 18 He did not turn toward Marie Anne when he had lighted the first of the great brass lamps hanging at the side of the bateau. He went to the second and struck another match and flooded the cabin with light. She still stood silhouetted against the darkness beyond the cabin door when he faced her. She was watching him, her eyes intent, her face a little pale, he thought. Then he smiled and nodded. He could not see a great change in her since this afternoon, except that there seemed to be a little more fire in the glow of her They were looking at him steadily as she smiled and nodded, wide, beautiful eyes in which there was surely no revelation of shame or regret and no very clear evidence of unhappiness. David stared and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Why is it that you sit in darkness? she asked, stepping within and closing the door. Did you not expect me to return and apologize for leaving you so suddenly this afternoon? It was impolite. Afterward I was ashamed. But I was excited, Mr. David. I— Of course, he hurried to interrupt her. I understand. St. Pierre is a lucky man. I congratulate you, as well as him. He has splendid a man in whom you can place great faith and confidence. He scolded me for running away from you as I did, Mr. David. He said I should have shown better courtesy than to leave like that, one who was a guest in our home. So I have returned, like a good child, to make amends. It was not necessary. But you were lonesome and in darkness. He nodded. Yes. And besides she added, so quietly and calmly, that he was amazed. You know my sleeping apartment is also on the bateau, and St. Pierre made me promise to say good night to you. It is an imposition, cried David, the blood rushing to his face. You have given up all this to me. Why not let me go into that little room forward, or sleep on the raft, and you and St. Pierre? St. Pierre would not leave the raft, replied Marie Anne, turning from him toward the table on which were the books and magazines and her work-basket. And I like my little room forward. St. Pierre, he stopped himself. He could see a sudden color deepening in the cheek of St. Pierre's wife as she made pretense of looking for something in her basket. He felt that if he went on he would blunder, if he had not already blundered. He was uncomfortable, for he believed he had guessed the truth. It was not quite reasonable to expect that Marie Anne would come to him like this on the first night of St. Pierre's homecoming. Something had happened over in the little cabin on the raft, he told himself. Perhaps there had been a quarrel, at least ironical implications on St. Pierre's part, and his sympathy was with St. Pierre. He caught suddenly a little tremble at the corner of Marie Anne's mouth as her face was turned partly from him, and he stepped to the opposite side of the table so he could look at her fairly. If there had been unpleasantness in the cabin on the raft, St. Pierre's wife in no way gave evidence of it. The color had deepened to almost a blush in her cheeks, but it was not on account of embarrassment, for one who is embarrassed is not usually amused, and as she looked up at him her eyes were filled with the flash of laughter which he had caught her lips struggling to restrain. Then finding a bit of lacework with the needles meshed in it, she seated herself, and again he was looking down on the droop of her long lashes and the seductive glow of her lustrous hair. Yesterday, in a moment of irresistible impulse, he had told her how lovely it was as she had dressed it, a bewitching crown of interwoven coils, not drawn tightly, but crumpled and soft as if the mass of tresses were openly rebelling at closer confinement. She had told him the effect was entirely accidental, largely due to carelessness and haste in dressing it. Accidental or otherwise it was the same tonight, and in the heart of it were the drooping red petals of a flower she had gathered with him early that afternoon. St. Pierre brought me over, she said in a calmly matter-of-fact voice, as though she had expected David to know that from the beginning. He is ashore, talking over important matters with b'tise. I am sure he will drop in and say good night before he returns to the raft. He asked me to wait for him, here. She raised her eyes so clear and untroubled, so quietly unembarrassed under his gaze, that he would have staked his life she had no suspicion of the confessions which St. Pierre had revealed to him. Do you care? Would you rather put out the lights and go to bed? He shook his head. No, I am glad. I was beastly lonesome. I had an idea. He was on the point of blundering again when he caught himself. The effect of her so near him was more than ever disturbing, in spite of St. Pierre. Her eyes, clear and steady, yet soft as velvet when they looked at him, made his tongue and his thoughts dangerously uncertain. You had an idea, Monsieur David? That you would have no desire to see me again after my talk with St. Pierre, he said. Did he tell you about it? He said you were very fine, Monsieur David, and that he liked you. And he told you it is determined that I shall fight bates in the morning? Yes. The one word was spoken with a quiet lack of excitement, even of interest. It seemed to belie some of the things St. Pierre had told him, and he could scarcely believe, looking at her now, that she had entreated her husband to prevent the encounter, or that she had betrayed any unusual emotion in the matter at all. I was afraid you would object, he could not keep from saying. It does not seem nice to pull off such a thing as that, when there is a lady about, or ladies, she caught him up quickly, and he saw a sudden little tightening of her pretty mouth as she turned her eyes to the bit of lacework again. But I do not object, because what St. Pierre says is right, must be right. And the softness, he thought, went all together out of the curve of her lips for an instant. In a flash their momentary betrayal of vexation was gone, and St. Pierre's wife had replaced the work-basket on the table and was on her feet, smiling at him. There was something of wild daring in her eyes, something that made him think of the glory of adventure he had seen flaming in her face the night they had run the rapids of the Holy Ghost. "'Tomorrow we'll be very unpleasant, Monsieur David,' she cried softly. "'But Tise will beat you terribly. Tonight we must think of things more agreeable.' He had never seen her more radiant than when she turned toward the piano. What the deuce did it mean? Had St. Pierre been making a fool of him? She actually appeared unable to restrain her elation at the thought that Tise would surely beat him up. He stood without moving and made no effort to answer her. Just before they had started on that thrilling adventure into the forest, which had ended with us carrying her in his arms, she had gone to the piano and had played for him. Now her fingers touched softly the same note. A little humming thrill came in her throat, and it seemed to David that she was deliberately recalling his thoughts to the things that had happened before the coming of St. Pierre. He had not lighted the lamp over the piano, and for a flash her dark eyes smiled at him out of the half-shadow. After a moment she began to sing. Her voice was low and without effort, untrained, and subdued as if conscious and afraid of its limitations, yet so exquisitely sweet that to David it was a new and still more wonderful revelation of St. Pierre's wife. He drew nearer until he stood close at her side, the dark luster of her hair almost touching his arm, her partly upturned face of the witching profile in the shadows. Her voice grew lower, almost a whisper in its melody, as if meant for him alone. Many times he had heard the Canadian boat-song, but never as its words came now from the lips of Marie-Anne Boulin. Faintly his tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at St. Anne's, our parting hymn. Roe, brothers, roe, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near and the daylight's past. She paused, and David, staring down at her shining head, did not speak. Her fingers trembled over the keys, he could see dimly the shadow of her long lashes, and the spirit-like scent of crushed violets rose to him from the soft lace about her throat and her hair. It is your music, he whispered. I have never heard the boat-song like that. He tried to drag his eyes from her face and hair, sensing that he was a near criminal, fighting a mighty impulse. The notes under her fingers changed, and again, by chance or design, she was stabbing at him, bringing him face to face with the weakness of his flesh, the iniquity of his desire to reach out his arms and crumple her in them. Yet she did not look up, she did not see him as she began to sing Ave Maria. Ave Maria, hear me cry, O guide my path, where no harm, no harm is nigh. As she went on, he knew she had forgotten to think of him. With the reverence of a prayer the holy words came from her lips, slowly, softly, trembling with a pathos and sweetness that told David they came not alone from the lips, but from the very soul of St. Pierre's wife. And then, O mother, hear me where thou art, and guard and guide my aching heart, my aching heart. The last words drifted away into a whisper, and David was glad that he was not looking into the face of St. Pierre's wife, for there must have been something there now which it would have been sacrilege for him to stare at, as he was staring at her hair. No sound of opening door had come from behind them, yet St. Pierre had opened it and stood there, watching them with a curious humor in eyes that seemed still to hold a glitter of the fire that had leaped from the half-breed's flaming birch logs. His voice was a shock to Kerrigan. Pest, but you are a gloomy pair, he boomed. Why no light over there in the corner, and why sing that death-song to chase away the devil when there is no devil near? Guilt was in David's heart, but there was no sting of venom in St. Pierre's words, and he was laughing at them now, as though what he saw were a pretty joke and amused him. Late hours and shady bowers, I say it should be a love-song or something livelier, he cried, closing the door behind him and coming toward them. Why not Arrolama Bull, my sweet Jean? You know that is my favorite. He suddenly interrupted himself, and his voice rolled out in a wild chant that rocked the cabin. The wind is