herself.
As swiftly as he could he snowshoed through the
forest, following the plain trail she had left. It carried
him to a trap from which she had taken prey, for it was
newly baited and the snow was sprinkled with blood.
Before he reached the second gin, the excitement in
him quickened. Some one in snowshoes had cut her
path and had deflected to pursue. Onistah knew that
the one following was a white man. The points of the
shoes toed out. Crees toed in, just the same on webs
as in moccasins.
His imagination was active. What white man had
any business in these woods? Why should he leave that
business to overtake Jessie McRae? Onistah did not
quite know why he was worried, but involuntarily he
quickened his pace.
152 MAN-SIZE
Less than a quarter of a mile farther on, he read an
other chapter of the story written in the trampled snow.
There had been a struggle. His mistress had been over
powered. He could see where she had been flung into
a white bank and dragged out of it. She had tried to
run and had got hardly a dozen yards before recapture.
From that point the tracks moved forward in a straight
line, those of the smaller webs blotted out by the ones
made by the larger. The man was driving the girl be
fore him.
Who was he? Where was he taking her? For what
purpose? Onistah could not guess. He knew that
McRae had made enemies, as any forceful character
on the frontier must. The Scotchman had kicked out
lazy ne er-do-wells from his camp. As a free trader he
had matched himself against the Hudson s Bay Com
pany. But of those at war with him few would stoop
to revenge themselves on his daughter. The Blackfoot
had not heard of the recent trouble between Whaley and
the McRaes, nor had the word reached him that Bully
West was free again. Wherefore he was puzzled at
what the signs on the snow told him.
Yet he knew he had read them correctly. The final
proof of it to him was that Jessie broke trail and not the
man. If he were a friend he would lead the way. He
was at her heels because he wanted to make sure that
she did not try to escape or to attack him.
The tracks led down into the muskeg. It was spitting
snow, but he had no difficulty in seeing where the trail
led from hummock to hummock in the miry earth.
The going here was difficult, for the thick moss was full
ONISTAH READS SIGN 153
of short, stiff brush that caught the webbed shoes and
tripped the traveler. It was hard to find level footing.
The mounds were uneven, and more than once Onistah
plunged knee-deep from one into the swamp.
He crossed the muskeg and climbed an ascent into
the woods, swinging sharply to the right. There was
no uncertainty as to the direction of the tracks in the
snow. If they veered for a few yards, it was only to
miss a tree or to circle down timber. Whoever he might
be, the man who had taken Jessie prisoner knew exactly
where he was going.
The Blackfoot knew by the impressions of the webs
that he was a large, heavy man. Once or twice he saw
stains of tobacco juice on the snow. The broken bits of
a whiskey-bottle flung against a tree did not tend to
reassure him.
He saw smoke. It came from a tangle of undergrowth
in a depression of the forest. Very cautiously, with the
patience of his race, he circled round the cabin through
the timber and crept up to it on hands and knees.
Every foot of the way he took advantage of such cover
as was to be had.
The window was a small, single-paned affair built in
the end opposite the door. Onistah edged close to it
and listened. He heard the drone of voices, one heavy
and snarling, another low and persuasive.
His heart jumped at the sound of a third voice, a
high-pitched treble. He would have known it among
a thousand. It had called to him in the swirl of many a
wind-swept storm. He had heard it on the long traverse,
in the stillness of the lone night, at lakeside camps built
154 MAN-SIZE
far from any other human being. His imagination had
heard it on the summer breeze as he paddled across a
sun-drenched lake in his birch-bark canoe.
The Blackfoot raised his head till he could look
through the window.
Jessie McRae sat on a stool facing him. Two men
were in the room. One strode heavily up and down while
the other watched him warily.
CHAPTER XXI
ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR
THE compulsion of life had denied Jessie the niceness
given girls by the complexities of modern civilization.
She had been brought up close to raw stark nature.
The habits of animals were familiar to her and the
vices of the biped man.
A traveler in the sub-Arctic is forced by the deadly
cold of the North into a near intimacy of living with his
fellows. Jessie had more than once taken a long sled
journey with her father. On one occasion she had slept
in a filthy Indian wigwam with a dozen natives all
breathing the same foul, unventilated air. Again she
had huddled up against the dogs, with her father and
two French half-breeds, to keep in her the spark of life
a blizzard s breath was trying to blow out.
On such a trip some of the common decencies of
existence are dropped. The extreme low temperature
makes it impossible for one to wash either face or hands
without the skin chapping and breaking. Food at which
one would revolt under other circumstances is devoured
eagerly.
Jessie was the kind of girl such a life had made her,
with modifications in the direction of fineness induced
by McRae s sturdy character, her schooling at Winnipeg,
and the higher plane of the family standard. As might
have been expected, she had courage, energy, and that
quality of decisive action bred by primitive conditions.
156 MAN-SIZE
But she had retained, too, a cleanness of spirit hardly
to be looked for in such a primeval daughter of Eve.
Her imagination and her reading had saved the girl s
sweet modesty. A certain detachment made it possible
for her to ignore the squalor of the actual and see it only
as a surface triviality, to let her mind dwell in inner
concepts of goodness and beauty while bestiality crossed
the path she trod.
So when she found in one of the gins a lynx savage
with the pain of bruised flesh and broken bone snapped
by the jaws of the trap, the girl did what needed to be
done swiftly and with a minimum of reluctance.
She was close to the second trap when the sound of
webs slithering along the snow brought her up short.
Her first thought was that Onistah had changed his
mind and followed her, but as soon as the snowshoer
came out of the thick timber, she saw that he was not
an Indian.
He was a huge man, and he bulked larger by reason
of the heavy furs that enveloped him. His rate of travel
was rapid enough, but there was about the gait an awk
ward slouch that reminded her of a grizzly. Some
sullenness of temperament seemed to find expression in
the fellow s movements.
The hood of his fur was drawn well forward over the
face. He wore blue glasses, as a protection against snow-
blindness apparently. Jessie smiled, judging him a
tenderfoot ; for except in March and April there is small
danger of the sun glare which destroys sight. Yet he
hardly looked like a newcomer to the North. For one
thing he used the web shoes as an expert does. Before
ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR 157
he stopped beside her, she was prepared to revise a too
hasty opinion.
Jessie recoiled at the last moment, even before she
recognized him. It was too late to take precautions now.
He caught her by the wrist and tore off his glasses, at
the same time shaking back the hood.
"Glad to death to meet up with you, missie,
he grinned evilly through broken, tobacco-stained
teeth.
The blood drenched out of her heart. She looked at
the man, silent and despairing. His presence here could
mean to her nothing less than disaster. The girl s white
lips tried to frame words they could not utter.
"Took by surprise, ain t you?" he jeered. "But
plumb pleased to see old Bully West again, eh? It s a
damn long lane that ain t got a crook in it somewheres.
An here we are at the turn together, jus you n* me,
comfy, like I done promised it would be when I last
seen you."
She writhed in a swift, abortive attempt to break
his hold.
He threw back his head in a roar of laughter, then
with a twist of his fingers brought his captive to the
knees.
Sharp teeth flashed in a gleam of white. He gave a
roar of pain and tore away his hand. She had bit him
savagely in the wrist, as she had once done with an
other man on a memorable occasion.
"Goddlemighty!" he bellowed. "You damn liT hell
cat!"
She was on her feet and away instantly. But one of
158 MAN-SIZE
the snowshoes had come off in the struggle. At each
step she took the left foot plunged through the white
crust and impeded progress.
In a dozen strides he had reached her. A great arm
swung round and buffeted the runner on the side of
the head. The blow lifted the girl from her feet and
flung her into a drift two yards away.
She looked up, dazed from the shock. The man was
standing over her, a huge, threatening, ill-shaped
Colossus.
"Get up!" he ordered harshly, and seized her by the
shoulder.
She found herself on her feet, either because she had
risen or because he had jerked her up. A ringing in the
head and a nausea made for dizziness.
"I ll learn you!" he exploded with curses. "Try
that again an I ll beat yore head off. You re Bully
West s woman, un erstand? When I say Come! step
lively. When I say Go! get a move on you."
"I 11 not." Despite her fear she faced him with spirit.
"My friends are near. They ll come and settle, with
you for this."
He put a check on his temper. Very likely what she
said was true. It was not reasonable to suppose that
she was alone in the forest many miles from Faraway.
She had come, of course, to look at the traps, but some
one must have accompanied her. Who? And how
many? The skulking caution of his wild-beast nature
asserted itself. He had better play safe. Time enough
to tame the girl when he had her deep in the Lone Lands
far from any other human being except himself. Just
ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR 159
now the first need was to put many miles between them
and the inevitable pursuit.
"Come," he said. "We ll go."
She started back for the snowshoe that had been torn
off. Beside it lay her rifle. If she could get hold of it
again
The great hulk moved beside her, his thumb and fin
gers round the back of her neck. Before they reached
the weapon, he twisted her aside so cruelly that a flame
of pain ran down her spine. She cried out.
He laughed as he stooped for the gun and the web.
"Don* play none o yore monkey tricks on Bully West.
He knew it all fore you was born."
The pressure of his grip swung Jessie to the left. He
gave her a push that sent her reeling and flung at her
the snowshoe.
"Hump yoreself now."
She knelt and adjusted the web. She would have
fought if there had been the least chance of success.
But there was none. Nor could she run away. The
fellow was a callous, black-hearted ruffian. He would
shoot her down rather than see her escape. If she be
came stubborn and refused to move, he would cheer
fully torture her until she screamed with agony.
There was nothing he would like better. No, for the
present she must take orders.
"Hit the trail, missie. Down past that big tree," he
snapped.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Don t ask me questions. Do like I tell you."
The girl took one look at his heavy, brutal face and
160 MAN-SIZE
did as she was told. Onistah would find her. When she
did not show up at the rendezvous, he would follow her
trail and discover that something was amiss. Good old
Onistah never had failed her. He was true as tried steel
and in all the North woods there was no better
tracker.
There would be a fight. If West saw him first, he
would shoot the Blackfoot at sight. She did not need
to guess that. He would do it for two reasons. The first
was the general one that he did not want any of her
friends to know where he was. The more specific one
was that he already had a grudge against the young
Indian that he would be glad to pay once for all.
Jessie s one hope was that Onistah would hasten to
the rescue. Yet she dreaded the moment of his coming.
He was a gentle soul, one of Father Giguere s converts.
It was altogether likely that he would walk into the
camp of the escaped convict openly and become a vic
tim of the murderer s guile. Onistah did not lack cour
age. He would fight if he had to do so. Indeed, she
knew that he would go through fire to save her. But
bravery was not enough. She could almost have wished
that her foster-brother was as full of devilish treachery
as the huge ape-man slouching at her heels. Then the
chances of the battle would be more even.
The desperado drove her down into the muskeg,
directing the girl s course with a flow of obscene and
ribald profanity.
It is doubtful if she heard him. As her lithe, supple
limbs carried her from one moss hump to another, she
was busy with the problem of escape. She must get
ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR 161
away soon. Every hour increased the danger. The sun
would sink shortly. If she were still this ruffian s pris
oner when the long Arctic night fell, she would suffer
the tortures of the damned. She faced the fact squarely,
though her cheeks blanched at the prospect and the
heart inside her withered.
From the sloping side of a hummock her foot slipped
and she slid into the icy bog to her knees. Within a
few minutes duffles and leggings were frozen and she
was suffering at each step.
Out of the muskeg they came into the woods. A
flake of snow fell on Jessie s cheek and chilled her blood.
For she knew that if it came on to snow before Onistah
took the trail or even before he reached the place to
which West was taking her, the chances of a rescue
would be very much diminished. A storm would wipe
out the tracks they had made.
"Swing back o the rock and into the brush," West
growled. Then, as she took the narrow trail through
the brush that had grown up among half a dozen small
down trees, he barked a question: "Whadjasay yore
Injun name was?"
"My name is Jessie McRae," she answered with a
flash of angry pride. " You know who I am the
daughter of Angus McRae. And if you do me any harm,
he ll hunt you down and kill you like a wolf."
He caught her by the arm and whirled the girl round.
His big yellow canines snapped like tusks and he
snarled at her through clenched jaws. "Did you hear
yore master s voice? I said, what was yore squaw
name?"
162 MAN-SIZE
She almost shrieked from the pain of his fingers sav
age clutch into her flesh. The courage died out of her
arteries.
"Sleeping Dawn they called me."
"Too long," he pronounced. "I ll call you Dawn."
The sight of her terror of him, the foretaste of the tri
umph he was to enjoy, restored him for a moment to a
brutal good-humor. " An when I yell * Dawn at you o
mornin s, it 11 be for you to hump yoreself an git up to
build the fires and rustle breakfast. I ll treat you fine
if you behave, but if you git sulky, you ll taste the
dog- whip. I m boss. You ll have a heluva time if you
don t come runnin when I snap my fingers. Un er-
stand?"
She broke down in a wailing appeal to whatever good
there was in him. "Let me go back to Father! I know
you ve broke prison. If you re good to me, he ll help
you escape. You know he has friends everywhere.
They ll hide you from the red-coats. He ll give you an
outfit to get away money anything you want.
Oh, let me go, and and "
He grinned, and the sight of his evil mirth told her
she had failed.
"Didn t I tell you I d git you right some day?
Did n t I promise Angus McRae I d pay him back
aplenty for kickin me outa his hide camp? Ain t you
the liT hell-cat that busted my whiskey-kegs, that
ran to the red-coat spy an told him where the cache
was, that shot me up when I set out to dry-gulch him,
as you might say? Where do you figure you got a
license to expect Bully West to listen to Sunday-
ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR 163
school pap about being good to you? You re my
squaw, an lucky at that you got a real two-fisted
man. Hell s hinges! What s eatin you?"
"Never!" she cried. "It s true what I told you once.
I d rather die. Oh, if you ve got a spark of manhood
in you, don t make me kill myself. I m just a girl. If
I ever did you wrong, I m sorry. I ll make it right.
My father "
"Listen." His raucous voice cut through her en
treaties. " I Ve heard more n plenty about McRae. All
I want o him is to get a bead on him once with a rifle.
Get me? Now this other talk about killin yoreself
nothin to it a-tall. Go to it if tha s how you feel. Yore
huntin -knif e s right there in yore belt." He reached
forward and plucked it from its sheath, then handed it
to her blade first, stepping back a pace at once to make
sure she did not use it on him. "You got yore chance
now. Kill away. I ll stand right here an see nobody
interferes with you."
She shifted the knife and gripped the handle. A
tumult seethed in her brain. She saw nothing but that
evil, grinning face, hideous and menacing. For a
moment murder boiled up in her, red-hot and sinister.
If she could kill him now as he stood jeering at her
drive the blade into that thick bull neck
The madness passed. She could not do it even if it
were within her power. The urge to kill was not strong
enough. It was not overwhelming. And in the next
thought she knew, too, that she could not kill herself
either. The blind need to live, the animal impulse of
self-preservation, at whatever cost, whatever shame,
164 MAN-SIZE
was as yet more powerful than the horror of the fate
impending.
She flung the knife down into the snow in a fury of
disgust and self-contempt.
His head went back in a characteristic roar of revolt
ing mirth. He had won. Bully West knew how to
conquer em, no matter how wild they were.
With feet dragging, head drooped, and spirits at the
zero hour, Jessie moved down a ravine into sight of a
cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney languidly.
"Home," announced West.
To the girl, at the edge of desperation, that log house
appeared as the grave of her youth. All the pride and
glory and joy that had made life so vital a thing were
to be buried here. When next she came out into the
sunlight she would be a broken creature the property
of this horrible caricature of a man.
Her captor opened the door and pushed the girl
inside.
She stood on the threshold, eyes dilating, heart
suddenly athrob with hope.
A man sitting on a stool before the open fire turned
his head to see who had come in.
CHAPTER XXII
"MY DAMN PRETTY LFL HIGH-STEPPIN
SQUAW"
THE man on the stool was Whaley.
One glance at the girl and one at West s triumphant
gargoyle grin was enough. He understood the situation
better than words could tell it.
To Jessie, at this critical moment of her life, even
Whaley seemed a God-send. She pushed across the
room awkwardly, not waiting to free herself of the
webs packed with snow. In the dusky eyes there was a
cry for help.
"Save me from him!" she cried simply, as a child
might have done. "You will, won t you?"
The black eyebrows in the cold, white face drew to a
line. The gambler s gaze, expressionless as a blank
wall, met hers steadily.
"Why don t you send for your friend Morse?" he
asked. "He s in that business. I ain t."
It was as though he had struck her in the face.
The eyes that clung to his were horror-filled. Did
there really live men so heartless that they would not
lift a hand to snatch a child from a ferocious wolf?
West s laughter barked out, rapacious and savage.
"She s mine, jus like I said she d be. My damn pretty
liT high-steppin squaw."
His partner looked at him bleakly. "Oh, she s yours,
is she?"
166 MAN-SIZE
"You bet yore boots. I ll show her make her eat
outa my hand," boasted the convict.
"Will you show McRae too and all his friends, as
well as the North-West Mounted? Will you make em
all eat out of your hands?"
"Whadjamean?"
" Why, I had a notion you were loaded up with trouble
and did n t need to hunt more," sneered the gambler.
" I had a notion the red-coats were on your heels to take
you across the plains to hang you."
" I 11 learn em about that," the huge fugitive bragged.
"They say I m a killer. Let it ride. I ll sure enough
let em see they re good guessers."
Whaley shrugged his shoulders and looked at him
with cold contempt. "You ve got a bare chance for a
getaway if you travel light and fast. I d want long odds
to back it," he said coolly.
"Tha s a heluva thing to tell a friend," West
snarled.
"It s the truth. Take it or leave it. But if you try
to bull this through your own way and don t let me run
it, you re done for."
"How done for?"
The gambler did not answer. He turned to Jessie.
"Unless you want your feet to freeze, you d better get
those duffles off."
The girl took off her mits and tried to unfasten the
leggings after she had kicked the snowshoes from her
feet. But her stiff fingers could not loosen the knots.
The free trader stooped and did it for her while West
watched him sulkily. Jessie unwound the cloth and
LI L HIGH-STEPPIN SQUAW 167
removed moccasins and duffles. She sat barefooted
before the fire, but not too close.
"If they re frozen I ll get snow," Whaley offered.
"They re not frozen, thank you," she answered.
"Whadjamean done for?" repeated West.
His partner s derisive, scornful eye rested on him.
" Use your brains, man. The Mounted are after you hot
and heavy. You know their record. They get the man
they go after. Take this fellow Beresford, the one that
jugged you."
The big ruffian shook a furious fist in the air. " Curse
him!" he shouted, and added a dozen crackling
oaths.
"Curse him and welcome," Whaley replied. "But
don t fool yourself about him. He s a go-getter.
Did n t he go up Peace River after Pierre Poulette?
Did n t he drag him back with cuffs on most a year
later? That s what you ve got against you, three
hundred red -coats like him."
"You tryin to scare me?" demanded West sullenly.
"I m trying to hammer some common sense into
your head. Your chance for a safe getaway rests on
one thing. You ve got to have friends in the Lone
Lands who ll hide you till you can slip out of the coun
try. Can you do that if the trappers friends of
McRae, nearly all of em carry the word of what you
did to this girl?"
"I m gonna take her with me." West stuck doggedly
to his idea. He knew what he wanted. His life was for
feit, anyhow. He might as well go through to a finish.
From where she sat before the great fire Jessie s
168 MAN-SIZE
whisper reached Whaley. "Don t let him, please." It
was an ineffective little wail straight from the heart.
Whaley went on, as though he had not heard. "It s
your deal, not mine. I m just telling you. Take this
girl along, and your life s not worth a plugged nickel."
" Hell s hinges ! In two days she 11 be crazy about me.
Tha s how I am with women."
"In two days she ll hate the ground you walk on, if
she has n t killed herself or you by that time."
Waves of acute pain were pricking into Jessie s legs
from the pink toes to the calves. She was massaging
them to restore circulation and had to set her teeth
to keep from crying.
But her subconscious mind was wholly on what
passed between the men. She knew that Whaley was
trying to reestablish over the other the mental domi
nance he had always held. It was a frail enough tenure,
no doubt, likely to be upset at any moment by vanity,
suspicion, or heady gusts of passion. In it, such as it
was, lay a hope. Watching the gambler s cold, impas
sive face, the stony look in the poker eyes, she judged
him tenacious and strong-willed. For reasons of his
own he was fighting her battle. He had no intention of
letting West take her with him.
Why? What was the motive in the back of his mind?
She acquitted the man of benevolence. If his wishes
chanced to march with hers, it was because of no al
truism. He held a bitter grudge against Angus McRae
and incidentally against her for the humiliation of his
defeat at the hands of Morse. To satisfy this he had
only to walk out of the house and leave her to an ugly
LI L HIGH-STEPPIN SQUAW 169
fate. Why did he not do this? Was he playing a deep
game of his own in which she was merely a pawn?
She turned the steaming duffles over on the mud
hearth to dry the other side. She drew back the moc
casins and the leggings that the heat might not scorch
them. The sharp pain waves still beat into her feet
and up her limbs. To change her position she drew up
a stool and sat on it. This she had pushed back to a
corner of the fireplace.
For Bully West was straddling up and down the room,
a pent volcano ready to explode. He knew Whaley s
advice was good. It would be suicide to encumber him
self with this girl in his flight. But he had never disci
plined his desires. He wanted her. He meant to take her.
Passion, the lust for revenge, the bully streak in him
that gloated at the sight of some one young and fine
trembling before him : all these were factors contributing
to the same end. By gar, he would have what he had set
his mind on, no matter what Whaley said.
Jessie knew the fellow was dangerous as a wounded
buffalo bull in a corral. He would have his way if he
had to smash and trample down any one that opposed
him. Her eyes moved to Whaley s black-browed, blood
less face. How far would the gambler go in opposition
to the other?
As her glance shifted back to West, it was arrested
at the window. The girl s heart lost a beat, then sang a
pcean of joy. For the copper-colored face of Onistah was
framed in the pane.
CHAPTER XXIII
A FORETASTE OF HELL
JESSIE S eyes flew to West and to Whaley. As yet
neither of them had seen the Blackfoot. She raised a
hand and pretended to brush back a lock of hair.
The Indian recognized it as a signal that she had seen
him. His head disappeared.
Thoughts in the girl s mind raced. If Winthrop Beres-
f ord or Tom Morse had been outside instead of Onistah,
she would not have attempted to give directions. Either
of them would have been more competent than she
to work out the problem. But the Blackfoot lacked
initiative. He would do faithfully whatever he was
told to do, but any independent action attempted by
him was likely to be indecisive. She could not conceive
of Onistah holding his own against two such men as
these except by slaughtering them from the window
before they knew he was there. He had not in him
sufficient dominating ego.
Whaley was an unknown quantity. It was impossible
to foresee how he would accept the intrusion of Onistah.
Since he was playing his own game, the chances are
that he would resent it. In West s case there could be
no doubt. If it was necessary to his plans, he would not
hesitate an instant to kill the Indian.
Reluctantly, she made up her mind to send him back
to Faraway for help. He would travel fast. Within
five hours at the outside he ought to be back with her
A FORETASTE OF HELL 171
father or Beresford. Surely, with Whaley on her side,
she ought to be safe till then.
She caught sight of Onistah again, his eyes level with
the window-sill. He was waiting for instructions.
Jessie gave them to him straight and plain. She spoke
to Whaley, but for the Blackfoot s ear.
" Bring my father here. At once. I want him. Won t
you, please?"
