The Promise Read online

  CHAPTER XV

  THE WERWOLF

  Now, as all men know, Bill Carmody had done a most foolish and insanething.

  But the very audacity of his act--and the god of chance--favored him,for as the axe whizzed through the air the keen edge of the whirlingbit caught one of the larger wolves full on the side of the head.

  There followed the peculiar, dull scrunching sound that stands aloneamong all other sounds, being produced by no other thing than thesudden crush of a living skull.

  The front and side of the skull lifted and turned backward upon itshinge of raw scalp and the wolf went down, clawing and biting, and overthe snow flowed thick red blood, and a thicker mucus of soft, wetbrains.

  At the sight and scent of the warm blood, the companions of thestricken brute--the gaunt, tireless leaders, who had traveled besidehim in the van, and the rag-tag and bobtail alike--fell upon him toothand nail, and the silence of the forest was shattered by the blood-cryof the meat-getters.

  Not so the great she-wolf, who despised these others that fought amongthemselves, intent only upon the satisfaction of their hunger.

  Her purpose in trailing this man to destruction was of deep vengeance:the assuagement of an abysmal hatred that smoldered in her heartagainst every individual of the terrible man kind, whose cruel traps ofiron, blades of steel, and leaden bullets had made her a monstrous,sexless thing, feared and unsought by mating males, hated of her ownbreed.

  And now, at the moment she had by the cunning of her generalshipdelivered this man an easy prey to her followers, they deserted her andfell in swinish greed upon the first meat at hand.

  So that at the last she faced her enemy alone, and the smoldering furyof her heart blazed green from her wicked eyes. She stood tense as apointer, every hair of her long white coat bristlingly aquiver.

  Suddenly she threw back her head, pointed her sharp muzzle to the sky,and gave voice to the long-drawn ululation which is the battle-cry ofwolves.

  Yet it was not the wolf-cry, for long ago the malformation of a healingthroat-wound had distorted the bell-like cry into a hideous scream likethe shriek of a soul foredamned, which quavered loud and shrill uponthe keen air and ended in a series of quick jerks, like stabs ofhorrible laughter.

  And then, with tight-drawn lips and jaws agape, she hurled herselfstraight at the throat of the stumbling man.

  * * * * *

  Darkness was gathering when, a mile to the northward, Jake LaFranz andIrish Fallon, who were laboring with six big horses and a rough logdrag to break out the trail, suddenly paused to listen.

  Through the thin, cold air rang a sound the like of which neither hadever heard. And then, as if in echo, the long-drawn wail of the greatwhite wolf.

  They stared at each other white-lipped; for that last cry was a thingmen talked about of nights with bated breath and deep curses. Neitherhad heard it before--nor would either hear it again--but eachrecognized the sound instinctively, as he would recognize the sound ofGabriel's trump.

  "It's _her_!" gasped LaFranz. "God save us! It's Diablesse--the_loup-garou_!"

  "'Tis none other--that last. But, man! Man! The first wan! Was it ahuman cry or from the throat of another of her hell-begotten breed?"

  Without waiting to reply the Frenchman swung the big six-team in theirtracks and headed them toward camp. But Irish Fallon reached for him ashe fumbled at the clevis.

  "Howld on, ye frog-eater! Be a man! If 'twas human tore loose that yellhe'll be the bether fer help, notwithstandin' there was more av foightnor fear in th' sound."

  "No, no, no! It's _her_! It's Diablesse!" He crossed himself.

  "Sure, an' ut is; bad cess to her altogether. But Oi got a hear-rt inme ribs o'good rid blood that takes relish now an' agin in a bit av afoight. An', man or baste, Oi ain't particular, so 'tis a good wan.Oi'll be goin' down th' thrail a piece an' see phwat's to see. Oi ain'taxin' ye to go 'long. Ye poor prayer-dhrivlin' haythen, wid yer limonav a hear-rt ye've got a yallar shtripe that raches to th' length an'width av ye. Ye'd be no good nohow.