fresh, the wind is free, Arrolama Bull. The wind is fresh, my love waits me, Roulis Roulin, my Bull Roulin. Behind our house a spring, you see, in it three ducks swim merrily, and hunting the prince's son went he, with a silver gun right fair to sea. David was conscious that St. Pierre's wife had risen to her feet, and now she came out of shadow into light, and he was amazed to see that she was laughing back at St. Pierre, and that her two forefingers were thrust in her ears to keep out the bellow of her husband's voice. She was not at all discomforted by his unexpected appearance, but rather seemed to join in the humor of the thing with St. Pierre, though he fancied he could see something in her face that was forced and uneasy. She believed that under the surface of her composure she was suffering a distress which she did not reveal. St. Pierre advanced, and carelessly patted her shoulder with one of his big hands, while he spoke to David. Has she not the sweetest voice in the world, monsieur? Did you ever hear a sweeter or as sweet? I say it is enough to get down into the soul of a man, unless he is already half-dead. That voice! He caught Marie Anne's eyes. Her cheeks were flaming. Her look, for an instant, flashed lightning as she halted him. M'fois, I speak it from the heart! He persisted, with a shrug of his shoulders. Am I not right, monsieur Carrigan? Did you ever hear a sweeter voice? It is wonderful, agreed David, wondering if he was hazarding too much. Good! It fills me with happiness to know I am right. And now, chérie, good night, I must return to the raft. A shadow of vexation crossed Marie Anne's face. You seem in great haste. Plagues and pests! You are right, pretty voice. I am most anxious to get back to my troubles there, and you will also bid monsieur Carrigan good night, she quickly interrupted him. You will at least see me to my room, Saint Pierre, and safely put away for the night. She held out her hand to David. There was not a tremor in it, as it lay for an instant soft and warm in his own. She made no effort to withdraw it quickly, nor did her eyes hide their softness as they looked into his own. Suddenly David stood as they went out. He heard Saint Pierre's loud voice rumbling about the darkness of the night. He heard them pass along the side of the bateau forward, and half a minute later he knew that Saint Pierre was getting into his canoe. The dip of a paddle came to him. For a space there was silence, and then, from far out in the black shadow of the river, rolled back the great voice of Saint Pierre Boulin, singing the wild river chant, En Roulin Mabourou. At the open window he listened. It seemed to him that from far over the river, where the giant raft lay, there came a faint answer to the words of the song. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Roger Maline CHAPTER XIX OF THE FLAMING FOREST With the slow approach of the storm which was advancing over the wilderness, Kerrigan felt more poignantly the growing unrest that was in him. He heard the last of Saint Pierre's voice, and after that the fires of the distant shore died out slowly, giving way to utter blackness. He heard the last of Saint Pierre's voice, and after that the fires of the distant shore died out slowly, giving way to utter blackness. Faintly there came to him the faraway rumbling of thunder. The air grew heavy and thick, and there was no sound of nightbird over the breast of the river, and out of the thick cedar and spruce and balsam there came no cry or whisper of the nocturnal life waiting in silence for the storm to break. In that stillness David put out the lights in the cabin and sat close to the window in darkness. He was more than sleepless. Every nerve in his body demanded action, and his brain was fired by strange thoughts until their vividness seemed to bring him face to face with the reality that set his blood stirring with an irresistible thrill. He believed he had made a discovery, that Saint Pierre had betrayed himself. What he had visioned, the conclusion he had arrived at, seemed inconceivable, yet what his own eyes had seen and his ears had heard pointed to the truth of it all. The least he could say was that Saint Pierre's love for Marie Anne Boulin was a strange sort of love. His attitude toward her seemed more like that of a man in the presence of a child of whom he was fond in a fatherly sort of way. His affection, as he had expressed it, was parental and careless. Not for an instant had there been in it a betrayal of the lover, no suggestion of the husband who cared deeply or who might be made jealous by another man. Sitting in darkness thickening with the nearer approach of storm, David recalled the stab of pain mingled with humiliation that had come into the eyes of Saint Pierre's wife when she had stood facing her husband. He heard again, with a new understanding, the low note of pathos in her voice, as in song she had called upon the mother of Christ to hear her and help her. He had not guessed at the tragedy of it then. Now he knew, and he thought of her lying awake in the gloom beyond the bulkhead her eyes were with tears. And Saint Pierre had gone back to his raft, singing in the night. Where before there had been sympathy for him there rose a sincere revulsion. There had been a reason for Saint Pierre's masterly possession of himself, and it had not been, as he had thought, because of his bigness of soul. It was because he had not cared. He was a splendid hypocrite, playing his game well at the beginning, but betraying the lie at the end. He did not love Marie Anne as he, Dave Kerrigan, loved her. He had spoken of her as a child, and he had treated her as a child, and was serenely dispassionate in the face of a situation which would have roused the spirit in most men. And suddenly, recalling that thrilling hour in the white strip of sand and all that had happened since, it flashed upon David that Saint Pierre was using his wife as the vital moving force in a game of his own, that under the masquerade of his apparent faith and bigness of character he was sacrificing her to achieve a certain mysterious something in the scheme of his own affairs. Yet he could not forget the infinite faith Marie Anne Boulin had expressed in her husband. There had been no hypocrisy in her waiting and her watching for him, or in her belief that he would straighten out the tangles of the dilemma in which she had become involved. Nor had there been make-believe in the manner she had left him that day in her eagerness to go to Saint Pierre. Adding these facts, as he had added the others, he fancied he saw the truth staring at him out of the darkness of his cabin room. Marie Anne loved her husband. And Saint Pierre was merely the possessor, careless and indifferent, almost brutally dispassionate in his consideration of her. A heavy crash of thunder brought Kerrigan back to a realization of the impending storm. He rose to his feet in the chaotic gloom facing the bulkhead beyond which he was certain Saint Pierre's wife lay wide awake. He tried to laugh. It was inexcusable, he told himself, to let his thoughts become involved in the family affairs of Saint Pierre and Marie Anne. That was not his business. Marie Anne, in the final analysis, did not appear to be especially abused and her mind was not a child's mind. Probably she would not thank him for his interest in the matter. She would tell him, like any other woman with pride, that it was none of his business and that he was presuming upon forbidden ground. He went to the window. There was scarcely a breath of air and, unfastening the screen, he thrust out his head and shoulders into the night. It was so black that he could not see the shadow of the water almost within reach of his hands, but through the chaos of gloom that lay between him and the opposite shore he made out a single point of yellow light. He was positive the light was in the cabin on the raft and Saint Pierre was probably in that cabin. A huge drop of rain splashed on his hand and behind him he heard sweeping over the forest tops the quickening march of the deluge. There was no crash of thunder or flash of lightning when it broke. Straight down, in an inundation it came out of a sky thick enough to slit with a knife. Carrogan drew in his head and shoulders and sniffed the sweet freshness of it. He tried again to make out the light on the raft, but it was obliterated. Mechanically he began taking off his clothes and in a few moments he stood again at the window, naked. Thunder and lightning had caught up with the rain and in the flashes of fire Carrogan's ghost-white face stared in the direction of the raft. In his veins was at work an insistent and impelling desire. Over there was Saint Pierre. He was undoubtedly in the cabin, and something might happen if he, Dave Carrogan, took advantage of storm and gloom to go to the raft. It was almost a presentiment that drew his bare head and shoulders out through the window, and every hunting instinct in him urged him to the adventure. The Stygian darkness was torn again by a flash of fire. In it he saw the river and the vivid silhouette of the distant shore. It would not be a difficult swim, and it would be good training for tomorrow. Like a badger, worming his way out of a hole a bit too small for him, Carrogan drew himself through the window. A lightning flash caught him at the edge of the batol, and he slunk back quickly against the cabin with the thought that other eyes might be staring out into that same darkness. In the pitch gloom that followed he lowered himself quietly into the river, thrust himself under water, and struck out for the opposite shore. When he came to the surface again it was in the glare of another lightning flash. He flung the water from his face, chose a point several hundred yards above the raft, and with quick powerful strokes set out in its direction. For ten minutes he quartered the current without raising his head. Then he paused, floating unresistingly with the slow sweep of the river, and waited for another illumination. When it came he made out the tented raft scarcely a hundred yards away and a little below him. Between the next darkness he found the edge of it and dragged himself up on the mass of timbers. The thunder had been rolling steadily westward, and David crouched low, hoping for one more flash to illuminate the raft. It came at last from a massive inky cloud far to the west so indistinct that it made only dim shadows out