Whaley s blank poker stare focused on her. "The
last word I had from Angus McRae was to keep out of
your affairs. I can take a hint without waiting for a
church to fall on me. Get some one else to take your
messages."
" If you re going back to town I thought perhaps
you d tell him how much I need him," she pleaded.
"Then he d come right away."
Onistah s head vanished. He knew what he had to do
and no doubt was already on the trail. Outside it was
dark. She could hear the swirling of the wind and the
beat of sleet against the window-pane. A storm was rising.
She prayed it might not be a blizzard. Weather permit
ting, her father should be here by eight or nine o clock.
West, straddling past, snarled at her. "Get Angus
McRae outa yore head. Him an you s come to the
partin o the ways. You re travelin with me now.
Un erstand?"
His partner, sneering coldly, offered a suggestion.
" If you expect to travel far you d better get your webs
to hitting snow. This girl was n t out looking at the
traps all by herself. Her trail leads straight here. Her
friends are probably headed this way right now."
172 MAN-SIZE
"Tha s right." West stopped in his stride. His slow
brain stalled. "What d you reckon I better do? If
there s only one or two we might "
"No," vetoed Whaley. "Nothing like that. Your
play is to get out. And keep getting out when they
crowd you. No killing."
" Goddlemighty, I m a wolf, not a rabbit. If they
crowd me, I ll sure pump lead," the desperado growled.
Then, "D you mean light out to-night?"
"To-night."
"Where 11 1 go?"
"Porcupine Creek, I d say. There s an old cabin
there Jacques Perritot used to live in. The snow 11 blot
out our tracks."
"Yougoin too?"
"I ll see you that far," Whaley answered briefly.
"Better bring down the dogs from the coulee,
then."
The gambler looked at him with the cool insolence
that characterized him. "When did I hire out as your
flunkey, West?"
The outlaw s head was thrust forward and down. He
glared at his partner, who met this manifestation of
anger with hard eyes into which no expression crept.
West was not insane enough to alienate his last ally.
He drew back sullenly.
"All right. I ll go, since you re so particular." As
his heavy body swung round awkwardly, the man s eyes
fell on Jessie. She had lifted one small foot and was
starting to pull on one of the duffle stockings. He stood
a moment, gloating over the beautifully shaped ankle
A FORETASTE OF HELL 173
and lower limb, then slouched forward and snatched her
up from the stool into his arms.
His savage, desirous eyes had given her an instant s
warning. She was half up before his arms, massive as
young trees, dragged her into his embrace.
"But before I go I ll have a kiss from my squaw," he
roared. "Just to show her that Bully West has branded
her and claims ownership."
She fought, fiercely, desperately, pushing against his
rough bearded face and big barrel chest with all the
force in her lithe young body. She was as a child to him.
His triumphant laughter pealed as he crushed her warm
soft trunk against his own and buried her in his opened
coat. With an ungentle hand he forced round the averted
head till the fear-filled eyes met his.
"Kiss yore man," he ordered.
The girl said nothing. She still struggled to escape,
using every ounce of strength she possessed.
The fury of her resistance amused him. He laughed
again, throwing back the heavy bristling jaw in a roar
of mirth.
"Yore man yore master," he amended.
He smothered her with his foul kisses, ravished her
lips, her eyes, the soft hot cheeks, the oval of the chin,
and the lovely curve of the throat. She was physically
nauseated when he flung her from him against the wall
and strode from the room with another horrible whoop
of exultation.
She clung to the wall, panting, eyes closed. A shock
ing sense of degradation flooded her soul. She felt as
though she were drowning in it, fathoms deep.
174 MAN-SIZE
Her lids fluttered open and she saw the gambler. He
was still sitting on the stool. A mocking, cynical smile
was in the eyes that met Jessie s.
"And Tom Morse where, oh, where is he?" the
man jeered.
A chill shook her. Dry sobs welled up in her throat.
She was lost. For the first time she knew the cold
clutch of despair at her heart. Whaley did not intend
to lift a hand for her. He had sat there and let West
work his will.
"Angus McRae gave me instructions aplenty," he
explained maliciously. "I was to keep my hands of! you.
I was to mind my own business. When you see him
again if you ever do will you tell him I did exactly
as he said?"
She did not answer. What was there to say? In the
cabin was no sound except that of her dry, sobbing
breath.
Whaley rose and came across the room. He had
thrown aside the gambler s mask of impassivity. His
eyes were shining strangely.
"I m going now out into the storm. What
about you? If you re here when West comes back, you
know what it means. Make your choice. Will you go
with me or stay with him?"
"You re going home?"
"Yes." His smile was enigmatic. It carried neither
warmth nor conviction.
The man had played his cards well. He had let
West give her a foretaste of the hell in store for her.
Anything rather than that, she thought. And surely
A FORETASTE OF HELL 175
Whaley would take her home. He was no outlaw, but a
responsible citizen who must go back to Faraway to live.
He had to face her father and Winthrop Beresford of
the Mounted and Tom Morse. He would not harm
her. He dared not.
But she took one vain precaution. "You promise to
take me to my father. You ll not be like him." A
lift of the head indicated the man who had just gone out.
"He s a fool. I m not. That s the difference." He
shrugged his shoulders. "Make your own choice. If
you d rather stay here "
But she had made it. She was getting hurriedly into
her furs and was putting on her mittens. Already she
had adjusted the snowshoes.
"We d better hurry," she urged. "He might come
back."
"It ll be bad luck for him if he does," the gambler
said coolly. "You ready?"
She nodded that she was.
In another moment they were out of the warm room
and into the storm. The wind was coming in whistling
gusts, carrying with it a fine sleet that whipped the face
and stung the eyeballs. Before she had been out in the
storm five minutes, Jessie had lost all sense of direction.
Whaley was an expert woodsman. He plunged into
the forest, without hesitation, so surely that she felt he
must know where he was going. The girl followed at his
heels, head down against the blast.
Before this day she had not for months taken a long
trip on webs. Leg muscles, called into use without train
ing, were sore and stiff. In the darkness the soft snow
176 MAN-SIZE
piled up on the shoes. Each step became a drag. The
^lacings and straps lacerated her tender flesh till she
knew her duffles were soaked with blood. More than
once she dropped back so far that she lost sight of
Whaley. Each time he came back with words of
encouragement and good cheer.
"Not far now," he would promise. "Across a little
bog and then camp. Keep coming."
Once he found her sitting on the snow, her back to a tree.
"You d better go on alone. I m done," she told him
drearily.
He was not angry at her. Nor did he bully or brow
beat.
"Tough sledding," he said gently. "But we re most
there. Got to keep going. Can t quit now."
He helped Jessie to her feet and led the way down into
a spongy morass. The brush slapped her face. It caught
in the meshes of her shoes and flung her down. The miry
earth, oozing over the edges of the frames, clogged her
feet and clung to them like pitch.
Whaley did his best to help, but when at last she
crept up to the higher ground beyond the bog every
muscle ached with fatigue.
They were almost upon it before she saw a log cabin
looming out of the darkness.
She sank on the floor exhausted. Whaley disappeared
into the storm again. Sleepily she wondered where he
was going. She must have dozed, for when her eyes next
reported to the brain, there was a brisk fire of birch
bark burning and her companion was dragging broken
bits of dead and down timber into the house.
A FORETASTE OF HELL 177
"Looks like she s getting her back up for a blizzard.
Better have plenty of fuel in," he explained.
"Where are we?" she asked drowsily.
"Cabin on Bull Creek," he answered. "Better get
off your footwear."
While she did this her mind woke to activity. Why
had he brought her here? They had no food. How
would they live if a blizzard blew up and snowed them
in? And even if they had supplies, how could she live
alone for days with this man in a cabin eight by
ten?
As though he guessed what was in her mind, he
answered plausibly enough one of the questions.
"No chance to reach Faraway. Too stormy. It was
neck or nothing. Had to take what we could get."
"What 11 we do if if there s a blizzard?" she asked
timidly.
"Sit tight."
"Without food?"
"If it lasts too long, I ll have to wait for a lull and
make a try for Faraway. No use worrying. We can t
help what s coming. Got to face the music."
Her eyes swept the empty cabin. No bed. No table.
One home-made three-legged stool. A battered kettle.
It was an uninviting prospect, even if she had not had
to face possible starvation while she was caged with a
stranger who might any minute develop wolfish hunger
for her as he had done only forty-eight hours before.
He did not look at her steadily. His gaze was in the
red glow of the fire a good deal. She talked, and he
answered in monosyllables. When he looked at her, his
178 MAN-SIZE
eyes glowed with the hot red light reflected from the fire.
Live coals seemed to burn in them.
In spite of the heat a little shiver ran down her spine.
Silence became too significant. She was afraid of it.
So she talked, persistently, at times a little hysterically.
Her memory was good. If she liked a piece of poetry,
she could learn it by reading it over a few times. So,
in her desperation, she " spoke pieces " to this man whose
face was a gray mask, just as the girls had done at her
school in Winnipeg.
Often, at night camps, she had recited for her father.
If she had no dramatic talent, at least she had a sweet,
clear voice, an earnestness that never ranted, and some
native or acquired skill in handling inflections.
" Do you like Shakespeare? " she asked. " My father s
very fond of him. I know parts of several of the plays.
* Henry V now. That s good. There s a bit where he s
talking to his soldiers before they fight the French.
Would you like that?"
"Go on," he said gruffly, sultry eyes on the fire.
With a good deal of spirit she flung out the gallant
lines. He began to watch her, vivid, eager, so patheti
cally anxious to entertain him with her small stock of
wares.
"But, if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive."
There was about her a quality very fine and taking.
He caught it first in those two lines, and again when her
full young voice swelled to English Harry s prophecy.
"And Crispin Crispian shall ne er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
A FORETASTE OF HELL 179
But we in it shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accurs d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin s day."
As he watched her, old memories stirred in him. He
had come from a good family in the Western Reserve,
where he had rough-and-tumbled up through the grades
into High School. After a year here he had gone to a
Catholic School, Sacred Heart College, and had studied
for the priesthood. He recalled his mother, a gentle,
white-haired old lady, with fond pride in him; his father,
who had been the soul of honor. By some queer chance
she had lit on the very lines that he had learned from the
old school reader and recited before an audience the last
day prior to vacation.
He woke from his reveries to discover that she was
giving him Tennyson, that fragment from " Guinevere"
when Arthur tells her of the dream her guilt has tar
nished. And as she spoke there stirred in him the long-
forgotten aspirations of his youth.
... for indeed I knew
Of no more subtle master under heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
Not only to keep down the base in man,
But teach high thought and amiable words
And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man."
His eyes were no longer impassive. There was in
180 MAN-SIZE
them, for the moment at least, a hunted, haggard look.
He saw himself as he was, in a blaze of light that burned
down to his very soul.
And he saw her too transformed not a half -breed,
the fair prey of any man s passion, but a clean, proud,
high-spirited white girl who lived in the spirit as well
as the flesh.
"You re tired. Better lie down and sleep," he told
her, very gently.
Jessie looked at him, and she knew she was safe.
She might sleep without fear. This man would not harm
her any more than Beresford or Morse would have done.
Some chemical change had occurred in his thoughts
that protected her. She did not know what it was, but
her paean of prayer went up to heaven in a little rush of
thanksgiving.
She did not voice her gratitude to him. But the look
she gave him was more expressive than words.
Out of the storm a voice raucous and profane came
to them faintly.
"Ah, crapaud Wulf, pren garde. Yeu-oh! (To the
right!) Git down to it, Fox. Sacre demon! Cha! Cha!
(To the left!)"
Then the crack of a whip and a volley of oaths.
The two in the cabin looked at each other. One was
white to the lips. The other smiled grimly. It was the
gambler that spoke their common thought.
"Bully West, by all that s holy!"
CHAPTER XXIV
WEST MAKES A DECISION
CAME to those in the cabin a string of oaths, the
crack of a whip lashing out savagely, and the yelps of
dogs from a crouching, cowering team.
Whaley slipped a revolver from his belt to the right-
hand pocket of his fur coat.
The door burst open. A man stood on the threshold,
a huge figure crusted with snow, beard and eyebrows
ice-matted. He looked like the storm king who had
ridden the gale out of the north. This on the outside,
at a first glance only. For the black scowl he flung at his
partner was so deadly that it seemed to come red-hot
from a furnace of hate and evil passion.
"Run to earth!" he roared. "Thought you d hole up,
you damned fox, where I would n t find you. Thought
you d give Bully West the slip, you n that KT hell-cat.
Talk about Porcupine Creek, eh? Tried to send me
mushin over there while you n her
What the fellow said sent a hot wave creeping over
the girl s face to the roots of her hair. The gambler did
not speak, but his eyes, filmed and wary, never lifted
from the other s bloated face.
"Figured I d forget the oF whiskey cache, eh? Fig
ured you could gimme the double-cross an git away with
it? Hell s hinges, Bully West s no fool! He s forgot
more n you ever knew."
The man swaggered forward, the lash of the whip
182 MAN-SIZE
trailing across the puncheon floor. Triumph rode in his
voice and straddled in his gait. He stood with his back
p to the fireplace absorbing heat, hands behind him and
feet set wide. His eyes gloated over the victims he had
trapped. Presently he would settle with both of them.
"Not a word to say for yoreselves, either one o you,"
he jeered. " Good enough. I 11 do what talkin J s needed,
then I ll strip the hide off n both o you." With a flirt
of the arm he sent the lash of the dog-whip snaking out
toward Jessie.
She shrank back against the wall, needlessly. It was
a threat, not an attack; a promise of what was to come.
"Let her alone." They were the first words Whaley
had spoken. In his soft, purring voice they carried out
the suggestion of his crouched tenseness. If West was
the grizzly bear, the other was the forest panther,
more feline, but just as dangerous.
The convict looked at him, eyes narrowed, head
thrust forward and down. "W T hat s that?"
"I said to let her alone."
West s face heliographed amazement. " Meanin ? "
"Meaning exactly what I say. You 11 not touch her."
It was a moment before this flat defiance reached the
brain of the big man through the penumbra of his men
tal fog. When it did, he strode across the room with the
roar of a wild animal and snatched the girl to him. He
would show whether any one could come between him
and his woman.
In three long steps Whaley padded across the floor.
Something cold and round pressed against the back of
the outlaw s tough red neck.
WEST MAKES A DECISION 183
"Drop that whip."
The order came in a low-voiced imperative. West
hesitated. This man his partner would surely
never shoot him about such a trifle. Still
"What s eatin you? " he growled. "Put up that gun.
You ain t fool enough to shoot."
"Think that hard enough and you ll never live to
know better. Hands off the girl."
The slow brain of West functioned. He had been
taken wholly by surprise, but as his cunning mind
worked the situation out, he saw how much it would be
to Whaley s profit to get rid of him. The gambler would
get the girl and the reward for West s destruction. He
would inherit his share of their joint business and would
reinstate himself as a good citizen with the Mounted and
with McRae s friends.
Surlily the desperado yielded. "All right, if you re
so set on it."
"Drop the whip."
The fingers of West opened and the handle fell to the
floor. Deftly the other removed a revolver from its
place under the outlaw s left armpit.
West glared at him. That moment the fugitive made
up his mind that he would kill Whaley at the first good
opportunity. A tide of poisonous hatred raced through
his veins. Its expression but not its virulence was tem
porarily checked by wholesome fear. He must be careful
that the gambler did not get him first.
His voice took on a whine intended for good fellow
ship. "I reckon I was too pre-emtory. O course I was
sore the way you two left me holdin the sack. Any one
184 MAN-SIZE
would V been now, would n t they? But no use friends
fallin out. We got to make the best of things."
Whaley s chill face did not warm. He knew the man
with whom he was dealing. When he began to butter his
phrases, it was time to look out for him. He would for
get that his partner had brought him from Faraway a
dog-team with which to escape, that he was supplying
him with funds to carry him through the winter. He
would remember only that he had balked and humili
ated him.
"Better get into the house the stuff from the sled,"
the gambler said. "And we ll rustle wood. No telling
how long this storm 11 last."
"Tha s right," agreed West. "When I saw them sun
dogs to-day I figured we was in for a blizzard. Too bad
you did n t outfit me for a longer trip."
A gale was blowing from the north, carrying on its
whistling breath a fine hard sleet that cut the eyeballs
like powdered glass. The men fought their way to the
sled and wrestled with the knots of the frozen ropes
that bound the load. The lumps of ice that had gath
ered round these had to be knocked off with hammers
before they could be freed. When they staggered into
the house with their packs, both men were half-frozen.
Their hands were so stiff that the fingers were joint-
less.
They stopped only long enough to limber up the
muscles. Whaley handed to Jessie the revolver he had
taken from West.
"Keep this," he said. His look was significant. It
told her that in the hunt for wood he mignt be blinded
WEST MAKES A DECISION 185
by the blizzard and lost. If he failed to return and West
came back alone, she would know what to do with it.
Into the storm the two plunged a second time. They
carried ropes and an axe. Since West had arrived, the
gale had greatly increased. The wind now was booming
in deep, sullen roars and the temperature had fallen
twenty degrees already. The sled dogs were nowhere
to be seen or heard. They had burrowed down into the
snow where the house would shelter them from the
hurricane as much as possible.
The men reached the edge of the creek. They strug
gled in the frozen drifts with such small dead trees as
they could find. In the darkness Whaley used the axe
as best he could at imminent risk to his legs. Though
they worked only a few feet apart, they had to shout to
make their voices carry.
"We better be movin back," West called through his
open palms. "We got all we can haul."
They roped the wood and dragged it over the snow in
the direction they knew the house to be. Presently they
found the sled and from it deflected toward the house.
Jessie had hot tea waiting for them. They kicked off
their webs and piled the salvaged wood into the other
end of the cabin, after which they hunkered down before
the fire to drink tea and eat pemmican and bannocks.
They had with them about fifty pounds of frozen fish
for the dogs and provisions enough to last the three of
them four or five meals. Whaley had brought West
supplies enough to carry him only to Lookout, where he
was to stock for a long traverse into the wilds.
As the hours passed there grew up between the gam-
186 MAN-SIZE
bier and the girl a tacit partnership of mutual defense.
No word was spoken of it, but each knew that the sulky
brute in the chimney corner was dangerous. He would
be held by no scruples of conscience, no laws of friend
ship or decency. If the chance came he would strike.
The storm raged and howled. It flung itself at the
cabin with what seemed a ravenous and implacable
fury. The shriek of it was now like the skirling of a
thousand bagpipes, again like the wailing of numberless
lost souls.
Inside, West snored heavily, his ill-shaped head
drooping on the big barrel chest of the man. Jessie
slept while Whaley kept guard. Later she would watch
in her turn.
There were moments when the gale died down, but
only to roar again with a frenzy of increased violence.
The gray day broke and found the blizzard at its
height.
CHAPTER XXV
FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST
BERESFORD, in front of the C. N. Morse & Company
trading-post, watched his horse paw at the snow in
search of grass underneath. It was a sign that the ani
mal was prairie-bred. On the plains near the border
grass cures as it stands, retaining its nutriment as hay.
The native pony pushes the snow aside with its forefoot
and finds its feed. But in the timber country of the
North grass grows long and coarse. When its sap dries
out, it rots.
The officer was thinking that he had better put both
horse and cariole up for the winter. It was time now for
dogs and sled. Even in summer this was not a country
for horses. There were so many lakes that a birch-bark
canoe covered the miles faster.
Darkness was sweeping down over the land, and with
it the first flakes of a coming storm. Beresford had
expected this, for earlier in the day he had seen two
bright mock suns in the sky. The Indians had told him
that these sun dogs were warnings of severe cold and
probably a blizzard.
Out of the edge of the forest a man on snowshoes
came. He was moving fast. Beresford, watching him
idly, noticed that he toed in. Therefore he was probably
a Cree trapper. But the Crees were usually indolent
travelers. They did not cover ground as this man was
doing.
188 MAN-SIZE
The man was an Indian. The soldier presently certi
fied his first guess as to that. But not until the native
was almost at the store did he recognize him as Onistah.
The Blackfoot wasted no time in leading up to what
he had to say. "Sleeping Dawn she prisoner of Bully
West and Whaley. She say bring her father. She tell
me bring him quick."
Beresford s body lost its easy grace instantly and
became rigid. His voice rang with sharp authority.
"Where is she?"
"She at Jasper s cabin on Cache Creek. She fright
ened."
As though the mention of Sleeping Dawn s name had
reached him by some process of telepathy, Tom Morse
had come out and stood in the door of the store. The
trooper wheeled to him.
"Get me a dog-team, Tom. That fellow West has
got Jessie McRae with him on Cache Creek. We ve
got to move quick."
The storekeeper felt as though the bottom had
dropped out of his heart. He glanced up at the lowering
night. " Storm brewing. We ll get started right away."
Without a moment s delay he disappeared inside the
store to make his preparations.
Onistah carried the news to McRae.
The blood washed out of the ruddy-whiskered face
of the Scot, but his sole comment was a Scriptural
phrase of faith. "I have been young, and now am old;
yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken ..."
It was less than half an hour later that four men and
a dog-train moved up the main street of Faraway and
FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST 189
disappeared in the forest. Morse broke trail and McRae
drove the tandem. Onistah, who had already traveled
many miles, brought up the rear. The trooper ex
changed places with Morse after an hour s travel.
They were taking a short-cut and it led them through
dead and down timber that delayed the party. Tom was
a good axeman, and more than once he had to chop
away obstructing logs. At other times by main strength
the men lifted or dragged the sled over bad places.
The swirling storm made it difficult to know where
they were going or to choose the best way. They floun
dered through deep snow and heavy underbrush, faces
bleeding from the whip of willow switches suddenly
released and feet so torn by the straps of the snowshoes
that the trail showed stains of blood which had soaked
from the moccasins.
Onistah, already weary, began to lag. They dared not
wait for him. There was, they felt, not a moment to be
lost. McRae s clean-shaven upper lip was a straight,
grim surface. He voiced no fears, no doubts, but the
others knew from their own anxiety how much he must
be suffering.
The gale increased. It drove in bitter blasts of fine
stinging sleet. When for a few hundred yards they drew
out of the thick forest into an open grove, it lashed them
so furiously they could scarcely move in the teeth of it.
The dogs were whimpering at their task. More than
once they stopped, exhausted by the wind against which
they were battling. Their eyes turned dumbly to
McRae for instructions. He could only drive them back
to the trail Morse was breaking.
190 MAN-SIZE
The train was one of the best in the North. The leader
was a large St. Bernard, weighing about one hundred
sixty pounds, intelligent, faithful, and full of courage.
He stood thirty-four inches high at his fore shoulder.
Not once did Cuffy falter. Even when the others quit,
he was ready to put his weight to the load.
Through the howling of the wind Beresford shouted
into the ear of Morse. " Can t be far now. Question is
can we find Jasper s in this blizzard."
Morse shook his head. It did not seem likely. Far
and near were words which had no meaning. A white,
shrieking monster seemed to be hemming them in.
Their world diminished to the space their outstretched
arms could reach. The only guide they had was Cache
Creek, along the bank of which they were traveling.
Jasper s deserted cabin lay back from it a few hundred
yards, but Tom had not any data to tell him when he
ought to leave the creek.
Cuffy solved the problem for him. The St. Bernard
stopped, refused the trail Beresford and Morse were
beating down in the deep snow. He raised his head,
seemed to scent a haven, whined, and tried to plunge to
the left.
McRae came forward and shouted to his friends.
"We ll gi e Cuffy his head. He ll maybe ken mair than
we do the nicht."
