CHAPTER III
Again the world came back to Kent, the world that lay just beyond hisopen window. But scarcely had O'Connor gone when it began to change,and in spite of his determination to keep hold of his nerve Kent feltcreeping up with that change a thing that was oppressive andsmothering. Swiftly the distant billowings of the forests were changingtheir tones and colors under the darkening approach of storm. Thelaughter of the hills and ridges went out. The shimmer of spruce andcedar and balsam turned to a somber black. The flashing gold and silverof birch and poplar dissolved into a ghostly and unanimated gray thatwas almost invisible. A deepening and somber gloom spread itself like aveil over the river that only a short time before had reflected theglory of the sun in the faces of dark-visaged men of the Companybrigade. And with the gloom came steadily nearer a low rumbling ofthunder.
For the first time since the mental excitement of his confession Kentfelt upon him an appalling loneliness. He still was not afraid ofdeath, but a part of his philosophy was gone. It was, after all, adifficult thing to die alone. He felt that the pressure in his chestwas perceptible greater than it had been an hour or two before, and thethought grew upon him that it would be a terrible thing for the"explosion" to come when the sun was not shining. He wanted O'Connorback again. He had the desire to call out for Cardigan. He would havewelcomed Father Layonne with a glad cry. Yet more than all else wouldhe have had at his side in these moments of distress a woman. For thestorm, as it massed heavier and nearer, filling the earth with itsdesolation, bridged vast spaces for him, and he found himself suddenlyface to face with the might-have-beens of yesterday.
He saw, as he had never guessed before, the immeasurable gulf betweenhelplessness and the wild, brute freedom of man, and his soul criedout--not for adventure, not for the savage strength of life--but forthe presence of a creature frailer than himself, yet in the gentletouch of whose hand lay the might of all humanity.
He struggled with himself. He remembered that Dr. Cardigan had told himthere would be moments of deep depression, and he tried to fighthimself out of the grip of this that was on him. There was a bell athand, but he refused to use it, for he sensed his own cowardice. Hiscigar had gone out, and he relighted it. He made an effort to bring hismind back to O'Connor, and the mystery girl, and Kedsty. He tried tovisualize McTrigger, the man he had saved from the hangman, waiting forKedsty in the office at barracks. He pictured the girl, as O'Connor haddescribed her, with her black hair and blue eyes--and then the stormbroke.
The rain came down in a deluge, and scarcely had it struck when thedoor opened and Cardigan hurried in to close the window. He remainedfor half an hour, and after that young Mercer, one of his twoassistants, came in at intervals. Late in the afternoon it began toclear up, and Father Layonne returned with papers properly made out forKent's signature. He was with Kent until sundown, when Mercer came inwith supper.
Between that hour and ten o'clock Kent observed a vigilance on the partof Dr. Cardigan which struck him as being unusual. Four times helistened with the stethoscope at his chest, but when Kent asked thequestion which was in his mind, Cardigan shook his head.
"It's no worse, Kent. I don't think it will happen tonight."
In spite of this assurance Kent was positive there was in Cardigan'smanner an anxiety of a different quality than he had perceived earlierin the day. The thought was a definite and convincing one. He believedthat Cardigan was smoothing the way with a professional lie.
He had no desire to sleep. His light was turned low, and his window wasopen again, for the night had cleared. Never had air tasted sweeter tohim than that which came in through his window. The little bell in hiswatch tinkled the hour of eleven, when he heard Cardigan's door closefor a last time across the hall. After that everything was quiet. Hedrew himself nearer to the window, so that by leaning forward he couldrest himself partly on the sill. He loved the night. The mystery andlure of those still hours of darkness when the world slept had neverceased to hold their fascination for him. Night and he were friends. Hehad discovered many of its secrets. A thousand times he had walked handin hand with the spirit of it, approaching each time a little nearer tothe heart of it, mastering its life, its sound, the whisperinglanguages of that "other side of life" which rises quietly and as if infear to live and breathe long after the sun has gone out. To him it wasmore wonderful than day.