  "But 'tis mesilf ain't fearin' th' evil eye av th' werwolf--an' she iscalled be the name av th' divil's own.

  "But listen ye here, ye pea-soup Frinchy! Ye'll not go shnakin' off widthim harses. Ye'll bide here till Oi come back."

  The other made a whimper of protest, but Irish Fallon reached out agreat hairy hand and shook him roughly.

  "Yez moind now, an' Oi mane ut! Here ye shtay. An' av ye ain't here,ye'd bether kape on goin'. F'r th' nixt toime Oi lay eyes on ye Oi'llbr-reak ye in two! An' don't ye fergit ut!"

  The big Irishman turned and swung down the tote-road, the webs of hisrackets leaving a broad trail in the snow. LaFranz cowered upon thesnow-plow and sought refuge in craven prayer and curses the while heshot frightened glances into the darkening forest.

  He thought of cutting the horses loose and starting them for camp at arun. But, much as he feared the werwolf, he feared Irish Fallon more;for many were the tales of Fallon's man-fights when his "Irish was up."

  * * * * *

  When the white wolf sprang the man had nearly reached the snarlingpack. Before him, scarcely six feet away, lay his axe, the bladesmeared with blood and brains, to which clung stiff gray hairs.

  Instinctively he ducked and, as the huge form flashed past, his rightarm shot out straight from the shoulder. The long, clean blade enteredjust at the point of the brisket and, ranging upward, was buried to thehaft as the knife was torn from his grasp.

  One step and the man's fingers closed about the helve of his axe, andhe whirled to meet the second onslaught.

  But there was small need. The great brute stood still in her tracksand, with lowered head, snapped and wrenched at the thing that bit intoher very lungs.

  The stag-horn plates of the protruding hilt were splintered under theclamp of the mighty jaws, and the long, gleaming teeth made deep dentsin the brass beneath. Her lips reddened, and before her the snow wasflecked with blood.

  All this the man took in at a glance without conscious impression. Hegripped his weapon and sprang among the fighting pack, which ripped anddragged at the carcass of the dead wolf.

  Right and left he struck in a reckless fume of ferocity, which spoke ofunreasoning fights in worlds of savage firstlings. And under thesmashing blows of the axe wolves went down--skulls split, spinescrushed, ribs caved in--a side at a stroke, and shoulders were clovenclean and deep to pink sponge lungs.

  As if realizing that her hurt was mortal, the great she-wolf abandonedher attack on the knife-haft and, summoning her strength for a supremeeffort, sprang straight into the midst of the red shambles.

  The man, caught unawares, went down under the impact of her body. Forone fleeting second he stared upward into blazing eyes. From betweenwide-sprung rows of flashing fangs the blood-dripping tongue seemed towrithe from the cavernous throat, and the foul breath blew hot againsthis face. Instantly his strong fingers buried themselves in the shaggyfur close under the hinge of the jaw, while his other hand closed aboutthe dented brass of the protruding knife-hilt.

  With the whole strength of his arm he held the savage jaws from hisface as he wrenched and twisted at the firmly embedded knife. Finallyit loosened, and as the thick-backed blade was withdrawn from the woundit was followed by spurt after spurt of blood--bright, frothy blood,straight from the lungs, which gushed hot and wet over him.

  Blindly he struck; stabbing, thrusting, slashing at the great formwhich was pressing him deeper and deeper into the snow. Again and againthe knife was turned against rib and shoulder-blade, inflicting onlyshallow surface wounds.

  At length a heavy, straight upthrust encountered no obstacle of bone,and the blade bit deep and deeper into living flesh.

  As with a final effort the knife was driven home, a convulsive shiverracked the body of the great white wolf, and with a low, gurgling moanof agony her jaws set rigid, her muscles stiffened, and she toppledsidewise into the sno
w, where she lay twitching spasmodically withglazing eyes.

  Bill staggered weakly to his feet.

  The uninjured wolves had vanished, leaving their dead upon the snow,while the wounded left flat, red trails as they sought to drag theirbroken bodies to the cover of the forest.