The trail-breakers turned from the creek, occasionally
stopping to make sure Cuffy was satisfied. Through
heavy brush they forced a way into a coulee. The
St. Bernard led them plump against the wall of a
cabin.
FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST 191
There was a light inside, the fitful, leaping glow of
fire flames. The men stumbled through drifts to the
door, McRae in the lead. The Scotchman found the
latch and flung open the door. The other two followed
him inside.
The room was empty.
At first they could not believe their eyes. It was not
reasonable to suppose that any sane human beings
would have left a comfortable house to face such a
storm. But this was just what they must have done.
The state of the fire, which was dying down to hot coals,
told them it had not been replenished for hours. West
and Whaley clearly had decided they were not safe
here and had set out for another hiding-place.
The men looked at each other in blank silence. The
same thought was in the mind of all. For the present
they must give up the pursuit. It would not be possible
to try to carry on any farther in such a blizzard. Yet
the younger men waited for McRae to come to his de
cision. If he called on them to do more, they would
make a try with him.
"We ll stay here," Angus said quietly. "Build up
the fire, lads, and we ll cast back for Onistah."
Neither of the others spoke. They knew it must
have cost the Scotchman a pang to give up even for
the night. He had done it only because he recognized
that he had no right to sacrifice all their lives in
vain.
The dogs took the back trail reluctantly. The sled
had been unloaded and was lighter. Moreover, they
followed a trail already broken except where the sweep
192 MAN-SIZE
of the wind had filled it up. McRae cheered them to
their work.
"Up wi ye, Koona! Guid dog. Cha, cha! You 11 be
doin gran* work, Cuffy. Marche!"
Morse stumbled over Onistah where he lay in the
trail. The Blackfoot was still conscious, though he was
drowsing into that sleep which is fatal to Arctic trav
elers caught in a blizzard. He had crawled on hands and
feet through the snow after his knees failed him. It
must have been only a few minutes after he completely
collapsed that they found him.
He was given a gulp or two of whiskey and put on the
sled. Again the dogs buckled to the pull. A quarter of
an hour later the party reached the cabin.
Onistah was given first aid. Feet and face were
rubbed with snow to restore circulation and to prevent
frost-bite. He had been rescued in time to save him
from any permanent ill effects.
In the back of all their minds lay a haunting fear.
What had become of Jessie? There was a chance that
the blizzard had caught the party before it reached its
destination. Neither West nor Whaley was an inex
perienced musher. They knew the difficulties of sub-
Arctic travel and how to cope with them. But the storm
had blown up with unusual swiftness.
Even if the party had reached safety, the girl s
troubles were not ended. With the coming of darkness
her peril would increase. As long as Whaley was with
West there was hope. The gambler was cold-blooded as
a fish, but he had the saving sense of sanity. If he meant
to return to Faraway and there was no reason why
FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST 193
he should not he dared not let any harm befall the
girl. But West was a ruffian unmitigated. His ruthless
passion might drive him to any evil.
In front of the fire they discussed probabilities.
Where had the two free traders taken the girl? Not far,
in the face of such a storm. They canvassed places
likely to serve as retreats for West.
Once McRae, speaking out of his tortured heart,
made an indirect reference to what all of them were
thinking. He was looking somberly into the fire as he
spoke.
"Yea, the darkness hideth not from Thee, but the
night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light
are both alike to Thee."
He found in his religion a stay and comfort. If he
knew that under cover of darkness evil men do evil
deeds, he could reassure himself with the promise that
the hairs of his daughter s head were numbered and
that she was under divine protection.
From a pocket next his shirt he drew a small package
in oilskin. It was a Bible he had carried many years.
By the light of the leaping flames he read a chapter from
the New Testament and the twenty-third Psalm, after
which the storm-bound men knelt while he prayed that
God would guard and keep safe "the wee lamb lost in
the tempest far frae the fold."
Morse and Beresford were tough as hickory withes.
None in the North woods had more iron in the blood
than they. Emergencies had tested them time and
again. But neither of them was ashamed to kneel with
the big rugged Scotchman while he poured his heart out
194 MAN-SIZE
in a petition for his lass. The security of the girl whom
all four loved each in his own way was out of the hands
of her friends. To know that McRae had found a sure
rock upon which to lean brought the younger men too
some measure of peace.
CHAPTER XXVI
A RESCUE
THE gray day wore itself away into the deeper darkness
of early dusk. Like a wild beast attacking its prey, the
hurricane still leaped with deep and sullen roars at the
little cabin on Bull Creek. It beat upon it in wild, swirl
ing gusts. It flung blasts of wind, laden with snow and
sleet, against the log walls and piled drifts round them
almost to the eaves.
Long since Whaley had been forced to take the dogs
into the cabin to save them from freezing to death. It
was impossible for any of the three human beings to
venture out for more than a few minutes at a time. Even
then they had to keep close to the walls hi order not to
lose contact with the house.
When feeding-time came the dogs made pandemo
nium. They were half -famished, as teams in the Lone
Lands usually are, and the smell of the frozen fish
thawing before the fire set them frantic. West and
Whaley protected Jessie while she turned the fish. This
was not easy. The plunging animals almost rushed the
men off their feet. They had to be beaten back cruelly
with the whip-stocks, for they were wild as wolves and
only the sharpest pain would restrain them.
The half -thawed fish were flung to them in turn.
There was a snarl, a snap of the jaws, a gulp, and the
fish was gone. Over one or two that fell in the pack the
train worried and fought, with sharp yelps and growls,
196 MAN-SIZE
until the last fragment had been torn to pieces and dis
appeared.
Afterward the storm-bound trio drank tea and ate
pemmican, still fighting back the pack. West laid open
the nose of one in an ugly cut with the iron-bound end
of his whip-butt. Perhaps he was not wholly to blame.
Many of the dog-trains of the North are taught to un
derstand nothing but the sting of the whip and will
respond only to brutal treatment.
The second night was a repetition of the first. The
three were divided into two camps. Whaley or Jessie
McRae watched West every minute. There was a look
in his eye they distrusted, a sulky malice back of which
seemed to smoke banked fires of murderous desire. He
lay on the floor and slept a good deal in short cat-naps.
Apparently his dreams were not pleasant. He would
growl incoherently through set teeth and clench great
hairy fists in spasms of rage. Out of these he wakened
with a start to glare around suspiciously at the others.
It was clear the thought was in the back of his mind
that they might destroy him while he was asleep.
Throughout the third day the storm continued un
abated. Whaley and West discussed the situation.
Except for a few pounds of fish, their provisions were
gone. If the blizzard did not moderate, they would
soon face starvation.
During the night the wind died down. Day broke
clear, a faint and wintry sun in the sky.
To West the other man made a proposal. "Have to
get out and hunt food. We ll find caribou in some of
the coulees along the creek. What say?"
A RESCUE 197
The convict looked at him with sly cunning. "How
about this girl? Think I m gonna leave her to mush out
an put the police on my trail? No, sir. I ll take her
snowshoes with me."
Whaley shrugged his shoulders. " She could n t find
her way home if she had shoes. But please yourself
about that."
West s shifty gaze slid over him. The proposal of a
hunt suited him. He must have a supply of food to carry
him to Lookout. Whaley was a good shot and an expert
trailer. If there were caribou or moose in the vicinity,
he was likely to make a kill. In any event there would
be hundreds of white rabbits scurrying through the
woods. He decided craftily to make use of the gambler,
and after he was through with him
The men took with them part of the tea and enough
fish to feed the dogs once. They expected to find game
sufficient to supply themselves and stock up for a few
days. Whaley insisted on leaving Jessie her rifle, in
order that she might shoot a rabbit or two if any ven
tured near the cabin. She had three frozen fish and a
handful of tea.
Before they started Whaley drew Jessie aside.
" Can t say how long we ll be gone. Maybe two days
or three. You 11 have to make out with what you ve got
till we get back." He hesitated a moment, then his
cold, hard eyes held fast to hers. "Maybe only one of
us will come back. Keep your eyes open. If there s
only one of us and it s West don t let him get
into the house. Shoot him down. Take his snowshoes
and the team. Follow the creek down about five miles,
198 MAN-SIZE
then strike southwest till you come to Clear Lake.
You know your way home from there."
Her dark eyes dilated. "Do you think he means to
to?"
The man nodded. "He s afraid of me thinks 1
mean to set the police on his trail. If he can he ll get
rid of me. But not yet not till we ve got a couple of
caribou. I ll be watching him all the time/
"How can you watch him while you re hunting?"
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. It was quite
true that West could shoot him in the back during the
hunt. But Whaley knew the man pretty well. He
would make sure of meat before he struck. After the sled
was loaded, Whaley did not intend to turn his back on
the fellow.
Jessie had not been brought up in the North woods
for nothing. She had seen her brother Fergus make
many a rabbit snare. Now she contrived to fashion one
out of some old strips of skin she found in the cabin.
After she had bent down a young sapling and fastened
it to a fallen log, she busied herself making a second
one.
Without snowshoes she did not find it possibte to
travel far, but she managed to shoot a fox that adven
tured near the hut in the hope of finding something to
fill its lean and empty paunch.
Before leaving, Whaley had brought into the house a
supply of wood, but Jessie added to this during the day
by hauling birch poles from the edge of the creek.
Darkness fell early. The girl built up a roaring fire
and piled the wood up against the door so that nobody
A RESCUE 199
could get in without waking her. The rifle lay close at
hand. She slept long and soundly. When she shook the
drowsiness from her eyes, the sun was shining through
the window.
She breakfasted on stew made from a hind-quarter
of fox. After she had visited her snares and reset one
that had been sprung, she gathered balsam boughs for
a bed and carried them to the house to dry before the
fire. Whaley had left her a small hatchet, and with
this she began to shape a snowshoe from a piece of the
puncheon floor. All day she worked at this, and by
night had a rough sort of wooden ski that might serve at
need. With red-hot coals, during the long evening, she
burned holes in it through which to put the straps. The
skin of the fox, cut into long strips, would do for thongs.
It would be a crude, primitive device, but she thought
that at a pinch she might travel a few miles on it.
To-morrow she would make a mate for it, she decided.
Except for the bed of balsam boughs, her arrange
ments for the night were just as they had been the first
day. Again she built up a big fire, piled the wood in
front of the door, and put the rifle within reach. Again
she was asleep almost at once, within a minute of the
time when she nestled down to find a soft spot in the
springy mattress she had made.
Jessie worked hard on the second ski. By noon she
had it pretty well shaped. Unfortunately a small split
in the wood developed into a larger one. She was forced
to throw it aside and begin on another piece.
A hundred times her eyes had lifted to sweep the snow
field for any sign of the hunters return. Now, looking
200 MAN-SIZE
out of the window without much expectation of seeing
them, her glance fell on a traveler, a speck of black on a
sea of white. Her heart began to beat a drum of excite
ment. She waited, eyes riveted, expecting to see a
second figure and a dog-team top the rise and show in
silhouette.
None appeared. The man advanced steadily. He
did not look backward. Evidently he had no companion.
Was this lone traveler West?
Jessie picked up the rifle and made sure that it was
in good working order. A tumultuous river seemed to
beat through her temples. The pulses in her finger-tips
were athrob.
Could she do this dreadful thing, even to save honor
and life, though she knew the man must be twice a mur
derer? Once she had tried and failed, while he stood
taunting her with his horrible, broken-toothed grin.
And once, in the stress of battle, she had wounded him
while he was attacking.
The moving black speck became larger. It came to
her presently with certainty that this was not West.
He moved more gracefully, more lightly, without the
heavy slouching roll And then she knew he was
not Whaley either. One of her friends ! A little burst of
prayer welled out of her heart.
She left the cabin and went toward the man. He
waved a hand to her and she flung up a joyful gesture
in answer. For her rescuer was Onistah.
Jessie found herself with both hands in his, biting her
lower lip to keep back tears. She could not speak for the
emotion that welled up in her.
A RESCUE 201
"You all well?" he asked, with the imperturbable
facial mask of his race that concealed all emotion.
She nodded.
"Good," he went on. "Your father pray the Great
Spirit keep you safe."
"Where is Father?"
He looked in the direction from which he had come.
" We go Jasper s cabin your father, red soldier, Amer
ican trader, Onistah. You gone. Big storm snow
sleet. No can go farther. Then your father he pray.
We wait till Great Spirit he say, No more wind, snow.
Then we move camp. All search go out find you."
He pointed north, south, east, and west. " The Great
Spirit tell me to come here. I say, Sleeping Dawn she
with God, for Jesus sake, Amen. :
"You dear, dear boy," she sobbed.
"So I find you. Hungry?"
"No. I shot a fox."
"Then we go now." He looked at her feet. "Where
your snowshoes?"
"West took them to keep me here. I m making a
pair. Come. We ll finish them."
They moved toward the house. Onistah stopped.
The girl followed his eyes. They were fastened on a
laden dog-train with two men moving across a lake near
the shore of which the cabin had been built.
Her fear-filled gaze came back to the Indian. "It s
West and Mr. Whaley. What 11 we do?"
Already he was kneeling, fumbling with the straps of
his snowshoes. "You go find your father. Follow trail
to camp. Then you send him here. I hide in woods."
202 MAN-SIZE
"No no. They ll find you, and that West would
shoot you."
"Onistah know tricks. They no find him."
He fastened the snow-webs on her feet while she was
still protesting. She glanced again at the dog-train
jogging steadily forward. If she was going, it must be
at once. Soon it would be too late for either of them to
escape.
"You will hide in the woods, won t you, so they can t
find you?" she implored.
He smiled reassurance. "Go," he said.
Another moment, and she was pushing over the crust
along the trail by which the Blackfoot had come.
CHAPTER XXVII
APACHE STUFF
THE hunters brought back three caribou and two sacks
of rabbits, supplies enough to enable West to reach
Lookout. The dogs were stronger than when they had
set out, for they had gorged themselves on the parts of
the game unfit for human use.
Nothing had been said by either of the men as to
what was to be done with Jessie McRae, but the ques
tion was in the background of both their thoughts, just
as was the growing anger toward each other that con
sumed them. They rarely spoke. Neither of them let
the other drop behind him. Neither had slept a wink
the previous night. Instead, they had kept themselves
awake with hot tea. Fagged out after a day of hard
hunting, each was convinced his life depended on wake-
fulness. West s iron strength had stood the strain without
any outward signs of collapse, but Whaley was stumbling
with fatigue as he dragged himself along beside the sled.
The bad feeling between the partners was near the
explosion point. It was bound to come before the fugi
tive started on his long trip north. The fellow had a
single-track mind. He still intended to take the girl
with him. When Whaley interfered, there would be a
fight. It could not come too soon to suit West. His
brooding had reached the point where he was morally
certain that the gambler meant to betray him to the
police and set them on his track.
204 MAN-SIZE
Smoke was rising from the chimney of the hut. No
doubt the McRae girl was inside, waiting for them with
a heart of fear fluttering in her bosom. Whaley s thin
lips set grimly. Soon now it would be a show-down.
There was a moment s delay at the door, each hanging
back under pretense of working at the sled. There was
always the chance that the one who went first might
get a shot in the back.
West glanced at the big mittens on the other s hands,
laughed hardily, and pushed into the cabin. A startled
grunt escaped him.
"She s gone," he called out.
" Probably in the woods back here rabbit-shooting
likely. She can t have gone far without snowshoes,"
Whaley said.
The big man picked up the ski Jessie had made.
"Looky here."
Whaley examined it. "She might have made a pair
of em and got away. Hope so."
The yellow teeth of the convict showed in a snarl.
"Think I don t see yore game? Playin up to McRae
an the red-coats. I would n t put it by you to sell me
out.
The gambler s ice-cold eyes bored into West. Was
it to be now?
West was not quite ready. His hands were cold and
stiff. Besides, the other was on guard and the fugitive
was not looking for an even break.
"Oh, well, no use rowin about that. I ain t gonna
chew the rag with you. It ll be you one way an me
another pretty soon," he continued, shifty eyes dodging.
APACHE STUFF 205
"About the girl easy to find out, I say. She sure
did n t fly away. Must a left tracks. We ll take a
look-see."
Again Whaley waited deferentially, with a sardonic
and mirthless grin, to let the other pass first. There
were many tracks close to the cabin where they them
selves, as well as the girl, had moved to and fro. Their
roving glances went farther afield.
Plain as the swirling waters in the wake of a boat
stretched the tracks of a snowshoer across the lower end
of the lake.
They pushed across to examine them closer, following
them a dozen yards to the edge of the ice-field. The sign
written there on that white page told a tale to both of
the observers, but it said more to one than to the
other.
"Some one s been here," West cried with a startled
oath.
"Yes," agreed Whaley. He did not intend to give
any unnecessary information.
"An lit out again. Must a gone to git help for the
girl."
"Yes," assented the gambler, and meant "No."
What he read from the writing on the snow was this :
Some one had come and some one had gone. But the
one who had come was not the one who had gone. An
Indian had made the first tracks. He could tell it by
the shape of the webs and by the way the traveler had
toed in. The outward-bound trail was different. Some
one lighter of build was wearing the snowshoes, some
one who took shorter steps and toed out.
206 MAN-SIZE
"See. She run out to meet him. Here s where her
feet kept sinkin in," West said.
The other nodded. Yes, she had hurried to meet him
but that was not all he saw. There was the impression
of a knee in the snow. It was an easy guess that the
man had knelt to take off the shoes and adjust them to
the girl s feet.
"An here s where she cut off into the woods," the
convict went on. "She s hidin up there now. I m hit-
tin the trail after her hot-foot."
Whaley s derisive smile vanished almost before it
appeared. What he knew was his own business. If
\Vest wanted to take a walk in the woods, it was not
necessary to tell him that a man was waiting for him
there behind some tree.
"Think I ll follow this fellow," Whaley said, with a
lift of the hand toward the tracks that led across the
lake. "We ve got to find out where he went. If the
Mounted are hot on our trail, we want to know it."
"Sure." West assented craftily, eyes narrowed to
conceal the thoughts that crawled through his murder
ous brain. "We gotta know that."
He believed Whaley was playing into his hands. The
man meant to betray him to the police. He would never
reach them. And he, Bully West, would at last be alone
with the girl, nobody to interfere with him.
The gambler was used to taking chances. He took
one now and made his first mistake in the long duel he
had been playing with West. The eagerness of the fellow
to have him gone was apparent. The convict wanted
him out of the way so that he could go find the girl.
APACHE STUFF 207
Evidently he thought that Whaley was backing down
as gracefully as he could.
"I ll start right after him. Back soon," the gambler
said casually.
"Yes, soon," agreed West.
Their masked eyes still clung to each other, wary and
watchful. As though without intent Whaley backed
away, still talking to the other. He wanted to be out of
revolver range before he turned. West also was backing
clumsily, moving toward the sled. The convict wheeled
and slid rapidly to it.
Whaley knew his mistake now. West s rifle lay on the
sled and the man was reaching for it.
The man on the ice-field did the only thing possible.
He bent low and traveled fast. W T hen the first shot rang
out he was nearly a hundred fifty yards away. He crum
pled down into the snow and lay still.
West s hands were cold, his fingers stiff. He had not
been sure of his aim. Now he gave a whoop of triumph.
That was what happened to any one who interfered
with Bully W T est. He fired again at the still huddled
heap on the lake.
Presently he would go out there and make sure the
man was dead. Just now he had more important busi
ness, an engagement to meet a girl in the woods back
of the house.
"Got him good," he told himself aloud. "He sure
had it comin to him, the damned traitor."
To find the McRae girl could not be difficult. She
had left tracks as she waded away in the deep snow.
There was no chance for her to hide. Nor could she
208 MAN-SIZE
have gone far without webs. The little catamount
might, of course, shoot him. He had to move carefully,
not to give her an opportunity.
As he went forward he watched every tree, every
stick of timber behind which she might find cover to
ambush him. He was not of a patient temperament, but
life in the wilds had taught him to subdue when he
must his gusty restlessness. Now he took plenty of
time. He was in a hurry to hit the trail with his train
and be off, but he could not afford to be in such great
haste as to stop a bullet with his body.
He called to her. "Where you at, Dawn? I ain t
aimin to hurt you none. Come out an quit devilin*
me."
Then, when his wheedling brought no answer, he
made the forest ring with threats of what he would do
to her when he caught her unless she came to him at
once.
Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the
tracks that had been made in the snow. They ended
abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush. His first thought
was that she must be hidden here, but when he had
beat through it half a dozen times, he knew this was
impossible. Then where was she?
He had told Whaley that she could not fly away. But
if she had n t flown, what had become of her? There
were no trees near enough to climb without showing
the impressions of her feet in the snow as she moved to
the trunk. He had an uneasy sense that she was watch
ing him all the time from some hidden place near at
hand. He looked up into the branches of the trees.
APACHE STUFF 209
They were heavy with snow which had not been shaken
from them.
West smothered a laugh and an oath. He saw the
trick now. She must have back-tracked carefully, at
each step putting her feet in exactly the same place
as when she had moved forward. Of course! The tracks
showed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasion
ally when the moccasin went in the second time.
It was slow business, for while he studied the sign
he must keep a keen eye cocked against the chance of
a shot from his hidden prey.
Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew
he had reached the place where the back-tracking
ceased. Close to the spot was a pine. A pile of snow
showed where a small avalanche had plunged down.
That must have been when she disturbed it on the
branches in climbing.
His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt.
With his rifle he covered the figure crouching close to
it on the far side.
"Come down," he ordered.
He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The
tree-dweller slid down and stood before him. It was not
Jessie McRae, but a man, an Indian, the Blackfoot
who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil his tri
umph over the red-coat Beresford.
For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and
mouth open. "Whad you doin here?" he asked at
last.
"No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said.
"Tha s a lie. Where s the McRae girl?"
210 MAN-SIZE
The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expres
sionless as a blank wall.
West repeated the question. He might have been
talking to a block of wood for all the answer he received.
His crafty, cruel mind churned over the situation.
"Won t talk, eh? We ll see about that. You got her
hid somewheres an I m gonna find where. I J ll not stand
for yore Injun tricks. Drop that gun an marche
back to the cabin. Un erstand?"
Onistah did as he was told.
They reached the cabin. There was one thing West
did not get hold of in his mind. Why had not the Black-
foot shot him from the tree? He had had a score of
chances. The reason was not one the white man
would be likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him
because the Indian was a Christian. He had learned from
Father Giguere that he must turn the other cheek.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the
caribou skins. He tied his captive hand and foot, then
removed his moccasins and duffles. From the fire he
raked out a live coal and put it on a flat chip. This
he brought across the room.
"Changed yore mind any? Where s the girl?" he
demanded.
Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian
can be.
"Still sulky, eh? We ll see about that." ,
The convict knelt on the man s ankles and pushed
the coal against the naked sole of the brown foot.
An involuntary deep shudder went through the
Blackfoot s body. The foot twitched. An acrid odor
APACHE STUFF
of burning flesh filled the room. No sound came from
the locked lips.
The tormentor removed the coal. "I ain t begun to
play with you yet. I m gonna give you some real Apache
stuff fore I m through. Where s the girl? I m gonna
find out if I have to boil you in grease."
Still Onistah said nothing.
West brought another coal. "We ll try the other
foot," he said.
Again the pungent acrid odor rose to the nostrils.
"How about it now?" the convict questioned.
No answer came. This time Onistah had fainted.
CHAPTER XXVIII
"IS A WELL WF YOU, LASS?"