of the tents and shelters, but it was sufficient to give him direction. Before its faint glare died out he saw the deeper shadow of the cabin forward. For many minutes he lay where he had dragged himself without making a movement in its direction. Nowhere about him could he see a sign of light, nor could he hear any sound of life. St. Pierre's people were evidently deep and slumber. Kerrigan had no very definite idea of the next step in his adventure. He had swum from the bateau largely under impulse, with no preconceived scheme of action, urged chiefly by the hope that he would find St. Pierre in the cabin and that something might come of it. As for knocking at the door and rousing the chief of the Boulas from sleep, he had at the present moment no very good excuse for that. No sooner had the thought and its objection come to him than a broad shaft of light shot with startling suddenness a thwart the blackness of the raft, darkened in another instant by an obscuring shadow. Swift as the light itself, David's eyes turned to the source of the unexpected illumination. The door of St. Pierre's cabin was wide open. The interior was flooded with lamp-glow, and in the doorway stood St. Pierre himself. The chief of the Boulas seemed to be measuring the weather possibilities of the night. His subdued voice reached David, chuckling with satisfaction, as he spoke to someone who was behind him in the cabin. "'Pitch and brimstone, but as black,' he cried, "'you could carve it with a knife and stand it on end, Amante. But it's going west. In a few hours the stars will be out.' He drew back into the cabin, and the door closed. David held his breath in amazement, staring at the blackness where a moment before the light had been. Who was it St. Pierre had called sweetheart? Amante. He could not have been mistaken. The word had come to him clearly, and there was but one guest to make. Marie-Anne was not on the bateau. She had played him for a fool, had completely hoodwinked him in her plot with St. Pierre. They were cleverer than he had supposed, and in darkness she had rejoined her husband on the raft. But why that senseless play of falsehood? What could be their object in wanting him to believe she was still aboard the bateau? He stood up on his feet and mopped the warm rain from his face while the gloom hid the grim smile that came slowly to his lips. Once upon the thrill of his astonishment he felt a new stir in his blood which added impetus to his determination and his action. He was not disgusted with himself, nor was he embittered by what he had thought of a moment ago as the lying hypocrisy of his captors. To be beaten in his game of man-hunting was sometimes to be expected, and Kerrigan always gave proper credit to the winners. It was also good medicine to know that Marie Anne, instead of being an unhappy and neglected wife, had blinded him with an exquisitely clever simulation. Just why she had done it, and why St. Pierre had played his masquerade, it was his duty now to find out. An hour ago he would have cut off a hand before spying upon St. Pierre's wife, or eavesdropping under her window. Now he felt no uneasiness of conscience as he approached the cabin, for Marie Anne herself had destroyed all reason for any delicate discrimination on his part. The rain had almost stopped, and in one of the near-tents he heard a sleepy voice. But he had no fear of chance discovery. The night would remain dark for a long time, and in his bare feet he made no sound the sharpest ears of a dog ten feet away might have heard. Close to the cabin door, yet in such a way that the sudden opening of it would not reveal him, he paused and listened. Distinctly he heard St. Pierre's voice, but not the words. A moment later came the soft, joyous laughter of a woman, and for an instant a hand seemed to grip David's heart, filling it with pain. There was no unhappiness in that laughter. It seemed, instead, to tremble in an exultation of gladness. Suddenly St. Pierre came nearer the door, and his voice was more distinct. —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— he believed, had been on the very edge of disclosing something which he would have given a great deal to know. Surely in this cabin there must be a window, and the window would be open. Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of the cabin. A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his judgment. There was a window. But it was almost entirely curtained, and it was closed. Had the curtain been drawn two inches lower, the thin stream of light would have been shut entirely out from the night. Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that in the calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened. The voices were still more indistinct inside. He scarcely heard Saint Pierre, but twice again he heard the low and musical laughter of the woman. She had laughed differently with him, and the grim smile settled on his lips as he looked up at the narrow slit of light over his head. He had an overwhelming desire to look in. After all, it was a matter of professional business and his duty. He was glad the curtain was drawn so low. From experiments of his own he knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him through the two-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his eyes were on a level with the aperture. Directly in the line of his vision was Saint Pierre's wife. She was seated and her back was toward him so he could not see her face. She was partly disrobed and her hair was streaming loose about her. Once he remembered she had spoken of fiery lights that came into her hair under certain illumination. He had seen them in the sun, but never as they revealed themselves now in that cabin lamp-glow. He scarcely looked at Saint Pierre, who was on his feet looking down upon her, not until Saint Pierre reached out and crumpled the smothering mass of glowing tresses in his big hands and laughed. It was a laugh filled with the unutterable joy of possession. The woman rose to her feet. Up through her hair went her two white-bear arms encircling Saint Pierre's neck. The giant drew her close. Her slim form seemed to melt in his and their lips met. And then the woman threw back her head, laughing, so that her glory of hair fell straight down and she was out of reach of Saint Pierre's lips. They turned. Her face front of the window, and out in the night, caragans stifled a cry that almost broke from his lips. For a flash he was looking straight into her eyes. Her parted lips seemed smiling at him. Her white throat and bosom were bared to him. He dropped down, his heart choking him as he stumbled through the darkness to the edge of the raft. There, with the lap of the water at his feet, he paused. It was hard for him to get breath. He stared through the gloom in the direction of the bateau. Marie-Anne Boulin, the woman he loved, was there. In her little cabin, alone on the bateau, was Saint Pierre's wife, her heart crushed. And in this cabin on the raft, forgetful of her degradation and her grief, was the vilest wretch he had ever known, Saint Pierre Boulin. And with him, giving herself into his arms, caressing him with her lips and hair, was the sister of the man he had helped to hang, Carmen Fanché. The flaming forest by James Oliver Kerwood, Chapter 20. The shock of the amazing discovery which Kerrigan had made was as complete as it was unexpected. His eyes had looked upon the last thing in the world he might have guessed at or anticipated, when they beheld through the window of Saint Pierre's cabin, the beautiful face and partly disrobed figure of Carmen Fanché. The first effect of that shock had been to drive him away. His action had been involuntary, almost without the benefit of reason, as if Carmen had been Marie-Anne herself receiving the caresses which were rightfully hers, and upon which it was both insult and dishonor for him to spy. He realized now that he had made a mistake in leaving the window too quickly. But he did not move back through the gloom, for there was something too revolting in what he had seen, and with the revulsion of it a swift understanding of the truth which made his hands clench as he sat down on the edge of the raft with his feet and legs submerged in the slow-moving current of the river. The thing was not uncommon. It was the same monstrous story as old as the river itself, but in this instance it filled him with a sickening sort of horror which gripped him at first, even more than the strangeness of the fact that Carmen Fanché was the other woman. His vision and his soul were reaching out to the bateau lying in darkness on the far side of the river where St. Pierre's wife was alone in her unhappiness. His first impulse was to fling himself in the river and race to her. His second to go back to St. Pierre, even in his nakedness, and call him forth to a reckoning. In his profession of manhunting he had never had the misfortune to kill, but he could kill St. Pierre, now. His fingers dug into the slippery wood of the log under him, his blood ran hot, and in his eyes blazed the fury of an animal as he stared into the wall of gloom between him and Marie-Anne Boulin. How much did she know? That was the first question which pounded in his brain. He suddenly recalled his reference to the fight, his apology to Marie-Anne that it should happen so near to her presence, and he saw again the queer little twist of her mouth as she let slip the hint that she was not the only one of her sex who would know of tomorrow's fight. He had not noticed the significance of it then, but now it struck home. Marie-Anne was surely aware of Carmen Fanché's presence on the raft. But did she know more than that? Did she know the truth? Or was her heart filled only with suspicion and fear, aggravated by St. Pierre's neglect, and his two apparent haste to return to the raft that night? Again David's mind flashed back, recalling her defence of Carmen Fanché when he had first told her his story of the woman whose murder he had brought to the hangman's justice. There could be but one conclusion. Marie-Anne knew Carmen Fanché, and she also knew she was on the raft with St. Pierre. As cooler judgment returned to him, Kerrigan refused to concede more than that. For any one of a dozen reasons Carmen Fanché might be on the raft going down the river, and it was also quite within reason that Marie-Anne might have some apprehension of a woman as beautiful as Carmen, and