  Irish Fallon rounded a turn of the tote-road. He brought up sharply andstared open-mouthed at the man who, sheath-knife in hand, stood lookingdown at an indistinct object which lay upon the blood-trampled snow.

  Carmody turned and shouted a greeting, but without a word the Irishmanadvanced to his side until he, too, stood looking down at the thing inthe snow. Suddenly Bill's hand was seized in a mighty grip.

  "Man! 'Tis _her_, an' no mistake! She's done for at lasht--an' blade tofang, in open foight ye've knoifed her! Sure, 'tis a gr-rand toimeye've had altogether," he said, glancing at the carcasses, "wid sixdead besides her an' three more as good as."

  Bill laughed: "This wolf--the big white one--seems to enjoy areputation, then?"

  "R-r-reputation! R-r-reputation, is ut? Good Lord, man! Don't ye knowher? 'Tis th' werwolf! D'ablish, th' _loup-garou_, the Frinchies callher; an' the white divil, the Injuns--an' good rayson, f'r to me ownknowledge she's kilt foive folks, big an' shmall, an' some Injunsbesides. They claim she's a divil, an' phwin she howls, 'tis becausesome sowl has missed th' happy huntin' grounds in th' dyin', an' she'slaughin'."

  "I don't know that I blame them," said Bill. "She favored me with avocal selection. And, believe me, she was no mocking-bird."

  "Well, she looks dead, now," grinned Fallon; "but we'd besht make sure.Owld man Frontenelle kilt her wunst. Seven year back, ut was over onMonish.

  "He shot her clean t'rough th' neck an' dhrug her to his cabin be th'tail. He was for skinnin' her flat f'r th' robe she'd make. He had herstretched out phwin wid a flash an' a growl, she was at um, an' wid wanclap av th' jaws she ripped away face an' half th' scalp.

  "They found um wanderin' blind on th' lake ice an' carried um toSkelly's phwere he died in tin days' toime av hydrophoby, shnarlin' an'bitin' at folks till they had to chain um in th' shtoreroom."

  As he spoke, Fallon picked up the axe, and with several well-directedblows shattered the skull of the werwolf against any possibility of arepetition of the Frontenelle incident.

  "But come, man, get yer rackets an' we'll be hittin' the thrail f'rcamp. Sure, Frinchy'll be scairt shtiff av we lave um longer."

  "Rackets?" asked Bill, with a look of perplexity.

  "Yer shnow shoes, av coorse."

  "Haven't got any. And I don't suppose I could use them if I had." Theother stared at him incredulously.

  "Not got any! Thin how'd ye git here?"

  "Walked--or rather, stumbled along."

  "Phwere from?"

  "It started to snow as I left the old shack--the last one this way, Idon't know how far back. It was there I traded my boots to an Indianfor these." He extended a moccasined foot.

  "'Tis a good job ye traded. But even at that--thirty-foive moilet'rough th' snow widout webs!" The Irishman looked at him in openadmiration. "An' on top av that, killin' th' werwolf wid a knoife, an'choppin' her pack loike so much kindlin's! Green, ye may be--an'ignorant. But, frind, ye've done a man's job this day, an' Oi'm pr-roudto know yez."

  Again he extended his hand and Bill seized it in a strong grip.Somehow, he did not resent being called green, and ignorant--he waslearning the North.

  "Fallon's me name," the other continued, "an' be an accident av birth,Oi'm called Oirish, f'r short."

  "Mine is Bill, which is shorter," replied Carmody, smiling.

  For just a second Irish hesitated as if expecting furtherenlightenment, but, receiving none, reached down and grasped the tailof the white wolf.

  "'Tis a foine robe she'll make, Bill, an' in th' North, among white minan' Injuns, 'twill give ye place an' shtandin'--but not widMoncrossen," he added with a frown.

  "Come on along. Foller yez in behint, f'r th' thrail'll be fairbr-roke. Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th'wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwereFrinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' harses."