JESSIE S shoes crunched on the snow-crust. She traveled
fast. In spite of Onistah s assurance her heart was
troubled for him. West and Whaley would study the
tracks and come to at least an approximation of the
truth. She did not dare think of what the gorilla-man
would do to her friend if they captured him.
And how was it possible that they would not find
him? His footsteps would be stamped deep in the snow.
He could not travel fast. Since he had become a Chris
tian, the Blackfoot, with the simplicity of a mind not
used to the complexities of modern life, accepted the
words of Jesus literally. He would not take a human
life to save his own.
She blamed herself for escaping at his expense. The
right thing would have been to send him back again for
her father. But West had become such a horrible ob
session with her that the sight of him even at a distance
had put her in a panic.
From the end of the lake she followed the trail Onis-
tah had made. It took into the woods, veering sharply
to the right. The timber was open. Even where the
snow was deep, the crust was firm enough to hold.
In her anxiety it seemed that hours passed. The sun
was still fairly high, but she knew how quickly it sank
these winter days.
She skirted a morass, climbed a long hill, and saw
IS A WELL WI YOU, LASS? 213
before her another lake. On the shore was a camp. A
fire was burning, and over this a man stooping.
At the sound of her call, the man looked up. He rose
and began to run toward her. She snowshoed down the
hill, a little blindly, for the mist of glad tears brimmed
her eyes.
Straight into Beresford s arms she went. Safe at last,
she began to cry. The soldier petted her, with gentle
words of comfort.
"It s all right now, little girl. All over with. Your
father s here. See! He s coming. We ll not let anything
harm you."
McRae took the girl into his arms and held her tight.
His rugged face was twisted with emotion. A dam of
ice melted in his heart. The voice with which he spoke,
broken with feeling, betrayed how greatly he was
shaken.
"My bairn! Myweedawtie! To God be the thanks."
She clung to him, trying to control her sobs. He
stroked her hair and kissed her, murmuring Gaelic words
of endearment. A thought pierced him, like a sword-
thrust.
He held her at arm s length, a fierce anxiety in his
haggard face. "Is a well wi you, lass?" he asked, al
most harshly.
She understood his question. Her level eyes met his.
They held no reservations of shame. "All s well with
me, Father. Mr. Whaley was there the whole time.
He stood out against West. He was my friend." She
stopped, enough said.
"The Lord be thankit," he repeated again, devoutly.
214 MAN-SIZE
Tom Morse, rifle in hand, had come from the edge of
the woods and was standing near. He had heard her
first call, had seen her go to the arms of Beresf ord direct
as a hurt child to those of its mother, and he had drawn
reasonable conclusions from that. For under stress the
heart reveals itself, he argued, and she had turned
simply and instinctively to the man she loved. He
stood now outside the group, silent. Inside him too a
river of ice had melted. His haunted, sunken eyes told
the suffering he had endured. The feeling that flooded
him was deeper than joy. She had been dead and was
alive again. She had been lost and was found.
"Where have you been?" asked Beresf ord. "We ve
been looking for days."
"In a cabin on Bull Creek. Mr. Whaley took me
there, but West followed."
"How did you get away?"
"We were out of food. They went hunting. West
took my snowshoes. Onistah came. He saw them com
ing back and gave me his shoes. He went and hid
in the woods. But they ll see his tracks. They ll find
him. We must hurry back."
"Yes," agreed McRae. "I m thinkin if West finds
the lad, he ll do him ill."
Morse spoke for the first time, his voice dry as a chip.
"We d better hurry on, Beresf ord and I. You and Miss
McRae can bring the sled."
McRae hesitated, but assented. There might be
desperate need of haste. "That ll be the best way.
But you ll be carefu , lad. Yon West s a wolf. He d
as lief kill ye baith as look at ye."
IS A WELL WF YOU, LASS? 215
The younger men were out of sight over the brow of
the hill long before McRae and Jessie had the dogs
harnessed.
"You ll ride, lass," the father announced.
She demurred. "We can go faster if I walk. Let me
drive. Then you can break trail where the snow s soft."
"No. You ll ride, my dear. There s nae sic a hurry.
The lads 11 do what s to be done. On wi ye."
Jessie got into the cariole and was bundled up to the
tip of the nose with buffalo robes, the capote of her own
fur being drawn over the head and face. For riding in
the sub-Arctic winter is a freezing business.
"Marche," 1 ordered McRae.
Cuffy led the dogs up the hill, following the trail
already broken. The train made good time, but to Jes
sie it seemed to crawl. She was tortured with anxiety
for Onistah. An express could not have carried her fast
enough. It was small comfort to tell herself that Onis
tah was a Blackfoot and knew every ruse of the woods.
His tracks would lead straight to him and the veriest
child could follow them. Nor could she persuade her
self that Whaley would stand between him and West s
anger. To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie.
The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the
lake. Here the going was better. The sun was down
and the snow-crust held dogs and sled. A hundred
fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team.
He moved forward and examined the snow.
1 Most of the dogs of the North were trained by trappers who talked French
and gave commands in that language. Hence even the Anglo-Saxon drivers
used in driving a good many words of that language. (W. M. R.)
216 MAN-SIZE
With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that
wrapped her and jumped from the cariole. An invisible
hand seemed to clutch tightly at her throat. For what
she and her father had seen were crimson splashes in
the white. Some one or something had been killed or
wounded here. Onistah, of course! He must have
changed his mind, tried to follow her, and been shot
by West as he was crossing the lake.
She groaned, her heart heavy.
McRae offered comfort. "He ll likely be only
wounded. The lads wouldna hae moved him yet if he d
no been livin ."
The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus.
Morse came to the door. He closed it behind him.
"Onistah? "cried Jessie.
"He s been hurt. But we were in time. He ll get
well."
"West shot him? We saw stains in the snow."
"No. He shot Whaley."
"Whaley?" echoed McRae.
"Yes. Wanted to get rid of him. Thought your
daughter was hidden in the woods here. Afraid, too,
that Whaley would give him up to the North-West
Mounted."
"Then Whaley s dead?" the Scotchman asked.
"No. West had n t time right then to finish the job.
Pretty badly hurt, though. Shot in the side and in the
thigh."
"And West?"
"We came too soon. He could n t finish his deviltry.
He lit out over the hill soon as he saw us."
IS A WELL WT YOU, LASS? 217
They went into the house.
Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the
balsam boughs and knelt beside him. Beresford was
putting on one of his feet a cloth soaked in caribou oil.
"What did he do to you?" she cried, a constriction
of dread at her heart.
A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the
native. "Apache stuff, he called it."
"But"
"West burned his feet to make him tell where you
were," Beresford told her gently.
"Oh!" she cried, in horror.
"Good old Onistah. He gamed it out. Wouldn t
say a word. West saw us coming and hit the trail."
"Is he is he ?"
"He s gone."
"I mean Onistah."
"Suffering to beat the band, but not a whimper out
of him. He s not permanently hurt be walking
around in a week or two."
"You poor boy ! " the girl cried softly, and she put her
arm under the Indian s head to lift it to an easier position.
The dumb lips of the Blackfoot did not thank her,
but the dark eyes gave her the gratitude of a heart
wholly hers.
All that night the house was a hospital. The country
was one where men had learned to look after hurts
without much professional aid. In a rough way Angus
McRae was something of a doctor. He dressed the
wounds of both the injured, using the small medical
kit he had brought with him.
218 MAN-SIZE
Whaley was a bit of a stoic himself. The philosophy
of his class was to take good fortune or ill undemonstra-
tively. He was lucky to be alive. Why whine about
what must be?
But as the fever grew on him with the lengthening
hours, he passed into delirium. Sometimes he groaned
with pain. Again he fell into disconnected babble of
early days. He was back again with his father and
mother, living over his wild and erring youth.
"...Don t tell Mother. I ll square it all right
if you keep it from her. . . . Rotten run of cards.
Ninety-seven dollars. You ll have to wait, I tell you.
. . . Mother, Mother, if you won t cry like that ..."
McRae used the simple remedies he had. In them
selves they were, he knew, of little value. He must rely
on good nursing and the man s hardy constitution to
pull him through.
With Morse and Beresford he discussed the best
course to follow. It was decided that Morse should
take Onistah and Jessie back to Faraway next day and
return with a load of provisions. Whaley s fever must
run its period. It was impossible to tell yet whether he
would live or die, but for some days at least it would not
be safe to move him.
CHAPTER XXIX
NOT GOING ALONE
" MORSE, I ve watched ye through four-five days of
near-hell. I ken nane 1 5 d rather tak wi me as a lone
companion on the long traverse. You re canny an
you re bold. That s why I m trustin my lass to your
care. It s a short bit of a trip, an far as I can see
there s nae danger. But the fear s in me. That s the
truth, man. Gie me your word you 11 no let her oot
o your sight till ye hand her ower to my wife at Fara
way."
Angus clamped a heavy hand on the young man s
shoulder. His blue eyes searched steadily those of the
trader.
"I ll not let her twenty yards from me any time.
That s a promise, McRae," the trader said quietly.
Well wrapped from the wind, Onistah sat in the cari-
ole.
Jessie kissed the Scotchman fondly, laughing at him
the while. "You re a goose, Father. I m all right.
You take good care of yourself. That West might come
back here."
"No chance of that. West will never come back ex
cept at the end of a rope. He s headed for the edge of
the Barrens, or up that way somewhere," Beresford
said. "And inside of a week I ll be north-bound on his
trail myself."
220 MAN-SIZE
Jessie was startled, a good deal distressed. " I d let him
go. He 11 meet a bad end somewhere. If he never comes
back, as you say he won t, then he ll not trouble us."
The soldier smiled grimly. "That s not the way of the
Mounted. Get the fellow you re sent after. That s our
motto. I ve been assigned the job of bringing in West
and I ve got to get him."
"You don t mean you re going up there alone to
bring back that that wolf -man?"
"Oh, no," the trooper answered lightly. "I ll have a
Cree along as a guide."
"A Cree," she scoffed. "What good will he be if you
find West? He ll not help you against him at all."
"Not what he s with me for. I m not supposed to
need any help to bring back one man."
"It s it s just suicide to go after him alone," she
persisted. "Look what he did to the guard at the prison,
to Mr. Whaley, to Onistah! He s just awful hardly
human."
"The lad s under orders, lass," McRae told her.
"Gin they send him into the North after West, he ll
just have to go. He canna argy-bargy aboot it."
Jessie gave up, reluctantly.
The little cavalcade started. Morse drove. The girl
brought up the rear.
Her mind was still on the hazard of the journey
Beresford must take. When Morse stopped to rest the
dogs for a few moments, she tucked up Onistah again
and recurred to the subject.
"I don t think Win Beresford should go after West
alone except for a Cree guide. The Inspector ought to
NOT GOING ALONE 21
send another constable with him. Or two more. If he
knew that man how cruel and savage he is "
Tom Morse spoke quietly. "He s not going alone.
I 11 be with him."
She stared. "You?"
"Yes. Sworn in as a deputy constable."
"But he did n t say you were going when I spoke
to him about it a little while ago."
"He did n t know. I ve made up my mind since."
In point of fact he had come to a decision three
seconds before he announced it.
Her soft eyes applauded him. "That ll be fine. His
friends won t worry so much if you re with him. But
of course you know it 11 be a horrible trip and dan
gerous."
"No picnic," he admitted.
She continued to look at him, her cheeks flushed and
her face vivid. "You must like Win a lot. Not many
men would go."
" We re good friends," Morse answered dryly. "Any
how, I owe West something on my own account."
The real reason why he was going he had not given.
During the days she had been lost he had been on the
rack of torture. He did not want her to suffer months
of such mental distress while the man she loved was
facing alone the peril of his grim work in the white
Arctic desert.
They resumed the journey.
Jessie said no more. She would not mention the sub
ject again probably. But it would be a great deal in
her thoughts. She lived much of the time inside herself
MAN-SIZE
with her own imagination. This had the generosity and
the enthusiasm of youth. She wanted to believe people
fine and good and true. It warmed her to discover un
expected virtues in them.
Mid-afternoon brought them to Faraway. They
drove down the main street of the village to McRae s
house while the half-breeds cheered from the door of the
Morse store.
Jessie burst into the big family room where Matapi-
Korna sat bulging out from the only rocking-chair in
the North woods.
"Oh, Mother Mother!" the girl cried, and hugged
the Cree woman with all the ardent young savagery of
her nature.
The Indian woman s fat face crinkled to an expansive
smile. She had stalwart sons of her own, but no daugh
ters except this adopted child. Jessie was very dear to
her.
In a dozen sentences the girl poured out her story,
the words tumbling pell-mell over each other in head
long haste.
Matapi-Koma waddled out to the sled. "Onistah
stay here," she said, and beamed on him. "Blackfoot
all same Cree to Matapi-Koma when he friend Jessie.
Angus send word nurse him till he well again."
Tom carried the Indian into the house so that his
feet would not touch the ground. Jessie had stayed in
to arrange the couch where Fergus usually slept.
She followed Morse to the door when he left. "We ll
have some things to send back to Father when you go.
I ll bring them down to the store to-morrow morning,"
NOT GOING ALONE 223
she said. "And Mother wants you to come to supper
to-night. Don t you dare say you re too busy."
He smiled at the intimate feminine fierceness of the
injunction. The last few hours had put them on a some
what different footing. He would accept such largesse
as she was willing to offer. He recognized the spirit in
which it was given. She wanted to show her apprecia
tion of what he had done for her and was about to do
for the man she loved. Nor would Morse meet her gen
erosity in a churlish spirit.
"I ll be here when the gong rings," he told her
heartily.
"Let s see. It s nearly three now. Say five o clock,"
she decided.
"At five I ll be knockin on the door."
She flashed at him a glance both shy and daring.
"And I ll open it before you break through and bring
it with you."
The trader went away with a queer warmth in his
heart he had not known for many a day. The facts did
not justify this elation, this swift exhilaration of blood,
but to one who has starved for long -any .food is
grateful.
Jessie flew back into the house. She had a busy two
hours before her. "Mother, Mr. Morse as coming to
dinner. What s in the house?"
"Fergus brought a black-tail in ^yesterday."
"Good. I know what I ll have. But first off, I want
a bath. Lots of hot water, and all foamy with soap.
I ve got to hurry. You can peel the potatoes if you like.
And fix some of those young onions. They re nice.
224 MAN-SIZE
And Mother I ll let you make the biscuits. That s
all. I ll do the rest."
The girl touched a match to the fire that was set in
her room. She brought a tin tub and hot water and
towels. Slim and naked she stood before the roaring
logs and reveled in her bath. The sense of cleanliness
was a luxury delicious. When she had dressed herself
from the soles of her feet up in clean clothes, she felt a
new and self-respecting woman.
She did not pay much attention to the psychology of
dress, but she knew that when she had on the pretty
plaid that had come from Fort Benton, and when her
heavy black hair was done up just right, she had twice
the sex confidence she felt in old togs. Jessie would have
denied indignantly that she was a coquette. None the
less she was intent on conquest. She wanted this quiet,
self-contained American to like her.
The look she had seen in his red-brown eyes at times
tantalized her. She could not read it. That some cur
rent of feeling about her raced deep in him she divined,
but she did not know what it was. He had a way of
letting his steady gaze rest on her disturbingly. What
was he thinking? Did he despise her? Was he, away
down out of sight, the kind of man toward women that
West and Whaley were? She would n t believe it. He
had never taken an Indian woman to live with him.
There was not even a rumor that he had ever taken an
interest in any Cree girl. Of course she did not like him
not the way she did W 7 in Beresford or even Onistah
but she was glad he held himself aloof. It would have
greatly disappointed her to learn of any sordid intrigue
involving him.
NOT GOING ALONE
Jessie rolled up her sleeves and put on a big apron.
She saw that the onions and the potatoes were started
and the venison ready for broiling. From a chest of
drawers she brought one of the new white linen table
cloths of which she was inordinately proud. She would
not trust any one but herself to set the table. Morse
had come from a good family. He knew about such
things. She was not going to let him go away thinking
Angus McRae s family were barbarians, even though his
wife was a Cree and his children of the half-blood.
On the table she put a glass dish of wild-strawberry
jam. In the summer she had picked the fruit herself,
just as she had gathered the saskatoon berries sprinkled
through the pemmican she was going to use for the
rubaboo.
CHAPTER XXX
"M" FOR MORSE
Two in the village bathed that day. The other was Tom
Morse. He discarded his serviceable moccasins, his
caribou-skin capote with the fur on, his moose-skin
trousers, and his picturesque blanket shirt. For these
he substituted the ungainly clothes of civilization, a pair
of square-toed boots, a store suit, a white shirt.
This was not the way Faraway dressed for gala oc
casions, but in several respects the trader did not choose
to follow the habits of the North. At times he liked to
remind himself that he was an American and not a
French half-breed born in the woods.
As he had promised, he was at the McRaes* by the
appointed hour. Jessie opened to his knock.
The girl almost took his breath. He had not realized
how attractive she was. In her rough outdoor costumes
she had a certain nai ve boyishness, a very taking qual
ity of vital energy that was sexless. But in the house
dress she was wearing now, Jessie was wholly feminine.
The little face, cameo-fine and clear-cut, the slender
body, willow-straight, had the soft rounded curves that
were a joy to the eye. He had always thought of her as
dark, but to his surprise he found her amazingly fair
for one of the metis blood.
A dimpled smile flashed him welcome. "You did
come, then?"
"M" FOR MORSE
"Is it the wrong night? Were n t you expectin me? "
he asked in pretended alarm.
"I was and I wasn t. It wouldn t have surprised
me if you had decided you were too busy to come."
"Not when Miss Jessie McRae invites me."
"She invited you once before," the girl reminded him.
"Then she asked me because she thought she ought.
Is that why I m asked this time?"
She laughed. "You must n t look a gift dinner in the
mouth."
They were by this time in the big family room. She
relieved him of his coat. He walked over to the couch
upon which Onistah lay.
"How goes it? Tough sleddin ?" he asked.
The bronze face of the Blackfoot was immobile. He
must still have been in great pain from the burnt feet,
but he gave no sign of it.
"Onistah find good friends," he answered simply.
Tom looked round the room, and again there came to
him the sense of home. Logs roared and snapped in
the great fireplace. The table, set with the dishes and
the plated silver McRae had imported from the States,
stirred in him a pleasure that was almost poignant. The
books, the organ, the quaint old engravings Angus had
brought with him when he crossed the ocean: all of
these touched the trader nearly. He was in exile, living
a bachelor life under the most primitive conditions.
The atmosphere of this house penetrated to every fiber
of his being. It filled him with an acute hunger. Here
were love and friendly intercourse and all the daily,
homely routine that made life beautiful.
228 MAN-SIZE
And here was the girl that he loved, vivid, vital, fufi
of charm. The swift deftness and grace of her move
ments enticed him. The inflections of her warm, young
voice set his pulses throbbing as music sometimes did.
An ardent desire of her flooded him. She was the most
winsome creature under heaven - but she was not for
him.
Matapi-Koma sat at the head of the table, a smiling
and benignant matron finished in copper. She had on
her best dress, a beaded silk with purple satin trim
mings, brought by a Red River cart from Winnipeg,
accompanied with a guarantee from the trader that
Queen Victoria had none better. The guarantee was
worth what it was worth, but Matapi-Koma was satis
fied. Never had she seen anything so grand. That An
gus McRae could afford to buy it for her proved him a
great chief.
Jessie waited on the table herself. She set upon it
such a dinner as neither of her guests had eaten in
years. Venison broiled to a turn, juicy, succulent mal
lard ducks from the cold storage of their larder, mashed
potatoes with gravy, young boiled onions from Whoop-
Up, home-made rubaboo of delicious flavor, hot bis
cuits and wild-strawberry jam! And finally, with the
tea, a brandy-flavored plum pudding that an old Eng
lish lady at Winnipeg had taught Jessie how to make.
Onistah ate lying on the couch. Afterward, filled to
repletion, with the sense of perfect contentment a good
dinner brings, the two young men stuffed their pipes
and puffed strata of smoke toward the log rafters of
the room. Jessie cleared the table, then sat down and
"M" FOR MORSE 229
put the last stitches in the gun-case she had been work
ing at intermittently for a month. It was finished, but
she had not till now stitched the initials into the cloth.
As the swift fingers of the girl flashed back and forth,
both men watched, not too obviously, the profile shad
owed by the dark, abundant, shining hair. The picture
of her was an intimate one, but Tom s tricky imagina
tion tormented him with one of still nearer personal
association. He saw her in his own house, before his
own fireside, a baby clinging to her skirt. Then, reso
lutely, he put the mental etcking behind him. She loved
his friend Beresford, a man out of a thousand, and of
course he loved her. Had he not seen her go straight to
his arms after her horrible experience with West?
Matapi-Koma presently waddled out of the room and
they could hear the clatter of dishes.
"I told her I d help her wash them if she d wait,"
explained Jessie. "But she d rather do them now and
go to bed. My conscience is clear, anyhow." She added
with a little bubble of laughter, "And I don t have to
do the work. Is that the kind of a conscience you have,
Mr. Morse?"
"If I were you my conscience would tell me that I
could n t go and leave my guests," he answered.
She raked him with a glance of merry derision. "Oh,
I know how yours works. I would n t have it for any
thing. It s an awf lly bossy one. It s sending you out
to the Barrens with Win Beresford just because he s
your friend."
Not quite. I have another reason too," he replied.
"Yes, I know. You don t like West. Nobody does.
230 MAN-SIZE
My father does n t or Fergus or Mr. Whaley
but they re not taking the long trail after him as you
are. You can t get out of it that way."
She had not, of course, hit on the real reason for
going that supplemented his friendship for the con
stable and he did not intend that she should.
"It does n t matter much why I m going. Anyhow,
it 11 be good for me. I J m gettin soft and fat. After
I Ve been out in the deep snows a month or so, I 11 have
taken up my belt a notch or two. It s time I wrestled
with a blizzard an tried livin on lean rabbit." l
Her gaze swept his lean, hard, compact body. "Yes,
you look soft," she mocked. "Father said something of
that sort when he looked at that door there you came
through."
Tom had been watching her stitching. He offered a
comment now, perhaps to change the subject. It is
embarrassing for a modest man to talk about himself.
"You re workin that *W upside down," he said.
"Am I? Who said it was a W?"
"I guessed it might be."
"You re a bad guesser. It s an *M. *M stands for
McRae, does n t it?"
"Yes, and W for Winthrop," he said with a little
flare of boldness.
A touch of soft color flagged her cheeks. "And * I for
impudence," she retorted with a smile that robbed the
words of offense.
1 Rabbit is about the poorest meat in the North. It is lean and stringy,
furnishes very little nourishment and not much fat, and is not a muscle-
builder. In a country where oil and grease are essentials, such food is not
desirable. The Indians ate great quantities of them. (W. M. B.)
"M" FOR MORSE 231
He was careful not to risk outstaying his welcome.
After an hour he rose to go. His good-bye to Matapi-
Koma and Onistah was made in the large living-room.
Jessie followed him to the outside door.
He gave her a word of comfort as he buttoned his coat.
"Don t you worry about Win. I 11 keep an eye on him."
"Thank you. And he ll keep one on you, I suppose."
He laughed. That reversal of the case was a new idea
to him. The prettiest girl in the North was not holding
her breath till he returned safely. "I reckon," he said.
"We ll team together fine."
"Don t be foolhardy, either of you," she cautioned.
"No," he promised, and held out his hand. "Good
bye, if I don t see you in the mornin ."
He did not know she was screwing up her courage
and had been for half an hour to do something she had
never done before. She plunged at it, a tide of warm
blood beating into her face beneath the tan.