possibly intuition had begun to impinge upon her a disturbing fear of a something that might happen. But until to-night he was confident she had fought against this suspicion and had overridden it, even though she knew a woman more beautiful than herself, was slowly drifting down the stream with her husband. She had betrayed no anxiety to him in the days that had passed. She had waited eagerly for St. Pierre, like a bird she had gone to him when at last he came, and he had seen her crushed close in St. Pierre's arms in their meeting. It was this night, with its gloom and its storm, that had made the shadowings of her unrest a torturing reality. For St. Pierre had brought her back to the bateau, and had played a pitiable weak part in concealing his desire to return to the raft. So he told himself Marie-Anne did not know the truth, not as he had seen it through the window of St. Pierre's cabin. She had been hurt, for he had seen the sting of it, and in that same instant he had seen her soul rise up and triumph. He saw again the sudden fire that came into her eyes when St. Pierre urged the necessity of his haste. He saw her slim body grow tense, her red lips curve in a flash of pride and disdain. And as Carrigan thought of her in that way, his muscles grew tighter, and he cursed St. Pierre. Marie-Anne might be hurt. She might guess that her husband's eyes and thoughts were too frequently upon another's face, but in the glory of her womanhood it was impossible for her to conceive of a crime such as he had witnessed through the cabin window. Of that he was sure. And then suddenly, like a blinding sheet of lightning out of a dark sky, came back to him all that St. Pierre had said about Marie-Anne. He had pitied St. Pierre then. He had pitied this great, cool-eyed giant of a man who was fighting gloriously, he had thought, in the face of a situation that would have excited most men. Frankly, St. Pierre had told him Marie-Anne cared more for him than she should. With equal frankness he had revealed his wife's confessions to him that she knew of his love for her, of his kiss upon her hair. In the blackness Carrigan's face burned hot. If he had in him the desire to kill St. Pierre now, might not St. Pierre have had an equally just desire to kill him? For he had known, even as he kissed her hair and as his arms held her close to his breast and crossing the creek, that she was the wife of St. Pierre. And Marie-Anne, his muscles relaxed. Slowly he lowered himself into the cool wash of the river and struck out toward the bateau. He did not breast the current with the same fierce determination with which he had crossed through the storm to the raft, but drifted with it and reached the opposite shore a quarter of a mile below the bateau. There he waited for a time while the thickness of the clouds broke and a gray light came through them, revealing dimly the narrow path of pebbly wash along the shore. Silently, a stark naked shadow in the night, he came back to the bateau and crawled through his window. He lighted a lamp and turned it very low, and in the dim glow of it rubbed his muscles until they burned. He was fit for to-morrow, and the knowledge of that fitness filled him with a savage elation. A good-humored love of sport had induced him to fling his first half-bantering challenge into the face of concomita bates, but that sentiment was gone. The approaching fight was no longer an incident, a foolish error into which he had unwittingly plunged himself. In this hour it was the biggest physical thing that had ever loomed up in his life, and he yearned for the dawn with the eagerness of a beast that waits for the kill which comes with the break of day. But it was not the half-breed's face he saw under the hammering of his blows. He could not hate the half-breed. He could not even dislike him now. He forced himself to bed, and later he slept. In the dream that came to him it was not bates who faced him in battle, but Saint Pierre Boulin. He awoke with that dream a thing of fire in his brain. The sun was not yet up, but the flush of it was painting the east, and he dressed quietly and carefully, listening for some sound of awakening beyond the bulkhead. If Marie Anne was awake she was very still. There was noise ashore. Across the river he could hear the singing of men, and through his window saw the white smoke of early fires rising above the treetops. It was the Indian who unlocked the door and brought in his breakfast, and it was the Indian who returned for the dishes half an hour later. After that Kerrigan waited, tense with the desire for action to begin. He sensed no premonition of evil about to befall him. Every nerve and sinew in his body was alive for the combat. He thrilled with an overwhelming confidence, a conviction of his ability to win, an almost dangerous self-conviction of approaching triumph in spite of the odds in weight and brute strength which were pitted against him. A dozen times he listened at the bulkhead between him and Marie Anne, and still he heard no movement on the other side. It was eight o'clock when one of the Bato men appeared at the door and asked if he was ready. Quickly David joined him. He forgot his taunts to concombre bates, forgot the softly padded gloves in his pack with which he had promised to pommel the half-breed into oblivion. He was thinking only of naked fists. Into a canoe he followed the Bato man who turned his craft swiftly in the direction of the opposite shore. And as they went David was sure he caught the slight movement of a curtain at the little window of Marie Anne's forward cabin. He smiled back and raised his hand, and at that the curtain was drawn back entirely, and he knew that St. Pierre's wife was watching him as he went to the fight. The raft was deserted, but a little below it, on a wide strip of beach made hard and smooth by flood-water, had gathered a crowd of men. It seemed odd to David they should remain so quiet when he knew the natural instinct of the river-man was to voice his emotion at the top of his lungs. He spoke of this to the Bato man who shrugged his shoulders and grinned. It is the command of St. Pierre, he explained. St. Pierre say no man make big noise at what you call him funeral, and these going down be one great funeral, Monsieur. I see, David nodded. He did not grin back at the other's humor. He was looking at the crowd. A giant figure had appeared out of the center of it, and was coming slowly down to the river. It was St. Pierre. Scarcely had the prow of the canoe touch shore when David leaped out and hurried to meet him. Behind St. Pierre came Baptiste, the half-breed. He was stripped to the waist and naked from the knees down. His guerrilla-like arms hung huge and loose at his sides, and the muscles of his hulking body stood out like carving mahogany in the glisten of the morning sun. He was like a grizzly, a human beast of monstrous power, something to look at, to back away from, to fear. Yet David scarcely noticed him. He met St. Pierre, faced him, and stopped, and he had gone swiftly to this meeting so that the chief of the Boulins was within the earshot of all his men. St. Pierre was smiling. He held out his hand as he had held it out once before in the bateau-cabin, and his big voice boomed out a greeting. Kerrigan did not answer, nor did he look at the extended hand. For an instant the eyes of the two men met, and then, swift as lightning, Kerrigan's arm shot out, and with the flat of his hand, he struck St. Pierre a terrific blow squarely on the cheek. The sound of the blow was like the smash of a paddle on smooth water. Not a riverman but heard it, and as St. Pierre staggered back, flung almost from his feet by its force a subdued cry of amazement broke out from the waiting men. Concombre bâtis stood like one stupefied, and then, in another flash, St. Pierre had caught himself and whirled like a wild beast. Every muscle in his body was drawn for a gigantic overwhelming leap. His eyes blazed. The fury of a beast was in his face. Before all his people he had suffered the deadliest insult that could be offered a man on the Three River Country, a blow struck with the flat of another's hand. Anything else one might forgive but not that. Such a blow, if not avenged, was a brand that passed down into the second and third generations and even children would call out yellow back, yellow back, to the one who was coward enough to receive it without resentment. A rumbling growl rose in the throat of Concombre bâtis in that moment when it seemed as though St. Pierre Boulin was about to kill the man who had struck him. He saw the promise of his own fight gone in a flash, for no man in all the Northland could now fight David Kerrigan ahead of St. Pierre. David waited, prepared to meet the rush of a madman, and then for a second time he saw a mighty struggle in the soul of St. Pierre. The giant held himself back. The fury died out of his face, but his great hands remained clenched, as he said, for David alone. That was a playful blow, monsieur? It was a joke? It was for you, St. Pierre, replied Kerrigan. You are a coward and a skunk. I swam to the raft last night, looked through your window, and saw what happened there. You are not fit for a decent man to fight, yet I will fight you if you are not too great a coward and dare to let our wagers stand as they were made. St. Pierre's eyes widened, and for a breath or two he stared at Kerrigan, as if looking into him and not at him. His big hands relaxed, and slowly the panther-like readiness went out of his body. Those who looked beheld the transformation in amazement, for of all who waited only St. Pierre and the Half-breed had heard Kerrigan's words, though they had seen and heard the blow of insult. You swam to the raft, repeated St. Pierre in a low voice, as if doubting what he had heard. You looked through the window, and saw, David nodded. He could not cover the sneering poison in his voice, his contempt for the man who stood before him. Yes, I looked through the window, and I saw you, and the lowest woman on the three rivers, the sister of a man I helped to hang. I—stop! St. Pierre's voice broke out of him like the sudden crash of thunder. He came a step nearer, his face livid, his eyes shooting flame. With a mighty effort he controlled himself again. And then, as if he saw something which David could not see, he tried to smile, and in that same instant David cut a grin cutting a great slash across the face of