And this night that lay outside his window now was magnificent. Stormhad washed the atmosphere between earth and sky, and it seemed asthough the stars had descended nearer to his forests, shining in goldenconstellations. The moon was coming up late, and he watched the ruddyglow of it as it rode up over the wilderness, a splendid queen enteringupon a stage already prepared by the lesser satellites for her coming.No longer was Kent oppressed or afraid. In still deeper inhalations hedrank the night air into his lungs, and in him there seemed to growslowly a new strength. His eyes and ears were wide open and attentive.The town was asleep, but a few lights burned dimly here and there alongthe river's edge, and occasionally a lazy sound came up to him--theclink of a scow chain, the bark of a dog, the rooster crowing. In spiteof himself he smiled at that. Old Duperow's rooster was a foolish birdand always crowed himself hoarse when the moon was bright. And in frontof him, not far away, were two white, lightning-shriven spruce stubsstanding like ghosts in the night. In one of these a pair of owls hadnested, and Kent listened to the queer, chuckling notes of theirhoneymooning and the flutter of their wings as they darted out now andthen in play close to his window. And then suddenly he heard the sharpsnap of their beaks. An enemy was prowling near, and the owls weregiving warning. He thought he heard a step. In another moment or twothe step was unmistakable. Some one was approaching his window from theend of the building. He leaned over the sill and found himself staringinto O'Connor's face.
"These confounded feet of mine!" grunted the staff-sergeant. "Were youasleep, Kent?"
"Wide-awake as those owls," assured Kent.
O'Connor drew up to the window. "I saw your light and thought you wereawake," he said. "I wanted to make sure Cardigan wasn't with you. Idon't want him to know I am here. And--if you don't mind--will you turnoff the light? Kedsty is awake, too--as wide-awake as the owls."
Kent reached out a hand, and his room was in darkness except for theglow of moon and stars. O'Connor's bulk at the window shut out a partof this. His face was half in gloom.
"It's a crime to come to you like this, Kent," he said, keeping his bigvoice down to a whisper. "But I had to. It's my last chance. And I knowthere's something wrong. Kedsty is getting me out of the way--because Iwas with him when he met the girl over in the poplar bush. I'm detailedon special duty up at Fort Simpson, two thousand miles by water if it'sa foot! It means six months or a year. We leave in the motor boat atdawn to overtake Rossand and his outfit, so I had to take this chanceof seeing you. I hesitated until I knew that some one was awake in yourroom."
"I'm glad you came," said Kent warmly. "And--good God, how I would liketo go with you, Bucky! If it wasn't for this thing in my chest,ballooning up for an explosion--"
"I wouldn't be going," interrupted O'Connor in a low voice. "If youwere on your feet, Kent, there are a number of things that wouldn't behappening. Something mighty queer has come over Kedsty since thismorning. He isn't the Kedsty you knew yesterday or for the last tenyears. He's nervous, and I miss my guess if he isn't constantly on thewatch for some one. And he's afraid of me. I know it. He's afraid of mebecause I saw him go to pieces when he met that girl. Fort Simpson issimply a frame-up to get me away for a time. He tried to smooth theedge off the thing by promising me an inspectorship within the year.That was this afternoon, just before the storm. Since then--"
O'Connor turned and faced the moonlight for a moment.
"Since then I've been on a still-hunt for the girl and SandyMcTrigger," he added. "And they've disappeared, Kent. I guess McTriggerjust melted away into the woods. But it's the girl that puzzles me.I've questioned every scow cheman at the Landing. I've
investigatedevery place where she might have got food or lodging, and I bribedMooie, the old trailer, to search the near-by timber. The unbelievablepart of it isn't her disappearance. It's the fact that not a soul inAthabasca Landing has seen her! Sounds incredible, doesn't it? Andthen, Kent, the big hunch came to me. Remember how we've always playedup to the big hunch? And this one struck me strong. I think I knowwhere the girl is."