" M is for Morse too, and T for Tom," she said.
With the same motion she thrust the gun-case into
his hand and him out of the door.
He stood outside, facing a closed door, the bit of
fancy-work in his mittens. An exultant electric tingle
raced through his veins. She had given him a token of
friendship he would cherish all his life.
CHAPTER XXXI
.
THE LONG TRAIL
FOR four days Whaley lay between life and death.
There were hours when the vital current in him ebbed
so low that McRae thought it was the beginning of the
end. But after the fifth day he began definitely to
mend. His appetite increased. The fever in him abated.
The delirium passed away. Just a week from the time
he had been wounded, McRae put him on the cariole
and took him to town over the hard crust of the snow.
Beresford returned from Fort Edmonton a few hours
later, carrying with him an appointment for Morse as
guide and deputy constable.
"Maintiens le droit," said the officer, clapping his
friend on the shoulder. " You re one of us now. A great
chance for a short life you ve got. Time for the insur
ance companies to cancel any policies they may have
on you."
Morse smiled. He was only a deputy, appointed tem
porarily, but it pleased him to be chosen even in this
capacity as a member of the most efficient police force
in the world. "Maintiens le droit" was the motto of the
Mounted. Tom did not intend that the morale of that
body should suffer through him if he could help it.
Angus McRae had offered his dog-train for the pur
suit and Beresford had promptly accepted. The four
dogs of the Scotch trapper were far and away better
than any others that could be picked up in a hurry.
THE LONG TRAIL 233
They had stamina, and they were not savage and wolfish
like most of those belonging to the Indians and even to
the Hudson s Bay Company.
Supplies for the trip had been gathered by Morse.
From the Crees he had bought two hundred pounds of
dried fish for the dogs. Their own provisions consisted
of pemmican, dried caribou meat, flour, salt, tea, and
tobacco.
All Faraway was out to see the start. The travelers
would certainly cover hundreds and perhaps thousands
of miles before their return. Even in that country of
wide spaces, where men mushed far when the rivers and
lakes were closed, this was likely to prove an epic trip.
Beresford cracked the long lash and Cuffy leaned
forward in the traces. The tangle of dogs straightened
out and began to move. A French voyageur lifted his
throat in a peculiar shout that was half a bark. Indians
and half-breeds snowshoed down the street beside the
sled. At the door of the McRae house stood Angus, his
wife, and daughter.
"God wi you baith," the trapper called.
Jessie waved a scarf, and Beresford, who had spent
the previous evening with her, threw up a hand in gay
greeting.
The calvacade drew to the edge of the woods. Morse
looked back. A slim figure, hardly distinguishable in
the distance, still stood in front of the McRae house
fluttering the scarf.
A turn in the trail hid her. Faraway was shut out of
view.
For four or five miles the trappers stayed with them.
234 MAN-SIZE
It was rather a custom of the North to speed travelers
on their way in this fashion. At the edge of the first
lake the Indians and half-breeds said good-bye and
turned back.
Morse moved onto the ice and broke trail. The dogs
followed in tandem Cuffy, Koona, Bull, and Csesar,
They traveled fast over the ice and reached the woods
beyond. The timber was not thick. Beyond this was a
second lake, a larger one. By the time they had crossed
this, the sun was going down.
The men watched for a sheltered place to camp and
as soon as they found one, they threw off the trail to the
edge of the woods, drawing up the sledge back of them
as a wind-break. They gathered pine for fuel and cut
balsam boughs for beds. It had come on to snow, and
they ate supper with their backs to the drive of the
flakes, the hoods of their furs drawn over their heads.
The dogs sat round in a half -circle watching them and
the frozen fish thawing before the fire. Their faces, tilted
a little sideways, ears cocked and eyes bright, looked
anxiously expectant. When the fish were half-thawed,
Morse tossed them by turn to the waiting animals,
who managed to get rid of their supper with a snap and
a gulp. Afterward they burrowed down in the snow and
fell asleep.
On the blazing logs Beresford had put two kettles
filled with snow. These he refilled after the snow melted,
until enough water was in them. Into one kettle he put
a piece of fat caribou meat. The other was to make tea.
Using their snowshoes as shovels, they scraped a place
clear and scattered balsam boughs on it. On this they
THE LONG TRAIL 235
spread an empty flour sack, cut open at the side. Tin
plates and cups served as dish
Their supper consisted of soggy bannocks, fat meat,
and tea. While they ate, the snow continued to fall.
It was not unwelcome, for so long as this lasted the cold
could not be intolerable. Moreover, snow makes a
good white blanket and protects against sudden drops
in temperature.
They changed their moccasins and duffles and pulled
on as night-wear long buffalo-skin boots, hood, mufflers,
and fur mits. A heavy fur robe and a blanket were
added. Into these last they snuggled down, wrapping
themselves up so completely that a tenderfoot would
have smothered for lack of air.
Before they retired, they could hear the ice on the
lake cracking like distant thunder. The trees back of
them occasionally snapped from the cold with reports
that sounded like pistol shots.
In five minutes both men were asleep. They lay with
their heads entirely covered, as the Indians did. Not
once during the night did they stir. To disarrange
their bedding and expose the nose or the hands to the
air would be to risk being frozen.
Morse woke first. He soon had a roaring fire. Again
there were two kettles on it, one for fat meat and the
other for strong tea. No fish were thawing before
the heat, for dogs are fed only once a day. Otherwise
they get sleepy and sluggish, losing the edge of their
keenness.
They were off to an early start. There was a cold
head wind that was uncomfortable. For hours they held
236 MAN-SIZE
to the slow, swinging stride of the webs. Sometimes
the trail was through the forest, sometimes in and out of
brush and small timber. Twice during the day they
crossed lakes and hit up a lively pace. Once they came
to a muskeg, four miles across, and had to plough over
the moss hags while brush tangled their feet and slapped
their faces.
Cuffy was a prince of leaders. He seemed to know by
some sixth sense the best way to wind through under
brush and over swamps. He was master of the train
and ruled by strength and courage as well as intelli
gence. Bull had ideas of his own, but after one sharp
brush with Cuffy, from which he had emerged ruffled
and bleeding, the native dog relinquished claim to
dominance.
The travelers made about fifteen miles before noon.
They came to a solitary tepee, built on the edge of a
lake with a background of snow-burdened spruce. This
lodge was constructed of poles arranged cone-shaped
side by side, the chinks between plastered with moss
wedged in to fill every crevice. A thin wisp of smoke rose
from an open space in the top.
At the sound of the yelping dogs a man lifted the
moose-skin curtain that served as a door. He was an
old and wrinkled Cree. His face was so brown and
tough and netted with seams that it resembled a piece
of alligator leather. From out of it peered two very
small bright eyes.
"Ugh! Ugh! "he grunted.
This appeared to be all the English that he knew.
Beresford tried him in French and discovered he had a
THE LONG TRAIL 237
smattering of it. After a good many attempts, the
soldier found that he had seen no white man with a dog-
train in many moons. The Cree lived there alone, it
appeared, and trapped for a living. Why he was sep
arated from all his kin and tribal relations the young
Canadian could not find out at the time. Later he
learned that the old fellow was an outcast because he
had once shown the white feather in a battle with Black-
feet fifty years earlier.
Before they left, the travelers discovered that he
knew two more words of English. One was rum, the
other tobacco. He begged for both. They left him a
half -foot of tobacco. The scant supply of whiskey they
had brought was for an emergency.
Just before night fell, Morse shot two ptarmigan in
the woods. These made a welcome addition to their
usual fare.
Though both the men were experienced in the use of
snowshoes, their feet were raw from the chafing of the
thongs. Before the camp-fire they greased the sore
places with tallow. In a few days the irritation due to
the webs would disappear and the leg muscles brought
into service by this new and steady shuffle would harden
and grow fit.
They had built a wind-break of brush beside the sled
and covered the ground with spruce boughs after clear
ing away the snow. Here they rested after supper, dry
ing socks, duffles, and moccasins, which were wet with
perspiration, before the popping fire.
Beresford pulled out his English briar pipe and Tom
one picked from the Company stock. Smoke wreathed
238 MAN-SIZE
their heads while they lounged indolently on the spruce
bed and occasionally exchanged a remark. They knew
each other well enough for long silences. When they
talked, it was because they had something to say.
The Canadian looked at his friend s new gun-case and
remarked with a gleam in his eye:
"I spoke for that first, Tom. Had miners on it, I
thought."
The American laughed sardonically. "It was a present
for a good boy," he explained. "I ve a notion some
body was glad I was mushin with you on this trip.
Maybe you can guess why. Anyhow, I drew a present
out of it."
"I see you did," Beresford answered, grinning.
"I m to look after you proper an see you re tucked
up."
"Oh, that sit?"
"That s just it."
The constable looked at him queerly, started to say
something, then changed his mind.
CHAPTER XXXII
A PICTURE IN A LOCKET
IT was characteristic of McRae that he had insisted on
bringing Whaley to his own home to recuperate. "It s
nursin you need, man, an guid food. Ye 11 get baith
at the hoose."
The trader protested, and was overruled. His Cree
wife was not just now able to look after him. McRae s
wife and daughter made good his promise, and the
wounded man thrived under their care.
On an afternoon Whaley lay on the bed in his room
smoking. Beside him sat Lemoine, also puffing at a pipe.
The trapper had brought to the ex-gambler a strange
tale of a locket and a ring he had seen bought by a half-
breed from a Blackfoot squaw who claimed to have had
it eighteen years. He had just finished telling of it when
Jessie knocked at the door and came into the room with
a bowl of caribou broth.
Whaley pretended to resent this solicitude, but his
objection was a fraud. He liked this girl fussing over
him. His attitude toward her was wholly changed.
Thinking of her as a white girl, he looked at her with
respect.
"No more slops," he said. "Bring me a good caribou
steak and I ll say thank you."
"You re to eat what Mother sends," she told him.
Lemoine had risen from the chair on which he had
been sitting. He stared at her, a queer look of puzzled
240 MAN-SIZE
astonishment in his eyes. Jessie became aware of his
gaze and flashed on him a look of annoyance.
"Have you seen a ghost, Mr. Lemoine?" she asked.
"By gar, maybeso, Miss Jessie. The picture in the
locket, it jus lak you same hair, same eyes, same
smile."
"What picture in what locket?"
"The locket I see at Whoop-Up, the one Pierre Roubi-
deaux buy from old Makoye-kin s squaw."
"A picture of a Blackfoot?"
"No-o. Maybe French maybe from the Merican
country. I do not know."
Whaley took the pipe from his mouth and sat up, the
chill eyes in his white face fixed and intent. "Go back
to Whoop-Up, Lemoine. Buy that locket and that ring
for me from Pierre Roubideaux. See Makoye-kin
and his squaw. Find out where she got it and when.
Run down the whole story."
The trapper took off a fur cap and scratched his curly
poll. "Mais pourquois? All that will take money,
is it not so?"
"I ll let you have the money. Spend what you need,
but account for it to me afterward."
Jessie felt the irregular beat of a hammer inside her
bosom. "What is it you think, Mr. Whaley?" she cried
softly.
"I don t know what I think. Probably nothing to it.
But there s a locket. We know that. W T ith a picture
that looks like you, Lemoine here thinks. We d better
find out whose picture it is, had n t we?"
"Yes, but Do you mean that maybe it has some-
A PICTURE IN A LOCKET 241
thing to do with me? How can it? The sister of Stoki-
matis was my mother. Onistah is my cousin. Ask
Stokimatis. She knows. What could this woman of
the picture be to me?"
Jessie could not understand the fluttering pulse in
her throat. She had not doubted that her mother was
a Blackfoot. All the romance of her clouded birth cen
tered around the unknown father who had died when
she was a baby. Stokimatis had not been very clear
about that. She had never met the man, according to
the story she had told Sleeping Dawn. Neither she nor
those of her tribal group knew anything of him. Was
there a mystery about his life? In her childish dreams
Jessie had woven one. He was to her everything desir
able, for he was the tie that bound her to all the higher
standards of life she craved.
"I don t know. Likely it s all a mare s nest. Find
Stokimatis, Lemoine, and bring her back with you.
We ll see what she can tell us. And get the locket and
the ring, with the story back of them."
Again Lemoine referred to the cost. He would have
to take his dog-train to Whoop-Up, and from there out
to the creek where Pierre Roubideaux was living.
Makoye-kin and his family might be wintering any
where within a radius of a hundred miles. Was there
any use in going out on such a wild-hare chase?
Whaley thought there was and said so with finality.
He did not give his real reason, which was that he
wanted to pay back to McRae and his daughter the
debt he owed. They had undoubtedly saved his life
after he had treated her outrageously. There was al-
242 MAN-SIZE
ready one score to his credit, of course. He had saved
her from West. But he felt the balance still tipped
heavily against him. And he was a man who paid his
debts.
It was this factor of his make-up the obligation
of old associations laid upon him that had taken him
out to West with money, supplies, and a dog-train to
help his escape.
Jessie went out to find her father. Her eagerness to
see him outflew her steps. This was not a subject she
could discuss with Matapi-Koma. The Cree woman
would not understand what a tremendous difference it
made if she could prove her blood was wholly of the
superior race. Nor could Jessie with tact raise such a
point. It involved not only the standing of Matapi-
Koma herself, but also of her sons.
The girl found McRae in the storeroom looking over
a bundle of assorted pelts marten, fox, mink, and
beaver. The news tumbled from her lips in excited
exclamations.
"Oh, Father, guess! Mr. Lemoine saw a picture a
Blackf oot woman had it old Makoye-kin s wife
and she sold it. And he says it was like me exactly.
Maybe it was my aunt or some one. My father s
sister! Don t you think?"
"I ll ken what I think better gin ye 11 just quiet doon
an tell me a aboot it, lass."
She told him. The Scotchman took what she had to
say with no outward sign of excitement. None the less
his blood moved faster. He wanted no change in the
relations between them that would interfere with the
A PICTURE IN A LOCKET 243
love she felt for him. To him it did not matter whether
she was of the pure blood or of the metis. He had al
ways ignored the Indian hi her. She was a precious
wildling of beauty and delight. By nature she was of the
ruling race. There was in her nothing servile or de
pendent, none of the inertia that was so marked a men
tal characteristic of the Blackfoot and the Cree. Her
slender body was compact of fire and spirit. She was
alive to her finger-tips.
None the less he was glad on her account. Since it
mattered to her that she was a half-blood, he would re
joice, too, if she could prove the contrary. Or, if she
could trace her own father s family, he would try to
be glad for her.
With his rough forefinger he touched gently the ten
der curve of the girl s cheek. "I m thinkin that gin ye
find relatives across the line, auld Angus McRae will
be losin his dawtie."
She flew into his arms, her warm, young face pressed
against his seamed cheek.
"Never never! You re my father always that
no matter what I find. You taught me to read and
nursed me when I was sick. Always you ve cared for me
and been good to me. I ll never have any real father
but you," she cried passionately.
He stroked her dark, abundant hair fondly. "My lass,
I Ve gi en ye all the love any yin could gi e his ain bairn.
I doot I ve been hard on ye at times, but I m a dour
auld man an fine ye ken my heart was woe for ye when
I was the strictest."
She could count on the fingers of one hand the time&
244 MAN-SIZE
when he had said as much. Of nature he was a bit of
Scotch granite externally. He was sentimental. Most
of his race are. But he guarded the expression of it as
though it were a vice.
"Maybe Onistah has heard his mother say something
about it," Jessie suggested.
"Like enough. There ll be nae harm in askin the
lad."
But the Blackfoot had little to tell. He had been told
by Stokimatis that Sleeping Dawn was his cousin, but
he had never quite believed it. Once, when he had
pressed his mother with questions, she had smiled
deeply and changed the subject. His feeling was, and
had always been, that there was some mystery about
the girl s birth. Stokimatis either knew what it was or
had some hint of it.
His testimony at least tended to support the wild
hopes flaming in the girl s heart.
Lemoine started south for Whoop-Up at break of day.
CHAPTER XXXIII
INTO THE LONE LAND
INTO Northern Lights the pursuers drove after a four-
day traverse. Manders, of the Mounted, welcomed
them with the best he had. No news had come to him
from the outside for more than two months, and after
his visitors were fed and warmed, they lounged in front
of a roaring log fire while he flung questions at them of
what the world and its neighbor were doing.
Manders was a dark-bearded man, big for the North-
West Police. He had two hobbies. One was trouble in
the Balkans, which he was always prophesying. The
other was a passion for Sophocles, which he read in the
original from a pocket edition. Start him on the chariot
race in "Elektra" and he would spout it while he paced
the cabin and gestured with flashing eyes. For he was a
Rugby and an Oxford man, though born with the wan
derlust in his heart. Some day he would fall heir to a
great estate in England, an old baronetcy which carried
with it manors and deer parks and shaven lawns that
had taken a hundred years to grow. Meanwhile he
lived on pemmican and sour bannocks. Sometimes he
grumbled, but his grumbling was a fraud. He was here
of choice, because he was a wild ass of the desert and his
ears heard only the call of adventure. Of such was the
North-West Mounted.
Presently, when the stream of his curiosity as to the
outside began to dry, Beresford put a few questions of
246 MAN-SIZE
his own. Manders could give him no information. He
was in touch with the trappers for a radius of a hundred
miles of which Northern Lights was the center, but no
word had come to him of a lone traveler with a dog-train
passing north.
"Probably striking west of here," the big black Eng
lishman suggested.
Beresf ord s face twisted to a wry, humorous grimace.
East, west, or north, they would have to find the fellow
and bring him back.
The man-hunters spent a day at Northern Lights to
rest the dogs and restock their supplies. They over
hauled their dunnage carefully, mended the broken
moose-skin harness, and looked after one of the animals
that had gone a little lame from a sore pad. From a
French half-breed they bought additional equipment
much needed for the trail. He was a gay, good-looking
youth in new fringed leather hunting-shirt, blue Sas
katchewan cap trimmed with ribbons, and cross belt of
scarlet cloth. His stock in trade was dog-shoes, made
of caribou-skin by his wife, and while in process of
tanning soaked in some kind of liquid that would pre
vent the canines from eating them off their feet.
The temperature was thirty -five below zero when they
left the post and there were sun dogs in the sky. Man
ders had suggested that they had better wait a day or
two, but the man-hunters were anxious to be on the trail.
They had a dangerous, unpleasant job on hand. Both of
them wanted it over with as soon as possible.
They headed into the wilds. The road they made was
a crooked path through the white, unbroken forest.
INTO THE LONE LAND 247
They saw many traces of fur-bearing animals, but did
not stop to do any hunting. The intense cold and the
appearance of the sky were whips to drive them fast.
In the next two or three days they passed fifteen or
twenty lakes. Over these they traveled rapidly, but
in the portages and the woods they had to pack the
snow, sometimes cut out obstructing brush, and again
help the dogs over rough or heavy places.
The blizzard caught them the third day. They
fought their way through the gathering storm across a
rather large lake to the timber s edge. Here they cleared
away a space about nine feet square and cut evergreen
boughs from the trees to cover it. At one side of this,
Morse built the fire while Beresford unharnessed the
dogs and thawed out a mess of frozen fish for them.
Presently the kettles were bubbling on the fire. The
men ate supper and drew the sled up as a barricade
against the wind.
The cold had moderated somewhat and it had come
on to snow. All night a sleety, wind-driven drizzle
beat upon them. They rose from an uncomfortable
night to a gloomy day.
They consulted about what was best to do. Their
camp was in a poor place, among a few water-logged
trees that made a poor, smoky fire. It had little shelter
from the storm, and there was no evidence of fair
weather at hand.
"Better tackle the next traverse," Morse advised.
"Once we get across the lake we can t be worse off than
we are here."
"Righto!" assented Beresford.
248 MAN-SIZE
They packed their supplies, harnessed the dogs, and
were off. Into the storm they drove, head down, buf
feted by a screaming wind laden with stinging sleet
that swept howling across the lake. All about them they
heard the sharp reports of cracking ice. At any moment
a fissure might open, and its width might be an inch or
several yards. In the blinding gale they could see
nothing. Literally, they had to feel their way.
Morse went ahead to test the ice, Cuffy following close
at his heels. The water rushes up after a fissure and
soon freezes over. The danger is that one may come to
it too soon.
This was what happened. Morse, on his snowshoes,
crossed the thinly frozen ice safely. Cuffy, a step or two
behind the trail-breaker, plunged through into the
water. The prompt energy of Beresford saved the other
dogs. He stopped them instantly and threw his whole
weight back to hold the sled. The St. Bernard floun
dered in the water for a few moments and tried to reach
Morse. The harness held Cuffy back. Beresford ran
to the edge of the break and called him. A second or two
later he was helping to drag the dog back upon the firm
ice.
In the bitter cold the matted coat of the St. Bernard
froze stiff. Cuffy knew his danger. The instant the sled
was across the crack, he plunged at the load and went
forward with such speed that he seemed almost to drag
the other dogs with him.
Fortunately the shore was near, not more than three
or four miles away. Within half an hour land was
reached. A forest came down to the edge of the lake.
INTO THE LONE LAND 249
From the nearer trees Morse sliced birch bark. An
abundance of fairly dry wood was at hand. Before a
roaring fire Cuffy lay on a buffalo robe and steamed.
Within an hour he was snuggling a contented nose up
to Beresford s caressing hand.
Fagged out, the travelers went to bed early. Long
before daybreak they were up. The blizzard had died
down during the night. It left behind a crusted trail
over which the dogs moved fast. The thermometer
had again dropped sharply and the weather was bitter
cold. Before the lights of an Indian village winked at
them through the trees, they had covered nearly forty
miles. In the wintry afternoon darkness they drove
up.
The native dogs were barking a welcome long before
they came jingling into the midst of the tepees. Bucks,
squaws, and papooses tumbled out to see them with
guttural exclamations of greeting. Some of the young
sters and one or two of the maidens had never before
seen a white man.
A fast and furious melee interrupted conversation.
The wolfish dogs of the village were trying out the met
tle of the four strangers. The snarling and yelping
drowned all other sounds until the gaunt horde of sharp-
muzzled, stiff-haired brutes had been beaten back by
savage blows from the whip and by quick thrusts of a
rifle butt.
The head man of the group invited the two whites
into the largest hut. Morse and Beresford sat down
before a smoky fire and carried on a difficult dialogue.
They divided half a yard of tobacco among the men
50 MAN-SIZE
present and gave each of the women a small handful
of various-colored beads.
They ate sparingly of a stew made of fish, the gift
of their hosts. In turn the officers had added to the
menu a large piece of fat moose which was devoured
with voracity.
The Indians, questioned, had heard a story of a white
man traveling alone through the Lone Lands with a
dog-train. He was a giant of a fellow and surly, the
word had gone out. Who he was or where he was going
they did not know, but he seemed to be making for the
great river in the north. That was the sum and sub
stance of what Beresford learned from them about
West by persistent inquiry.
After supper, since it was so bitterly cold outside, the
man-hunters slept in the tepee of the chief. Thirteen
Indians too slept there. Two of them were the head
man s wives, six were his children, one was a grandchild.
W 7 ho the rest of the party were or what relation they
bore to him, the guests did not learn.
The place was filthy and the air was vile. Before
morning both the young whites regretted they had not
taken chances outside.
"Not ever again," Beresford said with frank disgust
after they had set out next day. " I 11 starve if I have to.
I ll freeze if I must. But, by Jove! I ll not eat Injun
stew or sleep in a pot-pourri of nitchies. Not good
enough."