Concombre Bates. The change that came over St. Pierre now was swift as sunlight coming out from a shadowing cloud. A rumble grew in his great chest. It broke in a low note of laughter from his lips, and he faced the bateau across the river. Monsieur, you are sorry for her. Is that it? You would fight? For the cleanest, finest little girl who ever lived—your wife. It is funny, said St. Pierre, as if speaking to himself and still looking at the bateau. Yes, it is very funny, ma belle-marie, Anne. He has told you he loves you, and he has kissed your hair and held you in his arms. Yet he wants to fight me because he thinks I am steep to sin. And to make me fight in place of bates, he has called my Carmen a low woman. So what else can I do? I must fight. I must whip him until he cannot walk. And then I will send him back for you to nurse, chérie, and for that blessing I think he will willingly take my punishment. Is it not so, monsieur? He was smiling and no longer excited when he turned to David. Monsieur, I will fight you, and the wagers shall stand. And in this hour let us be honest, like men, and make confession. You love ma belle-marie, Anne? Is it not so? And I, I love you, I love my Carmen, whose brother you hanged, as I love no other woman in the world. Now if you will have it so, let us fight. He began stripping off his shirt, and with a bellow in his throat concombre bates slouched away like a beaten gorilla to explain to Saint Pierre's people the change in the plan of battle. And as that noose spread like fire in the fur tops, there came but a single cry in response, shrill and terrible. And that was from the throat of André, the broken man. Pierre stripped off his shirt, he knew that at least in one way he had met more than his match in Saint Pierre-Boulin. In the splendid service of which he was apart he had known many men of iron and steel, men whose nerve and coolness not even death could very greatly disturb. Yet Saint Pierre, he conceded, was their master and his own. For a flash he had transformed the chief of the Boulins into a volcano which had threatened to break in savage fury. Yet neither the crash nor destruction had come. And now Saint Pierre was smiling again, as Kerrigan faced him, stripped to the waist. He betrayed no sign of the tempest of passion that had swept him a few minutes before. His cool, steely eyes had in them a look that was positively friendly, as concombre bates marked in the hard sand the line of the circle within which no man might come. And as he did this, and Saint Pierre's people crowded close about it, Saint Pierre himself spoke in a low voice to David. Monsieur, it seems a shame that we should fight. I like you. I have always loved a man who had fight to protect a woman. And I shall be careful not to hurt you more than is necessary to make you see reason and to win the wagers. So you need not be afraid of my killing you, as Baptiste might have done. And I promise not to destroy your beauty for the sake of the lady in the bateau. My Carmen, if she knew you spied through her window last night, would say kill you with as little loss of time as possible, for as regard you her sweet disposition was spoiled when you hung her brother, Monsieur. Yet to me she is an angel. Contempt for the man who spoke of his wife and the infamous Carmen Fonset in the same breath drew a sneer to Kerrigan's lips. He nodded toward the waiting circle of men. They are ready for the show, Saint Pierre. You talk big. Now let us see if you can fight. For another moment Saint Pierre hesitated. I am so sorry, Monsieur. Are you ready, Saint Pierre? It is not fair, and she will never forgive me. You are no match for me. I am half again as heavy. And as big a coward as you are a scoundrel, Saint Pierre. It is like a man fighting a boy. Yet it is less dishonorable than betraying the woman who is your wife for another who should have been hanged along with her brother, Saint Pierre. Boulin's face darkened. He drew back half a dozen steps and cried out a word to Batisse. Instantly the circle of waiting men grew tense as the half-breed jerked the big handkerchief from his head and held it out at arm's length. Yet with that eagerness for the fight there was something else which Kerrigan was swift to sense. The attitude of the watchers was not one of uncertainty or a very great expectation in spite of the staring faces and the muscular tightening of the line. He knew what was passing in their minds and in the low whispers from lip to lip. They were pitying him. Now that he stood stripped with only a few paces between him and the giant figure of Saint Pierre, the unfairness of the fight struck home even to concomber Batisse. Only Kerrigan himself knew how like tempered steel the sinews of his body were built. But to the eye, in size alone, he stood like a boy before Saint Pierre. And Saint Pierre's people, their voices stilled by the deadly inequality of it, were waiting for a slaughter and not a fight. A smile came to Kerrigan's lips as he saw Batisse hesitating to drop the handkerchief, and with the swiftness of the trained fighter he made his first plan for the battle before the cloth fell from the half-breed's fingers. As the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, he faced Saint Pierre, the smile gone. Never smile when you fight, the greatest of all masters of the ring had told him. Never show anger. Don't betray any emotion at all if you can help it. Kerrigan wondered what the old ringmaster would say could he see him now, backing away slowly from Saint Pierre as the giant advanced upon him, for he knew his face was betraying to Saint Pierre and his people the deadliest of all sins, anxiety and indecision. Very closely, yet with eyes that seemed to shift uneasily, he watched the effect of his trick on Boullain. Twice the huge riverman followed him about the ring of sand, and the steely glitter in his eyes changed to laughter, and the tense faces of the men about them relaxed. A subdued ripple of merriment rose where there had been silence. A third time David maneuvered his retreat, and his eyes shot furtively to Concombre-Batisse and the men at his back. They were grinning. The half-breed's mouth was wide open, and his grotesque body hung limp and astonished. This was not a fight. It was a comedy, like a rooster following a sparrow around a barnyard. And then a still funnier thing happened, for David began to trot in a circle around Saint Pierre, dodging and fainting and keeping always at a safe distance. A howl of laughter came from Batisse and broken a roar from the men. Saint Pierre stopped in his tracks, a grin on his face, his big arms and shoulders limp and unprepared as Kerrigan dodged in close and out again. And then a howl broke out in the middle of the half-breed's throat. Where there had been laughter there came a sudden shutting off of sound, a great gasp as if made by choking men. Swifter than anything they had ever seen in human action, Kerrigan had leaped in. They saw him strike. They heard the blow. They saw Saint Pierre's great head rock back as if struck from his shoulders by a club. And they saw and heard another blow, and a third, like so many flashes of lightning. And Saint Pierre went down as if shot. The man they had laughed at was no longer like a hopping sparrow. He was waiting, bent a little forward, every muscle in his body ready for action. They watched for him to leap upon his fallen enemy, kicking and gouging and choking in the Riverman way. But David waited and Saint Pierre staggered to his feet. His mouth was bleeding and choked with sand and a great lump was beginning to swell over his eye. A deadly fire blazed in his face as he rushed like a mad bull at the insignificant opponent who had tricked and humiliated him. This time Kerrigan did not retreat but held his ground, and a yell of joy went up from Baptiste as the mighty bulk of the giant descended upon his victim. It was an avalanche of brute force, crushing in its destructiveness, and Kerrigan seemed to reach for it as it came upon him. Then his head went down, swifter than a diving grebe, and as Saint Pierre's arm swung like an oaken beam over his shoulder, his own shot in straight for the pit of the other's stomach. It was a bull's-eye blow with the force of a pile-driver behind it, and the groan that forced its way out of Saint Pierre's vitals was heard by every ear in the cordon of watchers. His weight stopped, his arms opened, and through that opening Kerrigan's fist went a second time to the other's jaw, and a second time the great Saint Pierre Boulin sprawled out upon the sand. And there he lay and made no effort to rise. Concombre Baptiste, with his great mouth agape, stood for an instant as if the blow had stunned him in place of his master. Then suddenly he came to life and leaped to David's side. The arble, tonner, you have not fought Concombre Baptiste yet, he howled. No, you have cheat me, you have lie, you have run like cat from Concombre Baptiste, the strongest man in all three river. You are one grey coward, one poutrune, and you afraid to fight me, who is the greatest fighting man in all these country. Sopristi, why you know hit Concombra Bates, monsieur? Why you know hit the greatest fighting man what he's—' David did not hear the rest. The opportunity was too tempting. He swung, and with a huge grunt, the guerrilla-like body of Concombra Bates rolled over that of the chief of the Boulan. This time Kerrigan did not wait, but followed up so closely that the half-breed had scarcely gathered the crook out of his knees when another blow on the jaw sent him into the sand again. Three times he tried the experiment of regaining his feet, and three times he was knocked down. After the last blow he raised himself groggily to a sitting posture, and there he remained, blinking like a stunned pig with his big hands clutching in the sand. He stared up unseeingly at Kerrigan, who waited over him, and then stupidly at the transfixed cordon of men whose eyes were bulging and who were holding their breath in the astonishment of this miracle which had descended upon them. They heard Bates muttering something incoherent as his head wobbled, and St. Pierre himself seemed to hear it, for he stirred and raised himself slowly until he also was sitting in the sand, staring at Bates. Kerrigan picked up his shirt, and the rivermen who had brought him from the bateau returned with him to the canoe. There was no demonstration behind them. To David himself the whole thing had been an amazing surprise, and he was not at all reluctant to leave as quickly as his dignity would permit before some other of St. Pierre's people offered to put a further test upon his prowess. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to thank God at the top of his voice for the absurd run of luck that had made his triumph not only easy but utterly complete. He had expected to win, but he had also expected a terrific fight before the last blow was struck. And there had been no fight. He was returning to the bateau without a scratch, his hair scarcely and he had defeated not only St. Pierre, but the giant half-breed as well. It was inconceivable, and yet it had happened. A veritable burlesque, an opera bouffée affair that might turn quickly into a tragedy if either St. Pierre or Concombre Bates guessed the truth of it. For in that event he might have to face them again, with the God of luck playing fairly, and he was honest enough with himself to confess that the idea no longer held either thrill or desire for him. Now that he had seen both St. Pierre and Bates stripped for battle, he had no further appetite for a fistic discussion with them. After all, there was a merit in caution, and he had several lucky stars to bless just at the present moment. Inwardly he was a bit suspicious of the ultimate ending of the affair. St. Pierre had almost no cause for complaint, for it was his own carelessness, coupled with his opponent's luck that had been his undoing, and luck and carelessness are legitimate factors of every fight, Kerrigan told himself. But with Bates it was different. He had held up his big jaw, uncovered and tempting, and treating someone to hit him, and Kerrigan had yielded to that temptation. The blow would have stunned an ox. Three others like it had left the huge half-breed sitting weak-mindedly in the sand, and no one of those three blows were exactly according to the rules of the game. They had been mightily efficacious, but the half-breed might demand a rehearsing when he came fully into his senses. Not until they were halfway to the bateau did Kerrigan dare to glance back over his shoulder at the man who was paddling to see what effect that fistic travesty had left on him. He was a big-mouthed, clear-eyed, powerfully muscled fellow, and he was grinning from ear to ear. "'Well, what did you think of it, comrade?' The other gave his shoulders a joyous shrug. "'Mondieu, have you heard of one garçon named Jo-Clemart, monsieur?' "'No. Well, I am Jo-Clemart, what was once great fighting man. These have whipped me five times, monsieur, so I say it was one grand fight. Many years ago I have seen the same thing in Montréal, the boxeur du profession. Oui, and Rene-Babine pays me fifteen primes martins, against which I put up three scrubby red foxes, then you would win. They were bad, or I would not have gambled, monsieur. It is funny.' "'Yes, it is funny,' agreed David. "'I think it is a bit too funny. It is a pity they did not stand up in their legs a little longer.' Suddenly an inspiration hit them. "'Jo, what do you say? Shall you and I return and put up a real fight for them?' Like a sprung trap, Jo-Clemart's grinning mouth closed. "'No, no, no,' he grunted. There has been plenty fight, and Jo-Clemart must save his face for Antoinette Roland, who hates he sign of fight like she hates he devils, monsieur. No, no.' His paddle dug deeper into the water, and David's heart felt lighter. If Jo was an average barometer, and he was a husky and fearless looking chap, it was probable that neither St. Pierre nor Batisse would demand another chance at him, and St. Pierre would pay his wager. He could see no one aboard the bateau when he climbed from the canoe. Looking back, he saw that two other canoes had started from the opposite shore. Then he went to his cabin door, opened it, and entered. Scarcely had the door closed behind him when he stopped, staring toward the window that opened on the river. Standing full in the morning glow of it was Marie-Anne Boulin. She was facing him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her red lips were parted. Her eyes were aglow with a fire which he made no effort to hide from him. In her hand she still held the binoculars he had left on the cabin table. He guessed the truth. Through the glasses she had watched the whole miserable fiasco. He felt creeping over him a sickening shame, and his eyes fell slowly from her to the table. What he saw there caught his breath in the middle. It was the entire surgical outfit of Nepepinas, the old Indian doctor. And there were basins of water, and white strips of linen ready for use, and a pile of medicated cotton, and all sorts of odds and ends that one might apply to ease the agonies of a dying man. And beyond the table, huddled in so small a heap that he was almost hidden by it, was Nepepinas himself, disappointment-rit in his mummy-like face as his beady eyes rested on David. The evidence could not be mistaken. They had expected him to come back more nearly dead than alive, and St. Pierre's wife had prepared for the things she had thought inevitable. Even his bed was nicely turned down, its fresh white sheets inviting an occupant. And David, looking at St. Pierre's wife again, felt his heart beating hard in his breast at the look which was in her eyes. It was not the scintillation of laughter, and the flame in her cheeks was not embarrassment. She was not amused. The ludicrousness of her mislaid plans had not struck her as they had struck him. She had placed the binoculars on the table, and slowly she came to him. Her hands reached out, and her fingers rested like the touch of velvet on his arms. "'It was splendid,' she said softly. "'It was splendid!' She was very near, her breast almost touching him, her hands creeping up until the tips of her fingers rested on his shoulders, her scarlet mouth so close he could feel the soft breath of it in his face. "'It was splendid!' she whispered again. And then suddenly she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. So swiftly was it done that she was gone before he sensed that wild touch of her lips against his own. Like a swallow she was at the door, and the door opened and closed behind her, and for a moment he heard the quick running of her feet. Then he looked at the old Indian, and the Indian too was staring at the door through which St. Pierre's wife had flown. For many seconds that seemed like minutes David stood where she had left him, while Nepapines rose gruntingly to his feet and gathered up his belongings and hobbled sullenly to the bateau door and out. He was scarcely conscious of the Indian's movement, for his soul was aflame with a red-hot fire. Deliberately with that ravishing glory of something in her eyes, St. Pierre's wife had kissed him. On her tiptoes, her cheeks like crimson flowers, she had given her still redder lips to him. And his own lips burned, and his heart pounded hard, and he stared for a time like one struck dumb at the spot where she had stood by the window. Then suddenly he turned to the door and flung it wide open, and on his lips was the reckless cry of Marie-Anne's name. But St. Pierre's wife was gone, and the Papines was gone, and at the tail of the big sweep sat only Joe Clomart guarding watchfully. The two canoes were drawing near, and in one of them were two men, and in the other three, and David knew that, like Joe Clomart, they were watchers set over him by St. Pierre. Then a fourth canoe left the far shore, and when it had reached mid-stream he recognized the figure in the stern as that of André, the broken man. The other, he thought, must be St. Pierre. He went back into the cabin and stood where Marie-Anne had stood, at the window. Nippapines had not taken away the basins of water, and the bandages were still there, and the pile of medicated cotton, and the suspiciously made-up bed. After all he was losing something by not occupying the bed, and yet if St. Pierre or Batisse had messed him up badly, and a couple of fellows had lugged him in between them, it was probable that Marie-Anne would not have kissed him. And that kiss of St. Pierre's wife would remain with him until the day he died. He was thinking of it, the swift warm thrill of her velvety lips, red as strawberries and twice as sweet, when the door opened and St. Pierre came in. The sight of him in this richest moment of his life gave David no sense of humiliation or shame. Between him and St. Pierre rose swiftly what he had seen last night. Carmen Fachet, in all the lore of her dishelled beauty, crushed close in the arms of the man whose wife, only a moment before, had pressed her lips close to his. And as the eyes of the two met, there came over him a desire to tell the other what had happened, that he might see him writhe with the sting of the two-edged thing with which he was playing. Then he saw that even that would not hurt St. Pierre, for the chief of the boulevard, standing there with a big lump over his eye, had caught sight of the things in the table and the nicely turned-down bed, and his one good eye lit up with sudden laughter, and his white teeth flashed in an understanding smile. "'Ton air! I said she would nurse you with gentle hands,' he rumbled. "'See what you have missed, Monsieur Kerrigan?' "'I received something which I shall remember longer than a fine nursing,' retorted David, and yet right now I have a greater interest in knowing what you think of the fight, St. Pierre, and if you have come to pay your wager.' St. Pierre was chuckling mysteriously in his throat. "'It was splendid! Splendid!' he said, repeating Marianne's words. "'And Joe Clomart says she ran out, blushing like a red rose in August, and that she said no word, but flew like a bird into the white birch ashore. "'She was dismayed because I beat you, St. Pierre.' "'No! No! She was like a lark filled with joy!' Suddenly his eyes rested on the binoculars. David nodded. "'Yes, she saw it all through the glasses.' St. Pierre seated himself at the table and heaved out a groan as he took one of the bandage strips between his fingers. "'She saw my disgrace, and she didn't wait to bandage me up, did she?' "'Perhaps she thought Carmen Fanché would do that, St. Pierre.' "'And I am ashamed to go to Carmen with this great lump over my eye, monsieur. And on top of that disgrace, you insist that I pay the wager?' "'I do.' St. Pierre's face hardened. "'We, I am to pay. I am to tell