Kent, forgetful of his own impending doom, was deeply interested in thethrill of O'Connor's mystery. He had begun to visualize the situation.More than once they had worked out enigmas of this kind together, andthe staff-sergeant saw the old, eager glow in his eyes. And Kentchuckled joyously in that thrill of the game of man-hunting, and said:
"Kedsty is a bachelor and doesn't even so much as look at a woman. Buthe likes home life--"
"And has built himself a log bungalow somewhat removed from the town,"added O'Connor.
"And his Chinaman cook and housekeeper is away."
"And the bungalow is closed, or supposed to be."
"Except at night, when Kedsty goes there to sleep."
O'Connor's hand gripped Kent's. "Jimmy, there never was a team in NDivision that could beat us, The girl is hiding at Kedsty's place!"
"But why HIDING?" insisted Kent. "She hasn't committed a crime."
O'Connor sat silent for a moment. Kent could hear him stuffing the bowlof his pipe.
"It's simply the big hunch," he grunted. "It's got hold of me, Kent,and I can't throw it off. Why, man--"
He lighted a match in the cup of his hands, and Kent saw his face.There was more than uncertainty in the hard, set lines of it.
"You see, I went back to the poplars again after I left you today,"O'Connor went on. "I found her footprints. She had turned off thetrail, and in places they were very clear.
"She had on high-heeled shoes, Kent--those Frenchy things--and I swearher feet can't be much bigger than a baby's! I found where Kedstycaught up with her, and the moss was pretty well beaten down. Hereturned through the poplars, but the girl went on and into the edge ofthe spruce. I lost her trail there. By traveling in that timber it waspossible for her to reach Kedsty's bungalow without being seen. It musthave been difficult going, with shoes half as big as my hand and heelstwo inches high! And I've been wondering, why didn't she wearbush-country shoes or moccasins?"
"Because she came from the South and not the North," suggested Kent."Probably up from Edmonton."
"Exactly. And Kedsty wasn't expecting her, was he? If he had been, thatfirst sight of her wouldn't have shattered every nerve in his body.That's why the big hunch won't let loose of me, Kent. From the momenthe saw her, he was a different man. His attitude toward you changedinstantly. If he could save you now by raising his little finger, hewouldn't do it, simply because it's absolutely necessary for him tohave an excuse for freeing McTrigger. Your confession came at just thepsychological moment. The girl's unspoken demand there in the poplarswas that he free McTrigger, and it was backed up by a threat whichKedsty understood and which terrified him to his marrow. McTrigger musthave seen him afterward, for he waited at the office until Kedsty came.I don't know what passed between them. Constable Doyle says they weretogether for half an hour. Then McTrigger walked out of barracks, andno one has seen him since. It's mighty queer. The whole thing is queer.And the queerest part of the whole business is this sudden commissionof mine at Fort Simpson."
Kent leaned back against his pillows. His breath came in a series ofshort, hacking coughs. In the star glow O'Connor saw his face growsuddenly haggard and tired-looking, and he leaned far in so that inboth his own hands he held one of Kent's.
"I'm tiring you, Jimmy," he said huskily. "Good-by, old pal! I--I--" Hehesitated and then lied steadily. "I'm going up to take a look aroundKedsty's place. I won't be gone more than half an hour and will stop onmy way back. If you're asleep--"
"I won't be asleep," said Kent.
O'Connor's hands gripped closer. "Good-by, Jimmy."
"Good-by." And then, as O'Connor stepped back into the night, Kent'svoice called after him softly: "I'll be with you on the long trip,Bucky. Take care of yourself--always."
O'Connor's answer was a sob, a sob that rose in his throat like a greatfist, and choked him, and filled his eyes with scalding tears that shutout the glow of moon and stars. And he did not go toward Kedsty's, buttrudged heavily in the direction of the river, for he knew that Kenthad called his lie, and that they had said their last farewell.