Tom grinned. "While I was eatin the stew, I thought
I could stand sleepin there even if I gagged at the eats,
and while I was tryin to sleep, I made up my mind
INTO THE LONE LAND 251
if I had to choose one it would be the stew. Next time
we re wrastlin with a blizzard, we ll know enough
to be thankful for our mercies. We 11 be able to figure
it might be a lot worse."
That afternoon they killed a caribou and got much-
needed fresh meat for themselves and the dogs. Unfor
tunately, while carrying the hind-quarters to the sled,
Beresford slipped and strained a tendon in the left leg.
He did not notice it much at the time, but after an
hour s travel the pain increased. He found it difficult
to keep pace with the dogs.
They were traversing a ten-mile lake. Morse pro
posed that they camp as soon as they reached the edge
of it.
"Better get on the sled and ride till then," he added.
Beresford shook his head. "No, I 11 carry on all right.
Got to grin and bear it. The sled s overloaded anyhow.
You trot along and I ll tag. Time you ve got the fires
built and all the work done, I ll loaf into camp."
Tom made no further protest. "All right. Take it
easy. I ll unload and run back for you."
The Montanan found a good camp-site, dumped the
supplies, and left Cuffy as a guard. With the other dogs
he drove back and met the officer. Beresford was still
limping doggedly forward. Every step sent a shoot of
pain through him, but he set his teeth and kept moving.
None the less he was glad to see the empty sled. He
tumbled on and let the others do the work.
At camp he scraped the snow away with a shoe while
Morse cut spruce boughs and chopped wood for the fire.
Beresford suffered a good deal from his knee that
252 MAN-SIZE
night. He did not sleep much, and when day came it
was plain he could not travel. The camp-site was a
good one. There was plenty of wood, and the shape of
the draw in which they were located was a protection
from the cold wind. The dogs would be no worse for a
day or two of rest. The travelers decided to remain
here as long as might be necessary.
Tom went hunting. He brought back a bag of four
ptarmigan late in the afternoon. Fried, they were deli
cious. The dogs stood round in a half -circle and caught
the bones tossed to them. Crunch crunch crunch.
The bones no longer were. The dogs, heads cocked on
one side, waited expectantly for more tender tidbits.
" Saw deer tracks. To-morrow I 11 have a try for one,"
Morse said.
The lame man hobbled down to the lake next day,
broke the ice, and fished for jack pike. He took back
to camp with him all he could carry.
On the fourth day his knee was so much improved
that he was able to travel slowly. They were glad to see
that night the lights of Fort Desolation, as one of the
Mounted had dubbed the post on account of its lone
liness.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN
IN the white North travelers are few and far. It is im
possible for one to pass through the country without
leaving a record of his progress written on the terrain
and in the minds of the natives. The fugitive did not
attempt concealment. He had with him now an Indian
guide and was pushing into the Barren Lands. There
was no uncertainty about his movements. From Fort
Chippewayan he had swung to the northwest in the line
of the great frozen lakes, skirting Athabasca and follow
ing the Great Slave River to the lake of the same name.
This he crossed at the narrowest point, about where the
river empties into it, and headed for the eastern extrem
ity of Lake La Martre.
On his heels, still far behind, trod the two pursuers,
patient, dogged, and inexorable. They had left far in
the rear the out-forts of the Mounted and the little
settlements of the free traders. Already they were deep
in the Hudson s Bay Company trapping-grounds.
Ahead of them lay the Barrens, stretching to the inlets
of the Arctic Ocean.
The days were drawing out and the nights getting
shorter. The untempered sun of the Northland beat
down on the cold snow crystals and reflected a million
sparks of light. In that white field the glare was almost
unbearable. Both of them wore smoked glasses, but
even with these their eyes continually smarted. They
254 MAN-SIZE
grew red and swollen. If time had not been so great an
element in their journey, they would have tried to
travel only after sunset. But they could not afford this.
West would keep going as long and as fast as he
could.
Each of them dreaded snow-blindness. They knew
the sign of it a dreadful pain, a smarting of the eye
balls as though hot burning sand were being flung
against them. In camp at night they bathed their
swollen lids and applied a cool and healing salve.
Meanwhile the weeks slipped into months and still
they held like bulldogs to the trail of the man they were
after.
The silence of the wide, empty white wastes sur
rounded them, except for an occasional word, the whine
of a dog, and the slithering crunch of the sled-runners.
Erom unfriendly frozen deserts they passed, through
eternal stillness, into the snow wilderness that seemed
to stretch forever. When they came to forests, now
thinner, smaller, and less frequent, they welcomed them
as they would an old friend.
"He s headin for Great Bear, looks like," Morse sug
gested one morning after an hour in which neither of
them had spoken.
"I was wondering when you d chirp up, Tom,"
Beresford grinned cheerfully. "Sometimes I think I m
fed up for life on the hissing of snowshoe runners. The
human voice sure sounds good up here. Yes, Great Bear
Lake. And after that, where ?"
"Up the lake, across to the Mackenzie, and down it
to the ocean, I d say. He s makin for the whaling
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN 255
waters. Herschel Island maybe. He s hoping to bump
into a whaler and get down on it to Frisco."
"Your guess is just as good as any," the Canadian
admitted. "He s cut out a man-sized job for himself.
I 11 say that for him. It s a five-to-one bet he never gets
through alive, even if we don t nab him."
"What else can he do? He s got to keep going or be
dragged back to be hanged. I d travel too if I were in
his place."
"So would I. He s certainly hitting her up. Wish he d
break his leg for a week or two," the constable said
airily.
They swung into a dense spruce swamp and jumped
up a half -grown bear. He was so close to them that Tom,
who was breaking trail, could see his little shining eyes.
Morse was carrying his rifle, in the hope that he might
see a lynx or a moose. The bear turned to scamper
away, but the intention never became a fact. A bul
let crashed through the head and brought the animal
down.
An hour later they reached an Indian camp on the
edge of a lake. On stages, built well up from the ground,
drying fish were hanging out of reach of the dogs. These
animals came charging toward the travelers as usual,
lean, bristling, wolfish creatures that never had been
half-tamed.
Beresford lashed them back with the whip. Indians
came out from the huts, matted hair hanging over their
eyes. After the usual greetings and small presents had
been made, the man-hunters asked questions.
"Great Bear Lake wah-he-o-che (how far)?"
356 MAN-SIZE
The head man opened his eyes. Nobody in his right
mind went to the great water at this time of year. It
was maybe fifteen, maybe twenty days travel. Who
could tell? Were all the fair skins mad? Only three days
since another dog-train had passed through driven by a
big shaggy man who had left them no presents after he
had bought fish. Three whites in as many days, and
before that none but voyageur half-breeds in twice that
number of years.
The trooper let out a boyish whoop. "Gaining fast.
Only three days behind him, Tom. If our luck stands
up, he ll never reach the Great Bear."
There was reason back of Beresford s exultant shout.
At least one of West s dogs had bleeding feet. This the
stained snow on the trail told them. Either the big man
had no shoes for the animals or was too careless to use
them when needed, the constable had suggested to his
friend.
" It s not carelessness," Morse said. " It s his bullying
nature. Likely he s got the shoes, only he won t put em
on. He 11 beat the poor brute over the head instead and
curse his luck when he breaks down. He s too bull-
headed to be a good driver."
On the fourth day after this they came upon one of
the minor tragedies of sub-Arctic travel. The skeleton
of a dog lay beside the trail. Its bones had been picked
clean by its ravenous cannibal companions.
"Three left," Beresford commented. "He ll be fig
uring on picking up another when he meets any Indians
or Eskimos."
"If he does it won t be any good to work with his
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN 257
train. I believe we ve got him. He isn t twenty-five
miles ahead of us right now."
"I d put it at twenty. In about three days now the
fireworks will begin."
It was the second day after this that they began to
notice something peculiar about the trail they were fol
lowing. Hitherto it had taken a straight line, except
when the bad terrain had made a detour advisable.
Now it swayed uncertainly, much as a drunken man
staggers down a street.
"What s wrong with him? It can t be liquor. Yet if
he s not drunk, what s got into him?" the soldier asked
aloud, expecting no answer that explained this phenom
enon.
Tom shook his head. "See. The Indian s drivin now.
He follows a straight enough line. You can tell he s at
the tail line by the shape of the webs. And West s still
lurchin along in a crazy way. He fell down here. Is
he sick, d you reckon?"
"Give it up. Anyhow, he s in trouble. We ll know
soon enough what it is. Before night now we ll maybe
see them."
Before they had gone another mile, the trail in the
snow showed another peculiarity. It made a wide half-
circle and was heading south again.
"He s given up. What s that mean? Out of grub,
d you think?" Beresford asked.
"No. If they had been, he d have made camp and
gone hunting. We crossed musk-ox sign to-day, you
know."
"Righto. Can t be that. He must be sick."
258 MAN-SIZE
They kept their eyes open. At any moment now they
were likely to make a discovery. Since they were in a
country of scrubby brush they moved cautiously to
prevent an ambush. There was just a possibility that
the fugitive might have caught sight of them and be pre
paring an unwelcome surprise. But it was a possibility
that did not look like a probability.
"Something gone way off in his plans," Morse said
after they had mushed on the south trail for an hour.
"Looks like he don t know what he s doing. Has he
gone crazy?"
"Might be that. Men do in this country a lot. We
don t know what a tough time he s been through."
"I ll bet he s bucked blizzards aplenty in the last
two months. Notice one thing. West s trailin after the
guide like a lamb. He s makin a sure-enough drunk
track. See how the point of his shoe caught the snow
there an flung him down. The Cree stopped the sled
right away so West could get up. Why did he do that?
And why don t West ever stray a foot outa the path
that s broke? That s not like him. He s always boss o
the outfit always leadin ."
Beresford was puzzled, too. "I don t get the situation.
It s been pretty nearly a thousand miles that we ve been
following this trail eight hundred, anyhow. All the
way Bully West has stamped his big foot on it as boss.
Now he takes second place. The reason s beyond me."
His friend s mind jumped at a conclusion. "I reckon
I know why he s followin the straight and narrow path.
The guide s got a line round his waist and West s tied
to it."
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN 259
"Why?"
The sun s rays, reflected from the snow in a blinding,
brilliant glare, smote Morse full in the eyes. For days
the white fields had been very trying to the sight.
There had been moments when black spots had flickered
before him, when red-hot sand had been flung against
his eyeballs if he could judge by the burning sensation.
He knew now, in a flash, what was wrong with West.
To Beresford he told it in two words.
The constable slapped his thigh. "Of course. That s
the answer."
Night fell, the fugitives still not in sight. The country
was so rough that they might be within a mile or two
and yet not be seen.
"Better camp, I reckon," Morse suggested.
"Yes. Here. We ll come up with them to-morrow."
They were treated that evening to an indescribably
brilliant pyrotechnic display in the heavens. An aurora
flashed across the sky such as neither of them had ever
seen before. The vault was aglow with waves of red,
violet, and purple that danced and whirled, with fickle,
inconstant flashes of gold and green and yellow bars. A
radiant incandescence of great power lit the arch and
flooded it with light that poured through the cathedral
windows of the Most High.
At daybreak they were up. Quickly they breakfasted
and loaded. The trail they followed was before noon a
rotten one, due to a sudden rise in the temperature,
but it still bore south steadily.
They reached the camp where West and his guide had
spent the night. Another chapter of the long story of
260 MAN-SIZE
the trail was written here. The sled and the guide had
gone on south, but West had not been with them. His
webs went wandering off at an angle, hesitant and
uncertain. Sometimes they doubled across the track he
had already made.
Beresford was breaking trail. His hand shot straight
out. In the distance there was a tiny black speck in the
waste of white. It moved.
Even yet the men who had come to bring the law into
the Lone Lands did not relax their vigilance. They
knew West s crafty, cunning mind. This might be a ruse
to trap them. When they left the sled and moved for
ward, it was with rifles ready. The hunters stalked their
prey as they would have done a musk ox. Slowly, noise
lessly, they approached.
The figure was that of a huge man. He sat huddled
in the snow, his back to them. Despair was in the droop
of the head and the set of the bowed shoulders.
One of the dogs howled. The big torso straightened
instantly. The shaggy head came up. Bully West was
listening intently. He turned and looked straight at
them, but he gave no sign of knowing they were there.
The constable took a step and the hissing of the shoe-
runner sounded.
"I m watchin you, Stomak-o-sox," the heavy voice
of the convict growled. " Can t fool me. I see every
step you re takin ."
It was an empty boast, almost pathetic in its futility.
Morse and Beresford moved closer, still without speech.
West broke into violent, impotent cursing. "You re
there, you damned wood Cree! Think I don t know?
THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN 261
Think I can t see you? Well, I can. Plain as you can
see me. You come here an get me, or I 11 skin you alive
like I done last week. Hear me?"
The voice rose to a scream. It betrayed terror the
horrible deadly fear of being left alone to perish in the
icy wastes of the North.
Beresford crept close and waved a hand in front of
the big man s eyes. West did not know it. He babbled
vain and foolish threats at his guide.
The convict had gone blind snow-blind, and Sto-
mak-o-sox had left him alone to make a push for his own
life while there was still time.
CHAPTER XXXV
SNOW-BLIND
WEST grinned up at the officer, his yellow canines show
ing like tusks. His matted face was an unlovely sight.
In it stark, naked fear struggled with craftiness and
cruelty.
" Good you came back good for you. I ain t blind.
I been foolin you all along. Wanted to try you out.
Now we ll mush. Straight for the big lake. North by
west like we been going. Understand, Stomak-o-sox?
I ll not beat yore head off this time, but if you ever
try any monkey tricks with Bully West again " He
let the threat die out in a sound of grinding teeth.
Beresford spoke. His voice was gentle. Vile though
this murderer was, there was something pitiable in his
condition. One cannot see a Colossus of strength and
energy stricken to helplessness without some sense
of compassion.
"It s not Stomak-o-sox. We re two of the North-
West Mounted. You re under arrest for breaking prison
and for killing Tim Kelly."
The information stunned West. He stared up out of
sightless eyes. So far as he had known, no member of
the Mounted was within five hundred miles of him. Yet
the law had stretched out its long arm to snatch him
back from this Arctic waste after he had traveled nearly
fifteen hundred miles. It was incredible that there could
exist such a police force on earth.
SNOW-BLIND 263
" Got me, did you?" he growled. He added the boast
that he could not keep back. " Well, you d never a* got
me if I had n t gone blind never in this world. There
ain t any two of yore damned spies could land Bully
West when he s at himself."
"Had breakfast?"
He broke into a string of curses. "No, our grub s
runnin low. That wood Cree slipped away with all we
had. Wish I d killed him last week when I skinned him
with the dog- whip."
"How long have you been blind?"
"It s been comin on two-three days. This damned
burnin glare from the snow. Yesterday they give out
completely. I tied myself by a line to the Injun.
Knew I could n t trust him. After all I done for him
too."
"Did you know he was traveling south with you
had been since yesterday afternoon?"
"No, was he?" Again West fell into his natural
speech of invective. "When I meet up with him, I ll
sure enough fill him full o slugs," he concluded sav
agely.
"You re not likely to meet him again. We ve come
to take you back to prison."
Morse brought the train up and the hungry man was
fed. They treated his eyes with the simple remedies
the North knows and bound them with a handkerchief
to keep out the fierce light reflected from the snow.
Afterward, they attached him by a line to the driver.
He stumbled along behind. Sometimes he caught his
foot or slipped and plunged down into the snow. No-
264 MAN-SIZE
body had ever called him a patient man. Whenever
any mishap occurred, he polluted the air with his vile
speech.
They made slow progress, for the pace had to be regu
lated to suit the prisoner.
Day succeeded day, each with its routine much the
same as the one before. They made breakfast, broke
camp, packed, and mushed. The swish of the runners
sounded from morning till night fell. Food began to
run scarce. Once they left the blind man at the camp
while they hunted wood buffalo. It was a long, hard
business. They came back empty-handed after a two-
day chase, but less than a mile from camp they sighted
a half -grown polar bear and dropped it before the animal
had a chance to move.
One happy hour they got through the Land of Little
Sticks and struck the forests again.
They had a blazing fire again for the first time in six
weeks. Brush and sticks and logs went into it till it
roared furiously.
Morse turned from replenishing it to notice that West
had removed the bandage from his eyes.
"Better keep it on," the young man advised.
" I was changin it. Too tight. Gives me a headache,"
the convict answered sulkily.
"Can you see anything at all yet?"
"Not a thing. Looks to me like I never would."
Tom turned his head for him, so that he faced the
blaze squarely. "No light at all?"
"Nope. Don t reckon I ever will see."
"Maybe you will. I ve known cases of snow-blind-
SNOW-BLIND 265
ness where they could n t see for a month an* came out
all right."
"Hurts like blazes," growled the big fellow.
"I know. But not as bad as it did, does it? That
salve has helped some."
The two young fellows took care of the man as though
he had been a brother. They bathed his eyes, fed him,
guided him, encouraged him. He was a bad lot the
worst that either of them had known. But he was in
trouble and filled with self-pity. Never ill before, a
giant of strength and energy, his condition now ap
parently filled him w r ith despair.
He would sit hunched down before the fire, head
bowed in his hands, a mountain of dole and woe. Some
times he talked, and he blamed every one but himself
for his condition. He never had had a square deal.
Every one was against him. It was a rotten world.
Then he would fall to cursing God and man.
In some ways he was less trouble than if he had been
able to see. He was helpless and had to trust to them.
His safety depended on their safety. He could not strike
at them without injuring himself. No matter how much
he cringed at the thought of being dragged back to
punishment, he shrank still more from the prospect of
death in the snow wastes. The situation galled him.
Every decent word he gave them came grudgingly,
and he still snarled and complained and occasionally
bullied as though he had the whip hand.
"A nice specimen of ursus harrib&a," Beresford mur
mured to his companion one day. "Thought he was
game, anyhow, but he s a yellow quitter. Acts as though
266 MAN-SIZE
we were to blame for his blindness and for what s wait
ing for him at the end of the journey. I like a man to
stand the gaff when it s prodding him."
Morse nodded. " Look out for him. I ve got a notion
in the back o my head that he s beginning to see again.
He d kill us in a holy minute if he dared. Only his blind
ness keeps him from it. What do you say? Shall we
handcuff him nights?"
"Not necessary," the constable said. "He can t see a
thing. Watch him groping for that stick."
"All his brains run to cunning. Don t forget that.
Why should he have to feel so long for that stick? He
laid it down himself a minute ago. Tryin to slip one
over on us maybe."
The Canadian looked at the lean, brown face of his
friend and grinned. "I Ve a notion our imaginations too
are getting a bit jumpy. We ve had one bully time on
this trip with the reverse English. It s all in the
day s work to buck blizzards and starve and freeze,
though I would n t be surprised if our systems were
pretty well fed up with grief before we caught Mr. Bully
West. Since then well, you could n t call him a cheer
ful traveling companion, could you? A dozen times a
day I want to rip loose and tell him how much I don t
think of him."
"Still"
"We ll keep an eye on him. If necessary, it ll be the
bracelets for him. I d hate to have the Inspector send
in a report to headquarters, Constable Beresf ord miss
ing in the line of duty. I ve a prejudice against being
shot in the back."
SNOW-BLIND 267
"That s one of the reasons I m here to see you re
not if I can help it."
Breesford s boyish face lit up. He understood what
his friend meant. "Say, Faraway is n t New York or
London or even Toronto. But how d you like to be
sitting down to one of Jessie McRae s suppers? A bit of
broiled venison done to a juicy turn, potatoes, turnips,
hot biscuits spread with raspberry jam. By jove, it
makes the mouth water."
"And a slice of plum puddin to top off with," sug
gested Morse, bringing his own memory into play.
"Don t ask me how I d like it. That s a justifiable ex
cuse for murder. Get busy on that rubaboo. Our
guest s howlin for his dinner."
The faint suspicions of Morse made the officers more
wary. They watched their prisoner a little closer.
Neither of them quite believed that he was recovering
his sight. It was merely a possibility to be guarded
against.
But the guess of Morse had been true. It had been a
week since flashes of light had first come to West faintly.
He began to distinguish objects in a hazy way. Every
day he could see better. Now he could tell Morse from
Beresford, one dog from another. Give him a few more
days and he would have as good vision as before he had
gone blind.
All this he hid cunningly, as a miser does his gold.
For his warped, cruel brain was planning death to these
two men. After that, another plunge into the North
for life and freedom.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE WILD BEAST LEAPS
TOM MORSE was chopping wood. He knew how to han
dle an axe. His strokes fell sure and strong, with the
full circling sweep of the expert.
The young tree crashed down and he began to lop
off its branches. Halfway up the trunk he stopped and
raised his head to listen.
No sound had come to him. None came now. But
clear as a bell he heard the voice of Win Beresford
calling.
"Help! Help!"
It was not a cry that had issued from his friend s
throat. Tom knew that. But it was real. It had sprung
out of his dire need from the heart, perhaps in the one
instant of time left him, and it had leaped silently across
space straight to the heart of his friend.
Tom kicked into his snowshoes and began to run. He
held the axe in his hand, gripped near the haft. A
couple of hundred yards, perhaps, lay between him and
camp, which was just over the brow of a small hill.
The bushes flew past as he swung to his stride. Never
had he skimmed the crust faster, but his feet seemed to
be weighted with lead. Then, as he topped the rise, he
saw the disaster he had dreaded.
The constable was crumpling to the ground, his body
slack and inert, while the giant slashed at him with a
club of firewood he had snatched from the ground. The
THE WILD BEAST LEAPS 269
upraised arm of the soldier broke the force of the blow,
but Morse guessed by the way the arm fell that the
bone had snapped.
At the sound of the scraping runners, West whirled.
He lunged savagely. Even as Tom ducked, a sharp
pain shot through his leg from the force of the glancing
blow. The axe-head swung like a circle of steel. It
struck the convict s fur cap. The fellow went down like
an ox in a slaughter-house.
Tom took one look at him and ran to his friend.
Beresford was a sorry sight. He lay unconscious, head
and face battered, the blood from his wounds staining
the snow.
The man-hunters had come into the wilderness pre
pared for emergencies. Jessie McRae had prepared a
small medicine case as a present for the constable.
Morse ran to the sled and found this. He unrolled ban
dages and after he had washed the wounds bound them.
As he was about to examine the arm, he glanced
up.
For a fraction of a second West s wolfish eyes glared
at him before they took on again the stare of blindness.
The man had moved. He had hitched himself several
yards nearer a rifle which stood propped against a
balsam.
The revolver of the deputy constable came to light.
"Stop right where you re at. Don t take another step."
The convict snarled rage, but he did not move. Some
sure instinct warned him what the cold light in the eyes
of his captor meant, that if he crept one inch farther
toward the weapon he would die in his tracks.
270 MAN-SIZE
"He he jumped me," the murderer said hoarsely.
"Liar! You ve been shammin for a week to get a
chance at us. I d like to gun you now and be done with
it."
"Don t." West moistened dry lips. "Honest to God
he jumped me. Got mad at somethin I said. I
would n t lie to you, Tom."
Morse kept him covered, circled round him to the
rifle, and from there to the sled. One eye still on the
desperado, he searched for the steel handcuffs. They
were gone. He knew instantly that some time within
the past day or two West had got a chance to drop them
in the snow.
He found rawhide thongs.
"Lie in the snow, face down," he ordered. "Hands
behind you and crossed at the wrists."
Presently the prisoner was securely tied. Morse fas
tened him to the sled and returned to Beresford.