you all I know about that bet noir,' Black Roger Audemard. "'Is it not so?' "'That is the wager.' "'But after I have told you, what then? "'Do you recall that I gave you any other guarantee, monsieur Carrigan? "'Did I say I would let you go? "'Did I promise I would not kill you and sink your body "'to the bottom of the river? "'If I did, I cannot remember.' "'Are you a beast, St. Pierre, a murderer, as well as— "'Stop! "'Do not tell me again what you saw through the window, "'for it has nothing to do with this. "'I am not a beast, but a man. "'Had I been a beast, I should have killed you "'the first day I saw you in this cabin. "'I am not threatening to kill you, "'and yet it may be necessary if you insist "'that I pay the wager.' "'You understand, monsieur. "'To refuse to pay a wager is a greater crime "'among my people than the killing of a man, "'if there is a good reason for the killing. "'I am helpless. "'I must pay if you insist. "'Before I pay, it is fair that I give you warning. "'You mean—I mean nothing as yet. "'I cannot say what it will be necessary for me to do "'after you have heard what I know about Roger Odomard. "'I am quite settled on a plan just now, monsieur, "'but the plan might change at any moment. "'I am only warning you that it is a great hazard "'and that you are playing with a fire of which you know nothing "'because it has not burned you yet.' Carraghan seated himself slowly in a chair opposite St. Pierre with the table between them. "'You are wasting time in attempting to frighten me,' he said. "'I shall insist on the payment of the wager, St. Pierre.' "'At your moment St. Pierre was clearly troubled.' "'Then his lips tightened and he smiled grimly over the table at David. "'I am sorry, monsieur David. "'I like you. "'You are a fighting man and no coward, and I should like to "'travel shoulder to shoulder with you in many things. "'And such a thing might be for you did not understand. "'I tell you it would have been many times better for you "'to whip you out there, and it had been you and not me "'to pay the wager.' "'It is Roger Audemard I am interested in, St. Pierre. "'Why do you hesitate?' "'I hesitate? "'I am not hesitating, monsieur. "'I am giving you a chance.' "'He leaned forward, his great arms bent on the table.' "'And you insist, monsieur David?' "'Yes, I insist.' "'Slowly the fingers of St. Pierre's hands closed into knotted fists, and he said in a low voice, "'Then I will pay, monsieur.' "'I am Roger Audemard.' End of Chapter 22, Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 23 of The Flaming Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Flaming Forest by James Oliver Kerwood. Chapter 23 The astounding statement of the man who sat opposite him held David speechless. He had guessed at some mysterious relationship between St. Pierre and the criminal he was after, but not this. And Roger Audemard, with his hands unclenching and a slow humor beginning to play about his mouth, waited coolly for him to recover from his amazement. In those moments, when his heart seemed to have stopped beating, Kerrigan was staring at the other, but his mind had shot beyond him to the woman who was his wife. Marie-Anne Audemard, the wife of Black Roger. He wanted to cry out against the possibility of such a fact, yet he sat like one struck dumb, as the monstrous truth took possession of his brain and a whirlwind of understanding swept upon him. He was thinking quickly and with a terrific lack of sentiment now. Opposite him sat Black Roger, the wholesale murderer. Marie-Anne was his wife. Carmen Fanché, sister of a murderer, was simply one of his kind. And Baptiste, the man-gorilla and the broken man and all the dark-skinned pack about them were of Black Roger's breed and kind. Love for a woman had blinded him to the facts which crowded upon him now. Like a lamb he had fallen among wolves and he had tried to believe in them. No wonder Baptiste and the man he had known as St. Pierre had betrayed such merriment at times. A fighting coolness possessed him as he spoke to Black Roger. I will admit this is a surprise, and yet you have cleared up a number of things very quickly. It proves to me again that comedy is not very far removed from tragedy at times. I am glad you see the humor of it, Mr. David, Black Roger was smiling as pleasantly as his swollen eye would permit. We must not be too serious when we die. If I were to die a hanging, I would sing as the rope choked me, just to show the world one need not be unhappy because his life is coming to an end. I suppose you understand that ultimately I am going to give you that opportunity, said David. Almost eagerly Black Roger leaned toward him over the table. You believe you are going to hang me? I am sure of it. And you are willing to wager the point, Mr. David? It is impossible to gamble with a condemned man. Black Roger chuckled, rubbing his big hands together until they made a rasping sound and his one good eye glowed at Kerrigan. Then I will make a wager with myself, Mr. David. Muffois, I swear that before the leaves fall from the trees, you will be pleading for the friendship of Black Roger Audemard, and you will be as much in love with Carmen Farce as I am. And as for Marie Anne, he thrust back his chair and rose to his feet, the old note of subdued laughter rumbling in his chest. And because I make this wager with myself, I cannot kill you, Mr. David, though that might be the best thing to do. I am going to take you to the Chateau Boulin, which is in the forests of the Yellowknife, beyond the Great Slave. Nothing will happen to you if you make no effort to escape. If you do that, you will surely die. And that would hurt me, Mr. David, because I love you like a brother, and in the end I know you are going to grip the hand of Black Roger Audemard and get down in your knees to Carmen Fanché. And as for Marie Anne, again he interrupted himself and went out of the cabin, laughing. And there was no mistake in the metallic click of the lock outside the door. For a time David did not move from his seat near the table. He had not let Roger Audemard see how completely the confession had upset his inner balance, but he made no pretense of concealing the thing from himself now. He was in the power of a cutthroat, who in turn had an army of cutthroats at his back, and both Marie Anne and Carmen Fanché were a part of this ring. And he was not only a prisoner. It was probable, under the circumstances, that Black Roger would make an end of him when a convenient moment came. It was even more than a probability. It was a grim necessity. To let him live and escape would be fatal to Black Roger. From back of these convictions, riding over them as if to demoralize any coherence and logic that might go with the evidence he was building up, came question after question, pounding at him one after the other until his mind became more than ever a whirling chaos of uncertainty. If Saint Pierre was Black Roger, why would he confess to that fact simply to pay a wager? What reason could he have for letting him live at all? Why had not Baptiste killed him? Why had Marie Anne nursed him back to life? His mind shot to the white strip of sand in which he had nearly died. That, at least, was convincing. Learning in some way that he was after Black Roger, they had attempted to do away with him there. But if that were so, why was it Baptiste and Black Roger's wife and the Indian Nepapinas had risked so much to make him live when if they had left him where he had fallen he would have died and caused them no trouble. There was something exasperatingly uncertain and illogical about it all. Was it possible that Saint Pierre Boulin was playing a huge joke on him? Even that was inconceivable. For there was Carmen Fauché, a fitting companion for a man like Black Roger, and there was Marie Anne, who, if it had been a joke, would not have played her part so well. Suddenly his mind was filled only with her. Had she been his friend using all her influence to protect him because her heart was sick of the environment of which she was apart? His own heart jumped at the thought. It was easy to believe. In Marie Anne he had faith and that faith refused to be destroyed, but persisted, even clearer and stronger as he thought again of Carmen Fauché and Black Roger. In his heart grew the conviction it was sacrilege to believe the kiss she had given him that morning was a lie. It was something else, a spontaneous gladness, a joyous exultation that he had returned unharmed, a thing unplanned in the soul of the woman leaping from her before she could stop it. Then had come shame and she had run away from him so swiftly he had not seen her face again after the touch of her lips. If it had been a subterfuge, a lie, she would not have done that. He rose to his feet and paced restlessly back and forth as he tried to bring together a few tangled bits of the puzzle. He heard voices outside and very soon felt the movement of the bateau under his feet and through one of the shoreward windows he saw trees and sandy beach slowly drifting away. On that shore, as far as his eyes could travel up and down, he saw no sign of Marie Anne, but there remained a canoe and near the canoe stood Black Roger Audemard and beyond him, huddled like a charred stump in the sand, was André, the broken man. On the opposite shore, the raft was getting underway. During the next half hour several things happened which told him there was no longer a sugar coating to his imprisonment. On each side of the bateau two men worked at his windows and when they had finished no one of them could be opened more than a few inches. Then came the rattle of the lock at the door, the grating of a key, and somewhat to Kerrigan's surprise it was Batisse who came in. The half-breed bore no facial evidence of the paralyzing blows which had knocked him out a short time before. His jaw, on which they had landed, was as aggressive as ever, yet in his face and his attitude, as he stared curiously at Kerrigan, there was no sign of resentment or unfriendliness. Nor did he seem to be ashamed. He merely stared with the curious and rather puzzled eyes of a small boy gazing at an inexplicable oddity. Kerrigan, standing before him, knew what was passing in the other's mind and the humor of it brought a smile to his lips. Instantly, Concombre's face split into a wide grin. Monde Dieu! What if you was only brother to Concombre Batisse, monsieur? Think of that. You, me, Frère