The Promise Page 50

  CHAPTER XLIX

  ON THE RIVER

  That Blood River Jack's fear for the safety of Jeanne was well foundedwas borne home to Bill Carmody in the story the girl poured into hisears as they pushed on in the direction of Moncrossen's camp.

  The night was jet black, and Bill marveled at the endurance of the girland the unfailing sagacity with which she led the way.

  The honeycombed river ice sagged toward the middle of the stream, andthe water from the melting snow followed this depression, leaving thehigher edges comparatively dry and free from snow.

  The drizzling rain continued as the two stumbled forward, slipping andsplashing through deep pools of icy water. Each moment they were indanger of plunging through some hole in the rotting ice; but the girlpushed unhesitatingly onward, and the man followed.

  Between them and the camp of Moncrossen lay upward of a hundred milesof precarious river trail, and with no crust on the water-soaked snowof the forest they could not take advantage of the short cuts whichwould have stricken many miles from their journey.

  It was broad daylight when Bill called a halt, and after manyunsuccessful attempts succeeded in kindling a sickly blaze in theshelter of a clay-streaked cut-bank.

  He unslung the pack which he had taken from the shoulders of the girl,and removed some bacon and sodden bannock. As they toasted the baconand dried the bannock at the smoky fire the girl hardly removed hergaze from the face of the big, silent man who, during the whole longnight, had scarcely spoken a word.

  Her eyes flashed as they traveled over the mighty breadth of him andnoted the great muscular arms, the tight-clamped jaw, and the steelyglint of the narrowed gray eyes.

  Her face glowed with the pride of his strength as she recalled theparting scene in the bunk-house when he had hurled the heavy bench,crashing through the door, and defied the men of the logs.

  He had done this thing for _her_, she reflected--for her, and that hemight keep his promise to old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She wondered at hissilence. Why did he not speak? And why did he sit gazing withtight-pressed lips into the flaring, spitting little fire?

  Her breath came faster, and she laid a timid hand upon the man's arm.

  "The woman?" she asked abruptly. "Who is this woman with the hair ofgold and the eyes of the summer sky?" The slender fingers gripped hisarm convulsively. "She is the woman of the picture!" she cried, and hereyes sought his.

  Bill Carmody nodded slowly and continued to stare into the fire.

  "She is my--my wife," he groaned.

  "Your--_wife_!"

  The girl repeated the words dully, as if seeking to grasp their import.Her fingers relaxed, her eyes closed, and she lay heavily back upon theblanket. A long time she remained thus while Bill stared stolidly intothe fire.

  At length he aroused himself and glanced toward Jeanne, who lay at hisside, breathing the long, regular breaths of the deep sleep of utterweariness; and he noted the deep lines of the beautiful face and thehollow circles beneath the closed eyes that told of the terribletrail-strain.

  "Sixty straight hours of _that_!" he exclaimed as his glance traveledover the precarious river trail. Curbing his patience, he waited anhour and then gently awoke the sleeping girl.

  "Jeanne," he said as she gazed at him in bewilderment, "you need sleep.I will go alone to the camp of Moncrossen." At the words she sprang toher feet.

  "No! No!" she cried; "I have slept. I am not tired. Come--to-day, andto-night--and in the morning we come to the camp."

  "We must go then," said Bill, and added more to himself than to Jeanne:"I wonder if he would _dare_?"

  "He would dare _anything_--that is not good!" the girl answeredquickly. "He has the bad heart. But Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will not starvequickly. She is old and tough, and can go for many days without food;as in the time of the famine when she refused to eat that we, herchildren, might live.

  "Even in times of plenty she eats but little, for she lives in the longago with Lacombie--in the days of her youth and--and happiness. For sheloved Lacombie, and--Lacombie--loved--her."

  The girl's voice broke throatily, and she turned abruptly toward theriver.

  The fine, drizzling rain, which had fallen steadily all through thenight, changed to a steady downpour that chilled them to the bone.

  The stream of shallow water that flowed over the surface of the iceswelled to a torrent, forcing them again and again to abandon the riverand slosh knee-deep through the saturated snow of the forest.

  Broken ice cakes began to drift past--thick, black cakes which scrapedand ground together as they swung heavily in the current.

  "The ice is going out!" cried the girl in dismay. "We can no longerkeep to the river!"