The arm was broken above the wrist, just as he had
feared. He set it as best he could, binding it with
splints.
The young officer groaned and opened his eyes. He
made a motion to rise.
"Don t get up," said Morse. "You ve been hurt."
"Hurt?" Beresford s puzzled gaze wandered to the
prisoner. A flash of understanding lit it. "He asked
me to light his pipe and when I turned
he hit me with a club," the battered man whis
pered.
"About how I figured it."
"Afraid I m done in."
THE WILD BEAST LEAPS 271
"Not yet, old pal. We ll make a fight for it," the
Montanan answered.
"I m sick." The soldier s head sank down. His eyes
closed.
All the splendid, lithe strength of his athletic youth
had been beaten out of him. To Morse it looked as
though he were done for. Was it possible for one to
take such a terrific mauling and not succumb? If he
were at a hospital, under the care of expert surgeons and
nurses, with proper food and attention, he might have a
chance in a hundred. But in this Arctic waste, many
hundred miles from the nearest doctor, no food but the
coarsest to eat, it would be a miracle if he survived.
The bitter night was drawing in. Morse drove West in
front of him to bring back the wood he had been cutting.
He made the man prepare the rubaboo for their supper.
After the convict had eaten, he bound his hands again
and let him lie down in his blankets beside the fire.
Morse did not sleep. He sat beside his friend and
watched the fever mount in him till he was wildly delir
ious. Such nursing as was possible he gave.
The prisoner, like a chained wild beast, glowered at
him hungrily. Tom knew that if West found a chance
to kill, he would strike. No scruple would deter him.
The fellow was without conscience, driven by the fear of
the fate that drew nearer with every step southward.
His safety and the desire of revenge marched together.
Beresford was out of the way. It would be his compan
ion s turn next.
After a time the great hulk of a man fell asleep and
snored stertorously. But Tom did not sleep. He dared
272 MAN-SIZE
not. He had to keep vigilant guard to save both his
friend s life and his own. For though West s hands
were tied, it would be the work of only a minute to burn
away with a live coal the thongs that bound them.
The night wore away. There was no question of
travel. Beresford was in the grip of a raging fever and
could not be moved. Morse made West chop wood while
he stood over him, rifle in hand. They were short of
food and had expected to go hunting next day. The
supplies might last at best six or seven more meals.
What was to be done then? Morse could not go and
leave West where he could get at the man who had put
him in prison and with a dog-train to carry him north.
Nor could he let West have a rifle with which to go in
search of game.
There were other problems that made the situation
impossible. Another night was at hand, and again Tom
must keep awake to save himself and his friend from
the gorilla-man who watched him, gloated over him,
waited for the moment to come when he could safely
strike. And after that there would be other nights
many of them.
What should he do? What could he do? While he sat
beside the delirious officer, Tom pondered that question.
On the other side of the fire lay the prisoner. Triumph
a horrible, cruel, menacing triumph rode in his
eye and strutted in his straddling walk when he got up.
His hour was coming. It was coming fast.
Once Tom fell asleep for a cat-nap. He caught him
self nodding, and with a jerk flung back his head and
himself to wakefulness. In the air was a burning odor.
THE WILD BEAST LEAPS 273
Instinct told him what it was. West had been tampering
with the rawhide thongs round his wrists, had been try
ing to burn them away.
He made sure that the fellow was still fast, then drank
a tin cup of strong tea. After he had fed the sick man a
little caribou broth, persuading him with infinite pa
tience to take it, a spoonful at a time, Morse sat down
again to wear out the hours of darkness.
The problem that pressed on him could no longer be
evaded. A stark decision lay before him. To postpone
it was to choose one of the alternatives. He knew now,
almost beyond any possibility of doubt, that either
West must die or else he and his friend. If he had not
snatched himself awake so promptly an hour ago, Win
and he would already be dead men. It might be that
the constable was going to die, anyhow, but he had a
right to his chance of life.
On the other hand there was one rigid rule of the
North- West Mounted. The Force prided itself on living
up to it literally. When a man was sent out to get a
prisoner, he brought him in alive. It was a tradition.
The Mounted did not choose the easy way of killing
lawbreakers because of the difficulty of capturing them.
They walked through danger, usually with aplomb,
got their man, and brought him in.
That was what Beresford had done with Pierre Pou-
lette after the Frenchman had killed Buckskin Jerry.
He had followed the man for months, captured him,
lived with him alone for a fourth of a year in the deep
snows, and brought him back to punishment. It was
easy enough to plead that this situation was a wholly
274 MAN-SIZE
different one. Pierre Poulette was no such dangerous
wild beast as Bully West. Win did not have with him
a companion wounded almost to death who had to be
nursed back to health, one struck down by the prisoner
treacherously. There was just a fighting chance for the
officers to get back to Desolation if West was eliminated
from the equation. Tom knew he would have a man s
work cut out for him to win through without the
handicap of the prisoner.
Deep in his heart he believed that it was West s life
or theirs. It was n t humanly possible, in addition to
all the other difficulties that pressed on him, to guard
this murderer and bring him back for punishment.
There was no alternative, it seemed to Tom. Thinking
could not change the conditions. It might be sooner, it
might be later, but under existing circumstances the
desperado would find his chance to attack, if he were
alive to take it.
The fellow s life was forfeit. As soon as he was turned
over to the State, it would be exacted of him. Since his
assault on Beresford, surely he had lost all claim to con
sideration as a human being.
Just now there were only three men in the world so
far as they were concerned. These three constituted
society. Beresford, his mind still wandering with inco
herent mutterings, was a non-voting member. He, Tom
Morse, must be judge and jury. He must, if the prisoner
were convicted, play a much more horrible role. In
the silence of the cold sub-Arctic night he fought the
battle out while automatically he waited on his friend.
West snored on the other side of the fire.
CHAPTER XXXVII
NEAR THE END OF A LONG CROOKED TRAIL
WHEN West awoke, Morse was whittling on a piece of
wood with his sharp hunting-knife. It was a flat section
from a spruce, and it had been trimmed with an axe
till it resembled a shake in shape.
The outlaw s curiosity overcame his sullenness at
last. It made him jumpy, anyhow, to sit there in silence
except for the muttering of the sick man.
"Whajamakin ?" he demanded.
Morse said nothing. He smoothed the board to his
satisfaction, then began lettering on it with a pencil.
"I said whajadoin ," growled West, after another
silence.
The special constable looked at him, and in the young
man s eyes there was something that made the murderer
shiver.
"I m making a tombstone."
"What?" West felt a drench of ice at his heart.
"A marker for a grave."
"For for him? Maybe he won t die. Looks better
to me. Fever ain t so high."
"It snot for him."
West moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "You
will have yore HT joke, eh? Who s it for?"
"For you."
"For me?" The man s fear burst from him in a
shriek. "Whajamean for me?"
276 MAN-SIZE
From the lettering Morse read aloud. " Bully West,
Executed, Some Time late in March, 1875. " And be
neath it, " May God Have Mercy on His Soul. "
Tiny beads of sweat gathered on the convict s clammy
forehead. "You aimin to to murder me?" he asked
hoarsely.
"To execute you."
"With without a trial? My God, you can t do
that! I got a right to a trial."
"You ve been tried and condemned. I settled all
that in the night."
"But it ain t legal. Goddlemighty, you got no
right to act thataway. All you can do is to take me back
to the courts." The heavy voice broke again to a scream.
Morse slipped the hunting-knife back into its case.
He looked steadily at the prisoner. In his eyes there was
no anger, no hatred. But back of the sadness in them
was an implacable resolution.
"Courts and the law are a thousand miles away," he
said. "You know your crimes. You murdered Tim
Kelly treacherously. You planned to spoil an innocent
girl s life by driving her to worse than death. You shot
your partner in the back after he did his best to help
you escape. You tortured Onistah and would have
killed him if we had n t come in time. You assaulted my
friend here and he ll probably die from his wounds. It s
the end of the long trail for you, Bully West. Inside of
half an hour you will be dead. If you ve anything to
say if you can make your peace with heaven
don t waste a moment."
The face of West went gray. He stared at the other
NEAR THE END OF A LONG TRAIL 277
man, the horror-filled eyes held fascinated. "You
you re tryin to scare me," he faltered. "You would n t
do that. You could n t. It ain t allowed by the Com
missioner." One of the bound arms twitched involun
tarily. The convict knew that he was lost. He had a
horrible conviction that this man meant to do as he had
said.
The face of Morse was inexorable as fate itself, but
inside he was a river of rushing sympathy. This man
was bad. He himself had forced the circumstances that
made it impossible to let him live. None the less Tom
felt like a murderer. The thing he had to do was so
horribly cold-blooded. If this had been a matter be
tween the two of them, he could at least have given the
fellow a chance for his life. But not now not with
Win Beresford in the condition he was. If he were going
to save his friend, he could not take the chances of a duel.
"Ten minutes now," Morse said. His voice was
hoarse and low. He felt his nerves twitching, a tense
aching in the throat.
"I always liked you fine, Tom," the convict pleaded
desperately. "Me n you was always good pals. You
would n t do me dirt thataway now. If you knew the
right o things how that Kelly kep a-devilin me,
how Whaley was layin to gun me when he got a chanct,
how I stood up for the McRae girl an protected her
against him. Goddlemighty, man, you ain t aimin
to kill me like a wolf!" The shriek of uncontrollable
terror lifted into his voice once more. "I ain t ready to
die. Gimme a chance, Tom. I ll change my ways. I
swear I will. I ll do like you say every minute. I ll
278 MAN-SIZE
nurse Beresford. Me, I m a fine nurse. If you ll gimme
a week jus one more week. That ain t much to ask.
So s I can git ready."
The man slipped to his knees and began to crawl
toward Morse. The young man got up, his teeth set.
He could not stand much of this sort of thing without
collapsing himself.
" Get up," he said. " We re going over the hill there."
<; No no no!"
It took Morse five minutes to get the condemned
man to his feet. The fellow s face was ashen. His
knees shook.
Tom was in almost as bad a condition himself.
Beresford s high voice cut in. In his delirium he was
perhaps living over again his experience with Pierre
Poulette.
" Maintiens le droit. Get your man and bring him in.
Tough sledding. Never mind. Go through, old fellow.
Bring him in. That s what you re sent for. Hogtie
him. Drag him with a rope around his neck. Get him
back somehow."
The words struck Tom motionless. It was as though
some voice were speaking to him through the sick man s
lips. He waited.
"Righto, sir," the soldier droned on. "See what I
can do, sir. Have a try at it, anyhow." And again he
murmured the motto of the Mounted Police.
Tom had excused himself for what he thought it was
his duty to do on the ground that it was not humanly
possible to save his friend and bring West back. It
came to him in a flash that the Mounted Police were
NEAR THE END OF A LONG TRAIL 279
becoming so potent a power for law and order because
they never asked whether the job assigned them was
possible. They went ahead and did it or died trying to
do it. It did not matter primarily whether Beresford
and he got back alive or not. If West murdered them,
other red-coats would take the trail and get him.
What he, Tom Morse, had to do was to carry on.
He could not choose the easy way, even though it was a
desperately hard one for him. He could not make him
self a judge over this murderer, with power of life and
death. The thing that had been given him to do was to
bring West to Faraway. He had no choice in the matter.
Win or lose, he had to play the hand out as it was dealt
him.
CHAPTER XXXVni
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL
TOM believed that Beresford s delirious words had con
demned them both to death. He could not nurse his
friend, watch West night and day, keep the camp sup
plied with food, and cover the hundreds of miles of
bleak snow fields which stretched between them and
the nearest settlement. He did not think that any one
man lived who was capable of succeeding in such a task.
Yet his first feeling was of immediate relief. The hor
rible duty that had seemed to be laid upon him was not
a duty at all. He saw his course quite simply. All he
had to do was to achieve the impossible. If he failed
in it, he would go down like a soldier in the day s work.
He would have, anyhow, no torturings of conscience, no
blight resting upon him till the day of his death.
"You re reprieved, West," he announced simply.
The desperado staggered to the sled and leaned
against it faintly. His huge body swayed. The revul
sion was almost too much for him.
"I I knowed you could n t treat an old pardner
thataway, Tom," he murmured.
Morse took the man out to a fir tree. He carried with
him a blanket, a buffalo robe, and a part of the dog
harness.
"Whad you aimin to do?" asked West uneasily.
He was not sure yet that he was out of the woods.
"Roll up in the blankets," ordered Morse.
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL 281
The fellow looked at his grim face and did as he was
told. Tom tied him to the tree, after making sure that
his hands were fast behind him.
" I 11 freeze here," the convict complained.
The two officers were lean and gaunt from hard work
and insufficient nourishment, but West was still sleek
and well padded with flesh. He had not missed a meal,
and during the past weeks he had been a passenger. All
the hard work, the packing at portages, the making of
camp, the long, wearing days of hunting, had fallen
upon the two whose prisoner he was. He could stand a
bit of hardship, Tom decided.
" No such luck," he said brusquely. " And I would n t
try to break away if I were you. I can t kill you, but
I 11 thrash you with the dog-whip if you make me any
trouble."
Morse called Cuffy and set the dog to watch the
bound man. He did not know whether the St. Bernard
would do this, but he was glad to see that the leader
of the train understood at once and settled down in the
snow to sleep with one eye watchful of West.
Tom returned to his friend. He knew he must con
centrate his efforts to keep life in the battered body of
the soldier. He must nurse and feed him judiciously
until the fever wore itself out.
While he was feeding Win broth, he fell asleep with the
spoon in his hand. He jerkily flung back his head and
opened his eyes. Cuffy still lay close to the prisoner,
evidently prepared for an all-night vigil with short light
naps from which the least movement would instantly
arouse him.
282 MAN-SIZE
"I m all in. Got to get some sleep," Morse said to
himself, half aloud.
He wrapped in his blankets. When his eyes opened,
the sun was beating down from high in the heavens.
He had slept from one day into the next. Even in his
sleep he had been conscious of some sound drumming at
his ears. It was the voice of West.
"You gonna sleep all day? Don t we get any grub?
Have I gotta starve while you pound yore ear?"
Hurriedly Tom flung aside his wraps. He leaped to
his feet, a new man, his confidence and vitality all
restored.
The fire had died to ashes. He could hear the yelping
of the dogs in the distance. They were on a private rab
bit hunt of their own, all of them but Cuffy. The St
Bernard still lay in the snow watching West.
Beresford s delirium was gone and his fever was less.
He was very weak, but Tom thought he saw a ghost of
the old boyish grin flicker indomitably into his eyes.
As Tom looked at the swathed and bandaged head,
for the first time since the murderous attack he allowed
himself to hope. The never-say-die spirit of the man
and the splendid constitution built up by a clean out
door life might pull him through yet.
"West was afraid you never were going to wake up,
Tom. It worried him. You know how fond of you he is,"
the constable said weakly.
Morse was penitent. "Why did n t you wake me,
Win? You must be dying of thirst."
"I could do with a drink," he admitted. "But you
needed that sleep. Every minute of it."
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL 283
Tom built up the fire and thawed snow. He gave
Beresford a drink and then fed more of the broth to
him. He made breakfast for the prisoner and himself.
Afterward, he took stock of their larder. It was al
most empty. "Enough flour and pemmican for another
mess of rubaboo. Got to restock right away or our
stomachs will be flat as a buffalo bull s after a long
stampede."
He spoke cheerfully, yet he and Beresford both knew
a hunt for game might be unsuccessful. Rabbits would
not do. He had to provide enough to feed the dogs
as well as themselves. If he did not get a moose, a bear,
or caribou, they would face starvation.
Tom redressed the wounds of the trooper and exam
ined the splints on the arm to make sure they had not
become disarranged during the night in the delirium of
the sick man.
"Got to leave you, Win. Maybe for a day or more.
I 11 have plenty of wood piled handy for the fire and
broth all ready to heat. Think you can make out?"
The prospect could not have been an inviting one for
the wounded man, but he nodded quite as a matter of
course.
"I ll be all right. Take your time. Don t spoil your
hunt worrying about me."
Yet it was with extreme reluctance Tom had made
up his mind to go. He would take the dog-train with
him and West, unarmed, of course. He had to take
him on Beresford s account, because he dared not leave
him. But as he looked at his friend, all the supple
strength stricken out of him, weak and helpless as a
284 MAN-SIZE
sick child, he felt a queer tug at the heart. What assur
ance had he that he would find him still alive on his
return?
Beresford knew what he was thinking. He smiled,
the gentle, affectionate smile of the very ill. "It s all
right, old fellow. Got to buck up and carry on, you
know. Look out for West. Don t give him any show
at you. Never trust him not for a minute. Remem
ber he s a wolf." His weak hand gripped Tom s in
farewell.
The American turned away hurriedly, not to show
the tears that unexpectedly brimmed his lids. Though
he wore the hard surface of the frontier, his was a sensi
tive soul. He was very fond of this gay, gallant youth
who went out to meet adventure as though it were a
lover with whom he had an appointment. They had
gone through hell together, and the fires of the furnace
had proved the Canadian true gold. After all, Tom was
himself scarcely more than a boy in years. He cherished,
deep hidden in him, the dreams and illusions that long
contact with the world is likely to dispel. At New Haven
and Cambridge lads of his age were larking beneath
the elms and playing childish pranks on each other.
West drove the team. Tom either broke trail or fol
lowed. He came across plenty of tracks, but most of
them were old ones. He recognized the spoor of deer,
bear, and innumerable rabbits. Toward noon fresh
caribou tracks crossed their path. The slot pointed
south. Over a soft and rotting trail Morse swung round
in pursuit.
They made heavy going of it. He had to break trail
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL 285
through slushy snow. His shoes broke through the
crust and clogged with the sludgy stuff so that his feet
were greatly weighted. Fatigue pressed like a load on
his shoulders. The dogs and West wallowed behind.
By night probably the trail would be much better,
but they dared not wait till then. The caribou would
not stop to suit the convenience of the hunters. This
might be the last shot in the locker. Every dragging lift
of the webs carried Morse farther from camp, but food
had to be found and in quantity.
It was close to dusk when Tom guessed they were get
ting near the herd. He tied the train to a tree and
pushed on with West. Just before nightfall he sighted
the herd grazing on muskeg moss. There were about a
dozen in all. The wind was fortunately right.
Tom motioned to West not to follow him. On hands
and knees the hunter crept forward, taking advantage
of such cover as he could find. It was a slow, cold busi
ness, but he was not here for pleasure. A mistake might
mean the difference between life and death for him and
Win Beresford.
For a stalker to determine the precise moment when
to shoot is usually a nice decision. Perhaps he can gain
another dozen yards on his prey. On the other hand, by
moving closer he may startle them and lose his chance.
With so much at stake Tom felt for the second time in
his life the palsy that goes with buck fever.
A buck flung up his head and sniffed toward the
hidden danger. Tom knew the sign of startled doubt.
Instantly his trembling ceased. He aimed carefully and
fired. The deer dropped in its tracks. Again he fired
286 MAN-SIZE
twice three times. The last shot was a wild one, sent
on a hundredth chance. The herd vanished in the gath
ering darkness.
Tom swung forward exultant, his webs swishing
swiftly over the snow. He had dropped two. A second
buck had fallen, risen, run fifty yards, and come to earth
again. The hunter s rifle was ready in case either of the
caribou sprang up. He found the first one dead, the
other badly wounded. At once he put the buck out of
its pain.
West came slouching out of the woods at Tom s
signal. Directed by the officer, he made a fire and pre
pared for business. The stars were out as they dressed
the meat and cooked a large steak on the coals. After
ward they hung the caribou from the limb of a spruce,
drawing them high enough so that no prowling wolves
could reach the game.
With the coming of night the temperature had fallen
and the snow hardened. The crust held beneath their
webs as they returned to the sled. West wanted to
camp where the deer had been killed. He protested,
with oaths, in his usual savage growl, that he was dead
tired and could not travel another step.
But he did. Beneath the stars the hunters mushed
twenty miles back to camp. They made much better
progress by reason of the frozen trail and the good meal
they had eaten.
It was daybreak when Morse sighted the camp-fire
smoke. His heart leaped. Beresford must have been
able to keep it alive with fuel. Therefore he had been
alive an hour or two ago at most.
OVER A ROTTING TRAIL 287
Dogs and men trudged into camp ready to drop with
fatigue.
Beresford, from where he lay, waved a hand at
Tom. "Any luck?" he asked.
"Two caribou."
"Good. I ll be ready for a steak to-morrow."
Morse looked at him anxiously. The glaze had left
his eyes. He was no longer burning up with fever.
Both voice and movements seemed stronger than they
had been twenty-four hours earlier.
"Bully for you, Win," he answered.
CHAPTER XXXIX
A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS
"DON T you worry about that lad, Jessie. He s got as
many lives as a cat and then some. I ve knew him
ever since he was knee-high to a grasshopper."
Brad Stearns was talking. He sat in the big family
room at the McRae house and puffed clouds of tobacco
smoke to the rafters.
"Meaning Mr. Beresford?" asked Jessie demurely.
She was patching a pair of leather trousers for Fergus
and she did not raise her eyes from the work.
"Meanin Tom Morse," the old-timer said. "Not but
what Beresford s a good lad too. Sand in his craw an a
kick like a mule in his fist. But he was brought up
somewheres in the East, an o course he s a leetle mite
less tough than Tom. No, sir. Tom 11 bob up one o
these here days good as ever. Don t you worry none
about that. Why, he ain t been gone but lemme see,
a week or so better n four months. When a man s got
to go to the North Pole an back, four months "
Beneath her long lashes the girl slanted a swift look
at Brad. "That makes twice you ve told me in two
minutes not to worry about Mr. Morse. Do I look
peaked? Am I lying awake nights thinking about him,
do you think?" She held up the renewed trousers and
surveyed her handiwork critically.
Brad gazed at her through narrowed lids. "I ll be
doggoned if I know whether you are or you ain t. I d
A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS 289
bet a pair o red-topped boots it s one of them lads.
Course Beresf ord s got a red coat an spurs that jingle
an a fine line o talk. Tom he ain t got ary one o J the
three. But if it s a man you re lookin for, a two-fisted
man who "
A wave of mirth crossed Jessie s face like a ripple on
still water. Her voice mimicked his. "Why do you
want to saw off an old maid on that two-fisted man
you ve knew ever since he was knee-high to a grass
hopper? What did he ever do to you that was so dog-
goned mean?"
"Now looky here, you can laugh at me all you ve a
mind to. All I m sayin is "
"Oh, I m not laughing at you," she interposed hur
riedly with an assumption of anxiety her bubbling eyes
belied. "If you could show me how to get your two-fisted
man when he comes back or even the one with the
red coat and the spurs and the fine line of talk
"I ain t sayin he ain t a man from the ground up
too," Brad broke in. "Considerin his opportunities
he s a right hefty young fellow. But Tom Morse he "
"That s it exactly. Tom Morse he "
"Keep right on makin fun o me. Tom Morse he s a
man outa ten thousand, an I don t know as I m coverin
enough population at that."
"And you re willing to make a squaw-man of him.
Oh, Mr. Stearns!"
He looked at her severely. "You got no license to
talk thataway, Jessie McRae. You re Angus McRae s
daughter an you been to Winnipeg to school. Anyways,
after what Lemoine found out "
*90 MAN-SIZE
"What did he find out? Pierre Roubideaux could n t
tell him anything about the locket and the ring.