d'Arme, Ventre Saint-Grie, but we make all fightin' men in North Country run like rabbits ahead of Zee-Fawkes. We, we make great pair, monsieur, you, what knocked down Batisse, on Batisse, what killed polar bear with his naked hands, what pulled down trees, what chew flint when he's tobacco-gone. His voice had risen and suddenly there came a laugh from outside the door and Concombre cut himself short and his mouth closed with a snap. It was Joe Clammer who had laughed. I whip him five times and now I whip him six, hissed Batisse in an undertone. Two times each year I whip that gargant Joe Clammer so he understand what good fightin' man is. And you will whip him, eh, monsieur? We? And I will bring other good fighting man's for you to whip. All what Concombre Batisse has whipped. Ten, dozen, 40. And you whipsy grand bunch, monsieur. Eh, shall we makezy bargain? You are planning a pleasant time for me, Batisse, said Kerrigan, but I am afraid it will be impossible. You see, this captain of yours, Black Roger Audemard. What? Batisse jumped as if stung. What you say, monsieur? I said that Roger Audemard, Black Roger, the man I thought was St. Pierre Boulin, Kerrigan said no more. What he had started to say was unimportant compared with the effect of Roger Audemard's name on Concombre Batisse. A deadly light glittered in the half-breed's eyes, and for the first time David realized that in the grotesque head of the Riverman was a brain quick to grip at the significance of things. The fact was evident that Black Roger had not confided in Batisse as to the price of the wager and the confession of his identity, and for a moment after the repetition of Audemard's name came from David's lips, the half-breed stood as if something had stunned him. Then slowly, as if forcing the words in the face of a terrific desire that had transformed his body into a hulk of quivering steel, he said, Monsieur, I come with message from St. Pierre. You see windows closed. Outside door, she locked. On both sides de bateau, all the time we watch. You try to get away and we kill you. That is all. We shoot. We five mans on de bateau all the day. Tout la nuit. You understand? He turned solemnly, waiting for no reply and the door opened and closed after him and again came the snap of the lock outside. Steadily the bateau swept down the big river that day. There was no let up in the steady creaking of the long sweep. Even in the swift occurrence, David could hear the working of it and he knew he had seen the last of the more slowly moving raft. Near one of the partly open windows, he heard two men talking just before the bateau shot into the brule point rapids. They were strange voices. He learned that Audemard's huge raft was made up of 35 cribs, seven abreast, and that nine times between the point brule and the yellow knife, the raft would be split up so that each crib could be run through dangerous rapids by itself. That would be a big job, David assured himself. It would be slow work as well as hazardous and as his own life was in no immediate jeopardy, he would have ample time in which to formulate some plan of action for himself. At the present moment, it seemed, the one thing for him to do was to wait and behave himself according to the half-breed's instructions. There was, when he came to think about it, a saving element of humor about it all. He had always wanted to make a trip down the three rivers in a bateau and now he was making it. At noon, a guard brought in his dinner. He could not recall that he had ever seen this man before, a tall, lithe fellow built to run like a hound and who wore a murderous-looking knife at his belt. As the door opened, David caught a glimpse of two others. They were business-like-looking individuals with muscles built for work or fight, one sitting cross-legged on the bateau deck with a rifle over his knees and the other standing with a rifle in his hand. The man who brought his dinner wasted no time or words. He merely nodded, murmured a curt bonjour, and went out. And Kerrigan, as he began to eat, did not have to tell himself twice that Odomart had been particular in his selection of the bateau's crew and that the eyes of the men he had seen could be as keen as a hawks when leveled over the tip of a rifle barrel. They meant business, and he felt no desire to smile in the face of them as he had smiled at Concombre-Batisse. It was another man and a stranger who brought in his supper. And for two hours after that, until the sun went down and gloom began to fall, the bateau sped down the river. It had made forty miles that day, he figured. It was still light when the bateau was run ashore and tied up, but to-night there were no singing voices or a wild laughter of men whose hours of playtime and rest had come. To Kerrigan, looking through his window, there was an oppressive menace about it all. The shadowy figures ashore were more like a death-watch than a guard, and to dispel the gloom of it he lighted two of the lamps in the cabin, whistled, drummed a simple chord he knew on the piano and finally settled down to smoking his pipe. He would have welcomed the company of Batisse or Joe Clamart or one of the guards, and as his loneliness grew upon him there was something of companionship even in the subdued voices he heard occasionally outside. He tried to read, but the printed words jumbled themselves and meant nothing. It was ten o'clock and clouds had darkened the night when through his open windows he heard a shout coming from the river. Twice it came before it was answered from the bateau and the second time Kerrigan recognized it as the voice of Roger Odomard. A brief interval passed between that and the scraping of a canoe alongside and then there was a low conversation in which even Odomard's great voice was subdued and after that the grating of a key in the lock and the opening of the door and Black Roger came in, bearing an Indian-read basket under his arm. Kerrigan did not rise to meet him. It was not like the coming of the old Saint Pierre and on Black Roger's lips there was no twist of a smile nor in his eyes the flash of good-natured greeting. His face was darkly stern as if he had traveled far and hard on an unpleasant mission, but in it there was no shadow of menace as there had been in that of Concombre-Batisse. It was rather the face of a tired man and yet David knew what he saw was not physical exhaustion. Black Roger guessed something of his thought and his mouth for an instant repressed a smile. Yes, I have been having a rough time, he nodded. This is for you. He placed the basket on the table. It held half a bushel and was filled to the curve of the handle. What lay in it was hidden under a cloth securely tied about it. And you are responsible, he added, stretching himself in a chair with a gesture of weariness. I should kill you, Carrogan, and instead of that I bring you good things to eat. Half the day she has been fussing with the things in the basket and then insisted that I bring them to you. And I have brought them simply to tell you another thing. I am sorry for her. I think, Monsieur Carrogan, you will find as many tears in the basket as anything else, for her heart is crushed and sick because of the humiliation she brought upon herself this morning. He was twisting his big, rough hands and David's own heart went sick as he saw the furrowed lines that had deepened in the other's face. Black Roger did not look at him as he went on. Of course, she told me. She tells me everything. And if she knew I was telling you this, I think she would kill herself. But I want you to understand. She is not what you might think she is. That kiss came from the lips of the best woman God ever made, Monsieur Carrogan. David, with the blood in him running like fire, heard himself answering. I know it. She was excited, glad you had not stained your hands with my life. This time Audemard smiled, but it was the smile of a man 10 years older than he had appeared yesterday. Don't try to answer, Monsieur. I only want you to know she is as pure as the stars. It was unfortunate, but to follow the impulse of one's heart cannot be a sin. Everything has been unfortunate since you came, but I blame no one except Carmen Fonsche. Audemard nodded. Yes, I have sent her away. Marie Ann is in the cabin in the raft now. But even Carmen, I cannot blame very greatly, Monsieur, for it is impossible to hold anything against one you love. Tell me if I am right. You must know. You love my Marie Ann. Do you hold anything against her? It is unfair, protested David. She is your wife, Audemard. Is it possible you don't love her? Yes, I love her. And Carmen Fonsche? I love her too. They are so different. Yet I love them both. Is it not possible for a big heart like mine to do that, Monsieur? With almost a snort, David rose to his feet and stared through one of the windows into the darkness of the river. Black Roger, he said, without turning his head. The evidence at headquarters condemns you as one of the blackest-hearted murderers that ever lived. But that crime, to me, is less atrocious than the one you are committing against your own wife. I am not ashamed to confess I love her because to deny it would be a lie. I love her so much that I would sacrifice myself, soul and body, if that sacrifice could give you back to her, clean and undefiled and with your hand unstained by the crime for which you must hang. He did not hear Roger Audemard as he rose from his chair. For a moment the riverman stared at the back of David's head and in that moment he was fighting to keep back what seemed to come from his lips and words. He turned before David faced him again and did not pause until he stood at the cabin door with his hand at the latch. There he was partly in shadow. I shall not see you again until you reach the yellow knife, he said. Not until then will you know, or will I know, what is going to happen. I think you will understand strange things then, but that is for the hour to tell. Baptiste has explained to you that you must not make an effort to escape. You would regret it and so would I. If you have red blood in you, monsieur, if you would understand all that you cannot understand now, wait as patiently as you can. Bonne nuit, monsieur Carrigan. Good night, nodded David. In the pale shadows he thought a mysterious light of gladness illumined black Roger's face before the door opened and closed, leaving him alone again. End of chapter 23, recording by Roger Maline.