  Bill's teeth clenched. "The breakup!" he groaned. "Moncrossen will goout on the flood, and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta----"

  He redoubled his efforts, fairly dragging the girl through the deepslush. The rain was carrying off the snow with a rush. The gullies andravines were running bankful, and time and again the two were forced toplunge shoulder-deep into the icy waters.

  At noon they halted, and in the dripping shelter of a dense thicketwolfed down a quantity of sodden bannock and raw bacon. The river rosehourly, and the crash and grind of the moving ice thunderedcontinuously upon their ears.

  Progress was slow and grueling. By the middle of the afternoon they hadcovered about forty miles. The water from the rising river began to setback into the ravines, forcing them to make long detours before daringto chance a ford.

  Darkness came as an added hardship, and as they toiled doggedly aroundan abrupt bend they saw on a tiny plateau, high above the dark watersof the river, a faint flicker of light.

  The girl paused and regarded it curiously; then, hurrying to the point,she peered up and down the river, striving for landmarks in thegathering gloom.

  "Vic Chenault's cabin!" she cried. "I missed it coming up. I knew itwas somewhere up the river. He is a friend of Jacques, and his fatherwas the good friend of Lacombie."

  Drenched and weary, the two pushed toward the light, crossingswift-rushing gullies whose icy waters threatened each moment to sweepthem from their feet.

  Slipping and stumbling through the muck and slush, crashing throughdripping underbrush, they stood at length before the door of thelow-roofed log cabin.

  Their knock was answered by a tousled-headed man who stood, lamp inhand, and blinked owlishly at them from the shelter of the doorway.

  "You are Vic Chenault?" asked the girl, and, without waiting for hisgrunted assent, continued: "I am Jeanne Lacombie, and this is M's'u'Bill, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."

  At the mention of the names the door swung wide and the man smiled awelcome. They entered amid a rabble of sled-dogs and puppies, whichrolled about the floor in a seemingly inextricable tangle, withnumerous dusky youngsters of various ages and conditions of nudity.

  Chenault's Indian wife sat upon the edge of the bunk, a blackenedcob-pipe between her teeth, industriously beading a moccasin; andseemed in no wise disturbed by the arrival of visitors, nor by thebabel of hubbub that arose from the floor, where dogs and babies howledtheir protest against the cold draft from the open door and the poolsof ice-cold water that drained from the clothing of the strangers.

  Chenault pronounced a few guttural syllables, and the stolid squawreached behind her and, removing a single garment of flaming red calicofrom a nail, extended it toward Jeanne.

  The girl accepted it with thanks, and her eyes roved about the cabin,which, being a one-roomed affair, offered scant privacy. The womancaught the corner of a blanket upon a projecting nail and anothercorner upon a similar nail in the upright of the bunk, and motioned thegirl behind the screen with a short wave of her pipe.

  The man offered Bill a pair of faded blue overalls and a much-bepatchedshirt of blue flannel, and when Jeanne emerged, clad in the best dressof her hostess, Bill took his turn in the dressing-room.

  "Can't be too pedicular in a pinch," he grinned as he wriggleddubiously into the dry garments, and in a
few minutes he was seatedbeside the girl upon a rough bench drawn close to the fire.

  Chenault, being a half-breed, was more inclined toward garrulity thanhis Indian spouse.

  "How you come?" he asked with evident interest. Jeanne answered him,speaking rapidly, and at the end of a half-hour the man was in fullpossession of the details of their plight. He slowly shook his head.

  "Moncrossen camp ver' far--feefty--seexty mile," he said. "You nomak'."

  Bill looked up suddenly. "Have you a canoe?" he inquired.

  The other looked at him in surprise. "Canoe, she no good!" he grunted."Too mooch ice. Bre'k all to hell in one minute!"

  With an exclamation he leaped to his feet. "By gar! De flat boat!" hecried triumphantly.

  "She is all build for tak' de fur. De riv', she run ver' swift. In demorning you go--in de evening you come on de camp!"

  "I will pay you well for the boat," said Bill eagerly. "I have no moneyhere. Give me a pencil; I will write an order on Monsieur Appleton, theman who owns the woods."

  At the words the half-breed shrugged.

  "You no got for mak' write," he said. "You tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta youcome--by gar! You come! You tell me you pay--you pay. You no got formak' write."

  Bill smiled.

  "That is all right, providing I get through. What if the boat getstipped over or smashed in the ice?"

  Chenault shrugged again. "You De-Man-Who-Cannot-Die," he said. "You gotde good heart. In de woods all peoples know. You no mak' write. I gotno penzil."