Makoye-kin said he got it from his brother who was
one of a party that massacred an American outfit of
trappers headed for Peace River. He does n t know
whether the picture of the woman in the locket was that
of one of the women in the camp. All we ve learned is
that I look like a picture of a white woman found in a
locket nearly twenty years ago. That does n t take us
very far, does it?"
" Well, Stokimatis may know something. When Onis-
tah comes back with her, we ll get the facts straight."
McRae came into the room. "News, lass," he cried,
and his voice rang. "A Cree runner s just down frae
Northern Lights. He says the lads were picked up by
some trappers near Desolation. One o them s been
badly hurt, but he s on the mend. Which yin I dinna
ken. What wi starvation an blizzards an battles
they ve had a tough time. But the word is they re
doing fine noo."
"West?" asked Brad. "Did they get him?"
"They got him. Dragged him back to Desolation
with a rope round his neck. Hung on to him while
they were slam-bangin through blizzards an runnin
a race wi death to get back before they starved.
Found him up i the Barrens somewhere, the story is.
He 11 be hangit at the proper time an place. It s in the
Word. They that take the sword shall perish with the
sword/ Matthew 26: 52."
Brad let out the exultant rebel yell he had learned
years before in the Confederate army. "What d I tell
A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS 291
you about that boy? Ain t I knowed him since he was a
liT bit of a tad? He s a go-getter, Tom is. Y betcha!"
Jessie s heart was singing too, but she could not for
bear a friendly gibe at him. "I suppose Win Beresford
was n t there at all. He had n t a thing to do with it,
had he?"
The old cowpuncher raised a protesting hand. "I
ain t said a word against him. Now have I, McRae?
Nothin a-tall. All I done said was that I been tellin
everybody Tom would sure enough bring back Bully
West with him."
The girl laughed. "You re daffy about that boy
you brought up by hand. I ll not argue with you."
"They re both good lads," the Scotchman summed
up, and passed to his second bit of news. " Onistah and
Stokimatis are in frae the Blackfoot country. They
stoppit at the store, but they ll be alang presently.
I had a word wi Onistah. We ll wait for him here."
"Did he say what he d found out?" Jessie cried.
"Only that he had brought back the truth. That ll
be the lad knockin at the door."
Jessie opened, to let in Onistah and his mother.
Stokimatis and the girl gravitated into each other s
arms, as is the way with women who are fond of each
other. The Indian is stolid, but Jessie had the habit of
impetuosity, of letting her feelings sweep her into dem
onstration. Even the native women she loved were not
proof against it.
Mcllae questioned Stokimatis.
Without waste of words the mother of Onistah told
the story she had traveled hundreds of miles to tell.
292 MAN-SIZE
Sleeping Dawn was not the child of her sister. When
the attack had been made on the white trappers bound
for Peace River, the mother of a baby had slipped the
infant under an iron kettle. After the massacre her
sister had found the wailing little atom of humanity.
The Indian woman had recently lost her own child.
She hid the babe and afterward was permitted to adopt
it. When a few months later she died of smallpox,
Stokimatis had inherited the care of the little one. She
had named it Sleeping Dawn. Later, when the famine
year came, she had sold the child to Angus McRae.
That was all she knew. But it was enough for Jessie.
She did not know who her parents had been. She never
would know, beyond the fact that they were Americans
and that her mother had been a beautiful girl whose
eyes laughed and danced. But this knowledge made a
tremendous difference to her. She belonged to the ruling
race and not to the metis, just as much as Win Beresford
and Tom Morse did.
She tried to hide her joy, was indeed ashamed of it.
For any expression of it seemed like a reproach to
Matapi-Koma and Onistah and Stokimatis, to her
brother Fergus and in a sense even to her father. None
the less her blood beat fast. What she had just found
out meant that she could aspire to the civilization of
the whites, that she had before her an outlook, was not
to be hampered by the limitations imposed upon her by
race.
The heart in the girl sang a song of sunshine dancing
on grass, of meadowlarks flinging out their care-free
notes of joy. Through it like a golden thread ran for a
A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS 293
motif little melodies that had to do with a man who had
staggered into Fort Desolation out of the frozen North,
sick and starved and perhaps wounded, but still in
domitably captain of his soul.
CHAPTER XL
"MALBROUCK S EN VA-T-EN GUERRE"
INSPECTOR MACLEAN was present in person when the
two man-hunters of the North- West Mounted returned
to Faraway. Their reception was in the nature of a
pageant. Gayly dressed voyageurs and trappers, sing
ing old river songs that had been handed down to them
from their fathers, unharnessed the dogs and dragged
the cariole into town. In it sat Beresford, still unfit
for long and heavy mushing. Beside it slouched West,
head down, hands tied behind his back, the eyes from
the matted face sending sidling messages of hate at the
capering crowd. At his heels moved Morse, grim and
tireless, an unromantic figure of dominant efficiency.
Long before the worn travelers and their escort
reached the village, Jessie could hear the gay lilt of
the chantey that heralded their coming:
"Malbrouck s en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
The girl hummed it herself, heart athrob with excite
ment. She found herself joining in the cheer of welcome
that rose joyously when the cavalcade drew into sight.
In her cheeks fluttered eager flags of greeting. Tears
brimmed the soft eyes, so that she could hardly dis
tinguish Tom Morse and Win Beresford, the one lean
and gaunt and grim, the other pale and hollow-eyed
from illness, but scattering smiles of largesse. For her
heart was crying, in a paraphrase of the great parable,
MALBROUCK S EN VA-T-EN GUERRE 295
"He was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is
found."
Beresford caught sight of the Inspector s face and
chuckled like a schoolboy caught in mischief. This gay
procession, with its half-breeds in tri-colored woolen
coats, its gay-plumed voyageurs suggesting gallant
troubadours of old in slashed belts and tassels, was not
quite the sort of return to set Inspector MacLean cheer
ing. Externally, at least, he was a piece of military
machinery. A trooper did his work, and that ended it.
In the North-West Mounted it was not necessary to
make a gala day of it because a constable brought in
his man. If he did n t bring him in well, that would
be another and a sadder story for the officer who fell
down on the assignment.
As soon as Beresford and Morse had disposed of their
prisoner and shaken off their exuberant friends, they re
ported to the Inspector. He sat at a desk and listened
dryly to their story. Not till they had finished did he
make any comment.
"You ll have a week s furlough to recuperate, Con
stable Beresford. After that report to the Writing-on-
Stone detachment for orders. Here s a voucher for
your pay, Special Constable Morse. I ll say to you
both that it was a difficult job well done." He hesitated
a moment, then proceeded to free his mind. "As for
this Roman triumph business victory procession
with prisoners chained to your chariot wheels quite
unnecessary, I call it."
Beresford explained, smilingly. "We really could n t
help it, sir. They were bound to make a Roman holiday
296 MAN-SIZE
out of us whether we wanted to or not. You know how
excitable the French are. Had to have their little frolic
out of it."
"Not the way the Mounted does business. You
know that, Beresford. We don t want any fuss and
feathers any f ol-de-rol this mironton-ton-ton stuff.
Damn it, sir, you liked it. I could see you eat it up.
D you s pose I have n t eyes in my head?"
The veneer of sobriety Beresford imposed on his
countenance refused to stay put.
MacLean fumed on. "Hmp! Malbrouck s en va-t-en
guerre, eh? Very pretty. Very romantic, no doubt.
But damned sentimental tommyrot, just the same."
"Yes, sir," agreed the constable, barking into a
cough just in time to cut off a laugh.
"Get out!" ordered the Inspector, and there was the
glimmer of a friendly smile in his own eyes. "And I ll
expect you both to dine with me to-night. Six o clock
sharp. I ll hear that wonderful story in more detail.
And take care of yourself, Beresford. You don t look
strong yet. I ll make that week two or three if
necessary."
"Thank you, sir."
"Hmp! Don t thank me. Earned it, didn t you?
What are you hanging around for? Get out!"
Constable Beresford had his revenge. As he passed
the window, Inspector MacLean heard him singing.
The words that drifted to the commissioned officer
were familiar.
"Malbrouck s en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
MALBROUCK S EN VA-T-EN GUERRE 297
MacLean smiled at the irrepressible youngster. Like
most people, he responded to the charm of Winthrop
Beresford. He could forgive him a touch of debonair
impudence if necessary.
It happened that his heart was just now very warm
toward both these young fellows. They had come
through hell and had upheld the best traditions of the
Force. Between the lines of the story they had told he
gathered that they had shaved the edge of disaster a
dozen times. But they had stuck to their guns like
soldiers. They had fought it out week after week,
hanging to their man with bulldog pluck. And when at
last they were found almost starving in camp, they
were dividing their last rabbit with the fellow they were
bringing out to be hanged.
The Inspector walked to the window and looked down
the street after them. His lips moved, but no sound
came from them. The rhythmic motion of them might
have suggested, if there had been anybody present to
observe, that his mind was running on the old river song.
"Malbrouck s en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
CHAPTER XLI
SENSE AND NONSENSE
BERESFORD speaking, to an audience of one, who lis
tened with soft dark eyes aglow and sparkling:
"He s the best scout ever came over the border,
Jessie. Trusty as steel, stands the gaff without whining,
backs his friends to the limit, and plays the game out
till the last card s dealt and the last trick lost. Tom
Morse is a man in fifty thousand."
"I know another," she murmured. "Every word
you ve said is true for him too."
"He s a wonder, that other," admitted the soldier
dryly. "But we re talking about Tom now. I tell you
that iron man dragged West and me out of the Barrens
by the scruff of our necks. Would n t give up. Would n t
quit. The yellow in West came out half a dozen times.
When the ten-day blizzard caught us, he lay down and
yelped like a cur. I would n t have given a plugged six
pence for our chances. But Tom went out into it, during
a little lull, and brought back with him a timber wolf.
How he found it, how he killed it, Heaven alone knows.
He was coated with ice from head to foot. That wolf
kept us and the dogs alive for a week. Each day, when
the howling of the blizzard died down a bit, Tom made
West go down with him to the creek and get wood. It
must have been a terrible hour. They d come back so
done up, so frozen, they could hardly stagger in with
their jags of pine for the fire. I never heard the man
SENSE AND NONSENSE
complain not once. He stood up to it the way Tom
Sayers used to."
The girl felt a warm current of life prickling swiftly
through her. "I love to hear you talk so generously of
him."
"Of my rival?" he said, smiling. "How else can I
talk? The scoundrel has been heaping on me those
coals of fire we read about. I have n t told you half of
it how he nursed me like a woman and looked after
me so that I would n t take cold, how he used to tuck
me up in the sled with a hot stone at my feet and make
short days runs in order not to wear out my strength.
By Jove, it was a deucedly unfair advantage he took
of me."
"Is he your rival?" she asked.
"Is n t he?"
"In business?"
"How demure Miss McRae is," he commented. "Ob
serve those long eyelashes flutter down to the soft
cheeks."
"In what book did you read that?" she wanted to
know.
"In that book of suffering known as experience," he
sighed, eyes dancing.
"If you re trying to tell me that you re in love with
some girl "
"Have n t I been trying to tell you for a year?"
Her eyes flashed a challenge at him. "Take care, sir.
First thing you know you 11 be on thin ice. You might
break through."
" And if I did "
300 MAN-SIZE
"Of course I d snap you up before you could bat an
eye. Is there a girl living that wouldn t? And I m
almost an old maid. Don t forget that. I m to gather
rosebuds while I may, because time s flying so fast,
some poet says."
"Time stands still for you, my dear," he bowed, with
a gay imitation of the grand manner.
"Thank you." Her smile mocked him. She had
flirted a good deal with this young man and understood
him very well. He had no intention whatever of giving
up the gay hazards of life for any adventure so endur
ing as matrimony. Moreover, he knew she knew it.
"But let s stick to the subject. While you re
proposing "
"How you help a fellow along!" he laughed. "Am I
proposing?"
"Of course you are. But I haven t found out yet
whether it s for yourself or Mr. Morse."
"A good suggestion novel, too. For us both, let s
say. You take your choice." He flung out a hand in a
gay debonair gesture.
"You ve told his merits, but I don t think I ever
heard yours mentioned," she countered. "If you d
recite them, please."
"It s a subject I can do only slight justice." He
bowed again. "Sergeant Beresford, at your service, of
the North- West Mounted."
"Sergeant! Since when?"
"Since yesterday. Promoted for meritorious conduct
in the line of duty. My pay is increased to one dollar
and a quarter a day. In case happily your choice falls
SENSE AND NONSENSE 301
on me, don t squander it on silks and satins, on trips
to Paris and London
"If I choose you, it won t be for your wealth," she
assured him.
"Reassured, fair lady. I proceed with the inventory
of Sergeant Beresford s equipment as a future husband.
Fond, but, alas! fickle. A family black sheep, or if not
black, at least striped. Likely not to plague you long,
if he s sent on many more jobs like the last. Said to be
good-tempered, but not docile. Kind, as men go, but
a ne er-do-well, a prodigal, a waster. Something whis
pers in my ear that he ll make a better friend than a
husband."
"A twin fairy is whispering the same in my ear," the
girl nodded. "At least a better friend to Jessie McRae.
But I think he has a poor advocate in you. The descrip
tion is not a flattering one. I don t even recognize the
portrait."
"But Tom Morse "
"Exactly, Tom Morse. Have n t you rather taken
the poor fellow for granted?" She felt an unexpected
blush burn into her cheek. It stained the soft flesh to her
throat. For she was discovering that the nonsense be
gun so lightly was embarrassing. She did not want to
talk about the feelings of Tom Morse toward her. "It s
all very well to joke, but -
"Shall I ask him?" he teased.
She flew into a mild near-panic. "If you dare, Win
Beresford!" The flash in her eyes was no longer mirth.
"We ll talk about something else. I don t think it s
very nice of us to to -
302 MAN-SIZE
"Tom retired from conversational circulation, * he
announced. "Shall we talk of cats or kings?"
"Tell me your plans, now you ve been promoted."
"Plans? Better men make em. I touch my hat, say,
Yes, sir/ and help work em out. Coming back to Tom
for a minute, have you heard that the Colonel has writ
ten him a letter of thanks for the distinguished service
rendered by him to the Mounted and suggesting that a
permanent place of importance can be found for him on
the Force if he ll take it?"
"No. Did he? Is n t that just fine?" The soft glow
had danced into her eyes again. "He won t take it, will
he?"
"What do you think?" His eyes challenged hers
coolly. He was willing, if he could, to discover whether
Jessie was in love with his friend.
"Oh, I don t think he should," she said quickly. "He
has a good business. It s getting better all the time.
He s a coming man. And of course he d get hard jobs
in the Mounted, the way you do."
"That s a compliment, if it s true," he grinned.
"I dare say, but that does n t make it any
safer."
"They could n t give him a harder one than you did
when you sent him into the Barrens to bring back West."
His eyes, touched with humor and yet disconcertingly
intent on information, were fixed steadily on hers.
The girl s cheeks flew color signals. "Why do you
say that? I did n t ask him to go. He volunteered."
"Was n t it because you wanted him to?"
"I should think you d be the last man to say that,"
SENSE AND NONSENSE 303
she protested indignantly. "He was your friend, and he
did n t want you to run so great a risk alone."
"Then you did n t want him to go?"
"If I did, it was for you. Maybe he blames me for it,
but I don t see how you can. You ve just finished tell
ing me he saved your life a dozen times."
"Did I say I was blaming you?" His warm, affec
tionate smile begged pardon if he had given offense. "I
was just trying to get it straight. You wanted him to go
that time, but you would n t want him to go again. Is
that it?"
"I would n t want either of you to go again. What
are you driving at, Win Beresford?"
"Oh, nothing!" He laughed. "But if you think
Tom s too good to waste on the Mounted, you d better
tell him so while there s still time. He 11 make up his
mind within a day or two."
"I don t see him. He never comes here."
"I wonder why."
Jessie sometimes wondered why herself.
CHAPTER XLII
THE IMPERATIVE URGE
THE reason why Tom did not go to see Jessie was that
he longed to do so in every fiber of his being. His mind
was never freed for a moment from the routine of the
day s work that it did not automatically turn toward
her. If he saw a woman coming down the street with
the free light step only one person in Faraway possessed,
his heart would begin to beat faster. In short, he suf
fered that torment known as being in love.
He dared not go to see her for fear she might discover
it. She was the sweetheart of his friend. It was as
natural as the light of day that she turn to Win Beres-
ford with the gift of her love. Nobody like him had
ever come into her life. His gay courage, his debonair
grace, the good manners of that outer world such a girl
must crave, the affectionate touch of friendliness in his
smile: how could any woman on this forsaken edge of
the Arctic resist them?
She could not, of course, let alone one so full of the
passionate longing for life as Jessie McRae.
If Tom could have looked on her unmoved, if he
could have subdued or concealed the ardent fire inside
him, he would have gone to call occasionally as though
casually. But he could not trust himself. He was like
a volcano ready for eruption. Already he was arranging
with his uncle to put a subordinate here and let him
THE IMPERATIVE URGE 305
return to Benton. Until that could be accomplished, he
tried to see her as little as possible.
But Jessie was a child of the imperative urge. She
told herself fifty times that it was none of her business
if he did accept the offer of a place in the North- West
Mounted. He could do as he pleased. Why should she
interfere? And yet and yet
She found a shadow of excuse for herself in the fact
that it had been through her that he had offered himself
as a special constable. He might think she wanted him
to enlist permanently. So many girls were foolish about
the red coats of soldiers. She had noticed that among her
school-girl friends at Winnipeg. If she had any influence
with him at all, she did not want it thrown on that side
of the scale.
But of course he probably did not care what she
thought. Very likely it was her vanity that whispered
to her he had gone North with Win Beresford partly to
please her. Still, since she was his friend, ought she
not to just drop an offhand hint that he was a more
useful citizen where he was than in the Mounted? He
could n t very well resent that, could he? Or think her
officious? Or forward?
She contrived little plans to meet him when he would
be alone and she could talk with him, but she rejected
these because she was afraid he would see through them.
It had become of first importance to her that Tom Morse
should not think she had any but a superficial interest
in him.
When at last she did meet him, it was by pure chance.
Dusk was falling. She was passing the yard where his
306 MAN-SIZE
storehouse was. He wheeled out and came on her
plumply face to face. Both were taken by surprise
completely. Out of it neither could emerge instantly
with casual words of greeting.
Jessie felt her pulses throb. A queer consternation
paralyzed the faculties that ought to have come alertly
to her rescue. She stood, awkwardly silent, in a shy
panic to her pulsing finger-tips. Later she would flog
herself scornfully for her folly, but this did not help in
the least now.
"I I was just going to Mr. Whaley s with a little
dress Mother made for the baby," she said at last.
"It s a nice baby," was the best he could do.
"Yes. It s funny. You know Mr. Whaley didn t
care anything about it before while it was very little.
But now he thinks it s wonderful. I m so glad he does."
She was beginning to get hold of herself, to emerge
from the emotional crisis into which this meeting had
plunged her. It had come to her consciousness that he
was as perturbed as she, and a discovery of this nature
always brings a woman composure.
"He treats his wife a lot better too."
"There was room for it," he said dryly.
"She s a nice little thing."
"Yes."
Conversation, which had been momentarily brisk,
threatened to die out for lack of fuel. Anything was
better than significant silences in which she could al
most hear the hammering of her heart.
"Win Beresford told me about the offer you had to go
into the Mounted," she said, plunging.
THE IMPERATIVE URGE 307
"Yes?"
"Will you accept?"
He looked at her, surprised. "Did n t Win tell you?
I said right away I could n t accept. He knew
that."
"Oh! I don t believe he did tell me. Perhaps you
had n t decided then." Privately she was determining
to settle some day with Winthrop Beresford for leading
her into this. He had purposely kept silent, she knew
now, in the hope that she would talk to Tom Morse
about it. "But I m glad you ve decided against going
in."
"Why?"
"It s dangerous, and I don t think it has much
future."
"Win likes it."
"Yes, Win does. He ll get a commission one of these
days."
"He deserves one. I I hope you ll both be very
happy."
He was walking beside her. Quickly her glance
flashed up at him. Was that the reason he had held him
self so aloof from her?
"I think we shall, very likely, if you mean Win and I.
He s always happy, isn t he? And I try to be. I m
sorry he s leaving this part of the country. Writing-on-
Stone is a long way from here. He may never get
back. I ll miss him a good deal. Of course you will
too."
This was plain enough, but Tom could not accept it
at face value. Perhaps she meant that she would miss
308 MAN-SIZE
him until Win got ready to send for her. An idea lodged
firmly in the mind cannot be ejected at an instant s
notice.
"Yes, I ll miss him. He s a splendid fellow. I ve
never met one like him, so staunch and cheerful and
game. Sometime I d like to tell you about that trip
we took. You d be proud of him."
"I m sure all his friends are," she said, smiling a
queer little smile that was lost in the darkness.
"He was a very sick man, in a great deal of pain, and
we had a rather dreadful time of it. Of course it hit him
far harder than it did either West or me. But never a
whimper out of him from first to last. Always cheerful,
always hopeful, with a little joke or a snatch of a song,
even when it looked as though we could n t go on an
other day. He s one out of ten thousand."
"I heard him say that about another man only I
think he said one in fifty thousand," she made com
ment, almost in a murmur.
"Any girl would be lucky to have such a man for
a husband," he added fatuously.
"Yes. I hope he ll find some nice one who will appre
ciate him."
This left no room for misunderstanding. Tom s
brain whirled. "You you and he haven t had any
quarrel?"
"No. What made you think so? "
"I don t know. I suppose I m an idiot. But I
thought "
He stopped. She took up his unfinished sentence.
"You thought wrong."
THE IMPERATIVE URGE 309
They had come to Whaley s house. She made as
though to turn in.
He caught at her coat. "Wait," he said huskily.
"Let s let s walk to the end of the street."
Her heart flung out panic signals again. The pulse
in her soft throat drummed. "I don t think I d
better," she protested in a small voice.
"Yes," he said. "I ve something to say to you."
She meant to go into the house, but her feet did not
obey. Before she knew it they were keeping step with
those of Morse.
If he had anything to say, he appeared to have trou
ble in finding words to express himself. They walked in
silence. Once a wolf in the forest howled mournfully.
Their moccasins crunched on the snow crystals. No
other sound broke the stillness.
They reached the end of the street.
Caught in the tide of an emotional stress, the girl
made one attempt to escape. "I must hurry back," she
murmured.
He ignored her words, if he heard them. A world of
cold wonderful moonlight surrounded them. Above
them twinkled a million other worlds. And in all this
universe of space were just two people, the man and
the woman.
"I m a presumptuous fool," he broke out. "After
what s between us after that first night when I
made you hate me but I can t help it I d better
tell you and be done with it. I love you always have
always shall. Now tell me that you hate me, and
I 11 never trouble you again. I m going away soon."
310 MAN-SIZE
"Can I tell you that when I don t?" she asked, so
low he just caught the words.
"You are good. You ve tried to be friendly to me,
but deep down in you "
Her eyes met his wonderful eyes, soft and radiant
and dewy, with the light in them it is given only one
man to see. "A girl forgives a man everything he has
done when she loves him. There is n t room for
anything else. It just fills her."
His heart sang. It was impossible, of course. Yet
it was true. She loved him. Had she not just said so?
He looked at her, dazed, his soul full of her slender
sweetness, of the sense of the amazing gift he dared not
reach out his hands to take.
Then how neither of them knew she was in his
arms, warm, trembling, close to tears, her whole being
exquisitely happy.
When he looked up into the sky again, the moonlight
was no longer chill. The stars twinkled warm benedic
tions. A miracle had transformed the night.
THE END
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